Lady Beware (35 page)

In her beloved home, surrounded by the warmth and tranquil order she loved, Thea would come to see him for the dark presence who had caused her so much harm. He shouldn't wish otherwise, but the weaker part of himself did.

He walked through the parks, remembering so many incidents. Here, he'd urged Thea to change, to be bolder, to brush away cobwebs. But our deeper natures were never so insubstantial, no matter how they looked to others. She had changed. Could he?

He knew he could control his violent side. He didn't regret killing Foxstall, and he'd do it again, but with God's blessing nothing like that would happen again.

Glenmorgan? That could have been handled better, and not even with a duel. There were times for violence and times for other ways. He'd learned that in the army, but he'd never had to apply it when someone offended the woman he adored, cherished, worshipped….

He watched three children running to the water where a pair of swans glided by.

Swans.

If a goddess could come to earth for him, he could make changes of the same dimension.

 

When parliamentary duties were done, Darien and Frank rode to Stours Court. They traveled at a gentle pace, for Frank wasn't used to horses and he wanted to explore the countryside they passed. They didn't far outpace the cart bringing their personal possessions.

The journey had been enlightening for Darien. He himself hadn't spent much time in England, but he'd never had the wondering appreciation Frank showed.

“Of course I arrived in winter,” Darien said, sitting on a bench outside an inn in a small village, drinking summer ale on a lazy afternoon. Bees buzzed around a basket of flowers hung nearby and a pair of kittens chased each other near his feet. “Then the regiment was sent straight to the north, where the sun didn't shine and the rain didn't stop for weeks.”

“I mean to explore the whole country,” Frank said, scooping up a kitten that scratched his boots. “Rough and smooth.” The kitten purred. When Frank put it down, it mewled and attempted to follow when he left.

In due course they arrived at Stours Court, and though summer sun blessed the day, it worked no magic. If there were rough and smooth, this was part of the rough. Darien felt a familiar urge to turn away. Wytton, the new estate manager, had achieved a great deal, but he'd been instructed to concentrate on improving the land and essential building and not to waste time on the house, gardens, or anything impractical.

Wise decision. One glance with clear sight confirmed that the house should go.

“Strange,” Darien said, halting Cerb. “When I visited last time, I felt this place was a burden I could never shed, like Prometheus's rock or the mariner's albatross. Now it's simply an ugly, decrepit house plagued by damp. I wonder if Father thought the same. The neglect isn't new. The stables are this way.”

“I do remember,” Frank said. “I even came here now and then over the past decade.”

Darien had never imagined that he would. “Sure you don't want to try to save it?”

“Lord, no. If it was wood, I'd suggest a bonfire, but that brown stone would just laugh at flames.”

“And any wood inside is probably too damp to burn well. Come on, then. I don't suppose it will actually tumble down on our heads.”

Wytton had obviously considered the stables practical, for the roof had been fixed and the young grooms who came out to care for the horses looked healthy and cheerful.

In preparation for this visit, Darien had sent orders weeks ago to get rid of the tattered remnants of his father's servants, but he'd provided parting money or pensions, even for the ones he remembered as cruel. Being a responsible custodian of the Cave inheritance was proving expensive. He'd ordered Wytton to find new staff, but had not been sure it would be possible. In the past, few had been willing to work here.

In addition to the stable boys, however, he found a cook and scullery maid in the clean kitchen, who curtsied to him and Frank, looking perhaps cautious, but not afraid. There were two house maids, the cook told them, and they soon met them—sturdy young women bustling about making beds, sweeping floors, dusting and polishing. They, too, seemed wary, but they were here and willing to smile. Twenty-four hours of Frank would have them merry as larks.

But despite the improvements, the house was beyond hope. No amount of cleaning and polishing would remove the smell of rot, and only complete replacement of the roof would correct the many damp areas on the upstairs ceilings. What point in any repairs when the house stood on land so damp it was close to bog? Heaven alone knew why the site had been chosen in the first place.

