by Cheryl Bolen
She glanced at Griffin's face, saw his lips twist into a grimace of self-loathing. "I wonder what William would say now if he knew that I was bringing a common thief into his precious Darkling Moor."
Beau winced, strangely hurt by his hard words. The softening she had felt toward Stone dissipated. "He would probably think you a fool. As I do."
He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and withdrew a jewel-encrusted flask. He opened it with an impatient twist then raised it to his lips to take a long drink. The tension in his broad shoulders eased only slightly. "A fool?" he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Aye, and if you judged me so, you would both be right. A fitting heir to my father, the wastrel duke, am I not, Grandmama?" He lifted the flask toward the coach's window in a mock salute, and its silver glittered as it picked up the last rays of the sun.
Beau's gaze locked upon the huge manor house that stood in stony majesty at the crest of a hill. It was a monument to generations of nobles, rulers of their own land. Yet though she gaped at the unabashed richness, at wonders she had never thought to see, she could not enjoy the spectacle. For as the equipage's driver guided his team through the sweep of road that wound about Darkling Moor's fantastical parklands, Beau was struck by an odd certainty. Lord Griffin Stone was as much a stranger here as Isabeau herself.
Griffin clenched his hand to keep it from trembling, stunned at how deeply the mere sight of Darkling Moor's Palladian marbles and soaring Ionic pillars affected him. The vista of mock wild-lands stretched out in a glorious sweep, as perfect and beautiful as a painting. The lake William's workers had created glistened, jewel-bright; the newly constructed folly, patterned after a Greek temple, gleamed white among a carefully nurtured tangle of thriving vegetation.
Memories of the past swept through him as he surveyed the grounds. It was in the shadows of those contrived ruins that Griffin had kissed his first serving wench, wooed his first woman. And it had been upon that tiny emerald island set within the crystalline lake that the child Griffin had sobbed in desolation the day his grandmother had meted out his cruelest punishment giving away his cherished pony in the wake of some childish defiance. For Griffin it had been the day all hope of ever being loved by that steely-eyed martinet had died forever. The day he had first allowed himself to hate her.
Though he had loathed Judith Stone and all she stood for, he could never bring himself to hate the lands, the manor house and rolling hills. Griff’s chest tightened.
The lands—they were the same. Yet it was defiled. Defiled by the loss of the master who had tended it so lovingly. To Griffin that seemed the gravest injustice of all.
He closed his eyes, disbelief washing over him once more. Perhaps this journey was some sort of nightmarish jest, and he would awaken at his plantation, the rustle of tobacco in the wind drifting through the windows of his bedchamber, the hot, heavy air trickling the scent of magnolias across his senses.
But if it were a dream there would be no crushing grief, no hurt, confusion, no resentment from childhood scars. And there would be no rebellious hoyden sniping at him from the lumpy seat of a coarse hired coach.
The wheels of the equipage ground to a halt, the driver's muffled command penetrating even the bowed wooden walls of the coach. Griffin slammed the portal open, not waiting for the servants to fling wide the door and let down the step. He leapt with graceful impatience from the vehicle. He flung Isabeau a careless glance and was irritated to see her hanging back against the threadbare velvet like a child.
A wary child, a belligerent child. One that yanked at Griffin's frayed nerves, and at his beleagured conscience.
"Get down here," he snapped. "For God's sake, the carvings will hardly devour you alive!"
He was challenging her by calling her coward, and he knew it. Her emerald gaze met his, and for a brief moment there was hurt in her face, gone as quickly as it had come.
She muttered an expletive and stormed out of the carriage in a whirl of outrage, and a moment later her feet thudded upon the ground. Her fingers briefly reached toward the thick bandage at her shoulder, and for an instant Griff had a pang of remorse. Then the girl tossed her curls and stared down her nose at the estate spreading all around her.
"I know you 'ristos think that you're gods," she sneered. "But bloody Zeus himself would lose his stomach over this melee of Greek and Roman atrocities."
For a moment Griff was surprised that a street waif could identify such architectural wonders.
"I'd keep your opinions regarding my brother's home bottled up in that infernal mouth of yours if I were you."
