To Rescue a Rogue Page 10

  “Perhaps, then, he should be the captive corpse.”

  “He can’t be. He’s the hero.”

  He raised a brow. “Mara, Mara, are you saying that only the male can have the active part?”

  She paused, a forkful of cream cake half way to her lips. “He’s the captive, she’s the rescuer? Oh, Dare! I do like that.”

  “I thought you might.” He slid back and contemplated the beamed ceiling. “Poor Canute’s a captive, trapped in a loathsome crypt/ Brave Anne Whyte seeks him, although by scorpions nipped.” He smiled at her. “I’ve been working on my iambic pentameters.”

  “So I see, but scorpions?”

  “If we cannot be brilliant, we can be unique.”

  Mara finally put the cake in her mouth, savoring its light sweetness, but also the lightness of Dare. She tried to come up with more poetry. “Virginal Anne faces scorpion sting….” She pulled a face. “Virginal Violet would have a better ring.”

  “No—even though you proposed it so poetically.”

  “I did, didn’t I? But why not Violet?” He looked mischievously secretive, so she added, “Tell, Dare.”

  “There’s a rather notorious lady called Violet Vane. She’s not at all virginal, with or without a Y.” He laughed. “That could become deeply philosophical, couldn’t it? Do we know the why for poor Violet’s fall from grace? Why is she not a blushing violet, but instead a blatant one? Can,” he added pensively, “a violet blate?”

  “Stop it!” Mara protested, in danger of choking.

  “I was just getting into the flow of it,” he complained. “But very well. Our heroine must remain Anne Whyte, Y not I, who is fighting off a scorpion.”

  “I or Y?” Mara asked.

  “I,” he said, frowning at her. “And a headless knight—”

  “I or Y?”

  “Perdition! There must be monsters who are I-less.”

  Mara grinned. “A mad, blind monk.”

  Dare applauded. “Which our heroine—don’t say it—must fight—don’t say it—while Canute, the poor laggard, cannot.”

  Mara laughed again, feeling sublimely happy. Dare was back.

  “We’ve made him a corpse,” she pointed out, “so his laggardliness is not entirely his fault. Do you think he’ll mind being rescued by his lady?”

  “If I needed rescuing, I’d feel churlish to quibble.”

  Mara winced. Dare had been rescued by a lady—a woman, at least. She ate the last morsel of her cake.

  “Despite the delicious sound of the word ‘corpse’,” she said, “it makes no sense to hold a corpse captive. What can it do?”

  “Rise to haunt. We need a new title. The Ghastly Ghoul of Castle Cruel? A rhyme, begad, to boot.”

  “He moans and groans and trails his drool/ He is the dread Canute!”

  “Bravo!” He applauded and smiled brilliantly at her, and for a moment, she felt faint.

  “What if Anne were the ghoul,” he asked, “sneaking around disguised as a ghost in search of her beloved?”

  “Terrifying the servants.”

  “Methinks,” he said, “you base the lady on yourself.”

  She looked at him. “Simon told you?”

  “That you walked the monastery ruins on Halloween one year, dressed as a white nun? I wish I’d been there.”

  “I, too,” she said lightly, but meaning it deeply. She pushed the plate of cakes toward him. “You really should have one of these. They’re delicious.”

  “Obviously. You’ve had two.” He rose. “We should be on our way or Ella will send out a search party. I’ll order the coach brought around.”

  Mara watched him leave, feeling pulled out of paradise. When she considered his plate, she noticed he’d eaten only one small piece of pie. Once, he’d loved cakes.

  She pulled on her gloves and followed, unwilling to let the darkness creep back in. As she settled in the carriage, she said, “I think this novel should be a cooperative effort. We’re far more inventive together than separately. The Ghastly Ghoul of Castle Cruel, a novel in verse by…”

  “Dara Saint Mara,” he suggested lightly. But there was definitely some dimming of his former brilliance.

  “Perfect!” she declared. “We need to do more research as well. What about Westminster Abbey tomorrow? It must have crypts. In fact, I think it has effigies of famous monarchs.”

