Darling Beast

“Phoebe,” Lady Hero Reading whispered, chiding. She was the middle Wakefield sibling—younger sister of the duke, elder of Lady Phoebe—but the two women looked nothing alike. Lady Hero was taller than her sister, with a willowy figure and flame-colored hair. No doubt she thought he couldn’t hear her undertone, but alas, he could. Not that it mattered. He was fully aware of what his charge thought of him and his duties.



“Won’t you have a seat?” the third member of the tea party asked kindly. Her Grace the Duchess of Wakefield, Artemis Batten, was an ordinary-looking woman—excepting her rather fine dark-gray eyes—but she held herself with all the command of a duchess. If one were unaware of her history, one would never guess that she’d served as an impoverished lady’s companion to her distant cousin until her marriage to the duke.



A formidable lady indeed.



“Thank you, my lady.” Trevillion nodded and chose a chair a discreet distance from the trio. However much she hated it, it was his job to watch over and protect Lady Phoebe. Obviously he wasn’t needed when she was with her sister and sister-in-law—or indeed anywhere in Wakefield House—but should she wish to go out after tea, he was bound to accompany her.



Whether she liked it or not.



Lady Hero rose. “I ought to get back to Sebastian anyway. No doubt he’s woken from his afternoon nap.”



“So soon?” Lady Phoebe pouted, then immediately brightened. “We’ll take tea next week at your house—preferably in the nursery.”



Lady Hero laughed gently. “I fear taking tea with an infant and a small child in leading strings is a messy business at best.”



“Messy or not, Phoebe and I look forward to seeing our nephews,” the duchess said.



“Then please come.” Lady Hero smiled ruefully. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you leave with mashed peas in your hair.”



“A small price to pay to spend time with Sweet William and baby Sebastian,” Her Grace murmured. “Come, I’ll see you to the door. I’ll be leaving shortly anyway.”



“You will?” Lady Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together. “But you were gone this morning as well—quite mysteriously, too. Where are you off to now?”



It was small, but Trevillion caught it—a slight waver in the duchess’s gaze, swiftly corrected before she replied. “Just to visit Mrs. Makepeace at the orphanage. I shan’t be long—I’ll certainly return by supper, if Maximus ever emerges from his study and wonders where his wife has gone.”



“He spends entirely too much time in there. Truly Parliament won’t fall apart if he takes one day away.” Lady Hero bent to buss her sister on her cheek. “Next week, then? Or shall I see you at the Ombridges’ soiree?”



Lady Phoebe sighed heavily. “Maximus says I can’t attend. Too crowded, it seems.”



Lady Hero darted a glance at the duchess, standing behind Lady Phoebe. The duchess’s mouth flattened as she shrugged.



“It’s sure to be a terrible bore,” Lady Hero said cheerfully. “A crush like that. You wouldn’t like it anyway.”



Trevillion felt his own mouth tighten as he looked away in irritation. Lady Hero was trying to soften the blow, he knew, but she was going about it in the wrong way. He’d not been serving as Lady Phoebe’s bodyguard for long—only since just before Christmas—but in that time he’d come to realize that the girl loved social events. Musicales, balls, afternoon tea parties, anything with people. She lit up when she was at these gatherings. But her elder brother, Maximus Batten, Duke of Wakefield, had decreed that such outings were too dangerous for Lady Phoebe. Thus she went to very few social events outside her family—and those were carefully vetted.



Trevillion shifted, scraping his stick against the floor. Lady Phoebe swiveled her head, looking in his direction.



He cleared his throat. “I believe, my lady, that the rose canes you ordered have arrived. I noticed the gardeners unpacking them. I don’t suppose they need your supervision, but if you have an opinion on where they’re planted—”



“Why didn’t you say so at once?” Lady Phoebe was already moving, her fingertips trailing and tapping lightly along the backs of chairs as she walked. She halted at the door and half turned, not quite looking in his direction. “Well? Do come on, Captain Trevillion.”



“My lady.” He rose as briskly as he was able and limped toward her.



“Good-bye, dearest.” Lady Hero touched her sister’s shoulder as she passed by Lady Phoebe on the way out the door. “Try not to be so impatient.”



Lady Phoebe merely rolled her eyes.



The duchess tucked her chin as if hiding a smile. “Enjoy your roses.”



Then both she and Lady Hero were gone and he was alone with his charge.



She tilted her head, listening as he drew near. “They’re in the back garden? How did the canes look?”



“I saw them from my window, my lady,” he said as he drew abreast of her. “I couldn’t ascertain their condition.”



“Hmm.” She pivoted and began walking toward the stairs, her fingertips trailing along the wall.



He always felt a twinge of fear when she neared the staircase—it was wide and curving, and made of highly polished marble. But he’d learned after a few brief spats early in his employment that Lady Phoebe did not wish to be helped down the stairs. Indeed, despite his qualms, she’d never so much as faltered on them in his presence.



Still, he watched intently as she began her descent, ready to grab her arm should she waver.



“You’re hovering,” she said without turning.



“Hovering is my job.”



“That’s debatable.”



“No, actually, it isn’t,” he said, flatly.



