Chapter Six

There was only one bed.

Cassian hadn't thought of that. Doubtless, if they had a room with two beds, Miss Beaumont would be given it so she didn't have to share with the hosts' daughter. Or possibly vice versa.

It was quite normal to share as a travelling expediency, he knew, if one wasn't a duke entitled to always have the best room entirely to himself. He was not currently a duke, so he was going to share a bed with Daizell. To be asleep next to him.

That might have presented more of a problem if he wasn't so tired he could die from it. The long day, the accident, the long walk, and the ale were all catching up with him now, and he found himself swaying as he washed. The lamplight was dim, and he couldn't tell if he'd need to shave in the morning or it was just the speckled mirror.

‘You look dog-tired,' Daizell remarked, sitting on the bed. ‘Are you always this chivalrous?'

‘Chivalrous?'

‘Give up the room, save the lady from herself, save the lady from the villain . . .'

‘I don't think any of that's chivalry. It's just responsibility.'

‘You don't have a responsibility to her.'

Cassian sat on the other side of the bed to wrestle his boots off. He had his back to Daizell, but he could feel the heat of his body a couple of feet away, or imagined he could. ‘You didn't have a responsibility to anyone in that coach.'

‘That was an emergency. Most people help in a dramatic situation, if only to be part of the drama. People aren't so ready to do the same for day-to-day situations – a child with holes in his boots, a man in need of dinner.'

He wasn't speaking with his usual cheer. Cassian pulled his shirt over his head, feeling rather snubbed. ‘I dare say you're right. Though I don't really want to be part of Miss Beaumont's drama at all. I suppose I got carried away when Vier came into it. I saw him thrashing his horses once and we had the most appalling row.'

‘Good for you,' Daizell said. ‘Though risky: I heard the Duke of Severn once squabbled with him on the subject and Vier chased him off with his tail between his legs. But I didn't mean to imply that you were inserting yourself into Miss Beaumont's affairs for entertainment: you were clearly trying to do a good thing. I still don't think Miss Beaumont's affairs are any of your business or mine, and I bet we, or at least I, come to regret interfering. But Vier is an utter swine, and I suppose if we can help a little, we might as well. And I also think you're a very generous man.'

That brought more blood to his cheeks, but this time pleasantly. ‘Oh, well, I wouldn't say that.'

The bed creaked as Daizell twisted and he felt a warm hand on his bare arm. ‘I would.'

Cassian wanted to turn round, desperately. He searched for some response. ‘ Do you think we'll come to regret it? That this runaway marriage is a bad idea?'

‘I dare say Marston will be an adequate husband to Miss Beaumont.' Daizell's hand was still resting on Cassian's arm, so casual a touch. ‘In her shoes I'd spend my money on an excellent lawyer, but here we are. I was more reflecting that we, specifically I, will regret it very sharply when Sir James Vier and his hulking groom arrive brandishing horsewhips.'

‘I won't let that happen.'

‘Will you not?' Daizell said. ‘Well, that's nice. There's also the small matter of another elopement being ascribed to me, a story which will doubtless do the rounds.'

Cassian's stomach plunged. He turned without thought of anything else. ‘Oh Lord. I didn't think – but of course you will be blamed. Your reputation – Oh, no. We can't allow this.'

Daizell blinked at him. ‘My dear fellow, I was only grumbling. I don't have a reputation. You must know that.'

‘Yes, but this charge isn't true!' Cassian said, and then, ‘Uh – I meant—'

‘You meant exactly what you said.' Daizell shifted back, turning away to pull off his own shirt. ‘Correctly. I am, regrettably, my father's son, and beyond his very considerable contribution, I'm the author of my own misfortunes. I did attempt to elope with Miss Beaumont once, so really, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things if people think I did it again? And anyway, it was my idea.'

‘But it's my fault,' Cassian said. ‘I asked you to think of something.'