"Why did you bring me here? Why put yourself to so much trouble?" she blazed back. "Why not just let me—"
Griffin's hand flashed out and caught her chin and he pulled her face within a whisper of his own. "Goad me once more about releasing you, you little cutpurse! Just once more!"
No threat followed the words, no list of consequences, but suddenly Isabeau was silent, and she looked away from him. He wanted to continue to bait her, to find release for the pain ripping through him. And he wanted to feel the sharp lash of her temper against his own.
But even that relief was denied him. With an oath he wheeled away and stalked up the broad stairway with Beau following in his wake. The massive doors swung wide, opened by a jittery footman. The servant's Adam's apple leapt in his scrawny throat as he tried to bar their entry. "Your business here, sir... may I inquire..." But Griff charged past the stammering servant into the great hall beyond.
He heard Beau's gasp of astonishment, the soft sound of her tread behind him. But all his thoughts were caught up in the sight of what had once been his home.
Heraldic leopards still snarled their defiance upon the newels, and the ceiling still held a profusion of beautifully wrought plaster roses and vines, each tiny petal and leaf so perfect that as a child he had made a mountain of tables and gilded chairs in an effort to pluck one of the tantalizing blooms.
GrifFs fingers almost stretched toward the delicate flowers, but at that instant a door in the far corner flew open. The figure that burst from the portal was as lanky and clumsy as a colt, a mane of pale brown curls tumbling about a face still more boy than man.
Charles.
Griff stared, mesmerized by the changes in his nephew. Yet Charles stood looking at his uncle with no sign of recognition.
"Y—your grace," the footman stammered. "Forgive me. These persons, they pure charged past me. I tried to stop them, but—"
The young man's pale brown eyes skimmed from the servant to Griffin, and Griff was bitingly aware of the bedraggled figures he and Isabeau cut in their travel-stained clothes. The younger man's full lips pursed with displeasure.
"Bring my horse around at once, and the marquess's," Charles ordered the footman, as though the two newcomers were beneath notice. "And see that you hasten, or it will be off without a character for you, man." His brown eyes glinted with satisfaction, as if he were a boy playing pranks on his elders. The servant cast a panicked glance from his master to where Griffin stood, then bolted off toward the stable. Charles smiled with the obvious relish of one unaccustomed to power.
Griff shook his head trying to reconcile this gangly youth with the shy, round-cheeked boy he had given his ring to ten years ago. There was an almost frantic eagerness about the lad, a wild sense of defiant freedom odd in one who should still be raw from the pain of recent a loss. Shouldn't his father's death have left a deeper mark?
Charles's white hand, flicked to brush dust from a ridiculously elaborate riding habit. On his hand he wore the glistening griffin-head ring tucked among his many less tasteful treasures. Griffin felt a tiny spark of cheer. Perhaps some vestige of the boy he knew remained.
Charles's gaze again swept from Griffin to Isabeau.
"If you've come seeking a situation," Charles said, self-importantly, "I suggest you go to the servant's entrance. They may be able to find you something."
"I already have a situation," Griff managed thr
ough the odd thickness in his throat. "At least I did when you were a boy. I was master villain of Darkling Moor wood—the Sheriff of Nottingham, a bloodthirsty infidel, Lancelot the betrayer to your King Arthur."
"My... nay!" The youth's mouth popped open, his eyes wide. "Uncle Griffin? Never say you are Uncle Griffin!"
Griff's own voice was gruff with emotion. "Aye, Charles. And you had the ill manners to grow up whilst I was away."
The boy flushed with delight, drawing himself up to his full height. "I'm near to six foot now, the tallest one in my set, and—oh, devil take it! It's dashed good to see you!"
For an instant Griff hoped that Charles would fling himself into his arms, as he had when he was a boy.
But this Charles stifled any such unmanly urges, merely closing the space between them to clap Griff uncomfortably upon one shoulder.
"It is wondrous grand to see you again! I've been regaling my club with your exploits, and they are all agog to tip a glass with you—the notorious Lord Griffin Stone," Charles said, his tone becoming a bit too bluff. "A score of duels, grande passions, and enough wagers to make any sane man a Bedlamite—it is what they say of you. And that bold gesture when you rid Lady Elise of her brutish husband."
