To Catch a Flame Page 2

  "Remember how poor Mr. Ramsey looked when you dragged Owen and me into the inn?" Molly's voice shook Beau from her unaccustomed foray into the past.

  Smiling ruefully, Beau met her friend's eyes. After a moment both girls broke into grins.

  "It was a sight worth a king's purse," Beau said with great relish. "Gentleman Jack nearly swallowed a leg of capon whole."

  "One can hardly blame him! You breezed in with the two of us in tow and told him you were keeping us as pets—like his current light-o'-love's infernal pugs."

  Beau tugged at one of Molly's yellow curls. "At least you didn't keep poor Jack awake by yapping all night long. And I kept the both of you in my chamber, so you didn't sleep at the foot of his bed. Remember how he loathed those curs? He might have wed that empty-headed Miranda if it hadn't been for those dogs."

  "No." There was wistfulness in Molly's voice. "I think even then he was waiting for someone else."

  Beau whirled around, swooping up the ribbon she used to bind her hair. But instead of catching back the flame-hued tresses she merely fingered the wisp of satin. "Moll—"

  "No more, I promise. I didn't intend to—to plague you. I only wish Mr. Ramsey were here to stop this foolishness."

  "Jack is still off at Medlenham trying to charm the Lady March out of her panniers. It is a good place for him, too. Ever since that idiot Sir Mandelay bragged to the ton that the minuscule scar on his cheekbone was the mark of Gentleman Jack, half the knaves in London have been haunting the highroads, trying to get their own scar to impress the ladies. It's most annoying. Of course, I suppose I could come up with a mark of my own. Or perhaps I should put a ring in my victims' noses."

  "This isn't a jest, Beau, or some grand adventure. I can't bear the thought of you riding again on my account. I'm not eight years old anymore. I'm not a green country girl adrift in London. I have to take care of myself now, and you can't keep charging in, trying to rescue me."

  "Why not? If I choose to—"

  "I don't choose to let you hang for me, Beau—no, nor Owen either."

  "Ah, she'll not be hangin' girl," a wheezing voice cut in. "It will be a far worse end the spiteful hoyden will come to."

  They both turned toward the doorway, and Beau sensed Molly's sick dread as Nell Rooligan shuffled into the room.

  The old woman's pale eyes peered out from pouches of sagging flesh. A net of wrinkles quilted her jowls despite the cork plumpers she used to attempt to hide her sunken cheeks. Liberal swipes of rouge had been swabbed with a haresfoot over lead-painted skin, and a preposterous-looking wig perched askew upon her low brow.

  Yet despite her ridiculous appearance Nell Rooligan was seldom dismissed as a pathetic crone. She seemed to wear a mantle of mysticism about her hunched shoulders, a mysticism incongruously mingled with stark practicality.

  It was as if she could see to the core of one's soul, and jeered at the vulnerabilities within.

  Most people who crossed the aged lightskirt's path sought her favor with near-desperation, but Beau had always regarded the old woman with contempt. This emotion was returned tenfold by the whore-mistress who would never forgive the fiery, beautiful girl for escaping the lucrative calling Nell had planned for her.

  Nell lumbered forward, a pewter tray heavy with meat pasties held in her fists. She set it down upon the trestle with a thud, smacking her lips as she eyed Beau. "You’re goin' to ride and take that worthless Owen with you."

  Beau started at the old woman's words. She never told anyone but Molly when she took to the road, and as for her plan to bring Owen along—she'd certainly never betrayed that. Despite the smile she forced to her lips, Beau couldn't help the stirring of unease that crept through her.

  "Listening at walls again, Nell?" Beau asked, sauntering over to the tray and helping herself to a rich meat pie.

  "I need not stoop to so common a trick. I have other ways of knowing... of seeing..." Nell's tongue curled about the words, her tone intended to unsettle. "And I have seen far more than just your foolish plots, Isabeau DeBurgh. Something be afoot this night—something deadly evil. I heard the night a-whisperin'."

  "Save your Banbury tales to scare the babes by the fire."

