The Last Hellion

  “She believes Robin caught diphtheria from one of the dogs,” Elizabeth amplified. “The boys had gone out to catch rabbits, and they had the dogs with them. No one knows what the dogs got into, but Rolf—he was only a puppy then—came back covered with muck and stinking. Still, two women in the village caught it, too, and they weren’t with our dogs.”

  “And none of the other boys got it, though they were with Robin,” said her sister. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No one is exactly sure how one contracts the disease,” Lydia said. “They don’t understand why sometimes it will devastate an entire town, and other times it attacks only a handful of people. Even then, one cannot predict who’ll have a mild case and who’ll have a fatal one. It’s dreadfully unfair,” she added gently.

  “At least he went quickly,” Elizabeth said. “It was all over in two days. He was unconscious for nearly all the time. The nurse said he felt little, if anything. He was too weak even to feel afraid.”

  Vere had turned away and moved to the window. Dusk was settling in. That much he could make out through the mist clouding his vision.

  “I know he wasn’t afraid at the end,” he heard the older girl’s voice behind him. “Because Cousin Vere was with him.”

  “Everyone else was terrified,” Emily said. “The doctor said Aunt Dorothea must keep away, because she might get sick, and even if she lived, the baby she was nursing could get it and die. And Uncle John must stay away, too, because he could give it to her. They wouldn’t let us go to Robin.”

  “They were trying to protect you, as they tried to protect all their children,” Lydia said.

  “I know, but it was very hard,” Elizabeth said.

  “But then Cousin Vere came,” her sister chimed in, “and he wasn’t afraid of anything. No one could keep him out—though they tried. He went in and stayed with Robin, just as he stayed with Papa. He held Papa’s hand. He never left him, even for a minute—and it was the same with Robin.”

  “Cousin Vere won’t tell you,” said Elizabeth. “He’s pretending he doesn’t hear. That’s what he did when we tried to thank him.”

  “I hear you,” Vere said, dragging the words from his seared throat. He turned away from the window, saw three pairs of ominously bright eyes fixed upon him.

  “Gad, what a bother you make,” he said. “I loved the lad. What else should I do but stand vigil at his deathbed? What in blazes had I to lose?” He advanced to glower down at the young faces lifted toward his. “Why must you make me out to be a hero? It’s sick-making, is what it is. You’ll make Grenville cast up her accounts. Now, she,” he added, nodding toward her, “is a true hero. She raced to your rescue though she didn’t know you from Adam, and had everything to live for—on account of being married to me. She saved your evil little lives, and instead of thanking her and promising to be good girls from now on, you must maunder on about what I did ages ago.”

  This ungracious speech had the desired bracing effect. The tears were blinked and brushed away, and the girls turned contrite countenances to Lydia.

  Dutifully they thanked her for saving their lives and promised to be good in future.

  “Never mind that nonsense,” she said crisply. “The ‘Miss Innocence’ expression may have worked with Lord and Lady Mars, but you don’t pull the wool over my eyes so easily.”

  The angelic expressions gradually transformed to wariness as she went on, “Innocent misses do not snoop in others’ correspondence or read anything else not intended for their eyes. You are devious and daring to a fault. No biddable young lady should have a clue how to escape a vigilant household—let alone dare it in the dead of night—let alone not only escape undetected but contrive to remain undetected for more than a week. While I admire your ingenuity and comprehend your desperation, born of apparently blind worship of your wicked cousin”—hope began to glow in the young faces—“it’s also clear that you have been woefully ill-supervised during the last two years. You may be sure that state of affairs is at an end.”

  Lydia’s stern tone had even Susan sitting up at attention. “Woof!” she said.

  Hope faded from the allegedly innocent faces.

  They turned twin pleading looks toward Vere.

  “We didn’t mean to be so much trouble,” said Elizabeth.

  “We only wanted to be with you,” said Emily.

  “Yes, but we go together, you see,” said Vere. “We’re of one mind, Grenville and I, and the mind is hers, on account of my being a man and not having one.”

