Jo Beverley (32 page)

She sighed. “I’m sorry about your money, Tavvy. I was so giddy about it I let something slip to Sal, and she told Mother. Mother demanded it and gave it all to Hugh, like an offering to a god.”

Damaris thought her question was silent, but Fitz glanced at her. “I sent Libby the money I received from the sale of my commission.” He sat beside his sister and took her hand. “I should have realized how bad things were. I should have done something.”

Libella shook her head. “Galahad,” she said, but fondly.

Damaris must have started, for Libella looked up at her. “We used to play King Arthur. Or rather, Tavvy and his friends, Jack Marchant and Harry Fowles, did. They let me be Guinevere sometimes. Tavvy would never be Arthur or Lancelot. He always wanted to be Galahad.”

That glimpse into childhood was enough to break Damaris’s heart. Unlike her, and despite his family’s problems, Fitz had once had a normal childhood with friends and games. She could imagine him running wild in the countryside, riding a pony probably as he and his friends staged jousts and dragon slayings.

So when his life had shattered, he’d had so much more to lose.

Libella suddenly spoke again. “I’ve been waiting for Hugh to die,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t ask you for help, Tavvy. The doctor says he soon must. He’s ruined his heart and his liver and who knows what else with excesses, and he’s diseased from his whores as well. But he keeps on living—and
I wish him in hell
.”

She broke into tears, and Fitz took her into his arms.

Damaris heard voices and slipped into the hall. Genova, Ashart, and Lady Thalia were there, astonished. They’d each been woken by the gunshot and had to dress.

Rothgar appeared and directed everyone into the reception room.

As soon as the door was shut, he said to Fitz, “I’ve sent for Dr. Erasmus. He runs a private asylum on the most advanced principles. Leyden can be kept there until you decide on permanent arrangements.”

Fitz had risen. “Can we save him from the gallows? For my mother’s sake, at least. I keep thinking of Damiens.”

“Oh, no,” Damaris said and went to his side.

She heard sounds from the others as well. Six years before, a man called Damiens had tried to assassinate the king of France and been horribly punished.

“We are not France,” Rothgar said. “We do not torture madmen and tear them apart in a public square, not even for an attempt on the king’s life. And mercifully, Leyden never came close to action. It was unfortunate that so many heard, but even there, Damaris’s excellent vocal cords helped.”

“It was all I could think to do,” she said.

“I hope it didn’t damage your voice. You still have to sing at court.”

“Still? After this?”

“The king expects you. There are hours yet. Time enough to prepare. Time enough,” Rothgar added, “for the king to hear of Leyden’s words.”

“You want to delay my presentation?” Fitz asked. “I have no objection. My family needs me.”

Damaris kicked his ankle.

After a moment and a glance at her, he said, “But I would prefer to proceed, if possible.”

“So be it. I will make some adjustments.”

With that cryptic statement, Rothgar left. Ashart, Genova, and Lady Thalia started asking questions, but Fitz turned to Damaris. “I still must take Libby back and attempt to explain this to our mother. If she’ll even acknowledge my existence. Ash, you’ll take care of Damaris?”

“Of course. I regret the complications, Fitz, but I’m glad you’ve been forced to deal with your brother.”

After hasty thought, Damaris decided to share some of what Libella had said, even though Fitz probably wouldn’t like it.

“And Fitz isn’t responsible for Lord Leyden’s wild nature. Apparently he’s been like that all his life.”

Fitz cast her a sharp look. “I’m sure finding me in bed with his wife didn’t help.”

“But you no longer need to leave the country,” Ash said. “In fact, you’ll have to stay to look after your family’s affairs. I can’t dislike that.”

“There are estate managers and trustees,” Fitz said curtly. “And my actions may depend on other matters.”

On Rothgar’s reaction to their fornication. Damaris saw the look between Ashart and Fitz, and realized that Ashart had just spoken out of friendship.

“I’ll do nothing to drive you away,” Ashart said directly.

Damaris almost swayed with relief, though she knew she’d still have to battle for her happiness. Unless she was with child, Fitz wouldn’t marry her as long as his reputation remained tainted, and having a traitorous brother could hardly improve it.

But at least one threat was removed.

Fitz turned to her and kissed her hand, but used that to murmur a command. “Don’t spill any more of my family’s secrets.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t.”

“Unless you decide it’s best.”

She had no reply for that.

His lips twitched. “I’ll return as soon as possible. Behave and be safe.”

