Unpublished Prologue to Lady Beware.
The post about this might not be the most current, but if you scroll down a bit you should find it.
Chapter 1.
March, 1817, Lancashire, England.
"What the bloody hell..."
The hussar officer drew up his horse and stared through gray mizzling rain at a gray mizzling mess.
War was hell, but peace showed every sign of being worse.
In the shallow Lancashire valley a company of his troopers was holding a wavering line against a roiling sea of wet and furious locals, all desperate to get at some sort of rising building near the river. It would be a spinning or weaving mill, threatening their traditional livelihoods, but they might as well try to stop the rain.
His men were in a hell of a fix, however -- break and let the mob through, or draw their sabers and attack their fellow Englishmen and women? Neither of his officers were doing much to help. Uppington was simply sitting there agape, while Foxstall's horse was prancing -- a sure sign that the rider burned for action. In a way they all missed the heady excitement of war, but it was an addiction with Foxstall, priming him for bloody trouble. The sooner His Majesty's Government found him a new war the better.
"Hell's shit-holes," he muttered and set his pale horse down the muddy slope.
That pretty well summed up his opinion of the whole of the North of England. He was sure the sun did shine here, but he'd seen no sign of it since he and his men had arrived two weeks ago to be billeted on resentful local people. Now, it seemed, they were to be the sword-arm of the oppressive laws.
So much for the glorious victory over Napoleon. All that had meant back here in England was scarce employment, low wages, and fiercer and fiercer laws to try to smother uprisings.
A local magistrate was standing in the door of a coach behind the line of cavalry, bellowing out the Riot Act. "...peaceably depart to your habitations...! upon pains contained in the Act...! God save the king!"
The rioters howled their defiance. His men were backing their horses and were keeping their drawn sabers pointed up, but they'd been to hell and back in Spain, France, and at Waterloo, and Foxstall....
The first clod of earth hurtled out of the crowd, then a rock almost knocked off a shako. The soldiers surged forward, blades lowering. Foxstall rose up in his stirrups to urge them on.
The officer kicked his horse into a flat gallop, dragging a pistol out of a saddle holster. He raced behind the line, using his battlefield voice to yell, "Hold the line. Hold the line, damn your arses! Sabers up! Up!"
Controlling his horse with his legs, he cocked and fired -- well over anyone's head, though he was tempted to shoot Matt Foxstall dead.
The loud crack caused a shocked silence. Into it, he bellowed: "Go home, all of you! His majesty's law has been read and we will enforce it, even at pain of your lives, which as you know, the Riot Act permits us to do."
Wet, gray faces gaped at him, but like a muddy tide the mob began to ooze back. Until a man near the front rose up out of the mass, boosted up on shoulders.
"They're not going to bloody kill yer! Think of yer livelihoods, gone in a moment if that bloody mill is bloody built! Forward. Get 'em. Show 'em...."
He trailed into silence. The officer had pushed his horse through the line of troopers out into the crowd until he was only yards away from the orator, and his second pistol pointed straight at the man's head.
Cold, dark eyes sent the message that he'd fire without hesitation if the harangue continued. It was true. After ten years of war, another killing hardly counted, even that of a fellow Englishman.
Into the silence his men began their two-beat battle cry: "Ca-ve! Ca-ve! Ca-ve!"
Major Lord Darien cursed under his breath. Before inheriting his family's damn title, he'd been Horatio Cave -- Cornet, Lieutenant, Captain, and Major Cave. The family name was pronounced cahvay, like the Latin for "beware" and it had been siezed upon by the men he commanded.
This lot, the ones he'd commanded for three years before making major, called themselves Cave's Curs with pride. The battle cry had struck terror into the enemy and it was doing its work here, but for entirely different reasons.
The crowd had picked it up.
Cahvay, Cahvay, Cahvay beat out from them like a pant of panic. The bold orator had slid back down into the anonymous crowd. Most were easing away, but a few lingered to stare at Darien with gaping mouths as if Satan himsself had risen before them.
A hoarse voice cried, "He's the hell-born Cave!"
The hell-born Cave?
I'm not Marcus, he wanted to bellow, but instead he made use of the moment and raised the loaded pistol again. He didn't aim at anyone in particular, but like one creature, the mob turned and ran.
Major Darien sat and watched, pistol out, until he was sure the mob wouldn't turn again. Many slipped and fell in the mud, but they were scooped up and carried off to safety. When the field was clear it wasn't littered with bodies, thank God.
