Jo Beverley (16 page)

And yet, he was apparently tarnished by scandal. She had to find out about that before she sank deeper into folly, and Lady Thalia might know all. She wanted to rush to demand the information, but it was too early to disturb the other ladies. Seething with impatience, she paced the large room.

The Royal Salon was used as a portrait gallery, and on her previous visit she’d been shown around by the dowager herself. There was nothing new to see, but she paused in front of the magnificent full-length painting of Ashart in his peer’s robes of scarlet and ermine. This image of dark, arrogant beauty hadn’t helped her sanity the last time she’d been here, but nor had her realization that as his marchioness she would have similar robes to wear.

A duchess’s were finer, she reminded herself.

She looked right and left at similar pictures, but of monarchs in their coronation robes. She remembered thinking the arrangement peculiar before, but she hadn’t been willing to question it. Since then, she’d seen the Rothgar Abbey portrait gallery, which contained no monarchs at all. A loyal portrait of the present king hung in the Tapestry Room at the abbey, but nothing like this.

Here, Ashart was displayed in company with Charles I, his son Charles II, and Charles II’s brother and heir, James II. Kings of the last century and Stuarts, to boot?

The Stuart line had failed, and their distant relatives from Hanover, Germany, had been invited to take the throne. Thus far, there’d been George I, George II, and George III, but none of them were represented here.

Suspicions stirred in Damaris’s mind. There had been two serious attempts to return the Stuart line to the throne. The supporters of the Stuarts were called Jacobites after King James—Jacob in Latin.

Were the Trayces secret
Jacobites
? Not so secret, even, if they hung Stuart portraits on the walls! It defied belief, but made her even more glad not to be embroiled with them.

Despite furs she was growing chilled, so she returned to her room. She sent Maisie in search of Lady Thalia’s maid to ask that she be told when the other ladies were ready for a guest.

“And find out the time!” she called after her, then set to winding the clock. While she was at it, she used a handkerchief to dust it and the mantelpiece it sat on. She stopped when she found mouse droppings again. This place truly was disgusting.

When Maisie returned with the news that it was half past nine and the other ladies were up and eager for her to join them, Damaris was happy to move to cleaner and more comfortable quarters. She was also ready to question the older lady about Fitzroger’s past.

She found Genova and Lady Thalia dressed and taking breakfast in front of the fire, which burned so hot that they were both shielded by fire screens. Damaris instantly shed her cloak but was still too warm.

Genova, looking fully restored to beauty and health, rose to take Damaris’s hands. “Thank you, thank you, my dear friend! You are so clever!”

“You feel fully recovered?”

“As if nothing happened. How embarrassing. I’ve never fallen into a panic like that before.”

“But it wasn’t,” Damaris said. “Fitzroger went back to Pickmanwell to investigate. A number of people were affected. Something got into one bowl of cider.”

“How awful. Is everyone else safe?” Genova asked.

“Apparently. He thinks your flagon was the last of the bowl and the noxious ingredient was concentrated there.”

“Thank heavens no one was in danger. Now, come sit and breakfast with us. Regeanne, another chair.”

“I’ve eaten,” Damaris said, “and I’m too warmly dressed to sit close to the fire. I’ll take the sofa.”

Talk turned to plans for their stay here. Lady Thalia wanted to explore the house.

“But didn’t you grow up here?” Damaris asked.

“Yes, but I left as a young woman—when my brother married Sophia Prease, you see. Her nature was little better then than now. I haven’t been back here since”—she thought—“since Ashart’s christening! His majority was celebrated in London.”

Damaris wondered what she’d make of the state of the house beyond this room. “Then I recommend you imitate me and wear your furs, Lady Thalia. It’s very cold at the moment.”

“How clever, dear! Cold can be so treacherous. And afterward we will return to this warm room and play whist.

Damaris confessed. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play whist, Lady Thalia.”

“Not know how to play whist! That will never do. We will teach you.” She began to rattle off the rules, giving Damaris no chance to ask about Fitzroger’s scandal.

A knock on the door interrupted the bewildering torrent of information. The maid Regeanne answered and brought the news that “You are invited to join the marquess, ma’ams.”

They all went to the Little Library to find both Ashart and Fitzroger were there. Lady Thalia immediately declared her desire to tour the house.

