Jo Beverley (4 page)

Fitz went to the fire to warm his hands, making himself not go too close. He didn’t need to add chilblains to his other problems. “What if you were to ask Lord Rothgar to replace Lord Henry as your guardian?”

She gaped at him. “What? Is it possible? Would he do it? I’m nothing to him. Wouldn’t it be an imposition? A burden?” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m babbling.”

He couldn’t stop a smile. She sounded as if she’d never babbled before.

“I suspect that becoming your guardian would be as much of a burden to Rothgar as an extra button on his coat. As head of the Malloren family, however, he’s the logical choice to take over from his uncle.”

“But wouldn’t it seem like an insult to Lord Henry? And it’s not necessary. He’s given up the responsibility himself.”

“No, he hasn’t. If he had, he would have no power to keep you in poverty. Does he receive a handsome sum for the job?”

She caught his point immediately. “That he’d not want to give up? It’s five hundred guineas a year on top of any actual costs, such as tutors, clothing, and travel. A substantial amount, but not to him.” She stopped. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Too many women think matters of money, even their own money, either beyond or beneath them.”

“Lord Henry thought my interest unnatural.”

“We will forget Lord Henry.”

“Gladly, but he is my guardian….”

“Unless you change that.” He walked to her portable writing desk and opened the lid. “Request an appointment with Rothgar and put your petition.”

She was rubbing her hands together now, but he didn’t think it was from cold. She glanced at the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s not yet nine.”

“The Dark Marquess, they say, never sleeps.” He deliberately put command in his voice as he added, “Send the note.”

She responded, coming over, sitting, then taking out a sheet of paper. He uncapped her inkwell and mended her quill. When he handed it to her she still seemed hesitant, but she shook herself, dipped the pen, and wrote a short message in a flowing but very even hand.

A week ago, Damaris Myddleton had been nothing more to Fitz than a name—the rich heiress Ash intended to marry. On arrival at Rothgar Abbey he’d found a persistent problem for his friend, whose heart was already lost to another. Though he’d privately thought Ash should marry Miss Myddleton’s money, he’d done his best to draw her from the hunt. It had soon been as much for her sake as Ash’s. She deserved better than marriage to a man who loved another.

She sanded the ink, then folded the paper, perfectly aligning the edges. Neat and efficient, but wild and willful.

A fascinating young woman.

He pulled back from perilous thoughts and tugged the bellpull, reminding himself that Damaris Myddleton could never be for him.

He’d served over ten years in the army and served well, achieving the rank of major. But Damaris Myddleton would have no interest in a mere major, even if his reputation was glorious and his name clear of scandal.

Neither was true.

Four years ago he’d made the mistake of saving the life of the king’s uncle, the Duke of Cumberland. As reward, he’d been taken from his regimental duties and made a secret bodyguard. In order to be secret, he’d had to appear to be an idle equerry at various embassies and courts. Thus many had concluded that he was avoiding the battlefield.

That certainly hadn’t done anything to restore his reputation, which had already been badly damaged by his affair with Orinda. When, four months ago, he’d sold his commission and returned to England for the first time in years, he’d hoped the old scandal would be dead. However, no one had forgotten the Fitzroger affair. Hardly surprising when his brother Hugh bellowed his outrage about it whenever he was drunk—which was most of the time.

He watched Damaris drip sealing wax onto the fold of the letter and press her signet into it. No, even if she showed interest in him he could never let it come to anything. He was only tolerated in the better circles for Ash’s sake.

Not long after he’d arrived back in England he’d met Ash and discovered an instant friend. As Ash was currently out of favor at court—over a woman, of course—and weary of elegant society, Fitz’s situation had presented little problem. Then Ash had impulsively decided to accept Rothgar’s invitation to this Christmas celebration.

Fitz had approved, for he’d thought it time his friend responded to Rothgar’s offers of peace, but he’d wondered how he would be received.

With Ash’s friendship and Lord Rothgar’s tacit acceptance, Fitz had not been cold-shouldered, but he’d been aware of how some people skillfully avoided more than passing conversation with him.

A knock announced a liveried footman. The maid, Maisie, carried the note to him and he left. It was done, and soon, God willing, Damaris would be in Rothgar’s hands. Fitz would then be free to retreat to a safe distance.

She shot to her feet and paced the room. “This seems so bold. What if Lord Rothgar knows I tried to run away?”

He thought of lying, but she deserved better. “I’m sure he does. He has a reputation for omniscience.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Miss Damaris,” said her hovering maid, “you need to change before visiting his lordship.” A sharp glance from the maid’s eye said that Fitz could leave now.

She was right, but Damaris was wound too tight. Fitz did what he’d do with a nervous subaltern before battle; he distracted.

“What sort of man was your father?”

Damaris shot him a puzzled glance. “My father? I met him precisely three times.”

Fitz absorbed that. The dossier had mentioned that Marcus Myddleton had spent most of his last decades abroad, but not to that extent.

“How could that be?”

She shrugged. “He preferred to live abroad.”

Something in her manner suggested she was keeping a detail back, but it was no business of his. “He seems to have been spectacularly successful at foreign trading, even though he died quite young. How old was he when he died?”

“Fifty-two.”

“How did it happen?”

“On a ship attacked by pirates somewhere near Borneo.”

“Do you know anything about his business affairs in Asia?”

She suddenly frowned at him. “Why?”

He chose honesty. “I’m distracting you.”

Her blue eyes widened, but then she said, “Thank you. As for my father’s affairs, you have to understand that until my mother’s death I thought him a failed dreamer, all bluster and show.”

“Good God, how could that be?”

“I knew only what my mother told me. We lived frugally, and she said it was because my father sent little money. That wasn’t true. He was neglectful in other ways, but he sent generous amounts. She painted him as a monster in any way she could. How was I to know otherwise?”

