by Mara
“Why is Lord Henry your guardian?” he asked as they went on, part of his mind trying to remember the layout of the grounds here. They were safely away from the ha-ha, at least, the deep trench that kept the deer from the gardens. “You have no connection to the Mallorens, have you?”
“None at all. It seems my father persuaded him.”
“How?”
Her eyes smiled with a touch of real humor. They were slightly slanted—cat’s eyes—and they fascinated him.
“With money,” she said. “Lord Henry’s a wealthy man, but he’s the sort who always wants more. As I understand it, he became interested in an investment in one of my father’s ships—or one was dangled before him. My father suggested that instead of laying out money, he simply promise to be my guardian if I were left an orphan. It must have seemed a safe gamble to Lord Henry. I was fourteen at the time. In ten years I’d be independent, and my parents were healthy people in their prime. Certainly my father lived a dangerous life, but my mother’s was the epitome of safety. It was Lord Henry’s misfortune that she died at forty-eight. If my father hadn’t already died four years earlier, I’d suspect him of engineering it so that I might invade the highest levels of society as he failed to. Lord Henry would hate to admit it, but he was captured, by a pirate—lock, stock, and aristocratic connections.”
Which could explain why Lord Henry was so vicious about it.
She was probably correct about her father. Fitz had seen the dossier Ash had been given on his prospective bride. Marcus Myddleton had been a black sheep of the Huntingdonshire Myddletons, who’d taken his wife’s modest dowry and traveled to the Orient to make his fortune. He’d succeeded brilliantly, but been as much pirate as merchant.
It had probably amused Myddleton to gamble on the chance that his daughter would enter such elevated circles. But had he given a thought to his pawn in this game—his only child?
Fitz also wondered—had wondered for some time— why Damaris and her mother had lived so simply in Worksop before Mrs. Myddleton’s death. He and Ash had assumed both mother and daughter preferred it that way. But her enjoyment of fashionable clothes and jewels—and her obvious desire for a brilliant marriage—suggested otherwise.
She stopped and looked up at the enormous house that now loomed over them. “Can Lord Henry forbid me entry?” she asked, a betraying quaver in her voice.
He’d not even considered that. He gently urged her toward a door. “No. It would be for Lord Rothgar to do, and I can’t believe he would be so unjust.”
“They do call him the Dark Marquess.”
“Because of his position as power behind the throne, not because of his nature.”
She stopped again. “He killed a man in a duel not long ago. Lord Henry crowed about it.”
“You are in no danger from him. And besides, I’m your Galahad, remember, proof against all forces of darkness?”
She looked at him, clearly assessing the honesty of his words. Then she inhaled, turned, and marched resolutely toward the door.
His words had been light, but she’d accepted them as a vow, God help him.
He joined her at the door and stated the obvious. “The easiest way to escape Lord Henry is to choose a suitable man and marry quickly.” When she flashed him a suspicious look, he raised a hand and added, “Not me. I’m the most unsuitable.”
It made her smile a little. “True. But I won’t be hurried, especially after this debacle.” She put her hand on the latch but paused again. “I don’t know whether you’ve lured me back to hell or heaven, Mr. Fitzroger, but I do thank you for good intentions.”
“The road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. But let us advance to paradise, which at the moment is the warmth of the kitchens.”
He put his hand over hers and opened the door, then impelled her across the threshold. He felt her shudder. It might be relief at being inside, or fear of what lay ahead, or simply reaction to the warmth. His own hands had started to prickle as the warmth spilling from the nearby kitchen hit his icy fingers.
They were in a plain corridor lined with storage cupboards and pungent from the bundles of herbs and garlic hanging from the ceiling. Sounds and smells told of preparations for breakfast.
Ahead, Damaris’s maid was slumped weeping against a wall, being comforted by another maid. She looked up, dabbing her streaming face with a sodden handkerchief. “Oh, Miss Damaris! He’s ever so angry. He boxed my ears and has cast me off without a penny!”
