by Winter Fire
“What?” asked the countess. “In the seven veils?”
“And not a stitch on underneath.”
“The result is a lesson to all wise women.” Lady Arradale went to the washstand. “There should be hot water.” She raised the linen covering a jug, and steam rose. “Good.”
She indicated a bellpull by the fireplace. “That rings in the servants’ quarters and will bring somebody at any time. Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Smith, and join us in the Tapestry Room when you’re ready. We have a few guests already with us, but most will arrive tomorrow. I’ll send a footman to wait by your door to guide you. Please treat Rothgar Abbey as your home.”
The two ladies left and Genova put a hand to her head as if that could stop its whirling. This had seemed such a simple voyage once. It had presented escape from her stepmother’s house, along with an opportunity to mingle with the great and observe their follies.
She had not planned to be a folly, stuck like a fly in the center of a gilded web.
But no, she was not so helpless as that. She would think of herself as a ship navigating between Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla, the many-headed monster, was an excellent image for the Malloren family, and Ashart enswirled her like a whirlpool.
She felt the effect even now, when she knew he was exactly the heartless rake she’d thought. Even if Lady Booth Carew had set out to seduce him, he’d let himself be seduced and was now denying responsibility for the innocent result.
Thank heavens there was no danger of her falling into the same trap.
She caught sight of the presepe box and went to it. She needed to preserve the traditions and the memories it carried. The Nativity scene should have been up ten days ago.
She unlocked and opened the box, but then realized she must wait. For all the pleasantries about treating this house as her home, she would be expected below in short order. Despite the mock betrothal, despite hospitable kindness, she was merely the Trayce ladies’ attendant, and should be attending.
She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair, commanding herself to keep to her place and out of noble matters as much as possible. Then she found her warmest shawl, sucked in a deep breath, and sailed out to navigate between monster and whirlpool.
Chapter Fifteen
T he promised footman waited outside the door like a sentry—far more finely turned out than Genova was. She followed him, making herself relax enough to appreciate the passing objets d’art and to try and remember the route. She might need Theseus’s ball of twine.
Soon they descended the grand staircase and crossed the gleaming floor. Genova summoned the image of herself as a flagship, cruising into hazardous waters, hoping for peace, but with guns primed and ready to fire.
The footman opened the door and she sailed through.
But if there were hazards here, they were deep below the surface.
In this awe-inspiring house, this room could be called cozy. It was twice as large as the drawing room at Trayce House, but no more than that, and a large fireplace triumphed over chill. The high ceiling was decorated with fine plasterwork, but the medieval tapestries that covered all available walls gave a welcoming warmth. The furnishings were grand, but they had the look of pieces chosen for comfort and well used over generations. Two cats and two dogs formed a carpet in front of the hearth.
Twenty or so people were taking tea in two groups, with no sign of servants. Lady Arradale presided over a tray from one sofa, while Thalia shared a sofa opposite with an extremely enceinte lady. Genova remembered that one of the family was expecting to be confined any day. Lady Bryght presided over another group that included Lord Rothgar.
Genova paused, unsure which group to join. She’d choose the one without Ashart, but he was in neither. Then she saw him on the far side of the room, apparently investigating a folio of maps.
Apart.
He looked up, and their eyes locked. She raised her chin, refusing to be cowed. After a moment, he bowed as if in acknowledgment, and began to walk toward her.
“Genova! Come sit by me, do!”
Thalia’s voice snapped Genova’s entrancement, and she hurried to take the empty place on the sofa, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She willingly surrendered to the distraction of introductions.
Lord Bryght Malloren, tall and dark, was easily recognizable as Lord Rothgar’s brother. Half brother, she reminded herself. The expectant lady was the Countess of Walgrave, and Lord Rothgar’s sister. She didn’t resemble him, being russet-haired and sunny.
“Call me Lady Elf,” she said. “Everyone still does here.”
The handsome man who rose from a chair beside Lady Elf to carry Genova’s tea to her was the Earl of Walgrave.
