Chapter Thirteen

Cassian had retreated to their bedroom. It was a pleasant room for an inn, with a reasonably sized window, a reasonably comfortable bed, enough space for two men to share without being irritatingly on top of one another. Admittedly that was in part because neither he nor Daizell was particularly big, and in part because they enjoyed being on top of one another, but still, he was pleased at his own contentment in this small, bare room, decorated only with Daizell's shades.

Cassian's bedroom at home was three times the size. It had a luxurious bed that could fit five of him, a Canaletto and a lovely painting of his mother by Sir Joshua Reynolds on the walls, fine porcelain and beautiful furnishings and velvet curtains. It was a palatial room, and he was undeniably looking forward to sleeping in it again, but at this moment the thought of it had a very empty feel.

What was he going to do?

Daizell loved him. Daizell wanted to be with him, not just now but in the future, for as long as they could have. Daizell didn't know who he was, because Cassian had lied to him every single day.

Cassian wanted time too. Not just the remainder of his dwindling month, but proper time, long time, all the time. He'd stopped himself from making Daizell promises he didn't yet know how to keep, but he would make them, soon. He wanted to give Daizell everything, starting with himself.

They'd had day after day with nothing to do but enjoy one another, in bed and out, and with the inevitability of gravity, Cassian had tumbled headlong from liking to love. He craved Daizell painfully; he had wild thoughts of simply not going home that he knew were impossible but in which he allowed himself to indulge for shameful moments here and there. He needed cheerful, absurd, erratic Daizell with him, because when Daizell was present, he felt like himself.

And it was him that Daizell loved. Him , Cassian. Not the Duke, with his money and grandeur acting as compensation for his personal insignificance.

So all Cassian had to do was work out a way to tell him the truth, and also a means by which Daizell Charnage could be in his overly examined, ever-correct, scandal-free ducal life, and everything would be perfect.

There would be a way, he told himself. Daizell was ingenious, and Cassian was a duke, with all that entailed: wealth, power, authority. Between them, they'd come up with something, just as soon as Cassian admitted that he'd been lying to him from the moment they'd met.

He thought about how to do that, sitting by the window with Kenilworth unread in his hand, feeling rather sick. Daizell would surely understand that there had never been a good time; that saying it too early would have killed everything that had grown between them. He was still thinking about it when Daizell came in.

Cassian looked around, starting a greeting, and leapt to his feet as he saw Daizell's face. ‘What's wrong? What happened? Are you all right?'

‘All right? Well. That's a question. Here.' He walked over, grabbed Cassian's unresisting hand, and dropped something into it. Something small, cold, and gold.

‘My ring!' Cassian hadn't let himself believe this was possible. He couldn't have borne imagining getting it back, only to learn it had been pawned or sold or lost. ‘You got it. You found it. Oh God.' He pushed it on his finger with a shaking hand, feeling it slide into its rightful place, filling a gap whose yawning depths he only now let himself realise. The Severn ring, back where it belonged, and he would never, ever be so foolish as to lose it or risk it again. He gripped his right hand in his left, clutching the ring to himself. ‘I can't believe it. Daizell, I owe you everything. I . . .' He looked up and his throat dried.

He'd seen Daizell's face as he walked in, wearing an expression he didn't recognise or like. That had been quite driven out by the joy of having his ring back, and as he'd looked up, he'd expected Daizell would be smiling. That he'd put on that grim look as a jest, a pretence something had gone wrong, in order to enjoy Cassian's happiness all the more.

He wasn't smiling now. He wasn't smiling at all.

‘Daize?'

Daizell met his eyes in a long, hard, stare. ‘Your Grace?'

‘What's wrong?' Cassian asked, and then, too late, the words sank in. He felt colour draining from his face. ‘Daize—'

‘You have the ring you hired me to retrieve,' Daizell said. His voice was stiff and thick. ‘The Severn ring. So that completes my period of service to Your Grace. You owe me fifty pounds.'

‘No. Yes, but— Daize, listen!'

‘To what?' Daizell demanded, the stiffness cracking like a thrown glass. ‘To you explaining why you've made a fucking fool out of me for weeks and lied to my face? How could you do that to me? Why? Jesus Christ, did you think I needed to feel stupider than I am? Or did you just not think about me at all while you got what you wanted?'

‘That's not true!' Cassian's face was burning, his throat closing. He hated being shouted at. ‘You must see, I couldn't just say.'

‘You couldn't just say who you are?'