He left with his sister. Damaris couldn’t bear chatter and questions, so she retreated to her bedchamber. Her beautiful court gown was spread on the bed, and soon she’d have to put it on and play a part. And sing.

She tried a scale and found to her relief that her scream didn’t seem to have damaged her voice. The soreness she’d felt before must simply have been tension. It had gone.

Even the prospect of singing before the king couldn’t outweigh the real challenge. What happened to Fitz today at court could change her life. Frustratingly, she couldn’t see anything to do to shape events.

So she prayed.

She wasn’t a person accustomed to prayer beyond the routine of Sunday service, but now she directly addressed God. She didn’t ask anything for herself; only that things become right for Fitz, that he find the honor and joy he deserved.

A knock at the door disturbed her. A footman carried a request from Rothgar that she visit his study.

As soon as she entered, Rothgar said, “We’ve found your brother.” He was dressed for riding and holding leather gauntlets. “He’s staying at the Swan in Church Lane.”

“Openly? Doesn’t that prove his innocence?”

“Who else has reason to kill you? But I go to find out.”

“I want to come.” When he stared at her, she said, “He’s my brother. I made Fitzroger promise not to harm him, short of dire necessity. Will you pledge the same?”

He tapped the leather gloves against his palm, then said, “No. Do you think to be able to stop me?”

She met his eyes. “I would do my best.”

He smiled. “Very well, I travel with force to this and can keep you safe. You will do exactly as I say.”

She didn’t argue that point, but hurried off to dress warmly, pausing for a moment in thought as she put on her cloak. Fitz wouldn’t like this, and he’d know sooner or later.

She left him a note. How to end it? Smiling, she wrote,
With all my heart, Damaris
.

He’d be exasperated again to hear she’d left the house, but if she wasn’t safe with Rothgar and his force, where would she be?

When she went down to the hall, she found that Rothgar was taking her safety seriously. A sedan chair had been brought into the house so she could enter it there. As soon as the door was closed a phalanx of armed footmen surrounded it. Thus guarded, she was carried out into the courtyard, where Rothgar mounted, joining three other armed horsemen.

Such a small army attracted a great deal of attention on the way to the Swan Inn.

T
he Swan was a cozy-looking establishment with two bow windows, sitting in a row of shops on a narrow road that ran between two busier ones. A coach could pass down Church Lane, but only just, which was probably why none seemed to. The only traffic other than pedestrians was sedan chairs and the occasional handcart. There weren’t even any riders until Rothgar’s party rode in, hooves noisy on the cobblestones.

Damaris detected no hint of danger or dark deeds here. In fact, most of the people seemed to be making their way to the church whose spire could be seen ahead. Damaris felt certain there must be some mistake, but she was carried into the inn and allowed out only when the door shut on the outside and her guards were in position around her. She emerged feeling ridiculous.

She heard Rothgar asking for Mr. Myddleton and pushed her way through her wall of protection to go to his side. He was talking to a comely lady of middle years who was clearly mistress of her domain. She looked both alarmed and cross at this invasion, but wasn’t about to offend a man like Rothgar.

“If you’ll come this way, my lord.”

They followed her down a short corridor until she stopped in front of a door. “I’ve just served Mr. Myddleton’s dinner, my lord. I hope there’ll be no trouble.”

Damaris had to fight laughter at that non sequitur, but it was hardly surprising if the woman was nervous. Her establishment had been invaded by men primed for violence. The very air hummed with tension.

When the innkeeper raised her hand, Rothgar put her aside and knocked himself. Damaris’s heart was thundering now. She was about to meet her one and only brother—and maybe lose him to violence.

The door opened without caution and she saw a stocky young man in a fashionable suit of dark red cloth, a table napkin in his hand. He did look very much like her father, especially about the square jaw, the bright eyes, and the brows that grew too close in the middle. His look of polite inquiry turned to wariness, but there was no hint of guilt. If he was her would-be murderer, he was a brilliant actor.

“Mr. Butler-Myddleton? I am Lord Rothgar, and this is your sister, Miss Damaris Myddleton. We would like to speak to you.”

Mark Myddleton gaped slightly, but fell back and bowed them into a decent parlor, kept warm by a generous fire. It had to be the best parlor, for it had one of the bow windows that looked out into the lane. A table stood there and held his meal. It looked as if he’d been halfway through his soup.

He waved a vague, bewildered offer of seating. Rothgar assisted Damaris off with her cloak and guided her to a chair, but remained standing himself. She noticed that two footmen had entered with them to station themselves by the door.

She looked from her brother to Rothgar with no idea what to say.

“Are you aware, Myddleton, that someone has twice tried to kill your half sister?”

