A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  “Oh, indeed I do, Miss Damaris. You look so beautiful. Like a princess, you are!” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “And I do wish you well with Mr. Fitzroger, miss. Such a dashing hero! Better than a duke any day.”

  Damaris gave her a careful hug, then left to find Fitz waiting outside the door.

  Oh, yes, he was better than a duke, any day.

  For once, his hair was neatly arranged and powdered. His suit was of cut velvet in shades of pale gold, braided in dark gold down the front and along the cuffs and pockets. His long brocade waistcoat repeated the gold shades and was fastened with golden buttons that looked to be centered with pale sapphires. Glass, she was sure, but the surprising touch of color matched his eyes. Similar stones winked on the buckles of his shoes.

  She sank into a curtsy. “Sir, you render me breathless.”

  He bowed, then raised her. “You do look rather bloodless.”

  “You’re paler than usual, too,” she pointed out. He was lightly painted.

  “We do what we must.”

  He looked easier in his manner than she’d seen him in days, but she guessed the effort it took. It had been an extraordinary day, and everything could still go wrong.

  All she could do was play her part. They proceeded down the corridor, almost filling the width because of her skirts.

  When they entered Rothgar’s private sitting room, he was there with Lady Thalia. She saw the marquess assess her. He seemed to approve. He was in dense black velvet today, which seemed ominous, even when it was embroidered with flowers in rainbow colors. He opened a large flat box on the table.

  She went to where the rubies gleamed on black velvet. “I’ve hardly seen them myself,” she said, touching the necklace. “When my mother died, our solicitor revealed that he had various jewels in his care. Lord Henry took charge and locked them away at Thornfield Hall. They made him nervous.”

  “Understandably. They represent a fortune in themselves. May I assist you?”

  She nodded and let Rothgar put the necklace around her throat, feeling the cool weight settle there. It was composed of a circle of rubies, each of large size, set in gold, with diamonds on each link between. The staggering element, however, was the smooth teardrop ruby that hung in the center.

  A bloodred cabochon ruby, she remembered. A smooth surface beneath which seethes fire and mystery. She glanced at Fitz. Had he known when he’d said that? How could he? She’d not then worn these jewels.

  Lady Thalia clapped her hands. “Magnificent!”

  Fitz seemed suddenly somber, however, probably because of such evidence of her wealth. He’d simply have to get used to it.

  She put in earrings that each held a miniature of the teardrop jewel, and a bracelet composed of three bands of rubies. There was also a brooch, which she put over the clasp at her waist.

  She heard voices just before Genova and Ashart arrived.

  Genova said, “You look terrifyingly grand, Damaris.”

  “I don’t feel it. You look lovely.”

  The soft-cream-and-bright-blue gown was pretty and cheerful. It gave Damaris a pang. Why couldn’t she be pretty and cheerful? It had nothing to do with looks, however. She was a pirate’s daughter, inheritor of his bloody loot, and there was no purpose in fighting it.

  Genova was wearing the pearls she’d worn at Christmas. Apparently they had been a gift from Lady Thalia, not a loan. Her only other ornaments were pearl earrings.

  Damaris turned to Lord Rothgar. “I have a sapphire pin I want to give to Genova.”

  She thought that as her guardian he might object to her giving away her property, and braced for battle, but he left and returned with all her jewelry boxes. She quickly found the brooch and gave it to her friend. “A belated birthday gift.”

  Genova blushed but didn’t protest. “Thank you,” she said, pinning it to her bodice between her breasts. “It’s lovely. And it matches my ring.”

  She showed the lovely sapphire she wore on her third finger.

  Damaris hadn’t noticed it, but it was perfect—a round sapphire of exactly the right size. Not hugely flamboyant, but certainly not modest. The clear, strong blue said something about Genova’s clear and honest heart.

  What ring would Fitz give her? An idea stirred, and as the others talked of the upcoming event she went to close her jewelry boxes, and to take something out.

  Then she turned to find Genova practicing her court curtsy again and wobbling every time she started to rise. Everyone was on edge, perhaps all for different reasons.