  "A Banbury tale, is it?" Nell cackled, and the fine hairs at Beau's nape prickled. "Dismiss it as such if you be a blind fool. I warned Lily Tymmes that evil was lurking before she disappeared, but she'd not heed my warning either. An' they swooped her off—the hauntin's did, just like I said they would."

  Molly's gasp made Beau quell her own unease.

  "The only thing that swooped Lil off was some handsome soldier," Beau said breezily. "The chit was always slavering after anything in regimentals. Even now she's most likely ensconced in her lover's room, being petted and spoiled with fans and silks and such frippery."

  "Nay, she be deep in the cold earth, a-rotting. Whatever's left of her. Remember that I warned you, when they be feastin' upon you."

  "They? Who in thunder are they? Dragons in the forest? Flesh-eating monsters?" Beau let her voice drop to a mocking, eerie tone. "Ooooo... Beware, little girl, or the harpies will feast on you."

  "It won't be harpies, my fine miss. It'll be something more sinister still. And you'll run afoul of it this night, mark my words. It is dangerous upon the road."

  "Ah, my eternal thanks, oh sage and wondrous sorceress! Your revelation rivals those of the prophets! It is dangerous upon the road!" Beau struck her palm to her brow with all the drama of a Drury Lane actress. "I had no idea those knaves were firing real pistol balls at me these many months!"

  The crone's face remained enigmatic. Her expression gave Beau the strange sensation of teetering upon the brink of some unseen chasm.

  "Come now, Nell." Beau was stunned at the cajoling tones in her own voice. "Even demons wouldn't dare draw fire from these pistols. Of course, I could strap on one of Jack's swords for good measure, but considering what a clumsy oaf I am with a blade, it would only give my foes unfair advantage."

  The old woman straightened, and Beau felt another twinge of foreboding. Nell drew nearer, her breath reeking of garlic and onion as it blew hot on Beau's face.

  "Go ahead, Isabeau De Burgh," Nell said. "Laugh at my demons. But the haunts that are winging about tonight will not fall beneath your pistol fire, nay, nor Jack's blade. You'll see. Aye, as Rebecca Mathers did. And Lily, when she failed to heed my warning."

  Beau tucked her pistol in her sash, the weapon suddenly feeling too heavy to hold. The tiny inn room rippled away like her reflection in a pond, everything melting into a blur as Beau's eyes locked with those of Nell Rooligan.

  Never before had Beau dreaded the darkness in the thick woods, or what lay within any man's soul.

  Yet for an instant, just an instant, bold Isabeau DeBurgh tasted fear.

  Chapter 2

  The post chaise careened through the night at its wide-eyed driver's command. Near the sides of the road, trees clawed at the bruise-colored sky, and in the distance thunder rumbled.

  "He’s crazed he is, Adley," the spindly postilion choked out to the driver as he clung, white-knuckled, to the edge of his seat. "Mad, wanting to set out upon the road at such an hour. It is suicide, I say. Pure and simple. And you... you're no better than he is, drivin' like a bloody whip. Should've stayed in my own bed, I should've. Let the two of you go to the devil!"

  The grizzled driver cast the man a bleary smile, eyes bloodshot from gin. "Think of it this way, Tavish. If we do overturn, we won't need to worry about being set upon by those highwaymen you quake over every time we make a trek.”

  Tavish yelped as the vehicle struck a stone and lurched to one side. "I'd take my chances with an honest brigand any day rather than be at the mercy of you, you drunken sot—aye, or that madman below."

  The driver barked a stiff laugh. "Don't be lettin' milord Stone hear your blathering, or you're apt to find yourself skewered upon his spit. He's killed men for less, so I'm told. Finest swordsman in all England, he was, before he was ba
nished to the colonies."

  "It’s a fine place for the likes o' him, full of wild red Indians an' such," Tavish said. "So why the devil did God send 'im back to plague us civilized folk?"

  "It's because of his brother." All jesting fled from the coachman's rough voice. "The good duke died upon this very road."

  As he spoke the dirt track narrowed.

  "Ye'd best take up old Bess, Tavish," the driver said. "It is Rogue's Row ahead."

