Jo Beverley (21 page)

“No. She’s a difficult old woman, but she’s entitled to her privacy. We have no right to invade simply so you can win Rothgar’s favor.”

“You don’t want to learn the truth about your heritage?”

“Why should I care? Lady Betty’s bedmates make no difference now, whereas the fact that this place is falling around our ears does.” He looked ruefully at Genova. “It’s a mess, love. We have years of work to do.”

She simply smiled at him. “A lifetime’s work, I hope. I can think of nothing sweeter.”

Damaris stared at Fitz until she caught his glance, then sent the message that she could still draw the dowager out. He looked away, but not before she saw the look in his eyes—one very similar to his expression last night before he’d told her about his scandal. She shivered, and it wasn’t because of drafts. She almost rose out of her chair to go to him, but he spoke.

“It’s time for me to explain what’s going on,” he said. “There may be a threat to Ash’s life.”

Ashart stared and said only, “Go on.”

“Because I was already Ash’s friend, I was asked by some people in the government to be alert for danger. As you know, Ash, my army work involved keeping eminent men safe.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” Ashart demanded, looking both annoyed and skeptical.

“My orders were strict and specific on that. I’m breaking those orders now, but before I go into details I must have a promise from each of you to keep what I tell you secret.”

“You presumably gave such a promise.”

At Ashart’s icy tone, Damaris could almost see Fitz raise a protective shield between himself and the friend he might soon lose.

His voice was level as he answered: “And it wounds me to break it, but an officer in the field must have some powers of discretion. I ask no more of you all—simply that you not reveal the truth unless it’s necessary for the greater good.”

“What greater good?” Ashart demanded.

“The security of Crown and country.”

Ah.
Damaris knew her worst fears were being confirmed.

“I promise,” Genova said with the sort of calm that was supposed to be oil on stormy waters.

“And I,” Damaris quickly added.

Lady Thalia added her promise, and last, somewhat reluctantly, Ashart. But he said, “Was Genova’s illness any part of this?”

Ah, lud!
Damaris saw from Fitz’s expression that he’d lied to her. That the mulled cider had been poisoned. He must have told Ashart the same cock-and-bull story, and the effect now would be explosive.

“I assume so,” Fitz said. “There were no other victims.”

Ashart surged to his feet. “Damn you—”

Whatever he might have done, Genova was on her feet and between him and Fitz. “You can’t think Fitz would deliberately put me at risk, Ash. Hear him out!”

After a long moment the marquess exhaled, but without becoming one whit less dangerous. They sat again, but Genova took one of Ash’s hands. Damaris thought it resembled someone taking a tiger’s leash. She prayed the power of love was strong enough.

“I received my orders a month ago,” Fitz said, “but until the journey here I saw no sign of trouble. I concluded that the danger was slight, or even imaginary. These court alarms often are. However, I was warned that your betrothal increased the danger. I was skeptical, but it proved to be true, if we assume the attempt to poison Genova was intended to prevent the marriage. And I can see no other reason for it.”

Ashart frowned. “Why would my marriage matter to anyone? I don’t even have an heir waiting in the wings.”

“It matters to Sophia, dear,” Lady Thalia pointed out.

Ash glared at her. “I will not believe that Grandy tried to kill Genova.”

“The supposed threat,” Fitz interrupted, “arises from your royal Stuart blood, which is why we need any documents the dowager might have that relate to Betty Crowley.”

“Explain.” Damaris had not known Ashart could be so furiously cold.

Fitz seemed impassive, but this had to be painful for him in so many ways. “My supposition that your ancestor, Charles Prease, should have been called Charles Stuart. That he was legitimate.”

“Old Rowley’s son? Preposterous!”

“Prince Henry Stuart’s son, born posthumously after a secret wedding to Betty Crowley.”

Damaris remembered to breathe. Silence showed that everyone else understood the implications as well.

But then Lady Thalia put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, how tragic. I thought her a cold woman, when her situation was so like my own. Except, of course, that I didn’t need to keep my love and grief secret.”

Genova hurried to offer comfort, for Lady Thalia’s tears were flowing. That left Ashart unleashed. Damaris kept her attention on the two men, ready to do something, though heaven knew what, to prevent murder.

“I do beg your pardon!” Lady Thalia dabbed at her eyes. “Old sorrows. Old pains. Do go on, Fitz. This is a startling story.”

“It’s a preposterous one,” Ashart snapped, “but get it over with.”

“What more need be said? You understand.”

Ashart rose to pace the room. “What? That Grandy should be Queen of England?”

Damaris gasped, for she’d not thought of that. The crown passed to females, so indeed, the dowager marchioness, Charles Prease’s—or Charles Stuart’s—only surviving child, was next in line.

“Have you forgotten the Succession Act?” Ashart demanded. “Any Stuart remnants were specifically ruled to have no claim on the throne. And what threat are we anyway? Am I supposed to lead an uprising in her cause? With what? An army of a dozen grooms?”

“France,” Fitz said.

Ashart stilled, but then stated, “Neither she nor I would be a puppet of France.”

“By definition, a puppet is controlled by the one who pulls the strings.”

“Damnation—”

Damaris plunged in before fists flew. “Explain France,” she demanded.

After a tense moment, Fitz turned to her. “France is our ancient enemy and has just crawled away from war with its tail between its legs. King Louis would love to cause disruption. Maybe not in England. Maybe not in Scotland, which hasn’t recovered from the ’forty-five. But Ireland is always ripe for trouble, especially Catholic trouble.”

“I’m Protestant!” Ash exclaimed.

“You have an aunt in a French convent.”

“Oh, ’struth! Is that come back to haunt us? Aunt Henrietta chose that as a way to escape Grandy, that’s all. But do you mean she’s in danger, too?”

