The Devil May Care Read online

  It also turned out that her husband was a rather dashing military type with a bristling moustache and needless to say I made my excuses and left as soon as this became apparent. I passed a slightly uneasy night but as no one pounded on my door to demand that I name my seconds I believed I may have scraped through the affair unscathed. Sadly, however, during the afternoon my door was indeed almost pounded almost off its hinges by none other than Monsieur Claude. The lady's husband was apparently still ignorant of the affair, but her brother had noticed us slip away and confronted his sister in the morning when she confessed all.

  Monsieur Claude demanded satisfaction, which honour gave me no choice but to agree to. He immediately saw the dilemma presented to him as my arm is still in a sling and would give him a decided advantage. Being a fair-minded chap, he agreed to defer the meeting for a week or so until I was in a better frame to do myself justice. This settled, I suggested we have a drink together. In point of fact we had several drinks and played piquet most of the evening, during which I relieved him of a satisfactory sum. Despite his losses he seemed in very good heart and decided he liked me better than his brother-in-law and there was really no need to make a fuss about his sister, who was no better than she ought to be. Naturally I didn't disagree - whilst trying not to put further insult to his sister. So it seems I live to see another day! I have put some effort into learning my colours as a matter of urgency, and pray I do not commit such an error again.

  Well now ... I believe I discharged my duty to entertain you for the time being. I hope in future I can manage it without such risk to my person!

  In reply to your letter - Mrs Morris has well earned everything she gets in the cumbersome shape of Lord Derby, but on that matter I must remain silent as the story touches someone to whom I owe a debt and I will not tattle about their affairs.

  Torquil Landon! If I could be so easily replaced by such a fribble as that I should hang my head in shame. That such a Jack o' Dandy could even consider ... but I shall say no more lest I put you to the blush.

  Write to me soon and tell me who next will endeavour to steal my glory in my absence.

  Your devoted friend,

  Beaumont.

  Milly clutched the letter to her heart, one hand covering her mouth to try and contain her laughter. Of all the absurd situations to land himself in! She could just imagine the look on his face when he realised his mistake.

  The pleasure of his letter and in being able to reply was enough to get her through a miserable existence. She smiled at the anticipation that there might even be another letter to follow her reply ... almost more than she dared hope for.

  The Marquis had given her hope, a reason to find some joy in a joyless world. He was like some bright exotic creature that had by some miracle touched her world and brought colour to a life that was wholly grey and drab. That he had done so did seem like some kind of miracle. She had spent her entire life doing her best not to be noticed. To be small and quiet and unobtrusive. When she managed it, well she could go for days, even weeks, without her cousin even remarking her presence.

  Sometimes, though, her wretched tongue would betray her and she would speak when she ought to remain silent. After that there were times that she preferred not to dwell on. The oppressive atmosphere in which she was forced to live had become such in recent months that she had considered simply running away. To where and to do what, she didn't know, and it was only Mrs Goodly's devoted presence that stopped her taking such drastic action. For she could not leave without her devoted companion, and though Mrs Goodly urged her to leave - for surely anything was better than this - Milly was not fool enough to think that was true. They had food and a roof over their heads and if they left, in a very short time they may not be able to claim even that luxury.

  It was indeed miraculous that someone like the glamorous Marquis of Beaumont should not only have noticed someone who tried so hard to be unremarkable but had gone out of his way to claim her friendship. His friendship was the light in a very dark world, and she would hold on to it with everything she had.

  Chapter 3

  “Wherein time passes and friendship blooms.”

  5th July 1817

  Lille. France

  My dear Miss Sparrow,

  Well, little bird, I regret to inform you that you had the right of it. The blonde turned out to be a shocking bore. I should have set my sights on the more mysterious brunette as you advised me. I beg you will remind me of my conceit in future and implore me to heed your words. I passed an interminable evening and my ears are still ringing with her mindless chatter. I contrived to hide my boredom but spent the whole evening wishing I had you and your lively tongue to entertain me.

  I hope, however, if word should reach London's tattle mongers that you will disregard the story concerning myself and a certain Madame Dupont. It is entirely untrue and only put about by Mademoiselle Girard out of spite. I'm sure I have no need to explain to you why? I suspect it isn't the last ill turn she'll try to serve me. Hell hath no fury etc. etc. ...

  Happily my luck seems to have turned and I have had a most fortunate run at cards. Indeed if I could only keep winning at this rate I could conceivably return within eighteen months but you know what they say about chickens and eggs so I shan't pin my hopes upon it.

  I wish you will spend some time and tell me about yourself. You regale me with all the on dits for which I thank you whole heartedly. However I am curious to know a little more about you, dear friend. Whence do you come from? How come you to be living with your cousin? What do you do with your days? Please answer these and satisfy my curiosity as it is most unfair that you know all of my heritage and I, none at all of yours!

  Your devoted friend,

  Beaumont.

  11th July 1817

  Russell Square, London.