  She waited, breathless.

  “Why not?”

  “And torture chambers at the waxworks.” Days stretched ahead, days just like this one, their fanciful novel their excuse. “Thank you for bringing me here, Dare. I particularly enjoy seeing more of London. I like to be aware of the wider world.”

  “I could say beware.”

  “We can’t spend life being wary,” Mara stated.

  “Many do and the result is often blessed.”

  She had to ask. “Do you wish you’d not gone to Waterloo, Dare?”

  He flinched.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No. It’s all right. I had no choice, especially with Con returning to the army.”

  “But he was a soldier from sixteen, wasn’t he?”

  “He sold out in 1814 and thought he was done with the bloody trade. He had the experience and the training, however, and was needed.”

  “Because the veterans had been sent to the Americas.”

  He nodded. “I lacked both experience and training, but when I knew how much he hated the thought of more fighting, I couldn’t hold back. I was young, healthy, and expendable.”

  When she protested, he said, “A younger son with an older brother already father to a son. The only reasons to stay at home would have been indolence or cowardice.”

  “That’s not fair. Few men who weren’t trained officers went to fight at Waterloo.”

  “Those who tried weren’t welcome. I probably wasn’t, but I’m a duke’s son with many strings to pull. I could go, so I did, but I wasn’t being sacrificial, Mara. I remember a fierce desire to be in on the game.”

  “But do you regret it? Oh, I’m sorry. That’s a stupid question.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t. Any victory is a consequence of a million small acts. Perhaps one of mine made a difference. I remember being good at what I was doing.”

  Mara wasn’t sure this discussion was wise, but she treasured his sharing such matters with her. “What were you doing?”

  “Riding hell for leather here and there carrying messages.”

  “You were always a magnificent rider.”

  He returned her smile. “Mad, you said once, I remember.”

  “When you won that race to Louth. You jumped the tollgate!”

  “It was in my way.”

  Mara couldn’t help but ask. “What happened? In the battle.”

  He grimaced. “I wish I knew. I think I remember my horse going down, but beyond that, it’s hard to be sure what’s real and what’s the result of wanting to remember. Of the early time after the battle, nothing, which is probably a blessing.”

  What do you remember from after? she wanted to ask. Were you imprisoned? But something about him choked off the question and an awkward silence settled.

  “Was last night your first visit to Covent Garden?” he asked.

  It was clumsy, but she grasped a safe subject. “My first to any London theater.”

  “Did you enjoy the play? And what,” he asked with a lighter expression, “did you mean about barnacles?”

  She laughed and described the Scilly brothers. They went on to discuss the play and some of the better ones they had seen.

  Then Mara remembered some good news. “We’re finally going to Almack’s next week. Will you attend?”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “But then who will dance with me?”

  “Half the men in town. If you’ve ever unwillingly sat out a dance, Imp, I’d be astonished.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, very well, but it’s only because I’m a good dancer.”

 
“It’s because you’re pretty and charming.”

  Something inside did a somersault. “Am I? Truly?”

  She held her breath, but he merely gave her a look, just as one of her brothers would.

  “A lady needs constant reassurance of her charms, you know.”

  “You lack a mirror?” he asked.

  “At the moment, yes.”

  “I assure you, the visit to the morbid Tower has not dimmed the glow of your complexion or creased it with wrinkles. It has left your lips full and pink, your eyes clear and bright, and your figure, as best I can see”—his eyes traveled up and down her, leaving a sensation almost of fiery touch—“in charming perfection.”

  “Perfection!” she declared over a racing heart. “Alas that it must fade with my youth.”

  “No. Yours is a beauty for the ages, Mara, because time cannot dull the spirit.”

  Clever repartee fled. Mara licked her lips, trying to read his features. “That didn’t sound as if you think of yourself as my brother.”

  She saw wariness tighten his muscles. “A brother can appreciate the charms of a sister.”

  “I don’t think I’d describe Simon in quite those terms.”

  “I should hope not.”

  Mara sucked in a breath. “You know what I mean. Dare, I think I love you.”

