Jo Beverley (7 page)

Fitz didn’t know what to say. Marital devotion was not fashionable.

“Shameful, I know,” Rothgar said, amused, “but like most new converts, I’m a devotee. I wish love for all. Ashart has become a true believer. I wish the same for Damaris and, when the time is right, for you too, of course.”

“Thank you, sir, but no.”

“In my experience, love has a will of its own and is not easily rejected. Therefore, do not let flirtatious games get out of hand.”

Fitz felt jumpy, as if moving through foggy territory, expecting ambush at any moment. “If you don’t trust me, my lord, I wonder at your giving me the task.”

“But apparently you and Damaris have already made such a plan. I merely elaborate on it. The fencing will be an excellent opportunity to show that Damaris cares not at all for Ashart and is happily amusing herself with you. If, that is, you fence?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you will escort her down, charming and pleasing her so that it is obvious that she does not nurse a broken heart. At the fencing, she will encounter Ashart and Genova without any hint of strife.”

“Does Ashart know this?”

“I will inform him. Damaris and Genova will sit together as friends—”

“Friends!”

“Friends,” Rothgar repeated.

The man was impossible.

“You don’t fear any of the guests might use swordplay to attempt assassination?”

“No,” Rothgar said, “but if one of them did, it would certainly clarify the situation, don’t you think? But we will use foils,” he added. “It is so very difficult to kill anyone with a foil. You approve this plan?”

Feeling beleaguered, manipulated, and at the end of his patience, Fitz asked, “Am I allowed to win?”

The heavy-lidded eyes widened slightly. “You think you can?”

Rothgar was said to be a brilliant swordsman, but Fitz said, “Yes.”

Rothgar considered him in silence, then smiled. “The event becomes even more intriguing. Very well. After the fencing, we dine buoyed on harmony and merriment. In the evening there will be dancing, which will provide more opportunity for flirtation and for Damaris to be cheerful and heart-whole. Then, weather willing, she can leave tomorrow before the mask can slip.”

“You will inform Miss Myddleton of all this, my lord?”

“No, you will. I’m sure you can find a way to persuade her to oblige.”

Fitz wondered if this was his punishment for any sins he might have committed in bringing Damaris back to the house. “Is our discussion complete, my lord?” he asked, not caring anymore if Rothgar objected to his tone.

“Not quite. Can you afford a fashionable appearance?”

“No, so you will have to provide other protection for Ashart at court.”

“Do you frequent gaming hells?”

Impossible to hope that Rothgar didn’t know he’d used the hells when his pockets were too close to empty. “Occasionally.”

“Do you know Sheba’s in Carlyon Street?”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s somewhat select for a hell.”

Rothgar smiled. “A charming whimsy, a select hell. I’m sure some of our noblest sinners hope to at least end up in a select hell rather than burning beside the riffraff. In any case, play at Sheba’s. You will win against the house, which will explain why you can afford finery.”

It would seem Rothgar had his manicured fingers in some very peculiar pies. But Fitz didn’t want to go to court or move in any elevated circles, even suitably dressed.

“A reasonable night’s winnings won’t equip me, my lord.”

“Then I recommend Pargeter’s, a discreet establishment where valets unburden themselves of gifts of clothing that are too grand for them to wear.”

Fitz knew of such places, but Rothgar had to know he would be cold-shouldered at court and barred from many houses.

“And if I prefer not to move in court circles, my lord?”

“I would be disappointed. More to the point, Ashart would be less well protected.”

“Despite your constant presence, my lord?”

Rothgar seemed truly amused. “My dear Fitzroger, when at court I’m engaged in duels with a dozen opponents, and a dance with sharks circling my feet. I have no time for distractions.”

The simple honesty of the words was disarming, and Fitz found he couldn’t persist. Perhaps Rothgar’s and Ashart’s patronage would avoid open embarrassment, but moving in those circles would be damned unpleasant. He prayed that the mess would be sorted out before it came to that.

