Dair Devil (9 page)

She did not want to hear what he had to offer and shifted away, to brush down her petticoats, to get her gown and herself in some sort of order before she was discovered, as was inevitable. Her sister-in-law had stopped verbally abusing the captain, and he was now addressing his men. The dancers had quieted, too. A thump close by made her jump. There was footfall on the stage. The chaise longue was set upright. For the first time since they had landed in the ditch, Consulata Baccelli was heard complaining in her own tongue.

Yet, before Rory could take a peek to see what was going on, Dair pulled her into his arms and kissed her swiftly on the mouth.

“What is it about you that compels me? I must be mad! No matter. It is done. Whatever you want. House. Carriage. Clothes. Give me a week to arrange it. ’Till then go to Banks house in Chelsea. It shares a wall with the Physic Garden. Lil—Lily Banks. She’ll take you in until I come for you, no questions asked. Just mention my name. Repeat the directions so I know you won’t forget. Say them!”

“Banks House in Chelsea. The house shares a wall with the Physic Garden. Lily Banks will look after me, no questions asked. Who’s Lily?”

“A friend—a very good friend.” He grinned. “Mother of my son.”

All the blood drained from Rory’s face. She was in shock. Though why this was so, she had no idea. It was not as if she were unaware the Major kept a mistress and had spawned illegitimate offspring. The habits of noblemen and their mistresses were readily talked about in every drawing room. She had even been present at a discussion between two long-suffering wives of peers conferring on the care and nurturing of their husbands’ children by various mistresses, one of the ladies lamenting her husband’s ability to impregnate every woman he set eyes on. Her sister-in-law had whisked her away before she could hear more. Yet, to her, such conversations were just that, conversations like any other. So she had never really given much consideration to what was, for many wives of peers, a fact of life. But to have it baldly stated to her face, and by the man himself! She was not sure what was the greater upset, his lordship in nothing but a breechcloth or having him tell her he had an illegitimate son by a woman named Lily Banks.

For several seconds she could neither feel nor hear. She watched without seeing as Dair peered over the stage, then ducked down again and said something to her. But she did not hear him. All she could think about was a house in Chelsea, his mistress and their son. What had he offered her? A house? Clothes? A carriage? But what about Lily Banks and the boy? Was Lily Banks being cast aside for her, or was she an addition to his harem? How many other women were there? And children? What would her brother think?
Her brother
? Why had Grasby intruded into her troubled thoughts about the Major and his nefarious lifestyle?

Grasby! She could hear him. She mentally shook her mind clear and discovered Dair had disappeared.

“D
AIR
!
D
AIR
. For pity’s sake! Don’t leave me here to rot!”

It was Grasby, pleading. But from where? His voice was muffled, as if he was down a deep well. Soldiers were now scrambling over the studio. Soon she would be discovered! Oh where was the Major? No sooner had Rory wondered this than he appeared, out from under the platform. He slithered on his stomach far enough out so he could raise his shoulders then twisted his body around onto his bare buttocks, Rory turning her head so she did not see him sit up. When he huffed she looked back at him. He was covered in cobwebs and dust.

“Coy little thing aren’t you?” he stated without criticism. He jerked his head at the stage. “Friend in dire straits. He’s stuck under a beam. Must get him free. So you’ll have to excuse me. And a warning, I would stay low until the fighting—”

“
Fighting
—?”

“—is over.” He leaned down and called out under the platform, “Never would abandon you, Grasby! Just do as I say! You can’t come forward. The gap is too narrow, even for your skinny carcass! You have to back out, rump first!”

“Oh God! No! Not that way! Dair! Dair! You’ve got to
save
me!”

“Will do, dear fellow! Got to create a diversion first. When you hear a roar of noise and the girls screaming, that’s when you scuttle backwards the way you came in, and as fast as you can. Got it?”

“Got it! A great noise and screaming and I back out.”

“As fast as you can!”

“As fast as I can!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Dair! Dair? What the bloody hell do I do then? Where do I go? Make for the window?”

“No! Not the window! Across the platform. On the other side there’s a door—”

“A door? On the other side of the platform? Oi!? What’s that racket? Sounds like a damned rhino stomping above me!”

