A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  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.

  Deliberately so.

  “I don’t think so,” Ashart said, playing the game patiently. “It seems that some people have decided the simplest way to deal with the problem is to eliminate the line, starting with me, preferably before I sire a new generation. Hence the attack on Genova.”

  The dowager frowned at him as if the game were no longer quite what she’d thought. She put aside her plate. “Attack? I understood that she was one of many who suffered from a bowl of contaminated cider.”

  “It was poison, and only she was affected.”

  “Poison?” The dowager’s shock showed that at least that sin didn’t lie at her door. Then she spat, “That German impostor’s doing, I suppose!”

  It was treason, and Ashart flinched, then went on one knee before her. “Grandy, don’t. This has to end—now. You have proof of the marriage. Give it to me, and I will see it destroyed.”

  “What? Never!”

  “You’d rather see me dead?”

  She shook her head, making her cheeks wobble. “No, never that. But I realize it is time to make it public.” She leaned toward Ashart, smiling fondly. “We won’t seek the throne, of course, my dear boy, but we will demand our rights. To be treated as the royalty we are—as favored cousins of the king.”

  “Grandy—”

  “Once all is known there will be no danger.”

  Ashart surged to his feet. “No danger! We’d be the focus of every malcontent, at home and abroad. And for what? To be ornamental, second-tier royalty?”

  The dowager rose, too. “For money, boy! Money and power. Enough to crush the Mallorens once and for all.”

  Ashart closed his eyes for a moment in despair.

  Out of the corner of her eye Damaris saw Fitz move toward the bedroom door.

  The dowager started as if she’d forgotten his existence, forgotten all of them. Then she ran with remarkable speed toward the door. Fitz grabbed for her arm, but the old lady whirled, her cake fork in her hand.

  She jabbed at him with it, and he hesitated.

  Just as Damaris had expected.

  She looked around and grabbed the silver-bound book. It was remarkably heavy, but as she’d said to Fitz, she was accustomed to moving things for herself.

  Thus armed, she ran around the pair to stand guard in front of the door. The dowager whirled to glare at her and jabbed with the fork. It clanged against silver, and she let out a screech. It might has been because Damaris was in her way or because of the scratch on the treasured book.

  Fitz grabbed the old lady’s wrists from behind, but he was so tall and the dowager so short that the move was awkward. Damaris could see how hard he was trying not to hurt the old woman, but the dowager was struggling like a madwoman, trying to get free. Ashart was frozen.

  Damaris stepped forward and hit the woman on the head with the book.

  She was careful to make it no more than a tap, but the dowager wore a silver aigrette in her hair and it made a satisfying ding! that seemed to shock her into stillness. Fitz deftly removed the fork.

  Then Ashart was there, kneeling before the dowager, taking her hands. “Grandy, you have to end this. It’s madness.”

  “Calling me mad now, are you?” Tears were streaming down the sagging cheeks, but she spat her words. “I never thought you’d turn against me. Not you. No one has ever really loved me. God’s hand has been against me. But to be betrayed by my last flesh and blood!”

  “I’m not your last,” he said wearily, “but I won’t desert you. Come now, and sit down again so that we can talk.”

  But she snatched her hands free, looking around wildly. “That man! That lecher! What is he doing? It was him in my room, I know it was. Searching! My papers!”

  She ran to the door again, but Fitz was already emerging, a red, silken document pouch in hand. The dowager let out an almost animal howl and lunged for it, but he sidestepped her while putting out a hand to steady her. At the same time he tossed the pouch to Ashart.

  It was a deft, swordsman’s move, and despite everything Damaris’s heart ached for the old woman who had no chance against him, and who had truly been overburdened with tragedy in her life.

  The dowager clung to his hand for a moment to stop herself from falling. Then she recoiled, a hank of white hair flying loose from its pins.

  “Ashart?” she said in a voice strangled somewhere between plea and command. “Don’t. Don’t destroy them.”

  Her maid burst in then from the bedchamber. Instantly the old woman assumed queenly dignity. “Attend me!” she snapped, then retreated, head high, into her room. With a wild glance at Ashart, the maid closed the door between them.

  Damaris realized she was still holding the book and carefully replaced it on the table, rubbing pointlessly at the scratch the fork had made. Then she sat, her knees weak. Genova went to Ashart and took his hands.

  Damaris thought they all needed to get out of the room, but she wasn’t quite ready to try walking yet.

  Then the door opened again.

  The Dowager Lady Ashart could not be said to be recovered, but her hair was neat, her face dry, and her expression arrogantly firm. “I am removing to live with Henrietta.”

  It could be the first time the Marquess of Ashart had ever gaped. “She’s in a convent. A Catholic convent. In France.”

