Jo Beverley (11 page)

“Of course. How kind.” Damaris smiled and responded as she meant. “But only if you’ll call me Damaris.”

“With pleasure. Such a pretty name.”

Damaris slid her hand free. “It’s Greek for heifer.” Immediately she regretted the sharp response. To escape, she turned to look out of her window.

“Ah,” said Genova Smith. “You want Fitzroger.”

Damaris whipped around. “Certainly not!”

“Why not? He’s delicious. He only needs some occupation. He’s the sort to do well at whatever he attempts.”

Mention of occupation reminded Damaris that she must reward him. Perhaps once she did that she could get rid of the effect he had on her. Meanwhile, she realized Genova Smith might know more about him than she did, and this journey offered a wonderful opportunity to question her.

“He must have family who could help him establish himself,” she probed.

“He seems to be estranged from them. But it’s a respectable family. From Herefordshire, I think. And a title. Yes. Viscount Leyden.”

A viscount! Damaris hoped her shock wasn’t obvious. But she’d joked about marrying a viscount.

“His older brother holds it,” Genova went on.

“Old
est
, I assume, Octavius meaning he’s the eighth in the family.”

Genova considered her. “Yes, he’s unlikely to inherit. Is that such a huge obstacle?”

Damaris shrugged. “Folly to marry low when the world is full of higher prospects.”

“Then Ashart is a fool. I have nothing.”

“He clearly values your charm and beauty.” Damaris didn’t intend the comment to be vinegary, but she feared it was.

Genova cocked her head. “If a lord can marry for charm and beauty, why shouldn’t a lady do the same? Especially when she’s rich.”

“Perhaps women are more sensible. Beauty and even charm will fade, but title and position last forever.”

“And how much happiness has that brought the Dowager Lady Ashart?”

Genova’s observation was sharp enough to make Damaris gasp. When she added this to Rothgar’s comment about Earl Ferrers, all her plans threatened to crumble. She turned away, but that gave her once again an alluring picture of Fitzroger.

Hers for the buying. It was true. Hadn’t he said as much?

“More to the point,” she muttered, “why can’t women do as men do and take a spouse for some things and lovers for the rest?”

“Damaris!”

She turned back, pleased to have shocked someone so worldly-wise as Genova. Someone who’d sailed the seven seas and, they said, fought pirates.

“We can’t, though, can we? Just as we can’t be naval heroes, or sail to the Orient to make our fortunes.”

“You’re dangerous.” Genova was wide-eyed, but admiring, too.

“That would be nice, but I’m sure it would bring nothing but grief. Do you play cribbage?”

Genova accepted the change of subject, and they settled to a game. Their skills seemed equal, so it required concentration, and by the time they stopped for the first change of horses, Damaris was even enjoying herself.

She admitted she was coming to like her companion. Genova was pleasant and had a droll sense of humor. And what benefit was there in clinging to her resentments?

Most of the time the snow was no problem, but in places it had drifted, making the going difficult. It also masked dips and deep ruts. The principal carriages weren’t inconvenienced too much for the advance one, and the outriders warned of problems, but the going was slow.

With cleaner roads they could have hoped to make Cheynings by two and eat dinner there, but instead they stopped to dine at the King’s Head in Persham. All stood ready for them. Damaris used a screened chamber pot in a bedchamber, and then went to the private parlor, where their dinner was laid out. Only the dowager and Lady Thalia were there. She could guess why Ashart and Genova delayed, but where was Fitzroger? Oh, no, she would not constantly be aware of his presence or absence.

The two old ladies had begun their soup, so she joined them.

“Where are those silly creatures?” Lady Thalia asked. “Living on love, I suppose. Ah, I remember those days!”

The dowager looked up. “Your love died.”

Damaris saw poor Lady Thalia’s stricken face and barely suppressed a shocked protest. She plunged to the rescue. “Oxtail soup is so rich, isn’t it? And welcome after so many hours on the road.”

Lady Thalia was not distracted. “My dearest Richard did not die of starvation, Sophia, but of a sword wound.” She pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

“Wouldn’t a romantic like you believe that love should have kept him safe?”

“No, how could I?” Whether real or assumed, Lady Thalia’s incomprehension was an excellent response. “Many loved ones die in war. Or otherwise. Four of your children have died, Sophia, and I’m sure you must have loved them just as much as I loved dear Richard.”

