Darling Beast

Kilbourne nodded, contemplating that for a moment, or perhaps letting his throat rest. He said abruptly, “My grandfather… is dying… or so my sister informs me.”



“Then your uncle will want you dead as well,” Trevillion replied. “He made some very unwise investments in the last year and his debt has doubled just in the last five months.”



Kilbourne stared at him, frowning.



“His need has become acute, I think.” Trevillion met his gaze and once again noticed the scratches on the other man’s cheek. “Where did you get those scratches, my lord? You’re looking much the worse for wear since I saw you last.”



“Yesterday…” Kilbourne coughed, raising a hand to finger the scratches. “I nearly died… from a falling tree… that was to… be planted. There… was a new… gardener… he is… missing today.”



Trevillion pivoted to face the other man fully, leaning on his stick urgently. “You’ve been discovered, my lord. If I could follow your sister, so, too, could your uncle’s men.”



Kilbourne shook his head violently, coughing. “Accident,” he gasped.



“You don’t think that yourself or you wouldn’t have told me,” Trevillion said impatiently.



At the same time a voice called, “Hullo! Hullo! I say, can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is?”



They both pivoted to see a red-haired young man, not more than five and twenty, blinking in the sunlight far too close to the ladies, and already being assaulted by the little dog.



“Damnation,” Trevillion muttered. It seemed their tête-à-tête was over. “Listen to me, my lord. You must leave the garden. Find some other place of hiding until we can devise a plan to find evidence against your uncle.”



Kilbourne was still shaking his head, though more slowly now, his eyes fixed toward the theater. “Can’t.”



Trevillion followed the direction of his gaze—naturally to where Miss Goodfellow was rising to meet the newcomer. “Can’t—or won’t?”



Kilbourne never took his eyes from her, but his face hardened with determination. “Doesn’t matter.”



Chapter Nine



The next morning Ariadne journeyed to the golden castle. There the king sat on a jewel-encrusted throne with, beside him, his mad queen, spinning red wool with a wooden distaff and spindle. The youth chosen with Ariadne made a low bow to the king and then turned aside. But Ariadne, remembering her mother’s warning, curtsied to the king and then the queen and inquired politely of her if there was aught she might bring her son. Without a word the queen handed her spindle to the girl…



—From The Minotaur



Lily met Caliban’s gaze across the clearing and felt heat climb her cheeks. His eyes were hot and intent.



He looked at her as if with a single kiss he’d already claimed her.



She glanced away, inhaling. It had only been one kiss and they hadn’t had a chance to speak properly since. Last night there’d been Maude, sharp and sarcastic and disapproving, and this morning Indio had been excited and scampering about. And that had been before Lady Phoebe and Captain Trevillion showed up.



“Who is it?” that lady asked, facing in the direction of the young man advancing toward them. Daffodil had finished welcoming him and was now dashing off to her master. Indio had previously wandered away from their tea party and was playing by the corner of the theater in what looked suspiciously like a mud puddle.



“I’ve no idea,” Lily replied, hoping she didn’t sound as irritable as she felt. Good Lord, Harte’s Folly had become like a county fair—a veritable crossroads of visitors. Belatedly she remembered her manners and tacked on, “My lady.”



Lady Phoebe smiled and asked softly, “What does he look like?”



Of course Lady Phoebe had no idea of the aspect or even the age of the man approaching them.



“He’s a young man with bright red hair and a comely face,” Lily answered quietly and quickly. “Wearing a black tricorn and an acorn-brown suit. The waistcoat is a lighter shade, more tan than brown, and trimmed in a fine scarlet ribbon. Not expensive, but well cut.” She cocked her head, considering. “He’s quite handsome, actually.”



“Oh, good,” Lady Phoebe said with some satisfaction, sitting back.



Lily only had time for a glance of amusement at the other woman—she really was quite delightful—before the gentleman was upon them.



“Good morning,” he called in a faint Scottish accent. He came to a stop, swept his hat from his head, and gave a lovely bow. “I am Mr. Malcolm MacLeish. Whom might I have the honor of addressing?”



“I am Miss Robin Goodfellow,” Lily said as she curtsied, “and this is Lady Phoebe Batten.”



“Good Lord!” Mr. MacLeish exclaimed, his bright-blue eyes opening wide as he staggered dramatically back. “An honor indeed, ladies! I had the privilege of attending a production of As You Like It a year or two ago, Miss Goodfellow, in which you were a most magnificent Rosalind.”



She curtsied again, amused at his profusion. “Thank you, sir.”



“And my Lady Phoebe,” Mr. MacLeish said, turning to her, “I am in awe of your presence.”



“Indeed, sir,” Lady Phoebe replied, cocking her head, with a trace of a smile playing about her mouth. She didn’t look quite in his direction. “At my mere presence?”



“Y-yes, my lady,” he replied, obviously uncertain if she teased or not. He darted a quick glance at Lily, but she decided to leave him to his own devices since he’d dug the hole for himself with his enthusiasm. “Your beauty alone is enough to put wonder in my gaze.”



Lady Phoebe burst into laughter. From any other lady it might’ve been taken as an insult or at the very least a gentle belittlement—but from her it was simply a sign of joyous amusement.



