Rebels, Rakes & Rogues
Page 72
"Of course."
"But the one thing every lady of quality needs, wed or unwed, is the use of a most dependable lady's maid."
"Bah! I almost wrung the neck of the last chit you tried to saddle me with. If you foist that witch with the gray hair and the comb made out of a haymaker’s scythe upon me again, I promise I'll—"
"Save your threats, babe. I think I have stumbled upon a suitable character. One that may be to your liking."
He turned, extending his hand to someone beyond the door.
Molly stepped timidly into the grand room, her eyes round with wonder, her cheeks pink with happiness. "Good morrow, Mistress Isab—"
Her words were lost in Beau's glad cry, a blur in lilac-pink flinging itself into the smaller girl's arms. Laughter bubbled, mingled with sniffles and whispers and hugs, until the two of them emerged from burying their faces in each other's curls, their faces wet, their eyes shining.
"Moll... I'm so... so sorry," Beau choked out. "I—oh, Griffin... my lord..." She spun upon him, giving him a fierce hug. "Thank you... so much... I..."
"I do not envy you your position, Molly." He gave the girl one of his most dazzling smiles over Beau's shoulder. "I would rather confront a score of Jacobite cavalry than face putting Isabeau's hair up in curls."
"Beau has faced fates as daunting as any battle on my behalf," Molly said softly. "I shall be more than happy to enter the fray upon hers."
Griffin cleared his throat. "Very well, then, I shall leave you to your reunion. But I wanted to warn you to keep your weeping brief. My cousin, Lady Charcross, has arranged an engagement for us at Ranelagh a week from now, and, we'll not want to miss it. Molly, I would appreciate it if you could send your mistress upon that outing wearing something other than doeskin breeches and knee boots."
"I shall contrive to oblige you, my lord." Molly bobbed him a most respectful curtsy.
Beau flashed Griffin a glance bubbling with merriment. "And I shall contrive to defy you."
Griffin clicked his tongue against his teeth, making a tsking sound. "Pray tell me again whom this poor unfortunate is that you have picked for a husband. I think it only fair to warn the man."
Beau spun about, scooping up an embroidered pincushion from what looked to be a sewing basket abandoned—perhaps a generation before. She threw it at Griffin in a graceful movement.
Griffin's hand shot out, and he caught the stuffed square from the air in mid-flight, holding it aloft in triumph. "She's tossing things that are not breakable now," he said to Molly with a wink. "It is a vast improvement from the—"
"Stone," Isabeau warned, reaching teasingly for a delicately latticed basket of purest porcelain.
"I surrender! I surrender!" Griffin cried out, dropping the cushion as though she had leveled one of her pistols upon him. "I shall repair to my bedchamber, cowardly dog that I am. Just do not begin, er... ridding Ravenscrest of its clutter."
Beau brandished the fragile object, smiling as Griff made a great show of retreating, his laughter echoing in the corridor beyond.
Yet once he'd gone the music room did not buzz with chatter as Beau had expected. Silence lay between her and Molly, thick, heavy, bearing down upon Beau until she did not know what to do, what to say.
"Your Lord Stone is a most generous man," Molly offered.
Beau started at the broken silence, her chest seeming to constrict as Molly went on.
"I can see why you stayed with him."
"While you were chained to Nell's bidding?" Beau's fists clenched, her nails cutting into her palms.
"Isabeau, I—"
"No, Molly, hear me out. I was horrified when I realized that you... you were still serving Nell's patrons. I thought you were taken care of, or I never would have remained."
"Beau, I've told you a hundred times that I do not want you to risk your life for me. That Owen and I are not your burden to bear."
"You're no blasted burden! I love you—care for you. Ride for you because I choose to. But after Griffin... found me, I saw Jack and asked him... asked him to see to the both of you, you and Owen. And Jack said that he would. He swore it, Molly, or I would never have stayed away. Blast, even after I saw you at that inn I could scarcely believe he would betray me."
Molly worried her pale lower lip, her gaze darting away from Beau's. "Isabeau... Jack... he..." Molly turned away, an uncommon stiffness to the set of her shoulders. "He did not betray you."