That was exactly what he'd done, of course. Asked. Not done it himself, not taken charge or responsibility, just waved a hand and given the order and not considered what it might mean, or cost. A wave of guilt drenched him. ‘We can't go through with it. This isn't fair to you. I will explain—'

‘Oh, don't worry about it,' Daizell said. ‘You look fit to drop. Let's discuss it in the morning.'

Cassian didn't have the mental acuity to argue. He managed to get his breeches off, and piled his clothes on a chair, since he'd learned that leaving them on the floor meant picking them up off it again. He blew out the lamp, and groped his way to the bed.

It wasn't uncomfortable, really, and the sheets were not damp, but on the other hand, Daizell's body was a foot from his, if that, weighting the mattress. Cassian could feel his solid warmth without touching. He tried to balance as far over as possible, because he knew an accidental touch would be bad even if he found it hard to think why.

And he wished he wasn't so sleepy, because here in the dark with Daizell next to him, he didn't want to fall asleep. He felt they could talk long into the night, if only he could stay awake. But consciousness was passing from his control, and his eyes fluttered shut to the sound of Daizell's quiet breath.

He woke with an arm across him.

The awareness was slow and confusing – a weight, a warmth – and then his mind sprang to life, and it was all he could do not to react. Daizell's arm, around his waist. The thought thudded through him, pulsing in his groin. Was he . . . could he . . .

He didn't move, careful to keep his breathing level and regular. A second later, he realised that Daizell's breathing was as regular as his own. It was deep, and a little resonant. Actually, he was snoring.

He was asleep. Of course he was.

Cassian breathed out, slow and careful. Daizell was asleep. They'd shared a bed in a perfectly respectable sort of way – which, he reminded himself, was the only possible outcome of their association. Daizell liked laughing young ladies, or at least he was happy to elope with them, and even if he should happen to like gentlemen as well, he was Daizell Charnage, a gentleman of uncertain fortune and dubious reputation. The Duke had already made a mistake with a man like that. One should learn from experience.

Then again, the nominal purpose of this month as Mr Cassian was to have experiences from which he could learn.

He allowed himself to dwell on that traitorous thought for a self-indulgent moment, then turned his mind firmly away. He should consider the day's duties. They'd lost a full day thanks to the accident; they had to get to Stratford—

Oh Lord. He'd promised to help the eloping couple and tangled both himself and Daizell in what, under daylight and a clear mind, now seemed a quite ludicrous course of action. He had a feeling he might have run briefly mad, through tiredness and strong ale, and a powerful dislike of Sir James Vier.

And, also, a clear injustice. It was not right that a vicious rake should have guardianship over a young woman, and Miss Beaumont's position was intolerable. His information was admittedly from the lady herself, who might be unreliable, and Daizell, who was certainly erratic, but on the other hand, he'd met Vier.

And come off worse, as Daizell had reminded him. That casual gossip about the Duke of Severn's humiliation had stung viciously, not just because it was proof the story had done the rounds, but also because Daizell knew it and, Cassian discovered, he didn't care to have Daizell regard him as a weakling or a figure of fun.

‘Umph.' A grunt from beside him. ‘Urgh. Eh? Who did I – Cass?'

Cassian made a display of yawning, and gave Daizell's arm a shrug. He withdrew it, leaving Cassian bereft of warmth. ‘I beg your pardon. I'm all limbs at night, or so people tell me.'

‘Not at all,' Cassian said meaninglessly. ‘Good morning.'

‘Morning. Oh God, that woman. Did we really agree to—'

‘Yes.'

‘Curse it. The ale here creeps up on a fellow.'

‘I had the same thought,' Cassian said. ‘You said something last night about your reputation. Not wanting to be accused of eloping with another lady.'

‘More precisely, the same one twice.'

‘Even so. I think we should find an alternative plan, one that doesn't involve your name.'

‘Like what?'