  “A suitable place to pass my declining years, and she has always been the least trouble to me. I am leaving immediately.”

  “It’s sunset—”

  She overrode him. “Hockney will manage.”

  Hockney was Ashart’s chief outrider who commanded such journeys.

  “I will take the best coach, of course,” she continued, “and use the London house while arrangements are being made. But I will try not to inconvenience you there any longer than necessary. Once I leave these shores, I fear we may not meet again, Ashart, but I’m sure you won’t suffer over that. You and your lowborn bride.”

  She turned and left, and someone, presumably the maid, closed the d
oor once more.

  Ashart leaned his head back on the sofa. “Always the last word.” Then he added, “Oh, dear, poor Aunt Henrietta. What sin has she managed to commit to deserve her fate?”

  Chapter 15

  They returned to the Little Library and related it all to Lady Thalia.

  “My, my. Perhaps I’m sorry to have missed it. Very good, Damaris! And France. Sophia always was quite extraordinary. We can only hope she finds peace in a convent. And after all, nuns must be grateful for crosses to bear, mustn’t they? Now, Ashart, tell us what you have there.”

  Ashart sat at the desk, opened the pouch, and pulled out the folded documents. He read each.

  “A record of the marriage,” he said. “In the house of one Arthur Cheviot, with a service performed by the prince’s own chaplain. Illegal now, but not then. Three love letters, one sent from London, with the prince saying he is unwell and wishing he had his sweet wife to care for him. Added confirmation. And a drawing of the prince with a note written on the corner, reading, ‘My beloved prince and husband, Henry.’”

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Thalia said. “How very sad it is.”

  “No picture of her?” Genova asked.

  “No,” Ashart said, refolding the papers and putting them back in the pouch. “She remains an enigma.”

  “But why keep the marriage secret?” Damaris asked.

  Fitz said, “We may never know, but if Betty was the virtuous country lady she seems, she might not have wanted to be connected to the Restoration court. It was notably amoral.”

  “But she ruined her own reputation and deprived her son of the crown.”

  “In her older years she was a very resolute sort,” Lady Thalia said. “I can see her making the decision as Fitz explained it. Besides, admitting the marriage would have meant losing charge of her son, you know. He would probably have been raised in the royal nurseries.”

  “And when she made the decision,” Fitz said, “it would not occur to her that her child could one day rule. Charles was about to marry, and he was notably virile, and James had already sired two daughters. I can understand how she might have decided it was better to be thought a king’s whore but live out her life in the country and raise her child on moral principles.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Damaris said. “She was an unusual woman. I wish I’d met her.”

  Fitz turned to Ashart. “Those papers must go to London as soon as possible.”

  “Not today. It’s late for travel anyway, and we’ll let Grandy get on her way.” He glanced out at the glowing sunset sky, obviously still concerned for her.

  “Hockney will look after her,” Fitz said, “and they’ll probably only go as far as Leatherhead. She won’t stay here now.”

  “I know.” Ashart nodded. “First thing tomorrow, then, we’ll leave for London. I’ll send a message for Rothgar to meet us there. I’ll be glad to be done with this.”

  “Ashart, dearest,” Lady Thalia said, looking her years despite frills and ribbons, “would it be possible for me to visit Richard’s grave? It’s not far, and it is so long since I have.” She sighed, looking into the past. “I do not believe our earthly remains are of importance. His picture means more to me,” she said, touching the locket she always wore. “But thinking of poor Betty, I would like to go.”

  Ashart glanced at Fitz. “Is it safe?”

  “I think so. There’s not the slightest advantage to anyone in harming Lady Thalia. Where do you want to go?” he asked the old lady.

  “St. Bartolph’s churchyard. It’s less than two miles. In Elmstead, right by Richard’s old home.”

  “I’ll arrange for a carriage,” Fitz said, and left.

  Lady Thalia went to wrap up warmly. Ashart and Genova spoke softly together. To give them privacy, Damaris went to the window to look out. She didn’t think nature shaped itself to fit with human affairs, but it seemed fitting that today they had the first glorious sunset she’d seen in weeks.

  They had the papers, so Ashart and Genova would soon be safe.

  The dowager was leaving, so Genova wouldn’t have to share this house with the bitter old woman.

  And tomorrow they would leave here. She had bittersweet feelings about that, but she knew it was for the best. There could be no future for her with Fitzroger, but whenever he was close, reason seemed to dissolve.

  It would be better in London. She’d be busy with final preparations for her presentation at court—some new clothes, including a splendid court gown, and probably some lessons in court behavior, though she thought she’d been well trained there. Lord Henry had been conscientious in some respects.

  There would be Bridgewater, who might turn out to be charming and able to make her skin tingle with a look.