The dowager went white. “A mother’s love is a different matter, Thalia, which you will never know.”

“No, alas, but so very many children die. So unfair of God to make mother love a
weaker
power, don’t you think?”

Horrified, Damaris leaped in again. “The ways of God are beyond human understanding.”

The dowager turned on her. “Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, girl! You’ve washed your hands of my family. So be it.”

Praise the Lord, Genova and Ashart came in then, Fitzroger close behind.

Ashart entered smiling, but seemed to read the atmosphere. “The soup smells delicious,” he said, seating Genova, who shot Damaris a wide-eyed glance.

That started Lady Thalia chattering about soup, oxen, and, by some invisible connection, a dress she’d worn to court forty years before. She seemed all froth and silliness now, but that moment of naked blades had not been an illusion. There was more to Lady Thalia Trayce than Damaris had guessed.

That made her wonder how many people were not what they seemed. Fitzroger, for example. And even the dowager.

The poor woman had lost many, perhaps all of her children, so perhaps she had reason for her bitter nature. She resolved to try to be gentler with her.

Fitzroger sat beside her and served himself soup from the tureen. “I hope you aren’t finding the journey too slow.”

“No. Genova and I are engaged in a battle royal at cribbage.”

He smiled. “I’m glad it’s only at cards.”

She wished she could talk to him about the battle between the old ladies, for it distressed her, but the conversation had become general.

When they were ready to leave, Fitzroger assisted her with her cloak. “Another hour and a half, I think. We’ve sent ahead for an extra change.”

It was already after three and the days were short in winter. “So we will travel into the dark,” Damaris said.

“Yes.” Something in his tone gave her words a weight she had never intended.

W
hen Damaris settled into the newly warm vehicle, Genova asked, “Is something amiss?”

Damaris could hardly pin down her mood. “Fitzroger seems concerned.”

“I think it must be the effect of the dowager. What a blighting presence she can be.”

“Yes.”

Genova sounded concerned herself, and it wasn’t surprising. Her future must include the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, and as Fitzroger had said, the likelihood of her leaving Cheynings was remote. Ashart had a town house, of course, but he would have to spend part of his time on his estate, and children were best raised in country air.

Even the weather had turned sullen. The sky had clouded earlier in the day, and now that the sun was setting, the clouds were turning the color of a bruise. The cold seemed damper despite the fresh hot bricks, and the pretty white snow was gray.

The carriage lights had been lit to help the coachman see the way, and while they provided a warm glow, they also made everything around them seem darker. Fitzroger rode near the light on Damaris’s side, still watchful, still alert.

Genova leaned against Damaris’s shoulder to look in the same direction. Damaris couldn’t remember another woman touching her with such careless intimacy, but she liked it. It was as she imagined a sister would act.

“I have wondered what he’s up to,” Genova said thoughtfully.

Damaris turned her head. “You, too, think he has some extra purpose?”

“He’s not made to be idle. But he’s not long from war. That could be why he seems on edge.”

“Do you know what battles he was involved in?”

“No. Ashart might. Men tend to think ladies don’t want to hear about such things.”

“I don’t suppose I’d want to hear the details.” Damaris turned completely and settled back in her seat. “You must have experienced battle.”

“Yes, though not often. Whenever possible women and children were put onshore before action. I saw more of the lingering effects.”

“You nursed the wounded?”

“Yes.”

“So did I. The local wounded in Worksop. My grandfather was a physician, so when he died there was a natural connection to the doctor who replaced him. Dr. Telford was one of the few guests my mother welcomed. As I grew older I assisted him sometimes. In the apothecary, but also in nursing the wounded or elderly. Not the sick, for that might expose me to contagion. I would sit with them, too. Reading or playing cards. It gave me something to do.”

Genova frowned. “Did you not have friends your own age? Go to school? In our wandering life a part of me longed for a settled home and lifelong friends.”

“Whereas I often longed to travel. Even to join my father in the East. A folly, that, when he cared nothing for me.”

Genova briefly squeezed her hand, and this time Damaris welcomed it. But she didn’t want to talk about her parents.

“So you think Fitzroger is simply an ex-officer?”

“It could be so. Military action requires a fire inside, for most men don’t easily kill their fellows. In some it smolders on for a while.”

“Smolders,” Damaris echoed, liking the word for all the wrong reasons.

