Daughter of Darkness (8 page)

He bit back a frustrated sigh as he offered Daphne his arm. Had it been anyone else he would have called him out and killed him. His fingers closed around the necklace, then gently twisted it. Fear came into her eyes as the necklace tightened around her neck.

‘He is an old man. He will tire of you soon.’ Loosening his grip he flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from the cuff of his green brocade coat.

‘I invited Sapphire,’ Daphne said as they descended the sweeping marble staircase to the salon below. ‘She wrote to say she was honored by my invitation but was leaving shortly for the country.’

‘She should feel honored,’ he growled. ‘You’re the toast of London, my dear.’ Proudly he added. ‘If it hadn’t been for me you’d be buried in the country breeding brats for the Lytton family. Don’t you ever forget that.’

Daphne thought bitterly. No, I’ll never forget it!

Snow! The flake on her tongue swiftly melted as Willow drew it into her mouth. Grinning at Brian O’Shea she indicated the track. ‘A race?’

Brian was exercising Ambrose’s stallion, a muscular grey with an ungainly rapid stride, an ugly nose and an intelligent eye. Most of the horses on the estate were bred from him, but so far Circe had refused to be covered by him. Brian indicated the hedge Willow was pointed at. ‘This old boy can run, but his steeple-chasing days are over.’ He watched Circe dance delicately on the spot. ‘She’s frisky this morning. She’ll be coming into season again, I reckon. It’s a pity we haven’t permission to use one of the Sheronwood stallions. The Lytton stables could do with some fresh blood.’

‘Sheronwood is deserted, and the horses sold.’

‘One of the stallions escaped and is roaming the grounds.’ Brian grinned to himself. ‘To be sure, he’s a handsome fellow, almost as dark as Circe with a white star on his nose.’

‘Then we’d be doing them a favour if we stabled the poor creature for the winter.’ Willow gazed at Brian with twinkling eyes. ‘To be sure, the poor creature will freeze to death if my wily Irish groom doesn’t play the good samaritan.’

‘You’re a girl after me own heart, darlin’ child.’

‘So say you, Brian O’Shea.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘If that’s the case why does Kitty spend more time at the stables than she does attending her mistress? Is it teaching her to ride, you’re after?’

Brian smiled. ‘It’s marrying her I’m after, but she won’t say yes and she won’t say no at the moment. Her first loyalty is to you.’ Gloom edged into his voice. ‘Even if Kitty said yes we’d need the earl’s permission, and he—poor soul—is in no state to grant it. The man would be better off dead.’

‘If you dare say that again I’ll have you thrown off the estate,’ she snapped. ‘Doctor Tansy said the earl might regain his faculties and strength, and I have told God that he
must
.’

Unaffected by her imperious flash of temper, Brian grinned. Only Willow would presume to tell God what to do. The Almighty would not think the worst of her for it. He watched as she expertly applied her hands to the reins.
Willow is as fine and as mettlesome as the horse she rides. God grant her husband the sensitivity to recognize her wild spirit

Patting the earl’s stallion on the nose he watched Circe carry its rider safely over the fence. If she had a fault it was that she never skirted obstacles. She faced them head on with little regard for the consequences, and that wasn’t always wise. Fury snickered in impatience to be off after them. ‘Begging your pardon, Fury,’ he said. ‘Circe’s like her mistress and no match for a staid old fellow like you. It’s a fine mate with Arab blood she’ll be having, and that’s what Brian O’Shea’s after getting for her.’

He brought in the stallion late that afternoon. The horse was young and proud, his coat winter rough, his plumed tail matted with thorny twigs. Gaunt with hunger, his ribs showed plainly through his coat, yet his nostrils flared at the new sights and sounds and he found the energy to squeal a challenge to the stable rafters.

From her stall Circe watched him perform, then gave a flirtatious little snicker.

‘Be patient, me darling’ he said, leading the stallion into an adjoining stall. He sent the stable-boy scurrying for a grooming comb. ‘I’ll be building up his strength before he makes your acquaintance. The viscount will be overjoyed with the outcome. To be sure, it was a lucky day altogether when he met my darling Willow.’

Just at that moment the viscount was cursing his luck. He’d been hoping to reach Dorchester before nightfall, but his mount had thrown a shoe. It was nearly dark, the sky bleak. A bitter wind cut through his heavy cloak and numbed him through to the bone. Gerard’s one consolation as he wearily trudged towards the distant lights of an inn was the thought that only fools would be abroad on such a night.

