To Rescue a Rogue (26 page)

Then the other side intruded—the remnants of war. A grizzled-haired military man came over and was introduced to Mara as Captain Morse, whom Dare had met in Brussels. A Lord Vandeimen joined them—a dashing blond with a scar on his cheek that rather enhanced his looks. His wife was a fashionable lady who must be some years older.

What a variety of couples in the world, to be sure.

Mara prayed military talk wasn't upsetting Dare.

‘There's no stopping them,” Lady Vandeimen said with a smile, then added softly, “Don't worry. Dare is a beloved cousin of mine, and Vandeimen is a close friend of Lord Amleigh.”

Part of the Roguish contingent. Mara wondered just how many of the glittering throng were.

“Is this your first visit to Almack's, Lady Mara?” Lady Vandeimen asked in a normal voice.

Mara took the hint and chatted of the crush, the fashions, the famous and infamous. She saw the Charringtons and another couple talking to Simon and Jancy. St. Raven and his wife joined that party.

A flurry drew her eye to the entrance.

Stephen and Laura had just entered and were attracting people like magnets. Or at least, Laura was.

“Labellelle,” Lady Vandeimen said. “I'm so glad to see her happy.”

All was well. The Rogues and their friends would be dropping mention of Mrs. Beaumont into every ear, and the dancing would soon begin. She'd dance with Dare.

Then a woman cried, “Mara!”

Mara turned to see two friends struggling toward her. “Sophie, Giles! When did you arrive?”

“Last Friday,” said Sophie Gilliatt, gasping slightly, her guinea gold hair already trying to riot. “I would have sought you out earlier, but it's been rush here, race there, and such a panic over vouchers to come here.” They chattered about London and Lincolnshire, but then Sophie said, “He's very handsome.”

Mara blushed, realizing she'd been stealing glances at Dare. “Lord Darius Debenham, Simon's friend.”

“Oh, I remember him. He's matured very well.”

Sophie's appreciation made Mara smile, but Giles said, “Make him sound like a cask of port. Anyway, he's not a Lincolnshire man.”

“He's a younger son,” Mara said, “so that doesn't matter.”

Sophie said, “Oh-ho!” but Giles glowered. Mara remembered that he was one of her suitors.

“Wasn't he the one who organized hedgehog races at the summer fair one year?” Sophie asked.

Mara laughed. “Yes, that was Dare.”

“And a jousting tournament on the river in boats.” Sophie slid another look. “He's very changed.” This time it wasn't a compliment.

“He was at Waterloo and seriously injured.”

“I remember now.”

Giles said, “Thought dead, then mysteriously appeared. A bit fishy if you ask me.”

“Which no one did,” Mara said hotly. “It wasn't at all fishy. His wounds were serious, and for a time, he didn't remember his name. Then he was too weak to get home.”

“Fishy,” Giles insisted. “Do you really believe that he couldn't get word to his powerful family?”

“You're being horrid, Giles,” Sophie said. “Stop it.”

“That's because Mara's broken my heart.”

He was trying to make it a joke, but Mara feared it was a little bit true. She laid a hand on his arm. “If I thought so, dearest Giles, I'd die of shame.”

He pulled a face, but covered her hand. “And that'd be a sorry waste. I hope he's good enough for you, though.”

“Thank you.”

The music changed. Mara had hoped to dance first with Dare, but with her hand in Giles's, she had no choice but to walk out with him. Dare asked Sophie to dance. At least Sophie would soon realize what a gem he was.

Mara loved to dance, so any tendency to pine was swept away by music and the lively patterns. As she moved up and down the line, she caught a glimpse of another entrance.

The magnificently bosomed woman in a gown in the style of the previous century had to be the Dowager Countess of Cawle. The many going to pay their respects were mostly older, which was excellent. They were the ones who might be hardest to convince to accept Blanche.

The woman's style of dress was a good choice, for she was the sort made to be well-rounded. The modern high waist and simple fabrics did tend to make a large women look like a bulging sack. Mara liked the spirit of the woman who refused to bow to fashion.

When the dance ended, Mara made sure to join Dare and Sophie for the promenade so that the next dance would be with him.

As he took her hand to lead her into a set of eight, Mara felt as if she floated, and she smiled into his eyes in memory of their moonlit dance. Alas, this wasn't a waltz so, she and Dare would spend little time with each other. It was still a unique joy, and she wove the patterns smiling.

But then she became aware of something amiss. Had somebody shocking managed to gain entre´e? Was someone drunk? The drinks at these assemblies were deliberately mild to avoid that.

But then she realized it was closer to hand—literally. As she joined hands with a uniformed officer of about forty, she saw anger on his chunky face. His cheeks were flushed, and she didn't think it was with exertion.

As they stepped one way, then the other, she said, “I admire our soldiers very much, sir, and thank you for your service.”

“I thank you, ma'am,” he said, but gruffly.

“Were you at Waterloo, sir?” Mara persisted, bright and smiling.

“Unfortunately no, ma'am. I was in Canada.”

The dance separated them. Simon had made enemies in Canada. Was his anger directed at her as Simon's sister?

When she reached Dare again, he asked, “What's the matter?”

She smiled. “Nothing when I'm with you.” It was no effort to look into his eyes as the dance required.

When she joined the officer again, she probed. “My brother, Lord Austrey, was in Canada until recently. In York. Perhaps you knew him? He was Simon St. Bride then.”

“Alas, no, ma'am. I was in Lower Canada, in New Brunswick.”

The “alas” was merely polite, but she could detect no animosity. She tried another tack. “We are exiles from our London home, which suffered a leak of coal gas. Fortunately Lord Darius has given us refuge at Yeovil House.”