Cassian hadn't got that far. ‘Um, I'll try to think of one—'

Daizell yawned jaw-breakingly. ‘Ah, don't worry about it. It makes no odds: I'm not going to be admitted to White's anyway, so I might as well help a damsel in distress. And if she actually marries Marston that will deal with any scandal attaching to me. I'm more concerned about Sir James. The horsewhipping, obviously, but are there legal consequences for aiding an elopement?'

Cassian hadn't thought of that. ‘If she'd agreed to marry him, he might have a case for breach of promise against her, if he wanted to be a laughing-stock. But against people who helped her? I suppose he could mount a civil suit for damages, but I don't think it's likely.' He would engage lawyers if he had to. ‘I don't think you should worry about it.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.' Daizell stretched. His foot brushed Cassian's leg, just the lightest careless touch, and Cassian couldn't help a twitch. ‘Sorry. Actually, this might even be entertaining, and I'm always ready to put a spoke in Vier's wheel. But it strikes me we risk losing our trail while we muddy Miss Beaumont's.'

‘That can't be helped,' Cassian said. ‘Perhaps I can start asking questions while you go and . . . buy a marriage licence under false pretences, and deceive a parson . . . oh God.' He couldn't help it; he started laughing, and felt Daizell join him a second later, shaking so hard he could feel the mattress shift under them. ‘Oh no. What's happened to me?'

‘Well, it's not me,' Daizell said. ‘I wanted to be sensible. You're the one who asked me to lie to vicars.'

‘That was your idea!'

‘It was your idea to have the idea.'

Daizell Charnage was calling him the reckless one. Cassian felt quite dizzy, and stupidly happy, and he didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here in the warm bed next to Daizell's warm body, talking and laughing and just accidentally touching.

‘We should get up,' he told himself aloud, and swung his legs out of bed before he changed his mind.

They made a hearty breakfast. Their temporary travelling companions seemed rather more nervy. Mr Marston made rather a point of giving his name as Charnage to their hosts, and talking about their forthcoming marriage and the pleasures of Stratford-upon-Avon. Cassian had never been there, but, based on their companion's speech, he felt confident that Mr Marston hadn't either.

It turned out the eloping couple had a hired chaise. That saved Cassian's own purse, he reflected smugly, without infringing the terms of the wager. The four of them set off very promptly. Mr Marston took the reins, which left his intended, Daizell, and Cassian sitting inside.

Miss Beaumont evidently felt obliged to make conversation. ‘So what business are you about in Stratford, Mr Charnage?'

Daizell glanced at Cassian, who said, ‘Pursuing some interests of mine. Uh, business interests.'

‘Oh. That sounds . . . interesting. Are you doing that too, Mr Charnage? I didn't know you were a man of affairs.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Oh.'

‘Miss Beaumont, would you care to speak about your situation?' Cassian didn't think he could bear any more small talk. ‘Of course, I wish you success in your, uh, mission, but it strikes me, since Sir James has the right to force you to return to his house, you may need to consider what to do if he should catch you. Is there anyone you can appeal to? Trustees, relatives?'

Her jaw set. ‘Do you think I haven't tried? My father appointed him my guardian because he had nobody else, and my trustee is only concerned with my fortune, not my wishes. And scarcely even that, the idle lump.'

Cassian considered. ‘How long might it take you to reach Scotland?'

‘Don't answer that,' Daizell said. ‘We don't want to know which way you're going: that way we can't let it slip.'

‘Why do you ask?' Miss Beaumont added.

‘I was wondering how we might find out if Sir James catches you,' Cassian said. There were surely people he could write to. Leo, perhaps: he'd doubtless be aware of Vier's movements and state of mind. Then again, Leo was unlikely to want to cross a man to whom he owed a lot of money, and also, while Cassian could write to him, he had no idea where he'd be over the next few weeks to receive any reply.

Miss Beaumont was looking oddly at him. ‘Why?'

‘So we can help. If Sir James finds you, you'll need someone to get you out of his grasp. I'll be travelling for the next three weeks, but after that – hmm. Perhaps you could write to me care of a friend.'

