Grand Central Publishing
Featuring: Apollo Greaves; Lily Stump
352 pages ISBN: 1455586307 EAN: 9781455586301 Kindle: B00I829SVE Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
Indio Stump, seven years old, has just come across "a
monster
in the garden". The beast in question is Apollo Greaves,
Viscount Kilbourne, who four years prior, lost
everything: his freedom, his title and his money. He was
sent to Bedlam, and put in chains for a crime he didn't
commit, and while in jail, he was beaten so badly his
larynx was damaged and he lost the use of his voice. He
managed to escape the King's men, and he has been hiding
under the guise of a gardener. A friend, Asa Makepeace,
owner of a Harte's Folly, a theatre in which Apollo is an
investor, gave him a way to earn his keep and stay safe.
Lily Stump, Indio's mother, is a famous actress, but she
has been unable to find any work for months, and has
almost no money left. She, Indio, and Lily's old
nursemaid have been living in two rooms of Harte's Folly,
the theatre where Lily worked until it burned down. When
Lily first meets the Beast, he is coming out of a pond,
completely nude, and she rather likes what she sees.
Indio has become fast friends with the Beast, and Lily
gets to know the mysterious man who haunts her garden,
who is far from a beast.
DARLING BEAST is the latest instalment in the wonderful
Maiden Lane series, and once again Ms. Hoyt does
not
disappoint. Her writing style is simply exquisite;
stunningly beautiful, it brings an entire era to life.
The author's attention to historical accuracy makes the
story very appealing, especially when it comes to the
dialogues, which are absolutely delightful. Her writing
skills are so remarkable that something as trivial as
transplanting a tree becomes sheer poetry.
Besides the gorgeous prose, one of the main strengths of
this book is the complexity of the characters: no one is
perfect, and it is precisely their flaws that make the
characters so compelling: Apollo is a huge and not
particularly handsome man, and even though Lily is
beautiful, her chosen profession is rather frowned upon
by society. I simply loved a secondary character: the
delightfully foppish Duke of Montgomery; unforgettable!
And while you are completely under the spell of the
characters' stories, the mystery slowly builds into a
great suspense. DARLING BEAST is the sort of book that,
upon finishing, makes you feel like standing up and
applauding!
A MAN CONDEMNED . . .
Falsely accused of murder and mute from a near-fatal
beating, Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne has escaped
from
Bedlam. With the Crown's soldiers at his heels, he finds
refuge in the ruins of a pleasure garden, toiling as a
simple gardener. But when a vivacious young woman moves
in,
he's quickly driven to distraction . . .
A DESPERATE WOMAN . . .
London's premier actress, Lily Stump, is down on her luck
when she's forced to move into a scorched theatre with her
maid and small son. But she and her tiny family aren't the
only inhabitants-a silent, hulking beast of a man also
calls
the charred ruins home. Yet when she catches him reading
her
plays, Lily realizes there's more to this man than meets
the
eye.
OUT OF ASH, DESIRE FLARES
Though scorching passion draws them together, Apollo knows
that Lily is keeping secrets. When his past catches up
with
him, he's forced to make a choice: his love for Lily . . .
or the explosive truth that will set him free.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
APRIL 1741
LONDON, ENGLAND
As the mother of a seven-year-old boy, Lily Stump was used
to odd
topics of conversation. There was the debate on whether fish
wore
clothes. The deep and insightful discussion over where
sugared plums
came from and the subsequent lecture on why little boys were
not
allowed to break their fast with them every day. And, of
course, the
infamous controversy of Why Dogs Bark But Cats Do Not.
So truly it wasn’t Lily’s fault that she did not pay heed to
her
son’s announcement at luncheon that there was a monster in the
garden.
“Indio,” Lily said with only a tiny bit of exasperation,
“must you
wipe your jammy fingers on Daffodil? I can’t think she likes
it.”
