by Jo Beverley
A thousand kisses? In days?
Ridiculous, but dizzyingly delightful to her wickedest parts.
The baby squawked again, and she was glad of the distraction. “What are we going to do with you, Charlie, when you have your guineas? Would you like to go back to Ireland?”
But that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t simply give a girl like Sheena a large sum of money and wave farewell. She’d have to arrange some kind of supervision. Guardians, trustees. It was a morass of complications that daunted even her.
“You’re a problem, true enough,” she murmured against the baby’s quilted cap. “But I can’t regret taking care of you.”
Genova gave the baby back to Sheena.
“How old are you?” Genova asked. She pointed at the baby, holding up one bent finger, since he must be less than six months old. “Charlie.”
Then she pointed to herself and spread her hands twice for twenty, then held up two fingers. “Twenty-two.” A second later she realized it should be twenty-three today, but that would only confuse.
She pointed at Sheena. “You? How old? How many years?”
Sheena frowned for a moment, but then she spread one plump hand three times, then held up one finger.
Sixteen. As young as Genova feared. What was she to do?
Mrs. Harbinger walked in. “Miss Smith,” she said, with a small curtsy.
Genova gave the lady a similarly small curtsy, hoping it established equality. “Thank you for taking such good care of Sheena and the baby.”
“That is my job, Miss Smith.”
“These are lovely cradles,” Genova said, to continue the conversation.
“That they are. The blue is over a hundred years old, but the cream was made to match when the late marchioness gave birth to twins. The marquess’s youngest brother and sister,” she explained. “Lord Cynric and Lady Elfled. And for all that they called her Elf, she was as much of a hellion as he. We’ll use her cradle for her baby.”
“This nursery must have been very busy in those days.”
“That it was. And a blessing after what came before.”
Remembering, Genova was hard-pressed not to shiver. This might be the very room in which the murder had taken place.
As if forced into action, Mrs. Harbinger bustled over to Sheena and patted her shoulder. “He looks very well, dear.”
Genova looked around the plain room, but if ghosts lingered, they didn’t speak to her. As Ashart had said two days ago, however, the problems between his family and the Mallorens had started with the murder of a baby, here.
She had no effective way to intervene between two marquesses in present times, but did a key lie in the past? It would be arrogant to imagine that she could uncover a different story, but if she understood better, she might find something she could use.
She decided to pretend total ignorance. “What came before? What can you mean, Mrs. Harbinger?”
The woman looked at her, appearing the picture of reluctance, but as Genova had guessed, at heart she was a gossip. “We had a tragedy here in the past, Miss Smith,” she said in low-voiced solemnity. “I tell no secrets, since the whole world knows of it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Harbinger. I’ve spent most of my life abroad.”
“So I heard.” That clearly wasn’t a point in Genova’s favor, but even so, the woman went on.
“I was only the undermaid here. Thirteen, I was, and hired because her ladyship was expecting her second child. Everything went well and there was such rejoicing, even though it was a girl this time. I myself saw the marquess come into this room to smile at little Edith with all the love in the world, and little Lord Grafton adored her.”
The man who was now Marquess of Rothgar.
“What happened?” Genova prompted.
The woman pulled a face. “Her ladyship wouldn’t feed her, you see. She’d fed Lord Grafton for a while, but not Lady Edith. She didn’t even want the baby with her. We had a good wet nurse, but she was a timid woman. When she was told to go, she went.”
“Lady Rothgar told her to go?”
“Her wits turned. That’s all anyone can say.”
Genova tried a blunt question. “What happened?”
Mrs. Harbinger put a hand over her mouth, then spoke. “She murdered the little innocent to stop her crying.”
Genova didn’t have to pretend horror. “To stop her crying?”
The woman nodded. “So she said. So she said.”
“You witnessed it?”
“Oh, dear, no! Do you think I would have stood by, young as I was?”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. It is all just so terrible to contemplate.”
“That it is. It still bothers me in the night sometimes, to think that if I’d returned with some excuse, I might have saved the precious child. Mrs. Leigh, who was nursery governess at the time, blamed herself most bitterly. She left her position shortly after and I heard she drank herself to death. But what could she have done when her ladyship wanted to be alone with her children?”
Genova wished she hadn’t stirred all this pain. “I’m sure no one could have expected such a terrible outcome.” She had one important question. “Unless the marchioness had always been… unbalanced?”
“She was wild,” Mrs. Harbinger said, beginning to show discomfort with the conversation, “but not in a lunatic way. She was just young. Young in her ways. She doted on little Lord Grafton—the marquess now. Dressed him in fine clothes. Played hide-and-seek with him. Carelessly, though. Enough to say, Miss Smith,” she added with a return to starchy briskness, “that she was the sort of mother who needs a nursery staff if her children are to thrive. This Mrs. Dash sounds like another of the same. But anyone would have expected that the innocents would suffer from carelessness, not…”
She broke off there, unable to say the word murder. “Now we have a new marchioness, and in time, we’ll have a full nursery. That will chase the ghosts away.”
Genova agreed, smiling, but something jangled in her mind. “You said the marchioness wanted to be with her children. Was her son present when she killed her daughter?”
