Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

Kilbourne stared at him, frowning.

“His need has become acute, I think.” Trevillion met his gaze and once again noticed the scratches on the other man’s cheek. “Where did you get those scratches, my lord? You’re looking much the worse for wear since I saw you last.”

“Yesterday…” Kilbourne coughed, raising a hand to finger the scratches. “I nearly died… from a falling tree… that was to… be planted. There… was a new… gardener… he is… missing today.”

Trevillion pivoted to face the other man fully, leaning on his stick urgently. “You’ve been discovered, my lord. If I could follow your sister, so, too, could your uncle’s men.”

Kilbourne shook his head violently, coughing. “Accident,” he gasped.

“You don’t think that yourself or you wouldn’t have told me,” Trevillion said impatiently.

At the same time a voice called, “Hullo! Hullo! I say, can anyone tell me where Mr. Smith is?”

They both pivoted to see a red-haired young man, not more than five and twenty, blinking in the sunlight far too close to the ladies, and already being assaulted by the little dog.

“Damnation,” Trevillion muttered. It seemed their tête-à-tête was over. “Listen to me, my lord. You must leave the garden. Find some other place of hiding until we can devise a plan to find evidence against your uncle.”

Kilbourne was still shaking his head, though more slowly now, his eyes fixed toward the theater. “Can’t.”

Trevillion followed the direction of his gaze—naturally to where Miss Goodfellow was rising to meet the newcomer. “Can’t—or won’t?”

Kilbourne never took his eyes from her, but his face hardened with determination. “Doesn’t matter.”

Chapter Nine

The next morning Ariadne journeyed to the golden castle. There the king sat on a jewel-encrusted throne with, beside him, his mad queen, spinning red wool with a wooden distaff and spindle. The youth chosen with Ariadne made a low bow to the king and then turned aside. But Ariadne, remembering her mother’s warning, curtsied to the king and then the queen and inquired politely of her if there was aught she might bring her son. Without a word the queen handed her spindle to the girl…

—From The Minotaur

Lily met Caliban’s gaze across the clearing and felt heat climb her cheeks. His eyes were hot and intent.

He looked at her as if with a single kiss he’d already claimed her.

She glanced away, inhaling. It had only been one kiss and they hadn’t had a chance to speak properly since. Last night there’d been Maude, sharp and sarcastic and disapproving, and this morning Indio had been excited and scampering about. And that had been before Lady Phoebe and Captain Trevillion showed up.

“Who is it?” that lady asked, facing in the direction of the young man advancing toward them. Daffodil had finished welcoming him and was now dashing off to her master. Indio had previously wandered away from their tea party and was playing by the corner of the theater in what looked suspiciously like a mud puddle.

“I’ve no idea,” Lily replied, hoping she didn’t sound as irritable as she felt. Good Lord, Harte’s Folly had become like a county fair—a veritable crossroads of visitors. Belatedly she remembered her manners and tacked on, “My lady.”

Lady Phoebe smiled and asked softly, “What does he look like?”

Of course Lady Phoebe had no idea of the aspect or even the age of the man approaching them.

“He’s a young man with bright red hair and a comely face,” Lily answered quietly and quickly. “Wearing a black tricorn and an acorn-brown suit. The waistcoat is a lighter shade, more tan than brown, and trimmed in a fine scarlet ribbon. Not expensive, but well cut.” She cocked her head, considering. “He’s quite handsome, actually.”

“Oh, good,” Lady Phoebe said with some satisfaction, sitting back.

Lily only had time for a glance of amusement at the other woman—she really was quite delightful—before the gentleman was upon them.

“Good morning,” he called in a faint Scottish accent. He came to a stop, swept his hat from his head, and gave a lovely bow. “I am Mr. Malcolm MacLeish. Whom might I have the honor of addressing?”

“I am Miss Robin Goodfellow,” Lily said as she curtsied, “and this is Lady Phoebe Batten.”

“Good Lord!” Mr. MacLeish exclaimed, his bright-blue eyes opening wide as he staggered dramatically back. “An honor indeed, ladies! I had the privilege of attending a production of As You Like It a year or two ago, Miss Goodfellow, in which you were a most magnificent Rosalind.”

She curtsied again, amused at his profusion. “Thank you, sir.”

“And my Lady Phoebe,” Mr. MacLeish said, turning to her, “I am in awe of your presence.”