Sadly, this was a blatant lie. Daffodil, a very young and
very silly
red Italian greyhound with a white blaze on her chest, was
already
happily twisting her slim body in a circle in order to lick the
sticky patch on her back.
“Mama,” Indio said with great patience as he put down his
bread and
jam, “didn’t you hear me? There’s a monster in the garden.”
He was
kneeling on his chair and now he leaned forward over the
table to
emphasize his words, a lock of his dark curly hair falling
into his
right, blue, eye. Indio’s other eye was green, which some found
disconcerting, although Lily had long ago grown used to the
disparity.
“Did he have horns?” the third member of their little family
asked
very seriously.
“Maude!” Lily hissed.
Maude Ellis plonked a plate of cheese down on their
only-slightly-
singed table and set her hands on her skinny hips. Maude had
seen
five decades and despite her tiny stature—she only just came to
Lily’s shoulder—she never shied away from speaking her mind.
“Well,
and mightn’t it be the Devil he saw?”
Lily narrowed her eyes in warning—Indio was prone to rather
alarming
nightmares and this conversation didn’t seem the best idea.
“Indio
did not see the Devil—or a monster, for that matter.”
“I did,” Indio said. “But he hasn’t horns. He has shoulders
as big as
this.” And he demonstrated by throwing his arms as far apart
as he
could, nearly knocking his bowl of carrot soup to the floor
in the
process.
Lily caught the bowl deftly—much to the disappointment of
Daffodil.
“Do eat your soup, please, Indio, before it ends on the floor.”
“’Tisn’t a dunnie, then,” Maude said decisively as she took
her own
chair. “Quite small they are, ’cepting when they turn to a
horse. Did
it turn to a horse, deary?”
“No, Maude.” Indio shoved a big spoonful of soup into his
mouth and
then regrettably continued talking. “He looks like a man,
but bigger
and scarier. His hands are as big as…as…” Indio’s little
brows drew
together as he tried to think of an appropriate simile.
“Your head,” Lily supplied helpfully. “A tricorn hat. A leg
of lamb.
Daffodil.”
Daffodil barked at her name and spun in a happy circle.
“Was he dripping wet or all over green?” Maude demanded.
Lily sighed and watched as Indio attempted to describe his
monster
and Maude attempted to identify it from her long list of
fairies,
hobgoblins, and imaginary beasts. Maude had grown up in the
north of
England and apparently spent her formative years memorizing
the most
ghastly folktales. Lily herself had heard these stories from
Maude
when she was young—resulting in quite a few torturous
nights. She was
endeavoring—mostly without success—to keep Maude from
imparting the
same stories to Indio.
Her gaze drifted around the rather decrepit room they’d
moved into
just yesterday afternoon. A small fireplace was on one
charred wall.
Maude’s bed and her chest were pushed against another. Their
table
and four chairs were in the middle of the room. A tiny
writing table
and a rickety dark-plum settee were near the hearth. To the
side, a
door led into a small room—a former dressing room—where Lily
had her
own bed and Indio his cot. These two rooms were all that
remained of
the backstage in what had once been a grand theater at
Harte’s Folly.
The theater—and indeed the entire pleasure garden—had burned
down the
autumn before. The stink of smoke still lingered about the
place like
a ghost, though the majority of the wreckage had been hauled
away.
Lily shivered. Perhaps the gloominess of the place was
making Indio
imagine monsters.
Indio swallowed a big bite of his bread and jam. “He has
shaggy hair
and he lives in the garden. Daff’s seen him, too.”
Both Lily and Maude glanced at the little greyhound.
Daffodil was
sitting by Indio’s chair, chewing on a back paw. As they
watched she
overbalanced and rolled onto her back.
“Perhaps Daffodil ate something that disagreed with her
tummy,” Lily
said diplomatically, “and the tummy ache made her think
she’d seen a
monster. I haven’t seen a monster in the garden and neither has
Maude.”
“Well, there were that wherryman with the big nose, hanging
about the
dock suspicious-like yesterday,” Maude muttered. Lily shot
her a look
and Maude hastily added, “Er, but no, never seen a real
monster. Just
wherrymen with big noses.”