The man's face pinched as if he smelled gas here. His ill feeling was directed at Dare?

Mara danced on wondering, Why, why, why? Merely because of opium? That would be horribly unfair. Perhaps the ill will was some lingering resentment over a prank. Dare's pranks were always gentle, but one could have annoyed the man. Still, the officer had not been at Waterloo.

The dance ended with her no wiser. Mara danced next with St. Raven, who flirted in a satisfyingly rakish way. But then she shivered. It was as if a chilly fog was creeping through Almack's Assembly Rooms. Mara tried to deny it, but then she caught Sophie looking at her as if someone had died.

St. Raven was still smiling, but he sensed it, too. Mara couldn't see Dare.

As soon as the dance ended, they wove through the crowds to Simon's side. “What's happening?” she asked, wafting her fan and looking, she hoped, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

He, too, was politely smiling, but she could see tension in his jaw. “Never mind for now, but may I let it slip that you're engaged to marry Dare?”

So it was about Dare, and it was bad. Her gaze had found him. He was talking to the Charringtons and another couple, but people were shooting glances at him.

“If he's allowed to marry me he must be a sound 'un?” Mara asked. “What is it, Simon?”

“Nonsense, but nasty. Let's join him.”

Simon took her over to Dare, handing her off in a manner reminiscent of a wedding. It was easy for Mara to smile at Dare, and he returned it. When Simon stepped away, Mara asked, “What's happening?”

“I don't know.”

Of course if anything was being whispered, he'd be the last to be told. The next dance struck up, and it was a waltz.

“At last,” Mara said and they stepped onto the dance floor.

For the next little while, Mara pushed aside all cares. Whatever the problem, Simon would be telling people about their betrothal and that should do the trick. If the St. Brides of Brideswell were happy to let a daughter marry Lord Darius Debenham, nothing could be seriously amiss with him.

When the dance ended, the Charringtons and Balls moved around them, almost like a guard, though a smiling, lighthearted one. Mara felt able to go to the ladies' retiring room, which she needed, but when she entered, conversation stopped. Soon the three ladies who'd been there left and she was alone with the maid.

She eyed the elderly woman. “If I asked, would you tell me what they were saying?”

The woman cocked her head. “Would you be Lady Mara St. Bride, ma'am?”

“I would.”

“Well, then, they were gossiping about your husband-to-be, a Lord Darius. Saying as he turned coward at Waterloo and hid to avoid the battle.”

Mara gasped. “That's a horrible lie. He was serious wounded!”

“But as they have it—”

Two women walked in and the maid fell silent. The women looked at Mara and pasted bright smiles on their faces before going behind curtains to use the chamber pots.

Mara did the same, then left, burning with fury. Dare, a coward. This was wicked! And heavens! Word of the bethrothal would be all over England before they'd spoken to her father. She remembered with difficulty to look as if she hadn't a care in the world as she entered the ballroom.

Probably many of the people here were unaware of undercurrents. She could see enough who weren't, however, people who were talking in a secretive way, casting sideways glances at Dare. She saw two of the patronesses with their heads together. They couldn't go so far as to ask Dare to leave, could they?

He was still surrounded by friends, friends of respectability and high rank. A distinguished older couple joined the group as Mara hurried over.

She was introduced to the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven—a charming lady with a hint of French still in her voice, and an austere gentleman, but with kind eyes. Lord Arden's parents. They were clearly willing to lend their support, but she heard the duke say something about unfortunate.

Dare looked pale and strained, and she longed to whisk him away to safety, but of course to leave now would be the worst possible thing. What time was it? How long before the opium wore off entirely, and what would happen then?

She slipped in next to Simon. “Someone has to deny the rumors.”

“You heard, then?”

“It's wicked.”

“Yes, but no denial will count unless it comes from someone who would know. I wish Con were here. He fought at Waterloo.”

“What of Lord Vandeimen? He seemed to know Dare from Waterloo. And a Captain Morse.”

“I'll ask them.”

Simon moved away, but soon returned. “Couldn't find Morse, but Vandeimen says he never saw Dare at all during the battle. There'd be no point in a lie. He's finding a Major Hawkinville. Says he might do the trick.”

“Dare needs to get away.”

“I know,” Simon said, not bothering to point out why it was impossible.

Mara returned to Dare's side, trying to radiate unshadowed delight. Then a tall man strolled over, a redhaired woman by his side. “Dashing Deb, as I live and breathe.” He spoke a little louder than necessary.

Dare started, but managed a grin. “Hawk Hawkinville. Surviving without armies to shuffle around?”

“Shuffling cattle and drainage ditches instead. Not much difference in the end.” He introduced his wife, then said, “Glad to see you looking well, Debenham. The Duke often says how well you served.”

Mara slowly exhaled. People nearby had to hear, and “the Duke” was, of course, Wellington. Mara had no idea why Major Hawkinville could invoke his name this way, but it was a blessing.

Then Hawkinville turned to her. “Will you grant me the next dance, Lady Mara?”

She dipped a curtsy. “Of course, Major.”

Dare partnered the Duchess of Belcraven, and the Duke took out Mrs. Hawkinville. The atmosphere was changing, but only to one of confusion. How could this be completely wiped away without facts?

At the end of that dance, they decided they could leave. Jancy had made a modest comment to Lady Downshire about her delicate condition, and that was their excuse.

Dare appeared calm in a frozen kind of way, but once in the carriage, he asked, “Very well. What is it now?”

He sounded so weary that Mara wished she could take him in her arms.

Simon spoke bluntly. “Someone's spread the story that you ran from the battle. That you hid in some bushes. That your wounds came about when those bushes were overrun by our own cavalry in pursuit of fleeing French.”