‘Help me? How would you propose to do that?'

‘I don't know yet,' Cassian said honestly. ‘But it is wrong that your guardian should press you to marry him, and I am quite sure something should be done, if only bringing his behaviour to the world's attention.'

‘He would inevitably bring Miss Beaumont's behaviour to the world's attention,' Daizell pointed out. ‘He enjoys exposing people's sins.'

‘Oh, he does ,' Miss Beaumont agreed resentfully. ‘It hides his own. It wouldn't matter if I could just get away. Once I have my fortune, I dare say people will stop caring about anything else. And if they don't, then I shall do very well without their good opinion. I want to have my own life, and live it, and if other people disapprove of how I go about that, they can disapprove till their ears turn blue, because I don't think a good reputation is any sort of consolation for a life of misery. So if Sir James does catch up, Mr, uh—'

‘Cassian.'

‘If he does, and if you do have any means of finding out and making a fuss on my behalf, whatever the consequences, I would be immensely grateful. I don't know why you're both being so dreadfully kind,' she added, and her mouth twitched then, pulling down at the corners as though she might cry.

‘He's chivalrous, and I'm easily led,' Daizell said, his cheerful tone pulling her expression back to a smile. ‘You don't have much luggage. Very wise, or will you be shopping on the way?'

Miss Beaumont responded to that opening with a brightness that didn't entirely convince, but she and Daizell kept up a light and meaningless chatter for long enough that the mood lifted. Cassian found it admirable on both their parts. He didn't feel quite able to join in. The coach was travelling at a very good speed indeed, and the road was appalling, bumpy and rutted and badly sloped. He would have liked to take the reins himself, or to join Mr Marston on the box and see his handling of the horses. He didn't want to be stuck in this dark box, jolting, rocking, going too damned fast because any moment there would be a crack and a lurch and they would crash—

Daizell put a hand on his knee.

Cassian looked down at the touch, startled. Daizell's hand, resting on his leg, casual and warm, and as Cassian looked up again, Daizell gave it a squeeze, and flashed him a reassuring smile. ‘Mr Marston's a good whip?' he said aloud, with just a touch of a question.

‘Oh, yes, excellent,' Miss Beaumont said. ‘Are you a nervous traveller, Mr Cassian?'

‘I'm very well.' Cassian didn't want to talk about the crash, and hoped Daizell wouldn't. He looked out of the window instead at the landscape jolting by, and took comfort from Daizell's hand resting gently on his knee.

They didn't crash. Mr Marston's furious but competent driving got them to Stratford-upon-Avon in good time. It was a small town, rather low, with a mix of some fine new houses, and some marvellous older ones, black-beamed in the Tudor style.

It shouldn't take long for them to learn if Mr John Martin had travelled through, but first they had a promise to fulfil. Accordingly, he and Daizell took a room at the White Swan on Rother Street, and then Daizell and Miss Beaumont trotted off to carry out the motions of a wedding. Mr Marston set out to find a way up north that might evade pursuit, and Cassian was left to his own devices.

It felt rather flat, and he realised he would rather have been an actor in the drama. It was of course best that he should stay out of the business. The Duke of Severn could not involve himself in what was, frankly, troublemaking, and Daizell was better suited and placed for the work. And yet—

Maybe, next time he faced a challenge, he would think how to address it himself, before he asked for help.

He filled the time as best he could. He wandered around the town between the various coaching inns, enquiring about John Martin without success, and commanded luncheon at an ordinary with an ease that amazed himself once he was addressing his food. It had only been a few days, but he was becoming used to doing these things already. Or possibly he had so much on his mind that he didn't have room to worry about trivialities.

He certainly had plenty to think about. The crash. Miss Beaumont's problems, which were in no way his, but in which he was nevertheless tangled. His quest to track down his missing ring, which was starting to seem very unlikely indeed, and the question of why that didn't seem to matter as much as once it had. Daizell.

