A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  “I’m sure my mother would have been true to a better man, or even one more present. But as it was, she bore two children who were not my father’s. My little sister died at three, but William survived. He’s five years younger than I. Father didn’t seem to mind the infidelity, but forbade Mama to spend on Will money intended for me. There was no reason for such a command, but he was like that, as I’m sure you know, sister.”

  Was it folly to support him? Damaris couldn’t help it. “Yes, though I think you saw more of him than I. He made only three visits to Worksop.”

  “Then I congratulate you on your good fortune.”

  “My mother didn’t see it so.”

  “She wanted more of him? Mama would have been happy to see nothing but his money. She was terrified of him, but terrified of losing the money more.” He hesitated again, then said, “She started life as an innkeeper’s daughter, you see, and dreaded above all things losing the trappings of a lady. He tossed luxuries to her like a person tossing bread to ducks, and she quacked.”

  “He tossed luxuries to my mother, too, but she tried to bite back.”

  They shared a look of complete understanding. How strange this was. Fitz grasped her arm, as if he expected her to do something foolish. That seemed to bring her brother back to the point.

  “Mama always carried out his orders, even when he was far away. He had us watched.”

  Damaris wondered if he’d had Birch House watched, too, and decided he probably had. How amused he must have been by the reports.

  “So Will shared our home and food,” her brother continued, “but he wore only my cast-off clothes. I received fine birthday gifts and Will received what Mother thought she could excuse. When I went to Westminster School, he went to a lesser place. As I became a gentleman, he was apprenticed to an apothecary.”

  An apothecary. That could explain the tainted drink—if this William existed at all. Damaris posed that question. “How can we be sure this person exists?”

  Her brother looked bewildered, but Rothgar answered, “He does. A William Butler lived with your brother and his mother in Rosemary Terrace, though people there thought him a poor cousin. However, in recent years he has lived like a fine young gentleman. Myddleton?”

  Her brother’s cheeks flushed again, and Damaris wondered if he had their father’s temper. He answered, however. “When my father died I came into control of a trust fund, so I helped Will along. In fact,” he said with a shrug, “I shared everything. Why not? There was plenty, and Will was my brother and friend. We had fine times, but alas, it was never enough for him. I came to realize that when Mother died.”

  He turned to Damaris. “I always thought myself illegitimate, and that Mama’s existence as Mrs. Myddleton was pretense. Even so, when Father died, I asked Mama where his money had been left. She said to his Myddleton family. I accepted that. As I said, I had enough and she had enough. We were comfortable.

  “On her deathbed, however, she told me the truth, that it had gone to you. She wept about the unfairness of it and tried to get me to promise to blackmail you with the scandal of bigamy so that you’d give me half. And that half of that would go to Will. I refused. I was shocked by the story, but I couldn’t stoop to blackmail.”

  He was not, Damaris thought, like their father after all.

  “I did check my father’s will in case my legitimacy would matter there, but the money was legally yours, so that was that. But Will couldn’t see it that way. You and the money became his obsession—the money that he saw as rightfully ours. He talked endlessly of what we’d do when we had it—where we’d travel, the grand houses we’d own.

  “Eventually I couldn’t bear it anymore. I decided to sell the house, and part of the reason was that I didn’t want to live with him. I gave him half the proceeds—a goodly amount—and he went off on his own. I admit, I wondered if he’d try to carry out Mama’s plan, but I didn’t want to know.”

  He looked around at them. “But he wouldn’t do more than that. I can’t believe that he’d do more than that.”

  Despite his words, he was close to weeping. He did think his brother could be driven to murder by greed.

  “Does he own a small crossbow?” she asked gently.

  He staggered back into a chair, all his florid color ebbing. “Oh, no, no.”

  “Well?” Fitz demanded.

  Mark turned to him. “He’s always been interested in weapons. Likes to fence, but unusual weapons, too. Slingshots, crossbows... Says they’re as deadly as a pistol—he hates pistols—and easier to take care of and carry around. But he wouldn’t!”

