A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  Fitz remembered the paper in his pocket. “Damaris made a will this morning, so the heir has nothing to gain now.”

  Rothgar’s brows rose. “Your idea?”

  “Entirely her own.” How irritating to be a clever woman and have people always assume a man thought for her.

  “Who, then, is her new heir?”

  “She didn’t say.” Fitz wasn’t going to give the document to Rothgar to read without Damaris’s permission. “Her chief urgency was to ensure that if the assassin succeeded, he wouldn’t gain by it.”

  “A remarkable young woman. I’m unsure whether to hustle her into the safety of marriage as soon as possible, or dissuade her in order to see what she can become as a woman alone. Do you have any opinion?”

  “I, my lord?” Fitz was instantly on guard.

  “You’ve been in close confinement with her for days,” Rothgar said, watching him.

  Fitz knew he was being played with, but he fought back as well as he could. “I have a high regard for Miss Myddleton. She has courage and intelligence, but she lacks worldly knowledge as yet.”

  Except what she’d gained in his bed.

  “Given her upbringing, she’s a marvel. So should she marry?”

  “Why not?”

  “The right husband is essential.”

  “She has the Duke of Bridgewater in her eye.”

  Rothgar’s brows rose. “A suitable choice. Your brother is in town.”

  The switch of topic was a type of attack, and this was bad news. “I’d hoped he would stay in the country for the winter.”

  “He’s been here over Christmastide, making his violent intentions toward you clear. As you’ll accompany Damaris on any excursions, I hope you can avoid embarrassing incidents.”

  “I always do my best, my lord.”

  “And I always expect perfection.”

  “I’m not your servant.” Fitz hadn’t meant to issue the flat challenge, but it was done now.

  “I expect perfection of my protégés as well.”

  Fitz stepped back before he could help himself. “Protégé, my lord?”

  “You are a man of many and excellent talents—”

  “For God’s sake! If you review my recent career you’ll see a catalog of disasters. Genova would have died without Damaris’s skills, and only the hand of God saved Damaris herself from that crossbow. Add to that, I missed an attack on her in Pickmanwell.”

  Had anyone ever shouted in this room before? Perhaps, Fitz thought, he was begging for a speedy execution.

  Rothgar seemed hardly to notice. “You are hard on yourself, which I hold to be a sign of character. I find you admirable in many respects, Fitzroger. More to the point, you could be of use to me, and thus to England. I understand that you plan to go to the colonies. I think that inadvisable for many reasons.”

  Fitz was breathing deeply and found it hard to speak. “Nevertheless, my lord, that is my intention. I will leave as soon as Miss Myddleton is safe.”

  His throat ached with another wild grief. First Ash, and now Rothgar offered him opportunities he’d once have bled for. With Ash it would be the building of a marquisate. With Rothgar it could be the building of a nation.

  But if he stayed, even if his reputation could be made at least tolerable, Hugh would hound him to the gates of hell, and one of them would have to kill the other.

  “Think on it,” Rothgar said, as if unaware of his distress. At a tap on the door he said, “Enter.”

  A footman stepped in. “Miss Myddleton’s legal gentleman is here, milord.”

  Rothgar walked to the door. “Accompany me, Fitzroger.”

  Fitz wanted time in a quiet place to recover, but he tucked the pouch of money in his pocket and obeyed.

  A middle-aged gentleman awaited them in one of the reception rooms. Mr. Dinwiddie looked awed by the company in which he found himself. His sober brown suit was proper, but Fitz guessed he’d paid careful attention to his snowy stockings, well-polished shoes, and powdered wig. The lawyer bowed almost in half, but Rothgar soon had him seated and talking of impersonal legal matters.

  Fitz elected to stand, in part because he could take a position behind Rothgar. He had himself in hand, but he’d lay no bets on being able to hide all reaction when Damaris entered.

  He was right. When she walked into the room the air turned thinner, his heart pounded, and he was sure his longing marked his face even though he looked away after the slightest bow.