Griffin felt awkward at his nephew's ecstasies. "It was the most addle-witted thing I've ever done," he said, wanting to dash any glaze of heroic glamour from the boy's eyes. "Elise Devanne was a scheming baggage, and her husband an old man. Your father—"
"My father cast you out." A look of resentment shadowed Charles's eyes.
"It was right of him to do so. And in truth"—Griffin’s voice softened—"much as I missed you, Charles, it was the wisest thing William could have done for me. I was going straight to the devil as fast as I could manage."
"It is much more entertaining in hell anyway, is it not, Uncle? Heaven must be brimful of dull-witted saints floating about with their somber faces as they look down upon us poor sinners." Charles laughed thinly as he walked over to a gilded table to finger a porcelain bowl. "No doubt Father is even now enthroned upon some cloud, staring down at us with that look in his eyes—you know the one—as if I am yet five years old and scribbling in his ledgers."
Griffin's jaw knotted, and a feeling of betrayal stirred in his belly. "Aye," he said. "I know the expression you mean. And I would give every scrap of wealth that I possess to see it with my own eyes once again."
He saw the boy stiffen, Charles's sparsely freckled cheeks darkening red. "I—I—of course I would, too. Poor old man. It's only that it is a raging pity he never had any revels while he was alive. Just musty old books, and statues."
"He had you," Griffin said, his voice holding a quiet certainty. "It was all he wanted. To leave you an estate you could be proud of."
For an instant Charles looked ill, his fingers catching at the folds of his neckcloth.
"Then our Charles is twice blessed, is he not?" a masculine voice dangerous as thin ice commented. "An industrious father who left him great wealth, and a blackguard uncle who showed him the pleasure that could be had with it."
Griff turned toward the voice. A reed-like figure leaned against the oak-paneled doors. His thin face was lead-painted, and his snowy powdered wig made the man look as though he'd just emerged from an ice palace. Hooded amber eyes glittered with recognition, colorless lips pulling back from uneven white teeth in a mockery of a smile.
Griff recognized the disturbing man immediately.
Malcolm Alistair, Marquess of Valmont.
The years had done nothing to soften the stark cruelty in that harsh face, nor to ease the loathing it inspired in Griffin's chest. He could remember the last time he had seen the vicious nobleman as if it were yesterday.
Griffin and Tom Southwood had been taking their pleasure in the most exclusive brothel in London. It had proven a diverting night—until Griffin had come upon the *Marquess in a dark, deserted hallway. The innocent serving girl who had waited upon the courtesans had been trapped in Alistair’s arms.
Even now, Griff’s mouth hardened as he remembered the girl's violet eyes, wide with fear in her pinched face, a face marked with the fiery-red slashes from Alistair's riding crop—evidence of his displeasure upon her resistance. Displeasure? Bile rose in Griffin’s throat at the memory—nay, there had been nothing but pleasure upon the marquess's face.
God alone knew what would have happened if Griff had not heard the poor wench's screams.
He shuddered inwardly, the memory making his palm ache for the hilt of his sword.
Only Tom Southwood's intervention had prevented Griff from calling the man out. That and the fact that Griffin had been exceedingly deep in his cups.
"Valmont." Griff acknowledged, his dislike for the nobleman evident.
"It is overwhelming fine to see you again," Alistair purred. "Charles here has been most eager for you to—er—shall we say reason with your brother's solicitor—if, indeed, it is possible at all to reason with one of his limited intelligence. It seems the esteemed Howell is proving a trifle recalcitrant in his dealings with our new young duke."
"Recalcitrant? Septimus Howell?" The gentle old man had served the Ravensmoors for two generations. "He has shaped the fortunes of this family since you were in short pants, Alistair."
"Aye, and it is high time he retired to his country house where he belongs!" Charles cried. "He's a tight fisted old fool who refuses to give me what is mine. Uncle Griff, I told Alistair that I could depend upon you to come to my aid. Force Howell to let loose of my purse strings."
"And I," Malcolm Alistair said silkily, "warned Charles that you would not. As I recall, beneath that rakehell facade of yours you are as prudish and dull as your brother was."