“Soldiers looking for—”

“She’s sent
soldiers
to look for me? Bloody hell! I’m done for!”

“Not you! Nothing for you to worry about!”

“Worry about? I don’t care about the bloody militia! It’s the bloody wife—dearest Silla—she’s out there, Dair! She’s going to
kill
me! Dair! Dair… I’ve lost my bloody breechcloth… Dair?”

Dair swiveled on his toes, hunched over, shoulders shaking and a hand clapped to his mouth to stifle an outburst of laughter. Tears of glee filled his eyes. He turned back to face the black void under the platform when Grasby called to him in a thin high-pitched whisper.

“Dair? Dair, did you hear me…? You’re laughing! I know it! This isn’t amusing! This is
my
head on the block!”

Despite controlling his laughter, Dair could not hide his grin and it sounded in his voice. He wiped tears from his eyes, smudging the soot.

“No. Not amusing at all! But it’s not your head that’s the concern.”

“Damn you to hell for getting me in this fix!”

“Yes. Yes. I’ll be there soon enough. Just put your hands over your gadso and get across the stage and through that door as fast as you can! Make for the carriage. Grasby? Grasby!”

“Yes! Yes! Door! Carriage! Have a care with Silla. Be gentle. Her nerves. The shock… Are you listening to me, Dair? Dair? Dair! Devil take you! Bloody stupid prank! Bloody…”

The rest of Lord Grasby’s tirade of abuse was swallowed by the noise of the dancers being herded under protest back onto the platform.

Dair took a look across the stage to ascertain the position of the soldiers. Most were still in formation awaiting orders. The civilians were still by the door, as was Lady Grasby and the Weasel, and two soldiers guarded the exit. Strange they were positioned there; that was not part of the agreement with the captain. The dancers were all huddled on the stage, and blocked his view of the right side of the studio. He presumed it was Consulata prone on the chaise longue; all he could see of her was a fan fluttering to and fro in agitation above the back of the chaise. And there, standing in the center of the room beside Mr. Cedric Pleasant, was the newssheet reporter, pencil and blotter in hand, looking wide-eyed and interested, as if he had hit on the story of the Season! Dair smiled. He would give him his story all right, and more.

Finally, he decided it was time to make his move. In farewell, he tugged on a long lock of Rory’s hair, come loose from her mussed coiffure, then stood up and stretched his legs. When she went to do likewise, he signaled for her remain seated, out of sight.

“Stay here. There’s bound to be blood spilled. Nothing serious, but I don’t want you getting mixed up in the fracas—”

“
Blood?
You will be careful, won’t you?”

He instantly thought of his nine years in the army and the bloody carnage he and his comrades had survived. No one had ever asked him to be careful then, or cared. He laughed harshly, a look over his shoulder to see if he had yet been noticed, and brushed away her apprehension.

“Not mine! That lot out there. Well, maybe a little drop of mine,” he conceded at her frown of concern. In an impulsive move, he leaned down to her, whispering near her ear, “I’ll be careful, just for you…”

With his teeth, he tugged free the lavender satin ribbon tied in her disordered hair, chuckling at her sudden intake of breath.

“Did you think I meant to bite you?” he asked as he hastily tied the satin ribbon to the end of the braid hanging in front of his right ear.

No. Rory thought he meant to kiss her, and when he did not, was annoyed with herself for such an expectation. It must have shown on her features, because he said with a smile of apology,

“Every warrior gets his share of the spoils of war. This is mine. Now wish me luck, Delight!”

She was not given the opportunity to wish him anything at all. He was up out of the gap and onto the stage, standing tall with arms akimbo, before she could utter a syllable. Then he bellowed into the room with all the enthusiasm of a man relishing the result of his invitation,

“Well, lads! Who wants to come at me first?”

All hell broke loose.

S
IX

L 
ORD
S
HREWSBURY
was in his seventieth year, but today he felt a hundred and seventy. It was on days such as this that he contemplated resigning his post as England’s Spymaster General. He would retire and live out the rest of his days here, at his Dutch house at Chiswick, with his beloved granddaughter for company. Together they would watch watercraft sailing up and down the Thames—all the ills of the world, all the vileness and intrigue consigned to the pages of his secret history.

