Jo Beverley (5 page)

She stared up at him. “Did he? I think I’d shiver if I were about to have my head cut off, no matter how warmly I was dressed.”

“Especially considering how often the headsmen made a mess of it.” Then he winced. “I’m sorry. Not a subject for a lady.”

“Oh, I don’t know. My mother delighted in reading stories about Christian martyrs. She even had books with illustrations.”

They had arrived at the grand staircase that went down to the vast central hall. Festive garlands made it merry, but he knew the scene must remind Damaris that here, yesterday, she had mortified herself.

He gave her his arm down. At the bottom, the footman indicated that Damaris should follow him to the marquess’s estate and business offices. Fitz knew he could go no farther.

“I’m sure this will go well,” he said, “but I offer you good luck, for luck never comes amiss.”

She dipped a curtsy. “I do thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fitzroger.” Then she walked away, back straight, head high, even though he was sure she was quaking inside.

F
itz wanted to hover until Damaris emerged from the interview, but he felt conspicuous. This early, most guests were still abed or breakfasting in their rooms, but two footmen stood in the hall, and voices told him some people were in the breakfast room. He’d rather not return to his bedchamber, however, because he was sharing one with Ash and had left him asleep.

When Ash had received Rothgar’s invitation, he had declined to attend. To be precise, he’d thrown the invitation on the fire. Ash’s patient secretary had written and sent the polite refusal.

Then Ash had encountered his great-aunts on their way here and changed his mind. His great-aunts’ beautiful companion, Genova Smith, had been part of the reason, but Fitz suspected Ash had been glad of an excuse to take up the invitation. It certainly seemed now that the feud might be over.

Upon his arrival, a suitably grand bedchamber had had to be instantly found. Fitz had heard that Lord Henry had been asked to share a room with his unpleasant wife, which might explain some of his sour temper.

There’d been no question of finding a room for Fitz, so he was sharing with Ash. They’d done it often enough before, in inns and other crowded houses, but it meant that now he’d rather not disturb the sleeper.

Fitz crossed the hall to the enormous hearth where the massive Yule log still smoldered, as if seeking its warmth, though it couldn’t do much for the vast chamber’s chill. He had been impressed to notice that Rothgar provided his footmen with fur-lined jackets and warm gloves for duty such as waiting in the hall. Most employers were not so considerate.

Fitz wondered what Rothgar would make of his own part in Damaris’s adventures. Would he, too, think him a fortune hunter? If so, what would he do?

He moved to the side of the hearth to consider the
presepe
, the Italian nativity scene that belonged to Genova Smith. It was as charming as she was. In fact, she was more than charming—she was clever, strong, and brave, and she’d make Ash an excellent wife in all respects if she were only rich.

The plan was that the Dowager Lady Ashhart had run the estates almost into ruin and Ash should marry a fortune to restore them.

The seeds of destruction had been sown in this house nearly forty years ago, when Ash’s aunt, the Lady Augusta Trayce, had married the present Lord Rothgar’s father. Within a year she had satisfactorily produced a son, but two years later she’d given birth to a daughter, fallen into a deep depression, and strangled the newborn babe.

Her horrific act had been kept out of the hands of the law, but she’d been confined here, where she’d died not long afterward, perhaps of guilt and grief. She’d been not yet twenty. Her mother, the present Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, had placed all the blame on the Mallorens. The Mallorens had destroyed her daughter, she claimed, so she would destroy them. Unfortunately, she’d been able to try, for her husband and two sons had been weak, indolent men willing to let her run their estates, and Ash had inherited as a child. She’d diverted every farthing into trying to destroy the Mallorens in politics, in society, and at court. Her efforts had generally been for naught, and in the past decades the Mallorens had grown rich and prospered under Rothgar’s brilliant management.

“Ha! You, sir.”

Fitz turned to find Lord Henry marching toward him. “Where is my ward, sir? Where is she, eh?”

“With Lord Rothgar, sir.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “Requesting that her guardianship be transferred to him.”

“What?” The permanent red in Lord Henry’s face deepened. “Impudent chit!” But then he added, “By gad, he might do it.”