  His wards exchanged troubled glances.

  Then Elizabeth said, “It doesn’t matter. We wanted to be with you. And no matter how strict Cousin Lydia is, at least she isn’t timid and boring.”

  “Maybe she’ll teach us how to fight,” Emily said, brightening.

  “She most certainly will not,” Vere said.

  “And how to smoke cigars without getting sick,” Elizabeth added.

  “Absolutely not!” Vere declared. “I can think of few more disgusting sights than a female smoking.”

  “Then why did you give her one of yours?” Elizabeth asked, all innocence.

  “Because she—she’s different. She isn’t normal.” He glared at the girl. “And I’d like to know where you heard about that.”

  “In the Whisperer,” Emily said.

  “A scandal rag,” Lydia said in answer to his blank look. “You’re a perennial topic in its pages. Still, they have excellent reporters working for them. The information is usually accurate. I’ve used leads garnered from there myself, from time to time.” Her considering gaze took in his wards. “I do not believe in sheltering young women from the realities of the world. What I read, they may read—but it will be done in a family gathering, with discussion. As to fighting—”

  “Damnation, Grenville.”

  “Even young ladies should be acquainted with basic skills in self-defense. With proper chaperonage, they should not require them—in the best of all possible worlds. But the world is unpredictable.”

  The girls instantly bolted up and commenced hugging and kissing the duchess.

  He saw the glow, so warm, come into her eyes.

  They would be a handful, and she knew it, and couldn’t be happier.

  Death had cheated her of her mother’s and sister’s love, but she’d kept her heart open. She’d made a family of the women who’d needed her, young and old. She’d make a family of Elizabeth and Emily, and love them unstintingly, as she loved him.

  He had not been so wise. Losing those he’d loved had made him drive away the ones who remained, whom he might have loved. He’d been angry—he’d understood that days ago, after the nightmare about Robin. The boy had betrayed him in dying—as Charlie had done. And Vere had shut him out, and everyone and everything associated with him.

  But the mad grieving rage wasn’t the only reason.

  Vere knew he’d been a coward. Unlike his wife, he’d been afraid to risk it again. Afraid to love.

  It had had to take him unawares, as she had done, time and again. Sneaky, devious, refusing to play by sporting rules—that was how love worked.

  And he was damned glad of it.

  He arranged an injured expression on his face and said plaintively, “Oh, that’s just like you, Grenville, hogging all the affection. Don’t I get any, or is this just for plaguey females?”

  “Come here,” she said. “We’ll share.”

  Chapter 19

  The following Wednesday found Diablo still bleeding to death in the pages of the Argus.

  His servant, Pablo, hurrying toward the master, slipped in the pool of blood, fell on top of him, and instantly commenced weeping.

  “Ugh. Get off. You stink.” These words emanated from the corpse.

  Pablo’s stench revived the master as effectively as sal volatile might have done. In a short time, it was discovered that the deadly spoon had struck some inches below his heart, and while he was bleeding like a stuck pig, he wasn’t bleeding to
death. The dripping he’d heard was the contents of a wine bottle Miranda had overturned in her flight.

  If she hadn’t kneed him in the groin when she drove in the spoon, he might have kept his balance and managed to catch her. Instead, he’d fallen and temporarily lost consciousness. His skull throbbed, and his side bled, and his nether regions were probably damaged permanently, but he was alive. And he was furious.

  London rejoiced, and went on reading, avidly.

  As it came to The End, London breathed a collective sigh of satisfaction.

  Orlando had proved to be the true villain of the piece. Diablo, as all proper heroes must do, rescued the heroine, retrieved the Rose of Thebes, and killed the villain.

  And the hero and heroine lived happily ever after.

  At Ainswood House, the concluding chapters were read aloud in the library.

  With the assistance of her cousin the Marquess of Dain, Her Grace did the honors before an audience comprising her husband, Dain’s wife and son, Elizabeth, Emily, Tamsin, Bertie, Jaynes, and those servants fortunate enough to be posted within earshot.