“I'm reluctant even to sleep here,” Frank said, eyeing a distinct sag in the ceiling of the room prepared for him, “but the servants have made a gallant effort, so noblesse oblige.”

“It so often does.”

They obliged, therefore, settling into bedrooms, complimenting maids, eating dinner, complimenting the cook. At least there was no need to lie. The servants had done their best, but when the house went so would go their employment. It seemed poor reward, but Darien didn't see a solution.

Wytton dined with them. He was a solid middle-aged man, hardworking but not one for small talk, so the meal was businesslike. Darien was amused by Frank's eagerness to learn. He quizzed Wytton at such length that the man excused himself early.

“I think you've wrung him dry,” Darien said, smiling as he passed the port.

“It's all fascinating stuff. Drainage. Who'd have thought that was so important?”

“I wish whoever planned this house had considered it.”

“Yes, indeed, but everywhere, apparently. And trees. I thought they were just for appearance, masts, or furniture. Coppices, pollarding.”

He went on like this at some length so that Darien rose and urged him away from the table, hoping to change the subject. But as they left the dining room, Frank said, “How would it be if I had a go at Greenshaw? Not permanently, I don't think. But I'd like to try my hand at estate management.”

Darien was taken aback by this, but said, “It's a bleak spot, but if you want, by all means.” Whatever Frank did, he did conscientiously. They had that in common.

In crossing the paneled hall, they both paused by the carved oak chest. Darien raised the lid. As usual, it was empty. But it still bore the scars on the inside from when he'd tried to cut their way out with his small knife.

“Keep or discard?” he asked.

“Keep,” Frank said.

“Why?”

“Never show them you're afraid. You taught me that.”

He closed the lid. “I wish I'd never had to.”

“We are what we are because of what we've been.”

That was a startling way to look at it. But then, Frank was Frank, and he was Mad Dog Cave. He'd spent quite a bit of time reviewing his life and found little he repented of.

They spent a pleasant enough time over the next few weeks exploring the estate, with Frank continuing to suck the harried estate agent dry, though he had to go up to London eventually to deal with his final severance from His Majesty's navy. When he returned, a civilian, they went through the house, deciding what should be saved before the place was torn down.

Much of the furniture was old, and though the heavy old stuff was no longer fashionable, it had done nothing wrong. If it was sound and free of woodworm, it was taken off to storage.

They went to church, of course, causing a stir, but then being cautiously welcomed. They even received some invitations. When an assembly was held in nearby Kenilworth, Sir Algernon Ripley rode over to urge them to attend.

“My daughters,” he said wryly. “They'll never forgive me otherwise. You are warned, young men.”

The Ripley daughters were young and excitable, and along with most of the other females present, all fell hopelessly in love with Frank. In his new policy of optimism, Darien assumed Frank was used to it and could cope. His own reception wasn't quite as warm, which could be caused by lingering doubts about the new Vile Viscount or simply his harsher appearance and manner. But he certainly wasn't ostracized, which was seductively pleasant.

When Frank escaped a bright-eyed trio of maidens, one surely no older than fifteen, Darien passed him a restoring glass of wine punch. “Imagine how bad it would be if you had the title to add to your charms, lad, and thank me for saving you.”

“I do, daily,” Frank said with a grin. “But I have to point out—you're not being mobbed.”

“I have cloaked myself in the frosty dignity of a peer.”

“Still Thea?” Frank asked, perhaps with concern.

Darien drained his glass. “Always Thea.”

“She's probably at assemblies and parties, too.”

“I hope she is. I want her to appreciate the charms of her normal life and the virtues of kindly, undramatic people. If she decides to be sensible, however, you'll have to produce the next generation of Caves, so back to the fray.”

Frank smiled as he drained his glass, but he turned serious. “That sounds theatrical, you know. The one and only.”