Mrs. Harbinger’s mouth pursed as if to hold back words, but then they escaped. “Ran screaming for help, poor mite, but we couldn’t tell what he was saying. We went to him, not her…” She shook her head. “The crying of a tiny babe upsets the marquess still, Miss Smith. It’s better, but it still bothers him. I tell you that only because Charlie must stay out of his sight, since nothing can stop a baby crying.”
Nothing, thought Genova, except a hand cutting off all breath.
What a terrible legacy. What would happen when Lord Rothgar had children of his own? It was impossible to convey to Sheena that she must avoid him, but it didn’t matter. There would be no reason for her and Charlie to mingle with the family again.
Genova left the room weighed down by the old tragedy and unable to see how to tear away the tendrils that poisoned the present. Had the young mother’s wits truly been turned by cruelty?
She sighed and shook her head. She would try to find out more, but her true concerns were the Trayce ladies and Sheena and the baby. For the moment, they seemed well taken care of, and it was Christmas Eve.
Chapter Twenty-two
Genova headed back toward activities, but where to go?
She peeped into her own room, but Thalia was up and away. She knocked on Lady Calliope’s door but found that she, too, was elsewhere.
Genova was still nervous in this house where she knew hardly anyone. That realization was enough to stiffen her spine. She wasn’t going to skulk, so the Tapestry Room seemed the most likely place to mingle.
She was approaching the door when someone called, “Miss Smith!”
She turned to see Lady Bryght coming into the hall, her arms full of a tangle of green and red. “Could I impose upon you to help me untangle all this?”
Genova could hardly refuse, and she would enjoy being useful. That was another problem, she
realized. Before her father’s retirement, and even in Portsmouth, she’d been busy, active, and productive.
Lady Bryght looked around, wrinkling her brow. “I think I’ll take it up to the library to spread on one of the big tables there. Come along.”
They went up to a magnificent room. Lit by tall windows, the long room gleamed with gilded wood, flaunted elaborate carvings, and clasped thousands of leather-bound books behind glass-paneled doors.
Down the center, three long oak tables were set with chairs and held branches of candles ready for use, each with polished reflectors to focus the light on the page. Newspapers and magazines were spread invitingly, and in the center of each table a book lay open on a book stand.
She noted a tall lectern chair beneath each window—the sort seen in medieval illustrations. These chairs could well date from that time, especially as they each had an ancient book chained in place. She’d heard that was the practice when books were handwritten and precious.
A fireplace blazed at one end of the room and a rich carpet covered the floor, but there were no upholstered chairs. This was a room intended for study, not napping or chatter. She wondered if the scribes and philosophers painted on the ceiling disapproved of Lady Bryght’s invasion with a mundane task.
Lady Bryght spilled the mess of green and red at one end of the center table without apparent concern. She sat in one chair and Genova took another, eying the mess dubiously.
“This was used to tie bundles of greenery last year,” Lady Bryght said, “but it wasn’t put away properly. Diana wants to reuse it, but I don’t know how much will be salvageable.”
Genova poked at the ribbons. “It’s astonishing how things can become so thoroughly tangled.”
“If there were merchants nearby, it would be easier to buy new.” Then Lady Bryght looked up with a smile. “That’s a very Malloren way of thinking. I was raised to be frugal.”
Genova chuckled, relaxing. “So was I. I’ve unpicked trimmings, unstrung beads, and made useful items out of scraps. Let’s try, at least.” She chose a green end and began to trace it back to free more of the ribbon.
Lady Bryght started on a piece of red. “Tell me more about life with the navy, Miss Smith. It must be fascinating.”
“In parts.” Genova was happy to entertain with her stories, however.
Lady Bryght didn’t only listen, so Genova learned a lot about the Malloren family. It was particularly interesting because it was an outsider’s view. Lady Bryght, as she’d implied, came from a family that owned only a modest manor.
“Sometimes the Mallorens act as if they’re gods,” she remarked at one point. “Especially Rothgar. Don’t let him bully you.”
“He seems kind.”
“Oh, he is, but like all of us, he has many sides.” Genova was thinking about portraits when Lady Bryght added, “He killed a man in a duel earlier in the year.”
Genova said, “I read about it in the paper.”
She hoped for more detail, something to make it a noble act, but Lady Bryght frowned at the yard of creased red ribbon she’d freed. “I don’t think this has to be in very long lengths.” She produced small scissors from her pocket and snipped it. “Now that,” she said, “is a very Malloren solution.”
“With blades?”
“Sometimes.”
Genova met the other woman’s eyes. Lady Bryght might claim to be ordinary, but she was a Malloren. “Is that a warning, my lady?”
Fair freckled skin blushes easily. “Don’t let my chatter upset you, Miss Smith. Oh, we must not be so formal. May I call you Genova? I do wish you to call me Portia.”
It was all a move in a game, but again, Genova could hardly refuse. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Portia began to wrap her length of ribbon around her fingers. “I probably understand how you feel here. My only touch with greatness before I met Bryght was that our property sat close to Walgrave Towers and we knew the family. And now Fort—Lord Walgrave—is my brother-in-law, which I never would have imagined. His father and Rothgar were dire enemies.”