Damaris ran to take her into her arms. “I’m so sorry, Maisie. But he can’t dismiss you. You’re my servant.” The other maid slipped back to her duties, and Damaris glared at Fitz. “If you hadn’t torn her from the coach, she wouldn’t have had to face Lord Henry alone.”
“True. Does he beat you?”
“No.”
The maid said, “But—”
“Once. And I’d been very foolish.”
“He slapped you that time, miss.”
Having that revealed clearly embarrassed her, but it enraged him, no matter what she’d done.
“Hush, Maisie,” she said. “Come along. We must return to my bedroom so I can prepare for... for whatever.”
“So we’re not leaving, miss? I thought it foolish to run away, but that were before. Now Lord Henry knows you tried to leave, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
“No, there won’t. He’s washed his hands of me.”
The maid’s eyes went round. “Lawks a mercy!”
Damaris turned to Fitz, and he saw the struggle before she asked for help. “What do I do?”
“I have a solution in mind, but we need to talk about it. I’ll come with you to your bedchamber.”
“What?”
“In the presence of your maid there’s no scandal.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’m not trying to compromise you, but this is not the place to talk of delicate matters.”
As if to make his point, a manservant hurried out of the kitchen and down the corridor carrying a large covered bowl.
Her dazed eyes followed the servant for a moment, then returned to look at Fitz. “Very well.”
Her maid looked as if she’d object, but with a sniff that might simply have been because of a runny nose, she turned and led them to the service stairs. After one shadowed look at him, Damaris followed.
She was wise to be suspicious, but illogically he wished she’d trust him.
They climbed the plain stairs and went through the door that was covered with green baize on one side and polished oak on the other, marking the transition from the servants’ domain to the family’s. They entered an opulent corridor lined with doors, and Fitz followed Damaris and her maid into a bedchamber.
Damaris turned to him, stripping off her gloves.
“Your solution, sir?” She was trying to hide her desperation, but failing.
Fitz went to the fire to warm his hands, making himself not go too close. He didn’t need to add chilblains to his other problems. “What if you were to ask Lord Rothgar to replace Lord Henry as your guardian?”
She gaped at him. “What? Is it possible? Would he do it? I’m nothing to him. Wouldn’t it be an imposition? A burden?” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m babbling.”
He couldn’t stop a smile. She sounded as if she’d never babbled before.
“I suspect that becoming your guardian would be as much of a burden to Rothgar as an extra button on his coat. As head of the Malloren family, however, he’s the logical choice to take over from his uncle.”
“But wouldn’t it seem like an insult to Lord Henry? And it’s not necessary. He’s given up the responsibility himself.”
“No, he hasn’t. If he had, he would have no power to keep you in poverty. Does he receive a handsome sum for the job?”
She caught his point immediately. “That he’d not want to give up? It’s five hundred guineas a year on top of any actual costs, such as tutors, clothing, and travel. A substantial amount, but not to him.” S
he stopped. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Too many women think matters of money, even their own money, either beyond or beneath them.”
“Lord Henry thought my interest unnatural.”
“We will forget Lord Henry.”
“Gladly, but he is my guardian....”
“Unless you change that.” He walked to her portable writing desk and opened the lid. “Request an appointment with Rothgar and put your petition.”
She was rubbing her hands together now, but he didn’t think it was from cold. She glanced at the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s not yet nine.”
“The Dark Marquess, they say, never sleeps.” He deliberately put command in his voice as he added, “Send the note.”
She responded, coming over, sitting, then taking out a sheet of paper. He uncapped her inkwell and mended her quill. When he handed it to her she still seemed hesitant, but she shook herself, dipped the pen, and wrote a short message in a flowing but very even hand.
