Company Of Rogues: An Unwilling Bride Part 12

"The Guard's."

"I could give you a bed at the palace for a couple of nights." They'd always referred to Belcraven House as "the palace." Lucien could remember wonderfully crazy games with Hal which seemed to involve charging along endless corridors and hurtling down flight after flight of stairs. The chance of coming across the duke or actually breaking some precious ornament had given the whole thing a delicious, and real, edge of danger.

Hal had found danger even more real since then.

"Just one bed?" teased Hal as they turned off Bentink Street onto Welbeck. "You're a bit close with your riches, ain't you?"

"As many as you want," said Lucien grandiosely and ran a gloved finger boyishly along a railing to disturb the beaded drops of rain. He felt like a schoolboy again. When they got home he'd maybe try sliding down the banister of the main staircase. "You can have your pick of at least ten, all well-equipped with the best down mattresses. You can push them side by side to give room to stretch. You can stack the mattresses in a pile until they're soft enough for your pampered skin."

"Like the princess and the pea?" queried Hal with a grin. "I'm far too plebeian for that. Could your blue blood detect a pea through ten mattresses?"

Lucien was snapped back to reality and maturity and all sorts of other unpleasant things. "Probably not," he said briefly. "But I rattle in the palace like one pea in a pod. Come and take up some s.p.a.ce."

"Are you saying I'm a rattle, too?" Hal demanded lightly but with concerned and curious eyes. But he went on, "I'd like to. The Guard's is full of fogies. There's too many well-meant commiserations and altogether too much talk of war."

"Come along then. I'll send someone for your things."

They turned into Marlborough Square. When the Season began there would still be lit windows and traffic at this hour, but at this time of year it was quiet. Despite the flambeaux burning in front of each great house, the square was rendered eerie by the gray light and the misting rain. Lucien shuddered. "Come to think of it," he said, "why don't you come back to Belcraven and support me through the coming ordeal? My mother always had a soft spot for you."

"Won't I blight the celebrations?" Hal asked, the first sign he'd shown of awkwardness about his injury.

"Hardly. You'll be a hero."

"Heaven forbid." He looked sideways. "Why is it going to be an ordeal? Anything to do with whatever broke up Nick?"

Lucien wasn't ready to talk, not even to Hal. He made a business of finding the key to the big front doors. "Of course not," he said. He turned the well-oiled lock and let them both into the high, shadowed hall. A lighted lamp stood on a small table but, by his instruction, no member of staff waited in case he had need of some service. His and Hal's footsteps seemed to echo hollowly on the marble tiles.

He was not used to returning to a lifeless house. He'd never given such instructions before, and he suspected there were some bewildered hurt feelings below stairs. All Elizabeth Armitage's fault. Without saying a word she'd made him vividly aware of all the servants who were the constant fabric of his life.

He suddenly laughed. "Do you need anything else tonight other than a nightshirt, Hal? I've sent everyone to bed and it seems d.a.m.ned stupid to be knocking them up at this hour. Apart from the fact that I've no idea how to do it other than ringing the fire bell."

"Of course not. I've slept in my clothes in the mud more often than I care to remember. And, yes. I'd be happy to visit Belcraven again. You know your mother is my first and only love. Why don't you ask Con and Dare, too? They're merely waiting for orders."

Which was a very attractive idea, thought Lucien as they went upstairs. Something to do with safety in numbers.

Chapter 9.

For her part, Beth found her days too full for philosophizing. She was set numerous tasks to do with the ball, given advanced etiquette lessons, and taken on drives and shopping expeditions. Three times they went to Oxford for silk stockings and satin slippers, artificial flowers and kid gloves. She had the feeling that much of the activity was designed expressly to keep her busy but, if so, she was grateful. Not only did it allow less time to think, it provided an opportunity to learn. Resigned to the fact that this was to be her life, she observed everything and learned quickly.

She even began to accept the constant presence of servants and not be awkwardly aware of their every action. But she could not make herself unaware of them as people.

When one day she came across a young boy crying in the garden, she stopped in concern. She remembered seeing the lad in the stables. Though he had a sharp face and a crooked nose, there was something appealing about his lively features and bright eyes, and she did not like to see him sad.

"What's the matter?" she asked gently.

He looked up, alarmed, then leapt to his feet. "Nothing, ma'am," he said, scrubbing at his damp face.

"Don't run away," Beth said. "You work in the stables, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will you be in trouble for not being there?"

He hung his head. "No, ma'am. They won't expect me back quick after old Jarvis took a whip to me."

Beth could tell from the way he moved that his punishment had not been brutal, but she offered sympathy. "Oh dear," she said. "Did you do something very bad?"

He nodded, head still lowered. He couldn't be very old, Beth thought. Not much over ten. She sat on the ground close to him. "I'm Beth Armitage," she said. "What's your name?"