Which was just as well, because his pack horse was fully laden. He also carried a considerable amount of gold coin and jewelry on his person, including the Lytton betrothal ring which had been returned to his lawyer by Daphne de Vere.

He scowled as he thought of the ring. Its flawless oval diamond was supposed to signify the purity of the wearer. By all accounts Daphne had forgotten the meaning of purity. She’d become a notorious courtesan in his absence and was well ensconced in court circles.

He counted himself lucky to have escaped the clutches of such a woman, but he mourned the loss of the childhood friend he’d once cared for. Breath steamed from his body, as with head bowed he battled against the bite of the wind-driven snow. Cursing it soundly he kept pushing on. Feet numb, his beard full of icicles, he stumbled through the inn door some twenty minutes later. ‘Is there someone to tend my horses? They’re nigh on frozen and in need of a feed and a warm stable,’ Gerard croaked to the innkeeper. His legs collapsed under him as he sank on to a bench adjacent to the roaring fire.

‘The lad will see to it.’ The innkeeper, who recognized quality when he saw it, set a tankard of mulled wine in front of his customer. ‘Come far?’

‘London.’

‘My good wife’s mutton stew and dumplings will chase the cold from your bones if you’ve a mind to eat, sir.’

‘I’ve a mind to both eat and stay the night,’ he muttered, his stomach growling at the mention of food. He eyed his host’s ample belly with something akin to awe. ‘Your girth is recommendation enough of your lady’s cooking abilities.’

The conversation, which had temporarily ceased at his entrance, hummed pleasantly back into life. Loosening his cloak from his shoulders he shook the melting ice from his beard, and removing his hat, set it in the hearth to dry.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ a voice said at his elbow. ‘The hat will be ruined if left to dry in such a way. The brim must be emptied of snow and the inside padded to keep its shape. If you’ll allow me, sir?’

The fire hissed as the snow was flicked into the fire. ‘My name is Rodgers, sir. I was personal servant to Squire Tupworthy until he was unfortunate enough to die.’

‘Tupworthy is dead? A pity, he was a decent man.’ His gaze flickered over the small, dark-haired man. Although shabbily dressed he was clean and tidy. His face had the look of a servant who knew his own worth. ‘How come you here?’ Gerard asked him.

‘The new squire had his own man. The innkeeper offered me bed and sustenance for my labour.’ Pride came into his face. ‘I intend to go to London when the weather improves and seek more suitable employment.’

Gerard liked what he saw of the man. He’d got used to being without a body servant for most of his time abroad. Now he was back he would need one. ‘You have references?’

Rodgers took a crumpled letter from his pocket. ‘I have this letter from the late squire’s lawyer, who’s offered to vouch for me.’ Indignation came into his face. ‘My employer valued me highly. I confess, I didn’t expect to be thrown out into the dead of winter without recompense and reference.’

Gerard remembered the old squire being neatly turned out. Attacking the huge platter of food the innkeeper had set in front of him, Gerard’s eyes scanned the contents of the letter. Satisfied, he gazed up at the man. ‘Tell me of the new squire.’

‘He comes from the north.’ Rodgers hesitated, as if wondering how far he should go. ‘His lady is a gentle soul, and not deserving of his treatment of her. I confess, his patronage is no great loss. More I cannot say.’

Gerard liked his answer. Rodgers had the superior attitude typical of a good personal servant. There was a definite order amongst the servant class, he mused. The more elevated the master or mistress, the more status the servant had. He prided himself on being a good judge of character. If fairly treated, this one would put his master’s needs before his own, and take pride in his work.

‘You’ve made it patently obvious you’re fussy about whom you work for, so I’ll be equally honest with you. Despite my present appearance, I’m also fussy. I’m in need of a man at the moment, and am prepared to take you on paid trial for a month. In that time we’ll discover the best and the worst each has to offer. You agree to my terms?’

‘I’d be honored to serve you, sir.’ Rodgers picked up Gerard’s cloak. ‘I’ll make sure these are dried and your bed is properly aired. You have luggage, sir?’

‘On the pack horse. You needn’t bother to unpack the bags until we reach my home on the morrow.’

Rodgers cocked an inquiring eyebrow his way and Gerard smiled at him. ‘Our destination is Lytton House. I’m Viscount Sommersley. My father is the Earl Lytton.’

‘Yes, My Lord.’ If Rodgers was surprised he was too well trained to show it. ‘Is there anything else you need, My Lord? I can vouch for the apple pie.’

