To Rescue a Rogue (21 page)

How many times had he gone there without a thought? Today it felt like a mighty enterprise. Dare realized it represented his Holy Grail, ordinary life. His key to deserving Mara.

Morning was his best time of day. When the sun rose, he'd survived another night. After the long struggle, the opium was particularly sweet. That was a danger in itself, but it gave him bliss, it gave him rest, and it left him feeling up to anything.

Opium could lessen restraint as well. He felt, like an itch, an alarming temptation to tell Mara's brother about the kiss in the ballroom. Thank God that Simon, wise Simon, was happy to talk about gas lighting and horses, specifically his need for a team for his curricle.

“Do you have a curricle in town?” Simon asked as they approached Tatt's.

“I've not driven since before. Except for when I took Mara to the park.”

“What did you use then?”

He'd stepped into a swamp. “Borrowed a rig from St. Raven.”

“What sort?”

They'd walked through the building to the open ring where horses showed their paces. Dare seized distraction. “That's a fine-looking gray.”

It worked, but Dare didn't fool himself that he'd entirely escaped. Especially as, damn it all, dark-haired St. Raven was present. Despite his marriage and reformed ways, the duke looked every inch the rich, fashionable rake. No one would think he'd own a tame vehicle.

Even worse, his companion, relaxed and with the brown skin of a countryman that almost matched dusky blond hair, was Nicholas Delaney. Nicholas had been a regular and welcome visitor to Long Chart over the past nine months, often key to Dare's recovery, but Dare didn't relish facing him now.

As usual, he had damn all choice.

A
s he and Simon strolled over to join their friends, Dare knew his brain must be thoroughly scrambled to have suggested coming here, to one of the most popular venues for London gentlemen outside of the clubs.

St. Raven, bless him, greeted them both without undertones and continued talking about a race horse he'd recently purchased. Dare only wished he could whisper to him not to volunteer anything about a high-perch phaeton. He realized that even then he'd been trying to impress Mara like a preening youth.

An observer might think Nicholas Delaney's greeting equally casual, but Dare was aware of having being assessed in a glance. Apparently he passed muster—which meant Nick was losing his touch.

Then it got worse.

“Ah, that's what I like to see. Good horsemen with deep pockets!”

The grinning, sandy-haired man strolling across the ring toward them was Miles Cavanagh, another Rogue, an Irishman whose passion was breeding horses.

“That's one of mine,” he said, indicating the gray. “What more need be said, my friends? Let the bidding begin.”

Surrounded by loud conversation and cheerful teasing, Dare felt his brain scattering into pieces. He couldn't risk speech. God knows what he would say. When Simon drew him away, he went, feeling like a child.

“You'll want a closer look,” Simon said, taking him over to the gray.

“Yes.” Then Dare added, “Thank you.”

He patted the hunter, which truly was magnificent, all sleek, rippling muscle with a proud, arched neck. The horse turned to look at him with an intelligent eye.

“Wondering whose hands you'll end up in?” Dare asked, moving to face the horse and inspect its teeth. Going through the motions. “Rather like a slave auction, isn't it? But Miles won't let you go to a bad owner.”

Miles Cavanagh was a wealthy man and handled the sales of all his horses himself. He sold most of them in Melton during the hunting season, and only to men he knew to be good riders who took care of their animals. In London he had a private arrangement with Tattersall's. He showed some horses here, probably simply for amusement, but still handled the sale himself, giving Tatt's their cut.

The panic or whatever it had been was fading, but Lord, was that going to happen whenever he tried to lead a normal life? It hadn't happened at the theater, but that had been a sedate affair. He'd begun to fray after the church service.

He'd been at the theater in the evening. Did that make a difference? Or was his current state some residue of the situation with Mara, which had left him as raw as if he'd lost a layer of skin? He'd gone early to the ballroom last night, hoping for another encounter, but of course she hadn't come.

“What do you think?” Simon asked. “I could do with a hunter.”

Dare pulled his mind to everyday matters. “You plan to hunt? Even now, married?”

“Luce hasn't given it up, and can you imagine Miles doing so? I missed four years of splendid runs and mean to make it up.”