He looked down at her with a frown as if the question posed a problem. "I'm Robin," he said at last, slightly defiantly. "Robin Babson."

"Well, Robin. Why don't you sit here for a moment and tell me what's been going on. Perhaps we can prevent further punishment."

He sat down and grimaced. "Don't reckon," he said morosely. "Me and old Jarvis don't get on."

"What did you do this time?"

"Let go of an 'orse. Viking. The marquess's big stallion. He's done sommat to his leg."

"Oh dear," said Beth, dismayed. She knew the value Arden placed on that horse. "That does sound rather serious."

"When he comes back he'll kill me," said the boy with a gulp. "That or get rid o' me."

"The marquess?"

The boy nodded, fresh tears breaking out to streak his face.

Beth wished she could promise to intercede on the boy's behalf but didn't think she had sufficient influence in that quarter. Despite their truce, she was not at all sure any words of hers would outweigh damage to Arden's favorite mount.

"How did you come to let the horse go?" she asked.

The boy looked up warily then obviously decided to trust. "He snapped at me. I got scared...." In a mumble he added, "I don't like horses. Ruddy great brutes."

Beth stared at him. "You don't-? But then why are you working in the stables, Robin?"

"He put me there."

"Who?"

"Lord Arden. He brought me in and gave me a job in the stables."

Beth had only the faintest notion of what he meant, but one thing was clear. "If you don't like the work the marquess will surely find you something more congenial, Robin. Especially as you are not suited to working with horses. I'll speak to him-"

"No!" exclaimed the boy, eyes wide. "Please, ma'am. Don't do that. He promised I can work with his horses!"

"But you don't like horses," Beth pointed out.

The boy looked away, stubbornly mute, and Beth frowned in bewilderment. "So you don't wish me to speak to the marquess on your behalf?" she said at last.

"No, ma'am." He stood and wiped his face on his sleeve. The effect was to smear rather than clean. "I'm sorry for bothering you, ma'am. Please don't say nothink to him."

Beth was genuinely touched. She suspected that this waif was as much astray at Belcraven as she and, for some reason, as bound. "I won't, Robin," she a.s.sured him. "But if you need help you must ask for me and I will do what I can."

"Thank ye kindly, ma'am," he said and ran off.

Beth sighed. Would the marquess really beat the boy again, she wondered, and perhaps more severely? She didn't like to think so, and yet many masters would feel themselves well within their rights. She knew so little of Arden, but she did suspect him to be capable of violence.

And what was she to do about it? She was so unused to violence that she wanted to hide from it, to hide even from the thought of it, but she couldn't live like that.

Beth rose and stiffened her resolution. Despite the awkwardness of her situation she would keep an eye on the matter of Robin Babson. She could not spend the rest of her life turning a blind eye to violence and cruelty, and Lord Arden would have to come to understand that.

The marquess returned on the day of the ball. When he strode into the d.u.c.h.ess' boudoir, where she and Beth were taking tea, Beth almost saw him as a stranger. He looked quite unlike the cold, forbidding despot she had built in her mind.

He had taken the time to change, of course, but there was something of the outdoors and exercise still about him. He was relaxed, and the exhilaration of the drive was still in his eyes.

Had he heard about his horse? she wondered. And what had happened to poor Robin? She could not believe he was just come from a scene of violent retribution.

He kissed his mother's cheek and grinned at her. "You are blooming, Maman. We should force you to hold grand entertainments more often."

"Silly boy. You are the last of my children to marry. I hope not to do this kind of thing again."

He was still smiling when he turned to Beth, but the warmth became impersonal. "Elizabeth. I hope you are not being run ragged by all this."

If this aloof tone was the best he could do, thought Elizabeth, they were in the suds. "Of course not," she said, a.s.suming a lively manner. "But anyway, this all has the attraction of novelty for me, my lord. I never realized the amount of hard work involved in celebrating a wedding."

"Only the wedding of the heir to a dukedom," he said dryly. Beth thought she detected a genuine dislike of pomp. How strange. More and more Lucien de Vaux was becoming a conundrum she very much wanted to solve.

"So after the wedding we can live quietly?" she queried.

He produced a creditably fond smile, but it covered implacable intent. "I hadn't planned on it, no. We have the pride of the de Vaux to consider, my dear. Will you dislike a life of fashionable entertaining very much?"

The silent message was that her likes and dislikes carried no weight with him at all. Oh G.o.d, thought Beth, they were back to their old ways. Quicksands indeed. They never said what they meant and never meant what they said.

She turned away, making a business out of pouring him some tea. "If I do dislike it," she said as she pa.s.sed him the cup, "you will be sure to hear of it... my dear."

