by Jo Beverley
“Even so, it would be hard for him to push Rothgar that far.”
Hard, but not impossible. Was that Ashart’s plan— to push Rothgar into a deadly duel? He had made that dangerous remark about Lady Arradale.
“I gather Lord Rothgar is a skilled swordsman.”
“They all are,” Portia said. “Rothgar trained them quite brutally, from what Bryght has said, because he wanted to be sure they couldn’t fall victim to the sort of bully who uses sword skill to murder. Bryght says he’ll do the same with Francis and any other sons we have. Pistols and swords.” Her brow wrinkled. “I suppose it will be for the best.”
“It probably is. I’ve seen good men hurt or cowed that way. The whole matter of dueling should be made illegal!”
“I gather it is in a way, but it’s rarely enforced. Men have their own brutal code.” Portia looked at Genova. “That was the kind of man Curry was—the swordsman Rothgar defeated. He’d killed a number of men in duels. According to Bryght, he’d been paid to kill Rothgar that way, and almost succeeded.”
This could be an attempt to glorify, but Genova suspected it was true. She’d find it hard to see Rothgar as a coldblooded murderer. It didn’t reassure her much, however, to know that he could be a coldblooded executioner.
How was she to enjoy Christmas in the midst of this?
Portia looked at the tangle of ribbons. “This is carrying frugality too far. I shall take it back to Diana and say so.” She gathered the mess into her arms, keeping the liberated streamers safe. Genova caught a straggler and wound it on top, suspecting that ribbons had been a pretext to slide her some information and warn her of danger.
Portia headed for the door and Genova opened it for her, unready to mingle with others now. “Will it be all right for me to stay here?”
“Yes, of course! It is magnificent, isn’t it? And I hear the horn, which means arrivals. Best to be out of the way.”
She left Genova with an image of being trodden under a stampede of Malloren feet. That was whimsy, but other problems were not. Behind this jovial Christmas cheer lay altogether too many deaths.
Chapter Twenty-three
Genova started to count. Baby Edith. Lady Augusta. Lady Augusta’s husband and his second wife must have died quite young. More recently—the Earl of Walgrave and a professional duelist called Curry.
Curry sounded like the sort of man someone had to kill, however, and people did commit suicide. What’s more, the earl’s son had married a Malloren and was awaiting the birth of his first child here. There could be no dark secret there.
She shook her head. For some reason, her imagination was running away with her. Ashart and Rothgar were at odds, but not to the extent of murder. It simply wasn’t possible, even for aristocrats. Earl Ferrers had been hanged not many years ago for the murder of his steward.
A duel, though? Only with words.
She put aside her morbid thoughts and considered the ranks of books. What could she do in a library that would be useful? She was no scholar. Her education had been broad but haphazard, mainly drawing on places her family had visited and whatever books came to hand.
There could be a history of the Malloren family here. Most great families commissioned such a thing, and any extra information might help her navigate these tricky waters.
After some searching, she found the history section. It seemed to be arranged in chronological order, but when she read the spines of the most recent books they looked like dry analyses of legislation and foreign affairs.
What else would be useful to know?
Loki. She would definitely like to know more about Loki.
She’d seen books on mythology and returned there, but they all seemed to be about Greek and Roman legends, many in Greek or Latin. She spoke a little Greek but couldn’t read it, and modern Italian was not Latin. Neither would help with the legends of northern Europe.
Feeling a dunce, she turned to leave the library but paused by one of the books invitingly open on the tables. It was a great Bible, open appropriately to Saint Luke’s account of the Christmas story, to the Magnificat.
She read through, coming to the lines.
He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree.
He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.
My! Was Dr. Egan responsible for turning the pages to ones appropriate for the day? Would he be dismissed for choosing these?
She moved to the next table, which displayed a quite small book. At the top of the open pages it read, A History of the Malloren Family.
She started at having her search so easily solved, but then realized the book would be on display during a family gathering. And of course it would tell nothing unpleasant about them.
She expected something a little more exciting than what she read on the open pages, however. They told of a crusading ancestor, and apart from that one fact, nothing interesting had happened to William de Malloren. He’d died at age seventy in his bed, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren around him.
What was Dr. Egan’s message there? That great houses were built with plain bricks?
She moved on to the last book, anticipating some other subtle commentary on the great, then stared at it as if it were a striking snake. The top of the page carried one word.
Loki.
She looked around as if someone might be watching, but she was still alone. She partly closed the book to read the spine. Tales of the Norse Gods. Feeling as if another message was being fed to her, she began to read.
Loki was described as beautiful, fickle, clever, and malicious. He deliberately created problems for the other gods, then showed his superiority by solving them. Among the problems were his three children— a wolf, a serpent, and Hel, or death.
Was Ashart’s wolf cloak deliberate? Why in heaven’s name would he link himself to a mythical character as unpleasant as this?
The story on the page was about destructive Fenris, the wolf, whom the gods eventually tricked into letting himself be bound with a magical rope called Gleipnir. The mighty wolf was suspicious, however, and wouldn’t submit until one of the gods put his hand in its mouth. So Tyr, god of battle, did so. The wolf was bound, but it bit off Tyr’s hand.
