To Rescue a Rogue Page 9

  By the time she arrived in her bedchamber and threw Berkstead’s package on the fire, she’d persuaded herself that he offered no real threat. That, however, left room for anxiety about Dare. Was she truly pestering him as Berkstead was pestering her?

  When Ruth left, Mara contemplated Juliet’s Tomb. Had that, too, been a warning? Hadn’t he said something about unruly love? If only she’d not gone to that gaming hell.

  But then she wouldn’t have enjoyed that intimate experience with Dare, might hardly be aware he was in London. She’d not have enjoyed time with him, and might not have realized what he meant to her.

  That he was the one, the only, man for her.

  She suddenly felt as if she stood perilously on a high windblown peak, a breath away from disaster.

  Dare truly was the only man for her.

  The only man she could love.

  The only one able to stir passion with a touch, even with a look. He must love her in return.

  It all gave her a poor night’s sleep, and when Ruth woke her with a reminder that she was going to the Tower, she wondered if she should cancel the outing.

  No. She couldn’t bear to do that, and she was no Berkstead. She’d done nothing so foolish as to send Dare embarrassing protestations of love.

  She remembered their lively exchange about Anne Whyte and Canute Ornottocanute. He couldn’t find her a bore or a pest, and she was able to bring out laughter in him.

  Mara chose the red gown again. As Ruth fastened it at the back, Mara recalled Dare behind her, fastening her gown, speaking to her. Of breasts. She remembered the way he’d looked at her breasts last night. She imagined them alone and he, eyes intent, lowering his lips to hers—

  “Stop twitching, Miss Mara!”

  Mara pulled herself together, hoping a fiery blush didn’t show from the back.

  Chapter 9

  When Mara went down, she couldn’t help searching Dare’s face for reluctance. She saw none, so she pushed her foolish worries aside and took his arm to go outside. She expected the phaeton again, but found a closed carriage.

  She paused, for traveling in a closed carriage with a gentleman was not quite right.

  “I made sure George didn’t object,” he said. “In fact, his comment was that even you couldn’t get up to mischief in a drive across London.”

  “I could take that as a challenge,” Mara retorted, continuing on.

  “And I pray you’ll behave.”

  She settled on the crimson brocade seat. “I rather like the idea of being a dangerous lady.”

  He laughed as he took the seat opposite her. She would rather he sit beside her, but this way she could enjoy the sight of him and he was still deliciously close in this confined space.

  “So why are we in a closed carriage?” she asked as they rolled away.

  “We’ll be traveling through some of the rougher parts of London.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  He shook his head, but still looked amused. That was her purpose—to amuse Dare. To lighten and brighten him.

  “So whose is this elegant vehicle?” she asked. “Crimson damask and polished walnut doesn’t seem quite in a rakish duke’s style.”

  “And what do you know of rakish dukes?”

  “Rather less than I’d like to.”

  “Tut-tut.” But he was definitely amused. “The carriage is mother’s and thus unaccustomed to such talk.”

  “I wonder. How long will it take us to reach the Tower?”

  “At least an hour.”

  He sounded apologetic, but Mara was delighted. An hour alone with him.

  “We must decide what parts of the Tower to see,” she said, pulling her guidebook out of her reticule and opening it. “We have the Bloody Tower, Traitor’s Gate, the Crown Jewels, the Armory…”

  “That’s my favorite memory of my last visit. Masses of weapons.”

  “Typical of a male.”

  “Be kind. I was a mere lad. I liked the lions and tigers, too.”

  She smiled at him. “Very well, we’ll visit the armory and the menagerie, but then on to the footsteps of history. William the Conqueror. The poor murdered princes. Lady Jane Grey and the Princess Elizabeth.”

  “A somewhat grisly tour.”

  “History is full of it, isn’t it?”

  “Gristle?”

  “Grim tragedy!” she said. “At least Princess Elizabeth survived to become one of our greatest monarchs. Only think of the Armada.”