The hell-born Cave.
He should have expected this. One of his newly-acquired estates was in this area, and Greenshaw had been given to his brother Marcus as heir's property. Where Marcus trod, hatred followed, but Marcus was dead and Darien hadn't anticipated anything like this.
Stupid, that.
He holstered his pistols then turned to praise his men. They grinned and cheered, but they were eying him, too, clearly wondering what had just happened. They'd find it easy to get all the dirty details in local shops and taverns.
Foxstall rode up alongside, a rough-cut, swarthy man of thirty, his twisted jaw pulled farther awry by anger. "I had matters in hand, damn you."
"You were burning for a fight."
"The Riot Act...."
"Doesn't bless murder." When it seemed Foxstall would argue on, Canem said, "Are you questioning my orders, Captain?"
Foxstall jerked back as if hit, then he bit out, "No, sir," and wheeled to organize the men.
There was another damnable aspect of this situation. He and Foxstall had been comrades-in-arms in the regiment for six years, hard living and hard fighting, progressing up the ranks almost in lock-step.
Darien had made major just before Waterloo, but Foxstall was probably stuck. The end of war meant the end of plentiful death and free promotion. Openings were scarce in peacetime and Matt would never scrape together the money for purchase.
Matt Foxstall needed another war. He lusted for battle even more than he lusted for loose women and without it he was becoming a damned pain in the arse.
Darien turned to deal with a routine matter -- courteous small talk with the magistrate. But Sir Osbert Peel's coach was already rolling away. Was Peel muttering, "Cahvay, Cahvay, Cahvay" under his breath, and even making the sign of the cross. A lot of Papist superstitions lingered here.
Darien shook his head, sullen rain dripping off his hat onto his nose. He'd dined with Peel and a couple of other worthies only three nights ago. He'd assumed the cool distance was because billeted troops were never popular.
Instead it was because of Marcus. In memory of Mad Marcus Cave, Darien's actions today probably seemed horrific. He could hear it now.
"Another Cave on a rampage..."
"Threatening innocent people...."
"A mad, murderous light in those dark eyes."
He did have the same coloring as Marcus -- the dark eyes and hair and olive cast to the skin given by their Italian mother. In Spain and Portugal he'd been able to pass for local if he'd wanted. It certainly hadn't been seen as peculiar.
He ordered the men back to the barracks, but followed slowly, inviting attack out of bloody-minded curiosity. He was no more comfortable with peacetime inactivity than Foxstall.
Nothing happened, but he felt the surly mood all around as if even the gray, wet sheep hated him. But the heavy mood could come from himself.
It was time to leave the army. It was the only life he knew, the only home he had, but this situation wasn't life or home and he had duties elsewhere.
He hated to abandon Cave's Curs, however, especially with Foxstall the way he was. There'd be a new major but it would take an Iron Duke to stop Matt from creating trouble here.
He rode through the stone gate posts of Ley Hall, the solid, ugly house on the edge of Rochdale that had been entirely given over as his headquarters. He'd seen the Highgate family leaving an act of favor, but now he assumed they had preferred not to share a roof with a hell-born Cave.
All the same, it provided comfortable accomodation for him and his officers, and adequate space for twenty of the men. The food was good and plentyful, and their horses had a dry stable and plenty of fodder. A couple of years ago they'd all have thought this heaven, rain and all.
He gave Cerberus into the care of his groom, went into the house and shed his hat and cloak into the hands of his batman. He headed for his office to write his report, but he found Foxstall there waiting for him, jaw set.
"Don't," Darien warned him.
A muscle twitched in Foxstall's cheek, but he wasn't a stupid man. "Don't ask what all that panic was about?"
The tone suggested that Foxstall knew, but if he was willing to pretend to be amiable, Darien would play along.
He poured claret for them both. "My family's known in this area."
"So I gather. Why?"
"I have an estate near here."
Foxstall drank. "You never mentioned it. We should ride over and inspect it."
"It's in a rotten state."
"Even a run-down estate must offer some amusement."
"When the weather clears up, perhaps."
Foxstall laughed. "Whenever that might be."
They shared a wry smile and drank, uneasy peace reestablished.
"What sort of place is it?" Foxstall asked, hitching onto the corner of the desk.