Ashart looked taken aback, which was hardly surprising when the house was so cold and in poor repair. There was no stopping Lady Thalia Trayce, however, when she had her mind set on something.

“We’ll just get our furs, dear,” she said and hurried back into the bedchamber.

“Furs?” Ashart queried.

“Damaris reports that the house is so cold, they’re needed,” Genova said and followed.

Damaris went, too, certain that hadn’t made Ashart any fonder of her. But he’d soon realized how sensible it was.

When they all came back, Ashart offered his great-aunt his arm. “Lead the way, Thalia. I look forward to your stories.” He offered his other arm to Genova.

Which left Damaris to walk with Fitzroger. “You might want to wear gloves, at least,” she told him as they left the room.

“You think me a delicate bloom?”

“No,” she said. “Never that.”

They went first into the Royal Salon, where Lady Thalia looked around, wrinkling her nose. “How sadly neglected. It used to be very grand. It was often used as a ballroom when I was young, and as a banquet hall when Queen Anne visited. That’s where the name comes from. I see the family portraits are here now. Come, Genova, and be introduced.”

She tripped over to the right-hand wall and began an illustrated family history, which they all meekly followed. But when they reached the picture of a lovely young lady in classical dress playing a stringed instrument, Lady Thalia fell silent.

“Poor Augusta.” Lady Thalia sighed, then quickly moved on.

“Who?” Damaris whispered to Fitzroger.

“Rothgar’s mother, and the dowager’s youngest daughter. She is the link between the Trayce family and the Mallorens, and thus the cause of all the trouble. You know the story?”

“Yes.” Lord Henry had told her about Rothgar’s mother going mad and murdering her baby. She’d imagined some evil hag, however, not this very young beauty. “Perhaps it’s not surprising that the dowager hates the Mallorens.”

“Portraits don’t always capture the truth,” he said.

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, Lady Thalia said, “How very peculiar.”

She’d come to the wall of monarchs and was considering it with a remarkably severe expression. “I don’t approve, Ashart. Sophia may be proud to be the daughter of a royal bastard, but it’s hardly wise to boast of a Stuart connection these days.”

Damaris came fully alert. “The dowager’s father was a royal bastard?” she asked Fitzroger. “Ashart has royal blood?”

“Mourning your loss?”

But Ashart had overheard. “It’s not something I’m proud of. Besides, bastard lines from Charles the Second are two a penny.”

“That’s why they called him Old Rowley,” Fitzroger said close to Damaris’s ear. “After a very active dog in his kennels.”

Damaris blushed and shot him a frown.

Lady Thalia had overheard. “No scurrilous talk, sir!” she said, but she added, “Not that it wasn’t true.”

She regarded the wall again, tut-tutting. “And even a portrait of poor Monmouth. Charles the Second’s oldest son, dears,” she said to Damaris and Genova. “I suppose he was Sophia’s uncle in a way, but even so, a sad story and an arrant rebel.”

Damaris knew her history. Monmouth had led a rebellion against James II in an attempt to seize his father’s throne. He’d failed and been beheaded.

Was Lady Thalia thinking along the same lines as she had—that the Trayces were Jacobites? Or, at least, that the dowager was? It was a peculiar notion, but the Duke of Monmouth’s presence here had to mean something.

This whole wall had to mean something. She thought Fitzroger, too, was studying it as if it were a puzzle.

State secrets.

In this context that was enough to give her cold shivers. The heads of the Scottish lords who’d led the last Jacobite rising still rotted on spikes in London.

“He was very handsome,” Genova said, looking at Monmouth’s picture.

“It’s those flowing curls,” Fitzroger said. “Perhaps we should bring back the fashion.”

“He was a fool,” Ashart said rather grimly. “He chose to believe that his father had married his mother, and thus led thousands to their deaths.”

“Who was the royal mistress?” Genova asked, looking around. “Does her portrait hang here? She was…what? Your great-grandmother, Ash?”

“Great-great.” Ashart looked as if he’d like to leave the room, which wasn’t surprising, but he would not deny Genova. He indicated the next wall, and a portrait of a young blond beauty in a simple white gown, cradling a snowy lamb.

“Betty Crowley, who later became Betty Prease. Married off to one of the king’s devoted supporters to provide a name for her child.”

“My goodness,” Genova said, “she doesn’t look the part.”