Mark looked at her, shocked. “Gads, no. I’m pleased you’re safe, sister. I had thought sometime soon to seek your acquaintance.”

Damaris almost said something warm and friendly, but stopped herself. If this was not her assassin, who was?

“Have you ever been to Pickmanwell?” Rothgar asked.

Mark looked honestly confused. “I don’t think so. Where is it, my lord?” Then he became defensive and stood tall. “What’s the meaning of all this? You can’t suspect
me
?”

“You were, until recently, your sister’s heir.”

“And that is cause enough to invade an honest man’s lodging?”

“How did you know?” Rothgar asked.

“Know what?”

“That you were your sister’s heir.”

Mark’s features set as if he wouldn’t answer, but then he said, “My father told me. He probably hoped I’d throw a jealous fit. Mama obliged instead.”

“Oh, you, too,” Damaris exclaimed. “What an awful man he was! But surely, sir, you must feel some resentment over my receiving most of his money.”

She tried to read his expression but could see no evasion, no hint of dishonesty.

“I do, of course. Especially as I’m his legitimate son, and he treated my mother foully.” Then he colored. “You do know about that?”

“Yes, but not the full story. Perhaps you can explain more….”

But then the door opened and Fitz walked in, fending off one footman with a thrust that staggered the man. “Of all the foolish starts!”

Rothgar produced a quizzing glass and looked at him through it. “Are you accusing me of folly, Fitzroger?”

Damaris suspected that Fitz wanted to snap, “Yes!” but instead he turned a deadly look on Mark. “So this is the brother.”

“And probably innocent,” Damaris said, leaping to her feet and putting herself between them.

Fitz grabbed her arm and dragged her to his side. “For pity’s sake. Who else?”

Rothgar fingered the long stem of his glass. “An excellent question, Myddleton. There seems no reason to attack your sister other than to acquire her money, so who else could that attacker be?”

Mark Myddleton did suddenly look shifty, glancing away as if in search of an answer. Damaris’s heart fell. Fitz had been right.

But then Mark sighed. “I fear it might be my brother, my lord.”

“’Struth!” Fitz exploded. “Do you take us for fools?”

“Join me in folly, Fitzroger,” Rothgar murmured. The tone was almost amused, but Damaris felt the presence of the Dark Marquess and all his faculties.

Her brother paced the room for a moment, then faced them.

“I’m sure my mother would have been true to a better man, or even one more present. But as it was, she bore two children who were not my father’s. My little sister died at three, but William survived. He’s five years younger than I. Father didn’t seem to mind the infidelity, but forbade Mama to spend on Will money intended for me. There was no reason for such a command, but he was like that, as I’m sure you know, sister.”

Was it folly to support him? Damaris couldn’t help it. “Yes, though I think you saw more of him than I. He made only three visits to Worksop.”

“Then I congratulate you on your good fortune.”

“My mother didn’t see it so.”

“She wanted more of him? Mama would have been happy to see nothing but his money. She was terrified of him, but terrified of losing the money more.” He hesitated again, then said, “She started life as an innkeeper’s daughter, you see, and dreaded above all things losing the trappings of a lady. He tossed luxuries to her like a person tossing bread to ducks, and she quacked.”

“He tossed luxuries to my mother, too, but she tried to bite back.”

They shared a look of complete understanding. How strange this was. Fitz grasped her arm, as if he expected her to do something foolish. That seemed to bring her brother back to the point.

“Mama always carried out his orders, even when he was far away. He had us watched.”

Damaris wondered if he’d had Birch House watched, too, and decided he probably had. How amused he must have been by the reports.

“So Will shared our home and food,” her brother continued, “but he wore only my cast-off clothes. I received fine birthday gifts and Will received what Mother thought she could excuse. When I went to Westminster School, he went to a lesser place. As I became a gentleman, he was apprenticed to an apothecary.”

An apothecary
. That could explain the tainted drink—if this William existed at all. Damaris posed that question. “How can we be sure this person exists?”

Her brother looked bewildered, but Rothgar answered, “He does. A William Butler lived with your brother and his mother in Rosemary Terrace, though people there thought him a poor cousin. However, in recent years he has lived like a fine young gentleman. Myddleton?”

Her brother’s cheeks flushed again, and Damaris wondered if he had their father’s temper. He answered, however. “When my father died I came into control of a trust fund, so I helped Will along. In fact,” he said with a shrug, “I shared everything. Why not? There was plenty, and Will was my brother and friend. We had fine times, but alas, it was never enough for him. I came to realize that when Mother died.”