‘No! I couldn't! I was incognito!'

‘So? What, if there's Latin involved, it's not a lie?'

‘I couldn't say at first, and then, later, I didn't want to be the Duke,' Cassian said, the words spilling out urgently. ‘I wanted to be myself with you. Not to have that standing in the way, because it would have done, you know it would—'

‘It would. It does . And if I'd known it stood in the way before, I wouldn't have said and done a lot of things. I wouldn't have cared for you, and believed you cared—' Daizell was crying, Cassian realised with horror, angry tears in his brown eyes. ‘I said things – felt things – This isn't fair. You had no right to make me love you when you always knew I couldn't.'

‘No. Daizell, please.' Panic was creeping through him in a cold sweat. ‘I should have told you before, and I'm sorry, but things were so perfect. I didn't want to spoil them before I had to. How could we have had that time, this week, if I'd said? It's been the best week of my life—'

‘And as long as you're happy, that's what matters?' Daizell snarled. ‘Listen to yourself. We couldn't have had this week if I knew you were a duke, because I wouldn't have done it! You've been fucking me in my sleep, and I never gave you permission for that!'

Cassian's stomach was roiling now with a sour brew of guilt and fear. ‘I'm sorry! I really am, but when should I have said it? And for God's sake, is this really the worst thing in the world? Yes, I'm a duke. That gives me—'

‘Money?'

‘I wasn't going to say that, but since you ask, yes. I have money, and I have power. That means I can make things work for us!'

‘How?'

‘Uh – well, I don't know yet, but we can—'

‘You don't know. If you could just fit me into your life with a wave of your hand, you'd say so. For God's sake, I don't know anything about your life – about you – and even I can tell how much scrutiny you're under. You had to go through this absurd wager of yours to get even a month—' Daizell stopped short. ‘This wager. What was it? What were the terms?'

‘Um—' Cassian could hardly remember at this point. ‘That I could live as – as a normal person for a month. Not using my title or privilege, taking the stage and so on—'

‘Living as a commoner.'

‘Yes, exactly.'

‘So telling me you were a duke would have meant you lost your bet.'

‘Well, yes,' Cassian said, and then, ‘No! That is not the reason, I swear. I didn't keep it from you for the bet!'

‘You dragged me around half the Midlands in a set of miserable stages for your bet. You've got me mixed up with Sir James Vier again and Christ knows what other trouble coming my way, when you could have made everything we've encountered go away with your calling card and your purse any time you liked, for your bet. And you lied to me about who you were and let me love you, all for your damned bet!'

‘It wasn't about the bet!' Cassian protested, but he knew deep down it was, a little, and he feared the guilt showed on his face. ‘I wanted to manage for myself, not to just rely on my wealth—'

‘And you've landed me in a pit of troubles while you got your experience. Why has all this been about what you want? What about what I might have wanted? Not having a half-mad brute on my tail, for one, and not to be made a fool of again by someone who never cared for me, who'll just leave—' He angrily dashed a tear away. ‘But what you wanted was all that mattered, because you're a duke and other people aren't as important as you.'

‘That – but— Daize, no, I didn't—' He had, though. He knew he had. ‘I didn't mean to do that. I was trying to be like other people!'

‘You succeeded triumphantly,' Daizell said. ‘You're exactly like everyone else. I'm going.'

‘No. Stop. I know you're angry, but don't leave now, not like this. Please .'

‘What am I supposed to stay for?' Daizell shouted. ‘To hear you explain why you didn't trust me? Why you led me this damn fool dance over a damn fool wager? Why you let me tell you everything I said when you knew bloody well you'd be going back to whatever ducal palace in a week or so, with your whole month's experience of being "like people", and I was nothing but a diversion?'

‘You weren't that,' Cassian said. ‘That's not true. I've been sitting here for the last hour thinking of a way for us to be together!'

‘But there isn't one, is there? You've known that all along, and you made sure I didn't. I thought you were someone I could be with, and you let me think that, you let me hope. That was cruel. I didn't think you were cruel.'

‘I didn't mean to be,' the Duke said, his voice dry and scratchy.

‘But you were. Stop talking to me. I don't want to hear any more.'

He was throwing his things into a bag, haphazardly. So few things. The Duke swallowed down the lump in his throat. ‘I have that fifty pounds—'

‘Keep it,' Daizell said, not looking round. He fastened the bag.

