Jo Beverley (6 page)

“My lord,” she said through a constriction in her throat, “Lord Henry has done his best to take care of me, but…” Her prepared speech escaped her.

“But he has no idea what to do with a lively young woman. I had begun to suspect as much. I believe you are in his care until you reach twenty-four or marry with his approval?”

Omniscient, as Fitz had said. “Yes, my lord.”

“And you are twenty-one now?”

“This past October, my lord.”

“What is it you wish me to do, Miss Myddleton?”

The blunt question numbed her. “I was hoping…hoping that it might be possible for…” Courage failed. “For someone else to become my guardian.” Then she became ashamed of yet more cowardice. “I humbly request that you take over this responsibility, my lord.”

“But of course.”

Just like that? Enormous relief was tinged by annoyance. Indeed, she meant no more to him than an extra button on his coat. But relief sang uppermost. It made her so light-headed she could hardly take in his next words.

“…to take Miss Smith to London and present her at court before her marriage to Ashart. You shall be her companion in this.”

His announcement acted like a spray of icy water.

“This doesn’t please you?” he asked.

She struggled for words. “Yes, of course, my lord. It’s just that I’m not sure I’m ready for court.”

“You and Miss Smith will prepare together in London.”

Damaris smiled, wondering if her expression looked like the grimace it felt. She wanted London and court, but she didn’t want to make her entrée at the side of her victorious rival. Her stunningly beautiful victorious rival, beside whom she would look like a monkey. She had no choice, however.

“Thank you, my lord. I do need to go to court to choose a suitable husband.”

“You are set on immediate marriage?”

She blinked at him. “I have never considered it a choice, my lord. Women who can, marry. Heiresses always marry. It’s as if an heiress exists to gift some man with her fortune.”

Now where did that tart comment come from?

His lips twitched. “Men certainly like to think so. As a wealthy woman, however, you have choice. Once you turn twenty-four you can, if you wish, live free of anyone’s control.”

Live free.
The concept dazzled Damaris, but common sense broke through. “I suspect such a course would not be easy, my lord.”

“Freedom is never easy, and the management of wealth brings heavy responsibility and hard work.”

“I’m accustomed to hard work.”

“But are you ready for challenge, risk, and danger?”

“Danger?” He had a way of springing new angles of conversation.

“Isolation is dangerous for anyone,” he said, “but especially for a woman. I think you lack close family?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Your father’s family?”

“Cast him off long before he married my mother.”

“And your mother was an only child of only children.”

How did he know these things? It unnerved her.

“Men of the world spend a great deal of time building alliances,” he said, “using family as their bricks. A woman alone is cut off from this. You have, however, acquired a family.”

“I have?”

“You are now within the circle of the Mallorens, if you choose to be.”

If she wanted to be? She was hard-pressed not to laugh. During this past week she’d watched with wonder and wistfulness the careless warmth of Lord Rothgar and those of his brothers and sisters who were present. It was something she’d never experienced at Birch House or Thornfield Hall.

“Why?” The startled question popped out. “I’ve not behaved well.”

“You’ve made mistakes, in part because you lack training for this world. That is easily corrected. You are also strong and willful, which is not a bad thing.”

“My mother thought it a deadly sin.”

“Perhaps that was key to her problems. If a woman has no will of her own, she must be ruled by the will of others.”

“Is that not the way of the world, my lord?”

“Is it what you want?”

Damaris tried to think. “I don’t know.”

He smiled. “Consider it. As for your preparation for court, you lived quietly until recently?”

Damaris twitched her mind to follow this new direction. “Until arriving here, my lord.”

“Did Lord Henry not entertain for you in Sussex?”

“I was in mourning, my lord, but there were some small gatherings of neighbors.”

“Even mourning for a mother does not require such a quiet year. And before that, did you not enjoy the society of Worksop?”

She was tempted to laugh. “My mother did not care for such things.”

“And your father?”

She felt an impulse to object to this inquisition, but Damaris fought down the tart response.
Be careful, careful.

“My father lived in the Orient, my lord, as I’m sure you know.” That jab slipped out. “He visited us only three times that I remember, and briefly.”

He nodded. “You had a governess?”

“My mother taught me.”

“Dance? Deportment?”

“No. But in the past year Lord Henry arranged for lessons.”

“And in music, I assume. You play well, and your voice is remarkable.”