It must have shown, for Genova said, “Be careful. It can be…inflammatory.”

Damaris searched her face. “I had begun to suspect that you and Ashart wanted to marry me off to him.”

“Faith, no! What made you think that?”

“It would be logical.”

“Hardly. I’m sure it would be lovely. For him. Perhaps for you.” She laughed. “You’ve startled me out of my wits, but I assure you, we’ve never spoken of it. Everyone assumes you’ll marry a grand title.”

“As I will.” As defense against insanity, she summoned a name. “The Duke of Bridgewater, perhaps.”

“A duke! Is he young, handsome?”

“He’s twenty-seven years old, and from the engraving that accompanied my trustees’ report, he’s as handsome as I am beautiful, which makes a fair match.”

Genova’s eyes widened. “You have a report on him?”

“And on nine others. Including,” Damaris added with a grin, “Ashart.”

“Oh, my. May I have it?”

“Of course. But in exchange I want every scrap you know about Fitzroger.”

“Aha! You
are
tempted by him.”

“I’m merely curious. He’s a puzzle.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Genova warned, but frowned in thought. “Let me see. I don’t know much. Ask me a question.”

“Why did he arrive at Rothgar Abbey days after Ashart?”

“Ash sent him back to London to supervise the delivery of his wardrobe, extra horses, and such. He hadn’t intended to stay at Rothgar Abbey.”

“See? He
is
a servant.”

“More an obliging friend. Another question.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Does he have any plans for his future?”

“To go to America.” Genova clearly knew Damaris wouldn’t welcome this news. “He’s at odds with his family and doesn’t want to stay in England. His father, Lord Leyden, died a couple of years ago, but if Fitz hoped for reconciliation after that, it hasn’t happened. In fact, the main strife seems to be with his brother, the new viscount. Have I earned the report?”

“That depends on whether there’s more to tell. What caused the estrangement?”

“I truly don’t know. Before visiting Rothgar Abbey, I didn’t move in these circles, you see.”

“But you’re close friends with Lady Thalia.”

“Yes, but that’s the extent of it. When my mother died, my father retired. Then he married again and we moved to my stepmother’s house in Tunbridge Wells. There I met Lady Thalia and we became friends. She and Lady Calliope invited me to accompany them to Rothgar Abbey only to rescue me from my stepmother.”

“She’s cruel?”

“Oh, no. She’s very gracious, and she makes my father happy. We just don’t get on.” She smiled. “She’s very conventional.”

Damaris laughed. “I see. Pirate shooting is not admired.”

“Oh, don’t mention that. People make far too much of it. As for scandal, Thalia will probably know. She loves gossip. I’ll ask her if you wish.”

Damaris was suddenly hesitant. If Fitzroger had done something terrible, did she want to know?

“Ash did mention that Fitz’s brother threatens to shoot him on sight,” Genova said. “But Lord Leyden seems a most unpleasant man. How did Ash describe him? ‘A great, blustering, uncouth brute.’ Apparently he created a scene at the coronation three years ago. Another peer jostled him in the crush and he flew into one of his rages and had to be hustled away.”

“Lud, he sounds like a madman. Could that explain his threats?”

“It’s possible.”

“Poor Fitz. Yes, if Lady Thalia knows more, please do find out, but you’ve certainly earned your reward. Lord Henry is to send my belongings to London, so I’ll give the report to you there. I warn you, Genova, it paints a poor picture of the Trayce fortunes.”

“Oh, Ash has told me all. It needs only economy and good management.”

Damaris wasn’t sure if Genova’s words reflected admirable resolution or insane optimism.

They settled to more cribbage, and the time flew until the next halt. The final one, thank heavens.

The horses were changed and their cooling bricks replaced with hot ones. A man with a taper lit the candles inside the carriage. They were ready to resume when a sudden crash was followed by a shriek and people rushing past the windows.

Damaris leaned over to Genova’s window, which looked toward the inn. “What’s happening? That sounds like the dowager screeching.”

Genova let down the window and called the question.

“Someone threw a stone through the carriage window, miss,” one of the outriders called.

The servants had left their coach to try to help, and people were pouring out of the inn to see what all the fuss was about. Add some barking dogs, and they had chaos.

At least the dowager had stopped shrieking her complaints.

“I’m getting out,” Damaris said. She pulled on her cloak and leaped out of the coach without assistance, then hurried to the big, gilded coach. Yes, the right-hand window was only vicious shards.