  His face turned blank. “You feel sorry for me, Imp, which is quite a different thing.”

  Imp. She recognized that name as an enemy now, a way of pinning her as child or sister.

  “No, I don’t. Or, at least, I do feel sorry for you. For being wounded. For…for having to fight free of opium. It’s all unfair, but that’s not it. It’s the most peculiar feeling, like a fever, but I can’t think what else it could be.”

  “The influenza?”

  He was building a wall between them. She should have kept her stupid mouth shut. Tears threatened, but she knew tears would crown the disaster.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve embarrassed you. Now you’ll probably never want to see me again.”

  “Of course not. I mean, of course, I will. Damn it, Mara—”

  “Don’t.” She saw the way out and rushed for it. “You’re probably right and it’s a passing phase. I have a sad habit of falling into and out of mad passions,” she lied. “I remember the time I haunted Louth because I’d tumbled into infatuation with a physician there. And I practically swooned at Sir Richard Jasper’s feet.”

  She burbled along in this way, exaggerating youthful infatuations, making up more, and then carrying on desperately to relate all the embarrassing behavior of friends and neighbors. Somehow she talked her way back from the brink of disaster. From idiocy in love she moved on to idiocy in fashion and they entered Grosvenor Square engaged in a discussion of furnishings and Chinese ornaments.

  When the carriage stopped, Ella’s house looked like a haven. Even waiting for the footman to open the carriage door was a trial. Dare had climbed out and stood ready to escort her to the door and she wished he hadn’t. She needed to escape and weep for her folly. At the open door, she managed a smile as she thanked him for the outing.

  He took her hand, his expression somber. After along moment, he said, “Don’t, Mara.”

  If he intended more, he was interrupted.

  “Mara, you’re home at last. Don’t rush off, Dare!”

  Mara turned and there was her devil’s hair brother, Simon, striding toward them, smiling.

  Chapter 10

  Because Dare still held Mara’s hand, she felt it tighten before he released it. Yet when she looked at him, he was smiling, and when he spoke, she heard no tension. “Simon the tardy, arrived at last.”

  She realized for the first time just how skillful an actor Dare was. He must long to escape as much as she did, but they were trapped. He had no choice but to enter the house with her, and when the front door clicked shut, it felt like a cell door.

  She gathered her resources and went to kiss her brother’s cheek and chatter. “We’ve been to the Tower. Very dreadful and fascinating. When did you arrive? Is Jancy here? Ah, I see she is.”

  She went to hug her newest sister-in-law and friend, who was coming downstairs, bright with welcome.

  Simon’s wife was Jane for public usage, but preferred the name Jancy in the family and it suited her lively, generous nature. Simon adored her, and so did the whole family. Not surprising, as she was as lovely inside as out.

  Jancy’s Scottish father had given her red-gold hair and a delicate complexion dusted with freckles. Her mother had been of simple stock, however, so there was nothing delicate about the rest of her. She was a perfect, sensible St. Bride.

  She’d never babble to a man that she loved him. Mara wanted to pound her head against the nearest wall over that.

  “What’s the matter?” Jancy asked.

  Mara put on a smile. “Nothing but a need for tea.”

  “Come upstairs, then. Ella’s pouring. We’ve only just arrived here.”

  They turned to go up and Mara said, “The baby’s beginning to show. You’re well?”

  Jancy blushed, but said, “Completely.”

  “Your baby and Ella’s will be about the same age. That’s perfect.”

  Perfect. At the top of the stairs, Mara glanced back to check on Dare. He was close behind them, listening to Simon, seeming at ease. He and Simon were old and deep friends. She prayed she hadn’t threatened that.

  Then what her brother was saying caught her attention.

  “Gas?” she asked. “At Marlowe House?”

  “Yes. Come into the drawing room and I’ll tell all.”

  Ruth hurried up and Mara took off her gloves, hat, and spencer so the maid could take them away. Then she went into the drawing room and sat beside Jancy on a sofa.

  “An explosion?” she asked.