“It's practical. It wouldn't be fair to marry another with half a heart and I don't think I was made for pretence and mediocrity. If my heart changes…” He shrugged. “However, if you want optimism, I'm thinking of rebuilding Stours Court. I see the possibility of making a home in this area, though how to solve the damp problem, I'm not sure.”

It felt dangerous to put the new idea into words, but Frank said, “I think so, too,” as if the choice were a simple matter. “I'm off for another dance, with that shy blonde this time. If you're planning on being part of society here, you'd better dance more, too.”

“Damn you, you're right.” Darien surveyed the room. “Safely with a wife, I think.”

“Canem, Canem! What makes you think wives are safe?”

Darien laughed and went off to ask Mrs. Witherspoon to waltz. She was forty and homely. Alarmingly, she blushed.

T
hea could have been happy in cloistered quiet as she waited out the days, but she upheld the implicit promise of living a normal life. It was necessary, anyway. London stories had reached Somerset, and she had to put out fires of speculation everywhere. If she'd seemed changed and reclusive, Canem would be blamed.

Instead, she showed herself to be delighted by her betrothal, and she and her mother mentioned his heroism whenever his name came up, until some had the impression he'd saved Thea directly from the evil Foxstall's clutches. They didn't correct that.

When Parliament finally ended, Avonfort returned to his estate and Thea braced for more trouble. He did not propose again, however. If he seemed chilly and disapproving, Thea could easily ignore that, though she was starving for someone who'd seen Canem recently to tell her about him.

The duke joined them only a day later, but the only thing he said about Canem was that he'd gone to Stours Court as expected.

As ordered,
Thea thought, but she couldn't summon the nerve to ask for more information. She knew her father did not think him the husband for her, but Canem, Canem, Canem was her deepest pleasure. She blessed the betrothal because it allowed her, almost compelled her, to mention him whenever she was in public.

She'd found some books in the library that mentioned the Caves and Stours Court, and studied them secretly, as if it were a sin. She read of the heroic Stour family and of the coming of the Caves. She wondered if Canem knew that the Cave who'd been granted the estate had married a widow who had been the last surviving Stour. If not, she looked forward to telling him.

One guide to gentlemen's homes in Warwickshire had a print of the house, which it described as “lacking architectural significance and poorly situated.” She stifled laughter, thinking
Poor Canem
, and longing to be there with him to deal with the problem. At the same time, she traced windows, wondering which room he was in now, if he was there at all.

He could be visiting his estate in Lancashire, or even the one in Ireland. She hadn't found any book that mentioned them. He might have gone to Scotland for shooting, or to Brighton for play. He might have taken a ship for the antipodes. He might be dead! No, they'd be sure to tell her if her promised husband died.

The London papers they received here never mentioned him, but why should they? He was no longer a center of attention. She'd worked hard for that but now she'd welcome some snippet of scandal. As long as it wasn't about another woman.

No, she knew he'd keep that promise, but it didn't mean he wasn't changing his mind.

She received nothing useful by letter, for most of her friends were here in Somerset with her. She thought of writing to a Rogue or one of their ladies, but that seemed like prying. If the Delaneys had driven over she might have asked questions, but there was no particular reason for them to visit now, with Dare gone.

She did receive a letter from Maddy, who was in exile in Wales. After the Foxstall affair, Thea's father had asked many uncomfortable questions and Thea hadn't been able to hide Maddy's bookstore ruse and her tryst with Foxstall, especially as Harriet had already spilled part of that to the other servants. Thea had kept the details secret, but that exploit plus some other adventures had been too much for Uncle Arthur. He'd packed her off to a distant relative who lived, by Maddy's account, surrounded by nothing but hills and sheep.

