To Rescue a Rogue (8 page)

“All too real, unfortunately.”

“In this wreck,” she said as they turned the corner, “a lady and her daughter are stranded on an island, just like Robinson Crusoe.”

“With a Man Friday?”

“In the shape of a fine English gentleman, also a survivor of the wreck.”

His lips twitched. “Definitely an imaginary thing.”

“What? A fine English gentleman?” Her laughing eyes met his. A perfect moment. “It's supposed to be very adventurous. And very touching.”

“So I would think.”

“Dare, you're having naughty thoughts!”

“Mara, men
always
have naughty thoughts.”

She winked. “So do women.”

His brows rose and he propelled her into the bookshop. The bookseller hurried to bow and quickly produced
Tales of Fancy
in three volumes, the pages already cut, and gave the package to Dare.

“As I have a beast of burden,” Mara said, “I think I'll look to see what else is on the shelves.”

Dare followed, protesting, “Three volumes won't keep you occupied for at least a month?”

“I lead such a quiet life at Ella's.” She slid him a look. “Except when a dashing hero rescues me.”

“Simon will be here soon.”

“A brother can never be a dashing hero to a sister.”

“But when he arrives, won't you move to Marlowe House with him and Jancy?”

“Yes, and life's bound to be more lively then, especially as it will probably have Rogues.”

“Which sounds rather like ‘have rats.'”

She laughed. “A plague of them.”

She turned to the shelves. “Oh, look.” She grabbed four volumes entitled
Husband Hunters!!!
“Three exclamation marks. Very promising, don't you think?”

“Of excess, especially from an author called Amelia Beauclerc. What about that one?
Barozzi, or the Venetian Sorceress
.”

“But it's by a mere Catherine Smith. Doesn't such a commonplace name threaten a commonplace book?”

“Mara, how can anything about a Venetian sorceress be commonplace?”

“You'd be surprised,” she said darkly. “There are novelists, would you believe, who create the most tempting delights only to use them as a vehicle for pious homilies. It should be illegal.”

“If I enter Parliament, I pledge to see to it. It occurs to me that you should pen novels.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I? I struggle to write letters.”

“But you have the name for it. Can't you see
The Captive Corpse of Castle Cruel
by Ademara St. Bride?”

“My goodness, yes. But how could a corpse be captive?”

“We're talking fancy. The corpse is under a spell. Or a potion, like Juliet.”

“Locked away until her hero can find her? How thrilling.”

“Then write it.”

She gave a theatrical shudder and fluttered her lashes at him. “You could write it, dearest Dare, and I would lend my name to it.”

“Simon would shoot me. Come along. You have enough literature here to last till doomsday.”

“Especially if I'm writing novels at the same time.” She arranged for the account to be sent to Ella's house and Dare paid for the books to be delivered, though Mara protested that he was shirking his task.

They left the shop in high spirits.

“What shall my heroine's name be?” she asked, to keep the fun going.

“Bellissima,” Dare said. “Bellissima di Magnifico.”

“No, no. The heroine must be an ordinary lady with a name like…Anne.”

“Anne Brown?”

“Too dull.”

“Anne Orange?”

“Stop it!” But she adored him in this playful mood.

“Anne White, then,” he said. “White is suitably virginal. I assume she is a virgin.”

Mara prayed not to be blushing. “Of course. Spelled with a y to give it elegance.”

“Virgyn?”

“Whyte!” Mara exclaimed. “And the hero's name is…?”

“Can
he
have a glorious name?”

“As long as it's not Glorioso. What about Tristan?” she suggested.

“St. Raven would strangle us both.”

They paused for a sweeper to get rid of some horse droppings before crossing the street. “That's the Duke of St. Raven's Christian name?” Mara asked.

Dare tossed the lad a coin. “Yes,”

“How do you know?”

“I knew him as a boy. What other name appeals?”

“Darius,” she teased.

“Then
I'd
have to strangle you.”

“Novel writing is a lot harder than it seems,” Mara complained as they walked on. “We need a noble name. Kingly, even.”

“Ethelred.”

“As in Ethelred the Unready? No!”