Genova had never before been in a room with so many titled people. She was grateful for two men who were ordinary both in looks and status—Dr. Egan, Lord Rothgar’s librarian and archivist, and Dr. Marshall, curator of Anglo-Saxon antiquities. Dr. Egan was thin, sallow, and dominated by a large nose. Dr. Marshall was rotund, with a shiny, glowing face.
Ashart appeared in her line of sight and accepted a cup of tea from the countess. Was it his first?
“…don’t you think, dear?”
Genova jerked her attention away and said, “Yes, of course, Thalia,” hoping she wasn’t agreeing that the moon was made of cheese.
Apparently not. Only that winter walks were especially bracing.
As others chatted, Thalia pointed out some of the people in the other group. “That young man is Mr. Stackenhull, Beowulf’s music master. And the older lady is Mrs. Lely, the countess’s secretary. Such a trial to have property to manage. The couple are the Inchcliffs, and the glowering man is Lord Henry Malloren. He courted me once, but he’s never known how to please.” Thalia leaned closer and whispered, “When offered tea, he complained it wasn’t good honest ale.”
Like most confidential whispers, this was heard by others, but they seemed amused, and Lord Henry was too far away to hear. He might not mind, anyway. He had the lean, weather-beaten look of a “damn your eyes” type.
“The dumpy woman with Lord Henry is his wife. Never opens her mouth except to eat.”
Genova saw twitching lips and wondered how she could stop Thalia saying these things.
Then the door opened and a young woman came in. Genova noticed Ash startle and looked at the new arrival again. A little tall, slim, and with a straight-backed confidence that implied she belonged here.
She didn’t look like a Malloren, however, having mouse brown hair and rather commonplace features. That was the only word that came to mind. Commonplace, perhaps even a little plain, but saved by bright eyes, a wide smile, and an impression of being very pleased with her world.
Genova glanced at Ash again, but he was talking to Dr. Egan.
The young woman turned toward their group, but Lord Henry called out, “Damaris! There you are at last. Make yourself useful, girl. Play us a tune!”
The young woman stopped, smile fixed, and Genova thought she would refuse, but she curtsied—“Of course, Lord Henry”—and went to a harpsichord. A lowly companion? Or a tyrannized daughter?
Lady Arradale spoke in a voice designed to carry. “How kind, Miss Myddleton.” She turned to Genova. “Miss Myddleton is Lord Henry’s ward, and we are so fortunate to have her here. She plays beautifully.”
Notes began to tinkle out, rapid and precise.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Genova said.
“She sings beautifully, too.”
Expensively trained, Genova assumed. Ward probably meant money, which might be why confidence overshadowed a lack of looks. Genova thought she might like Miss Myddleton, especially as the young woman was playing for the company as if that were her greatest joy. Sulking never served.
And presumably, Miss Myddleton wasn’t any sort of Malloren. An outsider, like herself.
Then she saw the smile the young woman shot at Ashart. Those long-lidded eyes were, in fact, ca
tlike—slightly slanted, and predatory. How dare she look at Ashart like that!
The stab of jealousy was irrational but real. While playing her part in the conversation, Genova studied Ashart’s response. After a slight bow he seemed to ignore Miss Myddleton, but he was aware of her. Genova was sure of that.
She knew she had no proprietary rights, but by heaven, if she had to play the besotted betrothed, she would not have her supposed beloved ogling other women!
“Another cake, Miss Smith?”
Genova found Lady Elf offering the plate and looking quizzical. Had her thoughts shown? To cover that, she plunged back into the conversation, not looking at Ashart at all, but irritatingly aware of the fluent notes spilling out of the harpsichord.
Then Lord Rothgar joined their group. “I think it is time to discuss the mysteries and complexities.” Lady Bryght had come with him, and Dr. Egan and Dr. Marshall discreetly excused themselves.
So, this was family business, except for herself. She was a key witness. She glanced at Ashart, who seemed blandly uninterested, as if none of these events concerned him.
