Jo Beverley (14 page)

Remembering Lady Thalia, Damaris put the crisps back in the box and returned it to her. The old lady smiled. “You’re a competent young lady, aren’t you? But I think you need a little sweetness, too.”

For a moment Damaris was hurt, thinking it a comment on her vinegary nature, but then she realized the offer was simply of sugar for the nerves. She took a sweetmeat and found it did help. Her mind steadied, but it was like coming out of a protective daze.

Had she helped or harmed?

“I think she’s better,” Ashart said. “Come and check.”

It was a command, but Damaris obeyed. At least he couldn’t think her a murderer after this. Yes, the pulse was slower. Then Genova’s eyes opened a little.

“I am better,” she said weakly but clearly. “Much better. Heart not so fast. I thought it would burst….” She looked at Damaris. “Thank you, my friend.”

Tears stung Damaris’s eyes. “It was nothing. But what—”

A sharp squeeze of her hand cut her off, and she let Fitzroger draw her away to the fire. “This isn’t the time to talk about whys and hows,” he murmured.

Then when?
Damaris wondered, but energy was leaching out of her. This on top of her fall was just too much.

“Ah, the tea!” Lady Thalia announced, and indeed the maid had entered, carrying a tea service on a large tray followed by the valet bearing a silver teakettle on its comfort stand and looking as if he considered it beneath his dignity.

Fitzroger steered Damaris to the chair opposite Lady Thalia’s, and she sat with something of a thump. She couldn’t believe she’d taken such a risk. Dr. Telford had always warned that even the most common herbs and medicines could be dangerous in the wrong situation. If Genova had not improved, if she’d died, they’d all have blamed her.

She saw the sugar bowl on the tray and looked over at Genova, but she seemed completely recovered now. Some sweet tea should complete the cure.

Perhaps it was relief that started the shakes. She gripped her hands to try to keep them still. If she’d known how to find her room, she might have excused herself and hidden there.

“Set it all here,” Lady Thalia said, pointing to a table by her. “A pot prepared in the kitchen would have been quite sufficient, I’m sure, but I’ll make it. Regeanne, as you see, the crisis is over, so you may find out where I am to sleep and make sure the bed is aired.”

“In here,” Ashart said, still fixed by the bed as if with glue. “With Genova. I’m sure this is the warmest room. Henri, Regeanne, you may go.”

Lady Thalia opened the wooden tea caddy. Or rather, she tried to. “Well, really. It’s locked! Are we supposed to beg Sophia for the key?”

“Do something, Fitz,” Ash said.

Damaris looked at Fitzroger and, with a whimsical smile, he said, “
Woof
.” But he produced what looked like a set of very thin blades, poked them into the lock, and in moments had the lid open. Lady Thalia went about making the tea as if this were nothing out of the ordinary, but Damaris stared.

“I’ll know not to try to keep anything from you with lock and key, sir.”

“And why would you want to keep anything from me, Miss Myddleton?”

Did he, too, sound suspicious?

“Because a lady must have her secrets!” Lady Thalia declared, scooping out some tea. She sniffed it. “This is not of the best quality, Ashart.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I’ll sort everything out. For the moment the only important thing is that Genova seems to be safe.”

It was true, but when Ashart looked around the room, perhaps for the first time, he still seemed suspicious of Damaris. She felt weepy over that, which was proof she wasn’t herself.

Whatever the quality, hot tea would help. By the time Fitzroger passed her a cup her hands had stopped shaking, so she didn’t embarrass herself. He’d added a shot of brandy, and that didn’t hurt, either. After one cup her nerves steadied. After two she felt no tension at all.

Genova was sitting up on her own, drinking her tea, and talking to Ashart as if nothing had happened. But something most certainly had.

Now, panic over, it seemed more sensible to see the episode as an attack of nerves, which had responded to sugar, but Damaris couldn’t get the idea of poison out of her mind. Fitzroger hadn’t dismissed it, and there had been something strange in that flagon.

What herbs could have such an effect?

She couldn’t think of one, but she was not an expert.

If there was any question of poison, why did Fitzroger not want to speak of it, even now? She hated to consider the possibility, but could he have been responsible?

No. As he’d said, he’d not had time. He’d been with her, taking care of her while a hypothetical villain had been putting something in the cider and instructing the maid to give it to her.

Someone should definitely talk to that maid.

And test the dregs in the pot. On a rat or mouse, for example. She was sure Cheynings had plenty to spare.

Had Fitzroger really implied that someone was in danger and he knew who? Which brought her back to the notion of someone wanting to harm Genova. It seemed impossible.

Barbary pirates, Damaris thought, knowing her brandied mind was spinning out of control. Genova had killed that pirate captain. His devoted followers had crossed the ocean to wreak their terrible revenge….

She startled when gathered into someone’s arms. Fitzroger’s arms. “Oh, no. I’m all right.”

“You fell asleep. I’m moving you to the bed.”

Damaris felt she should protest again, but her eyes closed on their own. She managed to say something about it being too early for bed.

“You had a nasty shock on top of some stressful days, and then this. Your bed’s having an extra warming pan run through it. It’ll be ready soon. Genova’s up and well now, so you can take her place in Ash’s bed.”

“How risqué,” she murmured.

As he laid her down, she heard the smile in his voice. “Have naughty dreams, then.”

Damaris felt she ought to insist on discussing poisons, but it was simply too much effort. She fell back into sleep even as the curtains rattled shut around the bed.

Once Damaris’s bed in the west wing was ready, Fitz carried her there and left her to the care of her maid. Ash had indicated that he wanted to talk to him in the marquess’s private study known as the Little Library, which connected to his bedchamber.

