Lady Beware (2 page)

With thanks as always to my wonderful agent, Margaret Ruley and the Rotrosen Agency, and my super editor, Claire Zion, and all the supportive people at New American Library. Thanks especially to the art department for the great cover on
Lady Beware
.

The members of my chat group at Yahoogroups are always ready with encouragement, lively questions, and useful information. Kathy, Lisa, and Joan—thanks so much for shortcutting my research on
cave canem
and Roman traditions. (Anyone can join at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/jobeverley.)

And to my readers everywhere—you're what makes my books come alive.

London May 1817

L
ady Thea Debenham wriggled out of her frothy green gown. “A new gown, Harriet. Now.”

“But
beetroot
, milady!” her maid wailed, gathering the maroon-stained confection as if it were a wounded child.

“I know, I know, but I'm sure you can work some magic. Please. Another gown.”

“Which one, milady?”

“I don't care!” But that wasn't true. Thea whirled to check herself in the long mirror. Her underwear always matched her gowns, so she was sea green from stay frill to petticoat hem. “Do I have anything else close to this color?”

“No, milady.”

Thea bit her knuckle—which made her aware of her green silk gloves. She stripped them off. “Anything, then. Is there something I haven't worn yet?”

Harriet ran to the dressing room next door.

Thea saw her green slippers peeping out. “Matching slippers!” she called.

She bent to take off the slippers but was caught by the stiff busk of her evening corset. It didn't let her bend at the waist at all. Blast the busk and blast Uffham! She'd felt armored for this difficult evening by the most becoming ensemble in her wardrobe.

In keeping with fashion, the green gown had an extremely low bodice, and that had caused disaster. The Marquess of Uffham had been so engaged in ogling her bosom that the pickled beetroot on his tilted plate had slid off and down her gown.

Two ladies had actually shrieked.

Thea had managed not to, but she'd wanted to. Ruined. The gown had to be ruined—at its first wearing. And tonight of all nights. She paced the room, silk petticoat swishing.

On the surface her mother's ball was to celebrate the betrothal of Thea's brother, Lord Darius Debenham, to Lady Mara St. Bride. Beneath that felicitous froth lurked a deeper purpose. New trouble had surfaced for Dare.

He'd suffered so much. He'd fought at Waterloo, been badly wounded, and been listed among the dead. Thea and her family had believed that for over a year—a long, terrible year. In fact he'd not died, but the woman who'd nursed him had given him too much opium for too long, so that he'd returned to England frail and addicted.

They'd nursed him back to health and now he'd found love. He'd struggled down to a very small daily amount of opium. But now this. As if the Fates couldn't bear to see him happy, a horrid rumor had started. Tongues wagged all around London that he hadn't been honorably wounded at Waterloo, but when trying to flee the battlefield.

It wasn't true! Anyone who knew Dare knew it wasn't true, but there was no one to deny the story. Even he didn't remember much about falling in battle or the days after, and fear that the story might be true was dragging him back down into the dark.

They needed a witness. It had been a battle, for heaven's sake. There must have been hundreds of men nearby. But it seemed that smoke hung like fog around a battlefield, action was fragmented, and everyone was intent on their own part.

So all Thea and her family could do at this moment was present a confident front and use every scrap of their immense influence. This hastily arranged ball was their challenge flung in the teeth of the ton: attend and show you don't believe such drivel; stay away and you are no friend of ours.

Of course, everyone who was anyone had come. The Duke and Duchess of Yeovil were powerful, but they were also universally liked and admired. Everyone had come—but Thea had sensed, and even sometimes heard, the questions simmering beneath the smiles.

Could the story be true? Lord Darius wasn't a trained soldier, after all, but a gentleman volunteer. Not surprising, perhaps, if such a terrible battle proved too much….

Was that why he took so long to come home? Leaving his poor mother so distraught with grief…?

Is that why he still needs opium—guilt?

Thea had smiled, danced, and flirted, showing the world that Dare's family held no doubts, but disaster hovered, and here she was, on the other side of the house in her underwear.

“Harriet!”

“Coming, milady!” The maid ran out of the dressing room, deep red satin trailing from her arms, matching stays and slippers on top.

“Oh,” Thea said. “That.”

On arriving in London for this season, she'd learned she'd been tagged “the Great Untouchable.” Cold, distant, and haughty. It was so unfair! Was it surprising that she'd not thrown herself into frivolity during her first season in 1815, with Napoleon returning to torment Europe and then Dare rushing off to fight?

As for last year…that had been a disaster. They'd still thought Dare dead. Thea had only attempted a season at all to try to distract her mother from her grief. Was it surprising if she'd failed to be all warmth and light? If she'd turned away all suitors?

Hurt by that nickname, she'd ordered a number of bold gowns. The green had turned out well, but the red had been just a bit too much. She never wore red.

But tonight was a battle of sorts, so perhaps it was just the thing.

“Right.” She grabbed the stays and threw them on the bed. “There's no time to change those.”

“But you're wearing green, milady.”

“Which will be covered. Hurry.”