"Hold, Alistair." Charles's voice held a quaver. "I'll not have you speaking of the old fellow that way."
"Ah, yes, dearest Charles, I'd forgotten how bosom close you and your father were before his untimely demise. So close that when I heard of the old duke's death I wondered for an instant if you might be responsible."
Charles's hand trembled, and the base of the china bowl clinked against the table. If Griffin had doubted that his nephew grieved for his father, it was clear in Charles's stricken face now.
"Damn your eyes, Alistair," Griffin ground out, his hand grasping at the hilt of his sword. "I should—"
"Griffin." Strong, insistent, yet touched with dulcet tones, Beau's voice broke through his rage. Her small fingers grasped the dusty sleeve of his frock coat.
For an instant confusion surged through him, then suddenly his mind cleared. Isabeau. He had all but forgotten her.
"Who the devil—" Charles began unsteadily as Alistair's knowing laugh echoed in the hall.
"It seems your uncle has not waited to arrive at Darkling Moor before he began to stir up scandal."
"With a servant?" Charles said uncertainly, raking the coppery-haired figure with his eyes. "The boy is—"
"The boy is a wench, unless I miss my guess. And a comely enough one, beneath those breeches and that dirty face."
Griff could feel Beau tense, her voice dripping challenge. "In your eye, you white-faced son of a pig."
"Isabeau!" Griffin's voice was sharp.
Her fiery green eyes flashed to his. "Well, I suppose that snipe-nosed weasel would look much better if he'd been skewered and locked in a coach and—"
"Enough!" Griff bellowed. Even heedless as Beau was, she sensed his wariness.
"A wench? Who talks like that, and is rigged out in boots and breeches?" Charles's mouth gaped open. "Sweet thunder in heaven." He emitted a low whistle. "You must forgive me, milady, but I had no idea my uncle was... ah... thus accompanied."
"This is Mistress Isabeau DeBurgh," Griffin bit out. "My ward. Mistress DeBurgh, my nephew, the viscount..." He stopped, wincing at the pain the next words caused him. "Nay, I stand corrected. The Duke of Ravensmoor."
"Your ward, is she?" Alistair arched one thin brow. "You are becoming a veritable papa, are you not, my L
ord Stone? A most imposing figure of respectability. Or maybe you are not so dignified as you would like certain people to believe."
"Grandmama, for instance," Charles piped up with a faint grin.
Disgust and anger at what they were implying welled up in Griffin. For an instant he wished that he had finished the duel he had begun with Alistair so many years ago, and that Charles was still young enough to receive a thrashing.
"You will accord my ward the respect due her, your grace." A muscle in Griffin's jaw tensed. "She has a questionable enough opinion of the English aristocracy without your confirming her worst suspicions within moments of our arrival."
"They didn't have to bother, Stone," Beau snapped. "You already—"
"Damn it, Isabeau, you will go over there and sit down, or I'll—"
His threat was cut off by her snort of disgust. She tossed her red curls and stomped off, not to sit down as he had commanded, but rather to eye a pair of magnificent silver candelabras as if she were figuring their worth and plotting some way to steal them.
Griffin turned back to Charles, noting that the boy had moved closer to Alistair, as if seeking protection. The young duke's narrow chest swelled beneath his pea-green frock coat, and he fingered the trim at his cuff. His lips curled in a jaded hopelessness that stunned Griffin.
"So this well-bred ward of yours has a questionable opinion of aristocrats, does she?" Charles sneered. "In that case, her stay with the Stones of Ravensmoor should be most illuminating, should it not? For a more aristocratic family you could never find. We have had the noble patriarch, the wastrel younger brother, the disappointing heir, and what with Grandmama... it is rounded out nicely with an adder-tongued—"
"Enough!" Griffin roared, leaving them all in stifling silence. "I have had a long and most trying journey and am in desperate need of a glass of claret and a bath so hot it will sear the grime from my skin. And I fear"—he cast a scathing glance at Alistair—"my patience for polite conversation is quite exhausted. Charles, if you will have the servants tend to Mistress DeBurgh's comforts, and if you will excuse me to the dowager duchess, I will wait upon the lot of you when I am refreshed."