Jo Beverley (17 page)

Knowing he’d be observing her, she focused on the paper in her hand—a copy of an order for exotic plants placed in 1715. The Earl of Vesey—the royal bastard himself—wanted some
Geranium africanum
and
Pelargonium peltatum
, neither of which meant anything to her.

He also wanted an
Amaryllis belladonna
. Belladonna was deadly nightshade, a poison. She immediately thought of the mulled cider, but then remembered that it had been an accident. Such things happened all the time. A whole family in Worksop had been killed when someone had put rat poison into the stew by mistake.

She moved on to such exciting records as a request for puppies from Lord Vesey’s hunting dogs, questions from an estate manager in Cumberland about draining and marling a field, and a report on the progress of a set of chairs to be covered in red Morocco.

“I come to relieve you.”

Damaris started. She hadn’t even heard him reenter the room. The others were chattering between hands, but the game hadn’t ended. Wasn’t it dinnertime yet? She truly didn’t want to play more whist. A glance at an ornate ormolu clock told her it was only one o’clock, and dinner here was set for two.

“I don’t mind continuing. I found this.” She showed him the letter about belladonna.

“Belladonna merely means beautiful lady. This plant need not be poisonous.”

“I know. It’s said to make a lady’s eyes lustrous.”

He looked at her. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

She frowned at him. “A gallant gentleman would say I don’t need it. But then, I forget, I’m plain as a pikestaff, aren’t I?”

“Damaris, I meant that your eyes are beautiful enough.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know how to respond, especially when the others might hear. She moved out from behind the desk. “Very well, I’ll take your place at cards.” Once at a safe distance, she hesitated. “I’ve been sorting the papers by date.”

“A good idea.”

“You’ll say if you find any royal letters?”

“Of course.”

Why should such a practical exchange feel like sunbeams?

She quickly left the room and washed her hands, saying to the others, “I’m not sure if the trivial accounts of an estate are tedious or fascinating. It’s strange to think that these long-dead people were concerned about dogs and chair coverings.”

Genova smiled. “And that one day people might think our accounts of lace purchased or books read of any interest at all.”

A new hand was dealt, and Damaris was now supposed to play without help. She applied herself to it, refusing to sneak looks at Fitzroger. As a result, she and Lady Thalia won resoundingly.

“What an excellent player you have become, my dear!” Lady Thalia declared. “And all in a matter of hours.”

“With an excellent teacher.”

“How kind.”

Damaris was wondering if she could demand to switch again with Fitzroger when Lady Thalia sighed. “This has been so delightful, and you are all very kind to indulge me. But I think I need a little nap.”

Genova went to her. “Thalia, are you all right? You don’t usually nap before dinner.”

“It must be the travel, dear. I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time, but I want all my wits if we’re to dine with Sophia.”

An excellent point. They were all to join the dowager in her private dining room at two.

“Off you all go. Genova, dear, please find Regeanne.”

Of course—they were in her bedchamber. Genova picked up her cloak and hurried out through one door while Damaris went with Ashart to the Little Library. She didn’t think Lady Thalia looked particularly weary, and when she looked back and caught a twinkle in the old lady’s eyes, she understood: She was giving Genova and Ashart some time together.

A most accommodating chaperon, but where would this leave herself and Fitzroger?

When they entered he looked up from the second box.

“Thalia wants a rest,” Ashart said, strolling toward the desk. “Found anything?”

“Nothing relevant, but thus far the papers are too recent.”

Ashart looked at the two locked boxes. “Why not check those to see if there are older ones?”

“You and Damaris have much in common.”

Ashart gave her a questioning look.

“I made the same suggestion, and had my knuckles rapped for impatience.”

“He can’t rap my knuckles. They’re my papers to do with as I wish. Open them, Fitz.”

Fitzroger obeyed, then executed a sarcastically flourishing bow. “My lord!”

Ashart winked at Damaris. “A knuckle rap, indeed.”

He was mellowing toward her now that there was no question of marriage between them, and Damaris thought she might come to like him in a while. Almost as a brother, which was a truly extraordinary thought.

He went toward the boxes, but then Genova entered, and clearly everything else was of no importance. Before Damaris could prevent it, they left.

Her heart fluttered with panic. Or with something. She knew she ought to leave, to retreat to the safety of her room, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to continue the hunt for Betty Crowley’s secrets. And she wanted, despite sanity, to do so at Fitzroger’s side.