“Very well, my lord.” He executed one of his more flowery bows and retreated from the marquess’s presence, seeing one bright side to the mess. He could now protect Ash without abandoning Damaris. If, that was, he could persuade her to fall in with the plan to go to Cheynings as Genova Smith’s dear companion.

He couldn’t face that on an empty stomach.

He went to the breakfast room, where he found Ash and Genova still side by side, looking as if they could live upon air as long as they were together. Lord Bryght Malloren, Rothgar’s brother, was also at the table, but within minutes of Fitz’s arrival he made his excuses and left.

Coincidence?

Or had Lord Bryght been temporary bodyguard, even here in Rothgar Abbey?

W
hen Damaris returned to her room, the desperate energy that had swept her through the morning drained away. Under the influence of laudanum she’d slept away most of yesterday. However, that and certainty of disaster had kept her sleepless through most of the night.

She was exhausted, and after giving Maisie the news, she took off her outer clothes, crawled into bed, and fell fast asleep. She was woken by Maisie shaking her. “It’s quarter to one, miss. You have to get up.”

Damaris rubbed her eyes. “Why? Dinner isn’t until three.”

“Yes, but that Fitzroger stopped by to say you’re supposed to go down with him to a fencing match or some such at two. Part of your plan to appear not bothered about Lord Ashart, remember? Not that I think you ought to be having much to do with that one. He’s a fortune hunter for sure.”

“Lord Ashart?” Damaris asked, deliberately misunderstanding. “Of course he is. Or was.”

“Fitzroger!” Maisie exclaimed. “And here’s a note come from the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, and her servant said as it was right urgent. He’s waiting outside the door.”

Damaris sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What could she want?”

She opened the folded paper to find a terse command to present herself immediately in the dowager’s room. She considered refusing, but she wouldn’t show fear of the old tyrant, so she climbed out of bed.

“I’ll put my traveling clothes back on for now, but prepare something for when I return.” She hurried into the heavy skirt and quilted jacket as she reviewed her wardrobe. “The Autumn Sunset.”

Autumn Sunset was the mantua maker’s flowery term for the russety-pink silk used to make that gown. Damaris hadn’t worn it here yet, for while finding her feet in this strange new world she’d chosen more muted shades.

Today, however, called for boldness if anything did.

“Your hair’s all over,” Maisie said.

Damaris sat so she could tidy it. “Hurry. You can redress it properly later.”

“Then you’d best not dally, miss.”

“Don’t worry. There will be no temptation to do that.”

Damaris joined the footman and followed him on a winding route to a door, where he tapped. On command, he opened it.

The old lady was bolstered up in bed, not looking like the tyrant she was. Lady Ashart was short and plump, which gave a deceitful impression of softness, especially as she dressed in gentle colors trimmed with frills of lace. A true wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Her nightcap, though quilted for warmth, was edged with a deep frill of blue-embroidered English lace, and tied with blue ribbons beneath her plump chins. Her silvery curls frothed out, matching a fluffy shawl of gray wool. There was no old-person smell here, either, only a delicate hint of lavender.

This had all been part of Damaris’s undoing. When she’d visited Cheynings as Ashart’s prospective bride, Lady Ashart had seemed kind—haughty, but gracious. There was no kindness in her now. She waved her middle-aged maid out of the room, then snapped, “I’m not pleased with you, Miss Myddleton.”

Damaris wouldn’t descend to squabbling. “I’m sorry for your disappointment, Lady Ashart.”

“Disappointment! It’s a disaster, girl, and it all lies at your doorstep.”

“Hardly—”

“Ashart’s being here was no plan of mine. But when it occurred, could you not take advantage of it instead of letting that hussy get her claws into him?”

Damaris counted to three. “Ashart arrived here with Miss Smith, my lady. I believe they were already attached—”

“Attached!
Attached!
The whole country is talking of them being caught attached on an inn bed!”

“Then it’s necessary that they marry, is it not?”