Harriet muttered, but she raised the gown over Thea's head. Thea put her arms through the short sleeves and the rest slithered down over her like water. Or blood…

Lord!
She stared at her reflection. The gown was cut in a new way, making the fabric flow down from the high waist, clinging to her shape. In the mirror, Harriet's eyes were wide.

“It is a bit much, isn't it, milady?” Harriet was in her thirties, but she'd been Thea's maid for only two years and rarely presumed to volunteer opinions, so her comment was significant.

“Lord.” Thea said it aloud this time.

“I'll get something else, milady….”

“There's no time.” As soon as the gown was fastened, Thea sat on the bench. “The slippers.”

Harriet soon had the green slippers off and the red satin ones on, and was crossing and tying the ribbons.

Thea could still see herself in the mirror and she checked for problems. She was wearing pearls. Wrong for a red gown, but all her other good jewels were in her father's safe. The band of white roses in her hair would have to go. She began to unpin it. As soon as Harriet finished, Thea went to the dressing table. “See what you can do with my hair.”

As Harriet tidied her brown curls, Thea studied her reflection. In red, her pale breasts seemed to dominate, raised high by the corset, the upper halves exposed. Perhaps she should change to something else….

But Harriet was fixing some red rosebuds and ribbons in her curls. Then the clock on her mantelpiece chimed eleven. Eleven! Thea stood, grabbed her mother-of-pearl fan—also inappropriate with red, but at least it went with the pearls—and headed for the door.

“Milady!”

Harriet's shriek made Thea whirl back. “What?”

Harriet was pointing at her, eyes huge.

Thea spun to the long mirror. A narrow frill of green lace was showing garishly at the edge of her deep red neckline.

“The other stays, milady—”

“Changing will take forever.” Thea tugged the gown up and pushed the stays down, wriggling to make things settle into place. “There.”

“Milady…”

“Don't fuss, Harriet. Do what you can for the green.”

T
hea hurried out into the dimly lit corridor and headed back to the ball. When she turned the corner, she caught sight of herself in a gilt-framed mirror, illuminated by a wall lamp at its side. That half inch of green showed again.

Peste!

She tossed her fan on a small table and readjusted everything. Lord! Too low! The darker area around her nipples had been showing. Why did fashion have to be so outrageous? Society preached modesty and good behavior, but expected ladies to dress like this.

There. She cupped her breasts and rotated her shoulders, testing the stability of the arrangement. It should stay….

But then something alerted her. She glanced sharply to the left and froze.

In the shadowy corridor, a man watched her. A man with the dark hair and eyes of a foreigner—heavy-lidded eyes that observed her with wicked amusement.

Face fiery, Thea grabbed her fan and flipped it open as a shield. “Who are you, sir? What are you doing in this part of the house?”

If he'd answered, this might be nothing but an embarrassing moment, but he did not.

And she didn't know him.

She knew anyone who had reason to be in Yeovil House tonight, and she certainly wouldn't have forgotten this man after even the briefest encounter.

Though not large or tall, his presence filled the corridor with an air of power and command. She could almost imagine that he'd sucked the air thinner. The light of the lamp beside her hardly reached him, and the next one was behind him, but she could tell his features were well formed and strong.

Dark evening clothes spoke of wealth, as did the flash of jewels in his white neckcloth. But he wasn't a gentleman. No gentleman would look at a lady as he was doing now.

Who
was
he, intruding into the private part of her home, making her heart thunder?

“Sir?” Thea demanded.

“Madam?” he responded, speaking at last, the one mocking word revealing a surprisingly mellow voice. And perhaps a foreign intonation?

Thea almost laughed with relief. Of course. He must be a new member of one of the embassies. They sometimes arrived with poor English and strange manners. One of the Persian diplomats had constantly invited ladies to join his harem.

“You are lost, sir?” Thea said, speaking slowly and clearly. “This is the private part of the house.”

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward her.

Thea took a sharp step back. She almost felt she should scream, but that would be ridiculous, here in her father's house.

“Sir…,” she said again. Then she thrust out a gloved hand, palm forward. “Stop!”

To her surprise, he did. Her panic simmered down, but all the same, she was completely at a loss. She'd hate to cause a diplomatic incident, but every instinct was crying,
Danger!

She gestured down the corridor. “May I guide you back to the ball, sir?”

“I believe I can find my way unaided.”

She froze, hand out.

His English was perfect.

“Then I will leave you to your wanderings,” she said and walked forward to pass him.

He moved to block her way.

Thea was caught within a foot of him, mouth suddenly paper dry. She could not possibly be in danger here, within call of family and servants.

But she was not within call of anyone. Her family were all with the guests, and most of the servants were busy there, too. Even Harriet would already be hurrying to the laundry with the ruined gown. She was, she realized, shockingly isolated in the dimly lit silence, in the company of a dangerous man.

She put eight hundred years of aristocratic power into an icy challenge. “Sir?”

He inclined his head. “Madam. At your service. Depending entirely, of course, on the service you desire.”

In some subtle way, he lingered on the word “desire,” and she remembered the way he'd been watching her.