  One glance was enough. She was in pale blue again, which made her look cold and severe. Her gown was elegant, however, with skirts spread wide over hoops and a bodice cut low in the neck. Precious lace foamed at her elbows and frilled over the swelling tops of her breasts.

  Her lovely breasts...

  At least she had a sensible warm shawl draped around her shoulders, the golden russety one that brought out the creamy tones of her skin.

  He realized he was staring at her after all, and that Rothgar had risen, so might have seen his expression. But Rothgar almost certainly knew how he felt.

  As she sat, Damaris looked a question at him. What? Ah, yes. Had Ash told Rothgar? He shook his head slightly.

  She smiled and said, “My will, Fitzroger?”

  He gave it to her. She thanked him and turned to her trustee.

  “If you wish to talk to Mr. Dinwiddie alone,” Rothgar said, “it shall be so.”

  “No, of course not, my lord.”

  “Fitzroger came here to ensure your safety, but I’m sure he’ll now agree that Mr. Dinwiddie offers no serious threat.”

  The lawyer chuckled as if at a grand joke, but Fitz knew it hadn’t been. Rothgar was taking no risks.

  “As you say, my lord.” He bowed and left.

  Chapter 19

  Damaris managed not to turn and watch Fitz leave, but she would much rather have had him stay. Dangerous and distracting though he was, she felt she could do anything when he was by her side.

  So Ashart hadn’t yet told his cousin what had happened? She wondered if he’d changed his mind. It would be a blessing, but seemed unlikely.

  Mr. Dinwiddie cleared his throat. “May I say what a pleasure it is to meet you again, Miss Myddleton, and to see you in such fine appearance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dinwiddie.”

  “And in such excellent care,” the man went on, with an unctuous bow at the marquess. Damaris realized that she’d changed in that way, too. She respected and to some extent feared the Marquess of Rothgar, but she no longer saw him as a godly being.

  “The marquess is all that is kind,” she said. “Now, Mr. Dinwiddie, I have some questions for you.”

  He beamed. “I will be delighted to serve you in any way.” He produced a pouch of papers. “I have your father’s will here. What is it that you wish to know, my dear?”

  Damaris kept her smile. “I wish to read the document for myself.”

  “I assure you, my dear, that we have conveyed in simple language all that significantly affects you. However, if you would be so good as to say what other parts stir your curiosity, I will be honored to explain them.”

  Damaris was tempted to appeal to Rothgar, but instead she held out her hand. “Thank you, sir, but I wish to read it for myself.”

  Dinwiddie did appeal to the marquess. “My lord, it is a somewhat challenging document for a lady.”

  “All the same,” Damaris said, before Rothgar could intervene, “I wish to attempt it.”

  The lawyer looked to Rothgar again for help, but then reluctantly rose and gave her the pouch. What, did he expect her to shred it for amusement?

  Damaris took out the thick bundle of papers, determined now to read every word. She skimmed through the usual preambles, then paused over the precise wording of the division of her father’s empire in the East. There’d been no names in the simplified version sent to her.

  After glancing it over, she read aloud: “ ‘To my faithful lieutenants Johan Bose in Canton, Pierre Malashe in Cambaye, Joshua
Hind in Mocha, and Amal Smith in Cochinchina, I leave the merchant houses they have managed for me, free and entire with all goods, chattels, and cash in hand, on condition that one-fifth of the quarterly profit, honestly accounted, be sent speedily to England for the benefit of my daughter, Damaris, of Birch House, Worksop, as long as she may live. Upon her death, this obligation ends. It may not be transferred by her to another by any will or contract.’ ”

  She almost drew attention to the possible villains, but realized her trustee didn’t know of the attacks. Instead she glanced meaningfully at Rothgar, and he nodded. “Read on.”

  She skimmed the next section, commenting, “Sums to various people in England, presumably men who managed Father’s affairs here. I don’t think he could have had close friends when he returned so rarely.”

  She’d glanced at Mr. Dinwiddie out of courtesy, but he cleared his throat. “More than rarely, Miss Myddleton.”

  “Only three times that I remember.”