“But they made peace?”
Was that a message of hope?
Portia’s hands stilled. “He died.”
“How?”
Portia’s eyes were wide, and Genova thought she wouldn’t answer, but then she said, “Suicide. Here, as it happens. Everyone knows about it.”
Despite that, Genova knew that revelation hadn’t been planned. She had the strange notion that a true Malloren would have handled it better.
“Elf—Lady Walgrave—is hoping for a Christmas baby,” Portia said, too brightly. “The midwife is in residence, but nothing is happening yet.”
It was a clumsy change of subject, but gave an opening for a question that had been puzzling Genova. “Isn’t it strange to expect an accouchement during a house party?”
“Elf has always spent Christmas here and wished to again. And they’re making changes at Walgrave Towers.”
Was that adequate explanation? Especially when Lord Walgrave’s father had committed suicide here. She teased free a bit more ribbon while trying to frame a question about that.
“Of course Rothgar is pleased to have Elf here at this time,” Portia chattered. “Men do worry. Poor Bryght was in agonies because I’m so small, but Francis gave me no trouble at all.” Then she looked up, wide-eyed again. “I’m sorry. Married ladies aren’t supposed to discuss such matters with unmarried ones, but talking to you feels… different.”
“Different, I am,” Genova agreed wryly. “Being raised in ports and on naval ships has its effect.”
“But it’s delightful! I can see why Ashart was bowled over.”
“Almost literally,” Genova muttered, then felt herself blush.
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean it was doubtless very rash of us.”
“Which doesn’t mean it was unwise.” Portia tugged on her length of ribbon, tightening a central knot of red and green.
“Stop!” Genova exclaimed, then said, “I’m sorry…”
Portia laughed. “No matter. I lack patience with tasks like this. I surrender that Gordian section to you.” She chose another loose end. “Ashart is quite fascinating, isn’t he?”
So they were back to that. Safer, no doubt, than other subjects. “To every woman?” Genova asked, concentrating on loosening red from green.
“He has rank and charm and knows how to use it.”
“Then he’d make the devil of a husband.”
“Doubts already?”
“A million of them.” No harm in admitting that. A woman would have to be feather witted not to worry about marrying a man like the Marquess of Ashart.
Portia cocked her head. “But a man like that is a very rewarding husband if he is a true one.”
“Faithful, you mean? I doubt—”
“More than faithful. A friend. A friend of the heart. Sharer of strength and secrets, even in winter. Especially,” Portia added, “in winter.”
Genova responded to that deep within, but was it another pointed message? If the Mallorens wanted the betrothal to become real, she doubted it was for her benefit.
“Ashart and I have nothing like that,” she said.
“I believe you only met two days ago. Within two days of meeting Bryght I had no idea of what we could be.”
Genova hesitated, but she was tired of fighting tangles and the simplest way to cut through this was with truth.
“This is different,” she said. “The betrothal is false. Ashart and I argued. Some people interrupted…” Too late she realized that the telling might be embarrassing. “It appeared that we were behaving improperly. Then Thalia arrived and said we were betrothed, in order to save my reputation. We intend to break it soon.”
Portia’s main reaction seemed to be fascination. “How improperly?”
“Portia!”
“It’s a salient point.”
“We fell to the floor. In the argument. Then he kissed me. On his b
ed.”
Portia’s eyes went wide. “You were in his bedroom?”
“No!” Genova knew her cheeks were flaming. “We were in the parlor, but he was sleeping there. On a mattress on the floor.”
She looked to the sages on the painted ceiling for help, but they frowned severely back at her. “It wasn’t so very bad. But we were both in our nightwear.”
Portia broke into laughter. “Oh, my. It is quite in the family tradition!”
“I just wanted to get my needlework.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Portia waved a hand. “But it’s delightful. Bryght broke into the house where I was staying and I tried to shoot him.”
“Broke in?” The Mallorens were as mad as the Trayces.
“There was something hidden there that Rothgar wanted, and they thought the house was empty.” Portia seemed to think that was explanation enough. “Who saw you?”
“What?”
“You said someone interrupted. Who was it?”
“A man called Brokesby and his sister.”
Portia winced. “Tattling Tess? No wonder Thalia intervened. And her presence would help. Despite their eccentricities, the Trayce ladies are beyond reproach. Even though the story will be ricocheting around England, embellished by Christmas cheer, it will only be amusement. Passion between a betrothed couple is naughty but not ruinous.”
“Even when the engagement is broken?”
“Even then.”
Genova looked down at the impossible tangle of ribbons. “I do worry about my reputation. Lord Ashart said that we should act the lovers for a day or two to seal the story.”
“He’s right. First convince the world the attraction is real, then show that the bond cannot last. Unlike this one.” She gave up on another knot and snipped some ribbon free.
The flash of sharp blades made Genova shudder. “There’s no cause for a duel between Rothgar and Ashart, is there?”
“Rothgar doesn’t permit duels in the family, and he considers Ashart one of the family.”
“I doubt Ashart agrees.”