“Probably because it’s a complete invention. Grandy had it painted long after the lady’s death. No true portrait exists.”

“Of a royal mistress? Isn’t that strange?”

“She chose to live quietly and privately.”

Damaris saw yet another puzzle. “And was lover to Charles the Second? Alongside bold wantons such as Barbara Castlemaine and Nell Gwyn?”

“That is strange, Ashart, you have to admit,” said Lady Thalia. “I have always thought so.”

He shrugged. “That’s the story. Come along. You were right. It is cold. We need to keep moving.”

And leave evidence of Jacobite treason behind? Damaris wondered.

They all walked toward the arch that led to the main staircase, but Damaris stopped, caught by a portrait at the end of the royal wall—a very young man who looked confident of a brilliant future.

“Who’s this?” she asked Fitzroger, who was by her side. “Another rebel?”

“Not at all. Merely a tragic footnote to history. It’s Prince Henry Stuart, Charles the Second’s youngest brother.”

“I didn’t know there was another brother besides James.”

“Nor did I before I came here and saw this.”

Damaris studied the handsome young man in those long, lush curls. “Why tragic?”

“He was born in 1640 as the Civil War began, was nine when his father was beheaded, and lived with his mother in impoverished exile until he was twenty. When England begged his brother, Charles, to return and take up his throne, Henry returned to share the wealth and power. Not long afterward, however, he died of smallpox. A sharp lesson in the capriciousness of fate. Come along,” he said, putting his hand on her back. “The others are already downstairs.”

His touch sent sparkles through her, even when she was armored in corset, quilting, fur, and velvet. She wished she could linger here, to ponder the strangeness of the royal portraits or, more precisely, to try to understand why they hung here and what about them had made Fitzroger suddenly tense and alert.

Was it simply the possibility of Jacobitism? Her instincts said not. That was too obvious.

What had he seen that she had not?

T
hey joined the others at the bottom of the stairs in the icy tiled hall near the empty fireplace. Lady Thalia was explaining that it was a masterpiece of some sort by an Italian, but Damaris thought even her enthusiasm for this tour was diminishing.

“The library,” the old lady announced, and headed off briskly. “My father’s collection was famous.”

This turned out to be a room Damaris had not seen before, and no wonder. It stank of rot, and so many bits of the ornate plaster ceiling had fallen that the room was dusted gray. The glass doors over the shelves were filmed with it, but she could still see that many shelves were half-empty.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Thalia said, sounding close to tears. “This was Papa’s pride and joy.”

Ashart looked drawn, and Damaris wasn’t surprised. This whole house was soaked with sorrow, deep in the walls, warped in the wood, sighing on cold drafts. No wonder it shed flakes of paint and plaster like tears.

Had he not known?

She’d gained the impression that he visited here rarely. Perhaps he’d fallen into the habit of going to his rooms and avoiding the rest of the house.

He put an arm around his great-aunt. “Grandmother must have been selling the more valuable books. I’ll put a stop to it, and have something done about this.”

He looked rather helpless, which wasn’t surprising.

“If you’re thinking of lighting a fire in here,” Genova said in a calm voice, “you’d better have the chimney checked first.”

Ashart smiled at her as if she were a port in a storm. “A practical wife is above rubies.”

Was it, as it sounded, a clear declaration that he’d still not exchange her for the greatest fortune in the land, including the Myddleton rubies? Damaris wondered wistfully if she would ever be loved like that. Being married for her money became less appealing by the moment.

Fitzroger broke the heavy silence. “Where do you keep the family archives, Ash?”

Ashart gestured to the far side of the room. “The older records are in cupboards there, and more recent ones in the estate office. Are you looking for an inventory of what used to be here?”

“No. You said Rothgar asked about documents concerning Betty Prease.”

Who?
Then Damaris remembered—the royal mistress, the one portrayed as such a pure and innocent miss.

Fitzroger continued, “We could oblige him and amuse ourselves looking for information about Mistress Crowley’s real nature and her relationship with the king.”

Ashart didn’t look enthusiastic, but Genova said, “That does sound fascinating.”

Her whim, of course, was law. “I have little else to offer by way of amusement,” Ashart said. “Very well, but no one is poking through records here. They’d freeze. Bring anything up to the Little Library, Fitz.”

