Lady Beware by Jo Beverley Page B

unfolded the paper to reveal an enclosure—a printed sheet of some sort. When he unfolded that, he found a cheap print of a satirical cartoon, the sort of thing displayed row on row in any printer’s shop. He knew this one, however. He’d received another copy, also anonymously, in France within a week of the deaths of his father and brother last year.
    In neat engraving, two rotund men sprawled upon a hillside with the mouth of hell open below them. Imps had hold of their booted feet to drag them down to where flames, Lucifer, and a bloated monster of a man awaited.
    In case anyone missed the points, the monster was labeled “Mad Marcus Cave” and the two men were labeled “The Unholy Christian Cave” and “Vile Viscount Darien.” From thunderclouds above, God hurled a thunderbolt from each hand, with the captioned word, large and bold, “Cave!”
    At the bottom, the picture was titled The Wrath of God.
    â€œWell,” he muttered to the sender, “and damn you to hell, too.”
    The cartoon was accurate in the essentials. His father, the sixth Viscount Darien, and his other older brother, the very unholy Christian Cave, had been found dead on moors near Stours Court. They’d been out shooting and were killed during a thunderstorm.
    When he’d heard the news Darien hadn’t felt a twinge of grief, but he’d wished they’d died less obtrusively. He wished it even more now. Marcus’s foul crime had been six years ago and he’d been dead for five, but the Wrath of God had occurred only last year.
    Was this cartoon being reprinted and displayed again? At whose instigation? As he crushed the image in his fist, the knocker hammered again. “God Almighty! What now?” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Bad things, he remembered, came in threes.
    He strode to the door to meet his fate, but it opened to show Prussock again, looking even crosser. “You have a guest, milord,” he accused.
    â€œYou mean a visitor, Prussock.”
    â€œNo, milord. The gentleman says he has come to stay.”
    â€œWho—”
    But the gentleman in question appeared behind the butler, large, round, beaming, and as always resembling a six-foot-tall cherub. “Nice house, Canem,” said Pup Uppington, erstwhile lieutenant in Darien’s regiment. Darien stared, wondering what he’d done to deserve this.
    Pup had been christened Percival Arthur Uppington by parents who’d hoped for a mighty warrior. When he’d turned out to be short of a full dozen they’d sent him into the army anyway. By some miracle he’d survived long enough to make it from cornet to lieutenant, being passed around regiments until he’d landed, confused but willing, under Captain Cave’s command.
    It had seemed that the whole army had agreed that Pup fit beautifully there, by name if for no other reason. He’d acquired the nickname “Pup” in school, but the prospect of making him Canem’s Pup had been too much for anyone to resist.
    That might have been why Darien hadn’t tried to shuffle him off, and why he’d kept Pup alive over the Pyrenees, through France and the false peace, and even through Waterloo. The unfortunate consequence was that Pup was as devoted as a puppy. Darien had thought he’d shed him when Pup had inherited a godfather’s money late last year, but Pup had stayed in the army, devoted as always.
    When Darien himself had sold his commission, he’d assumed that would sever the cord, especially as Pup had left at the same time to claim his modest fortune. What in Hades was he doing here?
    â€œThank you, Prussock,” Darien said, rather dazedly.
    When the butler stepped to the side and worked around Pup to leave, he revealed an astonishing waistcoat curving over Pup’s belly, one composed of blue and yellow paisley. Pup’s clothing was all disastrously in the absolutely latest style,