  “No,” Simon said. “How you do rush to dramatic assumptions. Austrey had gas piped into the library for lighting, though what possessed him, I can’t imagine. He wasn’t even bookish.”

  “It’s fashionable,” Ella said, passing cakes. “I don’t care for it myself. Apart from the danger, it’s too bright. Give me lamps and candles any day.”

  “But bright must be excellent for reading,” Mara said.

  “It hisses,” Ella said, “and always smells a little. It can’t be healthy.”

  “This smell is more than a little,” Simon said. “The housekeeper ordered the windows opened, but she didn’t seem to realize the dangers.”

  “You must not live there until the whole system is removed,” Ella said.

  “Certainly not until it’s been made safe. We took one sniff and ordered the house evacuated. The servants are taken care of and now I need to find a hotel.”

  “I wish I could invite you here,” Ella said, “but we have no spare room.”

  “No matter—”

  “Come to Yeovil House.”

  To Mara, Dare’s words seemed strange, as if spoken reluctantly from another sphere. He looked quite normal, however, and before Simon could speak, he added, “You know there’s no shortage of space, and with my parents away, I’m rattling around on my own. Do please come.”

  Simon hesitated, but then said, “Thank you. It won’t be for long. Either the house will be in a fit state soon or we’ll rent another.”

  Mara struggled with temptation and lost. She’d been expecting to move to Marlowe House with Simon and Jancy, and couldn’t bear to be stuck here any longer, especially with such an exciting alternative—to live under the same roof as Dare.

  She angled closer to Jancy. “Ask to have my company,” she murmured.

  Jancy flashed her a look, but she was quick-witted. “Simon, can Mara join us? I was depending on her advice about London.”

  “She doesn’t know London any better than you,” Simon said.

  “But she has a book.”

  Dare was looking at Mara in an all-too-perceptive way. Lord, how could she have forgotten their recent, disastrous conversat
ion? It must look as if she was pursuing him.

  “A book?” Simon asked.

  “A Young Lady’s Guide to the Educational Delights of London,” Mara said. “A gift from my ecclesiastical godparents. Very informative, but I’m sure Jancy meant more general social knowledge. I might not have London polish, but I’ve lived in society all my life. I’d be willing to assist in any way I can.”

  “More than willing, you’d be delighted,” Ella corrected.

  Mara flashed her a look, alarmed that Ella had guessed her feelings for Dare.

  “We’re a little dull here,” Ella continued with a smile. “I like dull, especially at the moment, but of course Mara would prefer more lively days.”

  “My soul shudders with dread,” Simon said, but he turned to Dare. “Are you willing to take an extra guest if she promises to behave herself?”

  “I will be perfectly behaved,” Mara protested. She sent Dare a bright smile, hoping he’d understand that it was a promise not to embarrass him or herself ever again.

  His eyes held hers for a moment, but then he said, “I don’t believe even Mara can overstretch Debenham hospitality.”

  Even Mara?

  Sick inside, she plunged into chatter. “Will this mean I’ll meet more Rogues? I met Lord Middlethorpe and Sir Stephen Ball last night,” she told Jancy. “And their wives. Oh, that reminds me. We’re to go on an expedition in search of a silk warehouse. The wives, I mean. I mean, I’m not a wife.” She pulled a face at her laughing family, hoping none of them guessed why she was babbling, and why her face was burning. “You’re a Rogue’s wife, Jancy. If there’s room in the carriage, would you like to come?”

  Jancy’s eyes flickered. “If that’s all right, Simon?”

  “Of course. I have to deal with the gas. Buy lots of silk, my love.”

  He said it with a smile, but Mara felt a trace of strain in the air. That was the one blemish in this blissful marriage—money. Jancy had grown up poor and valued a penny where the St. Brides valued a pound. Simon longed to pour out his wealth for her pleasure, but Jancy fretted over every extravagance.

  That was an area where Mara could earn her keep. She wasn’t careless with the pounds, but she had no difficulty with spending on reasonable things. In their circle the best quality was often reasonable. In fact, it could be essential.