To Rescue a Rogue (6 page)

Bastards, then. But that didn't work either. She couldn't imagine Dare having bastards, particularly ones he clearly loved, and no one at Brideswell knowing about it. Then the answer dawned.

Stepchildren.

He'd recently married a widow with children. Of course he had! The Belgian widow who had saved his life. The ache swelled again, because he was out of reach before she'd even realized she wanted him.

Dare turned and she saw the remains of happiness on his features like sunlight. She had to try to be happy for him.

He hurried to her. “I'm sorry for abandoning you. Would you like to come down and meet the children?”

She made herself smile. “Yes, please.”

With his help, she made the descent in dignity and went over to the two young ones—who clearly were not seeing her arrival as a treat. They were strangely unalike for brother and sister. The sturdy, brown-haired boy could be described as plain, but the girl, with a heart-shaped face, huge eyes, and dark, bubbling curls, was beautiful.

“Mara,” Dare said, “permit me to introduce Delphie and Pierre. Children, this is my friend, Lady Mara St. Bride.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Delphie, Pierre.”

The children, still unsmiling, gave her a perfect curtsy and bow. But then Pierre cocked his head. “Our uncle Simon, he is called St. Bride.” He spoke with a strong French accent.

So Simon knew about Dare's family. Kill him, definitely.

Mara smiled. “He is my brother.”

Both children relaxed.
“Ah, bon!”
said Delphie. “I very much like your hat,
madame
.”

“She thinks of nothing but clothes, ma'am,” protested the boy.

Mara put aside her anger. “And what do you think of, Pierre? Horses?”

“
Oui,
and guns,
madame
. I will be a soldier when I grow up. Or perhaps a naval officer.” In the same breath, he said to Dare, “I would very much like a toy boat, Papa.”

“Perhaps,” Dare said, but in the way that suggested a toy boat would be forthcoming. “I had a splendid one when I was young. I wonder what became of it.”

“Might it be in Yeovil House, Papa? May we search?”

The children
lived
with him? Of course they did. They were his stepchildren. But last night Mara had been in Yeovil House, including Dare's bedroom. Even though his wife would have a bedroom of her own, she couldn't make the facts fit.

She longed to cut through her confusion with a few straight questions, but this was a situation without any etiquette that she knew. A touch on her skirt made her look down. Delphie was fingering the silk braid down the front.
“C'est joli.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

The girl's huge eyes shone.
“Vous parlez francais, madame! Papa, il le parle avec nous, et Janine aussi, mais tous les autres, c'est anglais, anglais, anglais.”

She chattered on and Mara gave thanks for her French tutor, which she'd thought a waste of time when travel to France had been blocked by the war for most of her life.

Then Delphie demanded her papa's attention and both children urged him down to the Serpentine to see something. He glanced at Mara for permission and she smiled and joined them. He had joy in his life and she must be delighted by that.

Pierre pointed out a particularly fine toy sailing ship, scudding across the water under full sail. Delphie chased ducks, shadowed by her maid, and then stopped to pick some buttercups and daisies. It was an idyllic family moment, except that Mara was the outsider.

The little girl ran back to present half her flowers to Dare and half to Mara. Dare fixed his through his buttonhole, as any good papa would. Mara tucked hers through a loop of braid on her bodice.

Delphie fixed her with a look. “My papa is well now,” she said in French.

“I hope so.”

“He will not die.”

“No, of course not.”

The girl nodded as if a truth had been established, then turned back to her harvest of flowers. Of course, the child would have known Dare when he'd been deathly ill. Mara swallowed tears, smiled, and wanted to rush back home and nurse her grief.

Eventually Dare led Mara back toward the phaeton. She felt sure that he would much rather have stayed by the river with them, and if she'd seen any way to return home alone, she'd have allowed him to.

“They're delightful,” she said as the carriage moved off.

“When not being imps.” He smiled at her, inviting amusement over the name.

She tried to respond. “Belgian, I assume.”

“Possibly. It's not clear.”

“Not clear?”

He glanced at her. “Didn't Simon tell you? They're the children of the woman who nursed me after Waterloo.”

“So I supposed, but I presume
she
knows their nationality.” It came out tartly for many reasons, not the least of which was that the children were so unalike that they'd probably had different fathers.

“If so, she can't tell. She's dead.”

“Oh, Dare, I'm sorry.” But Mara wasn't. It was as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind heavy clouds.

“Sorry?” he said. “Simon really hasn't told you anything, has he?”

“I thought you must have married her. Out of gratitude.”

Even though she could only see his profile, she saw his mouth tense. “Hardly.”

Mara was suddenly afraid of blundering. “But the children call you papa.”

“They fell into the habit, and I will be their father unless anyone proves a better claim.” As if compelled, he added, “They've experienced unpleasant things.”

“The death of their mother.”

When Dare didn't respond, Mara tried to read his expression.

He was looking fixedly at the road ahead even though it hardly seemed necessary. There were few other vehicles around and the horses were placid. Remarkably so for such fine animals, she realized. Had St. Raven's servants taken the edge off them before entrusting them to Dare? He'd been a fine whip—before Waterloo.

