Lady Beware (13 page)

D
arien entered Hanover Square, which was peacefully quiet at gone midnight, but still the scene of a notoriously bloody deed.

In daylight, the shrubs and bushes of the gardens gave a pleasant aspect, but at night they were dark shapes behind black railings, able to hide any number of monsters. He walked to his house, but then paused to study the opposite row of houses, appearing only as a black square against dark sky, broken only by one curtained window and a couple of lamps beside doors. The Wilmotts' house was over there, and though Lady Wilmott had fled Town, Sir George was still in residence.

Did people point at the Wilmott house as they did at Cave House, as they did at the place in the gardens where the bloody corpse had been found? London people brought country cousins here. Tour St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, and the Tower of London. Go to Hanover Square to see the scene of Mad Marcus Cave's bloody deed.

One day he was going to have to try to arrange a meeting with Sir George and forge some sort of peace. But he couldn't face that yet. He suspected the man had sent the
Wrath of God
drawing. Who else? He might even be responsible for the blood. He'd no desire to bring the family more distress, but he had his plan to push through.

He turned toward his house, where the family crest sat above the lintel. The snarling black mastiff seemed almost animated by the flickering flame of the lamp by the door. Darien snarled back, ignoring the carved warning beneath.
Cave.

He should get rid of it, if only because such house crests had gone out of fashion fifty years or more ago. It was carved in stone, however, and set firmly into the brick. Removing it would be the devil of a job, and for all he knew the stone was supporting the upper stories of the house. Causing the place to crumble was tempting, but for now it was his burden.

Taking up residence here had been a mistake, but he couldn't correct it yet. To move now would look as if the blood had frightened him away, and one of his creeds was to never, ever show fear. He'd learned that whenever young Marcus had visited Stours Court. Even before turning mad, Marcus had been the sort of bully who'd feasted on fear like a vampire on human blood.

Hades, he was hovering, reluctant to enter. He unlocked the door and went inside. As always, the house was both silent and loud with malice.

Then Prussock hurried up from the basement. “Welcome home, milord.”

This was a change. Was Lovegrove lecturing the other servants on correct behavior in the house of a peer of the realm, or was this Prussock's reaction to the spate of visitors? Darien would rather he not bother, but he supposed the family were anxious not to lose their places here.

Prussock lit one of the two waiting candles and presented it.

Darien took it. “Thank you. Is Mr. Uppington in?”

“No, milord. He went out shortly after you did.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, milord.”

“He has a key, Prussock, so don't stay up.”

“I am perfectly willing—”

“Go to bed, Prussock. That's an order.”

“Very well, milord.” The butler walked away stiff with disapproval. Darien wondered if he was breaking some other arcane rule, but Prussock had a way of looking disgruntled about everything.

Darien mounted the stairs to where Lovegrove would be waiting to care for his finery—in spirit if not in flesh. Very much in spirit, judging from the amount of brandy disappearing.

There was nothing wrong with this house, he told himself. It was close to identical to the others in the row. Yet every time he entered, a foul atmosphere fell around him like a damp, rotting blanket. He'd slept among corpses with greater ease than here.

A flicker to his right made him turn. It was nothing, but he knew something hovered here, wishing him ill. Perhaps he should have the place exorcized. Did the Church of England do that, or would he need a Catholic priest? A Romish ritual might do more harm than good. There were enough people who still thought Catholics sacrificed babies on the altar.

The majority of people were bloody idiots.

To his surprise, Lovegrove was conscious and upright, if listing. The man managed to be both thin and flabby, but he knew his business and cared for Darien's clothing as if each item was sacred.

“A pleashant evening, milord?” he slurred as he took Darien's silk-lined evening cloak with trembling hands.

“Choirboys.”

A sharp look made Darien wonder about the habits of Lovegrove's previous employers.

“The Abbey choir,” he expanded. “At Lady Wraybourne's.”

“Ah. A mosht select occasion, I'm sure.” But the valet's eyes were wide with surprise. He was also useful for his knowledge of the arcane ways of polite society.

“Very select,” Darien agreed, surrendering the overly tight black coat and embroidered waistcoat, but not an explanation for his entreé. “I encountered a number of army acquaintances.”

“Mosht gratifying, I'm sure, milord,” Lovegrove said, steering a course for the chest of drawers. Darien winced when the valet bumped into one corner of the bed.

The gratification was probably genuine. Darien had been amused to learn that a gentleman's gentleman's status depended on the gentleman. In large houses the personal servants were known by their employer's name, so Lovegrove would be Viscount Darien below stairs. He doubted the Prussocks indulged in that sort of nonsense, but the system added to the reasons he'd found it hard to hire a qualified valet. No one volunteered to become a Cave.

Darien was grateful for Lovegrove's skill and social knowledge, but he'd established from the first that when down to shirt and pantaloons he would fend for himself.

Lovegrove retreated, therefore, sighing. Alone, Darien washed his hands and face, but then wandered the room restlessly, remembering Pup walking in here earlier today, without a by-your-leave, and commenting, “Not moved in properly yet, Canem?”

He poured himself some brandy. The last in the decanter, he noticed. Ah, well, he considered it part of Lovegrove's wages. As he sipped, he considered the room.

He'd grown skilled at moving into a billet and turning it into his own by distributing his collection—the richly woven blanket from Spain, the rug made of the fleece of an Andorran sheep, the chess set with the black pieces Moors and the white the forces of Ferdinand and Isabella.

He'd been here three weeks but not put out any of them.