He had a way of making free of this office that went beyond the line, but Darien knew how to pick his battles.
"I've not visited there yet."
"Slacking? The great Canem Cave?"
Canem Cave -- a play on the Latin Cave Canem, meaning "beware of the dog." Darien had learned to accept the nickname in the way it was meant -- as praise for his courage -- but it still sat sourly inside him.
Perhaps he showed some reaction, for Foxstall said, "Sorry. You've been hellish busy settling the regiment in this area. I forget how much paperwork you have to crawl through."
"I'll make you do some of it if you're not careful." Darien turned to look out of the window at the mizzle-shrouded landscape. There wasn't any real reason not to talk about these things.
"Greenshaw was given over to my brother Marcus when he turned twenty-one."
Foxstall whistled. "Mad Marcus Cave?"
"Precisely."
"No wonder the peasantry ran."
"Quite." Darien drained his glass and refilled it, offering Foxstall more. Foxstall, however, had taken down one of the long clay pipes Darien kept on the mantelpiece for guests, and was helping himself to some aromatic tobacco from the box.
"I have a report to write, Matt."
Foxstall ignored the hint -- pushing to see how far he could go? He turned, thumbing the tobacco deep into the pipe bowl. "Did he murder anyone up here?"
"Not that I've heard." Darien opened the post bag and spilled out the contents.
"If his victim was of the peasantry, it could have been hushed up. Unlike the other one. Shit stupid to murder a lady, in Hanover Square, even." He bent to light a long spill at the fire. "Even more so to leave bloody footprints leading to his house."
"Insane, to be precise." Darien returned his attention on the letter in his hand. "He did end his days in Bedlam."
"The pox does that," Foxstall agreed pleasantly. "That was the explanation agreed on at the trial, wasn't it? Not bad going at only thirty-two."
Darien Looked up. He could order Foxstall out -- should, perhaps -- but he had enough problems on his back without turning one of his captains into an outright enemy. Everything Foxstall was saying was common knowledge and once they'd completed this dance it would be over.
"He applied himself to vice from a young age, with Father's encouragement."
Foxstall drew on the pipe then let out silvery smoke. "And the pox spared him the gallows, lucky man."
"He might rather have hanged than be gawked at by the curious in Bedlam. It's old history, Matt."
"Not around here, it seems."
"I'd certainly rejoice at a move," Darien agreed, turning things. "Preferably somewhere warm and dry, as long as it's not the fever-infested West Indies."
"The East Indies," Foxstall said, eyes gleaming. "That's the ticket. Rubies, harem ladies, and a good dose of bloody action. It'll be like the good old days."
For some reason that settled Darien's internal debate.
"Then I hope the regiment is sent there, Matt. But I won't be going with it. I'm resigning my commission."
Foxstall almost choked on a breath of smoke. "What? Because of a few rioting weavers?"
"Because I'm Lord Darien. I have responsibilities."
"You've had the damn title for nearly a year."
"The work of the Army of Occupation seemed important, but now we're kicking our heels."
Foxstall shook his head. "Canem, Canem, it'll be worse in civilian life. You'll rot from boredom within a month."
Darien smiled wryly. "Boredom might be pleasant."
"What in hades are you blabbering about?"
"I don't expect civilian life to be pleasant, Matt. I'm a Cave. And Mad Marcus Cave's brother."
"Then don't do it! Stay Canem Cave."
"I'll still be Canem Cave in the ton."
Foxstall laughed aloud. "You're as mad as your demented brother!" He instantly sobered and raised a hand in apology.
"Quite." Darien tapped one finger on a broken seal. "I'm a military hero, a commended veteran of Waterloo. It shouldn't be that hard to overwhelm memory of an insane relative."
"And a family reputation. Hell-born Cave, someone called out today. It's not as if Mad Marcus was a sole boil on an unsullied arse. Apologies, Canem, but it's the truth. Being a Cave would sink you, without the rest."
"The name was respectable once and can be made so again."
"When the seas boil and pigs fly."
Darien looked at him. "You're predicting my defeat?"
Again Foxstall raised a hand. "Against an army, any army, never. But this is a different beast. For one thing, in the beau monde, the women rule, and every one of them will worry about her darling daughters, both marriage and murder."
"As I have no ambitions in either direction..."
"Then why bother? Leave the army if you must, tend your estates if you insist, but keep away from London."
Foxstall was clearly sincere, shorn of recent resentments and back in true cameraderie.