When called upon, she gave a carefully edited account of the acquiring of the baby, again leaving out anything to pin down Ashart’s part in it.
“How strange it is,” Lady Arradale said. “What should we do now?”
“Why, reunite little Charlie with his parents!” Thalia announced. “It will be in the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps it’s a case similar to when Christ was mislaid in the Temple.”
Genova almost choked on a crumb. “Reunion would be excellent, Thalia, but Lady Booth must know where her baby is.” She looked at Ashart. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
He met her gaze as tranquilly as an innocent angel. “She has that regrettable sense of direction, my dear.”
Genova kept her smile in place. “Then we must find and redirect her, my lord. I believe you were to try.”
“I was distracted”—his eyes said how—“but it shouldn’t be difficult. She has a house in Ireland.”
“She clearly is not there now.”
“But she must return there, or join fashionable circles in January—like a frog returning to its pond.”
This time Genova almost choked on a laugh. She put down the delicious lemon cake for the duration of battle. “In January, my lord? Your frog analogy is not quite apt.”
“Poetic license. I am,” he added, “ardently in favor of license.”
She spotted a target and fired at it. “A marriage license, you mean?”
“But of course!” Perdition, she’d forgotten the betrothal again. “A necessary evil in these reformed days. Once, we gentlemen could simply ride off with brides of wealth, nobility, and beauty.”
As he spoke, however, he turned from Genova to Lady Arradale and bowed slightly. Genova almost choked on air. Surely he wouldn’t take that line of attack? It could lead straight to a duel.
The countess parried his sultry look with one declaring that he was talking nonsense. Lord Rothgar seemed oblivious.
“A marriage license!” declared Thalia. “We’ll need one for a Christmas wedding. How is that done?”
“We’re in no hurry,” Ashart said quickly, calm cracking, “and Genova prefers banns.”
“You do, dear? Why?”
Genova thought of giving him the lie, but it wouldn’t serve. “I believe in traditional ways, Thalia.”
“Then we share that interest, Miss Smith,” Lord Rothgar said. “We celebrate Christmas here with all the old customs, as you will see. As for the missing mother, the weather is sharp and Christmas approaches. I will not send servants on an errand that isn’t urgent. Later will be soon enough to hunt her down.”
It was said pleasantly, but an image of baying hounds cracked the elegant hospitality.
“Miss Smith. Your cup is empty.” Lady Arradale smiled at Ashart. “Please bring Miss Smith’s cup to be refilled.”
Tense from the previous exchange, Genova expected Ashart to refuse the command. After a moment he obeyed, but she was sure this noble informality seemed as strange to him as it did to her. Probably in his own home he never lifted a finger to do anything.
Lady Arradale poured. “It would help to be able to communicate with the maid. Do we have any Gaelic speakers, Bey?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I’ll inquire.”
Genova paused in the act of taking back her cup. Extraordinary that a highborn lady call her husband by a familiar name in public, but no one here seemed surprised.
“That does strike me as strange, however,” Lord Rothgar added. “Ashart, does Lady Booth speak Gaelic?”
“I’ve seen no sign of it. I gather the Anglo-Irish can get by without.”
“So why hire a wet nurse with whom she couldn’t communicate? Would she have lacked choice? Was there perhaps another servant who could interpret?”
“Or,” Ashart said, “with this plan in mind, did she want a servant who could tell no tales?”
A connection clicked between the cousins, but Genova couldn’t tell if it was a meeting of minds or the tap of steel blades.
“Precisely.” Lord Rothgar almost purred it. “We must find a translator. Alas, that truth will probably have to wait a few days.”
Ashart took out his snuffbox. “Alas, indeed, but truth, like gold, never decays. Thus it lurks, like a keg of gunpowder beneath a house.”
Genova heard her cup rattle and held it to stop the noise. Her sudden tremble wasn’t because of the words, which meant nothing to her, but because of the reaction she’d glimpsed on Lord Rothgar’s face.