The only personal item on view was his scarred wooden trunk, which contained all those things.

On impulse, he unlocked the trunk. He tossed the blanket across the bed and the fleece on the floor, where it would greet his bare feet in the morning. He took out his scabbarded saber, the only part of his hussar life he'd retained. What to do with something he'd worn most of the time for so long?

Perhaps he'd hang it on the wall one day, but for now he laid it across the dressing table.

He took two wooden boxes out of the chest. He put the larger one containing the chess set on the table by the window, but didn't open it. Then he set the slender flute box beside it.

Had he really played no music since moving in here?

He'd learned to play the instrument precisely because his father had considered all music unmanly, but in particular the smaller, delicate instruments. It was a trivial rebellion—the only sort he'd been likely to get away with—but it had provided blessings. One couldn't haul a piano around battlefields, and even a violin could be a burden, but his flute had traveled everywhere with him and had often driven away the dark.

He prepared the instrument, remembering how often Foxstall had complained. He had as little taste for music as Darien's father, and he'd sneered at an officer playing for the amusement of the men, which Darien had often done.

Foxstall had never understood the more subtle ways of gaining allegiance. Darien had learned them mostly from his first captain, Michael Horne. The first real stroke of luck in his life had been to land under that man's command. Horne hadn't been a brilliant soldier, but he'd been steady, conscientious, and truly kind. He'd tolerated an angry lad, but only to a point, and rewarded improvement.

Perhaps he'd truly been fatherly, for he'd been over forty, though why any man should choose to adopt Horatio Cave and his load of violent resentments, God alone knew. Darien knew he owed most of what he was today to Horne, and he'd wept to lose him after only three years.

From Horne he'd learned the balance between strict discipline and easy fellowship, which meant the men would follow an officer into the bloodiest battles, follow orders sharply, but retain the ability to think for themselves when needed.

Not too much familiarity—they'd despise that—but the little touches. The hour spent with them around a campfire in the evening, telling stories and making music. Making sure they were cared for when wounded. A memory for anything special going on in their lives, for their family back home and their special interests. He'd allowed those interested to borrow from his small library of books.

When he'd made captain, his men had christened themselves Canem's Curs. They'd meant well, so he'd tolerated it. Did they still use the name? Did they still use “Ca-ve, ca-ve, ca-ve” as their battle chant? Of course there'd been no battles recently except against desperate working folk….

He started a lively jig, the sort the men had liked most, but then found he'd drifted into a lament.

He didn't like the thought of Canem's Curs set loose in India under Pugh, the man who'd purchased Darien's majority. Pugh wouldn't be able to control Foxstall, and Foxstall was a wild force.

If he hadn't sold his commission, he'd be tempted to abandon his invasion of the ton and take over. But the army didn't work like that, and there was never any point in trying to turn the clock back.

He put the flute back to his lips and determinedly played “Jolly Jenny.”

His door opened so forcefully that it banged against a chest of drawers.

“Tootling in the gloom, Canem? Can't have that.” Foxstall staggered in, taking most of the weight of a very drunk Pup.

Darien lowered the flute. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Bringing your pup home. He cast up his accounts in your hall.”

“How did you get in?”

“Pup has a key.”

So he did, dammit.

Even Foxstall had trouble steering the wobbly mass to the sofa. When he dropped him there, the spindle-legged sofa shuddered.

“Why bring him in here?” Darien demanded.

“Don't know which is his room, and he's not saying. Besides, strange goings-on to bring a man into your house and not say a word to you.” Foxstall blew out a breath. “Need to wet my whistle after that.” He grabbed the decanter, then frowned. “Ring for more, old fellow.”

“The servants are in bed.”

Foxstall put down the decanter with a thump. “Can this be Canem Cave, this dull, tootling wretch?”

“Responsibilities weigh upon a man. Where did you find Pup? Not at Lady Wraybourne's, I assume.”

“The luscious Miss Debenham stirred my juices but balked at going further, so I went on to Violet Vane's.”

“What-ho!” Pup came vaguely to life. He grinned glassily around. “That you, Can'm? Bit foxed. Plenty t'drink at Vane's.”

“For those with money,” Darien said. “It's a bad place, Pup.”

“Have money. Have lots of money. Should 'a' come, Can. Little redhead. Shweet as shweet. And the black-haired one. Rolled her merrily.” His lids fell. “I think…” He sank back into slack-jawed sleep.

“I assume he paid,” Darien said.

“Why not? Come on, if he wants to be a big bad boy like us, he can bloody well pay for the privilege. When I finished with my whore, he was rolling drunk and ready to toss up his accounts, so La Vane demanded I remove him. Act of Christian kindness, given that he's a moonling.”

“Not quite so bad as that.”

“Is he not? Devil only knows how he survived the war. Less sense of self-preservation than a ball fired from a cannon.”

“Or a pig.”

“What?”

Darien shook his head. “Just a memory.”

“You fired a pig from a cannon? I never heard of it. Damn waste of pork.”

Darien didn't try to explain.

“Why the devil couldn't I have a godfather who'd leave me his all?” Foxstall complained, kicking Pup's hanging boot. “Mine's a vicar with five children.”

“Stop that.”

Their eyes clashed. “You're in a damn funny mood, Canem.”

“Having one's house invaded will do that.”

“Bringing Pup home, that's all.” Foxstall ranged the room, touching things dismissively. “I'd live better than this if I were a viscount. Surprised to see you at that choral do, but I suppose you have to grovel to the hostesses. Campaign going well?”