‘Thank you, Rodgers.’ He began to relax as the effects of the fire and the wine took over. He’d forgotten how pleasant it was to be fussed over. ‘Tell the innkeeper I’ll sample his wife’s pie in a little while. I’m too full to contemplate it at the moment.’

An hour later, feeling pleasantly warm and full, he nursed a tankard of ale and gazed into the fire. Apart from the enterprising Rodgers none had approached him. Most of the inn’s patrons were simple country folk, though a group of red-coated officers had burst noisily through the door earlier and established themselves at the far end of the room. He listened to the soft familiar buzz of country dialect with pleasurable nostalgia.

‘It ‘aint the first time lights be seen up at the house. Some say it’s Lady Rosamond’s ghost walking abroad.’

‘It weren’t right her dying alone in that big house.’

The drowsiness left his eyes. Daphne’s grandmother was dead too? A pity. He’d liked the old lady.

‘Baines said he saw a coach go in through the gates the other night. It was glowing all over, and an unholy wailing was coming from inside. The rain was hissing down that night and the road were mucky. He swears there were no tracks to mark the passing of it.’

‘He must have been at the slops.’

Both men laughed, then one of them said loudly. ‘I hears tell the regiment is leaving these parts come spring. Our womenfolk will be able to venture out in safety then.’

One of the officers jumped to his feet and raised his tankard on high. ‘No offence, but most of the women round here aren’t worth pursuing on a dark night. Those who are, queue up at the barracks gate.’

‘That’s not what we hear,’ one of the locals shouted. ‘It’s said that an officer of your regiment was sent packing by a certain young wife of an absent viscount. He escaped with his breeches round his ankles and his face slashed from top to bottom.’ Raucous laughter followed this broadside.

Gerard’s eyes snapped open. Tension crept into his limbs as one of officers lumbered drunkenly to his feet and hauled himself on to the table. A newly healed scar adorned his face. ‘I was ambushed by the woman’s brother-in-law,’ he sneered. ‘Lady Sommersley was willing enough. In fact she was
more
than willing with her husband away.’ The soldier drew his sword from its scabbard and slashed at the smoke-thickened air above his head. ‘Any who want to argue the fact can answer to Hugh MacBride personally.’

His companions shifted awkwardly as he gazed belligerently around him. What had started as good-natured fun had suddenly got out of hand. One of the other men stood up to place a restraining hand on the man’s arm. ‘Come down from there, Hugh. Your tongue is loosened with rum and you discredit your uniform.’

‘Well!’ he roared, taking one last belligerent look around. ‘Any takers amongst you country scum?’

‘I’ll champion the lady.’ Gerard’s voice was icy enough to send a chill through the blood of most of the people present.

‘And who the hell are you, sir?’

‘The lady’s husband.’ Rising to his feet he strode across the room, his rage a palpable thing. Ignoring the saber, he bunched the man’s uniform jacket in his fist and dragged him from his perch. ‘You’ re too drunk to deal with now, sir. I suggest your companions sober you up by dawn. We’ll meet in the meadow at the back of the inn.’

Hugh MacBride paled as his fingers touched the scar on his face. ‘I spoke only in jest, sir. Lady Sommersley would have defended herself until death to protect -’

‘Enough!’
he snarled. ‘Do not mention My Lady with your foul breath. That you’ve chosen to make advances to her is reason enough for me to challenge you. The fact that you’ve insulted her name and mine in a public house is reason enough to kill you. Name your weapon. I have dueling pistols in my pack.’

‘Swords,’ Hugh MacBride said sullenly, choosing a weapon he’d had plenty of practice with.’

‘I’ll act as your second, My Lord.’ The officer who’d protested detached himself from his fellows and stood at Gerard’s side. His sense of fair play had been offended by the choice of weapons. ‘You may borrow my saber. If need be, I can instruct you on its use.’

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Captain Anthony Dowling at your service, My Lord.’

Gerard looked into the man’s face and wanted to grin. He could probably
teach
this officer a thing or two about swordsmanship. He nodded his head. ‘My thanks.’

From the moment he looked into the hard, grey depths of his protagonist’s eyes, Hugh knew his life was forfeit.

It would have been worth it if he could have attained what his heart had desired most, but the violet-eyed woman had managed to thwart him. He’d oft lain awake at night plotting her downfall and dreaming of the time he’d plumb the depths of passion so plainly written on her face. He’d expected to die in battle like his father and grandfather, not in ignominious defeat over a woman. He could almost admire the man he fought as his initial thrusts were disdainfully parried.