“Ha! If Ashart married every woman he bedded, he’d need a harem.”

“But he loves—”

“
Love!”
the dowager shrieked. “A pox on love. Springtime dewdrops that never last. I’ve seen more disasters from love matches, girl, than from sensible arrangements. I will not have it. Ashart must marry money. He must marry you.”

Damaris stared at the impossible tyrant, then spoke flatly. “I would not have Lord Ashart now, my lady, on any terms.”

“Are you such a fool? You’ll do no better, girl, for all your pirated guineas.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Damaris whirled to find that Lord Ashart had entered the room. She’d never expected to be so happy to see him.

He strolled forward. “Stop belaboring Miss Myddleton, Grandy. None of this is her fault, and by entangling her we’ve done her a disfavor.”

“If she embarrassed herself, it’s because of you, you rascal, and it’s for you to fix. You can charm any woman out of her fidgets—”

“I love Genova, Grandy. If you fight me over this, you will lose.”

The marquess did not speak harshly, but despite the affectionate name, Damaris thought no one could miss the authority in his words. She was wrong.

“Puppy!” the old woman snapped.

Ashart didn’t react. “As Miss Myddleton said, she has too much sense to take me now, even if I could be compelled to give up Genova, which I cannot. There comes a time, my lady, when anyone has to accept defeat.”

Damaris winced at both
my lady
and
defeat.

The dowager seemed to rear up on her bank of pillows, flares of red in her cheeks. “I will remove from Cheynings and never speak to you again!”

“So be it.”

Caught midfire, Damaris edged toward the door. She jumped at a touch, but Ashart merely escorted her there. “My apologies, Miss Myddleton,” he said as he guided her into the corridor.

The dowager’s voice blasted out again—“Do not think…”—then was muffled by the door closing with Ashart still inside, brave man.

“Snatched from the jaws of the dragon by a fearless hero?”

Damaris started, hand to chest. “What? Are you Ashart’s hound, sir, to be left waiting at the door?”

“Woof!”
But Fitzroger smiled. “I came as squire to Saint George, but I don’t seem to be needed except to escort the maiden to safety.”

She glanced back at the door. “A dragon, indeed.”

“Think what a lucky escape you’ve had.”

“I assumed the dowager would leave Cheynings when Ashart married.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“She’s threatening to leave if he marries Miss Smith.”

“A delightful prospect, but still unlikely. She’s lived there for sixty years, and ruled there for most of it. But speaking of Cheynings…”

“Yes?” she asked.

“Have you visited the library here?”

She saw no connection. “Briefly, when we were given a tour of the house.”

“Come, then. It’s nearby.”

Damaris hesitated, aware of something strange in the air. But they wouldn’t be compromised by being together in the library, and they were conspirators of a sort. Perhaps he needed to discuss their plan.

“I don’t have long,” she said, setting a brisk pace. “I have to dress for this fencing match. What’s the purpose of that?”

“Merely amusement.”

She looked at him, trying to see through his smooth facade. “How did you and Ashart come to save me?”

“Omniscience. Rothgar knew you’d been summoned and asked Ashart to intervene.”

“Thank heavens the dowager will soon leave.”

He opened the door and she walked into the magnificent room, not surprised to find it deserted. Despite its gilded carving and painted ceiling, the Rothgar Abbey library was a sober, even demanding room. It could certainly never be described as cozy.

No upholstered chairs sat by the crackling fire for the comfort of people wanting to read a newspaper or catch a nap. On the contrary, each window bay held a stern, medieval desk, and plain chairs were drawn up to the three tables running down the middle of the room, ready for those who wanted to consult a weighty tome.

Would the scholars and philosophers painted on the ceiling cry out in horror to see people enter with mere conversation in mind?

“Well?” Damaris asked, strolling toward one of the medieval desks as if fascinated by it, but really to put one of the long tables between herself and Fitzroger. He still had that stirring effect on her.