  “Someone did,” Fitz said. “Where is he now?”

  Mark ran a chunky hand over his face. “I don’t know! I haven’t seen him for weeks. He said he would spend Christmastide with friends in the country.” He looked between them. “I had no idea. What should I do?”

  Fitz turned on Rothgar. “You brought Damaris out into this.”

  “An error, I confess. I failed to imagine such a convoluted tale. Quite extraordinary.” He turned to Mark. “Your sister has made a new will. You are no longer her heir.”

  “I read about it in the Town Crier yesterday. I think I was relieved.”

  “Then your brother may have heard, too,” Fitz said. “Will he still try to harm her?”

  Mark shook his head. “I’d have said not, sir, but now I’m not sure. He’s come to see all that money as ours. To hear so much has been thrown away on charity hospitals—that’s how he’d see it... it might enrage him.”

  “Is he your heir?” Fitz asked. “Because if so, I’d be very careful.”

  Mark went white. “We are brothers, sir!”

  “Believe me, that’s no guarantee of kindness.”

  Mark pushed out of his chair and went to the table by the window to pour himself wine with an unsteady hand.

  Fitz said, “We have to get Damaris back to safety.”

  But then he turned sharply toward the window and strode forward to dash the glass out of Mark’s hand.

  “What the devil!”

  Fitz picked up the decanter and sniffed at it, then tasted a drop. “Believe me, sir, this wouldn’t have agreed with you.”

  Damaris was staring at them, but something beyond the window caught her eye. A movement. When she focused, she saw the snaggletoothed man glaring in at them.

  “There he is!” she cried. “That has to be Will Butler!”

  Fitz was already out the door at a run—the sight of the man must have been what alerted him. But outside Will Butler was pushing through the crowd down the busy lane. Damaris moved to follow Fitz but had stopped herself before Rothgar did so. He ordered his footmen to the chase, and Damaris hurried to the window, but carefully. She remembered the crossbow only too well.

  When she peered around the curtain, she saw Will Butler fighting his way down the crowded lane in the direction of the church like a ship struggling against tide and winds. No one was cooperating, and ahead of him a laden handcart almost entirely blocked his way.

  Fitz ran into the narrow street and yelled, “Stop, thief! Ten guineas to anyone who takes the man with the crooked teeth!”

  That changed everything. Everyone stopped and looked around for the thief. The man with the handcart grabbed for Butler’s sleeve.

  Butler whipped out a dagger and the man fell back.

  Everyone nearby shrank away from him, but the narrow lane was too crowded for a way to become clear.

  Damaris covered her mouth with her hand. As well as his dagger, Butler wore a sword, and he probably had that crossbow somewhere. There were women and children out there.

  “Someone’s going to get hurt,” she said.

  Mark flung open one of the casements and leaned out. “Will, Will! Have sense, man. Give over.”

  Butler glared up, showing those crooked teeth. Then his crossbow was in his hand and firing before anyone could move. Mark cried out, staggering back to collapse into a chair, clutching the place where the
horrid bolt stuck out of his jacket high on his shoulder.

  “He shot me! Will. He shot me.”

  Damaris ran to him. “Yes. Stay calm. I don’t think it’s too bad.” She could hear shouting in the lane and longed to be back at the window. What was happening? Was Fitz safe?

  She ran to the door and flung it open. Two of Rothgar’s men stood there, looking uncertain. “Get a doctor,” she ordered one. “You, come in and attend to a wounded man.”

  Then she ran back to Rothgar’s side, where he watched from the window.

  Butler was hopelessly blocked now. People close to him would have given him space if they could, all the space in the world, but the hubbub was drawing more and more people into the lane from both ends.

  Fitz moved forward, drawing his sword, and people shrank back, creating a narrow passage between the two men.

  “You want to fight?” he said.

  Butler swayed from foot to foot, glancing around, then back at Fitz. Damaris could see that he was panicked, unable to decide what to do, perhaps sure there still had to be a way out.