"I can't, Matt. Duty requires that I take my seat in Parliament, if nothing else, especially these days with the country hovering on the brink of revolution. In large part because of the tyranny of terrified lawmakers."
Foxstall drew on the pipe, shaking his head as he exhaled. "You have no idea. The ton don't forget and they don't forgive, especially one who murdered an innocent young member of the tribe."
"I don't see how Mary Willmot can have been so innocent when she was out in the Hanover Square gardens after dark."
"See, you'll say something like that and they'll tear you to pieces."
"I have more good sense and more control than that." Darien frowned, but he had to consider Foxstall's words.
His Cave upbringing had been cut off from society, but Foxstall's had been more normal. "You're saying that my military reputation won't trump Marcus's crime? That was six years ago and he's been dead five."
"But memorable. People still talk about Mad Earl Ferrers killing his valet, and that was fifty or more years ago."
"And didn't cut so close." Canem tossed the letter he was still holding onto the desk and poured hiself more wine. "I have to do it, Matt."
"Why? If its service you require, there's bound to be some fighting somewhere soon."
"For Frank," Darien said.
"Your baby brother?"
"Not such a baby at twenty-one and a First Lieutenant in the navy," Darien said with a smile. "Old enough to marry, in fact -- in his estimation, at least. He's fallen in love with one Lucilla Dynnevor, only daughter of Admiral Sir Prinkly Dynnevor, and the lady's rapturous love for him."
"A tragic fate. You want to stop him?"
"The tragedy came in a letter yesterday. The admiral has refused his consent -- not to his daughter marrying a mere lieutenant, but to her marrying a Cave."
"Ah. There you are, see! Nothing you can do about it." He drew complacently on the pipe.
"I can go to London and make the Cave name respectable again."
Foxstall did choke this time. When he had breath again, he said, "Forlorn hope, old fellow. Forlorn hope!"
"My reputation-"
"Mad Dog Cave?" Foxstall interrupted.
Darien drained his glass. Damn Wellington and the horse he rode on. After one particularly wild exploit, Wellington had given him that nickname, and he'd meant it to sting as much as praise.
"Battle sometimes requires insanity," he said, "and I have friends who know that. Some are now settled in civilian life -- Jermyn, Rokeby, Vandeimen."
"Demon Vandeimen?" Foxstall scoffed. "Settled?"
"Wife and child."
"Hell." Foxstall shook his head over that fate, but then said, "If he's turned into a hearth cat he won't want to be dragged into a Cave mess."
Damn. Darien hadn't thought of that. There might be a lot he hadn't thought of and even more he didn't know. Unwise to go unprepared into foreign territory.
"Assume that I intend to do this," he asked, "any advice?"
"Find a woman."
"Marry?"
"If you right woman'll have you. Have to be top of the trees." The pipe had gone out, so Foxstall was relighting the spill at the fire. "I wasn't reaching that far. You need a lady of the ton on your side. The highest rank you can find."
"An ally in the enemy camp. I see."
Foxstall had the pipe drawing again. "What decent females hang on your family tree?"
"To the best of my knowledge, none. No females of any kind. The Caves are down to Frank and I. If we die without offspring, bells will doubtless ring in jubilation."
Foxstall's long stream of smoke seemed to express blank astonishment.
"What about godparents, then? Everyone has godparents."
"And who could Caves draw upon? The estate steward and his wife sufficed for all of us."
"Shame, that. Look at Pup, left a tidy estate by his godfather."
Foxstall's bitter tone was understandable. Slow witted Lieutenant Uppington was set for life while Matt was having trouble paying his mess bills.
"This female ally," Darien said. "What precisely are you suggesting.
"A respectable matron of high rank, but the devil knows how you get within bowing distance of one. I tell you, Canem, they can build walls of ice that no one can break through. Give it up. Frank's heart will mend and if we're sent to India we'll come home nabobs. Enough money will melt an iceberg."
Darien smiled to acknowledge the attempt, but shook his head. "No. As Wellington says, there comes a time when a battle must be fought whatever the cost, and this is it. My Waterloo, if you like. It's fight or run, and Canem Cave never runs."
"You'll be fighting women, remember."
"I can handle women."
"Not this sort."
"They're all the same sort beneath the skirts."
Foxstall blew out smoke and laughed. "Oh, London, oh ladies, beware!"
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