Jo Beverley (29 page)

“Oh, sweet heaven.” She remembered what Fitz had said. “She lost too many children and feared to lose another. Even though he’s a monster.”

“Does a mother ever recognize a monstrous child?”

“Don’t mothers usually dote on the youngest?” Damaris protested, but then she sighed. “The poor woman endured so many years of birth and loss. Perhaps she lost the ability to grow fond of them, but clung to the one who seemed strong and likely to survive.” She looked directly at him. “Why did you send me to Cheynings with Fitzroger?”

“It served a purpose,” he said, but then smiled a little. “You’re correct. I was playing with your lives. An addiction of mine. I wished to see what would happen between you because I see possibilities.”

“You
wish
us to marry, my lord?”

“Only if it is for the best.” He rose. “Once you’re safe, we’ll consider the matter further.”

She shot to her feet, intensely frustrated. “But as soon as I’m safe, he’ll leave.”

Or, she remembered, Ashart would reveal their sin. Might that change Rothgar’s mind?

He’d once condemned seduction, and she suspected that no matter what she confessed, he’d be like Ashart. He’d hold Fitz responsible. He’d wash his hands of him. Or worse.

“I love Fitzroger,” she said directly, giving Fitz the only protection she could think of. “I intend to marry him no matter what you say. Thus I must keep him safe.”

“Regrettably, my dear, none of us has perfect powers of protection.”

A sweet bell sounded out in the hall.

“We are summoned to dinner,” he said, opening the door and offering her his hand. Anticipating her objection, he said, “It is wise to eat when we need to be strong.”

The meal was made bearable by Lady Thalia’s chatter and Genova’s gallant assistance. Damaris managed to force down some of the delicious food and even to join in the conversation now and then. Ashart was thoughtful, and Fitz so distant it was as if he were pretending he wasn’t there at all.

After the meal, Rothgar and Ashart went to prepare for court while the ladies took tea. Fitzroger didn’t join them.

The two marquesses came to the drawing room before leaving, and Damaris couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d seen both men in grandeur for Christmas Day at Rothgar Abbey when Ashart had worn his pale gold suit with the diamond buttons. Now, for a private audience, their appearance was less ostentatious, but no less potent.

Ashart’s hair had already been powdered at dinner, but Rothgar’s hadn’t. He had to be wearing a wig, but it was skillfully made. His suit was of dark gray, richly embroidered in black and silver with touches of gold to catch the light. There might be tiny diamonds, too. He shimmered and an order glittered on his chest.

Ashart wore deep brown worked with red and gold. Rubies flared in the lace at his throat and in his ear, where he always wore an earring, but rarely a jewel.

Both men wore dress swords, and these, too, were jeweled works of art. Damaris suspected they were no less deadly for that, but their coming battle would not be fought with steel.

Everyone assumed that the king would be grateful, but history told her that kings were temperamental and unpredictable. For Genova’s sake, Damaris prayed that all would go as planned.

W
hen Ashart and Rothgar left, Fitz disappeared as well. The three ladies played casino, hiding their tension with wild choices and discards, but revealing it with constant glances at the clock.

Over two hours passed, but then the courtiers returned.

Ashart was inclined to make light of their enterprise, but all had gone well. The king was delighted to have the mystery solved, and to his liking. He was clearly disposed to welcome Ashart back at court and even shower him with favors.

A relieved and joyful mood took over, and Damaris wished Fitz were here to celebrate with them.

But then Rothgar said, “There is one challenging development. The king wishes to inspect Ashart’s bride. You are commanded to attend the drawing room tomorrow, Genova.”

Genova went pale and clutched Ashart’s hand. “I’m not ready!” Then, like someone seeing salvation, she added, “I don’t have a court dress yet, so I can’t go.”

Rothgar dismissed that. “There are court gowns here belonging to my sister Elf and to Chastity, my brother Cyn’s wife. Both ladies are close in size to you. Seamstresses can make alterations and even re-trim them if you wish.”

“Overnight?”

“But of course.” He gestured as if it were nothing. “I will arrange to have them displayed for your selection.”

“But I don’t know what’s suitable!”

Ashart kissed her hand. “I delight to see you flustered, Genni. If you will allow me to advise you?”

“Oh, indeed I will.”

Rothgar turned to Damaris. “You, too, need a gown, and you should wear your rubies.”

She started. “I? Why? This is nothing to do with me.”

“You are a center of attention yourself. London already buzzes of the great heiress who has so much money that she not only makes hospitals the beneficiaries of her will but she gives money immediately to set up three more. That plus a rumor of your singing means that you, too, are to attend. You are to perform.”

“But I haven’t been able to practice properly in an age.”

“I’m sure your voice will please. Where’s Fitzroger?” Rothgar rang a bell. When a footman entered, he sent the man to find Fitz.