  "Rogue's Row," Tavish echoed, unable to quell his fear. He groped with chill fingers for the firearm at his feet. "You should drag your Lord Stone up here, if he's such a wonder with a blade. Let him fend off the brigands he's so eager to tilt with."

  "Nay, Tavish, Lord Stone and his like don't match their sacred blades with raw brigands. They hire us t' bloody our hands and take the musket fire."

  "May he rot in hell!" Tavish said prayerfully. The darkness grew deeper as the woods closed skeletal fingers about the lurching chaise until even Tavish lapsed into silence. No man dared the perilous stretch of road known as Rogue's Row without feeling death's cold blade whisper near his throat.

  No man except Lord Griffin Stone.

  Griffin lounged against the worn squabs of the chaise as he watched the violet shadows of the trees pass by. No sense of danger haunted him, no trickle of dread stiffened his broad-muscled shoulders.

  The stark branches held a fascination for him, a kind of terrible beauty that set his blood pounding hot in his veins, tightening every nerve in his body with anticipation. But it was no phantom brigand that drew Griffin's attention, no fear of blazing pistols or gleaming blades slicing into flesh.

  He watched the mist-wreathed land, which still seemed like an illusion from his most secret dreams.

  England.

  His lips curved with cynical amusement as he fought the odd urge to reach out his gloved fingers and brush away the darkness that shielded the countryside from his sight. But he could picture it clearly in his mind: the tangle of hawthorn and oak, the jewel-bright wildflowers that clustered about the tree roots and scaled the hedgerows.

  It had been ten years since he had last seen Norfolk. Ten years since he had plunged recklessly down this same road, fleeing disaster, betrayal, and heartbreak. Fleeing all that he was. Back then the far-off American colonies had been his only hope, exiled as he was for the consequences of his fiery temper. At the time he'd thought it was the end of the world, but the world had a way of spinning relentlessly onward.

  And the gods who presided over mankind had a sense of mischievous irony. Were they laughing even now as they watched this prodigal son return home, summoned by the very brother who had cast him out so long ago?

  Griffin's smile faded as he reached into the pocket of his gold-embroidered waistcoat to finger a stiff edge of vellum, a broken wax seal clinging to its edges. Despite the darkness he could picture his brother’s precise script and the lion saliant crest that had graced the seal of Ravensmoor for generations. The Duke of Ravensmoor's last will and testament.

  Griff felt a dull twist of grief mingled with the disbelief that had tormented him since he had broken the letter's seal.

  William. Griff closed his eyes, his mind filling with images of pale brown curls crushed into obedience by stern brushing, solemn eyes and shoulders that had seemed to bear the weight of the world. Until...

  Until death had swept away the one person Griffin Stone thought was invincible.

  William, the strong, the ever-sensible. The elder brother who had dragged Griffin out of a score of childhood scrapes. William, who had stalked the length of his study at Darkling Moor that night ten years ago, furious, frustrated, yet strangely broken as he banished Griffin from England.

  Griff had hated him then, as William had let loose anger pent up over the years.

  "You fool! You cursed fool!" Griff could still hear William storm. "Do you not see what you have done? You've ruined your life over a woman you won't even remember in a year! A harlot who has played mistress to half of George's court."

  Griff winced at the memory of how he had lunged for his sword hilt, seething with fury. "You'll not insult Elise. I've killed one man on her behalf! Another will scarce make a difference!"

  "Oh, aye, your grand duel!" William had laughed with disgust as he forced Griffin's sword back into its scabbard. "Your grand and glorious duel. You killed her husband! An old man—"

  "Who abused her! He struck her, and—"

  "While she was out dangling after a train of green pups such as you? I only wish Sir Lionel had struck her before she infected you with her poison! But it is too late now. Too late, Griff. Sir Lionel is dead, and this time there is nothing I can do to save you from yourself."

  "Bloody pompous bastard!" Even now, ten years later, the hasty words seared Griffin with regret. "What would you know of a man's passions? Your blood runs so cold, it is a miracle you got an heir at all! And as for me... as for Elise... I will love her forever! Forever!"

  "Then I pity you, Griff." William had turned away, and Griffin had detected the slightest catch in his brother's voice. "For Elise Devanne has forgotten you already."