She went to one of the newly opened boxes. Before she could touch it, Fitzroger lifted it onto the sofa. “You will find that more comfortable.”

He lit a branch of candles and placed them close by her. He hesitated, and she held her breath, thinking that he might be about to touch her and wondering what she should do if he did. Instead he returned to his seat behind the desk.

He was going to behave correctly, so she would, too.

Despite the space between them, however, they worked in a silence that was both intimate and fraught. The rustle of papers in his hands whispered of intimate matters, and the sultry glow of logs in the fireplace looked like passion.

You are a rich heiress,
she reminded herself,
who could soon be the Duchess of Bridgewater if you only keep your grip on sanity. You’d give up that to be Mrs. Fitzroger, wife of a man attached to a notorious scandal?
She still hadn’t discovered the truth of that, and she suspected that part of the reason was because she didn’t want to.

He finished his box, replaced it on the floor, and lifted the last one onto the desk. Then he went to the wood box and put another log on the fire. It crackled and flamed anew. He paused between her sofa and his desk.

“You’ve smudged dirt on your cheek.”

Their eyes locked. She waited hopefully for him to come to wipe it off. When he didn’t, she rubbed at both her cheeks. “Better?”

His eyes smiled. “Not unless gray rouge is in fashion.”

He came to her then, pulling out a handkerchief, and tilted her head up to his. Yes, she was melting, her insides softening, her blood pooling, abandoning her brain….

He rubbed at each cheek, but then said, “Not much improvement. Perhaps you should go to your room to wash.”

Was he trying to get rid of her? “It’s a long way through the cold house, and there are more papers to check.”

After a moment, he stepped back and returned to the desk to raise the lid of the new box. “More of the same.”

“Nothing of interest in the last one?” she asked, simply because she wanted them to talk.

“No.” He sat back down behind the desk. “And nothing dating back to the 1660s.”

“That truly is what we’re looking for? Documents confirming Betty Crowley’s affair with the king?”

He took out a paper and glanced at it. “Yes.”

She had to believe him, but at the same time she was certain that more lay behind it.

“When did Betty Crowley die?” she asked.

“In 1718.”

“So she could have been writing letters up to that date.”

He looked up, startled. “True, and we’ve found nothing by her.”

“Suspicious, wouldn’t you say? This is no idle search, Fitzroger. I can see that.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Tell me the truth. I want to help you.”

He leaned back then, long fingers resting on the papers. “If you keep prying, Damaris, I shall have to avoid you.”

“I don’t see how you can avoid me, not here with so few warm rooms.”

“I can endure cold.”

W
ithout really understanding his words, Damaris recognized a precipice and hastily retreated. “I think the dowager will have any documents to do with the royal connection.”

After a long moment, he said, “So do I.”

“So, when are you going to search her rooms for them?”

Something moved his lips and eyes. It looked like impatience, but she thought she saw humor, too. “How could I?”

“The same way you open locks. I do wish you’d teach me.”

“No.” He picked another document out of the box, ending the discussion.

She wouldn’t allow it. “I’m sure this would go better if we worked together.”

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Side by side.” She rose and picked up a chair to carry it over to the desk. He took it from her. She allowed it, but said, “I’m not a weakling, you know. I’ve moved heavier furniture in my time.”

Looking into his eyes, she could think of nothing but his lips on hers, his body pressed to hers….

He put his hands on her shoulders, but only to sit her in her chair so firmly that her teeth jarred. He opened his mouth as if he might apologize, but then he sat. “What, precisely, is your brilliant plan?”

To sit in your lap and kiss you.

The only thing stopping her was the certainty that if she did anything so foolish he would leave the room, and perhaps the house. He had recognized what hummed between them, as she had, but he was determined to resist temptation. A strong will could be an irritating thing….

“My mind wanders,” she said.
My, how it wanders.
“I’m sure I’m not paying sufficient attention to the letters. If we work together…”

“My mind doesn’t wander.”

She met his eyes. “Doesn’t it?”

Color touched his cheeks and he looked away. “Very well.” He picked up the letter in front of him and unfolded it. “December sixth, 1697, from Sir Roger Midcall about the new St. Paul’s Cathedral, and also recommending a concoction to get rid of fleas.”

Damaris picked up the next paper, aware of their sharing an intimate closeness. “Undated. A most effective treatment for worms in children. Fenugreek, wormwood, and treacle. I’ve used much the same.”

“You had worms?”

“In helping the poor, sir.”