  “Defeated by a storm rather than by military force.”

  “But still glorious.”

  “The hair, the hair,” he lamented. “It is probably a blessed fate to play no part in history, you know.”

  He had to be thinking of his part in Waterloo. Mara looked out for distraction and found it. “Edward Street. Isn’t that one of the seven that make up the Seven Dials? Can we drive down there?”

  “Poverty and gloom is not a spectacle.”

  Stung, she protested, “I didn’t mean that!”

  “My apologies. I’d prefer not to hazard damage to mama’s carriage.”

  Mara turned back as they passed another of the seven streets. “I see what you mean. It looks as if sunlight never penetrates.” As do you, sometimes. “How horrid to live there, especially if the area is full of criminals. Can’t anything be done?”

  “The St. Bride instinct to make all right,” he said. “The only solution would be to pull it down, I suspect. Seven narrow roads meeting at one point has to be oppressive.”

  She cocked her head. “The very opposite of a square, you mean. How interesting. I’ve never thought about the way streets and towns come to be. After all, most just grow higgledy-piggledy. Perhaps that’s the better way.”

  “I have to point out that some of the worst London warrens have grown higgledy-piggledy.”

  “And some squares and terraces are both designed and pleasant. Is it possible that some places are blessed whilst others are cursed?”

  “As with Brideswell. Do you regret the fact that one day you must live elsewhere?” he asked.

  “I’ll not be far away.”

  “What if you fall in love with a man from far away?”

  Mara assessed his question. Was he speaking of himself? “What of you?” she asked. “Do you regret not being the heir to Long Chart?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “But you must love that part of the country,” she probed. “Will you choose an estate nearby?”

  “I may make do with a rooms in Town.”

  “What of the children? They need the country.”

  He seemed surprised. “I suppose they will. They’ll always have Long Chart, but you’re right.”

  He made it sound like a burden, so Mara said, “It will be fun to pick the exact spot you want rather than being obliged to take on a place, like Simon and Marlowe.”

  He smiled at her. “You really dislike that place, don’t you?”

  “It’s a cursed spot. All that money and effort, all that classical perfection, and for what? Whom did it ever make happy?”

  “The workmen employed, the servants employed now to keep it up.”

  She grimaced but agreed. “They could have been used to create something more…joyous, however. Have you ever been to Marlowe?”

  “Yes.”

  That startled her. Hurt followed, because Simon hadn’t told her. “When?” she asked.

  “A few weeks ago. My first foray beyond Long Chart.”

  “Not one I’d choose,” she said.

  “Simon was there.”

  It was a simple testimony to friendship, but that, too, hurt. What of me? Will you ever be content in a place simply because I’m there?

  “I still shudder at the thought that our family might have had to move there,” she said. “It’s…it’s soulless. It can shrivel a person. The old earl was a solitary invalid there for decades. His son spent as much time as possible elsewhere, and when there lived in one of the pavilions, but h
e still came to a grim end.”

  “Control your imagination, Mara. It’s just a house.”

  The words came without thought. “I wish it would burn down.”

  “Unfortunately, so much stone and marble is hard to fire. It could always be demolished.”

  “No, it couldn’t. That’s the point. People visit from around the world to adore its perfection. You see how unfair that is? A blight ought to be ugly.”

  He leaned forward and took her hands. Through gloves she felt a spark that almost made her gasp. “Don’t care so much, Mara. For survival, don’t waste your fire on impenetrable shadows.”

  She tightened her fingers on his. “Isn’t that what fire is for—to chase away shadows?”

  As I wish to do for you.

  Perhaps he understood, for he let her go and leaned back. “A candle flame deprived of air dies.” He turned to look at the outside world. “We’re passing the Bank of England.”

  She took the deflection and made suitable comments on that, the Royal Exchange, and other palaces of business.

  But then they saw the masts of ships on the river and Dare said, “There looms the shadowy edifice itself.”

