Jo Beverley (31 page)

“Till death do us part,” she agreed. “I do wish you weren’t always looking exasperated with me.”

“It’s likely to become a fixed expression.” But there was a hint of loving humor there.

It created a blessed smile in her. “An eternal one. So I command you: Avoid your brother if you can, but even if he attends court, even if he tries to make trouble, do not leave before you’re presented.”

“I reserve the right to disobey in the field of action.” When she tried to protest, he said, “No. You’ve reached the limit of your authority. If I come face-to-face with Hugh, I will follow my conscience and my honor.”

She sighed and slid her hands down to his. “I don’t suppose I’d love you if you could do anything less.” She glanced at his bed. “I wish we could make love, because I’m afraid. But it’s irrational panic, that’s all. And it would hurt you, my love, to take me to bed again tonight, wouldn’t it?”

He raised her hands and kissed each palm. “It would be wrong. I have no premonitions about tomorrow, but I do feel somewhat like a knight of old on the eve of battle. That I should be sober, chaste, and prayerful.”

The touch of his lips on her palms made her want to curl in her fingers to hold the kiss like a jewel. “Were they? Sober, chaste, and prayerful before battle?”

His lips quirked. “I doubt it.”

He kissed her hands again and then her forehead, then led her to the door. “I’ll try to obey your commands, my lady fair.”

“About my brother, too?”

“If we can find him before he tries any new mischief.”

He opened the door and checked the corridor. As she left, he stopped her with a hand on her cheek and kissed her once again, chastely on her lips, before pushing her gently into the corridor. When she looked back from her own door he still watched.

On guard. Her golden Galahad.

She sent him all her love in a smile before entering and closing her own door.

D
amaris woke to sunshine through open curtains and hoped it was a good omen. Here in Malloren House, her room was lightly perfumed with potpourri, and a lively fire made it comfortable.

Maisie brought her washing water, and gave her a searching look. Searching for sin, no doubt. She said nothing other than, “Shall I get your breakfast now, miss?”

“No, I want to breakfast downstairs.” Where she might have a chance of being with Fitz.

Damaris got out of bed and put on her slippers and robe. She hurried to her desk and wrote a note. “Take this to Fitzroger. There’s no use in pouting,” she added. “I intend to marry him. If you want to be maid to a duchess, you’ll have to seek other employment.”

Maisie pouted anyway.

Damaris gave her a hug. “On the day I marry Fitzroger, I’ll give you a handsome dowry. You’ll be able to return home and pick any man you choose for a husband.”

Maisie’s eyes widened and she straightened. “Right, then!”

The note had been a request that Fitz escort her down to breakfast, which he could hardly refuse to do. She was only just dressed when he knocked. She’d chosen simple clothes because later she’d have to change into court finery.

They went downstairs talking of the weather, and lightly of the drawing room. Like ordinary people on an ordinary day.

“You’ve never attended court in England?” she asked as they approached the breakfast room.

“Until recently I was hardly ever in England.”

Because he’d avoided his brother.

They found Rothgar at breakfast, which wasn’t what Damaris would have chosen. He rang a bell, which brought a servant to take their orders. At least she saw no sign that Ashart had revealed their sin.

Conversation was of impersonal matters, which suited her perfectly. This was the lull before battle, and perhaps at such times soldiers spoke of incidental things. In a little while Rothgar excused himself and left them alone. They shared a look.

“A sign of approval?” Damaris asked.

“Of trust, at least. Have you decided what to sing?”

“Rothgar approved ‘The Pleasures of Spring.’ There’s nothing in daffodils and singing birds to offend anyone, and it’s a simple piece. I only hope my voice doesn’t desert me because of strain. I should soon go and practice again.”

They were interrupted by a footman. “Sir, a lady asks for you. She says she is your sister.”

“Your sister?” Damaris queried. “Libella?”

Fitz frowned, but rose. “It has to be. Will you stay here while I see what she wants?”

“Of course, but I’d like to meet her.”

His lips twisted. “It might not be a suitable moment.”

Damaris watched from the door as he crossed the hall to enter one of the reception rooms. Why was his sister here? Not for anything good, she was sure, but she couldn’t intrude. She paced the breakfast room, praying this didn’t represent a new burden for Fitz.

She’d left the door ajar. When she heard voices, she went to it again and saw Fitz with a petite woman with similar blond hair who was fastening a simple red cloak. The day was milder, but that wasn’t an adequate winter garment.