Ashart had said something crucial, and Lord Rothgar had moved en garde. What? Guy Fawkes had attempted to blow up King James I using gunpowder stored below Parliament, but that was ancient history now.
The fleeting disturbance was gone without a trace. Lord Rothgar accepted a pinch of snuff from his cousin. “Marcus Aurelius was predictably naive when he claimed that no one was ever hurt by the truth.”
Ash offered snuff to Lord Bryght, who declined. “Doesn’t the Bible say that truth will set us free?”
“But is it worth the price?” Rothgar asked. “Freedom is never free. We must be willing to pay everything for it.”
“Seneca.” Ashart inclined his head, as if acknowledging a point scored. “He also said there is no genius without madness.”
Madness.
Instead of showing alarm, Lord Rothgar smiled. “I am merely Daedalus, creator of mazes. Are we somewhat lost?”
“A maze?” interrupted Thalia. “Do you have a maze here, Beowulf? How delightful! I should love to try it.”
The ice of danger shattered.
“Alas, my dear, I do not. How could I have been so thoughtless?”
Thalia gave a little pout, but then smiled again. “It would doubtless not have been pleasant in winter. This has been so delightful, my dear boy, but now I need to retire. Such a long day.”
Lord Rothgar was there first, but Genova hurried to Thalia’s side, grateful for escape, and that Thalia had cut short that exchange, surely on purpose. Even so, she still prickled with awareness of a circling storm.
As they followed a footman upstairs, Thalia chattered of apricot crisps and tapestries and mazes and nothings. Genova was shocked by an urge to scream at her to shut up.
Oh, for a private space, no matter how mean, and peace and quiet in which to think!
Chapter Sixteen
A sh followed Thalia and Miss Smith out of the room, but not up the stairs. He had no desire for talk or scrutiny, though Thalia’s intervention had been as well. A duel to the death, even a verbal one, would be inconvenient.
“Are you accepting the olive branch?”
He turned to find Rothgar behind him. “Was the invitation here an olive branch?”
“What else?”
“A call to battle?”
One of the elegant hounds had accompanied its master, and Rothgar idly stroked its silky ears. “The enmity has always come from the
Trayce side.”
“Has it? What was your purpose in inviting my family here?”
“How distressing,” Rothgar said, apparently to the dog, “to have a reputation that makes an invitation to Christmas revelries a matter for suspicion.” He looked up. “This is Boudicca, by the way.”
Ash was aware of being given a breathing moment, but took it. “What sort of dog is she?”
“A Persian gazelle hound. We have persuaded her and Zeno not to pursue the deer. It doubtless causes them frustration, but in a civilized world we cannot follow our rude natures. Perhaps you would like a pup from the next litter.”
After a moment, Rothgar added, “I make that offer only to people I believe know how to value a gift.”
Ash snapped his guards in place. “You cannot know me well enough to judge.”
“I have observed you. Having—I apologize for the unfairness—over ten years advantage on you, I have witnessed many stages.”
“So you baited your hook, and I took it.” Damnation. He was being pushed into leaving.
Rothgar’s brows rose. “I sent an invitation. I didn’t think you would come.”
“I wouldn’t have except for Genova, and the great-aunts.” Ash launched a dart. “You could have visited them anytime during the past thirty years.”
“I confess, I never thought of it. Given their fond memories, I’m slain with remorse.”
“Not apparently.”
“Perhaps I’m a walking corpse. How would you know?”
“I could stab you to see if you bleed.”
“But how embarrassing if I did.” Rothgar picked up a crystal dish from a nearby table and offered it. “Apricot crisp?”
Bemused, Ash picked one up and nibbled. “Very tasty.”
“And I haven’t had any since I was a child. You see how the disagreements between our families harm us all. You can have more if you stay. Having breached the portals it would be a shame, don’t you think, to leave with treats as yet untasted?”
Ash felt as if he was being entangled in gilded whimsy. “What if I’m here to seek out your weaknesses and use them against you?”