The Devil May Care Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  The Devil May Care

  The Garden Of Love

  by William Blake

  I laid me down upon a bank,

  Where Love lay sleeping;

  I heard among the rushes dank

  Weeping, weeping.

  Then I went to the heath and the wild,

  To the thistles and thorns of the waste;

  And they told me how they were beguiled,

  Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

  I went to the Garden of Love,

  And saw what I never had seen;

  A Chapel was built in the midst,

  Where I used to play on the green.

  And the gates of this Chapel were shut

  And “Thou shalt not,” writ over the door;

  So I turned to the Garden of Love

  That so many sweet flowers bore.

  And I saw it was filled with graves,

  And tombstones where flowers should be;

  And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

  And binding with briars my joys and desires.

  Chapter 1

  “Wherein the past is reviewed with regret, but a new friend is made.”

  2nd June 1817

  Beau watched as his boyhood friend, Sebastian Grenville, the Duke of Sindalton, ran down the stairs from his grand home on Grosvenor Square. The tall, imposing figure leapt into the waiting carriage and the glossy black conveyance, drawn by four equally glossy bay horses, drew him away. The gold leaf of the duke's coat of arms glinted with the perfection of true quality in the early summer sun on the carriage doors, and Beau tried hard not to feel envious of his friend's secure position: a wealthy man, setting out to marry an equally wealthy and beautiful lady who loved him to distraction. Such lives as most people could only dream about. Struck by a forceful pang of sorrow as the carriage turned the corner and out of sight, he drew in a breath and told himself not to be so hen-hearted. He had no right to feel sorry for himself. He had his own notoriety as Charles Stafford, the Marquess of Beaumont, though all knew him as simply Beau. But he had brought this sorrow upon himself. That much was clear.

  Beau shifted his arm in the sling as his shoulder throbbed, as though reminding him of his own black-hearted folly. Raising his hand he rubbed at it with a grimace. It was healing well now, but it still hurt like the devil. Still, that's what you got when your best friend put a bullet in you. He could only be grateful Sebastian had never been such a good shot as he was himself. For both their sakes. He doubted Sebastian would take the idea of fleeing to France in disgrace with any more enthusiasm than he had himself. But there was no other choice for him now.

  He turned and nodded to the two burly and disreputable-looking men who were lingering on the corner of the road. They were temporary guards courtesy of the Earl of Falmouth, who was just as eager for him to leave the country, for Beau owed some very ruthless men a great deal of money, and they'd take their payment in blood and bone if nothing else was forthcoming.

  Lost in his malady, he found himself walking towards Hyde Park, the streets still quiet and deserted at this unfashionably early hour of the morning. He should go home. There were still so many things to arrange before he caught the packet boat in the morning. The idea of going back made his throat disconcertingly tight though. Best put it off for a while.

  He wandered through the pretty gardens at a leisurely pace. The grass and trees still wore the fresh acid green of a damp spring, with vivid swathes of colourful planting drawing the eye as the new summer colours vied for attention. For once Beau found no pleasure in it though, his thoughts too mired in his past and the gloom of his immediate future. What the devil was he to do?

  He sat down on a bench, casting a sympathetic eye to the two men who were still shadowing him. He waved them off with an impatient air and they obliged with begrudging distrust.

  Beau wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the water of the Serpentine and considering all of the ill-conceived, idiotic things he'd done in the past year alone. It wasn't a pleasant thing, to realise that you were wasting your life, that you'd done nothing that you could feel pride in. He had spent his time indulging his baser instincts and not giving a damn who he hurt in the process. He was tired of emotional scenes, of women he didn't care about weeping and begging him to stay. He was tired of gambling at all hours to try and keep himself afloat. Rubbing his hand over his face in irritation he cursed himself. He was better than this surely? But his father's laughter still rang in his ears.

  It had almost killed him to turn to his father for help. He'd been far from surprised that the evil old bastard had delighted in telling him he was a failure and a disgrace and he'd not lift a finger to help him. No change there then. So he'd swallowed his pride for no good reason.

  Beau swore he'd show him, one day. One day he'd make a success of his life and he'd look his father in the eyes and tell him he was wrong. Beau wasn't the failure, he was. The Duke of Ware was the failure, for he'd set out to break his own son and he'd not yet succeeded.

  He frowned, broken from his thoughts by a soft voice, and looked around him. At first he saw no one, but then the voice came again and he turned to his right a little farther to see a woman looking at him.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I-I'm so sorry, my lord. I-I h-hope I'm not disturbing you?”

  He smiled politely at the woman, wondering what the devil she was about speaking to a man she didn't know in the middle of the park. But then he realised there was something familiar about her.

  She was not a glamorous specimen. Indeed Beau would have walked past without giving her a second glance, so how he knew her he couldn't fathom. Shabbily dressed in a worn brown pelisse, her equally brown hair was drawn severely back from her face into a tight bun. Thin to the point of looking emaciated, Beau thought a strong gust of wind would likely knock her off her feet.

