by Mara
It was all her fault. How could she not have thought, not have known what being seduced by a woman he should not touch would mean to him? He who’d been seduced when young by his sister-in-law.
Her throat ached again, but she wouldn’t cry anymore. Crying achieved nothing—unless it might sway Rothgar to mercy. Yes, she’d store up her tears for that.
“Up you get, miss,” Maisie said, with a painful attempt at cheerfulness. “We’re off within the hour. I’m mostly packed, and you need to eat breakfast. Your hot water’s here. Oh, do come on, miss,” she cried. “You have to.”
Maisie had explained last night that a mouse had woken her by scuttling right by her face. Of course she’d screamed. Then she’d realized Damaris was missing and rushed out crying for help. And that nasty gun thing had gone off. She’d apologized long and often for it, in between berating Damaris for folly and predicting disasters of every sort. All of them Fitz’s fault.
All of them possible, Damaris accepted as she climbed out of bed, but all that mattered was that Fitz be safe. She walked to the washstand, aware of changes in her body and soreness, but only longing to be with Fitz again.
She stripped, washed, and put on the shift that waited in front of the fire.
“How’s your wound, miss?” Maisie asked.
Damaris had forgotten it, and she touched the spot. “Healing.” Unlike the imaginary, bleeding one beneath.
“Sit and eat, miss. There’s your chocolate just as you like it, and bread that was fresh yesterday....”
Damaris’s stomach rebelled, but she needed her strength. She drank some chocolate and ate a little bread, staring into the flames, trying to see a way out of this circle of fire.
She would run to the ends of the earth with Fitz, but even if they could escape Ashart and Rothgar, she knew he’d never agree. He would escort her to London and then submit to judgment.
And he probably hated her.
“Miss Damaris, come on! They’ll be knocking for the luggage any moment now.”
Damaris hurried into a warm blue gown. Maisie pushed her into a seat and replaited her hair, then coiled it at the back and stuck pins in to hold it in place. If only life could be coiled back into order as simply. Then she remembered the trigger for last night, the excuse. Her will.
“Where’s my writing desk?”
“In the big trunk, miss.” Maisie put a three-cornered hat on top of Damaris’s head and thrust another pin in to keep it in place. “You never want it now?”
Damaris pushed up and hurried over to the locked trunk. “I need paper. The key!”
Maisie dug it out of her pocket, complaining, but unlocked the padlock and threw back the lid. She pulled the wooden desk from under a top layer of clothes. Damaris took it to the table, opened it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and uncapped the small inkwell. She dipped the pen without trimming it, then paused, remembering Fitz trimming a pen for her with his very sharp knife that first morning, when he’d persuaded her to return to Rothgar Abbey.
The knife he’d used to cut off her clothing yesterday.
She’d dripped a blob of ink on the paper. She began to toss the sheet away, but what did an inkblot matter? She scribbled, trying to follow the form she remembered from her mother’s will. She should have kept it simple, but she found herself listing the bequests she wanted to make, as if it might happen. As if she might die today.
She heard footsteps approaching.
“Here come the men for the luggage, miss. This is no time to be writing a letter!”
Someone knocked at the door. Damaris nodded, and Maisie went to open it. Two men came in, bobbing bows and going toward the trunk.
“Can either of you read and write?” Damaris asked.
The men had politely avoided looking at her, but now they did. One, a sturdy, grizzled man with bright blue eyes, said, “I can, miss.”
“Your name?”
“Silas Brown, miss.”
“Come here if you please, Mr. Brown. This is my will, which I’ve just written. I am about to sign it, then I want you to sign as witness.”
The man nodded.
Damaris signed, then dipped the pen and passed it to him. He signed his name in a steady, strong script.
“Thank you. Maisie, you shall witness it, too.”
Maisie looked alarmed, but she could read and write. She wiped her hands on her skirt, took the pen, and carefully wrote her full name, Maisie Duncott, below Silas Brown’s.