A week ago, Damaris Myddleton had been nothing more to Fitz than a name—the rich heiress Ash intended to marry. On arrival at Rothgar Abbey he’d found a persistent problem for his friend, whose heart was already lost to another. Though he’d privately thought Ash should marry Miss Myddleton’s money, he’d done his best to draw her from the hunt. It had soon been as much for her sake as Ash’s. She deserved better than marriage to a man who loved another.
She sanded the ink, then folded the paper, perfectly aligning the edges. Neat and efficient, but wild and willful.
A fascinating young woman.
He pulled back from perilous thoughts and tugged the bellpull, reminding himself that Damaris Myddleton could never be for him.
He’d served over ten years in the army and served well, achieving the rank of major. But Damaris Myddleton would have no interest in a mere major, even if his reputation was glorious and his name clear of scandal.
Neither was true.
Four years ago he’d made the mistake of saving the life of the king’s uncle, the Duke of Cumberland. As reward, he’d been taken from his regimental duties and made a secret bodyguard. In order to be secret, he’d had to appear to be an idle equerry at various embassies and courts. Thus many had concluded that he was avoiding the battlefield.
That certainly hadn’t done anything to restore his reputation, which had already been badly damaged by his affair with Orinda. When, four months ago, he’d sold his commission and returned to England for the first time in years, he’d hoped the old scandal would be dead. However, no one had forgotten the Fitzroger affair. Hardly surprising when his brother Hugh bellowed his outrage about it whenever he was drunk— which was most of the time.
He watched Damaris drip sealing wax onto the fold of the letter and press her signet into it. No, even if she showed interest in him he could never let it come to anything. He was only tolerated in the better circles for Ash’s sake.
Not long after he’d arrived back in England he’d met Ash and discovered an instant friend. As Ash was currently out of favor at court—over a woman, of course—and weary of elegant society, Fitz’s situation had presented little problem. Then Ash had impulsively decided to accept Rothgar’s invitation to this Christmas celebration.
Fitz had approved, for he’d thought it time his friend responded to Rothgar’s offers of peace, but he’d wondered how he would be received.
With Ash’s friendship and Lord Rothgar’s tacit acceptance, Fitz had not been cold-shouldered, but he’d been aware of how some people skillfully avoided more than passing conversation with him.
A knock announced a liveried footman. The maid, Maisie, carried the note to him and he left. It was done, and soon, God willing, Damaris would be in Rothgar’s hands. Fitz would then be free to retreat to a safe distance.
She shot to her feet and paced the room. “This seems so bold. What if Lord Rothgar knows I tried to run away?”
He thought of lying, but she deserved better. “I’m sure he does. He has a reputation for omniscience.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Miss Damaris,” said her hovering maid, “you need to change before visiting his lordship.” A sharp glance from the maid’s eye said that Fitz could leave now.
She was right, but Damaris was wound too tight. Fitz did what he’d do with a nervous subaltern before battle; he distracted.
“What sort of man was your father?”
Damaris shot him a puzzled glance. “My father? I met him precisely three times.”
Fitz absorbed that. The dossier had mentioned that Marcus Myddleton had spent most of his last decades abroad, but not to that extent.
“How could that be?”
She shrugged. “He preferred to live abroad.”
Something in her manner suggested she was keeping a detail back, but it was no business of his. “He seems to have been spectacularly successful at foreign trading, even though he died quite young. How old was he when he died?”
“Fifty-two.”
“How did it happen?”
“On a ship attacked by pirates somewhere near Borneo.”
“Do you know anything about his business affairs in Asia?”
She suddenly frowned at him. “Why?”
He chose honesty. “I’m distracting you.”
Her blue eyes widened, but then she said, “Thank you. As for my father’s affairs, you have to understand that until my mother’s death I thought him a failed dreamer, all bluster and show.”
“Good God, how could that be?”
“I knew only what my mother told me. We lived frugally, and she said it was because my father sent little money. That wasn’t true. He was neglectful in other ways, but he sent generous amounts. She painted him as a monster in any way she could. How was I to know otherwise?”
“You discovered the truth upon his death?”