“What about Jancy?”

“Luce has that bloody great place near Melton that has the cheek to call itself a hunting box. He's been holding open house for Rogues there in hunting season, wives, children, cats, and dogs included. But of course you know that.”

Of course, Dare did.

“I was there in early 1815,” Dare said. “It was a different world. Luce wasn't married then. None of us were other than Nicholas. Miles, Francis, and Con were there. Con had no idea he'd have to fight again. It was a good time.”

Someone, probably Luce, had sent him an invitation this year. Riding to hounds, riding hell for leather as he used to, riding at all, had been beyond him in the winter, but he also couldn't have handled a noisy gathering, even of friends.

He hadn't done too well now, but he needed to be able to do this. Forcing Mara to live in quiet seclusion would be like keeping a precious plant in a dark cupboard.

He rested a hand on the horse, concentrating on the beast's character and steadiness as other men came to poke and pry. He had no doubt that his hunters had been kept, but a prime young addition wouldn't come amiss. And he realized he no longer had a Conqueror.

He spoke to the groom and leapt onto the horse's bare back to walk it around the ring, feeling its paces, its fluidity of movement.

“You'll not find fault with him,” Miles called out with a strong Irish lilt. He always developed an Irish accent when into horse trading. “The finest bit of blood to come out of Ireland, to be sure.”

“Stop sounding like a bloody huckster at a fair.”

A burst of laughter didn't threaten Dare or the horse, and the horse was everything Miles claimed. Dare moved it into a canter, approving its response, its intelligence, and perhaps its liking. The animal had no reason not to like him. He was a good rider, though he hadn't ridden seriously in far too long.

He'd ridden with Mara that night, but at a walk.

He suddenly wanted to kick the horse to speed and burst through the circling men, out into the park to ride, ride, ride….

Into another world.

Into the past.

Back to before.

That wasn't the way to reach freedom, but the desire, the slight taste of joy, the faltering belief that it was within reach, was a beginning. He halted the horse close to Miles and slid off. “Let's talk.”

St. Raven protested that Dare had stolen the gray and Miles called for another of his horses to be brought out. “Sure and you'll like this one, your worshipful grace, even better. The sweetest goer, and stamina. You've never seen the like!”

St. Raven laughed and turned to consider a prancing chestnut.

“Five hundred guineas,” Miles said.

“Very well.”

Miles stared. “Dare, Dare! You're supposed to
haggle
.”

Dare's original acceptance of the price had been from indifference—another effect of the drug. But now something else stirred, the old mischief.

“But you wouldn't ask such an amount if you weren't in need, my friend.”

Miles reddened. “What? What sort of unchristian idea is that? The beast's worth no more than four.”

“But I don't mind paying five hundred if you need it.”

They were getting an audience.

“Are you after insulting me?” Miles asked, pretending outrage. “Need? Need! Am I not the finest horse breeder in Ireland and owner of Clonagh as well? I'll not take more than four hundred, and that's an end of it.”

“Heavens above, I'd never want to insult a friend. My apologies. We'd better make it three fifty to be sure of it.”

Miles's eyes flashed, but then he burst out laughing. “Ah, boyo, that's my old Dare! Done!”

He extended his hand and Dare slapped it in the old horse-trading way, painfully aware of everyone grinning, as if a child had performed a clever trick.

St. Raven tried to get the chestnut for three fifty, but Miles ruthlessly haggled him up to four hundred. “You're a bloody duke and can afford it.”

St. Raven agreed to the deal but said, “And you're a bloody huckster and can buy us all a drink.”

A new horse was led in, not one of Miles's, and a handler began to shout its praises. Voices seemed to swell all around and Dare wished he could escape. He went with the others toward the subscription room, praying he could hold himself together.

Nicholas said, “I have to excuse myself. Dare, I need to talk to you about something when you have time.”

Dare saw the extended hand and grasped it. “Why not now?”

He was sure Simon, at least, understood what was going on, but farewells were taken in good cheer, with mention that tonight everyone was to dine at Francis's.

Hell.

They walked into the park in silence. Eventually Nicholas said, “Don't talk if you don't want to.”

