Dedicated Villain (9 page)

He had forgotten the artist. His left hand blurred to the jewelled hilt of his Arabian jambiya dagger, his right grabbed instinctively but abortively for his deadly colichemarde. He heard the goosegirl scream, had time only for a half-formed thought that the old fool might believe he was abusing the girl, then something heavy slammed into his back, and he measured his length on the turf.

A warm, wet object was flapping about his neck; heavy blows thudded at him, driving the breath from his lungs; whines and smothered grunts, familiar but impossible, were in his ears. Disbelieving, he flung up an arm to protect himself, and rolled over. The goosegirl had departed. A great head, neither Alsatian nor mastiff but something of each, hung over him, powerful jaws grinning, and big brown eyes adoring him.

“Beast!”
he gasped, incredulous, and was at once deafened by a bark that must have been heard three miles away. What appeared to be a yard of pink tongue sloshed across his mouth. Spluttering, he loosed his hold on the dagger, and sat up, drawing his sleeve across his face, fending off the dog's rapturous excitement, caressing him even as he damned his ears, his own eyes darting to the side, then fixing there. Incredulity became stupefaction.

The artist stood watching. He was of no great stature, his shabby clothing seeming to indicate a minimum of success in his chosen profession. His grey hair was thick and neatly tied back. He had a wide mouth, a thin hooked nose, bushy eyebrows, and there was a smear of green paint down his long chin. Not, one would say, a figure to strike awe into the heart of such a fighting machine as was Captain Mathieson. Yet that
ruthless young man's jaw dropped, his black eyes were glazed, and, forgetting his manners he gasped, “M-Muffin …?”

The bushy eyebrows lifted. A gleam of amusement lit the pale blue eyes. “You recognize me,” murmured his Grace the Duke of Marbury. “But how charming. And quite remarkable, under the circumstances. You were very fast with your dagger, Mathieson. I commend you, though I trust you will feel inclined to spare Beast and return it to its sheath. Thank you. No—pray do not stand. I purely detest being obliged to look up to you.”

Mathieson flushed, but one did not remain in an ungainly sprawl while one's grandparent stood. He compromised by kneeling. His bewildered gaze roved the duke's person, then sought about for attendants.

“I am disturbed that you were rather tardy with that ready sword of yours,” said Marbury. “A man in your—er, profession—Ah, but you have hurt your hand, I see. That explains matters. Are you looking for my servants? I am quite alone.”

“B-But—sir …” Mathieson absently removed Beast's tail from around his jaw. “Surely—That is—I mean—Why on earth would you—”

“Yes. I quite see that an explanation is required.” The duke sighed and seated himself upon a convenient rocky outcrop of the hillside. “'Tis nothing more devious than that I find it necessary at times to run away from my responsibilities. I cannot mingle with my fellow man in my customary garb. Not, at least, without drawing the type of company and attention I seek to escape. Hence,” he indicated his worn and humble clothing, “my disguise.”

“If ever I heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Mathieson, much shocked. “You should not risk yourself in such a way, your Grace!”

“I was a man before I was a duke, my boy. 'Tis naughty, of course, but you can have no notion of what you avoid by being—ah—exempted from the line of succession.” He saw his deplorable grandson's fine mouth close with a snap and the familiar
chill come into the dark eyes. A wry smile touched his own lips. “Are you, might one enquire,” he went on, “in the way of effecting an escape yourself? Or do you pursue, rather, your usual … line of endeavour?”

“Such is my intent,” drawled Mathieson, pushing Beast away so that he could regain his feet. His ankle, which had been less bothersome today, had not benefited from the dog's enthusiasm and was throbbing again. He strove to keep most of his weight on his left foot, brushed his coat, scowled at his twice muddied breeches, and returned a cool and veiled gaze to his illustrious grandparent. “Wherefore, your Grace, with your permission, I shall be about my business.”

The duke pointed out gently, “But I have not granted my permission, you see. Be so good as to assuage my curiosity by favouring me with a minute or two of your so valuable time.” His grandson's handsome head being stiffly but respectfully inclined, he folded his fine-boned hands and went on: “Thank you, dear boy. I am intrigued, for example, to learn whether at this particular point in time, you are a Fairleigh, a Mathieson, or hide behind that repulsive pseudonym—Otton.”