But the footman said, “He’s close by, milord,” and Fitz came in. He’d been outside on guard, and now, though he almost appeared bored, Damaris saw that he was braced for disaster.

“Make haste to equip yourself, Fitzroger,” Rothgar said. “You are to attend court, too.”

Damaris saw a flicker of something that might be panic. “Why, my lord?”

“To protect Damaris, of course. Her half brother may not hear the news in time.”

“I doubt he has the entrée,” Fitz said.

“Any suitably dressed gentleman has the entrée.”

“Pargeter’s will be closed.”

It was like another fencing match, and Fitz was on the defensive.

“I’m sure you know how to open such doors.”

For a moment Damaris thought Rothgar spoke of lock picks, but then she realized he meant money. He must have given some to Fitz.

If Fitz preferred not to go, however, he shouldn’t.

“Surely I will be safe, my lord,” she said.

“There is never certainty. And the king wishes Fitzroger to attend.”

A coup de grâce that ended the bout.

Damaris went to Fitz’s side, hoping to ease his tension. “What is Pargeter’s?”

“A secondhand clothing shop of the grander sort.”

Secondhand. She hated that, but she couldn’t object. Yet…“I wish I could come. You’ll buy something plain.”

He smiled wryly. “I know the ways of court, Damaris. I assure you, I will glitter.”

She watched him leave, then waited with Genova and Lady Thalia for Ashart to change out of his finery and for the gowns to be brought out from wherever they were stored. Soon the group was all taken to an unused bedchamber, where four absurdly elaborate and completely gorgeous confections stood on stands almost as if a headless lady were still inside each.

Lady Thalia sat to observe, Ashart standing by her side. Damaris and Genova circled them all—a cream trimmed with pale pink; a dull yellow with gold; a pale green; and a beige rioting with embroidered flowers. Damaris thought the last one breathtakingly beautiful, but she gave Genova first choice. She had to pick that one. All the others were terrible colors for her.

Genova looked to Ashart. “I don’t know. You choose.”

“The cream,” he said, just as a seamstress arrived in a rush along with three assistants.

Damaris almost gasped a protest. He should know best, but pink and cream would make Genova look like garish pottery.

“Rip off the pink and replace it with blue,” he told the seamstress. “Not a pale blue. Summer-sky blue. Ribbons and stitchery in shades of blue. White blossoms and pearls. Some silver thread to catch the candlelight.”

He went, without apparent embarrassment, to inspect underlayers and accessories that were spread on the bed. He picked up a shift. “This one. Very pretty lace. And these silk stockings.” He added a pair embroidered with flowers.

“I have my own stockings,” Genova protested.

“Plain, I’m sure, but if you wish.” He tossed them back. “There’ll be no flashing an ankle at this event.” He turned to Damaris. “Do you want advice, too?”

He was cool, but his anger had either faded or was very well cloaked.

“I admire the embroidered one. Will it do?”

He considered it. “With rubies? Yes. Certainly the other two are impossible. I’ll leave you to your fittings, ladies. Tomorrow you’ll need to practice maneuvering with court hoops.”

He went to the door. Damaris had to know. She followed him and quietly asked, “Are you going to tell Rothgar?”

His look was somber. “I don’t know.”

After an hour of fitting, Damaris and Genova were set to court practice by Lady Thalia. Endlessly, it seemed, they sank into the deep court curtsy and practiced backing away from the royal presence without tripping over their own skirts.

Damaris had been trained in these things at Thornfield Hall, but that left her time to fret about having to sing and about why Fitz had been commanded to attend.

Lady Thalia soon agreed that Damaris would pass, so she was allowed to leave. She found the music room and settled to vocal exercises. All the same, her mind would not calm.

Was the king’s summoning of Fitz good news or bad?

In a just world the king would be grateful to him, but the world was frequently unfair. She worried he’d be shunned by the court. If the king acknowledged him, however, then it might help. No matter how they felt, people would hesitate to be openly rude.

She emerged from her practice looking forward to a peaceful evening, but discovered that Rothgar had invited a small company for cards, music, and supper.

When she tried to excuse herself, Rothgar insisted she attend. “It will create allies for you. People you’ll meet tomorrow at the drawing room. Allies for you and Fitzroger.”

That persuaded her, so she dressed in finery and joined her first London gathering. Fitzroger was there, dressed in a dusky-blue satin suit that seemed neatly placed between his usual plainness and the glitter all around.

She thought he looked wonderful, but she still wanted to see him in brilliance.

She was introduced to so many people that her head was whirling, but all seemed to be going well when the Duke of Bridgewater was announced. She flashed a look at Rothgar. Coincidence? She doubted it.

Had she misjudged everything? Was he going to pressure her to marry the duke instead of Fitz?

She studied Bridgewater across the room. He seemed amiable, and was dressed appropriately, but as if clothes were unimportant to him. She liked that. He was a little short and slight in build, and she knew he’d once been considered of frail health. Whatever the truth of that, she thought he’d live a long life.