Fitz turned and saw Damaris. With a word to his sister he came over. “Libby came to warn me that Hugh’s picked up some wild story of the king’s knighting me today. It’s pushed him beyond all reason. He’s even threatening the king.”

“No,” she whispered, putting a hand to her mouth. This was all her doing! And not many years before, a raving madman had been horribly tortured and killed for attempting to kill the king of France.

“I need to escort Libby to her inn and see if we can persuade our mother to move to safety. She seems to feel that Hugh would never hurt her.”

Damaris thought new lines were etched into his face, and longed with all her heart to ease him.

“Mother refuses to consider any kind of confinement for him,” Fitz said. “I have to go.” He took her hand. “I’ll alert Rothgar. You’ll be safe here. But don’t go out. For any reason.”

“Of course not.” She hesitated, but asked, “Won’t you introduce me to your sister?”

“I don’t want you involved.”

“I am, Fitz, whether you want it or not.”

He shook his head, but said, “Come.”

Libella Fitzroger was so short and slight that she looked like a child, but when close Damaris could see extra years on her too-thin face. Her smile was perfunctory, as if she couldn’t imagine why they were wasting time on social niceties.

Fitz excused himself to speak to Rothgar, so Damaris kept up the conversation, but she didn’t feel able to talk about Lord Leyden, or herself and Fitz, so was limited to the weather and the bustle of London.

Thank heaven Fitz soon returned—wearing a sword, she noticed. No doubt there was a pistol somewhere, too. Damaris had hoped to gain sisters through marriage, but this drawn woman wasn’t very promising.

Fitz had ordered a sedan chair, and it was announced to be waiting outside. He and his sister left the house. Damaris went to the window in the reception room to watch as he handed his sister into it. The chairmen picked up the poles, and he took his place beside as they crossed the courtyard toward the street.

She was enjoying the way he moved when she saw a man charge into the courtyard and heard the blast of a gun.

Fitz and the chairmen fell to the ground—but before a cry could escape her lips she saw that they were unhurt. The chairmen were huddling behind the tall box, and Fitz was already helping his sister out.

The maroon-faced, hatless man in the flapping cloak and rumpled clothes had to be Lord Leyden. He was lurching across the open space, bellowing something while fighting his cloak to draw his sword. The task seemed to be too much for him, which was a blessing, for it gave Fitz time to make his sister as safe as possible before running out with his own sword already drawn.

She heard him cry, “Hugh! Stop! Think!”

She supposed he had to try, but she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. It was pointless. The man’s eyes were almost rolling with madness, and spittle flew from his lips. The horrible thing was that he was a caricature of Fitz, more heavily built and distorted by mad rage, but in other ways so similar, even to the wild hair flying free of a ribbon.

Swords clashed so hard that sparks flew. She couldn’t just stand here. She had to do something!

She dashed into the hall to see Rothgar and a half dozen footmen pouring out of the house. She ran after them, wondering why the fight was still going on when Fitz had to be able to defeat his brother in a moment.

Rothgar had his own sword out, and his men held bludgeons and pistols. One chairman held a pistol and was peering around the chair box pointing it.

But everyone watched.

To run in on such a mad frenzy risked death, but it also risked distracting Fitz. Rothgar must know better than she that Fitz could already have killed his brother. But still Fitz parried and dodged, talking, talking, talking.

But then, as Lord Leyden began to stagger and flail with his sword, she understood: Fitz still could not harm his brother, or allow his brother to kill him. Perhaps he hoped to touch reason, but mainly he was tiring his brother out. Now Leyden lurched and one leg gave way, so he tumbled with a grunt to one knee. But still he slashed at his brother like a maddened beast.

“Disarm him,” Damaris said under her breath, but Fitz wouldn’t even do that. He stepped back, sword lowered, still talking.

His brother heaved for breath, pouring sweat, glaring with hate. “I’ll kill you,” he choked out. “Come back here, you bastard, so I can kill you!” He pushed, swaying, to his feet again and lurched toward Fitz, finding breath to bellow, “I’ll kill you and the king who thinks to honor you! Rotten, sausage-eating German…”

Outright treason. Damaris had to do something, so she used her most powerful weapon—her voice. She screamed long and loud to drown out his words.

She was too late. At the edge of the courtyard a growing crowd gawked and listened.

At least Leyden had stopped yelling. But then he pulled another pistol from his belt and aimed it at her. She threw herself down even as she saw Fitz lunge to skewer his brother’s right arm. The shot thundered, and she hunched down lower, praying it hadn’t hit anyone.