  My dear Lord Beaumont,

  If you believe for one moment I am not sat here crowing with delight then I am severely disappointed by your lack of imagination. I think you were very well served, but I shouldn't consider making any advances to the brunette for a week or two, she'll still be smarting a while yet I think. Yes indeed, I will certainly take great delight in making you heed my advice in future and implore that you are not taken in by a pair of pretty blue eyes again. As the owner of such a pair yourself I should think you would know better!

  I cannot imagine what on earth you think I can tell you about myself that you would find in the least bit interesting. But if you must have it. I was born in East Sussex and my family, whilst by no means of the haut ton, were perfectly respectable so you need not blush for the association in that respect at least. My father died when I was five and my mother when I was eight. With no other family it fell to my cousin, Mr Brownlow, to take me in. I try and repay this act of philanthropy by doing what I can for his family and making myself useful. It appears to be something I am not suited for, however, as we are forever at odds and he is generally out of charity with me! I endeavour to stay out of his way as far as I am able.

  And now, dear friend, you have only yourself to blame for the receipt of this deadly dull letter! I hope you will forgive me its brevity, however, I have snatched a moment to write this to you but I am in disgrace with my cousin and dare not be seen to be wasting my time on such frivolity as corresponding a friend, no matter how important it may be to me.

  Your sincere friend,

  Miss Millicent Sparrow.

  Beau frowned at the letter in his hand. There was a niggling feeling of alarm that had been growing in his mind ever since he had first met Miss Sparrow. The fear in her eyes and her nervous disposition, so obviously at odds with a mind that was lively and vivacious, made him believe that she was afraid of someone in particular. Small comments that had been unwittingly dropped in other correspondence had also made him uneasy. But now, this clear reference to the fact that she and her cousin did not get on and she was afraid to be seen even doing something as innocuous as writing a letter, could only confirm in his min
d that Miss Sparrow lived in fear of her cousin.

  As well she might.

  If the roof over her head was solely dependent on his goodwill, she would be obliged to keep him happy. That sat ill with him and he wished that he could do something to help her. He snorted at the idea; he was having enough trouble helping himself at this precise moment. That aside, even if he had the means it would be impossible for him to help a single female without people drawing their own, if preposterous, conclusions.

  It was strange how he had come to rely on her correspondence, though. The letters flew back and forth between them as fast as the dismal postal service allowed and he often found himself writing on a daily basis. The letters also revealed far more of himself than he would have ever voiced aloud. But the truth of the matter was that he was depressed and alone. He drank too much and found solace in women because it was easy for him to do. Milly's letters, though, they made him laugh, keeping his spirits up and ensuring that he didn't take himself too seriously. The thought too that there was someone in the world who thought well of him, no matter what, that was something he held very dear.

  He couldn't help but grin as her sharp tongue took him to task over the blonde and her pretty blue eyes. As the owner of such a pair yourself I should think you would know better! The wretch! But he would enjoy teasing her for having noticed his pretty blue eyes just the same. There was nothing that put her more on her mettle than implying she had a tendre for him. That would ensure him the most odious set down.

  He chuckled at the thought and dipped his pen in the ink just as a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh of annoyance he got up and opened it and suppressed a curse of irritation at the sight of the landlord's daughter. The girl was becoming a blessed nuisance and was given far too much freedom by her ambitious mother. He didn't doubt she would welcome finding her precious lamb in the arms of a notorious Marquis, even a penniless one. No doubt she had visions of marching him direct to the nearest church. Well he was alive to all of those possibilities and nowhere near green enough to be caught by them.

  “Yes, what is it?” he demanded, too annoyed to feign politeness as the girl simpered up at him.

  “Zhere is a gentleman to see you, 'e is in the parlour.”

  Beau frowned, wondering who on earth would seek him out at such a late hour of the evening. “What gentleman?” he asked, with growing apprehension.

  “A Monsieur Brooke, Milord.”

  Beau felt a shiver of misgiving run over his skin. Mr Brooke was his father's private secretary and as unlikely a visitor to Beau as he could imagine. It could only bode ill.

  “Tell him I will be down directly,” he said, and closed the door. For a brief moment he toyed with the idea that his father had relented and regretted the ugly scene that had played out the last time they'd met. With a snort of derision Beau put that idea firmly aside. No matter how old he got he had never quite managed to kill the part of him that had hoped for his father's approval. Which was utterly ridiculous. He'd damned near killed himself growing up by trying to prove himself.

  He'd had to be the best rider, the best with a firearm, the best fighter, a notable whip ... but no matter how many accolades he won his father continued to despise him. Until he had discovered the feeling was perfectly mutual. The only person he possibly hated more than his father was Mr Brooke. He was an obsequious, oily man who had often pitchforked Beau into deeper trouble by tattling to his father about things he'd tried to keep to himself.

  Beau took his time making himself presentable. He was damned if Brooke would see him looking in any way down at heel, despite the modesty of his lodgings. Besides, he took a perverse pleasure in making the toadying old fool wait for him. Once satisfied that he had nothing to blush for, Beau made his way down to the private parlour where he found Mr Brooke waiting for him. He watched with misgiving as Brooke leapt to his feet, executed a deep and ingratiating bow and said simply, “Your Grace.”