  Buying him should be simple enough, but she’d insist on a courtship. He could work a little for the prize. And as she’d resolved before, she’d not count on anything until he had formally requested her hand and the marriage settlements were signed.

  She would then have the life she had planned ever since she’d understood the extent of her fortune. She would be a duchess, one of the grandest ladies in the land. She would have robes and a coronet of golden strawberry leaves. She would be a patron of the arts, particularly music. She would also promote her special interest, medicine, both the development of better treatments and care for the poor.

  She had already given Dr. Telford money for his dream—a charity clinic and hospital in Worksop. As Duchess of Bridgewater, she would do the same in other places. It was an excellent future—but the idea of it left her hollow.

  She shook herself. It would be better when the duke was a real person rather than a picture and some information. As Genova had said, she had too little experience of men.

  Fitz returned to report that Lady Thalia was on her way and that the coach was being readied for the dowager.

  “I had a word with Hockney. He won’t let her push on into danger, though with this clear weather they’ll be able to travel into the dark without trouble.”

  “It is a very pretty sunset,” Damaris said. “Could we perhaps go outside for a little to admire it?”

  Everyone looked toward the window as if sunset were the Second Coming.

  “Oh, yes!” said Genova. “I’ve not breathed fresh air since we arrived.”

  “It’s not safe, love,” Ashart said. “The assassin doesn’t know yet that matters have changed.”

  Genova pulled a face, but she didn’t argue.

  However, Fitz said, “We can go outside if we keep close to the house. There’s no sign that our assassin is desperate enough to come so close. He took an opportunity at Pickmanwell—a hasty, slapdash one that put him in no danger—but he has to know we’ll move to London sooner or later. A much more promising scenario, and you are no threat until you marry, Ash, for legitimacy is key to everything.”

  Ashart rose, but he looked at the pouch. “What am I to do with this? I wouldn’t put it past Grandy to search for it before she leaves.” He put it in his coat pocket, but then shook his head and passed it to Fitz. “You guard this and the ladies. I must stay inside.” He looked at Genova. “She might want to speak to me.”

  “Is that really wise?” Genova asked. “Perhaps I should stay, too.”

  He smiled. “No, you deserve some fresh air and a pretty sky. Don’t worry. I won’t beg her to change her mind.”

  He would hear no argument, so Damaris, Genova, and Fitz dressed warmly and left the house by the main door. “It really is gorgeous,” Damaris said, smiling at the extraordinary pinks and golds. “God provides splendors beyond human skill.”

  “Winter sunset,” Fitz said, and she turned to smile at him. Despite everything, there were still bright strands between them, and she would enjoy them while she could. Like the sunset, they would soon be swallowed by the dark.

  They went down the steps and strolled around the southwest side of the house. Even sunset gilding couldn’t hide the sad state of the gardens. Roses tr
ailed unpruned and weak, and statues choked in ivy.

  Genova sighed. “And I know nothing of gardens.”

  “You will hire gardeners,” Damaris said.

  “Which requires money.”

  “I don’t think Ashart is quite as penny-pinched as that. Especially if he sells his diamond buttons.”

  Genova smiled. “You have such a practical head.”

  Damaris picked her way along a rough path, trying not to soil her cloak. Fitz was walking behind them. True, the path was wide enough only for two, but Damaris was aware that he was putting himself between them and the park. Just in case.

  They were passing between the house and an arrangement of bare trees interspersed with ivy-dressed statues. Her eye was caught, however, by an ugly extension to the house that seemed to be made of dusty gray squares. “Oh, it’s a conservatory!”

  “With very dirty glass,” Genova said, “where the glass isn’t missing entirely. But it could be lovely. It faces south.”

  She went toward it, and Fitz followed. Damaris stayed where she was, not caring for yet more grime and destruction. She considered the poor naked statues, wondering whimsically if they appreciated their leafy garments in the winter. She assumed their decrepit state was ancient rather than recent, but she didn’t think she cared for them. If she had statues around her house, she’d have them made intact. After all, she assumed these Greek or Roman specimens had not been made missing arms, or in one case, a head.

  Perhaps she didn’t fit in this world. She didn’t admire broken statues, and she didn’t want an ancient, rambling place as her home. What was wrong with a modern house, full of light and free of drafts, and just big enough for elegant comfort? If she married someone like Fitz, she realized, someone without property, they could buy or build exactly the home they wanted.

  These were wicked, dangerous thoughts, but Damaris couldn’t resist. If there were decisions to be made, they must be made before she reached London.

  They must be made now.

  She heard a noise and turned to see Fitz forcing the sagging door open so Genova could step inside the conservatory. Damaris turned back to the uncommunicative statues. For a second a trick of the flaming light made it appear that one moved.