“I don't know,” Dare said, then laughed. “There's an idiocy.”

“Talk is more than words.”

“Yes. It's a fine horse.”

“Yes.”

“I assume Eleanor and the children are with you.”

“Of course. Arabel's anxious to visit Delphie and Pierre.”

Nicholas's daughter had been kidnapped by The´re`se Bellaire to intensify her pressure on the Rogues.

He'd been chronically weak from poorly healed wounds and lack of food and unable to do anything to protect the children as The´re`se worked out her devious plots. They'd been moved from the familiar cottage to Brighton and imprisoned. Then The´re`se had brought a new, terrified innocent, gloating as she told him it was Nicholas's child.

The´re`se had given him opium and left one more dose—an act of torture, not kindness. With no idea how long it would be before she returned, he'd fought the need to take it as long as he could, praying to spare the children the horrors that came when he was completely without the stuff for a day or two.

For some unfathomable reason, little Arabel had decided he was a trusted protector. Could she have remembered him? She'd been a mere baby when he'd last seen her and he'd never held her.

For whatever reason, she'd snuggled in his arms and the other two—his brave innocents who had been too accustomed to dark terrors—had comforted her. Delphie had even lent her Mariette and now Arabel had an ugly rag doll of her own.

Dare realized he'd drifted away and that Nicholas was patiently waiting. He'd asked if Arabel could visit.

“Of course,” Dare said, walking on. “You know Simon, Jancy, and Mara are living at Yeovil House at the moment?”

“No. We only arrived last evening.”

“He has a gas leak at Marlowe House.”

Nicholas's eyes lit. “Really? What's he doing about it?”

“If you want to explore the mechanics of gas lighting, talk to him quickly. He's planning to have it all ripped out.”

“Makes me wonder why I'm wasting time with you,” Nicholas said amiably. “Is it presenting difficulties?”

He wasn't talking about gas.

“Not too many. They understand. It's a big house.” But then Dare said, “Mara…”

It had slipped past all his guards like a snake.

“Simon's sister,” Nicholas said, but there had been a betraying pause. “I've never met her, but I gather she has the hair.”

“Yes. Doesn't seem to want to wander as Simon did, but she's adventurous with a crusading inclination.”

“Interesting.”

Typical of Nicholas. He wasn't going to probe.

Dare didn't know if he wanted to talk about it or not. He wanted Mara St. Bride with a raw intensity that he couldn't talk to Simon about. Nicholas was undoubtedly the next best thing.

“I'm in love with her.”

It seemed a tame heart-and-flowers description, but it would do.

“And she?” Nicholas asked.

“She thinks she is. It could be pity.”

“If you were pitiable.”

“Don't be an idiot.”

“Back at you,” Nicholas said. “She might, I grant, want to be your handmaiden in the fight. She's what—eighteen?”

“Too young.”

“The same age as Jancy. Is she too young?”

“Who?”

“Either of them.”

Dare thought of Mara and Berkstead. That sort of escapade should emphasize her youth, but the way she'd dealt with it proved otherwise. As did his many experiences with her.

“No, but I can't have her until I cut free of the opium.”

“How's that going?” Nicholas asked.

“Well up to a point. It's clear the last bit simply has to be done. Do or die.” He meant that literally and saw that Nicholas understood. Dare asked the question he'd wondered about. “Have you been addicted?”

Nicholas nodded. “But not like you. I explored it. When I was with The´re`se, actually. Like many, I was seduced by the fancy of it expanding my mind, granting me great insights. But I saw in time that was delusion, or if not, that the price was too high. Breaking free of it was unpleasant but no more than that. But I hadn't been using it as long as you, or in such high doses. What does Ruyuan say?”

“I haven't put it to him directly, but I think he agrees that reduction has lost its purpose. I take so damn little. Why can't I simply stop?”

“It's not the way it works. Mara St. Bride might be an excellent handmaiden in the fight.”

“Not if I lose,” Dare said. “I'm terrified of destroying her.”

“I'm sure she's stronger than that.”

“I could die or go mad.”

“You could be struck by lightning.”

“You think it trivial?”