  The external crenellated walls of the Tower of London rose around the famous square White Tower. Even in sunlight with flags and pennants flying the place looked grim and the darker moments of history no longer seemed romantic.

  Perhaps she was picking that up from Dare, who was full of shadowy complexities. She could even understand his warning that his darkness could extinguish her light.

  As they climbed down from the carriage, walked over a bridge, and through a looming arch, Mara felt as if she was entering a prison, as if terrible things might happen here, trapping her in the dark. The Tower was a prison, though rarely used now. It had been a terrible one once.

  When they walked through another arch, however, they emerged into spacious daylight and her shivers seemed ridiculous.

  “Houses and grass. Why didn’t I expect that? This used to be a favored royal residence, after all.”

  A warder in his Tudor-style red uniform hurried to take their entrance fee and be their guide. She saw other visitors strolling around, each with their own guide.

  “Sir, ma’am,” said the yeoman, “permit me to show you all the places that formed our great nation’s history. Here before you is the famous White Tower, built by William the Conqueror over seven hundred years ago.”

  Mara listened to the man’s well-practiced patter as he showed them around the White Tower and the armory, which had once delighted Dare. Hardly surprising if weaponry no longer pleased.

  Then their guide led them back the way they’d come to look at Traitor’s Gate “…through which so many have arrived by boat never to leave alive.”

  Mara shivered in a more pleasurable way, for this was all far in the past. She went eagerly into the squat Bloody Tower, where the poor princes had been murdered four hundred years ago. But then their guide offered to shut them in a bleak chamber said to be the boys’ last sleeping place so they could experience imprisonment.

  “No, thank you.” Dare spoke calmly, but Mara sensed sharp desperation.

  “Oh, no, indeed!” she gasped and clutched his arm. “I could not bear it. Do let’s go back into fresh air and sunshine.”

  She clung to Dare as if for support as they returned down narrow stairs, her mind whirling. Had he been imprisoned during his long absence by more than wounds and opium? By whom?

  “The menagerie,” she said, as soon as they emerged. That had been one of his favorite places. “I long to see the elephant!”

  The guide, clearly worried about his tip, hurried them there. “Over the ages, many foreign princes have sent animals as gifts to our monarchs, and they have been housed here. Lions, tigers, elephants. Many have reproduced or been replaced….”

  Mara went in eagerly, despite a strong odor, but why hadn’t she realized that the beasts would be caged? Some monkeys ran about freely, sometimes grabbing at passing hats, but a great maned lion lay in the lower half of a two-story cage, surely pining for open ground, and a tiger paced, eyeing them with malevolence.

  Distress washed over her and she didn’t know if it came from the beasts or from Dare. She set a rapid pace, saying as a excuse, “How terrifying if they were to escape!”

  “I assure you, ma’am, they are completely safe,” the yeoman said. “Tame, even. The tiger’s cage was inadvertently left open not long ago, and he did not so much as seek to leave.”

  Mara paused to look back at the glowering animal. “How sad.”

  “Not for the public strolling around at the time,” Dare pointed out, steering her on.

  Even the enormous elephant, grasping hay with its trunk and feeding it into its mouth, could not delay her. She had to get out of this place and she was sure she was picking up the desperation from Dare.

  “The jewels,” the yeoman tried as they exited. “You will want to see the Crown Jewels, ma’am.”

  Mara wanted to escape the Tower completely, but Dare was saying nothing and it would seem peculiar. Jewels sounded safe enough. As they followed the yeoman, she babbled cheerful nonsense, but then they were ushered into another small cell-like room.

  It was even barred down the middle, presumably to prevent anyone grabbing the jewels and running off with them. A sentry stood by as additional security, even though the only thing visible beyond the bars was a wooden cupboard.