“All I
require
is that you let me pass.”

“I did say it depended.”

“You, sir, are a boor and a cad. Step out of my way.”

“No.”

She glared at him, wanting to force her way past, but physical strength beat out of him like heat. He could control her one-handed.

“Then I will find another route,” she said and turned to walk away.

He grabbed the back of her gown.

Thea froze, shock, terror, and fury tightening her throat. Her voice came hoarsely. “If you knew who I was…”

“Lady Theodosia Debenham, I assume.”

He
knew
her? “Is this some ridiculous joke?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying to talk to you.”

Thea inhaled and exhaled twice. “Let go of me.”

To her surprise, he did. She was very tempted to run, but he'd catch her easily, so she chose dignity and faced him, flipping open her fan and waving it, trying to make her heartbeats match that pace.

Up close, she saw that indeed his features were regular and could be called handsome—if one didn't mind cold harshness. But she also saw his flaws—a nose slightly crooked by violence, and a number of minor scars.

This was a man who knew danger, and carried it with him.

When faced with a dangerous animal, one should try not to show fear.

“I do not know you, sir,” Thea said, “so how do you know who I am?”

“You have a distinct look of your brother. We were at school together.”

Her fear lessened a little.

“You're a Rogue?” she asked. She hadn't met all of Dare's friends from his Harrow school days—the group who called themselves the Company of Rogues—but this wasn't the behavior she'd expect of them.

“No.” Something in his flat denial made Thea twitch with alarm.

“Whoever you are, you are too old to behave like a schoolboy. Let me pass.”

His dark brows rose. “You often have such confrontations with schoolboys?”

Thea snapped her fan shut. “Let me
pass
!”

He didn't move.

“I will be missed. Someone will come to look for me and then you will get what you deserve.”

“But I so rarely do.”

Was that a smile? If so, it was twisted slightly by a short scar that cut white through the left corner of his mouth and another that pulled up his right brow. He was truly dangerous, and despite her bold words, it could be a long time before anyone came to this part of the house. Even a scream might not be heard.

Don't show fear.

“Who are you, sir? And what do you want?”

“My name is Horatio, and I want to talk to you.”

“You
are
talking to me, but to no purpose that I can see.”

“It's making your bosom heave delightfully.”

She glanced down. Cursing herself, she fixed her gaze back on him. “Speak!”

“Or forever hold my peace? How suitable. I have a proposal for you.”

Thea gaped. “You're asking me to
marry
you?”

Dark brows rose again. “Would you?”

“Of course not! Enough of this. Let me pass, Mr. Horatio Nobody, or you will rue it bitterly.”

“Or your brother will.”

The words poured over Thea like icy water. “You said you were a friend of his.”

“Everyone who went to school with Dare Debenham must adore him? But then, he must need friends now—crippled, broken, and addicted to opium.”

“He's not—”

“And accused of cowardice.”

“Which is a black lie.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you responsible for that story? If so, sir, you are the most despicable worm ever to crawl the earth!”

“You often talk to worms?”

Thea would have hit him with her fan, but it would shatter a work of art to absolutely no effect. A hammer might not dent him.

Then he raised a hand. The gesture might even have been in apology.

“I had nothing to do with the rumor,” he said, “but now that it exists your mother can host a ball a week and command the ton to attend every one of them without wiping it away. You need a credible witness to deny the story, or it will hang over your brother forever.”

“You think we don't know this?”

“Sometimes it helps to state the obvious.”

“And it pleases you to do so.” It was a wild shot, but it hit. “You wish Dare ill,” she said, frowning. “No one wishes Dare ill.”

“Really? How pleasant it must be to be him. Any pleasure I take in his situation is solely because it will allow me to correct the error.”

She distrusted every word he said. “Why?”

“For a suitable reward.”

“Ah, money.” She spat it, and his lip turned up wryly.

“Lady Theodosia, people only sneer at money if they've never lacked it.”

This was the most bizarre encounter of Thea's life, but she was beginning to see her way, though she was strangely disappointed that this man proved to be so base.

“So, sir, what do you have to offer? And what is your price?”

He showed no sign of offense. “I can tell the world that I saw your brother's horse shot from under him, in the midst of action, not in flight. In other words, honorably.”

Her heart leapt, but she tried not to show it. “Would it be true?” she asked.

“Would it matter?”

A startling question, but it struck home. To save Dare from this burden, she'd lie herself if there were any point to it.

“Then would you be believed? That is crucial.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I fought at Waterloo, and in about the right place.”

A soldier. Of course he was. It didn't make him any less dangerous, but at least she understood. Her world had been full of officers all her adult life. They came in all types, but there was something that marked them, even the most lighthearted, as having looked into the eyes of death and delivered it. In this man, it was particularly potent. It sizzled down her nerves and didn't make him safe, but understanding eased her anxiety. Her main comfort, however, came from knowing this was a matter of buying and selling. Her family was very rich.

“So,” she asked, “your price?”

“Marriage. Marry me and I will clear Dare's name.”