But not with her.

When introduced to him, Damaris curtsied. “I admire what I’ve heard of your canals, your grace.”

His eyes lit. “Yes? It’s going well, you know. Many doubted, but now they see. Soon there’ll be canals all over England, speeding progress, making for pleasant travel. Far better to glide down a canal, Miss Myddleton, than to bump along a road.”

“Wouldn’t it be slow, your grace?”

“Why rush about? Enjoy the journey, I say. I still need money, however. I understand you’re an heiress.”

Damaris almost laughed at this blunt approach, but she also found his honesty endearing. He was like Dr. Telford on the subject of a promising new treatment—nothing else mattered.

“Are you seeking more investors?” she asked, with a slight emphasis on the last word.

“Always, dear lady, always. But if you’re interested in a closer involvement, I wouldn’t be averse.”

He nodded and moved on. Damaris looked at Fitz and caught him looking at her. He instantly turned his attention back to one of the two overpainted women who sat on either side of him, both with something predatory in the angle of their bodies and the look in their eyes.

Feeling a growl in her throat, Damaris strolled over, wafting her fan and wishing she could hit both harpies with it. Fitz introduced Lady Tresham and Mrs. Fayne, who both had heavily painted faces, perhaps to disguise the fact that thirty was long past.

“What a delight to meet the canal duke,” Damaris said. “So fascinating.”

Lady Tresham raised a bored brow. “He talks of nothing but waterways. That amuses you, Miss Myddleton?”

Fitz excused himself and moved away.

Damaris was glad to have given him a chance to escape.

“A duke is always interesting, don’t you think?” she said.

“Especially an unmarried one,” sneered Mrs. Fayne.

“You know Fitzroger well?” Lady Tresham asked, with pointed surprise. “Such a handsome man, but rather wicked for a mere girl.” Lady Tresham actually licked her scarlet lips. “Wickedness is more fascinating than rank, however, isn’t it, Miss Myddleton?”

“Wickedness?” Damaris asked, pretending ignorance.

“You haven’t been warned?” Mrs. Fayne raised brows that were far too dark to be natural. “Very wicked. Too wicked for innocent ears. Really, it’s astonishing that Rothgar permits Fitzroger to join his company.”

“But a delightful treat for us, Susannah.”

“He’s staying here,” Damaris said, trying not to sound as acidic as she felt. To protect Fitz, she plunged into exaggeration. “The marquess expects great things of him.”

“Then it’s to be hoped Rothgar’s cloak of protection can prevent Leyden from acting on his gruesome threats,” said Mrs. Fayne, shivering theatrically. “Such an unpleasant man.”

“But all a result of his wound,” Lady Tresham reminded her. “Suffered,” she added with a sly look at Damaris, “during a most interesting situation.”

Damaris prayed for an air of worldly ennui. “When he caught Fitzroger in bed with his wife? All the world knows.”

The two women stared.

“Quite,” Lady Tresham said at last. “It makes Fitzroger such delicious forbidden fruit.”

All men other than your husband should be forbidden fruit,
Damaris thought, but she kept her smile, seeing an opportunity to create a crack in the disgrace that imprisoned Fitz.

Dared she?

How could she not?

“He must have been very young,” she mused.

Mrs. Fayne let out a piercing laugh. “My dear! You’ve led a sheltered life if you don’t know the wickedness beardless youths are capable of.”

Damaris put on confused naïveté. “I did, actually—lead a sheltered life, ma’am. My father was in the Orient making his fortune, and my mother preferred to live quietly in his absence.” She lowered her voice. “You think it could have happened as portrayed?”

She took the excuse to look at Fitz, which unfortunately showed her the way many were subtly avoiding him. He’d warned her. She’d not entirely believed him. Instead of making her uncertain about her actions, it made them imperative. She was sure these two women were gossips of the first order.

“How else?” Mrs. Fayne asked. “Poor Orinda Fitzroger killed herself for shame not long afterward.”

“But Fitzroger’s brother was much older, so probably twice his size. It all seems so unlikely. But”—she sighed—“as you say, I know little of the world.”

Lady Tresham’s eyes narrowed. “You take great interest, Miss Myddleton.”

Damaris parried. “Fitzroger did me a service, so I would like to think well of him. At a halt at a coaching inn some miscreant tried to attack me. Fitzroger was quick to save me.”

“Doubtless hoping to curry favor. I’m sure you’re too wise, my dear, to be so easily snared.”

“Snared?” Damaris asked with a laugh. “Oh, he’s positively cool to me. But in matters of protection I’m told he can be relied on. He spent years protecting the lives and safety of some of the greatest men of our age, you know.”

Obviously they didn’t. Too late—always too late when the fire burned in her—Damaris wondered if that was secret. Well, it was out of the box now. The two gossips were fixed on her.