by Mara
“What madness possesses you? What are you doing here?”
He reached for the door handle.
“I’ll scream.”
He turned such a blistering look on her that she flinched. “I won’t. I promise I won’t!”
She went on urgently but softly. “I had to talk to you— No! Listen. Truly. I discovered something. And I couldn’t sleep without explaining that I didn’t mean to be cold earlier. That I’m not interested in Bridgewater.”
He let her go and stepped away. “Then you’re a fool.”
“A fool for loving you?”
“Go, Damaris. Please.”
The plea broke her will. “I will. In a moment.”
Here, now, she could almost believe that he was right. That it could never be. The darkness whispered it, echoed in his guarded eyes.
“But listen, love.” She couldn’t help but call him that. “I spoke coolly to you because I’d just convinced Lady Tresham and Mrs. Fayne that I cared nothing for you.”
“That, at least, was wise.”
“It was necessary in order for them to believe the seeds of doubt I sowed. About you and your brother’s wife.”
He ran a hand through his loose hair. “That’s pointless, Damaris, because it’s all true. I don’t want you entangled with it. You must have seen how people treated me.”
“I saw how Lady Tresham and Mrs. Fayne treated you.”
It was an attempt at a tease, but he said, “You think I should be flattered to be weighed as bed amusement by bored wives?”
She swallowed tears but persisted. “We may not have an opportunity for private speech before the drawing room, so listen. I cast doubt on the story and buttressed it with Rothgar’s approval and the fact that the king will accept you at court tomorrow. If challenged, do not undermine it with the truth.”
“You expect me to lie?”
“Not outright, no. But don’t drive truth through the questioner’s heart.”
He shook his head. “There’s no hope for us, Damaris. Accept that and marry Bridgewater.”
“And if I’m carrying your child? I won’t foist a child on another man.”
“You know in that case, I will have to marry you.”
She hated that way of putting it, but seized on his words. “So you won’t leave England before I know?”
His jaw tensed, but in the end he said, “I won’t leave England before you know.”
She hated to think of forcing him to the altar that way, but if he had to stay for a couple of months, surely she could find some solution.
“There’s more,” she said. “On a different subject. Those letters, the copies of the ones my mother sent? My father was a bigamist.”
He stared at her. “What?”
She felt the relief of an almost impersonal subject. “Five years before he married my mother, he married Rosemary Butler, mother of my half brother.”
“And Rosemary didn’t die?”
“Not before he married my mother. Not until last year, in fact.”
“The deuce. But I don’t think it affects your inheritance, unless the will says ‘legitimate daughter.’ ”
“No, I don’t think it does, either, but that’s not the point. My brother is the legitimate one! Don’t you think he might have discovered this upon his mother’s death and acted out of outrage?”
“Don’t be softhearted. He fired that crossbow. He intended to kill you because then he would inherit your money.”
“And he should have done.”
“The money was your father’s to do with as he wished.”
“So he left it to me, knowing it would gall my mother to death.”
“I doubt he ever expected it to come to that. Like most of us, he doubtless expected to live to an old age. This was all in a letter?”
“More or less. Marcus Myddleton was a monster. I don’t understand why my mother or this Rosemary didn’t kill him once they found out.”
“They didn’t have Myddleton blood,” he said dryly, then added, “And, of course, they’d have been killing the golden goose.”
“My mother cared nothing for money. She probably kept quiet because of her reputation. Bad enough to have a husband who rarely showed his face. She’d rather have slit her own throat than let it be known that she was his bigamous second wife. But his first wife was the wronged one, and knew it. It’s clear from the letter that she approached my mother with a plan of demanding more money as the price of their silence. Of course, my mother rejected the idea, but she thought she had a weapon. She wrote to my father, threatening to reveal all if he didn’t return to Worksop to live as her decent husband. Can you imagine?”
He shook his head. “I’m sure he shook in his shoes.”
“Quite. He’d have known it was a bluff, but no wonder his last visit to us was so vitriolic. And I panted around him like an adoring puppy.”
He took her hands. “There’s no blame to you in that. You were young.” She looked wryly at him. “I was fifteen.” His hands tightened on hers. “I’ve made that step, at least. I’m beginning to accept that I wasn’t the author of that wickedness. Orinda seduced me, and a lad that age in the hands of an experienced woman is a lamb to the slaughter. Or a ram, at least. It doesn’t change the way the world views it, but my soul is more at ease. As for your father’s bigamy, it doesn’t change anything. Ignore it.”
“But Marcus Butler—Mark Myddleton—has some justice on his side.”
“Not for attempted murder. But I’ve promised you I won’t kill him if I can avoid it.”
“There’s Rothgar, too. He’s involved now.”
“I have enough trouble in that area myself.”
“I don’t think Ash will tell him. I asked him not to.” His eyes flashed in the candlelight. “Damaris!”
“I’m sorry, but if you expect me not to be an interfering, managing wife—”
“You will be no wife.”
“Not to anyone?”
He dragged her toward the door. “Back to your room.”
She didn’t resist until they reached the door. “I have this terrible foreboding about tomorrow, Fitz.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
“But who will keep you safe? What if your brother is at court?”