  Rothgar took away the jewelry boxes. When he returned he said, “The chairs are ready. It is time for our grand entrance.”

  “Don’t you mean exit, my lord?” Damaris asked.

  “Not at all. Beyond the front door lies the world, and thus our stage.”

  Ashart took Genova’s hand and led her out. Fitz offered his to Damaris. She curled her fingers around his fingers.

  Rothgar and Thalia came behind. She hoped they couldn’t hear when she said, “I have a gift for you.”

  He raised a brow.

  She opened her other hand to reveal a ring—a man’s ring of heavy gold that held an oval cameo of buff and cream. Tiny diamonds circled it, so small they merely formed a glittering border.

  “I can’t accept a ring from you, Damaris. Not yet.”

  “The carving’s of a rapier with ribbons and flowers entwined. As soon as I remembered it, I knew it was meant for you. It’s a talisman for today. For strength and peace.”

  “If I put it on, Rothgar will notice. He probably saw you take it.”

  “This is mine to give or not, as I wish.” As they navigated the turn at the top of the stairs, she pressed the ring into his hand.

  “This was part of your father’s loot?” he asked as they began the descent.

  “Probably.”

  “Somewhat embarrassing if I meet the true owner.”

  But when they arrived in the hall and servants came forward with cloaks and muffs, she saw him slide it onto the middle finger of his right hand. It didn’t quite fit. Looking at her, he put it on the fourth finger. It was his right hand, but she knew that in some countries women wore a betrothal ring on that finger.

  Damaris loved that thought and tried to hide it by looking down at her own rings, all of her own providing. Or rather, her father’s. She could understand now why her mother had rejected every gift, even with fury. She, however, would wear them all, and make friends with her brother, and hope Marcus Myddleton was gnashing his teeth in hell.

  Six gilded sedan chairs were carried into the hall, and they entered them, ladies first. Fitz helped Damaris fit her hoops and skirts inside while avoiding knocking the plumes off her head.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

  “This is court.” He closed the chair’s door. Damaris tucked her hands into her fur muff, the chairmen picked up the poles, and they were off.

  As Rothgar had predicted, a small crowd waited to see them leave. If they were disappointed that the nobles were already packed away in boxes, they didn’t show it. They even applauded. No wonder Rothgar described this as a stage.

  Ahead, she glimpsed Rothgar’s running footman, carrying his golden-knobbed staff, clearing the way and silently announcing the approach of the great. She’d prefer to be slipping through back streets.

  When they entered the narrower streets around St. James’s Palace they became part of a stream of chairs and carriages. Here the crowd stood three or more deep, and children were hoisted on adult shoulders so they could see. They’d be taken to hangings, too, Damaris thought wildly. It was all the same to the mob.

  Would the king have heard about Fitz’s brother?

  Would he have heard about Will Butler?

  What would he do?

  Should she have urged Fitz not to come?

  Then they passed beneath an arch into a crowded courtyard. Fitz opened the door and assisted her out. He seemed completely at ease, but he had that
ability. She didn’t. Her heart was starting to pound in a way that threatened a fainting fit. She inhaled cold air as they joined their party to file up to the royal presence.

  All around, people chattered and laughed, showing how familiar this all was to them. One man was even reading a book. Many bowed or curtsied to Rothgar, Ashart, and Lady Thalia. She caught curious eyes sliding away from her, and could imagine the whispers about the heiress.

  She was more concerned by the less pleasant stares at Fitz. She was sure there was gossip concealed by hands or fans. She knew it couldn’t all be about him, but some would be, especially if this world knew about his brother and about William Butler’s death. A man in military uniform bowed to Fitz, who returned the salutation. A good sign, but she wished the officer hadn’t looked as if he were performing a daring act.

  She prayed that her two gossips had done their work, and that the king would smile.

  They entered the guardroom, where their outer clothing was taken. Damaris remembered thinking about King Charles I’s extra woolen underwear. She certainly lacked that.