Damaris let out a breath and even smiled. “Thank you both. Maisie, put away the desk again, please.”
She gave the groom a crown for his service. As soon as the trunk was locked again, the men carried it away. The ink on the will was dry, so Damaris folded it, considering what to do with it. She didn’t want to carry it herself in case something happened to her that could lose or destroy it.
She’d like to give it to Fitz, but they’d probably not let her close to him. It would have to be Ashart, which made her shudder.
“Are you ready now, then, miss?”
Damaris attempted a smile. “Yes, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not turning mad. Once we’re in London we can get this all straightened out.”
“Aye, miss.” But Maisie’s expression was as doubtful as Damaris’s thoughts. She helped Damaris into her cloak and handed her dark brown gloves. Damaris was as ready as she would ever be to face this day, so she left the room. At the sight of Fitz outside her door she stopped dead.
“Escort,” he said impassively. “An attack between here and the coach is unlikely, but we’ll take no chances.”
She wanted to say many things, but it was as if he’d encased himself in ice. She’d expected it, but now it hurt like a bolt to the heart.
“Thank you.” She held out the folded paper. “Please carry this.”
He took it. “Your will?”
“Yes.”
“Witnessed?”
“By Maisie and one of the grooms.”
“Which one?”
“Silas Brown.”
“One of Rothgar’s men. He’ll do.” He put the paper in his jacket pocket and gestured for her to precede him through the arch.
Damaris hesitated, searching for something to say, something that might help. A raging fight might melt the ice, but she wondered if it wasn’t the ice that was holding him together. She turned and walked the gauntlet of Trayce, Prease, and Stuart portraits, then down the stairs to where the others waited. When she joined them, Fitz stayed apart.
Damaris wondered if Lady Thalia knew. She must. She would have heard the trip wire go off.
A maid came in and curtsied. “All’s ready, milord.”
“We’re leaving by the side door on the east,” Ashart said. He seemed as calm as Fitz, and yet Damaris sensed fire beneath. Hot fury. She recognized that he felt responsible for her ruin, and there was nothing she could say that would ease things. “The coach can draw up closely there, and it’s less exposed than the front.”
They went quickly to where the coach waited. Six horses stood in the traces, stamping, breath white in the cold morning air. Damaris, Genova, and Lady Thalia hurried inside their coach under Ashart’s escort. Fitz kept his distance, but Damaris thought that now it was not so much ostracism as that he was alert for any sign of attack.
She would have taken the backward-facing seat, but Genova insisted. Fitz and Ashart mounted their horses, joining four other outriders, and they were off. Damaris wanted to get to London, where answers lay that could keep her safe, but she dreaded it, too.
What would her guardian, the Dark Marquess, do?
She wished she could talk it over with Genova, but Lady Thalia might not know everything. And anyway, she wasn’t sure words existed for the pain and fear consuming her. She couldn’t even watch Fitz. He rode on the opposite side of the coach and ahead, out of sight. On purpose, she knew.
She glanced at Lady Thalia, who had loved and lost. The old lady looked back, her eyes steady and in some way strengthen
ing. But then those eyes widened and brightened. “Three-handed whist, dears?”
Damaris agreed. Anything to help this journey pass.
They stopped often for new horses, but never delayed. Just over three hours had passed, by Genova’s heavy pocket watch, when rural hamlets came closer together, and much of the land beside the road was kitchen gardens. These provided vegetables for the crowded city.
Soon the road became busier, and even the groom’s horn couldn’t clear a way through packhorses, pedestrians, carts, and other vehicles. Damaris shrank back, seeing how easy it would be for someone to approach the coach and fire into it. Probably for that reason Ashart rode close on one side, Fitz on the other. She could see him at last, her hero, her lover, her despair.
Houses became larger and closer together, and then their horses’ hooves clattered on cobbled streets past ranks of new, tall houses. The name of one, set in black bricks in paler stone, made her start: Rosemary Terrace.