Her throat hurt, and she was gasping with panic, but she peered out. Fitz was standing, obviously not hurt. Rothgar’s men were swarming all over the still-raging madman.

Libella Fitzroger ran forward then, but to Fitz, not Hugh.

That might be a blessing.

Strength failing her, Damaris turned and sat on the ground. She feared her world had just become much darker.

The crowd had to have heard Leyden’s bellowed treason. In moments the story would be flying around London from mouth to mouth. Within hours there might even be broadsheets about it, even though this was Sunday.

Fitz’s brother could die for those words, and a traitor’s family was ruined along with him. Fitz wouldn’t be able to attend court today, or perhaps ever. And it had happened because of the story she’d impulsively spread that the king might knight his hated brother.

Then Fitz ran to her, looking frantic. “Are you hurt?”

She’d have to confess to him what she’d done. But not now.

When she said, “No,” he helped her to her feet. She gladly leaned against him, but she also offered comfort. She knew what it must have cost him to hurt his brother again, and then there was the treason.

“Oh, my love, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

The sharp voice belonged to Libella Fitzroger, small and tight-lipped. “Hugh’s been a monster all his life.”

Fitz began to protest, but she overrode him. “Mother claimed his cruelty was all your fault, but it wasn’t. Oh, the headaches, perhaps, but not the violence. Orinda seduced you because Hugh was so foul to her. Stupid, of course, but she was stupid. Even at ten I knew that.”

“Hush,” Fritz said, trying to soothe her. “Come back inside, Libby.”

He put an arm around both of them and hurried them into the house. Damaris remembered the threat to herself. She’d been out in the courtyard when her enemy had that crossbow.

She relaxed only when they were inside.

Libella immediately tore free and faced her brother. “You are not to blame for Hugh, Tavvy.”

So, another family name for him. Damaris still preferred Fitz.

“Do you know why Sally is as she is?” Libella demanded. “It didn’t happen at birth. Hugh threw her against a wall when she was a toddler because she pestered him. He was only six years older, but he was a foul bully even then!”

Damaris heard Fitz inhale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“When? I didn’t know about Sal until a few years ago, and you never came back to England.”

“You could have written.”

Libella’s lips worked and she bit them. “If I had, you’d have come back to try to help, and I didn’t want you to. Hugh would hunt you down, and you’d let him kill you. I knew that. Until today.” She flashed a glance at Damaris, suspicious and unfriendly.

“You should have told me,” Fitz insisted.

“To what purpose?” Libella snapped. “You were always such an idealist, but this isn’t some story of King Arthur and his knights! No one would believe the story about Sal, and you know Mother would deny it. I think she denies it to herself. There was nothing you could do.”

“You should have had more faith.”

Libella laughed bitterly. “In what? I saw you today.” She flung out her arm, pointing into the courtyard. “You couldn’t bring yourself to harm him, even when he was roaring treason. It was only when he threatened someone else…” She put her gloved hand over her mouth. “And what’s to become of us all now, I don’t know.”

Fitz put his arm around her and drew her close. “It’ll be all right, Libby. We’ll have him declared mad and cite his treason as part of the proof.”

She frowned up at him. “Is that possible?”

“I believe so. I have, as you see, powerful allies.”

Libella looked around as if seeing the inside of Malloren House for the first time. The marquess entered then, supervising his men, who struggled with the burden of a trussed-up but still fighting Lord Leyden. He was puce and his eyes bulged. Damaris feared he’d die on the spot. But then, perhaps that would be good.

“Lord Leyden will be accommodated in a bedchamber,” Rothgar said, “until decisions are made, Fitzroger.”

The implications were clear. He must be confined.

“I suspect the others are wondering at the noises. Please”—he gestured elegantly toward the right-hand reception room—“speak in private with your sister.”

It was a gentle command to remove their business from the hall and the hearing of servants. They obeyed. Fitz escorted his sister to the sofa. Damaris stayed standing, not sure what her role was here but determined to be a part of it. To show that she was part of this family—heaven save her.

This was not the family she’d hoped to gain through marriage, but it was Fitz’s family, so already it was hers.

Libella drooped, as if cold air had been the only thing holding her up. “Mother will fight his being confined. She always has. It’s as if she’s blanked her mind of all her children but one. She’ll hear nothing against him, deny him nothing. She lives for his visits to Cleeve Court, and between them she prepares for the next.”