  He glanced between her and Rothgar anxiously. “I... er, fear that he did not always visit Worksop.”

  Damaris looked down at her father’s will. No wonder her mother had been vitriolic. Not only had Marcus Myddleton abandoned her within months of marriage, but he hadn’t bothered to visit her and his daughter during most of his visits to England. Doubtless he’d preferred his London mistress, the swine.

  She silently read the next two pages that outlined her inheritance, wondering why he’d left her anything at all. Guilty conscience? She didn’t believe it. If she ever did discover his reasons, she was sure she’d find them unpleasant.

  Ah, the succession. At last.

  She read it aloud. “ ‘If my principal heir, my daughter, Damaris, dies before she comes of age, or intestate”—she skimmed some legal flourishes—“her inheritance by this will passes to my son, Marcus Aaron Butler....’ ” She looked at the lawyer. “His son?”

  Mr. Dinwiddie colored a little. “A youthful indiscretion, Miss Myddleton.”

  She supposed it was surprising that there was only one bastard, but then the word youthful sank home. “How old is he?”

  “Around twenty-five, I believe.”

  So at least he’d been born years before her parents’ marriage. Her mother had been spared that. But how strange to have a brother she knew nothing of. Except, she realized, that he might be trying to kill her.

  She looked back to the paper and found her place.

  “ ‘... to my son, Marcus Aaron Butler, sometimes called Mark Myddleton, son of Rosemary Butler, born in Oxted, Surrey, sometimes called Rose Myddleton.’ ”

  Rosemary! And he’d owned Rosemary Terrace.

  Rothgar said, “Miss Myddleton wishes to know more about her heir.”

  But before the lawyer could respond, Damaris said, “This Marcus Butler was left nothing? How could my father be so heartless?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Dinwiddie said. “Separate provision was made both for his mother and for him before your father’s demise. Annuities and trusts. What’s more, the annuity his mother enjoyed in her lifetime passed to him upon her death not long ago. He is a very comfortably situated young man.”

  “When did his mother die?” Rothgar demanded.

  If the lawyer had dog’s ears, they would have pricked. “Late November, I believe, my lord. It is of importance?”

  “Does the gentleman know he is Miss Myddleton’s heir?”

  “I don’t know, my lord, but a will, once probated, is a public document.” He had clearly come to some conclusions, for he added, “May I suggest, Miss Myddleton, that you make a will of your own as soon as possible?”

  She showed him the paper in her hand. “I have already done so, sir, but now, if you have time, I would like to prepare a more formal one.”

  “Of course.” He came over to take the document, then sat to read it, his bushy brows flicking up and down a few times. She prayed he wouldn’t read it aloud. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, but she needed no extra problems now.

  “Brief and not quite in correct form, but it would serve before the courts; indeed it would.”

  Rothgar rose. “I will begin a search for Mr. Butler Myddleton.”

  Damaris looked up at him. “You should start with a row of houses called Rosemary Terrace, my lord. I own it. We passed it on the way here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And is there a way for news that I have made my will to be rapidly spread, my lord?”

  He looked thoughtful, then smiled. “There is a broadsheet published every afternoon to spread the day’s gossip about society. Which, of course, makes it popular in all quarters. The Town Crier will print anything for pay, but the item will attract more attention if it startles. Would you have any objection to giving some startlingly large amounts to charities that are also beneficiaries of your will?”

  “None at all,” she said, smiling back at him. “To hospitals. I assume my trustees will approve.”

  Mr. Dinwiddie looked a little distressed by rash expenditures, but he nodded. “Of course, Miss Myddleton.”

  “I will arrange all,” Rothgar said. “Summon me if you require assistance or advice, Damaris.”

  When he’d left, Mr. Dinwiddie looked at her hastily drawn will again. “Fifty thousand guineas to Mr. Fitzroger, my dear?”

  Damaris tried not to blush. “If I’d died on the way here, why shouldn’t he have some money?”

  “I gather that he is in some way responsible for your safety. If you’d died on the way here, therefore, he would hardly deserve such high reward. Another fifty thousand to Miss Genova Smith?”