  “I’m no thief,” he protested to all around. “I’ve done nothing. Stolen nothing. This man’s a bully-boy for a man with a grudge, that’s all. Let me away.”

  “You just shot an innocent man,” Fitz pointed out, advancing almost casually, but preceded by his sword. “And not for the first time. You shot an innocent young woman in the country, didn’t you?”

  Butler dragged out his own sword, but said, “Not me, sir. I’d not do that. Why would I do that?”

  “How many dainty crossbows are there in England, I wonder? Strange coincidence.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Let me go and there’ll be no trouble. Otherwise, all these good people stand witness to what happens here. It’ll be murder. You’ll hang!”

  “Where would you go? Your brother won’t help you anymore; you just shot him. And the money he gave you isn’t enough, is it? You’ll have to turn to apothecary work again, won’t you, and live on your wages?”

  Enraged, Butler rushed at him, slashing his sword furiously. With screams and cries, people backed toward the walls.

  Along the street householders began to open doors to let people in. Some were even pulling up children through upstairs windows.

  Fitz parried Butler’s slashes, but that was all. But the sound was deadly. These weapons weren’t foils.

  Damaris’s mouth had turned painfully dry. “If Fitz kills him, he’ll hang?” she asked.

  “For killing a would-be murderer?” Rothgar sounded distant but calm. “A score of witnesses just saw Butler shoot his brother.”

  “Then why doesn’t he do it?”

  “What a bloodthirsty wench you are. It’s no easy matter to kill a man.”

  A clatter behind made them both turn. A doctor came in, knelt by his patient, and went to work. Mark looked at her piteously, perhaps more agonized by his brother’s betrayal than by his wound. What tortuous bonds blood made.

  “I saw you fight, my flimsy.”

  Damaris whipped back to see that Butler was taunting Fitz now, and looking much more confident. What was he talking about?

  “At milord Rothgar’s house against that madman,” he sneered. “I watched you. He was flailing around like a child and you couldn’t touch him. So I’ll prove my honor on you. That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it? All these good people are my witnesses. When I kill you, it’ll prove my innocence.”

  “By all means,” said Fitz.

  As some of the crowd escaped, the crush was easing a little, giving the two men more space.

  “Have at you!” Butler yelled, and moved forward at speed, showing some skill. The blades clashed, and Damaris clutched something—Rothgar’s sleeve. Mark had said his brother liked to fence. Was he good enough... ?

  “Peace, child. There’s no true contest here.”

  Fitz was proving that now, driving Butler down the widening space with masterful moves. He suffered one disadvantage, however: He was being careful of the crowd and Butler wasn’t. There were still many people trapped in the lane, and they pushed and squirmed in all directions to avoid the fight. A child began to howl.

  “Can’t someone shoot him?” Damaris demanded.

  “Too dangerous in a crowded space,” Rothgar said, though he had a sleek pistol in his hand.

  Butler had realized that he’d misjudged Fitz’s ability. He was backing away now, running with sweat and glancing side to side, seeking escape like a rat in a trap. Soon he backed up against the handcart. People were stuck there, and they pressed away harder, while others cried out that they were being crushed.

  Fitz retreated to give Butler space. Butler took one step, but then grabbed a young girl from where she clutched her mother’s skirts. A hostage!

  The woman, a baby in her arms, wailed and begged.

  Butler threw aside his sword and pulled out his dagger. “Now let me through!”

  Rothgar raised his pistol.

  Fitz stepped to one side as if to give way, then spun and skewered Will Butler from the side.

  Everyone watched in silence as Butler, looking astonished, crumpled to his knees, and the child tumbled from his arms. A man grabbed the screaming girl and gave her to the mother. Butler toppled to the ground and died, blood gushing from his mouth, eyes going blank.

  Damaris clung to Rothgar. It was the first time she’d seen violent death, and her stomach heaved. The crowd was silent, too. A few had covered children’s eyes, but most, of all ages, simply stared.