But he’d teased, which was something.

He took out the next one. “We seem to have hit a lode of recipes. Pills composed of Norway tar and elecampane root. Effective against scurvy.”

“That one I don’t know.” She picked a paper that was folded in half and opened it. She looked at it for a moment then slowly read, “‘Mistress Betty’s Violent Purge.’”

He leaned closer, taking an edge of the paper, but she said, “There’s nothing of interest in it, and it might not be the same Betty.”

“True, but if it is, we have her handwriting. Betty Prease was said to be a quiet, gentle lady. What use would she have for a violent purge?”

“To rid the body of poisons.” Then she looked at him. “Not that sort.”

“I know, but one can’t help making connections. The main ingredient seems to be diascordium. What’s that?”

“A concoction, but mostly
Teucrium scordium
, better known as water germander.”

“Better known to some,” he remarked, with a true smile this time. He let go of the paper, however, breaking the link, and chose another out of the box.

They skimmed a series of remedies, then paused at the same neat handwriting as Mistress Betty’s Violent Purge. Damaris put them side by side, but said, “Betty Prease wouldn’t describe her recipe that way, would she?”

He sat back with a groan. “Of course not. What a dunce I am today.”

Damaris pulled out another paper, a begging letter from a distant relative, wondering if his wits were wandering for the same reason hers were. She hoped so. She longed to lean toward him, to rest against him, to press close.

He put a hand on her arm, and she realized she
had
leaned. She looked up at him, so close now, lips so close….

What harm in a kiss?
her hungry body whispered.
Only a kiss…

Simultaneously he pushed slightly to straighten her, and she moved to be straight. Half the box was left to investigate, and more than half of the one she’d abandoned, and she was playing with fire.

She rose, moving her shoulders. “I’m growing stiff.” She walked around the room to lend credence to this, carefully not looking at him. She really should leave before control shattered.

“We need a known sample of Betty Prease’s handwriting.”

His crisp voice broke the spell, and she turned to face him, glad to seize the practical.

“The dowager will have one,” she suggested.

“So she will. I suppose I’m to steal that, too?”

“Actually, I was thinking that someone could ask her for it at dinner.”

His eyes became fixed, as if her words had shocked him.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.” Instinctively, she added, “Are we?”

His very blankness showed that her question was meaningful, but he said, “No. No, we’re not. Ash can ask her. He’s the only one of us she can tolerate at the moment.”

“There you are, then. He can ask for any and all papers relating to her grandmother. How can she refuse?”

“We’re talking of the Dowager Lady Ashart,” he said dryly, “but perhaps she won’t see any harm in it.”

“
Is
there any harm in it?” Her frustration exploded. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? This is so silly!”

“No. It’s important, and dangerous, and I don’t want you involved.”

Silence shot through the room like lightning without thunder.

He inhaled. She saw it in a movement of his chest before he stood and turned away. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it. No, you can hardly do that. I ask you not repeat it to the others.”

She moved closer to the desk, closer to him. “That business with Genova. It
was
an attack—”

“No.” The quiet firmness in his voice silenced her. He turned to face her. “I’m doing my best to keep everyone safe. I believe that everyone is safe here at this moment.”

“Everyone…”

“I can say no more. I shouldn’t have said so much.” His hands flexed for a moment before being controlled, before he regained that deceptive calm.

The awareness of truths was like singing, Damaris decided, like the times when the notes were perfect and glided on the melody like a bird on the wind. She knew truth now and could not keep silent.

“You need someone. Someone to talk to about all this. Let it be me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

His tone alone should have shriveled her, but she stepped forward to press against the desk that separated them. “I’ll try not to ask too many questions, but I want to help. I need to help. Because it’s important and dangerous, you see? If you wanted me to ignore all this, you shouldn’t have told me that.”

“Is it your intention to heap coals of fire upon my head?”

“I’m not sure what my intentions are. I’m bewildering myself. I don’t know this land, this place of great houses and lives that weave with history. I don’t know men. You mystify me, all of you. I’m sure I shouldn’t be saying these things to you, but what can I do but be honest?”

“Damaris, Damaris, don’t you know the world hunts down and slaughters the honest?” He came around the desk and took her hands, raising them to his lips, brushing a kiss across each, his eyes never leaving hers.

She wasn’t honest then. If she had been she would have laughed, or cried, or done something disastrously revealing.

Against her fingers, he said, “I cannot tell my slippery secrets to an honest woman.”