Damaris thought Fitzroger looked anything but pleased with this suggestion. He had no choice, however. “Very well. You said the Prease papers might be in the attic?”

“I believe so. If not, Mrs. Knightly should know. Come along, ladies. Let’s return to the warmth. You were right about the cold. I’m likely to lose my fingers soon.”

Genova reacted as if he’d announced a mortal wound and pressed her fur-lined muff on him. “I can tuck my hands under my cloak, see?”

Ashart put his hands into the large blue muff and looked neither awkward nor ridiculous. Damaris thought of making the same offer to Fitzroger, but it seemed too bold in public.

“Come along!” Lady Thalia commanded, heading for the door. “While Fitz finds the papers, we four can play whist!”

Damaris groaned, wishing she could stay here. Investigating the Prease papers with Fitzroger was immensely more appealing. No one would permit it, however, if only because whist required four players.

She looked at him and he suddenly seemed alone, abandoned.

She couldn’t help herself. She thrust her mink-lined muff into his hands before hurrying away.

Fitz stood bemused. When the others were out of sight, he raised the muff to his face. Even lacking intimate smells, there was something of Damaris about it. Perhaps a faint hint of jasmine that he’d noticed as her perfume. His hands were cold, so he pushed them into the silky warmth, but then pulled them out again. The sensation had seemed indecently erotic.

He put the tormenting object aside. He had to have his wits about him, which meant avoiding Damaris Myddleton.

He’d lied to her this morning because he didn’t want her plunging into some impulsive danger. Her boldness terrified him, particularly when matters were so dangerous.

There were no other victims at Pickmanwell. Someone had put poison into one flagon and sent it via Damaris to Genova.

He’d told the truth about the sender being a man with crooked teeth, but he’d been unable to find him. The snaggletoothed man was remembered—his appearance made that inevitable—and he’d given the name Fletcher, but the trail ended there. He’d been riding and he’d left shortly after they had. No one knew which direction he’d taken.

Fletcher. A false name, Fitz assumed, but a clever one. Not trite such as Smith or Brown, but common enough to be hard to track down, even with his having a distorted lip and crossed teeth.

Reluctantly, not yet having permission to be honest, he’d told Ash the same false tale. He’d seen an advantage to the lie. What Ash knew Genova would know, and it could then spread to Damaris. She’d be poking and prying again.

He put his cold fingers briefly to his head.

He had the house closely watched now, and as long as he could keep Ash and Genova inside, all should be well. But their tour might have accidentally revealed the cause of the danger, and his suspicions chilled his blood.

He returned to the Royal Salon and considered the portraits again. If only they could talk. Especially Betty Crowley—the contradictory royal mistress who so interested Rothgar.

The portrait would never speak, but her secrets might be in her papers, and could contain the key to Ash and Genova’s survival. Therefore, he would find them.

In the marquess’s rooms Lady Thalia busily arranged for whist. She declared the Little Library too gloomy and commanded Ashart to summon servants to move the card table into the spacious bedchamber.

Whilst they waited, Lady Thalia continued her lesson to Damaris.

Damaris had watched some games at Rothgar Abbey. That plus the introduction to the game given by Mr. Hoyle enabled her to understand most of what Lady Thalia rattled off. She hoped not to embarrass herself.

When eventually they all took their places, she partnered Lady Thalia, who smiled at her encouragingly as Ashart dealt. At the end of the hand, Lady Thalia said, “A good start, dear, but you must keep track of the cards played. You should have known that you held the last club.”

That lost trick had cost them the game, and Lady Thalia wasn’t pleased.

Damaris applied her mind. She found remembering the cards easy as long as she didn’t let her mind slide to the subject of Fitzroger, wondering what he was doing. Had he found the papers? How could she get to search them with him? What was he really looking for?

“Your play, Damaris,” Genova prompted.

Damaris pulled her wits together and followed suit. She managed until Fitzroger entered the room. Then all memory of the cards played blew out of her head. By heaven’s mercy, the hand played out without needing an important decision from her.

She went with the others into the Little Library, excited simply to be in his company again.

Four polished wooden boxes with brass locks sat on the floor, each about two square feet. Fitzroger lifted one onto the desk. “Do you have the keys, Ash?”

“No. Quite possibly they’re mislaid. If not, Grandy will have them.”