“Possibly. She’s somewhere in the line of succession and could easily be in the French king’s power. Ash, this is all folly, yes, but that doesn’t negate the danger. There are some in England still restive under German rule.”

“The king’s as English as you and me.”

“Hardly. My ancestors go back to the Conquest, as do yours. More to the point, neither of us rules a German electorate whose interests we sometimes put first. The king was booed in the theater over the Wilkes business.”

“A temporary fidget.”

“Probably, but if people around the king are nervous, it cannot surprise.”

“It can surprise me. In heaven’s name, what do these madmen want? To kill my whole family to eliminate this absurd threat?”

The answer was clearly yes. Damaris hadn’t known silence could be so noisy. When no one else spoke, she said, “So if we find the right papers, all this is over?”

“How?” Ashart demanded. “If we find proof of a marriage that lights the fuse.”

“But once found, a fuse can be extinguished.”

Ashart stared at him grimly. “And if she has no such proof?”

“Then the chances are high that it doesn’t exist and everyone can relax.”

“Except that someone might decide to poison my dinner, just in case. Or Genova’s. Or our children’s. This is intolerable.”

“True. It would be better to find the marriage lines and destroy them, and I’m increasingly optimistic that they exist.”

Ash swung to face Lady Thalia. “Your commentary?”

She was unusually sober. “It must be true, I think. Betty Prease never fit her role as royal wanton. And having proof would explain Sophia’s pride and ambition. Poor Sophia, burdened with an indolent husband and two sons unable to achieve even her modest aim of ruling Britain from behind the throne. You’re better equipped for it, but I don’t think it’s in your nature. Rothgar’s the one in whom the blood runs true. One can see the Stuart in him, especially that brilliant, charming pragmatist, Charles the Second.”

Ashart and Genova spoke softly together, while the rest waited. Fitz looked thoughtfully into the flames.

Ashart turned to Fitz and spoke in a clipped voice. “If we search, how will it be done? How can anyone find a few sheets of paper?”

“A thorough check of a room for papers is little different from a search for hidden dangers, and I’m expert at that. I found a secret compartment in her bedchamber desk that seems most likely.”

Ashart was still reluctant. “I dislike the thought of anyone searching my grandmother’s rooms. Why don’t we simply explain the situation? Then she will surrender what she has.”

“You think she doesn’t understand the situation?”

“She doesn’t know of the active, immediate danger.”

Damaris saw that thought startle Fitz, saw him weighing the choices. She herself didn’t know what she thought it best to do.

“So it becomes a gamble,” Fitz said at last. “Can she bear to see the precious proof destroyed? If so, all is well. If not, she’ll promptly hide it somewhere where we’ll never discover it.”

Ash paled. “I can’t believe she is so deranged, so uncaring. I have to try reason.” After a long silence he added, “But you will go with me. If she refuses we will restrain her in some way. And you will take the papers.”

Damaris wondered if she was the only one who had difficulty imagining the two big men being able to bring themselves to overpower an elderly lady.

“I think we should all go,” she said.

Ashart shot her a look that showed he thought her impertinent, but Genova supported the idea.

“It could be very difficult for you, love.”

“What excuse do we make for invading?”

“None,” Genova said calmly. “We just do it.” She turned to Lady Thalia. “Do you wish to come, Thalia?”

Lady Thalia still looked pensively sorrowful, her brightness gone. “I think not, dear. But be as kind as you can. And if I’m needed afterward, I will be ready.”

They crossed the Royal Salon in weighty silence. Damaris didn’t think she was the only one to look at the pictures of Betty Crowley and Prince Henry as they passed, and think of the tragic lovers.

She could imagine it. A brief time of joyous love full of the magical awareness of having found a special person to share life with. The vows and then one or two nights of passion before Henry rode away to inform his brother of what he’d done, face his anger, and have it over with.

Betty would have waited, dreaming, planning, and then the news would have arrived. Perhaps by a friend. Perhaps by a messenger from the king.

Ashart tapped briefly, then led the way into the dowager’s drawing room. It was overfurnished, as if she’d crammed in too much. On one table, Damaris saw a large, slender book bound entirely in silver. There was a crest on the front, and engraved beneath was
The Illustrious History of the Prease Family.

Above the fireplace two small portraits hung. Damaris thought one was of the dowager’s father, known as Charles Prease, Lord Vesey. The other showed a young woman with a round face, high color, and a stubborn mouth.

Sixty years older, but just as stubborn, the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart sat beneath her portrait, eating cake with a fork, a tea tray by her side. She stared at them. “Ashart? What is the meaning of this?”

“I have some things to discuss with you, Grandy.”

“In company?”

Damaris thought the dowager’s eyes narrowed, and perhaps even shifted for a moment toward her bedchamber door. She wanted to move that way herself in an attempt to block the door, but that wasn’t her role here, and she knew Fitz would have that part of the action in hand.

“Grandy,” Ashart said, “in some way suspicion has stirred that your father was not a royal bastard—”

“What!”

“—that he was legitimate. The legitimate son of Prince Henry and Betty Crowley.”

The furrowed lips tightened, but Damaris thought she saw a sudden gleam in the dowager’s pouched eyes. Probably after all this time, it excited her to have the truth out in the open at last.

“If true,” Ashart said, “this is a dangerous situation.”

“How? It is long in the past.”

The air changed.

She had not denied it.

Ashart stepped closer. “How? By giving you a blood claim to the throne.”

“As if I care for anything like that.” Lady Ashart forked another piece of cake into her mouth. “And of course,” she said when she’d swallowed, “it is all nonsense.”

A far-too-belated denial.