“I use my own name, sir.”

“Ah. An improvement.” Marbury watched Beast return to sink down at his feet. “Provided,” he appended, “you are not involved in that which will
further
tarnish it.”

As usual, thought Mathieson gritting his teeth, although he towered above the old gentleman, he felt about six inches tall in his presence. He shrugged, assumed a bored smile and murmured, “Too late for this leopard to change his spots, sir. Did you require anything more of me?”

The duke sighed. “Only that which you are incapable of giving, alas. Honour … loyalty … integrity …” Another ripple disturbed the proud set of his grandson's jaw. ‘The boy is easily stung today,' he thought. “You are both bored and impatient, I know,” he said. “How are you hurt? Not another duel, surely?”

“A fall, your Grace.”

“Taken, I presume, in a brawl.” The faintest of frowns disturbed the ducal brow. “The price you pay in this endless pursuit of easy riches!”

“The fall was in no way connected with my—quest, your Grace.” Rumpelstiltskin had started to graze, and Mathieson whistled. The big horse at once cantered to his side and whuffled affectionately at his shoulder. “No food for you, rascal,” said Mathieson, stroking the velvety muzzle. “We've to let you cool off before you eat your luncheon. Can't have you getting a bellyache.” The stallion did not seem to argue with this, but Beast roused himself and came to push between man and horse, wagging his tail and grinning ingratiatingly. “Jealous,” scolded Mathieson, amused.

The duke nodded. “In more ways than one. How many commands have you taught that stallion of yours?”

“Lord—I never counted, sir. Dozens.”

“Not all spoken, I think?”

“Oh, no. Many by a particular whistle, some by voice or hand signal.”

“The devil you say! Either the brute is of great intelligence or you must have expended a great many weary hours training him.”

“He is superbly intelligent, your Grace, and there is nothing wearisome about the time I spend with him, believe me.”

“I do. It was a foolish remark on my part, for 'tis very obvious that animal is the only living thing for whom you have a particle of affection.”

“Say rather one of two living things, sir.” Having said which, Mathieson caught his breath and wondered in a near panic why he should have been so stupidly rash.

The duke stared in astonishment at the hurriedly averted but very red cheek. Surely this young scoundrel was not admitting to a fondness for—himself? He probed carefully, “An you have found your lady, my boy, I think it improper that you rush about kissing every wench who—”

In a gruff, unwontedly halting voice, Mathieson said, “I—
did not mean that—I have not found my … lady, your Grace.” A twinkle brightened his eyes. “In the singular, that is. Which is as well, for I likely could not support her if I did so.”

‘Good God!' thought the duke, undeceived by the frivolity. And more moved than he would have admitted, he drawled, “I was under the impression I had indicated a willingness to provide you with adequate funds for your own and—er, other support.”

“You did, sir, and I thank you. But—it is not necessary.”

His grandfather's expression at once assumed its customary cool serenity, but Mathieson knew that he had offended. Feeling a clumsy oaf, he asked hurriedly, “Am I permitted to see your work? I had not known you've a penchant for art.”

“But then, we know so little of each other—you and I, dear boy.”

Was there a touch of wistfulness to the voice now? Nonsense! More of the duke's biting sarcasm, most likely. Which being the case, he drawled, “I think you know all there is to know of me, your Grace.”

A moment's pause, then Marbury stood and started towards his easel, Mathieson, horse, and dog following.

The painting was near completion and depicted not the charming rural scene, but the head and shoulders of a young woman. Her dark hair hung in glistening ringlets about a pair of snowy, dimpled shoulders. She was half-turning to smile from the canvas, and her beauty was breathtaking, the features daintily formed, the green eyes great pools of bewitching mischief.

Entranced, Mathieson gazed in silence. The duke, covertly watching him, gave a shy little cough. “'Tis not necessary that you feel obliged to utter polite falsehoods, Roland.”

“She is—exquisite … I've the feeling I have met her somewhere. Who is she?”