  Griffin swore under his breath now, raking his fingers through unruly locks that were dark as sin. He wished he could scatter the shades of the past, drive back the memory of his words and his cursed stupidity. But the shadows would not be banished, and remorse gnawed inside him.

  If only he'd been able to tell his brother that he was right. Griff’s passion for Elise Devanne had faded almost the moment he stepped upon the bustling shores of Virginia. In his ignorance Griff had thought never to feel joy again, but hope and renewal had bubbled up like a spring in the virgin lands. The New World had offered the kind of adventure Griffin had always craved.

  He'd soon understood the wisdom of his brother's harsh words. Yet it had been far more difficult to admit the truth to William himself. Now it was impossible.

  "I intended to write him... meant to..." Griffin spoke the words aloud. “Where did the time go? Ten bloody years!"

  His heavy dark brows slashed low over his aristocratic nose, his sensual lips compressing in a pale line. "Aye, and because of my accursed pride it is now too late."

  Iron bands seemed to crush Griffin's chest, and his throat felt thick. He had been stunned by the news of his brother's accident, but he was even more dazed when he learned that the wise, cautious William had entrusted all that he owned to Griff’s hands.

  Control of all my estates and guardianship of my son and heir, Charles Edward Arthur Stone, I leave in trust to my beloved brother....

  Beloved brother? Bedeviling brother, perhaps. Infuriating brother. Scoundrel brother. That was all Griffin had ever been to William—tormenting him, teasing him, and defying him at every turn, until even William's formidable store of patience had soured.

  Griffin peered up at the silvery moon, which seemed distant and chill this night. Maybe things had not needed to come to such a pass. If things had been different.

  But their fates had been written the day their father had been killed in a duel. That day every one of their indulgent, adoring servants had been swept away by the indomitable lady who had come to take the two Stone boys in hand—Lady Judith Stone, dowager duchess of Ravensmoor, a lady of such awesome will it seemed that even the towers of Darkling Moor bowed down before her.

  She had descended upon the halls she had once ruled, driving out every vestige of her pleasure-loving son and his gentle, long-dead wife. Like a general she had mustered her own troops about her, intent upon crushing any rebellion mounted by her grandsons.

  "You are the heirs of Edward Stone," she had told the two children, her gray eyes boring into them. "The blood of royalty courses through your veins. Your father flung the name of Stone into the gutters, but you will dredge it out and hold it up as a shining example of honor and nobility, if I must crush you within an inch of your life to see that you do."

  Griff’s mouth curved into a grim smile as the gray-haired ma
rtinet's image rose in his mind. She had managed to bring William to heel almost immediately, bending him to her will with her diatribes about duty, layering him with guilt and more than a little self-importance.

  But in Griffin even the daunting Lady Judith had met her match. She had endeavored to break his will through countless thrashings and punishments, but all she had managed to do was fray her own nerves to the snapping point. Griffin had refused to be the paragon of the nobility his grandmother desired. Instead, he mirrored his wastrel father in face, form, and spirit.

  Griffin braced one long, booted leg against the chaise's floorboard as the vehicle jolted over a particularly deep rut in the road. If there were one pleasure in this bittersweet homecoming, it would be seeing Judith Stone's expression when he strode into Darkling Moor, trustee of the grand house and newly appointed guardian of the noble name Stone.

  She had tried to sever the bond between the brothers with her meddling, and Griffin had let his love for William wither under the weight of his pride. But his final gift to William would be to honor the bond they had once shared.

  He arched his head back against the squabs. He was a far different man than when he'd left. His cheekbones slashed in bronzed planes to a patrician nose, heavy dark brows shadowing eyes stunning in their intensity. It was his father's face a bewitching mixture of raw masculinity and bedeviling amusement. In many ways his face held the strong lines of Lady Judith's own.

  His return would be the woman's worst nightmare turned real—Griffin snatching the heir to Ravensmoor from her control. Griff struggled to picture Charles Stone as he must be now—his chest thin, his cheeks shadowed with a sparse beard. At nineteen, he would no longer the imp with huge brown eyes Griffin had bid farewell to that long-ago day in the east meadow.