  “A friend.”

  “An annuity of a hundred pounds a year to your maid, Maisie Duncott. A handsome amount.”

  “A teaspoonful out of the whole. Please don’t quibble, Mr. Dinwiddie. It is, after all, my will.”

  “The remainder to the Marquess of Rothgar to be used for charitable works? Ah, well, I suppose his shoulders are broad enough.”

  A footman entered then with a portable desk, and Mr. Dinwiddie gestured Damaris to a chair by the table. “Let us design the document you wish.”

  Damaris suddenly had no patience for it. She wanted to talk to Fitz, to find out what Ashart was going to do. She wanted to talk to him about this brother, and her father, and the mysterious Rosemary, who must be the mistress who had so enraged her mother. She simply wanted to talk to Fitz, and it seemed that for now no one would prevent it.

  “Please put that will into better legal form, sir. I intend to marry soon, so it will all have to be done again. Send for me when it’s ready.”

  She left expecting to have to hunt down Fitz, but he was in the hall. Of course. On guard. And looking distant.

  “Woof,” she said in an attempt at humor, and was rewarded by the flicker of a wry smile. Where could they talk? A footman stood nearby. “Will you help me with a task?” she asked.

  “What task?”

  The stark question stung, but she persisted. “We can take Maisie if you want a chaperon. When my mother died, I found a locked chest under her bed. A rough sea chest, but with no sign of a key. I was hurried off to Thornfield Hall before I could decide what to do about it, and I didn’t know it traveled there with me. Lord Henry must have stored it away. Now he’s sent all my possessions here, including that. I feel I should open it, but it frightens me.”

  He came alert. “You suspect some trap?”

  “Nothing physical.” She glanced meaningfully at the footman. “Come into the reception room for a moment.”

  She headed across the hall, praying that he would follow.

  He did, but he stayed by the open door. She walked over and shut it. “This is private. I have a half brother, and he’s my heir.”

  “I know. Rothgar told me a moment ago.”

  She searched his face. “He still trusts you? Ashart didn’t tell him?”

  “Ashart didn’t tell him. I suspect because he didn’t want to deprive you of my protection. Not that I’ve be
en of much use.”

  She put a hand on his sleeve. “Yes, you have.”

  He gently detached himself and began to open the door.

  “Don’t! I’ll be good.”

  He didn’t release the handle, but he didn’t push it down.

  “I have so many problems swirling in my head!” she said. “I don’t want the villain to be my brother.”

  “Who else?”

  “Those foreign heirs who have to send me a fifth of their profit every year.”

  “That burden’s lain on them for years. Why the sudden action? This Marcus Butler’s mother died only weeks ago. It’s possible he didn’t know the full story till then.”

  She turned away, pulling her shawl closer. The fire was small and only took the chill off the room. “But he’s my brother. My only relative.”

  “Brothers aren’t always a blessing. For God’s sake, Damaris, what do you want me to do? Leave him to kill you?”

  She turned back. “No. But Rothgar’s spreading the news about my will. Once my brother knows my death will gain him nothing, there’s an end of it, isn’t it? I can’t bring about a brother’s death, Fitz—any more than you can.”

  “I’d kill Hugh if he threatened you.” He looked at her, fire in his eyes. “Need I remind you that this precious brother of yours could have achieved his purpose but for a freakish chance? You could be dead, Damaris. He has to die.”

  “I wish you’d stop talking about killing as if it’s nothing to you!”

  “It’s not nothing, but I’ve killed and I see its purposes.”

  “Revenge? That’s base.”

  “Extermination.”

  She put a hand to her throat. “Dear God. May I forbid it?”

  He inhaled, eyes closed for a moment. “You know you may command and forbid me anything.”

  It was like an opened door, one she longed to rush through so she could command him to flee with her to safety, but she couldn’t. He’d opened it trusting that she wouldn’t take that sort of advantage.

  “Then I forbid killing or significantly hurting my brother unless he attacks me again.”

  He bowed. “It shall be as you wish. Now, the chest?”

  He turned again to the door.