She saw the message in that. Those who sought to defeat evil must be willing to sacrifice, perhaps everything. Hadn’t Lord Rothgar said something similar yesterday—to Ashart?
She turned the page, seeking more about Loki, but arms snared her from behind. “I gather I’m to chop down trees for you, my love.”
Something—a step, perhaps, or even a smell—had given Genova a second’s warning, so she managed to conceal the sudden rush of energy within her.
She turned, and Loki allowed it, though he didn’t draw back. They were so close that every breath brushed body against body, igniting desire despite everything she knew about him.
“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to appear unmoved.
He pressed a tiny bit closer. “As Rothgar said, he keeps to the old traditions, so we are to go like laborers to harvest evergreens and the Yule log. Or rather, the men labor and the ladies applaud.”
She shifted slightly away, but this pressed her hips closer. Heat rose in her. “It’s always a pleasure to watch men sweat.”
His eyes sparkled, suggesting another meaning entirely.
“Have you arranged for another gossip to interrupt, my lord?” she said desperately, praying for something to brace her willpower.
“No, why?”
“Then why play at amor? Let me go.”
She pressed forward but he didn’t move. She raised her hands between them. “What do you want, Ashart?”
He lowered his head to breathe against her neck. “To sweat?”
Every nerve jumped. “On a library table?”
Too late, she knew he would find that no impediment—and n
either did she. She’d never even imagined such a thing but now she did. She saw it, felt it, wanted it. Sharp aches rippled up her thighs.
Impossible!
She pushed again, turning her head away from his teasing lips, but that exposed her throat and he bit it. Lightly, but she felt his teeth, thought of wolves, and swayed back, suddenly boneless with desire.
He lifted her to the table. Her heart gave a great thump of warning, but she didn’t stop him, couldn’t stop herself, not even when he pressed between her thighs, her two thick petticoats seeming no protection at all.
The rippling aches were piercing her there, demanding satisfaction. She heard herself moan, but she only deepened the kiss, driven by a frantic hunger she knew was insane.
She felt his strong hand on her naked thigh, spreading it wider, was aware of his other strong arm supporting her swaying body. She rolled her head back, opening her mouth to gasp in air, and her eyes in search of sanity—and saw the stern disapproving faces of the sages on high.
A different kind of jolt shot through her. What was she doing?
She pushed at his shoulders, trying to close her legs. “No! For pity’s sake, anyone could come in here!”
Their eyes locked and the expression in his froze her passion. He was flushed, dazed, dark eyes darker still, but beneath he was watchful. Was this what a rake was like? Clever, calculating, doing and saying all the right things to get what he wanted?
“No,” she said again, chills shaking her. “Release me, my lord.”
After a moment he eased back, rearranging her skirts and then flowing into a bow with a skill no honest man would possess. She shivered as she slid off the table, refusing to fuss with her clothes. “We agreed we wouldn’t do this.”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then you should! Anyone could have discovered us. If not a guest, sooner or later a servant must come to build up the fire. Why risk having to marry me, my lord, when it must be the last thing you wish?”
She heard her voice rise to a shout, and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Hardly the last,” he said, infuriatingly unmoved. “I’d certainly marry you rather than hang. And isn’t a should as good as a must?”
She tried to push past him. “This is not a game!”
He blocked her way, gripping her arms. “Are you claiming not to have wanted that? Saying you don’t want more even now?”
Lying would demean her. Eyes fixed on the door, she said, “No. But I won’t be trapped by this, Ashart. You’d make the devil of a husband.”
Did he flinch, or was it just anger?
“I’m sure you’re right.” He let her go, then took a guinea out of his pocket and held it out.
It was their bargain. There was no reason to feel outrage, but it took every scrap of will not to slap it away, or slap him. Instead, Genova took the coin and slipped it into her pocket. “On Charlie’s behalf, I thank you, my lord.”
“It will buy him a sucket or two.” Then he held out his hand in formal style. “Come, Miss Smith. I believe I heard the dinner gong.”
Had she been as deaf to the world as that? She wanted to sweep out and ignore him. She wanted to run to her room and hide. Neither would serve in the long run. Better by far to convince him that he had no deep effect on her.
She put her hand in his, blocking the power of his touch, and let him lead her from the room.
Chapter Twenty-four
Ashart led Genova Smith downstairs, gathering control or he’d be in no state to deal with Rothgar.
He’d woken early in the grand bedchamber that had been found for him despite his unexpected arrival, and he’d suddenly needed to escape. He’d found the stables and his horse, and ridden fast around the frostily beautiful estate.
Every elegant curve of land, every classical delight, felt like a taunt. See what I can afford, they said, and you cannot.
Devil take his grandmother for pouring money into ways to attack the Mallorens. No, devil take him for allowing it. For the past five years, at least, he could have been in command of his own affairs. He hadn’t insisted on that, or resisted her urging to be more and more glorious at court.
Diamond buttons, for Zeus’s sake.