“Halfacanute, then,” he said, naming another ancient king.

“A whole Canute or nothing, sir.”

“There you are, then. Your hero is Canute. Canute Or-not-to-canute,” he declared, “lost Duke of Dawlish. They're always lost heirs to something, aren't they?”

Mara was laughing almost too much to talk. “You're impossible.”
You're the old Dare.

“I dare you,” he said.

It was as if he'd picked up her thought. “To do what?”

“To write a novel using those names.”

“If I succeed, what do you forfeit?”

“I have to write a novel myself?”

“In iambic pentameters.”

He winced. “It would be a very short piece.” They strolled on for a moment. Then he recited: “Canute Ornottocanute, lost Duke of Dawlish/Was raised as a pig boy, and thus somewhat poorish.”

“Those lines have only four beats. Iambic pentameters require five.”

“There's a silent beat, like the silent k on knock. Wait, wait, I have more: He met pure Anne Whyte,/ Which inspired him to fight,/Which he did with an elegant flourish!”

She laughed but said, “Your beat is all off, and there's not a trace of a captive corpse, never mind the castle. Be serious.”

“Why?”

An excellent question. Mara felt she could almost float away on light spirits.

“Very well,” Dare said with an artificial sigh. “Who is our villain? Presumably he has poisoned poor Anne and locked her in a dungeon.”

“In her wedding gown,” Mara suggested.

“They do tend to be, don't they? So, the villain?”

“The lord of the castle, of course. Baron Bane.”

“Very good,” he said, tossing a coin to a crossing sweeper. “Savage Bane, Baron Cruel.”

“Isn't that just a little heavy-handed?”

“Have done with subtlety. He probably has a squint and oozing sores.”

“No one christens a baby Savage.” Mara said. “What about Caspar? That's a real name but with a savage sound to it. Caspar the Cruel lusts after virtuous Anne Whyte, innocent maiden of the village. She is the beloved of Canute Ornottocanute—that really is ridiculous!—who is striving to reclaim his title.”

“Which of course has been misappropriated by Caspar, his wicked uncle.”

“Who believes he killed Canute as a baby…”

“…except that he was smuggled away by an honest kitchen maid…”

“…called Ethel the Ready.”

“Very good,” Dare approved. “And Canute has been raised in the forest by rabbits!”

“Rabbits?”

“Rabbits. Which explains his timid nature.”

“We can't have a timid hero,” she protested.

“He must be, or how does he allow this tyranny to continue?”

“He doesn't know the truth?”

“He thinks he really is a rabbit?” Dare said, but the brightness was dimming.

“He doesn't know he's the duke. How does he find out?”

“A sibyl finds him.”

But the spark of inventive fun had died, so they talked of novels they'd enjoyed. By the time they reached Ella's house, Mara was carrying most of the conversation and she wished she could pelt him with questions.

Are you still addicted? How does it affect you? How much do you take? Will you be able to fight free? What should I do to help?

When Ella's footman opened the door, however, she could only make a cheerful farewell.

She was inside the house before she realized that she'd neglected to force another appointment. She hurried to her room to write a note thanking Dare for the visit to the cork exhibition. She added an urgent desire to see the Tower of London. She did truly long to see the site of so many of England's famous events, but she chose it for another reason. The Tower was a long way from Mayfair and would require a lengthy carriage drive there and back. Hours together for inventive silliness and for learning more about his situation.

She sat nibbling the tip of her quill, dipped the nib and signed her note from
the famous novelist Adamara Saint Bride. You will note that I have lengthened St. to Saint, for names acquire importance letter by letter
.

She received his reply during lunch agreeing to the expedition and signed
the infamous Todareornottodare Debenham
.

She read this to Ella, who was amused, especially at the mere idea of Mara writing a whole book, but who seemed uncomfortable about something.

“What's the matter?” Mara demanded.

“Nothing. Only that you seem to be growing very close.”

“It's only Dare,” Mara protested, aware that she was lying.

Ella fiddled with a piece of bread. “I hear he has children in his house.”

“The children of the Belgian widow who nursed him. Apparently she died. Delphie isn't much older than Amy. Perhaps they might like to play together.”