She blushed with pleasure at being praised for something. “Yes, my lord. My mother taught me the keyboard, but singing I learned by myself. And then, of course, Lord Henry provided a teacher.”

“Then you will need to learn only the finer points of court etiquette. But as you and Genova will be presented at the queen’s birthday ball, you have only three weeks of preparation.”

That started a flutter of panic, especially in light of recent social disasters. But she could—she would—do it. “Thank you, my lord. For agreeing to act as my guardian, for the education, and the presentation.”

He gestured away thanks. “We will not try to alter the legal arrangements. I understand that my uncle can approve anyone to act in his place.”

It was as if he’d already investigated the possibility.

“Lord Henry will not object, my lord?”

His eyes smiled. “I pray this won’t offend, my dear, but from comments he’s let slip, I believe he will be relieved.”

“Then I don’t know why he clung to his power! I would have been happy to return to Worksop at any time this past year.”

“Responsibility.” The clipped word stung like the rap of her mother’s stick across her knuckles. “Your father left you in my uncle’s care. He had no choice but to take that seriously. I understand there was a fortune hunter?”

Alleyne. Lonely and unhappy at Thornfield Hall, Damaris had been easy prey for Captain Sam Alleyne. He’d been handsome and dashing and she’d let him kiss her. She’d thought he’d loved her and might have let him do more if Lord Henry hadn’t caught her…

That had led to the whipping and a much tighter control on her movements. That hadn’t been necessary. Lord Henry had told her that lists of heiresses were sold to fortune hunters and that she was at the top of them all. That had been when she’d decided on an arranged marriage. “I learned my lesson, my lord.”

“Then you should understand that you could not and cannot live alone. The days of marriage by abduction are past, but a prize such as you present is still vulnerable in many ways. You tried to flee this morning.”

Another stinging rap. “Yes, my lord. I apologize. It was folly.”

“There will be no similar folly whilst you are under my care.”

“No, my lord.”

“You won’t find my rule onerous. Unless, that is, you are inclined to be wild.”

Perhaps exhaustion loosed her tongue. “What of free will, my lord?”

“That is for when you come into your independence.” He rose, indicating that her time was over.

Damaris rose, too, wondering fuzzily if they’d covered the important points. The change of guardian. Freedom from Lord Henry and Thornfield Hall. Presentation in London, where she would select the perfect husband. Probably the Duke of Bridgewater…

Fitzroger. They hadn’t spoken about Fitzroger. She turned at the door. “There is the matter of talk, my lord. About yesterday. Mr. Fitzroger and I devised a plan.”

“Yes?” Did she hear displeasure?

“He suggested that we give the appearance of happy flirtation, so no one can think me brokenhearted over Ashart. But perhaps it’s not necessary now?”

He seemed thoughtful. “You will look foolish to have chosen him over a marquess.”

“Chosen?” she asked, trying to sound amused. “Mere Christmastide amusement, my lord. He is handsome enough for that.”

“Indeed?”

She knew she was coloring. “I assure you, my lord, I have no lasting interest. He offers nothing that I require in a husband.”

“Which is?”

“Title, position, and power.”

“Lord Ferrers had title, position, and power. He abused his wife almost to death and was hanged for the murder of his servant.”

The story was infamous. “He was insane, I believe, my lord. You would warn me away from a madman or cad, would you not?”

Too late, she realized she was being pert again, but he didn’t react.

“Fitzroger is smirched by scandal, but that need not concern you, as you have no lasting interest.”

For some reason that warning made Damaris feel hollow. She couldn’t stop herself asking, “And if I did have a lasting interest in such a man?”

“As long as you are my ward, Damaris, you may marry any honorable man you choose. An honorable man will woo you and convince me that he is worthy. He will not use the weakness of the flesh to twist your judgment or to attempt to seal your fate.”

Damaris instantly thought of the way she and Fitzroger had kissed in the coach. Fearing this man would read it on her face, she curtsied, thanked him again for his many kindnesses, and escaped.

Outside the door she paused, hand on chest, to breathe, to steady her heart. She still must face people here, but she clung to the main point. She’d won! If the rest of the plan worked, she had regained a future full of glorious possibilities.

And she owed it all to Octavius Fitzroger. He deserved a reward. He might be too proud to take money, but there were other ways to reward someone. She could purchase influence to get him a lucrative court or government position for instance. Or buy him his own regiment in the army. She need only discover what he wanted and grease the way.

