Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

“Ah.” He smiled almost to himself. “I find I do like doing the occasional favor. It makes the receiver so much more in my debt.”

Lily swallowed. Would the duke consider her in his debt now? Probably, but it really didn’t matter: she needed the work. Private theatricals were quite popular, but naturally expensive to produce and thus few and far between. She was lucky to have the offer. “I’d be pleased to act in the play.”

“Wonderful,” the duke said. “I’m told that rehearsals won’t begin for another fortnight or so, as the play isn’t finished yet. I’ll contact you at the appropriate time, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

He smiled slowly. “Your talents are very much praised, Miss Goodfellow. I find myself looking forward to the party—and the play—with unforeseen anticipation.”

Lily was still considering the proper reply to such a complicated comment when a muddy whirlwind burst from the blackened trees, followed closely by a tumbling ball of red-and-black mud. “Mama! Mama! You’ll never guess—”

Indio skidded to a stop as he caught sight of their guest, falling abruptly silent.

Sadly, Daffodil had no such impulse. The little greyhound halted by her friend and began yapping shrilly, the force of her barks making her front legs bounce off the ground.

The duke narrowed his eyes very slightly at the dog and Lily suddenly felt an irrational fear for her pet.

Maude came out of the theater and snatched up Daffodil, who decided to turn affectionate, laving the maidservant’s face with her pink tongue.

“Enough of that now,” Maude scolded. “Come here, Indio.”

She held out her hand for the boy and Indio started forward.

“A moment,” Montgomery drawled. He halted the boy with a touch of his hand to Indio’s shoulder. The duke glanced at Lily. “This is your son?”

Lily nodded, her fingers balling into fists in her lap. She didn’t know why the duke should take an interest in Indio, but she didn’t like it. Not at all.

Montgomery placed a long forefinger under Indio’s chin and tilted his face up, staring at his curious eyes for several heartbeats.

“Fascinating,” the duke drawled softly at last, “the dissimilar colors of his eyes. I believe I’ve only seen the like once before.”

And he turned and smiled his beautiful snake smile at Lily.

THE BOY WAS watching him again.

It was late afternoon a day later and the sun was giving up the struggle behind a barrier of gray clouds as Apollo examined the ornamental pond. He and the other gardeners had spent the last three days dredging the stream that fed the pond, clearing it of debris so the pond might once again be filled with freshwater. It had been filthy, muddy work, but the result was already apparent: the water level in the pond was rising. An old stone bridge arched to a little island in the middle and Apollo raised both hands, palms out, fingers together and pointed up, thumbs at right angles, making a frame for the view between.

Nearby the bushes rattled as the boy shifted—and then froze like a hare hiding from a fox.

Apollo was careful to show no sign that he’d noticed the child.

He considered the picture within his frame. Originally he’d thought to tear the bridge down—it was much the worse for wear from the fire—but looking at it now, he thought it might become a rustic ruin with the right plantings around it. Perhaps an oak at the near shore and a grouping of reeds or a single flowering tree on the island.

He sighed and dropped his hands. Trees were his most pressing problem. Most hadn’t survived the fire, and of course for one to mature took many years. He’d read about transplanting fully grown trees—the French were said to be able to do so—but he’d never tried it himself.

Time enough to worry about that. For today he still had to pull yet another dead tree from the ground. He pivoted—and exhaled hard as his right foot slid on the slippery pond bank. Apollo caught himself and grimaced down at his boot, covered with the stinking green slime that still lined the bank where the pond had retreated from the original shoreline.

From the bushes came a gasp, presumably at his near fall. What the child found so fascinating about him, Apollo had no idea. His work was the same as the other gardeners’—tedious and wearying—yet the boy seemed to spy only on him. In fact, Apollo had noticed that Indio’s hiding place became closer every day, until today the boy was only feet away. He was beginning to wonder if the boy wanted to be noticed.

Apollo bent to pick up his long-handled adze. He swung it over his head and then down into the soft ground at the root of a stump. The heavy adze hit with a satisfying thump and he could feel that he’d struck one of the main roots.

He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and heaved the adze free from the stump. Then he swung again.

“Daff,” came a hiss from the bushes.

Apollo’s lips twitched. Indio hadn’t chosen a particularly adept spy-mate. The greyhound obviously didn’t understand his young master’s need for stealth. Even now she was wandering out of their hiding place, nose to the ground, more interested in some scent than Indio’s frantic call. “Daff. Daffodil.”

Apollo sighed. Was he really expected not to notice the dog? He was mute, not blind—or deaf.