The letter had been a mix of repentance and resentment that left Thea unclear as to her cousin's true feelings—toward her, toward Darien, and even toward Foxstall. But at least Maddy wasn't with child. That was a great blessing. Thea wrote back, trying to say nothing to hurt or to stir resentment, but she wasn't sure they would ever be close again. Maddy had played no part in Foxstall's plot, but Thea couldn't shake the feeling that her cousin's behavior had been at the root of all the trouble.

August began, but autumn was still a long way away. Thea's patience with parties, picnics, and race meetings thinned to transparency, especially with Canem's silence wearing at it day by day. She tried to convince herself that his honor required that he not write. It hadn't been stated, but it was implicit in the agreement she'd insisted on.

But inside, especially in the dark hours of the night, she fretted that his silence meant his feelings had faded. She tried for calm, tried telling herself to have faith, that she only had to wait until late September. But waiting was so hard.

By the second week in August, her patience snapped and she sought an interview with her father. “I need to talk to you, Papa.”

She thought he sighed, but he said, “Let's walk in the garden. It's too nice a morning to be indoors.”

It was a perfect summer day, though it might become overhot in the afternoon. The estate looked like the one shown in those watercolors she'd gone through with Canem—so long ago. Carefully tended lawns sloped gently to the swan-rippled lake, deer stepped delicately among handsome trees. In nearby flower beds, bees harvested pollen and butterflies flitted.

It was perfect, but it was not what she wanted.

Thea gathered her courage. “If I decide to marry Lord Darien, Father, would you be displeased?”

He walked on for a few paces, hands clasped behind his back.

“Would I forbid it?” he said at last. “No, my dear. By the end of the year you will be of age, and though I'd like to think my mere displeasure would deter you, I doubt that would outweigh true love. But I do have reservations. He will not be a tranquil husband, and you have always seemed a person who dislikes drama and alarms.”

Thea tried to match his measured tone. “Perhaps it's like wine, Papa. At first, many people don't like it, and then they find they like it very much.”

“But there, too, moderation is necessary. Darien may not be capable of that.” But then he shook his head and smiled at her. “Here I am, a father with one daughter. No man in the world would ever be good enough for you, my dearest girl.”

They came to a halt beneath the shade of a spreading beech.

“Are you saying I shouldn't look for advice from you, Papa?”

“Is that what you're doing?”

Thea blushed because she wasn't, not really. She was, she supposed, testing the waters, but with every intention of plunging in.

“You are a very sensible young woman,” her father said, and then added, “Don't wrinkle your nose as if that's an insult.”

“But people always say that about me. And they usually mean I'm dull.”

“There is much to be said for a quiet life, Thea.”

Thea remembered the costumes. “Did you think so when you were my age?” she challenged.

He laughed. “I'm not sure I was ever your age. And you are not exactly your age, either. Your mother and I trust your good judgment, so we are willing to let you make this decision. Your wish to take time to consider the matter shows your wisdom. And,” he added dryly, “no one can say you've only seen him on his best behavior.”

Thea laughed, blushing, and then she took the plunge. “So, may I go in search of him?”

“
What?
No, Thea.”

“But I'm going mad stuck here,” she protested. “I know we said autumn—”

“What?” he demanded.

Thea had forgotten that no one but she and Canem knew the details of the arrangement. Having spilled the beans, she had to explain.

“So,” her father said, walking on, “that is why he's made no attempt to contact you. I admit that has given me the impression…But is it fair to cut short his time of reflection?”

“One way or another, he will have made his decision by now. I have.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, your mother was as impatient once.”

“Mama was?”

“Haven't you noticed she's still impatient when she has a project in mind? When she decides something must be done, she wants it done immediately.” He continued to walk down to the edge of the mirrorlike lake and stood for a moment in contemplation.

“Very well, my dear. I'd be a poor father to allow you to sink into insanity. If you're sure of your mind, I'll escort you to Stours Court. In any case, I need to see that Darien can provide the comforts you will need.”

Thea threw her arms around him and hugged him. “All the comforts and more.”