After a startled moment he smiled in a genuine manner. "I fear I will... my sweet despot." Cap that, his eyes said.

Beth was tempted but didn't know where it would all end. The marquess was not a man to bow out of a conflict. She contented herself with fluttering her lashes and aiming at him a sweet, hopefully simpering, smile. She had the satisfaction of seeing his lips twitch with genuine humor.

Beth noted the d.u.c.h.ess watching them with a misty smile and thought, don't build on this too much, Your Grace. We are both learning well to be actors.

"I have brought you some eligible men, Maman," said the marquess. "I hope you don't mind."

"Mind! Of course not, you dear boy. There can never be too many eligible men. Who? And where are they?"

"Amleigh, Debenham, and Beaumont. I've left them in the morning room enjoying more substantial refreshment."

The d.u.c.h.ess frowned slightly, though there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. "The last time Lord Darius was here he attempted to build a champagne fountain. And Mr. Beaumont has always caused a great lack of attention among the younger maids."

"Well," said the marquess turning sober, "he will doubtless be a focus of interest again but in a different way. He's lost his left arm."

The d.u.c.h.ess mirrored his sobriety. "Oh, the poor man. How is he?"

"Well as always, really. And he manages nearly everything. He don't like to be fussed."

"I'll tell Gorsham," said the d.u.c.h.ess. "And I'll go odds it will only increase his attraction among the maids and every other female in the vicinity. I look to you to control your guests, Lucien."

"Of course, Maman," he said with a boyish grin. "I gather you wish this to be a devilish dull affair."

His mother laughed. "Of course I do not. How would anyone believe it was your betrothal ball if it went off smoothly, you wretched boy? Go away and look to your friends before they find mischief."

He kissed her cheek again before he left, but Beth only received a slight wave of the hand. She looked up to see the d.u.c.h.ess studying her enigmatically. Nothing was said, however, and soon she was sent to her room to prepare for the evening.

Laid out on her bed Beth discovered a beautiful gown, the one the d.u.c.h.ess had ordered from London and that the marquess had been sent to collect. Beth had approved the selection without much interest, but the picture in Ackerman's Repository had not prepared her for the beauty of the garment.

The ivory figured silk, inset with satin panels edged in pearls, glowed and shimmered in the candlelight. Beth had never even seen such an exquisite gown in her life. When she touched it it rustled and slithered against her fingers in an orchestration of sensuality. Redcliff hovered over the gown with all the pride and protectiveness of a mother with a new baby.

By the gown rested a bouquet of pink and ivory roses packed in damp moss, and a small package.

"What is this, Redcliff?"

"'Tis from the marquess, I believe, miss," said the woman with a knowing smile.

Beth felt a strange reluctance to open it. It would, surely be a gift and perhaps not one she wished to accept. But she had no choice.

It was a fan. With a turn of her wrist Beth flicked it open. It was a work of art. Ivory sticks carved into lace supported fine silk painted in the Chinese style. The pin was gold and the endpieces were overlaid with mother-of-pearl. She turned her hand again and it flowed smoothly, as a good fan should, back into its closed position.

It was an elegant, appropriate, well-thought-of gift. For some reason that disturbed her. What was her husband-to-be? The scholar or the rake, the friend or the man of violence? Perhaps all of these. A man could quote Sall.u.s.t and still be a brute.

Redcliff wanted her to rest, but Beth preferred to read, a pastime denied her recently. Mrs. Brunton, however, did not suit her mood, and she picked up some volumes of poetry she had brought from the library. Dipping here and there she came across Pope's Rape of the Lock: Say what strange motive, G.o.ddess! could compel A well-bred Lord to a.s.sault a gentle Belle?

O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?

What indeed? thought Beth, on reading these relevant lines. Most people would think her mad. Most people would not realize how painful it was to be thrown into such foreign circ.u.mstances, no matter how luxurious. On the brink of what to most young ladies would be a night of triumph, Beth Armitage wanted only to be back in her small, chilly room at Aunt Emma's preparing a project for the next day's cla.s.ses.

When Redcliff indicated it was time, she took her bath in delicately perfumed water. She dried herself and dressed in stays, silk stockings, and shift. Then the maid a.s.sisted her into the gown. It was as if it had a life of its own; it flowed and hissed and demanded only the most graceful, the most elegant movements.

She had not realized how fine the fabric was. It was true that over her shift the outfit could not be considered revealing, and yet it did not hide her figure as she would wish. She had not realized how low the neckline was, nor how cleverly shaped to emphasize her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It did not seem at all proper, but she had to wear it.

She had insisted that a cap be ordered to match, but it too proved to be a shock. Cap was obviously a word open to interpretation. This was merely a bandeau of matching silk and pearls upon a stiffened frame. It was trimmed with satin ribbons which formed a love knot at one side.