Lily couldn’t help grinning in sympathy—the other woman’s laughter was that infectious.



“But Mr. MacLeish,” Lady Phoebe said, bringing her mirth under control, “I’ve been told that you are yourself quite an ugly specimen of manhood.”



The young man’s eyes widened as sudden realization washed over his features, but to his credit he recovered quickly—and without insulting Lady Phoebe’s intelligence. “But my lady, I do protest. I am accorded one of the finest-looking gentlemen in England, with milk-white skin, straight teeth, blue eyes… and shining golden hair.”



Lady Phoebe shook her head. “Lying to a blind woman, Mr. MacLeish? I’ve already heard you have bright-red hair.”



“My lady, you wound me,” the young man exclaimed, hand to heart, though Lady Phoebe couldn’t see the gesture. “I vow I’ve had many a lady at my feet.”



“And elsewhere?” she asked, her eyelashes lowered.



“You shouldn’t tease the boy, my lady,” Captain Trevillion said as he limped to the table. Caliban was by his side, his eyes alert, Lily noticed. He gave her one blazing glance and then focused on the newcomer.



The captain’s words fell awkwardly on their light flirtation, breaking the effervescent mood.



Lady Phoebe stiffened.



Mr. MacLeish sobered immediately, eyeing the pistols strapped across Captain Trevillion’s chest. “And who might you be, sir?”



Before the man could reply, Lady Phoebe said, “This is Captain James Trevillion, who has been set to guard me by my brother, like a dog chained before a tasty pork pie.”



“I think of you, my lady, as more of an apple tart,” Captain Trevillion murmured. He turned to the younger man. “And you are?”



“Mr. Malcolm MacLeish,” the Scotsman replied, and Lily was glad to see that he didn’t look at all cowed by the former dragoon’s stern manner. Caliban had explained that Captain Trevillion was some sort of business acquaintance, but she had seen the soldier try to kill him, and only recently, so she thought she might be forgiven a bit of prejudice. “I’ve been commissioned as architect for the rebuilding of Harte’s Folly by His Grace the Duke of Montgomery. He informed me that the garden designer, a Mr. Smith, was to be found here.”



Caliban had stilled during this little speech and at the end of it he nodded. “I am… he.”



Mr. MacLeish brightened. “Very good to meet you, sir.” He held out his hand and for a moment Caliban looked at it as if it were a strange and foreign thing before he seemed to recollect himself and shook hands with younger man. “If you’ll show me the grounds and what you yourself have planned, I would be most grateful.”



Captain Trevillion’s eyes narrowed and he exchanged some type of significant glance with Caliban.



Lily sighed. She really was getting quite tired of not knowing what was going on.



And apparently she wasn’t the only one.



“Your pardon,” Lady Phoebe said, suddenly sounding every inch the daughter of a duke, “but I don’t think you introduced me to Mr. Smith, Captain. I confess myself curious to meet the man you were so eager to see today.”



Lily could tell by the stiffening of Captain Trevillion’s back that he did not care for Lady Phoebe’s interruption, but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why.



Yet he said politely enough, “My lady, may I present Mr.…”



“Sam,” Caliban supplied. “Just Sam Smith.”



“Mr. Sam Smith?” Captain Trevillion continued smoothly. “Mr. Smith, Lady Phoebe Batten, the Duke of Wakefield’s sister.”



Lady Phoebe held out her hand imperiously and Caliban was forced to take it, bowing over it as he said in his broken voice, “My lady… I am most… pleased to meet you.”



She cocked her head at his voice. “Have you a cold, Mr. Smith?”



“No… my lady,” he said so gently that Lily felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy. “I recently… injured my throat and… as a result… my voice.”



She nodded. “I see.”



He tried to extricate his hand from hers, but she seemed to hold him fast. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, and know that it is a mortal sin to lie to a blind woman: have we met before?”



The strangest expression crossed Caliban’s face. Lily wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed to be sadness. “No… my lady. We’ve… never met.”



“Ah,” she said, finally letting go of his hand. “My mistake, then.”



Caliban turned to Mr. MacLeish. “I shall be… happy to show… you about the garden… such as it is… sir.” He hesitated and glanced at Lily. “I believe… you were… interested in the… garden as well… ma’am? Would… you like a… tour sometime… after luncheon? Say… three of the clock?”



Lily felt suddenly breathless, but she managed to say calmly enough, “I shall look forward to it, Mr. Smith.”



He nodded. “Then… if you’ll all… excuse us?” He gestured with one arm, rather gracefully. “This way… if you please… Mr. MacLeish.”



“Of course,” said that gentleman. “Lady Phoebe, Miss Goodfellow, a positive delight to meet you both. I do hope our paths will cross again.”



“As do I,” Lady Phoebe replied, smiling.



Lily dipped another curtsy and murmured her farewells.



Mr. MacLeish sobered as he touched his hand to his hat. “Captain Trevillion. A pleasure.”



“All mine, I assure you,” the soldier drawled, so drily he might as well have been exhaling dust.



They watched the two men stride off, Caliban already explaining his plan for the garden.



Captain Trevillion pivoted back to the ladies. “If you’re ready, my lady, I do seem to recall you had some ‘important’ shopping to accomplish this afternoon.”