 

Thea and her father traveled in a post chaise, accompanied by Harriet and her father's valet in a coach with the extra baggage. It took three days to reach Stours Court, but then, finally, they were approaching through countryside much plainer than her home county. As if to test her resolve, the weather had turned cooler as they'd traveled north, and now the sky hung heavy, threatening rain.

She remembered the print called
The Wrath of God
and wondered what nearby hill had been the site of that event. She hoped God wasn't inclined to any active demonstrations today. She was wound tight enough already.

She'd insisted that they not send word of their coming. She cherished an image of Darien's shocked delight to see her, but she'd also been terrified that given notice he'd try to avoid her. In short, she was a mess of hope and fear and might even be sick with it as they finally saw the gatehouse that must belong to his estate.

A woman came out and pulled open the iron gates. Thea scrutinized her as if she might reveal something of importance, but she was merely a sturdy country woman with a square face who bobbed a curtsy as they passed.

“We can always turn back,” her father said.

“No! I'm just nervous, Papa. In case he isn't here.”

He didn't look convinced by that, which was hardly surprising. Thea unlocked her tense hands and tried to look merely composed.

The post chaise lurched a little as they went down the drive, but the estate wasn't in terrible shape. The grass was kept short by sheep, that practical and common method, and there were some excellent trees and pleasant vistas, presumably all provided by nature. Thea glimpsed the romantic ruins of Stour Castle on a rise.

But where was the house? The drive was ending, but there was no building of substance anywhere in sight.

The coach followed a branch of the drive toward some two-story buildings—a stable block. Then she realized that the large area of muddy, rubble-strewn ground must be where Darien's house had recently stood. Not only was he not here, his house wasn't, either.

She stared out at the stables, completely at a loss, even though some grooms had appeared.

Then a voice said, “Thea?”

She looked around, focused, and there he was—in boots, breeches, and an open-necked shirt, looking almost like a field laborer, his skin darker after summer sun. He seemed as dumbstruck as she'd been.

No longer. A groom had opened the door and she rushed down the steps.

Right into a deep puddle of mud.

She stood there gaping, hiking her skirts up, her feet soaking.

Canem ran over and swept her up into his arms. “God, Thea! I'm sorry. What are you doing here? Now, I mean? I—”

But Thea was laughing at the insanity of this, and for pure soaring joy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with all her heart.

They had to stop eventually, though their eyes seemed unable to part. “Where's your house?” she asked, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt.

He was smiling, too. “Gone to house heaven. I hoped to have something built for you by autumn. A Palladian villa or something….”

For you. By autumn.

He hadn't changed his mind. She laughed softly, touching her head to his. “But where are you living?” she asked.

“In a gamekeeper's cottage.” His eyes finally looked beyond her. “'Struth, is that the duke you've brought?”

Thea giggled. “He wanted to be sure you could provide me with suitable comforts.”

“I'm sunk then.” But he smiled as he carried her to dry ground, where he put her down. If his hands lingered, perhaps her father wouldn't notice. But then, after that kiss…

In short order, Canem had the coach moved to drier ground and her father climbed out. The servants' coach, coming along behind, had been more careful. Thea was relieved to see that the duke looked more amused than angry, but she feared he'd want to delay the wedding, and she couldn't bear that.

“My daughter's feet are wet,” he pointed out, quite mildly, considering the circumstances.

Canem gathered her into his arms again, saying, “The best I can offer nearby is the groom's parlor, Your Grace.” His eyes on hers sparkled with humor as he carried her into the simple room, which was whitewashed and provided only a deal table, wooden benches, and a plain sideboard by way of furniture.

He settled her on a bench and knelt, eyes smiling at her in a different way, to unlace and remove her half boots. Squirming pleasantly inside at the touch of his hands on her feet, Thea wondered if he'd actually attempt to remove her stocking with her father watching. She never found out, because Harriet bustled in, exclaiming and scandalized.