by Jo Beverley
Pup walked to stand in front of the picture. “Of who? Bit of the regent, perhaps. Remember, when he reviewed the regiment last year?”
Darien laughed aloud. Pup might be good to have around after all. He found a sturdy chair beneath one cloth, carried it over, and with Pup’s help unhooked the heavy painting.
That revealed a square of clear yellow paint behind.
Let that be a good sign.
He carried the picture into his father’s old rooms and shut the door on it. Pup was hovering, looking tail-waggingly keen to do more furniture moving.
“Have to work,” Darien said, and escaped back to his office.
All the same, he felt lighter than he had in eons. Van, the duchess’s letter, and even Pup contributed. Exasperating as Pup was, he was the antithesis of everything the Cave name stood for. But then Darien remembered the blood on the doorstep and The Wrath of God. Cave House was no place for any innocent. He’d have to sort out Pup’s situation soon.
When he sat to his ledgers and leases again, however, his mind wouldn’t stick to them. He sat back and reviewed.
The duchess’s letter showed that Lady Theodosia hadn’t told her mother what had happened. Therefore, she must be willing to go through with the bargain. He hadn’t been at all sure she would. Especially after that kiss.
So, he even had something to look forward to—his next encounter with the Great Untouchable.
He laughed at that name. It was as stupid as Mad Dog Cave.
Chapter 11
Thea spent the rest of Wednesday fearing a Cave invasion and, against logic, worried that she’d encounter the man at the Almack’s assembly. Of course, even he couldn’t bully his way past the formidable patronesses, so she flung herself into the delights of a normal evening.
She chatted with friends and danced every dance, and Lord Avonfort proposed. It was the fifth time, and for the fifth time she put him off, but she was in such a good mood that she might have accepted him if not for the Cave business. She wasn’t going to betroth herself to the Vile Viscount, but promising to marry someone else right now would be a bit much.
For some reason, Avonfort chose this occasion to persist.
“Why not, Thea? You know we’re ideally suited.”
“Yes,” she said honestly, for she did.
He was a handsome, brown-haired man of twenty-eight and generally acknowledged as one of the most elegant dressers in the ton. He had a lovely house and estate not far from Long Chart. She’d known him all her life, and liked his mother and two sisters. His youngest sister, now Lady Kingstable, was a particular friend.
“I can’t make such a commitment yet, Avonfort. Dare—”
“He himself is engaged to marry, Thea, so he can hardly object if you do the same.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s simply that I need some calm before making important decisions.”
“How much time?” he demanded—rather imperiously, she thought.
She wanted to snap, As much time as I want, but instead she said, “Six weeks,” the term Lord Darien had hung over her head. No matter what happened, in six weeks she’d be free.
“Six weeks!” he protested. “That’s the whole season.”
“And I want to enjoy the whole season. We’ll talk more at Long Chart in the summer.”
He frowned, but she saw him take that as a guarded promise. He was probably correct, but it annoyed her. It also made her even more determined to sort out her situation with the Vile Viscount.
On Thursday morning, she asked her mother about Mr. Thoresby’s report, but it hadn’t appeared yet. In case the Vile Viscount invaded, she went to visit Maddy.
Her cousin was only just out of bed and still in her nightclothes, but she was bright-eyed, with only one subject on her mind. “Have you seen Lord Darien yet?”
Shedding her outer clothing, Thea lied by instinct. “No.”
“I haven’t either, but last night Caroline Camberley said he’s Conrad to the very inch! Have some chocolate.” She shouted for her maid to find another cup.
“Conrad? Conrad who?”
“The Corsair!”
“Oh, Byron,” Thea said, taking a seat. Lord Byron’s dramatic poem, The Corsair, had been all the rage a while back. “In what way?”
“In manner, for one thing.” Maddy had the slim volume to hand and turned to a marked page. “Listen! ‘That man of loneliness and mystery, / Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”
It resonated, but Thea said, “He sounds very disagreeable.”
“You have no romance in your soul. I will die if I don’t meet him, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Mama’s saying he’ll be thrown out if he dares.”
It couldn’t be a secret, so Thea said, “Mother is planning his social reinstatement, so you’ll probably have many chances.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Maddy moved on to another passage. “‘What is that spell, that thus his lawless train / Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? / What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? / The power of thought—the magic of the mind!’ The magic of the mind,” she repeated, clutching the book to her breasts. “Imagine being powerless before a man’s demanding will.”
“Absolutely horrid,” Thea stated.
“Thea, you’re impossible.”
The maid returned with a cup and saucer and Maddy poured chocolate. “A pity he’s ugly.”
“Darien? I wouldn’t say…” Thea stopped herself and Maddy didn’t notice her slip.
“Conrad!” Maddy recited from memory. “‘Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, / Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, / In Conrad’s form seems little to admire.’ I’d love to meet a god.”
Thea sipped her chocolate, struggling not to laugh. “An old man with a white beard?”
“Apollo! Adonis!”
“Neptune with seaweed for hair?”
Maddy threw a cushion at her.
“You can’t believe Caroline on anything,” Thea said, putting the cushion aside. “But Lord Darien doesn’t sound to your taste.”