‘I owe you—'

‘Yes. You do. And I'm not having you tell yourself it's all right because you gave me money.' He hoisted the bag and walked out. The Duke stared after him, hand over his mouth, and as Daizell slammed the door behind him, he crumpled to the floor.

He left the Green Lion an hour later, when he was sure Daizell had gone, sped on his way by an extremely unfriendly look from Forster. He'd stay in a different place tonight, and leave Coventry in the morning, he decided, although he had no idea where he'd go.

He ought not stay in a place with a reputation for mollying, even if that reputation was confined to people who wouldn't object. He was, after all, a duke. He went instead to one of the better hostelries Coventry had to offer, and commanded a room of his own, a bath, and the cleaning of his linen and boots, and sat in one of the public rooms afterwards with a book he didn't want to read, alone.

If he'd been in the Green Lion, he could have talked to the casual friends he'd made. Except they all liked Daizell, and he'd hurt him, so none of them would have talked to him any more. If he'd been in the Green Lion with Daizell—

If he were there he would be happy. As it was, he was as lonely and miserable as he'd been in his life.

He had some ten days left of his holiday, which felt more like an exile. He ought to make use of it somehow, though all he wanted to do was curl up on his empty bed. Leamington Spa was south of here, but his married cousin Louisa lived there with her husband, a solicitor, and there was too great a risk he might bump into her. He adored Louisa, who came between Leo and Matthew and had grown up racing around Staplow with the boys, and he would have liked nothing more than to stay with her now, the bet be damned.

But if he did that he'd have to talk about how he was. That meant lying, if only by omission, and he couldn't stomach any more lies to people he loved.

Not Leamington Spa, then. He flicked through Paterson's British Itinerary , and saw Kenilworth. It was only a single stage away. He'd go to Kenilworth because it was somewhere to go, and because moving was better than staying still, and because he had absolutely nothing better to do with his stupid ducal self.

He went the next morning, after a mostly sleepless night in an excessively large bed. He found where the stage went from and took a ticket and claimed his place, wondering as he did it how this had all seemed so daunting just a few weeks back. Because he'd been inexperienced, of course, and because he'd been alone. Everything was worse when you were alone.

Kenilworth proved to be a pleasant market town. It wasn't hard to find the ruins of the castle: a great mass of red stone, still standing tall, its bones bare and magnificent. The Duke strolled around, trying to make himself be awed by the history. Here Simon de Montfort had besieged Prince Edward, unless it was the other way around; here the Lancastrian kings had plotted in the Wars of the Roses. Here Queen Elizabeth had stayed, entertained and courted by Robert Dudley while he concealed his illicit marriage. That had ended badly, for everyone: Dudley's tragic wife, and Dudley who was suspected of her murder, and the Queen herself, who had died a virgin, or at least unwed.

He didn't care. He'd have cared if he was telling Daizell all about it, and Daizell would have cared while he listened, but they weren't doing that, and the misery of that fact left him too exhausted to walk further. He plodded to a grassy bank that seemed reasonably dry, and sat on it. It was another thing dukes didn't do, and he didn't care about that either.

He'd wanted to be a nobody, and now he was and he hated it. He'd liked being Mr Cassian very well indeed, thanks to Daizell, but having nowhere to go and nothing to do and nobody to do it with – one couldn't enjoy that. That wasn't leisure, or holiday: that was just filling time to get the day over with.

Was this how Daizell felt, drifting around in constant purposeless movement? He'd said he was lonely, but he'd never really elaborated on it, and Daizell elaborated on most things, except the ones that hurt. That urgency to talk, the readiness to fall in with any plan as long as it was a plan – the Duke could understand those things, given the sense of yawning purposelessness he felt after a single day without Daizell.

Daizell needed company, and he thought he'd found it in Cassian. And the Duke had seen that, and let him believe it and go on believing, never admitting that Cassian didn't exist, because he'd put his own selfish wants first. Because dukes always came first.

He hadn't meant to abandon Daizell. He clung onto that fact as if it was some sort of argument in his own favour. He had truly intended to find a way forward and – what, present it as a fait accompli? I've lied to you, but to make it better, I've decided your future for you as well .

Daizell might not even have minded that so much: heaven knew he was easy-going. If the Duke had told him the truth and offered him some sort of future, or even if he'd said, Help me think of something , Daizell would have come to terms with it, he was sure. If the Duke had just told him.

But he hadn't. He'd let Daizell hope and care under false pretences because he'd been enjoying the pretence. That was what it came down to, and the shame made him writhe.