“Humph.” They’d reached the ground floor now and she turned to walk toward the back of the house.



He grimaced as he took the last step overly hard on his bad leg.



She didn’t turn, but he noticed that she slowed her pace for him.



He limped grimly after.



Outside, a wide, paved terrace ran along the entire back of the house. Beyond was a formal garden, the flower beds mostly dormant at this time of year. There were two gardeners plus the young boy who helped them. All three came to attention as Lady Phoebe appeared.



“M’lady,” the eldest, a gnarled specimen of a man, called to give her their direction.



“Givens,” Lady Phoebe said. “Never tell me you’re planting without me.”



“Nay, m’lady,” the other gardener replied. He could’ve been Givens’s twenty-years-younger twin, they looked that much alike. In fact, Trevillion suspected that they were in some way related. He made a mental note to find out how.



“We was jus’ lookin’ over the canes,” Givens said.



“And how are they?” Lady Phoebe started forward. The canes had been laid out on the lawn between the flower beds.



Trevillion cursed under his breath and lengthened his stride, his stick thumping on the paving stones. He caught up to her just as she neared the shallow steps that led down to the garden.



“If you don’t mind, my lady.” He took her arm without waiting for her reply.



“And if I do?” she murmured.



There was not much point in answering that question, so he merely said, “The grass begins here.”



She nodded, keeping her head high as he led her toward the gardeners. “A pity that Artemis couldn’t stay to help me.”



“Yes, my lady.” He glanced down at her, eyes narrowing. “Strange that you were unaware of where she went this morning.”



She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”



“Don’t you?” he asked softly. “I’ve noticed the duchess often makes mysterious errands.”



“Whatever you’re implying, Captain Trevillion, I don’t think I like it.”



He sighed silently as they made the gardeners and she pointedly turned her attention to them and the rose canes.



He watched, leaning heavily on his walking stick, and wondered if she really had no idea. Lady Phoebe was close to her sister-in-law—very close. She must know that the duchess had a twin brother, Apollo Greaves, Lord Kilbourne, who had recently escaped from Bedlam—and was still on the run from the King’s men.



Did she know, however, why Lord Kilbourne had been committed to Bedlam? Did she know about the bloody triple murder that had been hushed up when the aristocrat was locked away? Perhaps she’d never heard—she was a sheltered lady, after all. Or perhaps she knew and had chosen to forget the four-year-old scandal.



Trevillion found it impossible to forget. Four years ago he’d arrested Lord Kilbourne.



And Kilbourne had been drenched in the blood of his friends.



HE COULD NEVER claim the title if he was wanted for a murder he hadn’t committed.



The next day Apollo hacked savagely at a small tree with his curved pruning knife, welcoming the stretch and burn of his muscles. Why should it matter? The title had never been important to him. If anything, it had meant separation from his sister—his family—when he was a schoolboy. Apollo snorted. The earl hadn’t cared if his son’s family ate or had proper clothes, but by damnation his son’s heir—and thus his own—would be expensively educated.



He paused to wipe away the sweat on his brow. There was no logical reason for him to care about the title. Except…



Except that it was one more thing stolen from him because of the murders.



He grunted and had lifted his arm to attack the tree again when he heard it: a gruff voice mumbling.



Apollo raised his head, glancing around. He was on the far side of the pond, in quite a deserted area of the garden. The other gardeners had been set the task of clearing dead trees near the musician’s gallery. He’d been half expecting Indio and Daffodil to find him today, but so far they hadn’t.



And the voice didn’t sound at all like Indio’s.



Curious, he stuck the pruning knife into the wide belt at his waist and crept around the tree he’d been assaulting. He and the other gardeners had made some headway on the area of the garden between the pond and the theater, but here, on the far side of the pond, all was still wild chaos. Clumps of burned trees stood here and there, with the remains of hedges trailing throughout. The voice was growing louder as he neared, and appeared to be coming from behind one of the few hedges still growing.



Cautiously he ventured nearer, peering around the remains of a big tree.



“ ‘… Or consider yourself a knave, my lord,’ ” Miss Stump was muttering to herself in an artificially low voice. She paced before a fallen tree on which a flat board had been laid. On top of the board were paper, a small bottle of ink, and a quill—obviously a makeshift desk.



“Bollocks,” she muttered to herself in her own voice. “Knave. Knave. Knave. Completely the wrong word. Oh, of course!”



She bent to the paper and scribbled furiously for a few minutes, and then stood. All at once her demeanor changed. Her shoulders squared, she widened her stance, put her fists on her hips, and Lily Stump became a broad-shouldered man. “You’ll pay your chits, if you’re a gentleman at all, Wastrel.”



“Shall I, my lord?” Her voice was still low, but it had a sort of fey quality to it now, her head tipped coquettishly to the side. “Do you judge a gentleman by his bits, my lord?”



He realized suddenly that though she was playacting a man, she was doing it as a woman. No wonder she was known for her acting. She wore none of the trappings of the theater—neither wig nor costume nor paint on her face, and yet as she strutted around her writing log he knew immediately which character she played.



Apollo must’ve made some sound, for Miss Stump spun, staring in his direction with wide green eyes. “Who’s there?”