“He has a ‘glance of fire,’” Maddy said.
“Lord Darien? How alarming.”
“Conrad! From dark eyes. Which Darien does have. I must meet him soon. Promise, Thea, if you hear he is to be at any event, alert me!”
“Really, Maddy, he’s best left alone.” Thea grabbed the book. Like everyone else, she knew the poem almost by heart and it only took a moment to find the passage.
There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions of both rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled—and mercy sighed farewell.
Instead of dismay, Maddy sighed. “Oh. Delicious.”
Thea slammed the book shut. “You’re fit for Bedlam.”
“Then it is glorious to be mad!”
Thea endured another half hour of Maddy’s ravings before making her escape, but that passage of poetry ran in her head. It sounded all too apt. This was the man she expected to see sense? The man who had reason, no matter how distant and warped, to hate her family?
When she returned home, she met her mother in the upstairs corridor.
“How is Maddy?” the duchess asked.
“Running mad over the Corsair.”
Her mother put a hand to the wall. “Never say she’s taken up with a pirate!”
Thea laughed. “Of course not. The poem. Byron.”
Her mother’s expression was almost as appalled. “Lord Byron is back?”
“Poem, not poet, Mama. Conrad, Medora, Gulnare, harems.”
“Oh, that.” The duchess continued with Thea toward the bedrooms. “Such a tale of folly. Medora was in the right of it to point out that her husband had enough money to stay at home and enjoy domestic life. So why sail off again to plunder?”
“Because men enjoy action and danger.”
“So true. Did you hear that
Cardew Frobisher lies seriously injured after trying to enter the Tower over the wall?”
“Why on earth did he do that?”
“Exactly! Why, when there are perfectly adequate entrances? After surviving the war with hardly a scratch. His poor mother.”
“I always thought Medora made a mistake in trying to tempt Conrad with evenings of music and reading,” Thea said. “She’d have done better with hearty meals, manly company, and lots of hunting.”
Her mother chuckled. “So wise, dearest. You’ll make any man a wonderful wife. I saw you with Avonfort last night.” Her tone was coy.
“Yes, he proposed again. I’m just not ready, Mama.”
“As you said, you deserve a lighthearted season before settling down.”
But clearly in the duchess’s eyes, too, the match was settled.
At Thea’s door, her mother asked, “Do you wish to come out with me later?”
Thea knew she’d be highly unlikely to meet Darien on morning calls, but she’d be safer at home. With both her mother and father out, she could simply refuse to see him if he called.
“I’d rather practice the piano,” she said. “I have a new piece I’d like to play after dinner tomorrow.”
“That will be pleasant, dear.”
Dinner made Thea think of Darien and confrontation, but music did soothe her—until her mother returned from the social round, still dressed in high fashion and cross. “So tiresome. Such unfair comments about Darien! I moderated them as best I could, but I couldn’t yet come out in full support.”
“I suppose not.”
“Phoebe Wilmott’s left Town. Never has a quiet departure been so thunderous.”
“You can’t blame her, Mama. To encounter Darien would be exquisitely painful.”
“Our Lord Darien bears no responsibility for her daughter’s death. Come along to my room so I can change into something more comfortable as we consider this. Even the Vile Viscount wasn’t to blame for Mary Wilmott’s death,” she said, leading the way briskly, “unless one blames the parent for the child. So unfortunate that they are neighbors.”
Thea was having trouble following. “Who are neighbors?”
“Darien and the Wilmotts. I suppose opposite sides of the square is not quite neighbors.”
“Cave House is on the same square…?” Thea gasped. “How unbearable!”
“Phoebe’s borne it for years,” her mother said, with unusual tartness as she entered her bedroom.
“But not inhabited,” Thea pointed out. “With the chance of meeting a Cave any day.”
“That’s how the murder came to happen,” the duchess said, as her maid helped her shed bonnet and layers. “Mary Wilmott would hardly have been at large in London at night. I suppose she must have thought the square’s private garden was safe as only residents have keys. Ah, yes.” She picked up a folder of papers. “Mr. Thoresby’s preliminary report.”
“What does it say?” Thea asked, fingers itching to open it.
“Oh, the usual. Educated at home, Harrow, of course, then the army. I am most cross with Wellington.”
Thea stared. “Why?” The duke was everyone’s darling these days.
“Would you believe that he was responsible for that Mad Dog name? Fortunately it didn’t become Darien’s principal nickname. Only think of poor Fuzzy Staceyhume, called that because his hair was wild in his youth, and now he’s mostly bald. Or Wolf Wolverton, and he the most gentlemanly man imaginable. Or Mad Jack Mytton. But then,” the duchess added thoughtfully, “he truly was mad—”
“Mother!”
“What?”
“The report? It must contain some negatives.”
“Not really, but by all means read it.” She passed it over. “Darien hasn’t paid much attention to his estates, but he’s not long out of the army. I’m sure he’ll attend to them when he settles down. He’ll doubtless apply himself to Parliament and local administration as well, and he may well want a position at the Horse Guards, having military experience.”
Thea escaped with the report, feeling she should warn Darien of this onslaught of responsibilities, but also thinking he might be well served for imposing himself on her family.