‘You shit, Severn,' he said aloud. It seemed the only possible word in the circumstances. ‘You utter shit.'

He could have explained it. If Daizell had given him a chance to talk it out, he could have persuaded him, made him understand. Except that he'd had that chance every second they'd spent together, and hadn't taken it until his hand was forced.

No wonder Daizell had walked out. No wonder he hadn't wanted to hear any more. Lord Hugo had told the Duke a hundred times he needed to be more determined, more forthright. If he'd spoken up when he should have, he wouldn't be moping round a ruin, and Daizell wouldn't be—

He tried to think of what Daizell was doing, and could only see his face, red with anger, glistening with tears. Was he alone? There had been no sign of the man Martin Nichols and they'd been lovers once: would Daizell have gone with him, for lack of other comfort? The Duke almost hoped so. He couldn't bear the thought of Daizell alone again. Betrayed again.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't just sit here and let the man he loved drift away; he would not. He'd find some sort of answer to how they could be together that didn't founder on the rocks of his dukedom and Daizell's shoddy, shabby reputation, and he would find Daizell and present it to him. Just as soon as he thought of what it would be.

Restlessness propelled him to his feet. He marched around the picturesque scene, cudgelling his brains. He cursed Daizell's father, the wretched villain, and the damn fool position it had left Daizell in: notorious, barely educated, at once too much a gentleman and not quite enough of one. Could he be a permanent guest at ducal Staplow, when his own family didn't count him worthy? Would he even want to live at Staplow, with Lord Hugo and Aunt Hilda and probably their strong opinions on George Charnage? The Duke very much doubted it. Sometimes a hundred rooms didn't feel enough.

He had to find an answer of some kind. He couldn't let this go. Even if they couldn't be together, he couldn't let Daizell be lonely. It wasn't fair.

He strode forward, brow ferociously knit, and almost collided with a tall lady.

‘I beg your pardon,' he said briskly.

‘Not at— Oh! Mr, uh . . .'

The voice was terribly familiar. The Duke actually looked at her, and saw, with a sinking feeling, Miss Beaumont.

‘Good heavens,' he said. ‘Miss Beaumont. I thought you were in Scotland. Or – have you come back?' he added with a sudden hope. ‘Should I be offering my congratulations, Mrs Marston?'

‘No.'

‘Oh.'

‘I did not get married,' she said, in a tight sort of voice. Her big grey eyes looked rather red. ‘Mr Marston chose – we had an argument—'

‘Oh.' The Duke glanced around. ‘Where is he?'

‘I couldn't say. I left him in Manchester.'

‘Oh.' He wished he had something else to say to this litany of disaster. ‘Then who is your attendance?'

She shot him a vicious look. ‘I don't have any attendance. I ran away from my guardian to elope and now I haven't even eloped and I've nowhere to go, so how I could have attendance —'

‘You came down from Manchester alone?' Dear God. But, regrettably, his duty was clear and the Duke always did his duty. ‘There is a bench over there. Would you like to sit down and talk about it?'

Miss Beaumont would. She poured out a tearful but reasonably coherent account of the journey from Stratford to Manchester, in which she freely admitted becoming exasperated by her intended. ‘He was so slow . He was so dreadfully bad at all of the deceiving people we had to do, and Mr Charnage said we should get to the coast and take a boat, but Tony, Mr Marston, wouldn't because he gets seasick, of all the stupidnesses, and I dare say I was terribly impatient with him, but really . He exasperated me dreadfully. And – and then by the time we got to Manchester and we'd argued for a day or so, he asked me, did I truly love him or did I merely want to marry him to escape Sir James? And I just couldn't say it. I suppose that's even wickeder than eloping, isn't it? Eloping with someone I didn't even love – only I did, I'm sure, when I was seventeen, but I'm twenty now and we haven't spent much time together in years and I'm sure he wasn't so tiresome before – but he said I wasn't even marrying him for his money, I was marrying him for my money, which was worse, and he didn't want to be a cipher in his own life, and I'd just used him as a means to my freedom. That was awfully unkind, you know, because it was true. I wished it wasn't, but it was.'

‘Yes,' the Duke said. ‘That does hurt.'

She sniffed. ‘He said if I didn't care for him, he certainly didn't want my money.'

‘That was good of him.'