“I, too, had an interview with Lord Rothgar.”

She turned to face him. “Was he very angry?”

“For bringing you back? Quite the opposite.”

“I’m glad then. Perhaps he’ll become your patron.”

A strange expression flickered over his face. “Perhaps he will, but that requires that I oblige him.”

“What does he want you to do?”

“Go to Cheynings with Ashart and Genova. Ashart wishes to escort his grandmother home, and of course his betrothed must go with him.”

Damaris gave a short laugh. “Poor her. I visited in October and it was damp and frigid then.” But then she realized. “You’re abandoning me!”

“I regret the necessity, but I suffer from a conflict of obligations—”

“Is Ashart a child needing a nurse?”

“Are you?”

She jerked as if slapped and headed straight for the door. He intercepted her between two tables, blocking her way. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Please don’t distress yourself, sir. I release you from any obligation. Now that I have Lord Rothgar as my guardian, I don’t need—”

A kiss stopped her words. She was too shocked to react, and it was brief, but still left her lips tingling.

“Of course you don’t need me.” His eyes seemed stormy, as if he felt as staggered as she. “That doesn’t mean you have to be alone here.”

“Then you won’t go?”

“Alas, I must.”

“Why?”

“Once Ashart leaves, I have no place in this Malloren nest. How and why could I stay?”

“To court me,” she snapped. “Who’d be surprised if a penniless adventurer overstayed his welcome in order to pursue an heiress?”

“Damn you for a sharp-tongued virago.”

She raised her chin. “Thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a virago.”

“A shrew? A termagant?”

“A woman who behaves like a man. A woman who speaks her mind, challenges errors, makes her own decisions, and pursues what she wants with all reasonable force. As I will do!”

“You terrify me.”

She pounced. “Good. Then you’ll have to stay to guard me, won’t you?”

“I can’t.”

She laughed with disgust and turned to escape around the table.

He caught her wrist. “Don’t run away again.”

Damaris froze, sparks shooting up her arm from that contact. “Leaving your pestilential presence, sir, is not running away.”

“I suppose it isn’t.” He stepped closer and kissed the nape of her neck, nuzzled it, even. Shivers shot through her at this new sensation. “Of your kindness, sweet lady,” he murmured there, “stay.”

She tried to cling to her invigorating rage, but when he turned her to face him, both hands on her shoulders, she couldn’t resist. His thumbs pressed through layers of cloth, circling in a way that sent her mind circling, too.

“I have to accompany Ashart to Cheynings, Damaris. That obligation takes precedence over my promise to you. I regret this, for my promises are sacred to me.”

“You’ll have to explain better than that.”

“I can’t.”

“What on earth are you talking about? State secrets?” An expression flashed across his face that made her stare. “At
Cheynings?
”

“Don’t.”

The soft warning silenced her but set her thoughts spinning. State secrets at Cheynings? It made no sense, but every instinct cried danger, and not the elemental danger of man and woman. It should have warned her off, but instead she thrilled at the idea.

“What is it? Spies? I wish I were going with you, then.”

“Then come. You could be a companion for Genova.”

“What?” She pulled free of him. “I’m the last person she’d want, and I have no intention of being locked in with her and Ashart for a week or more.”

He closed the gap between them. “You’d be locked in with me, too.”

Sinful ripples ran up and down her core. “At Cheynings,” she pointed out, retreating. “Musty, damp, niggardly, and icy.”

“We can find ways to stay warm.”

Her back hit shelves. “The place will be freezing. We’d catch pneumonia first.”

He put his hands on either side of her and leaned closer. “You’re stronger than that, and you have those lovely, thick furs.” He drawled out the last few words, turning her thoughts to mist.

Because of his height, she felt surrounded, but she didn’t mind, especially when his soft, deep voice made her skin stir as if brushed by those furs.

“Come,” he tempted. “It ensures victory. After today you’ll have convinced everyone here that you’re heart-whole, and you can leave with flags flying.”