  Dain had arrived in London and reached Ainswood House in time to see his cousin’s apparently lifeless body carried inside. He’d kept Ainswood quiet in a corner of the bedchamber while the physician did his work. When that was done, Dain had slipped out with the doctor, leaving Ainswood to quarrel with his wife.

  The following evening, Dain quarreled with his own lady, who, contrary to orders, had left Athcourt and proceeded with suicidal haste to Dain’s London townhouse. She’d brought the Demon Seed with her, because, she said, he was worried about his papa and howled blue murder when Jessica tried to set out without him.

  Today, though, Dominick was miraculously well-behaved. He sat mute on the carpet between Emily and Elizabeth, listening with riveted attention to the story. Even during the half-hour rest and refreshment interval preceding the final two chapters, he only played quietly with Susan and allowed the girls to stuff him with more sweets than were good for him.

  Vere wasn’t sure whether the child understood the tale or was captivated by the readers. He worshiped his father, and so naturally believed everyone must be absolutely quiet and pay complete attention while Papa read. One might expect the boy’s attention to lag when another took up the reading task.

  This other was Grenville, however, and she didn’t simply read. She impersonated each character by turns, giving them individual voices and mannerisms. In short, she acted, though she’d solemnly promised Vere she wouldn’t leave the sofa.

  Dominick remained entranced throughout, and at the end, he cheered and clapped as hard as the adults did, and jumped up to join the standing ovation.

  Grenville accepted this tribute with a sweeping bow. It was the same extravagantly theatrical one she’d vouchsafed the Duke of Ainswood after her performance in the Blue Owl, complete with imaginary doffed hat.

  Only now, finally, did Vere realize why that bow had nagged his mind. He’d seen its perfect replica before, long before he’d ever clapped eyes on her.

  He’d seen it for the first time when he was a schoolboy at Eton.

  He turned to Dain, whose black brow was knit as he watched his cousin.

  “Recognize it, do you?” Vere said.

  “You told me she was a fine mimic,” Dain said. “But I can’t think when she could have seen me do that.”

  “Do what?” Grenville asked as she finally returned to the sofa.

  Vere frowned at her until she put her feet up and settled back upon the cushions.

  “The bow,” he said. “The theatrical bow.”

  “My father was an actor,” she said.

  “Dain’s father wasn’t,” he said. “Yet Dain had the knack of it when he was but ten years old. I saw it for the first time after he’d emerged victorious from a battle with Wardell, a boy twice his size and two years older. When we were at Eton.”

  “I saw it for the first time in the innyard at Amesbury,” said Lady Dain. “After Dain and Ainswood pounded each other. It is quite distinctive, isn’t it? Dain does have a theatrical streak. But the Ballisters have always liked to make a show. They seem to have a fine flair for drama—one of several characteristics they don’t scruple to use to get their own way.”

  “The first Earl of Blackmoor often amused his king with impersonations,” Dain told Grenville. “Your mother’s grandfather and his brothers were exceedingly fond of the theater—and actresses—in their youth. Before my father’s time, acting troupes were often invited to Athcourt to entertain the houseguests.”

  “Naturally, Grenville, you can’t have inherited a single talent from anybody but the Ballisters,” Vere said. “All beauty, intellectual gifts, and virtue flow therefrom.”

  “Not virtue,” said Dain. “That’s never been our strong suit. We’ve had our share of pious hypocrites—my father, for example, and Lydia’s grandpapa—but we’ve produced at least one devil in each generation.”

  At this point, the devil Dain had produced began showing signs of restlessness. The girls invited him to play in the garden with them and Susan. Tamsin went to supervise. Whither she went, there also went Bertie.

  “I’m all amazement,” Dain said, when the younger contingent was gone. “I’ve never seen Satan’s Spawn keep still for so long.”

  “He was under the spell of a master storyteller,” Vere said. “There isn’t a man, woman, or child who can resist it.”