“A lady who was dear to my heart once. Long ago.” Wistfulness was in the voice now, beyond doubting. “I have always to be in the hills before I attempt to put her on canvas, for the last time I saw her was in the mountains …”

Mathieson said an awed and sincere, “Jove, but you have a rare talent, sir. You must have cared for her very deeply. But she was not my
grand-mère
, I think?”

The duke's head flung up. “She most assuredly was not! But—care for her? Aye, I cared for her! As you will someday care for a lady. God grant that when you do, Fate is kinder than she has been to me!”

The mouth was twisted with cynicism, the flush now was of rage, and in the eyes so fierce a glare that Mathieson was aghast and in an effort to alleviate his
faux pas
said with a grin, “Fate has been sufficiently kind, thank you, duke. I have cared for only one lady in my life, and she was wise enough to choose another. I doubt I shall ever find her like again and, faith, but I'm not at all sure I want to.”

“If you can speak of it so lightly, you did not really love at all. But the day will dawn, I warn you, when your heart will be given. You are more a Mathieson than a de Fleury, thank heaven, and we're an odd breed. Our women are passionate creatures and tend to have many loves. Our men love once and if they lose their lady, may have their—diversions, but never love again.”

The slight to his mama's family had brought a quick frown to Mathieson's brows and his chin lifted haughtily. “Then I will cling to the hope that I never find my love, for surely she would be a lady of Quality, and as surely would have nothing to do with a man of my reputation. I'm much better off with old Rump and a carefree life.”

“Is it so carefree? Or have you gone hungry for your pride?”

“Hunger 'tis said, is good for the soul.”

The nonchalant shrug, the bland air of indifference infuriated the duke. “Why—in the name of heaven?”

Mathieson hesitated, then replied, “Not so long ago, sir, you warned me to expect nothing from you. You named me, as I recall, a heartless, soulless, mercenary rake and opportunist.”

From under his brows Marbury scanned the six feet of arrogant defiance that was all he had left in the way of immediate
family. “I was explicit, I see. Still, I referred, I believe, to your hope of a legacy. Not to your present needs.”

“Because my obvious poverty would be an embarrassment, sir?” Mathieson's lip curled. “I can appreciate that. But—I manage. One way and another.”

“True. 'Tis the ‘another' that disturbs.”

“I have no wish to disturb you, duke. But nor will I avail myself of your—charity …” The older man's eyes flashed fire and his jaw set, but Mathieson stood his ground. “Loathsome as may be my moral standards, I neither break my given word, nor ignore my obligations. If I should please you, sir, by leaving England, it will not be to escape any condition you might impose on me in return for an allowance. I am everything you think me, and more. But I have not yet sunk so low as to accept the bounty of a man who brought bitter sorrow to a lady I loved very deeply.”

Marbury stiffened and stood as straight as did his tall grandson, and because he had, like any good general, taken the higher ground, Mathieson was still obliged to look up to him. “I am impressed, dear lad,” said the duke with the faintest suggestion of a sneer. “No, really, I am impressed. You would appear to not only have a few scruples, but to harbour a conception at least of the meaning of loyalty.” His voice became steely. “Am I correct in thinking that you also have the insufferable presumption to condemn me on your mother's account?”

Gad but the man had a tongue like an asp! Through his teeth, Mathieson snarled, “You presumed to judge
her.
And she was a saint!”

“Had Juliette de Fleury been a saint she'd not have attempted the ruin of an inexperienced boy! Her mistake was that her victim's father had already been so ruined, and recognized her for what she was!”

“That is not so! Quite the reverse in—”

“Do—not—
dare
,” interpolated the duke very softly, “take that tone to me!”

All his life Mathieson had feared and respected this man. All his life he had secretly yearned to be accepted by him. But now he was too angry to care, and he flashed back just as softly, “I dare, your Grace, to defend my mother. Against any man living, I will defend her! I collect you really believe what you say, but in this instance, you are wrong. The
truth
, sir, is that my father seduced and ruined
her!
”

“In which case, you are indeed your father's son! How many girls have
you
seduced and ruined, my pure defender of the innocent? Ten? A dozen? More perhaps?”