Fitzroger produced his slender tools and performed his magic. When he opened the lid, they all pressed forward. Perhaps everyone had secretly hoped for the glint of gold, a portrait, or even a scrap of lace. Instead the box contained a jumble of yellowed papers.

Ashart lifted the top ones and flipped through them. “Accounts and such. Do you really want to dig through these, Genova?”

Genova looked disappointed, but she said, “We should all help….”

“That’s not necessary.” Fitzroger spoke so quickly that Damaris knew he wanted to search the papers on his own.

“I certainly have no interest,” Lady Thalia said. “Come back to cards, everyone.”

Impelled simply by that, Damaris said, “I’ll start on the papers. I’ve enjoyed the lesson, but I’m sure Mr. Fitzroger will give you a more challenging game.”

Genova, Ashart, and Thalia left without arguing that point.

Only Fitzroger hesitated, remaining by the box, close to her. “There’s no need,” he said.

Her skin was tingling simply from proximity. “I’d rather. Really. I’m a novice at whist.”

After a moment he moved away. “Very well. But search carefully.”

She felt able to breathe properly and look directly at him. “So what are we looking for?”

“Anything about Betty Crowley Prease.”

“No, what are we
really
looking for?”

“What else do you expect? Secret treasure?”

With that light, dismissive comment, he left, but he didn’t close the door between the two rooms. She wasn’t sure if that was because it might have seemed rude, or because he didn’t trust her, but it left the card table in sight.

The empty seat there almost faced her, so he would be able to observe her with the slightest turn of his head. However, that also meant she could observe him, and even as she took the first few papers out of the box, she did so.

She watched him sit, flipping back the skirts of his plain coat, every movement fluid and strong.
He’s sitting in a chair,
she told herself.
Have some sense.

She turned her eyes to the papers in her hand, realizing too late that some were thin and her tight grip had torn one. She spread them carefully on the desk and did a quick first assessment.

As far as she could tell, there was nothing connected to Betty Prease, but she became fascinated all the same. Accounts, inventories and bills formed a patchwork picture of the past—one that was more like a crazy quilt. For all its shortcomings, Birch House had been neatly organized. She’d always known where things would be and when things should be done.

These papers looked to have been tossed into the box without care or system, and she simply couldn’t bear it. Apart from this mysterious search, there could be important documents here. A lease, a contract—or a letter from a royal lover. No matter what Fitzroger really wanted to find, she’d be delighted by something like that.

She set to organization, creating piles for household accounts, receipts, letters from merchants and other businessmen, and family correspondence.

Despite every effort of will her eyes and mind kept turning from one investigation to another. From documents to man.

What was the truth about Octavius Fitzroger? He’d seemed tense in the portrait gallery but now looked gracefully at ease. Some people could do that—arrange themselves for beauty without thought. He was beautiful in that way—a lithe, masculine beauty that summoned memories of the fencing match. And turned her hot all over.

She hastily returned her attention on the papers. That was when she realized that the documents she’d sorted were all from the early part of the present century, which was forty years too late for anything to do with Betty and the king. She flipped through them again. Some went back as far as the 1690s, but nothing from the 1660s.

There had to be some older ones and some more intimate ones.

She glanced first at the cardplayers, then at the other boxes, then at the slender picks sticking out of the lock of the box in front of her. Everyone seemed involved in the game, and the untouched boxes were out of their sight.

She slid the fine blades free and slipped away to kneel in front of another box and probe. It would help if she had the slightest idea what she was doing.

“It’s not so simple a skill.”

She shot to her feet, awash with guilt. “Then teach me.”

“Absolutely not.” He took the picks from her hand and looked back at the desk. “You don’t seem to have finished that box.”

“It’s all household accounts, and not a thing from the 1660s.”

“Yet. There’s no point in a search if it’s not systematic.”

“Since you won’t say what the point is, how am I to tell?”

“The point is clear to everyone but you.”

Damaris remembered that they had an audience and pulled back from an enjoyable conflagration.

“As we’re looking for personal papers,” she said, “wouldn’t it be more efficient to find which box contains them? Failing that, which box contains the older documents?”

“Shall I take over this boring task?”

She quickly returned to her seat behind the desk. “No, thank you. Enjoy your game.”

She didn’t even watch as he left the room—taking his lock picks with him.