He turned to Damaris. “I always thought myself illegitimate, and that Mama’s existence as Mrs. Myddleton was pretense. Even so, when Father died, I asked Mama where his money had been left. She said to his Myddleton family. I accepted that. As I said, I had enough and she had enough. We were comfortable.

“On her deathbed, however, she told me the truth, that it had gone to you. She wept about the unfairness of it and tried to get me to promise to blackmail you with the scandal of bigamy so that you’d give me half. And that half of that would go to Will. I refused. I was shocked by the story, but I couldn’t stoop to blackmail.”

He was not, Damaris thought, like their father after all.

“I did check my father’s will in case my legitimacy would matter there, but the money was legally yours, so that was that. But Will couldn’t see it that way. You and the money became his obsession—the money that he saw as rightfully ours. He talked endlessly of what we’d do when we had it—where we’d travel, the grand houses we’d own.

“Eventually I couldn’t bear it anymore. I decided to sell the house, and part of the reason was that I didn’t want to live with him. I gave him half the proceeds—a goodly amount—and he went off on his own. I admit, I wondered if he’d try to carry out Mama’s plan, but I didn’t want to know.”

He looked around at them. “But he wouldn’t do more than that. I can’t believe that he’d do more than that.”

Despite his words, he was close to weeping. He did think his brother could be driven to murder by greed.

“Does he own a small crossbow?” she asked gently.

He staggered back into a chair, all his florid color ebbing. “Oh, no, no.”

“Well?” Fitz demanded.

Mark turned to him. “He’s always been interested in weapons. Likes to fence, but unusual weapons, too. Slingshots, crossbows…Says they’re as deadly as a pistol—he hates pistols—and easier to take care of and carry around. But he wouldn’t!”

“Someone did,” Fitz said. “Where is he now?”

Mark ran a chunky hand over his face. “I don’t know! I haven’t seen him for weeks. He said he would spend Christmastide with friends in the country.” He looked between them. “I had no idea. What should I do?”

Fitz turned on Rothgar. “You brought Damaris out into this.”

“An error, I confess. I failed to imagine such a convoluted tale. Quite extraordinary.” He turned to Mark. “Your sister has made a new will. You are no longer her heir.”

“I read about it in the
Town Crier
yesterday. I think I was relieved.”

“Then your brother may have heard, too,” Fitz said. “Will he still try to harm her?”

Mark shook his head. “I’d have said not, sir, but now I’m not sure. He’s come to see all that money as ours. To hear so much has been thrown away on charity hospitals—that’s how he’d see it…it might enrage him.”

“Is he your heir?” Fitz asked. “Because if so, I’d be very careful.”

Mark went white. “We are brothers, sir!”

“Believe me, that’s no guarantee of kindness.”

Mark pushed out of his chair and went to the table by the window to pour himself wine with an unsteady hand.

Fitz said, “We have to get Damaris back to safety.”

But then he turned sharply toward the window and strode forward to dash the glass out of Mark’s hand.

“What the devil!”

Fitz picked up the decanter and sniffed at it, then tasted a drop. “Believe me, sir, this wouldn’t have agreed with you.”

Damaris was staring at them, but something beyond the window caught her eye. A movement. When she focused, she saw the snaggletoothed man glaring in at them.

“There he is!” she cried. “That has to be Will Butler!”

Fitz was already out the door at a run—the sight of the man must have been what alerted him. But outside Will Butler was pushing through the crowd down the busy lane. Damaris moved to follow Fitz but had stopped herself before Rothgar did so. He ordered his footmen to the chase, and Damaris hurried to the window, but carefully. She remembered the crossbow only too well.

When she peered around the curtain, she saw Will Butler fighting his way down the crowded lane in the direction of the church like a ship struggling against tide and winds. No one was cooperating, and ahead of him a laden handcart almost entirely blocked his way.

Fitz ran into the narrow street and yelled, “Stop, thief! Ten guineas to anyone who takes the man with the crooked teeth!”

That changed everything. Everyone stopped and looked around for the thief. The man with the handcart grabbed for Butler’s sleeve.

Butler whipped out a dagger and the man fell back. Everyone nearby shrank away from him, but the narrow lane was too crowded for a way to become clear.

Damaris covered her mouth with her hand. As well as his dagger, Butler wore a sword, and he probably had that crossbow somewhere. There were women and children out there.

“Someone’s going to get hurt,” she said.

Mark flung open one of the casements and leaned out. “Will, Will! Have sense, man. Give over.”