  At least the room was lit by ample candles, but Mara knew the Tower had been a terrible choice. The very stones seemed steeped in suffering. She was about to say that she’d lost interest when another party joined them—a middle-aged couple and two daughters in their teens. Guides chivied them all toward the viewing benches.

  Dare didn’t object, so Mara didn’t either.

  A young woman walked into the area beyond the bars.

  She opened the cupboard and took the coronation orb out to display, reciting information at such speed and with so little interest that Mara had to bite her lips hard not to laugh. She glanced at Dare, and he might be having a similar reaction. The other party was ooohing and ahhing.

  The orb was impressive for its history and the jewels flashed fire in the candlelight, but both she and he were no strangers to fine jewels.

  The orb was followed by the scepter and a number of other pieces until, last of all, the crown, set with the most magnificent stones.

  When they escaped blinking into daylight, Mara said, “The Crown Jewels are important for what they symbolize, but I’m never as impressed by huge gems as I feel I ought to be.”

  “Your husband will doubtless be grateful.” Dare looked to their guide. “Where now, sir?”

  Mara appreciated his willingness to carry on, but he looked distressed. He might even be sweating.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but can we leave now? I’m quite fatigued and we can always return.”

  She saw the flash of relief before he hid it. He tipped the warder and they walked briskly out of the Tower. As they passed through the last arch, Mara felt able to breathe properly again.

  Their footman awaited. “The carriage is at the Yeoman Inn, milord. I’ll run and get it.”

  “Wait.” Dare turned to Mara. “Perhaps you would like refreshments before we return. It’s already gone noon.”

  The sense of oppression had lifted, but Dare still seemed strained, so Mara agreed. They strolled to the inn, the footman running ahead so by the time they arrived a private parlor was ready for them plus an adjoining room containing a washstand and a very welcome chamber pot.

  Mara returned to the parlor to find pie, cakes, and tea laid out, but no Dare. She resisted an urge to run in search of him, but couldn’t stop pacing the room.

  She forced herself to sit and pour a cup of tea. She added more sugar than usual, drank it, and did feel better. But where was he? There was no clock in this room but she felt as if they’d been apart for an hour.

  She tried to tell her
self she’d imagined Dare’s distress, but she knew she hadn’t. It had felt as if their minds were joined, as if she experienced his fears.

  Had he been imprisoned? By whom?

  The French? But why, and they had lost the battle, so if he had briefly been imprisoned, he would soon have been freed.

  The Belgian widow? She had nursed Dare back to health, but he’d said she was evil. Had she kept him prisoner? How?

  And where was he now?

  Of course he hadn’t wandered off like a lackwit.

  Of course he hadn’t fallen ill somewhere.

  Of course he hadn’t been kidnapped!

  All the same, it was as if she tasted his distress in the air.

  Then he strolled in, so completely in order she wanted to hurl the plate of cream cakes at him. He didn’t even apologize or explain, but simply sat and said, “I don’t think the Tower lived up to your expectations.”

  He couldn’t have been absent as long as she’d thought. She was an idiot deranged by love. She found a smile and poured him tea. “I’m not sure what my expectations were, but I’m glad we came.”

  Yes, she was. This was the longest time she’d ever spent alone with Dare, and here they were, taking tea in a cozy parlor. Like husband and wife.

  She wanted to ask important questions—about opium and about imprisonment—but it would be better to keep things light. “The Tower was excellent research for Castle Cruel,” she said.

  He helped himself to pork pie. “How far have you progressed with that?”

  Mara had hardly given it a thought, so she said, “I’m stuck on problems. Anne can’t be a village maiden. The villagers would object to her ill treatment.”

  “In these egalitarian days, perhaps. In Caspar’s time they’d be cowed in terror.”

  Mara finished her pie. “True, but Canute the duke would hardly be marrying a village maid. It makes no sense.”

  His eyes twinkled. “You expect this to make sense?”

  “We have to try. I think Anne is Caspar’s ward and was betrothed to Canute when they were children, but then he disappeared and was presumed dead.”