Something was terribly wrong. “What sort of woman was she?” Mara asked.

“Evil.” But then he shook his head. “I'm sorry. I can't talk about that now.”

Mara looked down at her gloved hands. Something dark lurked and the truth of it was now crucial to her. Her reaction to the thought that Dare was married had been like the ripping of a curtain, revealing truth.

She wanted to be married to him herself.

She supposed that meant she loved him, but her emotions were too tumultuous for that sweet label. He was hers. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, till death do them part. No wonder men had seized women through the ages. If she could, she'd toss Dare to the croup and ride off with him.

She fought laughter at the image. She was neither Ellen nor Lochinvar. What was more, there was no reason that she and Dare couldn't court and marry.

A startled joy turned her to him, but his tense features reminded her all was not well. She did not speak. She had time and she needed to know more.

All the same, as Dare drew the horses to a halt in front of Ella's door, Mara felt as if he were slipping away from her, as if he might drive out of her life into the hovering gloom. She'd never been given to that sort of fancy, but she could taste dark drama in the air.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” she asked brightly. “You did promise to provide entertainment.”

“Like a performing monkey?” If he smiled, it was very wry.

“In a red tasseled cap,” she agreed, “dancing to a hurdygurdy. I hear there are performing monkeys at the Adelphi Theater.”

“A push too far, Imp.” The groom was at the horses' heads, so he climbed down and came around to assist her.

Mara was feeling daunted, but she would not give up. Once she was safely on the ground, she said, “If not the theater, then perhaps Monsieur Dubourg's corks?”

She caught his interest, at least. “What on earth are they?”

“Models of antiquities all made of cork. It's supposed to be splendid.”

“Corks?” he asked doubtfully.

“Please.”

She thought he was going to refuse, but then he said, “Very well.”

She had to work not to let out a whoosh of breath. “Tomorrow? At ten?” Giving him no time to back out, she said, “Thank you!” and planted a kiss on his cheek, exactly as little Delphie had done.

But she wasn't little Delphie, and surely he'd not looked at Delphie with shock. Mara sent him another bright smile and escaped before she did anything else stupid. Once inside the house, she ran up to watch from her window. The phaeton was just disappearing from the square, and so she had only a glimpse of Dare.

It was enough to show her that he was no longer driving.

She'd been right. He'd taken a turn for the worse. It might simply be a headache. Did he get headaches because of his head wound? She suspected, however, that it was something to do with opium. He was not free of it. He was not well.

It had seemed only reasonable to tease Dare out of his shell, but this was all more complex than she'd imagined. He was deeply troubled and she already felt inextricably bound to him.

Heart pounding from more than a race upstairs, she wrote his name in the patch of mist created on the window glass by her breath.

Dare.

Lord Darius Debenham. Lady Darius Debenham. That would be her married title. Lady Dare.

She'd urged Simon to come to London and she wanted him here to explain and advise. His arrival would change everything, however. Dare would no longer be isolated, so she'd have no excuse to badger him for outings.

Mara moved away from the window, unpinning her hat. She wanted to be alone with Dare every day and to wave a magic wand that would restore him. All in all, however, she had to hope her brother came to London posthaste.

D
are shuddered with relief at not being in charge of the prime bits of blood anymore, but that counted as another test failed.

Maybe not entirely, for he'd done it and survived, but where was the pleasure he'd once felt in driving, in speed, in curricle racing, even? Come to think of it, where was his custom-made racing curricle? Stored somewhere at Long Chart, he supposed.

Carefully out of sight.

For a year his parents had thought him dead, but none of his possessions had been touched. Guilt over their grief often weighed on him and he asked himself whether he could have returned sooner.

By the time he'd recovered enough from his wounds to attempt escape, opium and too little food had weakened him—as The´re`se had intended.

His strongest prison, however, had been the children. Escaping with them had seemed an impossible challenge, and leaving them to bear The´re`se's revenge unthinkable.

There was the other possibility, however—that opium had sapped his ability to form and execute any plan. Perhaps he should have realized sooner what was happening. Perhaps he could have refused the stuff, or only pretended to take it.

How, when the lack would have brought on the spasms, the agony, the sweats, and tremors? Those horrors that hovered daily, that must be faced if he was ever to be free.

He didn't close his eyes because that made the swaying motion of the high vehicle worse. He'd walk home if his control didn't feel so fragile. Icy sweat was trickling down his spine. His guts felt as if they were shuddering and soon his teeth might start to chatter. It shouldn't be so bad yet. Emotions seemed to make things worse.

They passed a druggist's shop and he felt an almost physical tug toward it, toward a few pennies' worth of ease.

“Riggs.”

“Yes, milord?”

“You are not, under any circumstances, to stop before we reach the house.”

“Very well, milord.”

The servants knew. Everyone knew, which was enough to make him puke without the beast tying his innards in knots. Sometimes he felt he had no privacy, no dignity left. There were days and especially nights when death called to him. But he couldn't abandon the children or cause his family such pain.

