A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  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?”

  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 sword-play 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?

  Chapter 5

  When 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.”

  Th
e 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?”