  At least the crowd here warmed the air. Before she could object, Damaris found herself separated from Fitz and between Rothgar and Lady Thalia. She twisted to try to be sure Fitz wasn’t slipping away, but Rothgar quietly said, “Behave.”

  As they moved slowly onward, Rothgar remarked, “A gift of a ring?”

  “He’s served me well,” she responded, working on posture and calm, suddenly remembering that she was soon going to have to sing before all these people. She’d tried to prepare, but events had swept that away. Compared to everything else, however, it didn’t matter if she croaked.

  They entered the crowded room where their majesties sat on red-upholstered chairs that looked like thrones. Their ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting stood stiffly to hand, and at the queen’s side an elaborate cradle was attended by two nurses. A toddler wriggled on her silken lap.

  This was the very image of a happy, healthy family, and Damaris saw that as a good omen.

  Queen Charlotte was not pretty. Her face was sallow and long, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be a loved and loving wife. The king was fresh-faced, with rather bulging eyes, but he appeared amiable enough, with a word for each person who bowed or curtsied.

  Surely he couldn’t refuse to recognize Fitz, but would he show him particular favor? Damaris spotted Mrs. Fayne standing hawk-eyed nearby.

  Then it was their turn, and as Lady Thalia introduced her, she sank into her deepest curtsy. When she rose, the king spoke first to Lady Thalia, then turned to Damaris to stare at her rubies. Lud! What did she do if he demanded them? He gestured her closer and took out a quizzing glass to inspect the central jewel. “Remarkable, remarkable, wouldn’t you say, Rothgar?”

  Rothgar agreed that indeed, it was a remarkable stone.

  The blue eyes turned to Damaris’s face. “And we’re told you have a remarkable voice, Miss Myddleton. You shall sing for us shortly.”

  He nodded, and she could make her careful backward retreat to allow space for Ashart and Lady Thalia to present Genova.

  Once out of the immediate royal presence, she could move about normally, but relaxation was impossible. She watched Genova, and everything went smoothly, though Ashart had to give her a little assistance in retreat. Where was Fitz? Still over near the door. Apart. Ignored other than by sliding looks.

  Some people made their curtsies and left, but most stayed, and the room was becoming uncomfortably full. She might end up fainting from lack of air. Then she realized that she’d done her work too well. People were waiting to see what would happen with Fitz. Across the room she saw Lady Tresham head-to-head with a dapper man.

  “Who’s that?” she asked Lady Thalia.

  “Walpole. The greatest gossip ever.”

  Rothgar was to present Fitz, but he was talking to someone. She thought it was the Prime Minister, Grenville. Had he changed his mind? Then Rothgar was at Fitz’s side, moving him toward the king.

  Damaris’s mouth dried, and she vaguely thought how disastrous that would be for singing, but all her attention was fixed on Fitz and the king. He must show favor. He must.

  Fitz’s deep bow was every bit as elegant as Rothgar’s. The entire room hushed.

  “Ah, yes,” said the king. “Leyden’s brother, what?”

  Damaris almost moaned. He’d heard.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Fitz showed not a trace of tension.

  “We hear some rumor of his being indisposed.”

  “Severely, sir. I fear he must be confined in an asylum for his own safety. And for that of others.”

  The silence in the room was like a smothering blanket.

  “Unfortunate, but he has long been disturbed, what?”

  That “what?” was a peculiarity of the king’s conversation, but it threatened to make Damaris giggle.

  “Yes, sir,” Fitz said.

  “From childhood, we understand.”

  Was the king deliberately creating doubts about the common story? Surely that was a good sign.

  “Given to irrational fears and suppositions, what?” Before Fitz could answer that tricky question, the king went on, “My uncle speaks highly of you, Fitzroger. Saved his life, Cumberland says.”

  A sibilant murmur ran around the room. Damaris was keyed so tight her head was pounding. This was the longest the king had spoken with anyone.

  “I was honored to be of some small service, sir,” Fitz said, bowing again.

  “Small?” repeated the king. “Wouldn’t call saving our life small, would you?”