"But I saw you—saw you there with that disgusting, pawing oaf of a man."
"But Jack did not break his promise. He came to me after he spoke with you at Darkling Moor. Told me of the vow you had wrung from him. He looked so solemn, so hurt. I'd never seen him without the flash of his smile before, without the laughter that lights his eyes. But it is gone now. It was gone even then."
Beau's fingers tightened in the folds of her petticoat, crushing the delicate fabric. "I don't want to hear—don't want to know. God, I wish that I could love him the way he needs me to, Moll, but I can't! I can't! Even that night when Jack came to my room, I think I was already half in love with—" Beau cursed, spinning away from her friend, stalking across the room to the ornate fireplace.
"With Lord Stone," Molly finished for her.
Beau nodded, her fingertips reached up and touching the child's portrait she had come to love.
"Then you know, Isabeau," Molly said softly. "You must know why I could not hold Mr. Ramsey to his promise, even to spare myself from Nell's patrons."
"Because I rejected him? Molly, it is mad to—"
"Would you sit in your gilded room waiting while your lord dashed out to risk his life on your behalf? Would you scoop up the coin he brought back and buy yourself pasties and ale while a hangman's noose dangled over his head?"
Beau started at Molly's impassioned words. Before, the girl's face had always seemed so fragile, so helpless. For the first time in her life Molly's eyes burned with inner strength and a resolve that made Beau look upon her friend with a new respect.
"You love him. You love Jack."
"Far too much to allow him to die for me. Far too much to take coin from him. Even I have some pride, Beau." The words were softly reproving. Beau winced.
"Of course you have pride. I've never thought otherwise. Moll, it is just that—that you're so—"
"So frail? So frightened? Afraid of my own shadow, not to mention anyone else's?"
"Nay, it is..." Beau gestured helplessly, groping for words. "People like you cannot be expected to grub along with the rest of us poor mortals. You are an angel. You should be tucked away, safe upon some cloud, distributing largess, playing at guardian."
"I wish I could play at guardian," Molly said, her brow crinkling, her eyes worried. "Wish I could help him..."
"Jack?" Beau smiled briefly at the mere thought of timid Molly assisting bold Gentleman Jack Ramsey. But Beau wiped the grin from her lips, angry with herself as she saw hurt streak across Molly's face.
"I know you think me nothing but a coward. Think me worthless in any crisis. But he has been so subdued lately. So... somber. I had hoped it might help him just to—to talk, to have someone listen. Unfortunately, it seems he has the same opinion of my usefulness that you do."
"Molly—"
"He'd scarce say a word to me or anyone else about whatever is troubling him. And he has become so reckless that I nearly go into apoplexy every time he mounts his horse."
"Jack has always been neck or nothing. He can fend for himself."
"Something is amiss. Something odd, different. He rides off at all hours, constantly quizzing people about things that make no sense. He asks them about... poachers, and knife blades."
Beau remembered Griffin's own concern with the cruel poachers whose prey had been abandoned at Gethsemane Abbey. Griffin had set Darkling Moor's gamekeepers to search for them even before he'd sent her off to London. But to no avail. Molly's voice broke through her thoughts. "Even those dandies Jack used to find so amusing make him restive
now." Molly went on. "Whenever anyone mentions them, his brow furrows and he grows so quiet."
"He's probably just weary of being plagued by the society rakes." Beau tried to soothe Molly's unease. "And as for knives and the like, he has always had a love affair with lengths of honed steel. It is nothing, I am certain. Maybe..."
She glanced at her friend, trying to decide whether easing Molly's apprehension was worth dealing her some small hurt. "Jack is just not used to his advances being rejected. Maybe he is only moping while his heart heals up, then he can offer it to another"—she tugged upon Molly's curls—"a golden-haired angel who will adore him far more than the stubborn rogue deserves."