Indio considered that bit of information. “My monster has a big
nose.” His mismatched eyes widened as he looked up
excitedly. “And a
hook. Per’aps he cuts children into little bits with his
hook and
eats them!”
“Indio!” Lily exclaimed. “That’s quite enough.”
“But Mama—”
“No. Now why don’t we discuss fish clothing or…or how to teach
Daffodil to sit up and beg?”
Indio sighed gustily. “Yes, Mama.” He slumped, the very
picture of
dejection, and Lily couldn’t help but think that he’d
someday make a
fine dramatic actor. She darted a pleading glance at Maude.
But Maude only shook her head and bent to her own soup.
Lily cleared her throat. “I’m sure Daffodil would benefit from
training,” she said a little desperately.
“I suppose.” Indio swallowed the last spoonful of his soup and
clutched his bread in his hand. He looked at Lily with big
eyes. “May
I leave the table, please, Mama?”
“Oh, very well.”
In a flurry he tumbled from his chair and ran toward the door.
Daffodil scampered behind him, barking.
“Don’t go near the pond!” Lily called.
The door to the garden banged shut.
Lily winced and looked at the older woman. “That didn’t go
well, did
it?”
Maude shrugged. “Mayhap could’ve been better, but the lad is a
sensitive one, he is. So were you at that age.”
“Was I?”
Maude had been her nursemaid—and rather more, truth be told.
She
might be superstitious, but Lily trusted Maude implicitly
when it
came to the rearing of children. And a good thing, too,
since she’d
been left to raise Indio alone. “Should I go after him, do you
think?”
“Aye, in a bit. No point now. Give him a fair while to calm
himself.”
Maude jerked her pointed chin at Lily’s bowl. “Best get that
inside
you, hinney.”
The corner of Lily’s mouth curled at the old endearment. “I
wish I
could’ve found us somewhere else to stay. Somewhere not so…”
She
hesitated, loath to give the ruined pleasure garden’s
atmosphere a
name.
“Uncanny,” Maude said promptly, having no such trouble
herself. “All
them burnt trees and falling-down buildings and not a soul
about for
miles in the nights. I place a wee bag of garlic and sage
under my
pillow every night, I do, and you ought as well.”
“Mmm,” Lily murmured noncommittally. She wasn’t sure she
wanted to
wake up to the reek of garlic and sage. “At least the
workmen are
about during the day.”
“And a right scruffy bunch, the lot of them,” Maude said
stoutly.
“Don’t know where Mr. Harte got these so-called gardeners,
but I
wouldn’t be surprised if he found them in the street. Or
worse”—she
leaned forward to whisper hoarsely—“got them off a ship from
Ireland.”
“Oh, Maude,” Lily chided gently. “I don’t know why you have
this
dislike of the Irish—they’re just looking for work like
anyone else.”
Maude snorted as she vigorously buttered a slice of bread.
“Besides,” Lily said hastily, “we’re only here until Mr. Harte
produces a new play with a part for me.”
“And where would he be doing that?” Maude asked, glancing at
the
charred beams over their heads. “He’ll need a new theater
first, and
a garden to put it in afore that. It’ll be at least a
year—more, most
like.”
Lily winced and opened her mouth, but Maude had gotten the bit
between her teeth. She shook her piece of bread at Lily,
showering
crumbs on the table. “Never trusted that man, not me. Too
charming
and chatty by half. Mr. Harte could sweet-talk a bird down
from a
tree, into the palm of his hand, and right into the oven, he
could.
Or”—she slapped a last daub of butter on the bread—“talk an
actress
with all of London at her feet to come play in his
theater—and only
his theater.”
“Well, to be fair, Mr. Harte wasn’t to know his pleasure
garden and
the theater would burn to the ground at the time.”
“Nay, but he did know it’d put Mr. Sherwood’s back up.”