“They aren't likely to meet often, are they?”

“Why not?”

“Yeovil House is quite a distance from here.”

Mara saw her sister's pursed lips and felt her rare temper build. “You don't
want
Amy to play with Delphie.”

Color touched Ella's cheeks. “Really, Mara! But who knows who the child is?”

“She's Dare's adopted daughter.”

“All I know is that there's a mystery about those children. From what I've heard, they don't look as if they had the same parents, and the Belgian widow herself is something of an enigma.” Ella's lips pursed even more. “She was probably his mistress.”

“If so, it was in the past and the poor woman is dead. Her children—”

Ella put a hand to her abdomen. “I really can't be upset at a time like this, Mara. It creates a fractious baby—you know it does. The world is full of waifs in situations a great deal more unpleasant. If you want to do good works, help me sew clothing for the Charing Cross Orphanage.”

It was penance, but Mara agreed, and spent the afternoon hemming. Under soothing occupation, Ella relaxed into light conversation and Mara didn't try to raise the subject of the children again. By the time they left that evening for Covent Garden Theater, all was peace and harmony, and she could enjoy the experience.

T
his would be Mara's first visit to a London theater, and she welcomed the opportunity to wear one of her finer dresses. She chose her ivory satin sprigged with country flowers. It suited her very well, and the low bodice and evening corset did wonders for her breasts. She wished Dare would see her like this.

“Come along, Miss Mara,” Ruth protested. “They'll be waiting for you.”

Mara quickly chose pearls and simple flowers for her hair. As Ruth put her green velvet cloak around her shoulders, Mara looked at the Tomb of Juliet that sat by her bed; then she ran down to join Ella and George.

As their coach drew close to Covent Garden, they encountered a stream of carriages and slowed to a dawdle, but the excitement in the air and watching the people on foot was a play in itself. Hawkers cried fruits and flowers, and Mara saw an urchin filch a handkerchief.

At last they could alight and enter the theater, where they were joined by the unfortunately named Scilly brothers and went up to the box. Reverend Scilly turned out to be the very self-satisfied vicar of a prosperous London parish. Captain Scilly was sharp-faced and sour because peace left him with no ship under his command. Both were bachelors and eyeing Mara with too much interest, but she could handle that.

She went upstairs on the vicar's arm, paying scant attention to his conversation, keyed up as she was for the moment when she would see the auditorium, which was supposed to be one of the most elegant in the world.

When she walked into the box, she paused in satisfaction. The four tiers of seating rose in gilded magnificence, the occupants glittering under brilliant gaslight. Feathers bobbed, fans waved, and jewels flashed in the light.

“What a dull duck I am,” she said without great concern as she joined Ella at the front. “A fan, but no feathers. Mere flowers in my hair and only pearls. No flash at all.”

Reverend Scilly leaned forward. “You are a perfection of maidenly modesty, Lady Mara.”

Mara's eyes met Ella's and laughter threatened. Mara managed, “Perfection, Vicar! How delightful.”

What was truly delightful was the attention she was receiving. Some gentlemen even raised quizzing glasses to study her—the ultimate accolade—though of course she pretended not to be aware of it.

A movement below caught her eye and she looked down into the pit, expecting another admirer. It was, but a most unwelcome one.

Berkstead!

He was even standing to stare up at her, drawing the attention of those around him. Pinned by so much gawking, Mara felt furious. She frowned, trying to send a message that he desist. Instead, he put his right hand to his heart and bowed.

She looked away, but her cheeks were flaming. No one in her box seemed to have noticed; perhaps most in the theater were unaware. But how intolerable. What if the wretch was brash enough to come up to their box? He was well acquainted with George.

As the theater continued to fill, Mara surreptitiously kept an eye on her unwelcome suitor. He had sat down and stopped staring, so perhaps his nonsense was over.

Mara tried to settle to enjoy the play, but it was a sad disappointment.
The Lady's Choice
had sounded so promising, involving as it did a clandestine betrothal, but it reminded her of her complaint to Dare about novels designed to teach. This was a play written to teach a lesson, in this case that a lady should surrender her choice of husband to her father. Mara hoped it would be enlivened later by rebellion, but didn't have much hope.