  She flushed, the two points of colour vivid against the pallor of her complexion.

  “No, you're not disturbing me,” he said, looking at her with curiosity. If she'd been better dressed and rather more attractive he'd have not been so surprised. He was not unaccustomed to women acting badly to get close to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss ...?”

  “Oh, Miss Sparrow,” she said in a rush, taking a hesitant couple of steps closer. “No, nothing at all, my Lord, in fact I would never have dared approach you, only ...”

  She ground to a halt and Beau was struck by the fear in her dark eyes. It was a look he recognised.

  “Only?” he asked, keeping his voice warm and reassuring. She wore the look of a woman who was afraid of her own shadow and he felt the instinctive need to put her at ease. She wore a dainty pair of spectacles that made her look rather older than she perhaps was and pushed them up her nose a little before she spoke again.

  “Only, I wanted so much to thank you.”

  He raised his eyebrows, wondering what on earth he could have done
to have earned her thanks. “Sparrow?” he repeated, frowning as he realised the name was familiar. “Oh, Lady Derby's ball?”

  She smiled and let out a breath. “Yes, that's right. I'm afraid I caused the most dreadful stir.” The high points of colour on her cheeks seemed to brighten further and he felt a wave of pity for her embarrassment.

  “Not at all,” he said, smiling at her. “And there is not the least need to thank me. It was no more than anyone would have done.”

  Her smile fell away and a haunted look returned to those wide brown eyes. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We both know that isn't true. They would have stood and watched as I had a ... a fit. They would have watched and felt appalled, and done nothing. No one else would have helped me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But you did.”

  It appeared to be Beau's turn to feel embarrassed. He was certainly undeserving of the look of slavish devotion in her eyes. “Well, I was only too happy to,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

  “I know,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “And I simply can't imagine why.”

  He frowned, turning to her with a little annoyance. “It shouldn't be so remarkable that I can find some common decency for a fellow creature. Surely my reputation is not so black as all that.” The words were sharp and she gave an audible gasp of shock and he was appalled to see that look of terror in her eyes again as she clutched at the little plain brown reticule in her hands.

  “N-no! I-I didn't mean. I n-never meant that you ... Only p-people aren't kind you see. N-not usually.”

  He felt a wave of pity for this poor, shabby, brown creature and wondered what her life was. He knew of her cousin, Spencer Brownlow. He'd been at Eton, a year or two older than Beau, and a nastier piece of work it would be hard to come across.

  “Forgive me, Miss Sparrow,” he said, truly disquieted by how frightened she seemed to be. “I had no call to speak to you so. Indeed it is only my own guilty conscience that made me think you were accusing me of being usually cold-hearted.”

  “Oh, I would never believe such a thing of you!” she said, and with such heat that Beau was startled into laughter.

  “My word, a champion,” he said. “Well I must say I have need of one of those right now as I'm feeling devilish sorry for myself.”

  “Oh?”

  He looked up, amused by the curiosity in her eyes. Looking around he wondered if she was in the park alone, as the impropriety of her situation was very clear to him. She should not be speaking with him without a chaperone. She ought not to speak to him at all as they'd never been formally introduced, despite the bizarre nature of their acquaintance. Though how anyone could believe she was in danger of him making amorous advances to her was frankly ludicrous.

  “Are you alone, Miss Sparrow?”

  The two high spots of colour flamed once more and she shook her head. “My companion, Mrs Goodly, is with me, and indeed we have come with my cousin Mr Brownlow's son Hugo and his nanny. They are further along the park, but Mrs Goodly is sitting on that bench there.” She gestured to another identical bench a little distance from them and Beau saw an older lady sitting and reading a book.

  “Well then, as we have propriety in hand, would you do me the honour of sitting with me a moment?” he asked and was rewarded with a look of real pleasure.

  “Oh, yes. Indeed I should like that, my Lord. That is ... if you are sure you want me to?” She dithered on the spot, her thin fingers clutching at her reticule and looking anxious lest he'd changed his mind.

  “I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want your company, Miss Sparrow,” he replied with a gentle smile, and he watched with amusement as she settled herself on the very edge of the bench. She was much like a little brown sparrow, he thought, his mouth twitching slightly at the idea. She was so very skittish, as though the slightest disturbance would make her fly away in terror, and yet there was intelligence and humour in those deep brown eyes.

  “What did you mean before?” she asked, looking up at him. “When you said you were feeling sorry for yourself? Is it because you are hurt?” She gestured to the sling he wore and he hesitated, wondering what to tell her. The story put about was that he'd suffered a fencing injury. He was well known to be an enthusiast, and whilst it rankled that people should think someone had gotten the better of him, it was obviously best that the truth remain hidden.