Again.

He would live, and he would be free, but he wished the path wasn't so damned painful.

Once back in the house he went straight to his room. Salter assessed him with steady eyes.

“Nothing too badly out of order.” Dare tried a smile, though a sudden twitch probably made it a grimace. “I don't know what's wrong. It shouldn't be like this yet.” But then he said, “I took extra last night. Is that the problem? Have I ruined the process?”

God, oh, God.
He couldn't start the slow reduction all over again. That had to be nonsense. One extra dose couldn't ruin everything. But the devils deep in his mind leapt in to whisper,
What's the point? You'll never win free. Give up now. Take what you need to be comfortable. Live with us….

“Sit down, sir.” Salter steered Dare into a chair, but he sprang up again.

“The staffs.”

They normally only did this at night, but Dare led the way to the ballroom at a brisk pace, stripping off jacket and waistcoat as he went. Once in the room, he pulled off his boots and grabbed one of the long sticks Salter had carried, denying the chill, the shudders, the threatening sickness. He'd fight the devils to the death.

He practiced solo as Salter stripped down, then attacked.

This was his best relief, his comfort, his salvation in the worst of times—to fight, to sweat, to think of nothing but action and reaction.

Not boxing. Something about boxing revolted him, especially if there was blood. Fencing was too delicate and refined. The ancient art of the quarterstaff was strenuous and earthy, and required intense concentration.

Dare focused every sense on the staffs, until a movement to his side distracted him.

Feng Ruyuan.

Salter's staff slammed hard onto Dare's thigh and he winced before turning and bowing, hands together. What was his Taoist master doing here, sliding in as silently as mist? His time was the night.

Ruyuan had been found by Nicholas Delaney, the person who seemed to understand his fight better than any. Dare wondered if somewhere in his travels Nicholas had tried opium and had to escape its sweet coils.

Tall and quiet, Yuan had brought many skills, including massage to soothe a tortured body and herbs to alleviate the worst symptoms. Above all he had brought the precise and physical art that burned through sleepless nights and acted like a massage for Dare's screaming mind. He did not approve of quarterstaff work, but didn't forbid it.

“You are distressed.” Ruyuan spoke softly as always, his speech heavily accented but clear.

“Too many unusual events,” Dare replied.

“You came to London for unusual events, I think?”

“Some are unusual enough to be shocking.”

Like his reaction to Mara St. Bride.

“Such things will make the path harder, but it is through difficulties that we grow strong.”

“Then I should be a damn Hercules.”

Ruyuan smiled. “But you are, Darius. You are worthy of your name.”

Dare had known he was named for a Persian king; he had not known until Yuan told him that the name meant “strong.”

“I'm not strong. I tremble for the beast.”

“But are not huddled, whimpering. Or fighting Salter to seize it.”

Dare laughed shortly. “I wouldn't win.”

“I believe you could. Now you are your only guard.”

Dare inhaled. “You terrify me.”

Yuan smiled again, as if to say, What else am I here for?

“It is past your time,” Yuan reproved.

The words sang through Dare as if he were a harp string plucked. Past time for his midday dose, and his regimen said he must take it, just as he must not take it early.

“Perhaps I can do without.” All except a tiny fragment of strength screamed in rejection.

“That is not the way.”

“Why not? Isn't that the golden chalice? The time when I can refuse the beast and survive? Why not now? Today?”

“Impetuous rejection is as weak as impetuous submission.”

Yuan bowed again and left, his smooth, silent tread masking amazing physical power.

“What does that mean?” Dare complained, restlessly jiggling the staff. “Why do I have to follow the path? The aim is to free me from opium, but when I say I want to do it, he says I'm not allowed. What sense is there is that? Why can't I? If I want to. I'm a lord. I can do what I want….”

Salter's hand on his arm stopped him. Damn, he was babbling. Much longer and he'd be spewing every thought in his head as his brain jangled along with the rest of him.

“Come and eat, sir.” Salter took the staff and guided him back to his bedroom, where cold ham, bread, and fruit was laid out.

Dare didn't want it. Sometimes he had cravings for food, but never for normal foods like these. He'd grab pickles, and he had once eaten three lemons, skin and all. Mostly he had no appetite at all.

This, too, was part of the discipline, however, the rules Ruyuan had brought, that were bringing him toward his goal. He must take his dose of opium exactly on time. He must eat before taking it to dull its immediate effect and slow its absorption. He must eat everything set before him.

He forced himself through the contents of his plate, then contemplated the glass of dark liquid Salter placed before him. He tried to tell himself he was reaching for it because that was the rule. But if Salter tried to snatch it back he might kill him.

Damn. His hand was shaking.

The´re`se Bellaire's poisonous heritage, he thought, picking up the glass. The thing he loathed above all but could not live without. He downed the bitter liquid. For a little while, the world would seem serene, without strife, without pain, without suffering of any sort. And that illusion would be very hard to leave behind.