‘I dare say it was very noble, but I was furious. We'd come all the way up to Manchester and gone through all this inconvenience so I could marry him and there he was refusing, which left me in the most dreadful scrape. And really, what was I to do ? I suppose he wanted me to tell him I was sorry and he was wonderful, but honestly, I thought he was being a self-centred oaf. I was marrying him to be free of Sir James, and if he wanted something more it was quite right he shouldn't marry me, but for heaven's sake, could he not have raised the subject before Manchester ? So I left.'

‘And he let you come back all this way on your own?'

‘He said, if I didn't love him, then I should do as I pleased. I think he was expecting me to cajole him into a good humour.'

The Duke thought about that – a young lady, unchaperoned and miles from home, being told by the man with power over her future to prove her love – and took a breath. ‘I would like a word with Mr Marston.'

‘I did hurt his feelings awfully,' Miss Beaumont said fairmindedly. ‘I know I shouldn't have done it but I truly thought we'd rub along so much better than we did. After all, once we were married we'd have lots of money and that solves most problems, doesn't it? And I didn't lie to him. One might have thought he'd prefer an honest arrangement to a flattering deception. But then, if he'd truly thought I was heels over head for him in the first place, I can see why he was disappointed. I've made an awful mull of this.'

‘Something of one,' the Duke was forced to admit. ‘And what now? Why are you here?'

‘I have to be somewhere,' Miss Beaumont said bleakly. ‘I took the stage south, on my own, which has been really quite unpleasant. I bought a ring, on Mr Charnage's advice – is he not here?'

‘No. No, we're not travelling together any more.'

‘Oh,' she said, with clear disappointment. ‘Well, the ring helped, but all the same— Anyway, I got to Birmingham and I realised I didn't know what I was coming back for . I've no family and my trustee has made it very clear he doesn't want to be troubled and I cannot go back to Sir James.'

‘No, you can't. Not after this escapade. If he finds out—'

‘But I don't know what else to do.' She sounded very young as she said that. ‘I've made such a dreadful, dreadful mistake. I should have lied, shouldn't I? I should have told Tony he was wonderful and flattered him into a better mood—'

‘No, you should not,' the Duke said. ‘What you should have done from the start is found a lawyer who would act on your behalf if your trustee won't.'

She shot him a look. ‘I wrote to five lawyers. Only one of them wrote back, and he did so directly to Sir James, as my guardian. I am under age and a woman. They won't listen to me.'

And the rush to a hasty marriage would not make her seem any more worth listening to. The Duke didn't point that out. ‘Have you met anyone you know on your travels? Can anyone – except Mr Marston, I suppose – say for certain you eloped?'

‘Well, I did leave that note for Sir James, saying I was running away with Mr Charnage.'

‘But you can argue that was to throw him off the track. What we need is— Oh.'

She straightened at his tone. ‘Have you had an idea? What is it, Mr, uh—'

‘Cassian,' the Duke said, yet again. ‘What we need is a respectable married woman who will take you in and be ready to swear you have been staying with her these past days. You left that note and ran to her house – we'll say she's an old friend. And you can stay with her while we instruct a lawyer who will look into your case, or at worst fend off Sir James until you come of age.'

‘I do see that would be marvellous,' Miss Beaumont said politely. ‘Do you happen to know any such lady?'

‘My cousin Louisa. She lives perhaps six miles from here.'

‘Oh! Really? But are you sure she'll agree to that, if she is a respectable woman?'

‘She is a very respectable woman indeed, married to a successful solicitor, and she has the soul of a pirate. Shall we pay a call?'

Miss Beaumont clasped her hands, face alight, then something changed in her features. ‘Wait. You are very kind, to offer that, but why would you?'

‘Because you are in a deal of trouble, and it appears to be my role to help you out of it. You can't expect me to say I'm sorry to hear it and leave you in trouble.'

‘You could,' Miss Beaumont pointed out. ‘Lots of people would. Almost everyone, actually. And, Mr Cassian, I don't at all wish to offend you, or to make unfair implications, but I also don't wish you to have the wrong idea just because I have happened to elope with two gentlemen already. I think I have learned my lesson.'

‘Good. And, if I may reciprocate your frankness, I have no designs on your person, your hand, or your money,' the Duke said firmly. ‘I am very well breeched on my own account, I doubt you and I would suit, and my affections are already and entirely given elsewhere. In fact, I must beg you to take the greatest pains to avoid any possible imputation of impropriety. We will travel by the public stage.'

She gave him a glowing look, apparently believing the precaution was for her benefit rather than his. Call it both, the Duke thought. ‘Thank you. That is exceedingly gentlemanly.'