A becoming rose stained Molly's cheeks, but she shook her head. "Nay, I don't think he'd ever—"
"Just wait, Molly me girl. Once we've done fitting you out as a grand lady's maid the poor rogue will not know what befell him. These ribbons and laces are a blasted nuisance to me—make me feel like I'm a cursed maypole. But you... you'll be dazzling supreme."
"Beau," Molly giggled, her eyes regaining their sparkle, "I hardly think lady's maids trick themselves out as fancy as their mistresses. Most likely it will be sturdy, serviceable garb for me, and neat little mobcaps."
"Bah! The upstairs maids have already hinted that the high and holy ladies throw their cast-off finery to their servants. I can just see it now—a perfect confection in blue and pink done up for Mistress Isabeau DeBurgh. One with a bonnet trimmed in rosebuds. You do like rosebuds, do you not?"
"Aye," Molly said, her eyes glowing with laughter.
"But of course"—Beau mimicked a preening noblewoman—"being the paragon of impeccable taste that Mistress DeBurgh is, she will reject the gown upon the grounds that... that the pink is far too... pink, and the blue is uncommon blue."
Molly dissolved into gales of laughter as Beau minced about the music room with her nose poked into the air. The laugh caught in Molly's throat, and suddenly the girl ran to Beau, catching her in a hard embrace.
"Ah, Beau, it is so good to be with you again. To laugh and not be afraid. I don't know what I would have done if Lord Stone hadn't appeared when he did." A shudder went through her slight frame. "There was a man, an awful man with the whitest skin and the coldest eyes wanting to, er... engage me. I said I wouldn't. I always managed to be spoken for when he came about. He frightened me, Beau, frightened me in a way I've never been before."
"But Lord Stone did come."
"Aye, but if he hadn't, eventually I would not have been able to slip from that pale man's grasp."
"You'll never have to be afraid again, Molly. I promise. Griffin—I mean my lord Stone—he is determined to mold me into a lady of quality. And if he succeeds, although I still have my doubts, I shall always take care of you."
"Just like when you rescued Owen and me from the bakers?"
"Owen!" Beau gasped, the memory of the lanky, troublesome lad slamming into her. "Oh, where is—"
"Lord Stone took him up as well. Settled him in at Darkling Moor as a stable lad. That is what took so much time. You see, Macbeth seems to blame Owen for the bungled robbery, and every time Owen got near the stables the stallion pitched one of his legendary fits. But they have made their peace now and are... Isabeau?"
Molly's lips compressed in concern, and she peered into her friend's face, dainty fingers smoothing Beau's cheek, smearing the damp streaks that traced down from her lashes. Crying. Beau was crying.
She knew she should be bloody humiliated by dissolving into a bout of reekingly feminine tears, and yet it touched her. Touched her so deeply that Griffin had not only gone after Molly and made certain Beau had her beloved friend constantly at her side, but had also swooped the scapegrace Owen away from the harsh underworld, offering the boy the means to make his own way.
If she had not loved Griffin Stone already, she would have fallen in love with him at that moment. Her heart swelled with happiness, gratitude, until a tiny sob tore from her breast.
"Beau, you're weeping," Molly said.
"Abominable things, tears!" Beau said, taking an angry swipe at her reddening eyes. "Don't see... see why I should be afflicted with 'em. But Molly, I love him so much it hurts inside, when he is so kind."
Molly smiled. "I think he loves you, too. You should have heard him upon the ride to London, regaling me with the stories of how you turned his household upside down. His eyes shone with delight. And despite his outward smiles, I fear he is a man much given to sadness."
Beau's mind filled with images of Judith Stone's icy face and Griffin's tales of his brother's exasperation.
"I'm going to make him happy, Molly," Beau said, her words as unyielding as those of any monarch vowing to reclaim a throne, "whether he wills it or no."
"He'd best surrender his banners at once and be done with it," Molly said, saluting as she had when they had been children playing at King Charles and Cromwell.
"Thank you, Moll. For listening to me. For putting up with my infernal caterwauling and... and not tormenting me about it."
"How do you know I shan't in the future? I need only tell Owen about it, and it would spread like brushfire."