She walked on, feeling as if the sun rose inside her. When she entered the hall smiling, she found Fitzroger waiting.

He wore the same clothes as when he’d stopped her coach—dark blue coat and breeches and white shirt—but with orderly additions. Shoes had replaced boots, and his wild hair was tamed by a ribbon. A plain cravat circled his neck, and he’d put on a waistcoat. Typically, it was a plain gray. It was as if he proclaimed his poverty to the world. Even in the evenings, when the guests here put on their finery, Fitzroger’s clothing was subdued.

She wished she could dress him in silks and velvet, and yes, even in diamond buttons. With his blond hair he’d look splendid in the gold-embroidered, cream velvet suit Ashart had worn on Christmas Day.

My pale gold Galahad,
she thought, but then pushed away that image.

“Well?” he asked.

For a moment she thought he was asking the result of her assessment, but of course he referred to her appointment. She went to him, smiling. “He agreed.”

“Felicitations.”

“And I’m going to London. To court, to choose a fine husband. All is well, and I grant you the credit, sir.”

He bowed. “Your security and happiness are thanks enough, Miss Myddleton.”

Everything necessary was said, but Damaris regretted the formal tone, especially when contrasted with their behavior in the coach. Given that wild passion, however, their formality now was doubtless just as well. The memory still sizzled in her mind, and perhaps even sparked between them.

Oh, my.
She dropped a curtsy and hurried up to the safety of her room.

F
itz watched Damaris go. She had Rothgar’s protection, but would soon move into a world full of hazards, and Rothgar couldn’t hover by her side. There was Rothgar’s wife, who would also be her guide. She was the Countess of Arradale, however, a peeress in her own right, and had almost as many demands on her time as her husband did. Damaris needed a guide with more time to spare….

He turned away both physically and mentally. Damaris’s affairs were settled, so now he was free to plan a safe journey tomorrow. He’d think better with a less hollow stomach, so he turned toward the breakfast room.

Just as he did so a voice said, “Sir!”

He turned to see a footman hurrying after him, bearing a note.

With a
what now?
feeling, Fitz unfolded the unsealed letter to find a blunt summons from Rothgar.
Damn the man.
Fitz was tempted to eat first, but when the Dark Marquess summoned, one hurried to obey. He followed the footman, entering the office to find Rothgar standing by the fire, looking inscrutably cool. Fitz’s uneasiness elevated to watchfulness. Had Damaris told the marquess what had occurred in the coach?

Fitz bowed. “My lord.”

Rothgar nodded and gestured toward a chair. When they were both seated he said, “Pray give me an account of this morning’s events surrounding Miss Myddleton.”

Trying to sense the mood, Fitz told the story, of course leaving out the kiss. He read nothing on the other man’s face.

“You saw the coach leave. How?”

Fitz almost said,
By looking out of the window,
but controlled his tongue. “I rise early, my lord. When I rise, I look out to see the nature of the day. Thus I saw a coach leaving at dawn.”

“Why suspect that it carried Miss Myddleton?”

“It was a possibility worth investigating.”

“But your investigation left Ashart unprotected.”

Fitz had years of experience at hiding irritation in front of superior officers. “We agreed that I would never be able to shadow his every move, my lord, without telling him why. I assumed he was safe abed, here in your house.” But he saw escape and grabbed it. “But he is up and in the breakfast room. I should hasten to my duty.”

“Please resume your seat, Fitzroger.” Despite the courtesy, the words were a command. “Ashart is safe at the moment, and I will be informed of any change in his situation.”

Fitz sat, aware that something had changed. This Christmas gathering had been a perfect confection of elegant but relaxed amusement, and as he’d said, he’d assumed that Ash was safe here. He’d still taken precautions and kept alert, but in a casual way.

“Yesterday’s events may have increased Ashart’s peril,” Rothgar said.

Fitz desperately sought the aspect of yesterday he’d overlooked. Boxing Day was a holiday for the servants at Rothgar Abbey, so as much as possible, the guests fended for themselves.

Most of them, at least. The marquess’s sister, Lady Walgrave, had recently given birth, so the nursery servants would have been needed, and he was sure Lady Ashart had not released her minions to feasting and dancing. The dowager’s arrival and the resulting dramas had been exciting, but hardly dangerous.