  He nodded. “Yes, in part,” he replied, wondering if he could trust her. He felt the sudden need to unburden himself. To tell someone that he'd been a damned fool but that he was sorry for it. That he wanted to be better than that. “The story ... is that I was injured whilst fencing.”

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed, tutting with irritation.

  He laughed, surprised by her reaction. “No?” he repeated.

  “Oh, dear me no,” she said again, shaking her head and looking really rather annoyed. “You're far too clever with a blade for such a slip. Who on earth is supposed to have done it? No, no. I would never have believed such a tale even if you had stuck to it.”

  He gaped at her, astonished. “But ... How on earth ...?” It was true he had a reputation with a blade, and those involved in the sport would know it. But that a lady should know not simply that he fenced ...

  She opened her mouth and then closed it suddenly, a guarded look in her eyes.

  “Oh, come now. I shan't say a word, and I'm too curious to leave it at that, I can tell you!” he said with a laugh.

  He watched, intrigued by the battle going on behind those frightened eyes. He wished he knew what it was that made her so very afraid.

  “Well, it was perhaps twelve years ago,” she admitted. “I was just a little girl and out with my cousin. He had to meet someone at Angelo's, some business connection. He said it would only take a moment and that I was to sit quietly on the chair in the foyer and wait for him.”

  “But you didn't, I collect?” Beau asked, watching her.

  She shook her head and glanced up at him, a shy smile in her eyes. “There was a great deal of noise and I was curious so I went to see. It was a fencing match. You were fighting ...” She frowned as she tried to remember, her thin face turned away from him. “Oh, Lord Reece!” she exclaimed and then said with relish, “It was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen! You were truly magnificent.”

  She sighed and looked up at him and then blushed with fury as she apparently recalled her words and the manner with which she'd said them.

  “I did give him a trouncing,” Beau replied, unable to stop himself smiling at her.

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes alight. “You certainly did. You made him look like an amateur. And since then, well sometimes my cousin has business to attend to and leaves myself and Mrs Goodly to wait in the foyer, and sometimes the door is a little open and ... I get lucky.”

  He chuckled, imagining her peeking round the door to watch the men fighting. What a funny little creature she was. He wondered how old she was. At first sight he had thought her much older, perhaps in her thirties. But now he realised that was just the outmoded dress and the dreadfully severe hairstyle and glasses. At closer inspection he doubted she was much more than twenty. She said she'd seen the match with Reece as a child and he'd been eighteen the year he'd beaten the reigning champion, Lord Reece.

  “So it wasn't a fencing accident then?” she asked, and he saw a worried frown in her eyes. “It ... it wasn't ... a duel, was it?”

  He shook his head and snorted. “No. Not a duel. At least, only one of us was armed.”

  She gasped in shock and clutched at his wrist. “But who? Who did this to you?” He frowned at her, taken aback by her concern. She withdrew her hand from his arm immediately. “I beg your pardon, my Lord,” she said, staring at her feet and looking mortified.

  “Please don't be foolish. I am most grateful for your concern. But I am afraid I don't deserve your pity. I got off lightly in truth. I deserved what was coming to me and if my fate had been blessed with a better s
hot I would have undoubtedly been well served.”

  “I don't believe that.” She sounded really quite mutinous and he looked at her with growing affection. The strange little drab had obviously formed a tendre for him. It was by no means the first time Beau had been afflicted with females fancying themselves in love with him, believing they knew him simply because they'd fallen for his beautiful face. Usually he extricated himself from their presence with all haste, but he found the girl amused him. Perhaps it was merely because his ego was bruised.

  “Why were you shot?”

  He looked down at her, seeing no judgement in her eyes. He hesitated, finding he wanted to tell her.

  “Can I trust you, Miss Sparrow?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  With more boldness than he would have credited her for, she placed her hand on his for a moment. “Anything you tell me I would take to my grave, my Lord,” she said, with the utmost sincerity. Then, a little glimmer of humour warmed her eyes and she added. “Besides, who on earth would I tell? No one talks to me!”

  She gave him a little mischievous smile which was terribly endearing. But that was more because she didn't hear the appalling loneliness behind the words than because she'd made a joke. Beau found he couldn't smile with her, too full of pity for her predicament. What a life for a single female with neither fortune nor beauty. Cast upon the charity of her relatives to be used or abused as those individuals deemed fit. And Beau felt very strongly that someone was abusing Miss Sparrow.

  “Then the world is a very cruel and foolish place, Miss Sparrow. For I can think of no one I would rather speak with.”

  It was prettily said and he was pleased with the glow of pleasure that lit her eyes at his words. More than that, he realised it was true. He was surrounded by acquaintances, he had replaced Beau Brummel as the most fashionable man of the ton, and yet ... he was utterly alone. Sebastian had been his closest, and his only true friend. It would have been him he'd run to if he was in trouble, but now that friendship was over. And it was entirely Beau's fault.