  “The gods must have given you the talent, cousin,” Dain told her. “I’ve never heard of any of our lot who had it. We’ve some fine letters in the archives, and any number of stirring political speeches. But what poetry I’ve seen is abominable. I’ve never come across a Ballister-written tale spun out of thin air.”

  “My wife holds that talent cheap,” Vere said. “She refers to The Rose of Thebes as ‘sentimental swill’—and that’s the kindest epithet she bestows upon it. If Macgowan hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, she’d never have admitted she wrote it.”

  “It serves no useful purpose,” Lydia said. “All it does is entertain. With simple morals. The good end happily, the bad unhappily. It has nothing to do with real life.”

  “We have to live real life, like it or not,” Vere said. “And you know, better than most, the sort of lives the great mass of humanity lead. To give them a few hours’ respite is to bestow a great gift.”

  “I think not,” Grenville said. “I begin to think it socially irresponsible. On account of that wretched story, girls take it into their heads to bolt in search of excitement they can’t find at home. They’ll imagine they can dispatch villains with sharpened spoons. They—”

  “You’re telling me the members of your sex are imbeciles who can’t distinguish fact from fiction,” he said. “Anyone fool enough to try one of Miranda’s tricks is either reckless by nature or doesn’t own a grain of sense. Such people will do something stupid with or without your suggestions. My wards offer a perfect example.”

  “Your wards prove my point.”

  “‘Dreadful girls,’ you called them, before you’d ever clapped eyes on them.” Vere’s voice rose. “They’re Mallorys, Lydia, and the Mallorys have been spawning hellions since the dawn of time. You will not use Lizzy and Em as an excuse to stop writing those wonderful stories you please to call ‘romantic claptrap’ and ‘rubbish.’ You are a talented writer, with the knack of communicating with readers of both genders, of every age and background. I will not permit you to throw that gift away. As soon as you’re well, you’ll start another story, dammit, if I have to lock you in a room to make you do it!”

  She blinked once, twice. Then, “Lud, what a fuss you make,” she said. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about it.”

  “I do.” He left his chair, walked to the fireplace and back. “I should be illiterate were it not for romantic claptrap and sentimental swill and improbable tales. I cut my teeth on The Arabian Nights and Tales of the Genii. My father read them to me, and they made me hungry to rea
d more books, even without pictures.”

  “My mother gave me storybooks,” Dain said, his voice very low. “They provided me some of the happiest times of my childhood.”

  “We read them to Dominick,” his wife said.

  “You saw the lad,” Vere said. “For the time you read, nothing else in the world existed but your story. Not a peep out of him, for half hours at a stretch. It was the same with Robin when I read to him. He would have loved your story, Grenville.”

  The room became very still, heavily silent.

  His wife’s cool voice broke the tension. “Then the next one will be for him,” she said. “And it will be ten times better than anything in The Arabian Nights.”

  “Naturally it will be ten times better,” Dain said mildly. “A Ballister will have written it.”

  Vere didn’t know why it nagged at his mind, only that it did.

  …grandfather and his brothers exceedingly fond of the theater—and actresses.

  …virtue…never been our strong suit…devil in each generation…

  …a Ballister will have written it.

  That night, the Duke of Ainswood dreamt about Charles II. Grenville was entertaining His Majesty with an impersonation of the third Marquess of Dain, who stood among the courtiers, wearing only a plumed hat, with the actress Nell Gwyn draped on his arm.

  Vere awoke as the sky was beginning to lighten. His wife was sleeping soundly. He left the bed, moved noiselessly to the other side, took up her mother’s diary, and went to the window to read it.

  It didn’t take long, and when he was done, he was as dissatisfied as he’d been the first time. The gaps between the entries…the sense of too much unsaid…the pride that wouldn’t let her complain. The nearest she’d come was in the first entry, in her scornful description of her husband…the bitter undercurrent when she spoke of her father.

  …memory submits to no will, not even a Ballister’s, and the name and image persist, long after death.