"Do that, and our friendship is over!" Beau flung her a watery smile then hastened out of the room.
The round-faced butler told her that Master Griffin had repaired to his chambers to refresh himself after his journey. But despite the servant's protests she swept up the stairs and down the corridor to Griffin's apartments.
Her hand trembled slightly as she touched the door handle, but she drew in a deep breath, opening the panel with surprising care.
Griffin stood before a shaving bowl bare-chested, his breeches slung low upon lean hips as he swiped a gleaming razor across the soap that clung about the square line of his jaw.
"If you have brought water for my bath, James, you're too late. I contrived to wash—"
When he glanced over and saw Isabeau the sharp blade in his hand skittered across one cheek, and a thin streak of blood welled where it nicked his bronze skin. He dropped the implement, leaping to one side just before it struck his toes. But he scarcely seemed to notice as his hand pressed against the tiny wound. Naked longing flared in his eyes for just a moment before he shuttered it away.
One hand raked through the damp ends of dark hair that reached his broad shoulders, his fingers sliding self-consciously down the muscled planes cut with such beguiling beauty on a chest dusted with dark hair. Beau's mouth went dry as she skimmed her gaze down that unrelentingly masculine chest, tracing the ribbon of black that dipped past his navel and disappeared into the band of breeches that fit him like a second skin.
"Isabeau." Her name was the gentlest of caresses upon his lips, the tones edged with a need that stirred fire in Beau's veins. "Is there something wrong?"
"You cut yourself. I—"
He flushed. "It is scarcely a scratch. Far beneath my notice. Was—was there something you needed?"
"Nay," Beau managed to say. "I—I but wanted to talk with you. You've been gone an infernally long time."
"Ladies do not hold interviews with gentlemen in their bedchambers. It is most improper." He crossed over to her, and she could smell the scent of soap upon his skin, the fragrance of bayberry clinging damply to his sun-bronzed chest. He reached out and ran a fingertip down the curve of her nose, letting the callused pad rest for a heartbeat upon the silky swell of her lip. "If anyone were to see us thus, I fear you would be compromised beyond redemption. It would be a shame for such a beauty to be forced to wed the likes of me."
"Then... then I hope the whole world sees me. I shall usher in every vicar in London. For I would consider it an honor to be at the side of such a wondrously kind man. A man who aids street urchins and shields serving maids and tolerates a pure witch of a grandmother, even though the shriveled-up harpy deserves to be sunk in the nearest river."
"Isabeau." Griffin brushed a tender kiss across her brow. "You must not drown the dowager duchess. Your word."
She had expected some words in return, something to show her that he felt the same racing joy that she did, the same breathless wonder at having discovered something miraculous totally by surprise.
Instead she saw disbelief and sadness, and a pain that struck through to her heart.
"Isabeau."
"I love you! Blast it, Stone, I—"
"You believe that you do. Babe, it is so confusing, I know, all these feelings you're experiencing. And what with me whirling your life about like a child's top, it is no wonder you are... muddled. But... look at you, Isabeau, look." He turned her so that she could see her reflection in the glass over his shaving bowl. "You are nothing but a babe in this world. Innocent... so... so vulnerable. I know that you think you love me"—the words snagged in his throat, and she saw him battle and fail to suppress the need that was fierce in his eyes—"but you're only grateful. You don't even know me."
"I know you well enough. I know that you're loving and brave, and that you—you make me laugh."
"Isabeau, it is hardly a measure for loving."
"Nay? Well, what about trembling, Stone? You make me do that, too, and God knows I've never been troubled with that problem before. When you're near me my whole cursed body aches, and I feel like I'll fly to pieces if you don't touch me. If you don't kiss me. But then when you do... I shatter like your grandmother's thrice-cursed Ming, because I want... need so much more."
A shudder worked through his half-naked body, the corded muscles beneath his damp skin knotting. Beau reached out, trailing her fingers in a feather-light pattern across the sun-darkened flesh, a throbbing setting up at the juncture of her thighs as she felt the spasm of his muscles beneath her hand.