Once in her room, she flipped through the papers. The closely written pages included accounts and a family tree. She glanced at that, but it was sparse. Four sons in Darien’s family. Two in his father’s. One in his grandfather’s.
In some families the increase could be seen as progress, but not with Caves.
His Italian mother had been called Maddalena D’Auria, and nothing further was said about her. She’d died when her youngest child, Francis Angelo, was three. So Darien would have been seven.
Darien’s name was Horatio Raffaelo. Angels, she scoffed to herself. Satan and Lucifer would have been more appropriate.
The oldest son had been named for the Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius. That had been a wild stab at optimism, as had Christian for the second. Christian Michelangelo.
What strange aspirations lay behind such names? What lay behind her own? Theodosia—God’s gift. She put that aside and settled to reading.
Thoresby had uncovered that Horatio Cave had been expelled from Harrow for fighting, but not why, or anything about Dare and cave canem. There were the dates of Darien’s army career and his decadelong progression from cornet to major. He’d received rapid promotion to lieutenant because of a battle in which the senior officers of his regiment had been killed or injured. Cornet Cave had taken charge and led the men successfully.
She realized that he’d been only sixteen years old.
She had no trouble in believing that story, or others of courage, decisiveness, and command. She might admire it if she and her family weren’t the enemy this formidable man was attacking.
She paused on an incident involving Vandeimen. It seemed Canem Cave and Demon Vandeimen had ended up behind enemy lines, each with a small troop of men. By dash and courage, their combined forces had not only fought clear but captured three French officers and a chest of gold.
She considered the information on Darien’s finances and property. He owned three estates—the main one, Stours Court in Warwickshire; a secondary one, Greenshaw in Lancashire; and another, Ballykilneck in Cavan County, Ireland. Mr. Thoresby had been able to discover little about the latter other than that the rental income from it was negligible. Greenshaw was reportedly neglected, having been under the management of Marcus Cave.
Mad Marcus had died five years ago in Bedlam. Time enough for someone to clear up the mess. But then, apparently it was traditionally the heir’s property, so it would have passed to the next brother, Christian, whose only superiority over his brother was sanity. He’d died last year, struck by lightning with his father. As her mother had said, though Darien had inherited a year ago, he’d only been out of the army for a short time. She would try to be fair.
At Stours Court the land was all leased and worked, and Darien had recently appointed a new and better steward, who was beginning to improve the estate. The house needed extensive work, however, or was in danger of falling down.
The last section was on Cave House, and its very blandness showed that Thoresby hadn’t known quite how to handle such a touchy subject. He’d clearly decided that there was no point in recounting the lurid details of the murder. Instead, there was the address, including a map of the square, with its terraces of houses on each side and the railed private gardens in the center.
Elevations and floor plans showed a typical house, but Thea pored over them as if they might give a peephole into Darien’s life. She caught herself at it and tidied the papers. There was nothing shocking in them, but Thea wasn’t reassured. Thoresby hadn’t uncovered the truth about Harrow, so what else had he missed? She wasn’t surprised, however, when her mother confirmed that she’d sent Darien the dinner invitation.
At least Thea had one remaining night of unpolluted pleasure. The Wraybourne musical evening was one of her favorite eve
nts of the season. The company was always select, and there was no attempt at a “crush.” The music would be excellent. This year, the boys’ choir from Westminster Abbey would perform. It would be glorious.
They attended two routs on their way, passing through crowded houses to fulfill as many social obligations as possible in the limited time the season allowed. Mrs. Calford’s rout was a little thin, but Lady Netherholt’s was packed. Thea became separated from her parents, but she might have escaped in blessed ignorance if she hadn’t bumped into Alesia de Roos.
Alesia grabbed her arm and hissed, “That’s the Vile Viscount over there!”
Chapter 12
A quick glance showed Alesia was correct, and even worse, Darien was talking to the Vandeimens. If her parents spotted them, they’d be sure to go over.
All three looked at ease, but a subtle space had formed around them even in this crowd. And the man expected her to join him in shunned isolation?
“They call him Canem Cave,” Alesia whispered. “It means ‘mad dog’!”
“No, it doesn’t. The closest translation would be ‘dog beware.’”
“Don’t be so literal, Thea. It’s almost the same thing. He gives me the most delicious shivers. Oh, save me! He’s looking at us.”
Thea made the mistake of checking on that. Her eyes clashed with his.
“Then don’t look back,” she said, turning away. “I must go—”
But the Fortescue sisters joined them. “Are you talking about the Vile Viscount?” Cecily whispered.
“Horrid, isn’t it?” Cassandra added, eyes bright. “We can’t think of a reason to approach.”
“Approach!” Alesia gasped. “He should be thrown out.”
“But he’s with the Vandeimens,” Cassandra pointed out. “Lady Netherholt can hardly offend them.”
“He was little better,” Alesia said. “And Lady Vandeimen—”
Thea interrupted, speaking coldly. “Need I remind you that Maria Vandeimen is a relative of mine?”
Alesia turned red.
“I must go,” Thea said, desperate to be out of this mess. “My parents are ready to leave.”