He slowed Zampira and surveyed his cousin’s domain. It was impressive and elegant, but Ash didn’t particularly desire its like. What he desired was hearty fields and tenants, and a house without crumbling plaster in damp corners.
He’d spent his life blaming the Mallorens for any problems, but most of his current ones were not their fault. He knew Fitz had brought about some of the change. His friend’s casual observations had shaken Ash’s world until the realization had seeped in that a life of attack and retaliation was not what he wanted.
It had been too late. He’d already taken Molly Carew home from the Knatchbull masquerade. Was that a Malloren plot? His predicament would be easier if it was, but he’d ridden back here hoping it wasn’t.
He’d returned to the house and breakfasted in his room, having used the bellpull, a modern development that he would like to install in his homes. Then he’d wandered Rothgar Abbey, talking casually to servants when he could, but for the most part simply absorbing history and present truths from the walls.
He wasn’t sure he’d learned anything of use, though he’d spent some time amid Rothgar’s collection of clockworks. He’d known of the interest. He’d been present at court when Rothgar and the Chevalier D’Eon had conducted a duel of sorts with automata.
The acting French ambassador had presented the king with a showy dove of peace, all silver, pearl, and jewels, but with a very simple mechanism that picked up an olive branch and spread its wings.
Rothgar’s automaton could be seen by the foolish as simple, since it consisted of a shepherd and shepherdess kissing beneath a tree, but it was exquisitely made. The movements were smooth and complex as the two lovers turned, looked, and kissed, the shepherd’s hand rising to touch his beloved’s cheek. At the same time, birds in the tree above broke into song, heads moving, wings spreading.
It had been easy to see the mechanical room as sign of Rothgar the great manipulator, but Ash had recognized taste, and also interests that could mesh with his own. Clocks were part of astronomy, after all, and telescopes needed complex mechanisms.
Such subjects were also excellent antidotes to inconvenient passion, but he couldn’t say they were working now. He was sharply aware of Genova Smith’s soft hand in his, of her generous body moving gracefully beside him, of the delicate perfume she wore, and of a deeper, spicier one that had stirred in the library.
Her hair had not come down, which was a shame. His dreams had been haunted by her hair. She’d been right to stop him, though, and thank the gods for her willpower. Anyone could have come in, and if they’d been caught it would have sealed their fate.
How had passion slipped loose when he’d only meant to see how far she would go to distract him?
If that was her purpose.
If she was Rothgar’s tool.
If she didn’t drive him as crazy as poor Aunt Augusta. Perhaps the very air here was toxic to Trayces.
He and Miss Smith entered the dining room to find the table increased to seat thirty or so. All seats were filled except two at Rothgar’s right hand.
Ash recognized that his cousin had little choice. Everyone here would know of the family strife, and any lower honor could be seen as a slight. They were almost exactly equal in status, though the marquessate of Rothgar had been created a few years before the Ashart one.
As he led Miss Smith to pride of place, he noted a slight nervous clutch of her fingers. For the first time it occurred to him that if she was involved in his affairs by accident, this must all be very difficult for her.
As they sat, he assessed those nearby. Sir Rolo and Lady Knightsholme sat opposite. He was bluff and honest, and she bold, as the smile she flashed Ashart showed. She was the Malloren connection, though distantly.
On his right,
Miss Charlotte Malloren, middle-aged spinster and gossip, her eyes bright, her ears doubtless perked for juicy tidbits.
Rothgar offered bisque from the tureen before him, indicating what others were available down the table. Footmen stood ready to ferry dishes around.
Miss Smith took bisque in the way of one who doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Ash declined, annoyed that her boldness had been so easily tamed.
Rothgar said, “I understand you have been enjoying my library, Miss Smith.”
Ash saw her almost drop her spoon into her soup, and braced to intervene, but she collected herself. “Yes, my lord.”
“Did you enjoy anything in particular?”
Ash had to fight to hide amusement.
“I found the open books intriguing, my lord,” she said and he silently applauded.
“I try to choose pages to stimulate thought.”
“You!” It escaped and she blushed, but it seemed to bring her to life. What had been in those open books? Ash wondered.
“I was surprised to see a biblical selection preaching against the rich and mighty, my lord.”
“The rich and mighty should always remember the perils of their situation. Don’t you agree, Ashart?”
Despite a smile, the question was pointed. “Is it not the gods’ way, to bring low anything that threatens them in greatness?” Ash responded.
“And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Bread, Miss Smith?”
She declined, but was bold enough now to redirect the discussion. “I found Lord William de Malloren interesting, Lord Rothgar, if only because nothing unusual seemed to happen to him. We so rarely hear from the quiet voices of history.”
“And thus may have a false impression of the past.”
So, thought Ash. Was that supposed to mean that their family history was wrong?
“Stories about ordinary people would be tedious reading, wouldn’t they?” Maddie Knightsholme asked as the soup plates were taken away. She always liked to be the center of attention.
During the serving of the main courses, Ash had to deflect nosy questions from Miss Charlotte. Oyster stew, turbot, battalia pie. Beans. When he turned back, Miss Smith, Rothgar, and the Knightsholmes were talking about Italy.