At the intermission, they ignored the dancers who came onstage and left the box to promenade in the elegant gallery. Mara took the arm of Captain Scilly this time, sharing her favors.

“Not a bad piece, eh?” he said. “Free of barnacles.”

Mara stared at him. “Barnacles, Captain?”

“In sound shape, Lady Mara. Seaworthy. With a well-scraped bottom.”

Mara desperately fought laughter. “I don't suppose it will leak, Captain Scilly. Do you attend the theater often?”

“Now and then, now and then, Lady Mara, being stuck ashore with no hope of action.”

“But you'd not want war, Captain?”

“Never,” he declared, but wasn't the slightest bit convincing.

“Perhaps a noble mission, such as the Barbary campaign?”

As she'd intended, that set him off on a description of his role in that enterprise, which had forced the release of the Christians enslaved by Barbary pirates. But he reduced the exciting mission to topsails and tacking.

Mara made the appropriate comments, but her eyes wandered. In Lincoln she would be surrounded by friends and relatives at a moment like this, but here she hardly knew anyone. Her gaze paused on the back of a man's head that looked familiar.

Dare?

Her heart sped. It was. He was talking to two elegant couples. Rogues?

Paying just enough attention to heavy seas, batteries, and going to leeward, she gently steered a course toward Dare, trying to guess which Rogues the men might be.

The slender blond looked very clever. Sir Stephen Ball? Nicholas Delaney? Or the scholarly Lucien, Marquess of Arden? No, he was a prime athlete.

The dark, gentle one. Francis, she thought. Francis, Lord Middlethorpe—she was sure of it by process of elimination.

When she was within feet of her target, Captain Scilly was hailed and Mara was turned to join a Captain Macken and his wife. Naval conversation ensued. Mara ground her teeth behind her smile. She couldn't just walk away, but she sent silent pleas to Dare to rescue her.

And he did!

“Lady Mara, I hope you are enjoying the play.”

She turned, a brilliant smile no effort at all. “In parts,” she said, adding, “The barnacle-free bits.”

His brows rose in a query, but he also looked down at her breasts and was still and silent for a moment.

Then he introduced his companions.

She'd been right about Francis, and the blond man was Sir Stephen Ball MP. Rogues. At last! But Dare's reaction to her gown was the greater thrill.

The naval party was as delighted as she was. A duke's son, a viscount, and an influential politician!

Amid general conversation, Mara studied the Rogue wives. Lady Ball was a true beauty, with lush dark curls and brilliant eyes. Mara remembered that she had been a toast during her first marriage.

Lady Middlethorpe wasn't a beauty in the same way, but her looks were remarkable. Creamy skin, heavy-lidded eyes, and startling deep red hair created an impression Mara could only think of as
sultry.

Certainly the naval gentlemen were agog and Captain Scilly probably couldn't have reefed a topsail right then to save his life.

Lady Ball turned to Mara and said, “Serena and I plan a quest on Saturday. We have word of a fabulous emporium of Oriental silks on the borders of respectable London and mean to find it.”

“With escort,” Lord Middlethorpe said firmly.

“Of course, dearest,” Lady Middlethorpe said. “You know I have no taste for risks.”

“Unlike Mara,” Dare said.

Mara flashed him a hurt look. He lightly added, “Everyone knows that a devil-haired St. Bride is born to be wild.”

Lord Middlethorpe laughed. “Lord, yes. The things Simon got up to. Only to be expected that he'd start a war in Canada.”

“He didn't
start
it,” Mara protested.

“I'm not convinced. He certainly went raiding with some group called the Green Tigers.”

“He had no choice but to defend British territory against attack,” Mara said.

“But no sooner does he arrive back in England than the masses riot at Spa Fields.”

Lord Middlethorpe was clearly teasing, and Mara felt as if she were with old friends.

“Simon certainly had nothing to do with that,” she said. “The unrest is all to do with unemployment and the Corn Laws, which are the responsibility of you members of Parliament.” But then she covered her mouth with her hand. “I can't believe it. I actually raised the subject of politics!”