“Oh, no. Then, she said that even the small amount he’d sent had ended, so for four years we scrimped and saved, keeping on only Maisie as maid of all work.” She smiled at the maid, who still seemed to glower at Fitzroger. “I think Maisie stayed on only from kindness to me.”
“That I did, miss. Heaven knows where you’d have been without me. Are you not going to change, Miss Damaris, before speaking to his lordship?”
Damaris looked down at her brown woolen skirt and quilted jacket.
“It’s not necessary,” Fitz said.
“Your hair, then, miss. It’s all messed up.”
Damaris looked in the mirror and put her hand to her brown hair, blushing. Perhaps she remembered where it might have become disarranged—in the carriage, in those kisses.
She sat, and the maid began to pull out and reset hairpins to neaten the confection of plaits that held the hair close to her head. It was an unforgiving style, but Damaris’s head was neatly shaped and her neck slender, so it suited her.
Fitz knew the maid thought he should leave, but he’d stay until he was sure everything was settled. “When did you find out you were rich?” he asked.
“After my mother’s death,” she replied, meeting his eyes in the mirror. The reflection made him more aware of her features. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but she certainly wasn’t plain. Her face was heart-shaped, but with a neat, square chin. Her lips were not full, but they were prettily curved.
“One of my trustees came to Birch House,” she went on. “I didn’t know I even had trustees. Dinwiddie and Fitch had always dealt with my mother because she was my guardian. I couldn’t take in the vast amount Mr. Dinwiddie told me about, but I immediately ordered generous fires and a roast for dinner. Do you remember that sirloin, Maisie? Nothing since has been quite so delicious.”
“That I do, Miss Damaris.” The maid pushed in hairpins with obvious fondness. “And the cakes afterward.”
“Cakes from the bakery,” Damaris said, as if that were a wonder.
“And you hired a few extra servants.”
“And bought new stockings rather than darning m
y old ones. And soft, perfumed soap. And chocolate.” Her eyes closed and she smiled. “I’d never had chocolate to drink before.”
“You shared it with me, miss, but I didn’t care for it.”
Damaris smiled at her maid. “That’s because I like it with very little sugar, and you like everything sweet.”
“I’ll stick to good old English tea, miss. Strong and sweet.”
Fitz managed not to laugh. “Good old English tea” came from India and China, and had probably been much of the basis of Marcus Myddleton’s fortune. But he was touched by the obvious fondness between mistress and maid, and by this glimpse into Damaris’s earlier life. What a strange upbringing she’d had.
“Then,” Damaris said in a different tone, “Lord Henry arrived.”
When silence fell, Fitz asked, “He was cruel?”
Damaris turned to him, her hair neat again. “No, but he was a complete stranger, yet had command of my life, and he was brusque and cold. He moved me to his house in Sussex without a by-your-leave. I was happy to escape Birch House, but I had to fight to take Maisie. He wanted to hire what he called ‘a proper lady’s maid’ for me. But I won, and thank heavens for that.” She smiled back at the maid. “I don’t know how I would have survived without you, Maisie. And you’ve become a lady’s maid as I’ve become a lady.”
The clock tinkled the hour of nine, startling her out of the past. She looked to the door as if begging the footman to return. Her hands worked, each fiddling with the rings on the other.
Back to distraction. “Are all your father’s enterprises in the Orient?”
Her eyes flicked back to him. “You are perhaps overly interested in my fortune, for one who claims no interest at all.”
“I’m fascinated,” he said with truth. “For example, if your inheritance is abroad, who manages it?”
She still looked suspicious, but she said, “He left his trading companies, or houses as they call them, to the lieutenants who ran them for him. I merely receive part of the profits.”
“And if they don’t pay? It seems a perilous arrangement.”
“Don’t worry; I wouldn’t starve. My father invested in properties here, and there’s enough income from those to get by. I suspect he planned to return one day, a wealthy nabob.”