Maude bit
into her bread for emphasis.
Lily wrinkled her nose at the memory. Mr. Sherwood, the
proprietor of
the King’s Theatre and her former employer, was a rather
vindictive
man. He’d promised Lily that he’d make sure she’d not find work
anywhere else in London if she went with Mr. Harte and his
offer of
twice the salary Mr. Sherwood had been paying her.
That hadn’t been a problem until Harte’s Folly had burned,
at which
point Lily had found that Mr. Sherwood had made good on his
promise:
all the other theaters in London refused to let her play for
them.
Now, after being out of work for over six months, she’d gone
through
what few savings she’d had, forcing her little family to
vacate their
stylish rented rooms.
“At least Mr. Harte let us stay here free of charge?” Lily
offered
rather feebly.
Fortunately, Maude’s reply was nonverbal since she’d just
taken a
bite of the soup.
“Yes, well, I really ought to go after Indio,” Lily said,
rising.
“And what of your luncheon, then?” Maude demanded, nodding
at Lily’s
half-finished soup.
“I’ll have it later.” Lily bit her lip. “I hate it when he’s
upset.”
“You coddle the boy,” Maude sniffed, but Lily noticed the
older woman
didn’t make any further protest.
Lily hid a smile. If anyone coddled Indio it was Maude
herself. “I’ll
be back in a bit.”
Maude waved a hand as Lily turned to the door to the
outside. The
door screeched horribly as she pulled it open. One of the
hinges was
cracked from the heat of the fire and it hung askew.
Outside, the day
was overcast. Deep-gray clouds promised more rain and the wind
whipped across the blackened ground. Lily shivered and
wrapped her
arms around herself. She should’ve brought her shawl.
“Indio!” Her shout was thinned by the wind.
Helplessly she looked around. What had once been an elegant
pleasure
garden had been reduced to sooty mud by the fire and the spring
rains. The hedges that had outlined graveled walks were
burnt and
mostly dead, meandering away into the distance. To the left
were the
remains of the stone courtyard and boxes where musicians had
played
for guests: a line of broken pillars, supporting nothing but
sky. To
the right a copse of straggling trees stood with a bit of
mirrored
water peeking out from behind—what was left of an ornamental
pond,
now clogged with silt. Here and there green poked out among
the gray
and black, but she had to admit that, especially on an
overcast day
like this one, with wisps of fog slinking along the ground, the
garden was ominous and rather frightening.
Lily grimaced. She should’ve never let Indio out to play by
himself,
but it was hard to keep an active young boy inside. She
started down
one of the paths, slipping a bit in the mud, wishing she’d
stopped to
put on her pattens before coming outside. If she didn’t see
her son
soon, she’d ruin the frivolous embroidered slippers on her feet.
“Indio!”
She rounded what once had been a small thicket of trimmed
trees. Now
the blackened branches rattled in the wind. “Indio!”
A grunt came from the thicket.
Lily stopped dead.
There it was again—almost an explosive snort. The noise was
too loud,
too deep for Indio. It almost sounded like…a big animal.
She glanced quickly around, but she was completely alone.
Should she
return to the ruined theater for Maude? But Indio was out here!
Another grunt, this one louder. A rustle.
Something was breathing heavily in the bushes.
Good Lord. Lily bunched her skirts in her fists in case she
had to
leg it, and crept forward.
A groan and a low, rumbling sound.
Like growling.
She gulped and peeked around a burned trunk.
At first what she saw looked like an enormous, moving,
mud-covered
mound, and then it straightened, revealing an endlessly
broad back,
huge shoulders, and a shaggy head.
Lily couldn’t help it. She made a noise that was perilously
close to
a squeak.
The thing whirled—much faster than anything that big had a
right to
move—and a horrible, soot-stained face glared at her, one
paw raised
as if to strike her.
In it was a wickedly sharp, hooked knife.
Lily gulped. If she lived through the day she was going to
have to
apologize to Indio.
For there was a monster in the garden.
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