Fitz suddenly realized that Lord Henry had found his guardianship as unpleasant as Damaris had. It didn’t excuse him, but presumably he wasn’t going to fight for the right to continue it.

“Childless, you know,” Lord Henry said. “Not used to young people around the house. Gives my wife the megrims. And she’s a difficult young woman, sir. Very difficult. Willful. Unwomanly. Bold. Very bold. I don’t hold with boldness in females. It always leads to trouble, as it has with her.”

Fitz wondered exactly what she’d done to outrage the man, but he was also thinking that the qualities that upset Lord Henry were exactly the ones that appealed to him.

Lord Henry turned to look toward his nephew’s office as if trying to see through the walls. But in the end, he grunted and marched off in the direction of the Tapestry Room, the more intimate of the Rothgar Abbey drawing rooms.

Well,
Fitz thought. Everything was falling into place.

But then his idle glance caught one of the footmen sneering at him. The expression was instantly wiped away, but Fitz realized he was still in the state in which he’d ridden out after Damaris—in an open-necked shirt and with his hair loose.

The deuce!
Hoping he wasn’t blushing for it, he hurried away to repair his appearance. He entered the bedchamber quietly, but found Ash up and dressed, and being fluttered around by his valet, Henri.

“It must be love,” Fitz commented dryly.

Ash threw the hairbrush at him. Fitz caught it, smiling. Despite the problems caused by Ash’s betrothal, he delighted to see his friend facing a day brightly. Ash was not by nature dismal or violent, but he’d been raised under gloomy burdens and had moods as dark as his hair and eyes. Enter Genova Smith; enter light.
Long may it shine.

“You’re taking breakfast downstairs today?”

“Where Genova doubtless awaits.” Ash rose, snatching the soft, lace-edged cravat from Henri and carelessly tying it himself. “Be done, Henri. I’m not going to court. By the way,” he added to Fitz, “I’m leaving today with the dowager.”

Fitz stared at him. “Zeus, why?”

“What choice do I have? Grandy won’t stay here, and I can hardly wave her good-bye from the door after she made such a scene.”

Grandy was Ash’s name for the Dowager Lady Ashart. In Fitz’s opinion the old woman was a viper, irretrievably warped by her daughter’s tragedy, but Ash felt some fondness for her. His parents had been estranged within weeks of the wedding and had shown no interest in their child, so the dowager had raised him. Fitz couldn’t imagine she’d ever been an ideal mother, but she’d done enough to create fondness. Remarkably, it seemed to have survived even yesterday.

Fitz glanced at the window. “I doubt anyone’s leaving today, Ash. It’s snowing again.”

Ash turned to look. “Perdition. She’ll have a fit.”

“Look on the bright side. More time to bring about healing between her and the Mallorens.”

Ash shook his head. “She’s accepted that Aunt Augusta was unstable, but to exonerate the Mallorens she would have to take some blame on herself. She’ll never do that.” With wry understatement, he added, “She does not have a flexible nature. But I will be as kind to her as I can be. When she leaves, I will escort her home.”

“What about Genova?” Ash hardly seemed able to bear to be apart from her.

“She comes with us, of course.”

“To
Cheynings
? In winter?”

Cheynings, Ashart’s principal house, was the most uncomfortable place Fitz had ever visited, leaving aside actual ruins. Damp and drafts seeped from every corner. The carpets would ripple with the wind if there were any. A vague smell of rot hung around the great house, and bits of plaster were inclined to drop from the ceilings or flake off at a touch.

“Genova’s no delicate bloom,” Ash said. “After living most of her life on navy ships, with her father, even Cheynings can’t be intolerable.”

“I suppose not. But I thought you intended perfect propriety from now on?”

Ash took the handkerchief on which Henri had been dropping perfume and shoved it in his pocket. “Grandy will be there.”

“And keep to her own rooms, as always. Cunning. The appearance of propriety that allows you to do exactly as you wish.”

Ash turned sharply to him. “If I could do exactly as I wish, I’d marry Genova today. As it is, she might as well see what she’s taking on with me.”

He left, and Henri darted into the separate dressing room, doubtless to fuss with Ash’s garments even more. Fitz sat to pull off his riding boots, wondering if Cheynings might turn even Genova off the marriage.