The dowager and Lady Thalia were being escorted into the inn. Fitzroger was there, but instead of looking at the damage he was looking at the crowd. Looking for who’d done it, she realized.

She went to his side. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, but it’ll mean a delay while the hole’s covered.” He glanced at her briefly, but then returned his intent attention to the noisy throng.

Damaris looked that way, too, but saw only gawkers, some chewing on food they’d carried out with them. “Someone threw a stone?” she asked. “Who?”

“No one saw him.” He turned fully to her. “Why not go into the inn? It’s cold out here.”

Join the dowager and Lady Thalia again? No, thank you.

She pulled up her hood, regretting that she’d brought neither gloves nor muff. “I’m warm enough. This is quite exciting. Do you think it was someone with a grudge against the nobility?”

“That’s possible.” But then she thought he cursed under his breath.

She followed his look and saw two servants emerging from the inn, each carrying a tray of steaming flagons. Refreshments for the stranded travelers provided by an opportunistic innkeeper. A burly maid headed toward them.

Fitz stopped her, took two, and drank from one as if thirsty. Then he said, “Mulled cider,” and gave the other to Damaris.

She thought he was acting strangely, but she was glad of the warm pot between her hands. The spicy steam was delicious, but when she sipped she pulled a face. “It’s very sweet.”

“All the better for vinegar,” he said, then walked over to talk to the men who were discussing how to cover the hole in the window.

Damaris thought his words had been intended as a tease, but they had come out curtly because he was on edge. Why? She didn’t see how he could have prevented a chance bit of malice.

She looked around, wondering if any of the people standing around was the culprit. A fat man appeared sullen, and an old codger leaning on a stick looked as if he was enjoying their predicament, but she couldn’t imagine either of them throwing a stone and not being noticed doing it.

Two young women were flirting with anyone willing to play, but Damaris didn’t suppose they’d damage a coach for the chance. Well, she amended, they could well be whores, so they might, but it seemed unlikely.

Then she was startled to catch a man snarling at her as he bit into a chicken leg. She stared, then made herself look away, excitement bubbling. Had she found the villain? Fitzroger would be impressed.

She considered what she’d seen. The man was in his twenties, she thought, and of average build. In the uncertain evening light, brightened only by carriage lamps and the flambeaux outside the inn, she couldn’t tell his hair color, but she thought it had been reddish.

Scots? Some Scots hadn’t abandoned the rebellion of 1745, when they’d risen to try to restore the Stuarts to the throne of England.

But he hadn’t looked like a rebel, and he certainly hadn’t been in Scottish plaid. His clothes had been those of an ordinary Englishman, perhaps even a gentleman. He wore riding boots and breeches, and his three-cornered hat had been trimmed with braid.

She sneaked another look and caught him looking at her again. This time he smiled. Or she thought it was supposed to be a smile. It looked more like a leer, because his upper lip was distorted a little and his front teeth were crossed.

She looked away again, embarrassed to have thought ill of someone because of a facial impediment.
Poor man.
She remembered a child in Worksop whose mouth wouldn’t close properly, so she looked like an idiot when she wasn’t.

She saw Genova over near the inn and moved to join her, but then Ashart went to Genova’s side, offering to share his flagon of cider. Love was absurd but not to be interrupted.

Instead Damaris wandered around, inhaling the steam from the pot in her hands, glad of a chance to stretch her legs on this long journey. The inn sign declared the place to be the Cock and Bull, which made her think with a smile of a “cock and bull” story, one that no one could believe.

This almost seemed like one. Who would expect a stone thrown at a marquess’s carriage in a quiet English town? It had probably been a mischievous boy with a slingshot, causing much more trouble than he’d planned. He’d probably fled as fast as he could, praying no one had seen him.

The high street was busy and had a number of other inns along it, all with bright windows and flambeaux outside. Most of the shops were still open, their lit windows brightening the scene, especially when the light played on snow and ice. Damaris noticed that the day’s thaw was freezing everywhere, and took care where she stepped.

Word of the strange event must be spreading, for people were coming out of inns, shops, and houses to look down toward the Cock and Bull. Some pulled on shawls or cloaks and began to hurry in their direction. A whole family arrived, adults carrying tiny ones. She heard a child chatter about the “golden coach.”