But he had made a promise to his sovereign to remain Spymaster General until the “trifling upset” in the American colonies was resolved. Those members of the Privy Council who referred to the ongoing war across the Atlantic in such terms were either hopeful idiots or just plain ignorant fools. His Majesty was unshakeable in his belief that the “trifling incident” would soon be over, and his American “children” would return to him, their English parent.

Privately, Shrewsbury believed the American colonies were already lost. He believed this because he, more than any other man in the kingdom, had access to secret correspondence and intelligence from a network of spies that stretched across the kingdom, across Europe, out across the vast Atlantic Ocean and into every colony in the Americas. And he knew the American child had reached out to another parent, a rival, the great enemy of Britain—France. The French Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s was at pains to reassure King George that France would not go to war to assist the American rebels: It would remain neutral.

Bollocks to that! thought Shrewsbury. He knew the French for liars. Louis’ government was secretly providing aid in its various forms so the rebels could wage a full scale war on British troops defending His Majesty’s colonial subjects. He was breeches deep in secret intelligence that told him so. He had recently received intelligence that an agent of France based in Lisbon was, for the right price, willing to not only betray his countrymen, but divulge the name of the traitor within the bureaucratic ranks of Lord Shrewsbury’s own spy network. Shrewsbury knew this traitor existed because he had been about to pounce on the traitor’s intermediary, Charles Fitzstuart, a young idealist who had managed to evade capture with the help of his noble family.

It brought the bile up into his throat to think Charles Fitzstuart had escaped to France. He could not now be brought to justice for his treasonous activities, and he had taken with him the identity of the traitor within England’s spy network. It was now vital that contact be made with the French double agent in Lisbon. Shrewsbury would send his best man, who possessed the skills to disappear into the local setting, could speak whatever language was required of him, was expert in handling all types of weaponry and, if caught, would be able to withstand the torture meted out to foreign spies. It was a dangerous and challenging assignment requiring great courage and cunning, but he was confident Major Lord Fitzstuart was up to the task.

The Major was presently licking his wounds after a particularly riotous evening the night before at a painter’s studio. Shrewsbury had not read the finer particulars of a report into what had occurred, but he knew whores, drink and fists were involved, as it always was with the Major. Half a dozen souls and an aggrieved painter were seeking reparation and revenge. None of this bothered Shrewsbury in the least. He had been the same at the Major’s age. Young men, particularly young men who risked their lives, needed distraction. And such men would be naughty boys given enticement and opportunity.

How ironic that the Major, his best agent, just happened to be the elder brother of the escaped traitor Charles Fitzstuart. But he trusted the Major implicitly. The same could not be said for the other members of Charles Fitzstuart’s family. Two of their number sat across from him in his study. Both were noblemen of the highest rank and both were likely suspects in aiding and abetting Charles Fitzstuart’s escape.

The Duke of Roxton was the most powerful duke in the kingdom, son of his best friend and Charles Fitzstuart’s cousin; the other, Jonathon Strang, newly elevated Duke of Kinross, was the wealthiest peer in Scotland, and certainly the most outspoken. An intimidating duo. Both men were arrogant, opinionated, and fearless. But both had a weakness, the same weakness: Antonia, Dowager Duchess of Roxton.

The Duke of Roxton demanded to know why they had been summoned before him.

The Spymaster General was remarkably composed and smug.

“Do you not know, your Grace?” Lord Shrewsbury was unconvinced. He looked at Kinross. “Perhaps your Scottish Grace would care to enlighten his English Grace?”

“There’s no need to be convivial on our account,” Kinross stated dryly. “If Roxton says he don’t know, believe him.”

Shrewsbury looked Kinross between the eyes.

“Very well. Then I need only arrest you for treason, your Grace.”

“
Treason?
” both dukes said in unison, but it was Kinross who gave a bark of laughter, as if Shrewsbury was in jest, which he knew he was not. He blew cheroot smoke into the air.