“It’s unlikely.”
She could see, however, that it weighed on him. “Shouldn’t he be confined?”
“Not by me.”
“You can carry guilt too far. I don’t think his rages come from a bump on the head.”
“Don’t, Damaris.”
She managed to hold back more protests. Time enough for all that later. “What will you do if he does appear at the drawing room?”
“Avoid him.”
“Not by leaving. Not before the king shows his favor.”
“If the king’s inclined to smile on me, Damaris, he’ll do it another day.”
She grabbed his arm. “You mustn’t leave before being presented, Fitz. You mustn’t.” She didn’t want to tell him, but she did. “I planted seeds in the minds of those two gossips, Lady Tresham and Mrs. Fayne. That you’ll be at the drawing room, which is true. That the king is expected to show you some sign of favor. Which is probably true...”
“And?” His direct look demanded the truth.
“I made the point that the king’s favor will prove the old story to be an exaggeration. Or a figment of your brother’s demented mind.”
“Damaris—”
“It will work,” she insisted. “But only if they see the king accept you tomorrow.” When his face set in resistance, she added, “You said I could command you.”
“And you’ll exploit that to the death.”
“Till death do us part,” she agreed. “I do wish you weren’t always looking exasperated with me.”
“It’s likely to become a fixed expression.” But there was a hint of loving humor there.
It created a blessed smile in her. “An eternal one. So I command you:
Avoid your brother if you can, but even if he attends court, even if he tries to make trouble, do not leave before you’re presented.”
“I reserve the right to disobey in the field of action.” When she tried to protest, he said, “No. You’ve reached the limit of your authority. If I come face-to-face with Hugh, I will follow my conscience and my honor.”
She sighed and slid her hands down to his. “I don’t suppose I’d love you if you could do anything less.” She glanced at his bed. “I wish we could make love, because I’m afraid. But it’s irrational panic, that’s all. And it would hurt you, my love, to take me to bed again tonight, wouldn’t it?”
He raised her hands and kissed each palm. “It would be wrong. I have no premonitions about tomorrow, but I do feel somewhat like a knight of old on the eve of battle. That I should be sober, chaste, and prayerful.”
The touch of his lips on her palms made her want to curl in her fingers to hold the kiss like a jewel. “Were they? Sober, chaste, and prayerful before battle?”
His lips quirked. “I doubt it.”
He kissed her hands again and then her forehead, then led her to the door. “I’ll try to obey your commands, my lady fair.”
“About my brother, too?”
“If we can find him before he tries any new mischief.”
He opened the door and checked the corridor. As she left, he stopped her with a hand on her cheek and kissed her once again, chastely on her lips, before pushing her gently into the corridor. When she looked back from her own door he still watched.
On guard. Her golden Galahad.
She sent him all her love in a smile before entering and closing her own door.
Chapter 21
Damaris woke to sunshine through open curtains and hoped it was a good omen. Here in Malloren House, her room was lightly perfumed with potpourri, and a lively fire made it comfortable.
Maisie brought her washing water, and gave her a searching look. Searching for sin, no doubt. She said nothing other than, “Shall I get your breakfast now, miss?”
“No, I want to breakfast downstairs.” Where she might have a chance of being with Fitz.
Damaris got out of bed and put on her slippers and robe. She hurried to her desk and wrote a note. “Take this to Fitzroger. There’s no use in pouting,” she added. “I intend to marry him. If you want to be maid to a duchess, you’ll have to seek other employment.”
Maisie pouted anyway.
Damaris gave her a hug. “On the day I marry Fitzroger, I’ll give you a handsome dowry. You’ll be able to return home and pick any man you choose for a husband.”
Maisie’s eyes widened and she straightened. “Right, then!”
The note had been a request that Fitz escort her down to breakfast, which he could hardly refuse to do. She was only just dressed when he knocked. She’d chosen simple clothes because later she’d have to change into court finery.
They went downstairs talking of the weather, and lightly of the drawing room. Like ordinary people on an ordinary day.
“You’ve never attended court in England?” she asked as they approached the breakfast room.
“Until recently I was hardly ever in England.”
Because he’d avoided his brother.
They found Rothgar at breakfast, which wasn’t what Damaris would have chosen. He rang a bell, which brought a servant to take their orders. At least she saw no sign that Ashart had revealed their sin.
Conversation was of impersonal matters, which suited her perfectly. This was the lull before battle, and perhaps at such times soldiers spoke of incidental things. In a little while Rothgar excused himself and left then alone. They shared a look.
“A sign of approval?” Damaris asked.
“Of trust, at least. Have you decided what to sing?”
“Rothgar approved ‘The Pleasures of Spring.’ There’s nothing in daffodils and singing birds to offend anyone, and it’s a simple piece. I only hope my voice doesn’t desert me because of strain. I should soon go and practice again.”
They were interrupted by a footman. “Sir, a lady asks for you. She says she is your sister.”
“Your sister?” Damaris queried. “Libella?”
Fitz frowned, but rose. “It has to be. Will you stay here while I see what she wants?”
“Of course, but I’d like to meet her.”