“The dowager?” he asked. “You think she’s a danger to Ash? I assure you, my lord, she dotes on him.”

Rothgar’s raised hand stopped him. “Of course she wouldn’t harm him. Not by violence, at least. The disaster is his betrothal, especially the passionate nature of it.”

“Undignified, my lord, I agree. But disastrous?”

“When we spoke in London, my cousin was on an unhurried progress toward union with Miss Myddleton’s fortune. Now he’s hurtling toward marriage with Miss Smith. I’ve bought time by persuading him to delay the wedding until after Genova is presented at court, but that gains only weeks.”

Fitz’s patience cracked. “Weeks before what?”

“Before the assassin becomes desperate. Ashart’s intention to wed increases his danger. His intention to wed soon creates a crisis. His decision to leave here with our grandmother adds a certain extreme even to that.”

“The journey does present challenges, my lord, but it can be completed in a day.”

“Cheynings, however, will not be as secure as here.”

He was right. “It’s severely understaffed, that’s true.”

“I will send extra outriders with your party, and they can stay to assist with the later journey to London. I will also arrange for some suitable people to be in the area and under your command if needed. I recommend keeping Ashart indoors as much as possible.”

“Not easy, but I will do my best, my lord. So after the wedding, Ash will be safe? Then why not hold the wedding soon? I’m sure he could be persuaded.”

Rothgar’s expression was grim. “The wedding will be the ultimate disaster. We must hope that by then the problem is solved.”

Frustrated, Fitz rose. “If there’s no more information you can give me, my lord, I’ll continue to do my best.”

“You sound distressed.”

The hint of humor was the final straw. “It’s damn tiresome to fight shadows, my lord. When engaged in matters of life and death, I prefer solid ground and a clear day.”

“All wise men do.” Rothgar rose to escort him to the door. “I do apologize, but I’m under the strictest requirement to keep the details secret. It is to your benefit,” he added. “Knowledge can be a dangerous possession.”

At that, Fitz’s mind both shivered and leaped into speculation. He’d assumed the amorphous threat arose from the usual sort of enemies. Men who envied Ash’s way with women, or even his way of wearing a coat. Men who’d been on the receiving end of his temper, or even men who thought he’d cuckolded them.

Rothgar’s words moved this into deeper, darker waters, into state affairs and secrets, things that Fitz thought he’d escaped. But what in such matters could affect Ash? He played less a part in politics than he should.

“Ignorance, too, can be dangerous,” he pointed out.

“Choose your poison.”

Fitz hesitated but said, “I choose knowledge.”

Rothgar’s slight smile might have been approving, but he said, “Then I regret that I cannot provide it. That is forbidden.”

“By whom?” Fitz was aware that his tone was outrageous, but he was past caring.

“By the king.”

Everything stopped. Fitz could have believed that the gilded clock ceased ticking and that the very flames in the hearth went still.

Rothgar had presented his original instructions as coming from the king, but many things were done in the name of the king that had little to do with His Majesty. If the king took a personal interest in this, then yes, Fitz wished to hell he knew nothing about it. Except that he might be the only one able to keep Ash alive. He was trained, experienced, and on the spot.

He pulled together his frazzled wits. “So, my lord, Ashart is threatened by important matters of state. I am to keep him safe, but without giving him a hint of his peril. His betrothal increases the danger, but you’re not trying to prevent his leaving this house, where I assume he is safe.”

“I see no way to make him stay. He’s correct that he cannot let the distressed dowager return to Cheynings alone, and she will not stay here a moment longer than necessary. In any case, Ashart will soon move to London for Genova’s presentation. How good is he with a sword?”

Fitz considered. “Good.”

“Only good, or are you niggardly with praise?”

After further thought, Fitz repeated, “Good.”

He understood what Rothgar was asking. A challenge to a duel had been used to murder a man before now.

Rothgar looked thoughtfully into the distance for a moment. “I would like to evaluate his ability myself. We’ll have a fencing demonstration. Shortly before dinner. At two o’clock.” He looked back at Fitz. “Short of a duel, how would you kill him?”

This conversation was like a rapid fencing bout itself.

“A slender dagger during a country dance. If slid in right, the victim feels only a blow at first, and there’s little blood. Time to slip away. But no, it must appear to be an accident. Can you explain that aspect, my lord?”

“The king, as I said, takes a personal interest and has made it clear that Ashart’s well-being is sacrosanct.”