On the way back Fitz paused in the Royal Salon, icy cold as it was, to think. He was about to face some questions that would put him in a difficult situation. He wanted to tell Ash the truth, but he’d given his word to keep the assassination threat secret, and he wasn’t sure he had cause to break his word yet.

No, he didn’t. The incident with Genova could well have a simple explanation. Decision made, he completed his journey, entering the Little Library through the door opposite the bedchamber.

This room was supposed to be the marquess’s private office, similar to the one Rothgar used for weighty matters. Four Marquesses of Ashart had taken little interest in their estates, however, so it was now a lounge dominated by comfortable seating. A desk still paid homage to the notion of business, but it sat in one corner, displaced in favor of an ornate card table.

Ash turned from contemplation of the fire. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take your bedchamber.”

It wasn’t a request. A bedchamber lay beyond this room, and on the two occasions Fitz had accompanied Ash here, he’d used it. Ash wanted to stay close to Genova, which Fitz understood.

“Of course. Where do I sleep?”

“Take the room prepared for Thalia. The corner one in the west wing.”

“Close by Miss Myddleton’s.”

Ash’s brow rose. “You fear for your virtue?”

“I’ll keep a pistol under my pillow,” Fitz said dryly. “But it won’t matter tonight. I’m returning to Pickmanwell to check things out.”

Ash had been simmering, and now he came to the boil. “What the devil’s going on, Fitz? What caused that?”

“Nerves?” Fitz suggested, hating the necesity of beng evasive.

“Genova?”

“I’ve seen similar fits of blind panic, even in brave men.”

Ash paced the room. “Merely over arrival at Cheynings?” He stopped and narrowed his eyes at Fitz. “I saw you and Miss Myddleton hovering over that pot. Was something wrong with the cider? We all drank it.”

Something he could respond to honestly. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m going back to Pickmanwell. Perhaps there was one contaminated bowl and others have been afflicted.”

“Contaminated with what? And if not, someone tried to poison Genova—and the most likely culprit is Damaris Myddleton.”

“Don’t be absurd. Why would she do such a thing?”

“Why expect reason from a woman like that?”

“A woman like what?”

“Devil take it, she pursued me like a pit bull!”

“The dowager served you up to her on a plate. Of course she wanted a bite.” Fitz controlled his temper. “This is absurd. She just saved Genova’s life.”

“Perhaps that was her plan. Cause the alarm and be the heroine.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Look, put this aside until I return with information.”

Ash paced the room, then faced him again. “Very well, but if something was put into that flagon, who else had a better opportunity? Who else could have been sure that only Genova would drink it?”

Excellent questions. “The answers lie in Pickmanwell, so I’m off.”

Ash glanced at the clock. “It’s gone six and bitter cold.”

“There’s a moon, and the sooner the better.”

“You’re leaping into action, my friend.”

Fitz had been afraid that Ash might become suspicious. He knew all about Fitz’s work as a bodyguard, just not that he was being guarded.

“I’m willing to put my skills to use,” he said casually, and took a gambler’s throw. “If you’d rather I didn’t…”

“No, no. It’s just strange to see the theoretical become real before my eyes. The old warhorse called back into battle.”

“Old?” Fitz queried.

Ash laughed. “Very well, the young stallion. Will you return tonight?”

“The inquiries at Pickmanwell could take some time, so my aged bones might as well rest there. But I’ll ride back at first light.”

Ash put out his hand. “Thank you.”

They were not in the habit of shaking hands. Fitz knew this was a peace gesture after their argument, and took it.

“I am sorry for it, though,” Ash said. “Calling you back into action. I have the feeling you’d rather leave such things behind.”

Fitz picked up the flagon. “I would. That sort of work makes a man see devils in every corner and never sleep with his eyes truly shut. Then there were the times when I worked to keep someone alive that I’d rather have seen dead. I’ve no problem with this task, however.” He went to the door but paused and turned back. “Try not to suspect Damaris, Ash. She’s not the villain here.”

“Don’t get attached there, Fitz. I wouldn’t like to see you hurt, and she has her value calculated to the penny. She’ll buy the highest rank she can.”

“As she should, as long as the man’s honorable and cares for her. Don’t worry. I won’t slit my throat over her.”

“I’d like to see you happy. If we could do something about your brother…”

Fitz escaped. In twenty minutes he was back on the road, leaving one rat in the stables suffering similar symptoms to Genova’s. So much for nerves.

Damn and blast it all, the threat was real. That broken window had been the means to halt the party so the poison could be delivered. He’d been alert for that, but he’d tested the cider and seen no other threat.

No excuses. Someone had almost died on his watch.

It had never happened before.

He’d thought carefully before leaving, but the inquiries needed to be made. He’d set two of Rothgar’s servants to patrol near the house through the night. He didn’t think the villain would try to invade Cheynings, but as he had no clear idea who the villain was, he was taking no chances.

But why try to kill Genova?

Because she was Ash’s betrothed?

He rode cautiously because of the icy roads, which gave ample time to think things through.

According to Rothgar, the danger had intensified because of the betrothal, and the attack fit with that. The swiftest way to end a betrothal was to kill one of the couple.

But why was the betrothal such a problem? He wished he’d pressed Rothgar on that point. If Ash had an heir, that person might have a motive to try to kill him, and a strong one to stop his having a son. But he didn’t. He was the last of his line.

Qui bono?
Who would benefit?

Damn this secrecy. He’d been tempted to send one of Rothgar’s servants to the abbey with news of the attack, but he’d send a message from Pickmanwell.

Then there was Damaris. He felt sure she had no part in it, but how could the assassin know that she wouldn’t drink the cider herself? It had to be the sweetness. The assassin, too, must have seen her pour away most of her drink and gambled that she’d give it to Genova. A hell of a gamble, though.