No, of course not. Love had her in its jaws, and Ash was right about her experience. Her father had been a naval captain, and she and her mother had sailed the seas with him. She’d even been involved in a sea battle with Barbary corsairs, and, so the story went, won the day by shooting the corsair captain. If that were true, she was equal to Cheynings and the dowager.

Damaris Myddleton had led a less adventurous life, but she seemed to have much the same spirit. Fitz froze, one boot in hand, remembering his words to her.

“I promise to stand by you, to make sure everything turns out as you would wish.”

He could tell himself that once Rothgar agreed to take care of her, his obligation wouldn’t matter, but Fitz’s word meant more to him than that. He’d implied that he’d keep an eye on her during the rest of this house party, and he was sure that was what she’d understood.

However, now he would have to leave with Ash. There were a number of reasons, but the most pressing was that he was Ash’s bodyguard. Ash didn’t know it—he didn’t even know his life was in danger—but his safety must come first.

Three weeks ago, when he and Ash had been in London, Fitz had been astonished to be summoned to Malloren House. As the time specified was before noon, he’d harbored no illusion that the Marquess of Rothgar was extending a social invitation.

He’d gone to find out what was in hand, hoping if it might have something to do with healing the old wounds between the Trayces and Mallorens.

The truth had been completely unexpected.

Rothgar, all cool courtesy, had informed him that Ash stood in danger of assassination. No, Fitz could not be told who wished Ashart dead, or for what reason. However, as someone of his talents happened to be part of Ashart’s household, he was requested to put those talents to the king’s service once more by keeping Ashart alive.

His talents as a bodyguard.

Rothgar had assured him that his services would not be required for long. By the opening of the winter season on January 18, the danger should be over and he would be free to do as he pleased. He would also be a thousand guineas the richer—assuming, of course, that Ash survived.

Fitz had searched the proposal for traps, but seen none. It had been a peculiar and frustrating proposition, however, for Rothgar clearly knew more than he would say. And, as they said, in knowledge lay power.

Rothgar had at least assured him that those who wanted Ash dead also wanted no hint of murder. Any attempt would be made to look like an accident. That ruled out the more obvious means of murder from dagger to most poisons. On the other hand, Ash enjoyed active adventures, and Fitz was forbidden to warn him of his danger.

He’d almost balked at that, but he’d known he probably was the best man for the job. Time and again he’d proved to be skilled at keeping people safe. He seemed to notice danger signals before others did—a footstep, a shift in a crowd, the expression on a face, even sometimes a stir in the air that raised the hair on his neck. Most of the time he was simply very, very thorough in prevention.

Whatever the explanation, he was good at protection. How could he entrust Ash’s safety to someone else?

Thus far, the warning had turned out to be for nothing. In the past weeks before coming here Ash had ridden around the countryside, engaged in fencing matches, attended wild parties and hells, and had riotous evenings of drink and women. He’d not suffered so much as a scratch. Fitz was relieved, but not surprised. In the hothouse world of courts and politics, the smallest issues grew huge.

But even so, he couldn’t let Ash head off to Cheynings without him. Which meant he had no choice but to abandon Damaris. He hated that, but he couldn’t cut himself in two.

He remembered an old army joke about being bisected left and right or top and bottom. Which way would a wife want her husband split, and if top and bottom, which half would she want?

The least he could do was to attend Damaris for as long as possible. He tidied himself and returned to the hall.

Damaris had been taken to an elegant but businesslike room. A large carved and inlaid desk dominated the space, its surface lit by a reflecting lamp suspended from the raised hand of a bronze lady in classical robes. Shelves full of books, ledgers, and even scrolls lined the walls, and the air was pleasant with wood smoke and leather.

The marquess, in a simple suit of dark blue, had been working on some papers in the pool of light, but had risen as she entered. He directed her to one of two chairs on either side of the fire. Now she sat facing him, trying to find the right words.

He had the same dark coloring and heavy-lidded eyes as his cousin, Ashart, but seemed more formidable. And Ashart was formidable enough. Rothgar was older, of course, but in addition, the whole world knew he was the king’s adviser. And she was going to ask him to take charge of her mundane affairs?

“How may I serve you, Miss Myddleton?” he prompted.