Daizell. He could still feel a phantom hand on his knee, offering silent support for his unreasoned fear, and a phantom arm over his shoulder, close and comfortable in sleep. He wanted those touches to be real.

This was foolish. Daizell was a wastrel who came of bad stock, and attempted to elope with heiresses, and was currently making a mockery of the sacrament of marriage. He needed to remember that those were bad things.

He trudged on around the alehouses in the centre of the little town till late afternoon, then returned to their inn, where he sat in the snug with a book, recuperating his energies after a frustrating day. As the many churches reached a loose consensus on six o'clock, Daizell reappeared.

‘Cass.' He looked bright-eyed, hair chaotic, buzzing with energy, and Cassian's moral resolutions were swamped like a sandcastle in the tide. ‘Good evening. What a day. Have you a drink? New book?'

‘There's a bookseller here. I couldn't find the new novel by Mrs Swann that you mentioned but I picked up Nightmare Abbey , which I had not read.'

‘How is it?'

‘Terrible.'

‘Excellent, excellent. Let me just command a drink, I'm parched.' Daizell waved at a barmaid. ‘What have you been up to?'

‘Nothing as exciting as you, by the look of things.'

Daizell grinned. ‘I have been enjoying myself, I will admit. Miss Beaumont has a remarkable turn for skulduggery, and an alarming ruthlessness. It was most entertaining. We purchased a common licence, and had a conversation with the vicar which I am quite sure he will remember. Miss Beaumont discussed our intention to marry and her flight from a wicked guardian with astonishing invention, and confided in his housekeeper that she intended to evade pursuit by dressing as a man. I understand the vicar has no power to forbid the banns from being read, or to refuse to marry us on grounds of disapproval alone, but good Lord, he looked like he wanted to.'

‘I imagine he did.' Hoaxing vicars was not a respectable way to go on, and Daizell seemed to have enjoyed it a great deal. Cassian was torn between very natural disapproval, the fear that he would not be able to hoax a vicar with any sort of aplomb, and a lurking regret he hadn't tried. ‘Do you think it will help?'

‘If Vier manages to follow her tracks here, it's quite possible this will throw him off. And if it does, and they can get ahead, they may be able to lose the pursuit altogether.'

‘Worthwhile, then. I hope it doesn't become common knowledge that she proposed to go about in breeches.'

‘I don't think she'll care, as long as she gets away with it. And, as she remarked, once she has her money, nobody will worry about how she got it. I hope she succeeds,' Daizell added thoughtfully. ‘I'm glad I met her. I rather resented our last encounter, but she made me a very frank apology today and I feel better about it now.'

‘What happened?' Cassian asked. ‘The elopement, I mean. You didn't seem to be very, uh . . . That is, were you awfully fond of one another?'

‘Do you want to know? It's not terribly edifying.'

‘I should like to. If you don't mind.'

‘Ah, it's the truth, so you might as well. It was not a Romeo and Juliet affair,' Daizell said, with a smile that wasn't quite as sparky as before. ‘There was a very tedious party, in a house where I was staying. Vier was there, and Miss Beaumont with him. She accosted me and proposed an elopement.'

Cassian blinked. ‘Just like that?'

‘More or less. We spoke briefly and she said she intended to get out from under Vier's thumb by any means necessary. That was, apparently, me. I was in rather a bad situation myself so a rich bride falling into my lap seemed a stroke of luck. As it turned out, she was using me to get out of the house, and intended to send me off separately by some ruse, with pursuit following in my direction while she fled with her swain – I assume Marston, since he clearly lacks the brains to arrange his own elopement. All's fair in love and war, I suppose. But Vier caught up with us very quickly. He retrieved her, and I had to leg it over a wall to get away.'

Cassian blinked at that. ‘You left her behind?'

‘Vier is her legal guardian, and he had four men with him including one carrying the much-mentioned horsewhip. Of course I left her behind: what else could I do?'