“I had the impression they disliked each other.”

“No loyal subject dislikes his king,” Rothgar gently chastised, “but yes, His Majesty is not fond of Ashart. It goes back to childhood rivalry.”

Fitz’s astonishment must have shown, for Rothgar smiled. “They’re close in age, and the dowager saw an opportunity to establish Ashart at court. She arranged for them to play together. Ashart had many gifts from the cradle, but courtly tact came later.”

“He won.”

“At everything. Of course, His Majesty is above such petty grievances, but he cannot quite forget.”

“Generous of him to be so protective, then.”

“His Majesty is just. Thus those who see Ashart’s death as desirable don’t wish to be caught at it. So what types of apparently accidental death could you devise?”

“Bad food, bad horse, a minor wound that doesn’t heal. A needle to the heart can go undetected. There are poisons that mimic heart failure, apoplexy, and fits. Would any assassin know the finer points of the trade?”

“Possibly, which is why you were recommended for defense.”

Fitz had nothing more to say. The situation was bizarre, but he didn’t for one moment doubt that Rothgar, and presumably the king, were truly concerned.

“As for the journey,” Rothgar said, “Ashart has two coaches here, the one that brought the great-aunts and the one the dowager arrived in. They might as well both return, along with two coaches for baggage and servants. My people will ride in the first of those, the one that will prepare the stops along the way for changes of horses or refreshments. They can be trusted to ensure the stops are safe.”

Fitz supposed the Dark Marquess had to provide for his own safety at times. He considered the further logistics of the journey. “The dowager will insist on traveling in the best coach, my lord, so Genova can travel in the other. Unkind to put them together.”

“Assuredly. But Genova will have a companion. Great-aunt Thalia has agreed to go with her.”

Fitz hoped his eyes hadn’t flashed the alarm. He was beginning to feel like the camel loaded with more and more straw. His priority was to keep Ash safe. In addition, he had to transport a furious dowager and the person she was most furious with—Genova. On top of that, he was now to take along the dowager’s sister-in-law, Lady Thalia Trayce, and there was no love lost between the two elderly ladies. Lady Thalia was the sister of the dowager’s long-dead husband, so Cheynings had once been her home. Rumor said that shortly after the wedding, however, the marquess’s mother and his unmarried sisters had taken up residence in Tunbridge Wells and hardly returned to Cheynings since.

It perhaps wasn’t surprising if Lady Thalia wanted to revisit her home, but she was eccentric, to put it kindly. She dressed in her seventies as if she were seventeen, chattered like a lunatic, and loved to meddle in other people’s lives. She was also addicted to whist. Fitz was not particularly fond of the game, but he knew who’d have to make the fourth. The dowager certainly wouldn’t.

“I suppose it’s as well that blond hair doesn’t show gray, my lord.”

Rothgar smiled. “Especially as I intend to send Damaris Myddleton on this expedition, too.”

Fitz rarely wondered if dreams were real, but perhaps he still slept, for surely he was now hallucinating. “She’s the last person Ash and Genova would want along, and Cheynings is the last place she’d want to be.”

“It will remove her from the attention of people here, thus giving me time to amend any impressions of yesterday. I also hope that she and Genova will learn to be cordial. When they join society, eyes will still be on them.”

The manipulative marquess was weaving some plot, and Fitz wished he understood what lay behind it.

“You are sending Miss Myddleton into danger, my lord.”

“This assassin knows his target and will not be careless.”

“The easiest way to disguise a death is to make it one of many.”

Rothgar frowned. “A point. However, Genova will insist on going, and Lady Thalia wishes to. I put my faith in you. And you must understand, it really will not serve to have Damaris remain here. She would be constantly on trial, and she is inclined to fight first and think later. Perhaps you can correct that while you’re at Cheynings.”

“I am to be her tutor?”

“In that, and in other things. I wish you to help her to understand that she is a desirable woman.”

Perhaps Fitz’s shock showed, for Rothgar added, “Merely through flirtation and flattery, I need not say. But she is a pirate’s daughter and inclined to reach for what she wants. Better for her not to seize on the first court gallant to thrill her, don’t you think?”

“Unlikely, my lord. She’s determined to make a good bargain.”

“I would want more for her than that.”

“You are a romantic, my lord?”

Fitz meant it to be caustic, but Rothgar’s brows rose. “I married for love not five months ago. What else could I be?”