  Then they came to life, turning to chatter about the extraordinary events. The man with the handcart started relating how the dead man had tried to kill him. Others pointed to the window of the Swan, where the villain had shot someone.

  Fitz stood still, looking down at the body.

  Damaris scrambled out through the window, hearing one of her cane hoops crack, and ran to take him into her arms. He said nothing, but clung, his heart pounding against her. But then he moved back slightly, and there was the hint of a smile in his strained eyes. “Do I qualify as a hero yet?”

  She laughed, but with tears. “I’d kneel, except the ground is very messy.”

  He looked down and shuddered. Someone had flung a sheet over the body, but it was bloodstained, and little rivulets of blood trickled between cobblestones. He turned her away and they went toward the window, where Rothgar watched.

  Damaris felt twisted around and wrung out, but she was realizing that she was free to walk the streets again. And she had a brother who hadn’t tried to kill her.

  Best of all, she had her hero. No force on earth could separate them now. She was resolved on it.

  Rothgar said, “Come along. We cannot be late for court.”

  Damaris stared at him. “We can’t possibly! Not after this.”

  “She’s right,” Fitz said. “The king disapproves of dueling, and this was closer to a street brawl.”

  “There is some risk,” Rothgar agreed. “Do you wish to delay?”

  Not long before, Damaris had insisted that Fitz must attend, but now she didn’t know. Then the drawing room had held promise of restoring Fitz’s reputation. Now he’d been involved in two violent events, and his brother had screamed treason.

  She looked up at him, and he gave her a wry smile. “We’ve built such expectations. By all means, let us continue this drama to its end.”

  Chapter 23

  When they arrived back at Malloren House, Damaris knew she should rush to the elaborate preparations for court, but she had to have a little time alone with Fitz. Without explanation or apology, she took him to the reception room. There she drew him to the sofa, keeping hold of his hand. She wasn’t sure what to say, only that they needed to be together now.

  “How is your mother?” she asked.

  His hand tightened on hers. “She wouldn’t see me. I had to leave Libby to break the news. I don’t love her,” he said with a frown. “I can’t, even though it isn’t reall
y her fault. She’d given up loving her babies before I was born. But she’ll never be other than she is.”

  She realized that he was apologizing to her for his family. “No, but your sisters can be rescued.”

  “But Sally—”

  “Both your sisters. Do you want us to live at Cleeve Court?”

  “Damaris—”

  “Whatever happens at the drawing room, we will marry, Fitz. Accept that. So do you want to live at Cleeve Court?”

  Half-exasperated, half-amused, he said, “No, not particularly.”

  “Then why don’t we turn it into an asylum for your brother and others like him? If your mother dotes, as you say, she can live there in a comfortable apartment and not be too distressed by change.”

  “You’re terrifying.”

  “I’m a virago, remember? And one with the money to carry through my plans.”

  He looked down for a moment in serious thought, then met her eyes again. “If all goes well today, will you honor me far beyond my deserts by becoming my wife, my sweet virago?”

  She smiled through tears. “Of course. But I’ll marry you if all goes badly, too. I’m a pirate, sir, and I’ve captured you, so surrender to your fate.”

  He gathered her in for a kiss that might have progressed to more if Lady Thalia hadn’t bustled in. “Oh, la! I approve of young love, my dears—oh, absolutely—but you both must prepare for court now!”

  After a laughing final kiss, Damaris hurried upstairs, and under Lady Thalia’s stern supervision whirled through the absurd painting and powdering. Within the hour she stood before the mirror looking, in her opinion, like a porcelain doll.

  Lady Thalia’s French maid had arranged her hair in complex plaits and curls that had then been powdered snow white. A silver comb held a short veil that hung down and ostrich feathers that stuck up. Her skin was white, too, with pink on the cheeks and lips.

  “Magnificent!” Lady Thalia declared. “It needs only rubies. I’ll go along to Rothgar’s room now and tell him you’ll soon be there for them.”

  She hurried out. Damaris picked up her golden fan and smiled at Maisie. “Wish me good fortune.”