That row was part of her inheritance. She’d never actually seen one of her properties before. It was such a peculiar notion that she stared, forgetting to be cautious.
“Do you know someone there?” Genova asked.
“No,” Damaris said, sitting back. What good was enormous wealth if it wouldn’t buy her what she wanted?
Not long after, they turned into a grand square. It was built around a railed garden with a pond. A woman and two children were throwing bread to noisily enthusiastic ducks by the water. Most of the houses around the square were in short terraces, but some were mansions. The carriage turned into a courtyard in front of the largest one.
They’d arrived at Malloren House, where Rothgar must be faced.
Damaris’s knees weakened as she climbed out of the coach and went with the others into a wood-paneled hall. How unlike Cheynings. Here a fire blazed in the hearth and light shone in through a large fanlight over the door. Somewhere, potpourri carried memories of summer. On a table a bowl held crocuses, forced into early bloom. A promise of spring.
In what state would her life be by springtime?
A smiling housekeeper and cheery-looking maids and footmen stood ready, but Damaris was strung tight with apprehension, praying for a little time before she need face her guardian.
But then he emerged from the back of the house. “Welcome to Malloren House. Lady Arradale remains at the abbey to conclude our party there, but I came ahead to deal with these developments. Thank you for alerting me, Ashart. Ladies, you will want your rooms?”
For a moment Damaris thought Ashart had sent news of her disgrace, but she realized it would have been news of the documents. If Rothgar caught any hint of other disasters, he showed no sign of it. Damaris wanted to escape him, but she also wanted to take position by Fitz’s side and defend him from all harm. She’d have done it if she didn’t think it would make everything worse.
Cowardice or sense—she couldn’t decide which— sent her upstairs with Genova and Lady Thalia. At the top of the stairs she looked back at Fitz, standing at elegant ease between two powerful men who could destroy him with a word.
He met her eyes and smiled. If he meant to reassure her, he failed.
Fitz permitted himself to watch Damaris until she disappeared. No point in discretion now. The omniscient one had to be skilled at reading expressions, and Ash was a walking growl. When she disappeared, Fritz turned back to the other two men, aware with detached numbness that he might never see her again. The most he could pray for was that his ability to protect people would buy him a few days’ grace.
Rothgar indicated a corridor. “If you would come to my office?”
In the businesslike room, he said, “You have the papers, Ashart? May I see them?”
Ash gave him the pouch.
“Please be seated,” Rothgar said, and settled behind his desk to read.
Ash flashed Fitz a searing glance, then sat, though he looked as if he’d rather pace the room. Perhaps the glance was a command that Fitz not dare to make himself at ease, but he preferred to stand anyway. It gave an illusion of being in control of his fate.
“So,” Rothgar said, looking up, “there was a marriage.” He folded the papers. “Lamentable.”
“But of little importance, given the Act of Succession.” Ash’s voice was expressionless.
“Any element of doubt will distress His Majesty, and there’s something in his nature that suffers from distress.”
Fitz wondered what was coming.
“I think,” Rothgar said, “that Prince Henry went through a sentimental form of wedding with Betty Crowley, but without witnesses. I could have such a document created, identical to these marriage lines, but with that small change.” He looked at Ash. “It is for you to say, cousin.”
Ash gave a sharp laugh. “You’re a conniving devil. Oh, by all means. Whatever gets rid of this mess.”
“Once that’s arranged, the documents must be presented to the king, who will then reassure those who are anxious. It is yours to do.”
“Thus showing that I willingly give over any claim.”
“And ensuring His Majesty’s kindness.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve requested a private audience with the king for four o’clock, if that is convenient.”
“Better to get it over with,” Ash said, rising. “I’d best go and alert Henri. He’ll be in despair. A mere four hours. Hardly time to powder my hair.” He hesitated. “There are other matters....”
“About Damaris.”
For a moment Fitz thought that Rothgar truly was omniscient; then he realized he spoke only of her safety.