Daizell sounded a touch strained, as well he might. It wasn't, indeed, an edifying story, but the Duke had known he was Daizell Charnage when he hired him. He could scarcely complain when the details were filled in.

And for all that, he'd seen Daizell act in the coach spill. The Duke of Severn was obliged to take an uncompromising line on what constituted acceptable behaviour, without making allowances; perhaps Mr Cassian might be more understanding.

‘Well, I think you're extremely kind,' he said.

Daizell hesitated. ‘What do you mean?' He sounded rather wary. ‘I know it wasn't a very admirable way to go on—'

‘I'd say she treated you exceedingly poorly if she intended you to suffer for her elopement and gain nothing by it. I'm astonished you were ready to help her now.'

‘Oh, well, I owe Vier a bad turn,' Daizell said. ‘And it wasn't so bad of Miss Beaumont really. I will admit to being extremely annoyed at the time, but she was only eighteen, and desperate for a way out, and I was a tool at hand. She did what she had to do. Don't we all?'

Cassian sipped ale, thinking about people who did what they had to. He'd had to do a lot himself. Had to take up the mantle of his father aged six, had to carry the burden of rank and wealth and lands, had to live under scrutiny because of his position, and always be conscious that he was Severn. The weight he lived under was crushing. He'd wanted to flee his position so much that he had become bosom friends with a notorious rascal under a false name.

He had no idea at all what it was not to have money, or people, or prospects. He'd never been aimless or hopeless, or desperate.

He'd been lonely. He'd very often been lonely because he was a quiet man who didn't make friends easily or in great numbers, and his position had got in the way of friendships he could have made. If he'd been merely Harmsford at school, not Severn, the other boys wouldn't have been instructed how to behave to him, and might have been readier to include him. Then again, if he enjoyed parties, or if he was minded to matrimony, or if he let it be known he wanted a crowd of companions to gamble with, he could have made all the friends he liked. In his place, Daizell would probably be on intimate terms with everyone from the Houses of Parliament to the houses of correction, and having a marvellous time.

What might Cassian do in Daizell's place, the penniless son of a disgraced man? He hoped he wouldn't just drift around. He might become a horse trainer, he thought, or a stagecoach driver, even. Both of which would use the skills he'd acquired through owning a lot of horses, and having all the time he wanted to drive and ride. He wondered what skills George Charnage's son had beyond cutting profiles.

‘I suppose you're right,' he said. ‘I maintain you are extraordinarily generous to help her a second time. Did they get away safely?'

‘I trust so. I handed Miss Beaumont over and waved goodbye, and that is the limit of my responsibility.'

‘Fair.' Cassian contemplated his ale. ‘Were you afraid I'd be shocked by that tale?'

‘You don't strike me as an unconventional gentleman,' Daizell said. ‘You're clearly concerned about appearances, and correct behaviour. So . . . yes?'

That was rather lowering and Cassian wasn't even sure why. He was conventional, mostly, and he was concerned about correct behaviour, and so he ought to be. And Daizell hadn't said it in a patronising way that might imply he was timid or boring, not at all. That was still how it felt.

‘Well, I dare say I am,' he mumbled.

‘If ready to assist an elopement at the drop of a hat,' Daizell added, a touch of amusement returning to his voice. ‘So maybe not entirely conventional. Prepared to infringe convention when you dislike someone enough?'

‘Or when I like someone enough,' Cassian batted back, and then felt a pulse of panic as Daizell's eyes widened. He hadn't meant to say that, or admit it, and they were once again sharing a room tonight. ‘I mean, I liked Miss Beaumont. I thought she was very, uh . . .'

‘Yes, very,' Daizell said, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. ‘So you can discard unwanted social strictures if you happen to like the person?'

‘I . . . have done that, now and again,' Cassian said, astonished at his own daring.

The smile broadened temptingly. ‘That's good to know.'