  Beau felt for a moment as though the room pitched and the ground was not quite steady under his feet. He reached out a hand and grasped the chair nearest to him, hoping the moment had gone undetected. He stared at Brooke in astonishment.

  “You can't be serious?” he said, hearing his voice wavering with the shock of it.

  “I regret to inform you that I am indeed serious. Your father took a fall from his horse and by some stroke of ill fortune chanced to hit his head on a rock as he fell. He was killed instantly.”

  Beau stared at him, too numb to take it in as Brooke held his hand out bearing his father's seal ring. Too shocked to speak Beau took it from him, finding that his own hands were trembling. He stared down at the familiar gold seal, worn by the head of the family for close to four hundred years. It bore their coat of arms, a rampant lion surrounded by fleur de lis. Ironic that their family hailed from French nobility. They'd come over with the Normans and been given English lands and titles by William the conqueror. Their motto was inscribed around the seal, Pristinum Honorem Habendi or ‘possessing our ancient honour.’ The absurdity of it struck Beau and he let out a bark of laughter. Honour! Good God, if there had been a shred of honour left to the family he'd like to know where it was because it was damned well hidden. He looked up to see Brooke watching him and had no doubt the fool believed he was glad his father was dead.

  “I am, of course, at your Grace's disposal. There will be much that needs doing. Your father's affairs will need to be explained to you in detail and I can assure you that ...”

  “No.”

  Brooke stopped in his tracks and suddenly looked rather pale.

  “I understand that this has been something of a shock to you, S-sir ...” he stammered.

  “You're damned right it's a shock,” Beau replied. “But if you think it has changed my opinion of you, I'm afraid you're far short of the mark.”

  For a moment Mr Brooke stared at him but he came about again and gave Beau an understanding smile.

  “Of course it is only natural that you should look at me as one of an older generation. I was ever your father's staunchest ally and so I can see that perhaps you have seen me as an enemy." He gave a fond chuckle as though Beau was some spoilt nephew of his who'd been over indulged. “But now of course you are the Duke of Ware, and so now ... my allegiance is wholly yours.”

  Beau snorted and looked at him with disgust. For the first time in his life he took the greatest of pleasure in looking down at someone who was not his social equal.

  “Very pretty, Sir,” he said, not bothering to hide his sneer. “But as you said, I am the Duke of Ware and I decide who works for me. Your services are no longer required. I suggest you return to Ware and make what arrangements are necessary to quit your station with all haste. I expect you to be gone on my arrival. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But, Sir.” The man persisted, panic in his eyes now at the realisation that his pockets would no longer be lined at the duke's expense. “Only consider, I know everything there is to know of your father's affairs ... I don't think you can comprehend ...”

  “Oh I comprehend, Mr Brooke,” Beau replied with icy civility. “I comprehend that you have been feathering your nest profitably at my father's expense for decades and you wish me to remain in blissful ignorance of it. But I have no intention of being ignorant, you see. So I will simply have to muddle through as best I can. I assure you I will manage. I'm not quite as stupid as you may like to believe.”

  Brooke stood gaping at him, fury mingling with the dire need to ingratiate himself back into Beau's esteem. Taking advantage of the man's stunned silence Beau bid him a frosty good evening and left the room.

  Chapter 4

  “Wherein evil is uncovered and our hero is forced to intervene.”

  Beau made his way towards the bench in Hyde Park and hoped that Miss Sparrow hadn't changed her routine in the weeks of his absence. His departure from France had been so swift that there was no point in writing to her and warning of his arrival. Indeed he found himself bemused that
she was his first port of call having only set foot in the country a few hours earlier.

  He was tired and travel worn and too desperate to talk to someone about his father's death. Even if Sebastian would speak to him again, he was still blissfully honeymooning somewhere with his wife, and there was no one else Beau could confide in. It ought to have been a lowering thought, perhaps, but he found he bristled at the idea. Miss Sparrow was perhaps an unlikely ally, but that did not make her an unworthy one.

  As the bench came into view he felt the tension in his shoulders ease a little as a slight figure clad all in brown was already there. He paused, though, as he noticed that her head was bent, her posture one of acute misery. Hurrying forward he walked up to her.

  “Miss Sparrow?”

  She looked up, startled, and to his dismay he saw she'd been crying.

  “My Lord!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, her smile immediate and genuine and taking a step towards him before checking herself. For a moment Beau believed she might have hugged him. “Oh, my Lord Beaumont! How is this? Here I've been lamenting the tardiness of your reply and now this." She beamed at him but Beau was struck by the pallor of her complexion. Surely she wasn't this upset because his letter was late? She looked frail and worn and really quite unwell.

  He reached out and took her hand, kissing her fingers and smiling at the inevitable blush that coloured her pale skin.

  “Hello, little bird,” he said, using the nickname he'd begun teasing her with in his letters. “I would have written only my return was rather rapid. Indeed I hope you'll forgive that I come to you in all my dirt for I have just returned today.”