Everyone laughed, including Dare, who looked so much like his old self. This was how he should be, laughing with his friends.

Their eyes met and held for an extraordinary moment, and she knew hers spoke her thoughts. His lids lowered and he turned to say something to Lady Ball just as the bell announced the next act.

Mara quickly settled the details of the silk-hunting expedition and returned to her box, wishing she could go with Dare instead.

But would he want her to? She very much feared that she'd let her heart speak in her eyes, and he'd deliberately cut the connection.

She took her seat fighting tears. She'd dallied and flirted for years, but she'd never had to try to hide her feelings before. It had never mattered before.

Oh, Lord. Was she doing to Dare what Berkstead was doing to her? She resolved to ignore Dare for the rest of the evening.

During the next intermission she expressed interest in watching some performing dogs. During the third and last, Ella wished to listen to what sounded like a pious monologue and Mara simply couldn't bear it. She would have been better off. The Scilly brothers both insisted on escorting her but talked to each other over her head, and the only people they joined were the Mackens and a dust-dry Reverend Forbes.

Mara saw Dare some distance away, but stuck to her resolve. She prayed, however, that he'd come to her again. He didn't, even though she saw him see her.

At the bell, she returned to the box feeling tragic enough for Romeo and Juliet. She held back for a moment outside the door to compose herself.

“Please, gentlemen, go ahead.”

It was the sort of vague feminine comment men never question. They went into the box and Mara fiddled with her gown. She was nothing but a pest to Dare. She couldn't bear it.

But she achieved a smile and was turning toward the open door when a theater servant came up to her. “Lady Mara St. Bride?” he asked, holding out a folded paper.

Startled, Mara took the note. It was a slim, stiff package with only her name on the outside. The orchestra signaled the beginning of the final act, so she concealed it in her hand and took her seat.

Was the note from Dare?

Telling her to stop pursuing him?

She couldn't bear to wait. Once the play was under way again, she unfolded it as quietly as she could, then looked down, grateful for the small lamp in the box.

A blank sheet of paper enclosed the playbill and a playing card: the Queen of Hearts.

Mara suppressed a nervous laugh. This package could be wildly romantic, but it didn't feel like that. It felt peculiar. Then she noticed that the play's title,
The Lady's Choice
, had been circled in black. In the margin, the sender had written:
May your choice be forgiveness, my queen.

Forgive what? Was Dare asking forgiveness for ignoring her? Opium could play strange games with the mind, but she didn't want to think Dare had sent this.

With sudden suspicion, she looked down into the pit. Major Berkstead was looking up at her again, trying to catch her eye.

She shook her head, frowning. He clasped his hands in prayer. The exasperating buffoon!

She longed to send a pointed message by dropping the card into the pit—torn into pieces, in fact—but someone would be sure to notice. Instead, she bent it in half and pushed it into her reticule.

The only thing to do was to ignore the wretched man, but now she felt threatened. She'd thought of him as a buffoon, but his eyes had shown a frightening intensity.

For the first time in her life, Mara felt threatened by a man. It was nonsense. Berkstead didn't want to harm her, only marry her, but she didn't know what he might do. He could cause her endless trouble. He could embarrass her with his attentions, but worse—what if he revealed her escapade with him? He'd tried to force marriage through scandal once.

She shivered. Surely if honor didn't restrain him, fear would. He'd have to know that Simon or Dare would call him out for it. All the same, her reputation would be in shreds.

She kept her eyes on the stage, but was hardly aware of the weeping and repentance followed by an unbelievable picture of domestic bliss. The play was followed by a farce about servants and mistaken identity that would have pleased Mara much better if she hadn't been so upset.

She made sure never to look in Berkstead's direction again until they rose to take their leave. Then she checked what he was up to. Thank heavens, his seat was empty and the pit audience was pushing and shoving toward the doors. Good riddance.

She breathed with relief as they all made their way along the gallery and down the stairs, and even managed some intelligent comments on the play. She kept an eye out for Dare—she couldn't help it—but it was as well she didn't see him. She was upset enough to do something stupid.