“I said honest, not indiscreet.”

“But if you are questioned, can you lie?”

He was still holding her hands. She curled her fingers around his and didn’t want to let go. “I will lie in your cause. Please share what secrets you can, Fitzroger.”

“Call me Fitz.”

It caught her unawares, and she pulled her hands free before knowing she was going to do it. “Why does that bother me?” She answered herself. “Because we cannot be more than friends. We cannot.”

He seemed to feel no trace of her anguish. “My friends call me Fitz.”

“And those who are more than friends?”

His lips twitched. “Fitz.”

“No one calls you Octavius? No one at all? It has a certain dignity.”

“It means eighth, and where’s the dignity in that? Besides, it’s too distant, wouldn’t you say, for lovers?” He leaned his hips back against the desk. “What would you call me if we were lovers?”

She caught her breath, but if he wanted to carry this to wicked heights she’d soar with him. For a little while, at least.

“A short form?” she suggested. “Octi?”

He grinned. “No.”

“Or it could be put into plain English—Number Eight. You’re right. It is a ridiculous way of naming children. Perhaps it would work better in French,
Huit
.” She cocked her head. “Wheat does suit your hair.”

“Rough as hay?”

“No.”

Their words summoned that kiss in the coach, when she’d gripped his hair, which wasn’t silky, but wasn’t coarse either. In her memory it seemed alive as he was alive in every bone, sinew, and muscle.

She wasn’t sure who moved, how she came to be in his arms, but she recognized the inevitable crescendo of the duet they had been singing. She slid her fingers into that curly, wheat-colored hair and blended her mouth desperately with his. She pressed closer, or he pressed her closer with his strong arms, a hand between her shoulders, another commanding the small of her back.

Duchess of Bridgewater,
she reminded herself, but it was, after all, only a kiss….

Only a kiss, but able to wipe all thought from her mind, able to make her a creature of fierce physical passion. She twined her arms around him, needing to be closer, far closer than clothing allowed.

His mouth broke with hers to trail little kisses across her cheek and around her ear. She wanted more and turned her head, seeking his lips again.

“My nurse,” he murmured, “called me Tottie.”

She broke into giggles. “I couldn’t possibly!”

“Not even in private?”

She shook her head against his shoulder.

“Not even,” he asked softly, “in the secrecy of a curtained bed?”

Her legs weakened and she clung to him, but then she found the strength to push out of his arms. Away from the searing fire.

“I apologize,” he said, letting her go, turning sober and thoughtful. In a moment she’d lose him, and that she could not bear.

“Don’t! Apologize, I mean. I liked it. And I need practice. In flirting and such…” She needed to talk them out of this dangerous corner. “For court. Won’t there be flirtation and kissing at court?”

“Lesson number one,” he said tersely, “don’t kiss anyone like that at court. Lesson number two—don’t be alone with anyone like this at court. Lesson number three—avoid men like me at court.”

“Oh, my!” she declared, hand to chest. “Court is full of men like you, sir?”

He didn’t smile. “In the baser respects, yes.”

“And in the higher ones, in sweet charms?”

She immediately wished the words back, but then a raised voice in the next room saved them. By silent agreement they returned to the desk and settled as if they’d spent all their time absorbed by papers.

Lady Thalia came in, beaming. “That’s so much better! Oh, dear, have Genova and Ashart slipped away? Naughty, naughty, but they’ll soon be wed, and I’m sure you two have been good. Damaris, dear, I do think you should change to dine. So inconvenient in this cold house, but I’m sure Sophia will expect some formality.”

Damaris hesitated, hoping Fitzroger—Fitz—would offer to escort her across the house. When he didn’t, she left alone.

In a house like this it was a convenience to find Maisie in the room, engaged in needlework. Damaris changed quickly into silk, choosing a subdued blue-and-white stripe because it really was time to be sensible. She even added a large gauze fichu to fill in the low bodice.

Demure modesty might soothe the dowager as well, so that she’d be more likely to surrender Betty Prease’s documents. But what the point of obtaining those was, she still had no idea.

As she sat so that Maisie could tidy her hair, however, Damaris knew that Betty Prease was not the mystery she sought to unravel here. That was Fitz and herself. She had only a few days before they moved on to London, when everything would change. There she would be under Lady Arradale’s eye. She would have little time with Fitz, and probably none alone. She’d enter society and be expected to choose her titled husband.

“Where’s your mink muff, Miss Damaris?” Maisie asked.