“You discovered the truth upon his death?”

“Oh, no. Then, she said that even the small amount he’d sent had ended, so for four years we scrimped and saved, keeping on only Maisie as maid of all work.” She smiled at the maid, who still seemed to glower at Fitzroger. “I think Maisie stayed on only from kindness to me.”

“That I did, miss. Heaven knows where you’d have been without me. Are you not going to change, Miss Damaris, before speaking to his lordship?”

Damaris looked down at her brown woolen skirt and quilted jacket.

“It’s not necessary,” Fitz said.

“Your hair, then, miss. It’s all messed up.”

Damaris looked in the mirror and put her hand to her brown hair, blushing. Perhaps she remembered where it might have become disarranged—in the carriage, in those kisses.

She sat, and the maid began to pull out and reset hairpins to neaten the confection of plaits that held the hair close to her head. It was an unforgiving style, but Damaris’s head was neatly shaped and her neck slender, so it suited her.

Fitz knew the maid thought he should leave, but he’d stay until he was sure everything was settled. “When did you find out you were rich?” he asked.

“After my mother’s death,” she replied, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The reflection made him more aware of her features. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but she certainly wasn’t plain. Her face was heart-shaped, but with a neat, square chin. Her lips were not full, but they were prettily curved.

“One of my trustees came to Birch House,” she went on. “I didn’t know I even had trustees. Dinwiddie and Fitch had always dealt with my mother because she was my guardian. I couldn’t take in the vast amount Mr. Dinwiddie told me about, but I immediately ordered generous fires and a roast for dinner. Do you remember that sirloin, Maisie? Nothing since has been quite so delicious.”

“That I do, Miss Damaris.” The maid pushed in hairpins with obvious fondness. “And the cakes afterward.”

“Cakes from the bakery,” Damaris said, as if that were a wonder.

“And you hired a few extra servants.”

“And bought new stockings rather than darning my old ones. And soft, perfumed soap. And chocolate.” Her eyes closed and she smiled. “I’d never had chocolate to drink before.”

“You shared it with me, miss, but I didn’t care for it.”

Damaris smiled at her maid. “That’s because I like it with very little sugar, and you like everything sweet.”

“I’ll stick to good old English tea, miss. Strong and sweet.”

Fitz managed not to laugh. “Good old English tea” came from India and China, and had probably been much of the basis of Marcus Myddleton’s fortune. But he was touched by the obvious fondness between mistress and maid, and by this glimpse into Damaris’s earlier life. What a strange upbringing she’d had.

“Then,” Damaris said in a different tone, “Lord Henry arrived.”

When silence fell, Fitz asked, “He was cruel?”

Damaris turned to him, her hair neat again. “No, but he was a complete stranger, yet had command of my life, and he was brusque and cold. He moved me to his house in Sussex without a by-your-leave. I was happy to escape Birch House, but I had to fight to take Maisie. He wanted to hire what he called ‘a proper lady’s maid’ for me. But I won, and thank heavens for that.” She smiled back at the maid. “I don’t know how I would have survived without you, Maisie. And you’ve become a lady’s maid as I’ve become a lady.”

The clock tinkled the hour of nine, startling her out of the past. She looked to the door as if begging the footman to return. Her hands worked, each fiddling with the rings on the other.

Back to distraction. “Are all your father’s enterprises in the Orient?”

Her eyes flicked back to him. “You are perhaps overly interested in my fortune, for one who claims no interest at all.”

“I’m fascinated,” he said with truth. “For example, if your inheritance is abroad, who manages it?”

She still looked suspicious, but she said, “He left his trading companies, or houses as they call them, to the lieutenants who ran them for him. I merely receive part of the profits.”

“And if they don’t pay? It seems a perilous arrangement.”

“Don’t worry; I wouldn’t starve. My father invested in properties here, and there’s enough income from those to get by. I suspect he planned to return one day, a wealthy nabob.”

She began to count on her fingers. “I own houses in London; five rural estates, including two with coal; an interest in a shipping company out of Bristol, plus docks there and in Liverpool; ten, I think, merchant ships; and a large part of the town called Manchester.”

The “enough to get by” had clearly been ironic. Fitz felt stunned. Perhaps her trustees had held back the full extent of her wealth, for he didn’t remember such details in Ashart’s dossier on her.

But this slender young woman with the sharp mind, bold spirit, and disastrous lack of worldly experience possessed extraordinary wealth. It was astonishing that she hadn’t been snatched, seduced, or at least kidnapped for ransom.

And this morning, she’d tried to slip away.

He’d come up with the idea of Rothgar taking over her guardianship simply to remove her from Lord Henry’s clutches. Now he realized it was essential. She must have the strongest and most powerful protector available.

A knock at the door at last. Maisie opened it and the footman announced, “The marquess will see you in his office at your convenience, Miss Myddleton.”

That clearly meant now, for the man stood ready to escort her. Fitz saw her surreptitiously wipe sweating hands on her skirts, and he wanted to take her into his arms. He wanted to go with her, even speak for her. It wouldn’t help—this she must do for herself—but he could escort her there.

He said so, adding, “In case Lord Henry tries to interfere.”

She gave him a pale-faced, gallant smile and accepted the warm shawl the maid offered. Rothgar Abbey was luxuriously maintained, but no house could keep corridors warm in winter.

They left the room and followed the footman toward the center of the house.

“Thank heavens I didn’t change my clothes,” she said, breaking the silence. “I would hate to arrive at this appointment trembling.”

He could kiss her for her brave spirit. “Didn’t King Charles the First go to his execution in an extra layer of woolen underwear in case an uncontrolled shiver be mistaken for fear?”