  Fitz was silenced for a moment. But then he said, “Emphatically not, sir. It must be any man’s greatest honor.”

  “Preserving the peace and stability of our realm is any man’s greatest honor, sir!” The stern correction sounded like a reproof, but then the king said, “We hear you dealt with a person disturbing our peace, today, here in London. Good man. Good man. You have a long record of service. We’re minded to reward you.”

  For a breath-stopping moment Damaris wondered if the king would indeed knight Fitz, but then he said, “We appoint you a gentleman of our privy chamber,” and held out his hand.

  Damaris wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like a position of great trust. As Fitz expressed his gratitude and bowed over the king’s hand, the room began to buzz.

  Damaris was hard put not to beam like an idiot, or even laugh with pure delight. How had Rothgar persuaded the king to play such a part? However he’d done it, it had worked. Fitz’s past was smothered by his recent achievements, and he was high in royal favor. Let anyone dare turn their back now!

  She flicked open her fan and hid her smile behind it as she watched reactions. Some looked thunderstruck. Others seemed delightfully intrigued. Across the room she saw Lady Tresham give a smug I told you so to Mr. Walpole, who looked as if he couldn’t wait to spread the story.

  Fitz was stopped on his way to her by a number of people wishing to bow or curtsy, and the uniformed officer slapped his back, grinning.

  Damaris bit her lip and fought tears of happiness, but she made herself look away and tried to look bored. All might yet be spoiled if the gossips realized how she felt about him. They’d know when they married. So that couldn’t be too soon, alas....

  “Miss Myddleton?”

  She started at the king’s voice, and hurried over to curtsy.

  “You may sing now. Without accompaniment, I understand?”

  Oh, Lord! She ran her tongue around her mouth to moisten it. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  He waved to a space nearby and turned to the next people in line.

  Damaris backed into position, praying that her voice would not be affected by the turmoil inside her. Perhaps she did start awkwardly, but then the familiar joy in music caught her, and she surrendered to it. The paean to spring seemed entirely appropriate to the joy in her heart and the promise of the future. She was careful not to look at Fitz, but he was in her mind and hear
t right to the last note.

  The king led applause, looking truly pleased, and declared that they would hear more of her. But then they were free to leave. It was no easy matter, however, for now that the excitement was over, half the room wanted to exit.

  Because she shouldn’t be at Fitz’s side, Damaris walked with Rothgar. “I may marry him now?”

  “Not precisely now, but yes. I would be disappointed to learn that you would be deterred by my opinion, but I will approve, and thus you will have your fortune.”

  She frowned up at him. “When did you decide he was a suitable husband?”

  “I would not have sent you to Cheynings with him if I had not thought it possible. Love is hard to conceal.”

  “I didn’t love him then.”

  “Did you not? It often happens in a day, in a moment, and he is a man worthy of that gift.”

  Their servants came forward with their outer clothing, and then they were outside, their chairs awaiting them.

  Damaris inhaled fresh air and worked hard at not looking at Fitz. As he handed her into her chair, however, she softly sang, “ ‘What does any lady want, more than a handsome hero?’ Rothgar gives us his blessing.”

  Softly, helplessly, he laughed. It was pure joy.

  Once back at Malloren House, she emerged from her chair into the entrance hall caroling, “ ‘For, oh, a lady cannot abide without a hero by her side. By her side, a hero!’ ” She grabbed Fitz’s hands. “What does being a gentleman of the privy chamber mean?”

  “About five hundred a year, for a start,” said Rothgar. “At the cost of occasional attendance at court. Enough at a pinch to support a wife.”

  Fitz turned to Damaris, a deep yet still unsteady joy in his eyes. He raised her hands and kissed them. “Marry me, Damaris?”

  A number of saucy, piratical things came to mind, but instead she simply said, “It will be my deepest honor, sir.”

  Epilogue

  February 14, 1764

  Damaris might have preferred a quiet wedding, but a grand one was deemed part of the steady restoration of Fitz in society. The king and queen would attend, along with everyone of importance.