His lips twisted. “It might not be a suitable moment.”
Damaris watched from the door as he crossed the hall to enter one of the reception rooms. Why was his sister here? Not for anything good, she was sure, but she couldn’t intrude. She paced the breakfast room, praying this didn’t represent a new burden for Fitz.
She’d left the door ajar. When she heard voices, she went to it again and saw Fitz with a petite woman with similar blond hair who was fastening a simple red cloak. The day was milder, but that wasn’t an adequate winter garment.
Fitz turned and saw Damaris. With a word to his sister he came over. “Libby came to warn me that Hugh’s picked up some wild story of the king’s knighting me today. It’s pushed him beyond all reason. He’s even threatening the king.”
“No,” she whispered, putting a hand to her mouth. This was all her doing! And not many years before, a raving madman had been horribly tortured and killed for attempting to kill the king of France.
“I need to escort Libby to her inn and see if we can persuade our mother to move to safety. She seems to feel that Hugh would never hurt her.”
Damaris thought new lines were etched into his face, and longed with all her heart to ease him.
“Mother refuses to consider any kind of confinement for him,” Fitz said. “I have to go.” He took her hand. “I’ll alert Rothgar. You’ll be safe here. But don’t go out. For any reason.”
“Of course not.” She hesitated, but asked, “Won’t you introduce me to your sister?”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“I am, Fitz, whether you want it or not.”
He shook his head, but said, “Come.”
Libella Fitzroger was so short and slight that she looked like a child, but when close Damaris could see extra years on her too-thin face. Her smile was perfunctory, as if she couldn’t imagine why they were wasting time on social niceties.
Fitz excused himself to speak to Rothgar, so Damaris kept up the conversation, but she didn’t feel able to talk about Lord Leyden, or herself and Fitz, so was limited to the weather and the bustle of London.
Thank heaven Fitz soon returned—wearing a sword, she noticed. No doubt there was a pistol somewhere, too. Damaris had hoped to gain sisters through marriage, but this drawn woman wasn’t very promising.
Fitz had ordered a sedan chair, and it was announced to be waiting outside. He and his sister left the house. Damaris went to the window in the reception room to watch as he handed his sister into it. The chairmen picked up the poles, and he took his place beside as they crossed the courtyard toward the street.
She was enjoying the way he moved when she saw a man charge into the courtyard and heard the blast of a gun.
Fitz and the chairmen fell to the ground—but before a cry could escape her lips she saw that they were unhurt. The chairmen were huddling behind the tall box, and Fitz was already helping his sister out.
The maroon-faced, hatless man in the flapping cloak and rumpled clothes had to be Lord Leyden. He was lurching across the open space, bellowing something while fighting his cloak to draw his sword. The task seemed to be too much for him, which was a blessing, for it gave Fitz time to make his sister as safe as possible before running out with his own sword already drawn.
She heard him cry, “Hugh! Stop! Think!”
She supposed he had to try, but she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. It was pointless. The man’s eyes were almost rolling with madness, and spittle flew from his lips. The horrible thing was that he was a caricature of Fitz, more heavily built and distorted by mad rage, but in other ways so similar, even to the wild hair fl
ying free of a ribbon.
Swords clashed so hard that sparks flew. She couldn’t just stand here. She had to do something!
She dashed into the hall to see Rothgar and a half dozen footmen pouring out of the house. She ran after them, wondering why the fight was still going on when Fitz had to be able to defeat his brother in a moment.
Rothgar had his own sword out, and his men held bludgeons and pistols. One chairman held a pistol and was peering around the chair box pointing it.
But everyone watched.
To run in on such a mad frenzy risked death, but it also risked distracting Fitz. Rothgar must know better than she that Fitz could already have killed his brother. But still Fitz parried and dodged, talking, talking, talking.
But then, as Lord Leyden began to stagger and flail with his sword, she understood: Fitz still could not harm his brother, or allow his brother to kill him. Perhaps he hoped to touch reason, but mainly he was tiring his brother out. Now Leyden lurched and one leg gave way, so he tumbled with a grunt to one knee. But still he slashed at his brother like a maddened beast.
“Disarm him,” Damaris said under her breath, but Fitz wouldn’t even do that. He stepped back, sword lowered, still talking.
His brother heaved for breath, pouring sweat, glaring with hate. “I’ll kill you,” he choked out. “Come back here, you bastard, so I can kill you!” He pushed, swaying, to his feet again and lurched toward Fitz, finding breath to bellow, “I’ll kill you and the king who thinks to honor you! Rotten, sausage-eating German...”
Outright treason. Damaris had to do something, so she used her most powerful weapon—her voice. She screamed long and loud to drown out his words.
She was too late. At the edge of the courtyard a growing crowd gawked and listened.
At least Leyden had stopped yelling. But then he pulled another pistol from his belt and aimed it at her. She threw herself down even as she saw Fitz lunge to skewer his brother’s right arm. The shot thundered, and she hunched down lower, praying it hadn’t hit anyone.
Her throat hurt, and she was gasping with panic, but she peered out. Fitz was standing, obviously not hurt. Rothgar’s men were swarming all over the still-raging madman.