“I should have anticipated her danger,” Rothgar went on. “You did the right thing to bring her here. Ashart, I know you might prefer your own home, but the presence of you and Fitzroger here would add to Damaris’s protection.”
“I welcome the invitation. It’s just possible that our grandmother is in residence.” He briefly related the dowager’s plans.
Rothgar’s lips might have twitched. “Our gift to France,” he murmured. But he added, “It might serve. She may well be happier away from her ghosts. As for Damaris, someone will arrive shortly with her father’s will, which will reveal the enemy, who can then be dealt with.”
“I will assist in any way I can.” Ash hesitated, and Fitz braced himself. But then Ash flashed him a dark, complex look and left.
A reprieve, but a reprieve only. The loss of his friend’s trust was an extra penance to endure.
“Your report,” Rothgar demanded, and Fitz explained the events involving the papers.
“You appear to have broken your promise of secrecy. Into many fragments.”
Fitz had forgotten that sin, and felt little patience with it now. “I needed Ashart’s cooperation.”
“But Lady Thalia?”
“I judge her more discreet than she might seem.”
After a moment Rothgar nodded. “And if gossip starts now it will be harmless without proof.” He flicked open an ivory-and-gold snuffbox and offered it to Fitz, who declined.
“So Ashart is safe now, my lord?”
“As soon as the king informs the others that he’s no danger.”
“Can you tell me now who wanted Ashart dead?”
Rothgar inhaled a pinch of snuff, considering him. “As long as you don’t intend revenge. Bute and Cumberland.”
The Earl of Bute, who’d been the king’s mentor for years. And the Duke of Cumberland, the king’s military uncle, the ruthless “Butcher” of Culloden and Fitz’s unwanted patron.
Rothgar closed his snuffbox. “Cumberland proposed you as assassin.”
The shock was a pain almost as deep as the loss of Damaris. “He thought I would do that?”
“He’s not a man of subtle understanding. Now, your pay.”
“I did nothing. Ashart was never attacked.”
“Perhaps because you were on guard. Cumberland, at least, knows your talents.” Rothgar unlocked a drawer and took out a piece of paper. “Is a bank draft
convenient? I can give coin if you prefer.”
Fitz glanced at the draft for a thousand guineas. This had once been his goal, his means of leaving England. Now it meant nothing. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I hope you’ll continue in my service for a little longer, for Damaris’s sake.”
“Of course, my lord. But I require no pay for that.”
“You will work for love?”
Fitz glanced at the man, but risked no reply.
“She must keep to the house for now,” Rothgar went on. “You will be her protection, inside and out. But you’ll have to leave at some point to increase your wardrobe. She could be commanded to court at any moment, and you must accompany her.”
Fitz had hoped to avoid this subject. “I doubt I’d be admitted.”
“My dear Fitzroger, if the king barred any whom scandal touched, he’d have a thin court.”
“It’s rather more than a touch, my lord.”
“His Majesty has a high opinion of you from Cumberland, which is why you were chosen to protect Ashart. We can use this to your advantage. Given your part in retrieving these documents, he may be persuaded to let some details of your service over the years be made public. I will present you at the first levee, unless Ashart wishes to. You are at odds?”
The shocking notion of being presented at court—key to social acceptability—made Fitz unable to deal with the abrupt question. Pointless to say no, but if he said yes, how could he explain?
Rothgar seemed to accept silence, or to learn from it what he wanted. He took a leather pouch out of the drawer. “We will bypass the subtleties of Sheba’s,” he said, tossing it to Fitz. “That’s for expenses, not pay, but I still recommend Pargeter’s for instant results.”
Fitz caught the money, his brain still numb. He didn’t want to go to court. He didn’t want to mix in society at all, even if he was tolerated. Behind the tolerance lay snubs, and at all costs he must avoid Hugh.
“I’d rather set about catching the villain, my lord.”
“Until we know who the heir is, we must wait, and even then he may not be easily found.”
