by Jo Beverley
“Why the devil should I?”
“Language, sir!”
“No one else minds.”
“And Genova, dear,” interrupted Thalia, “you said that you’d heard everything when on board ship.”
Lord Ashart gave her a look as if he’d scored a winning point. Genova seethed as she forced herself to eat the excessive amount of food she seemed to have acquired. Pistol point it would have to be.
As she ate and the others gossiped, she regretfully concluded that even gunpoint wouldn’t work. She recognized stiff-necked pride when she saw it, and she doubted the marquess would back down at death’s door. Would persuasion do any good? Surely there must be a scrap of Christian charity in him. He was kind to his great-aunts.
At a gap in the conversation, she returned to the subject. “What are we to do about the baby? To be put on the parish would likely be death for him.”
Ashart sighed. “I’ll leave funds, Miss Smith. Will that suffice?”
“And when the money runs out?”
“If this Mrs. Dash isn’t found by then, she likely never will be. I can hardly be expected to provide for the child for life.”
Why not? she silently demanded.
He met her eyes, daring her to insist.
So be it.
Genova turned to the two old ladies. “The marquess is the man who came here as ”Mr. Dash.“ He is the baby’s father.”
Chapter Six
So the weapons are finally unsheathed, Ash thought. “I most certainly am not.”
The brazen hussy stood her ground. “You are, at least, the man the mother came to meet. You can’t deny that, my lord.”
“No.”
“So you know who she is. You can return the baby to her.”
Now where was that supposed to lead? He raised his wineglass and took a sip, but could see no reason not to tell the truth.
“I assume that the lady you met was Molly Carew. Lady Booth Carew, widow.” He addressed his great-aunts, who would know the scandal. “I am not the father of that child.”
“ ”Course not,“ Great-aunt Calliope said. ”A gentleman takes care of his bastards.“
“If he can keep count of them.” Miss Smith muttered it, but she intended him to hear.
She was outrageous, but that could be spice of its own.
“I pay a clerk to record the tally, Miss Smith.”
She flashed him a startled look, clearly unsure what to believe of a “rake.”
“Then it will make little difference to add another to the total, will it?”
“It would set a disastrous precedent. My doorstep would be crowded with hopeful bundles.”
“True,” said Great-aunt Calliope.
Ash managed not to grin as the hussy regrouped. “My lord, this Lady Molly—”
“Lady Booth,” he corrected.
“Lady Booth, then. She left the baby for you. There had be a reason.”
“Stubbornness, which as Sophocles pointed out, is sister to stupidity.”
“Stubbornness?”
“Precisely.” She must know the details, but he would play by her rules—for a while, at least. “Lady Booth Carew, widow, has been trying to foist a baby onto me for nearly a year. Or, to be precise, she’s been trying to force a wedding. This, I assume, is her final cat scratch—unless there were twins and she has one in reserve.”
“I don’t believe this absurd saga!”
“You doubt my word?”
Her look flamed him, but of course, she retreated. To accuse him of lying would be to overstep a fatal line.
“No, my lord,” she said without a scrap of sincerity. “So, the baby is not yours?”
“It is not mine.”
“Can you prove it?”
Damn the woman! “My word is sufficient, Miss Smith.”
“It might be if any man could be sure of such a thing.”
He used the tone that could make strong men tremble. “You go too far, Miss Smith. Especially when you must know the truth, being Molly’s confidante.”
Her shock was brilliant. “What? I never met the woman before today!”
“Can you prove that?”
She stared at him, then turned to the great-aunts. “Thalia?”
The old dears were observing as if at a play. Thalia cocked her head. “I’m sure you’re honest, dear, but in strict fact I cannot swear that you’ve not known Lady Booth before. We only met three months ago, don’t you remember? When you gave that talk about life with the navy?”
Ash turned the blade. “You see? It is entirely possible that you wormed your way into my great-aunts’ confidence with exactly this plan in mind.”
“No, it isn’t! I moved to Tunbridge Wells when my father retired from the navy and married a widow from there. Lady Calliope and Lady Thalia are on this journey because of the Marquess of Rothgar’s invitation and Lady Ashart’s ban on attending. I had no control over any of this!”
“A point, Ashart,” Lady Calliope said, like a judge at a fencing match.
She, however, would not suspect Rothgar’s hand behind all of this.
Could Rothgar have insinuated Miss Smith into the great-aunts’ house, then sent the invitation to get them on the road? It would have been child’s play to track their journey and arrange for Molly to intercept them.
Ash had taken Molly’s bait and turned up here on cue. Yes, it was possible, but what was the purpose? When would the blade fall?
Miss Smith interrupted his thoughts. “Perhaps we could make some provision for the baby and debate these improbabilities later.”
“Such an admirably tenacious mind,” Ash said, playing with his snuffbox. “What, pray, do you suggest?”
This, presumably, would be when he heard the true plan.
“You could send them to one of your estates, my lord.”
That brat wasn’t ending up under any roof of his, but he offered around the snuff as he considered. “The nearest is Cheynings, which is ruled over by my grandmother. I doubt she would be welcoming.”
“She would hardly murder an innocent child.”
He snapped the box shut, suppressing a smile of satisfaction. “A mistake, Miss Smith. You clearly don’t know the cause of our family discord.”
She looked around. “No, my lord.”
“The murder of an innocent child,” he told her, watching her every reaction. “Nearly forty years ago, my aunt, Lady Augusta Trayce, a sweet and lively young lady of sixteen, married Lord Grafton, heir to the Marquess of Rothgar.”
He saw no start of guilt.
“Four years later, surely as a result of extreme cruelty, she went mad and murdered her newborn babe. She died herself not long after—which was convenient for her husband, who could marry again.”
Miss Smith looked to the old ladies for confirmation. Surely even the greatest actress could not turn pale on command.
“Such a bright and beautiful girl,” Lady Thalia sighed.
“Too pretty by far, and a wild piece,” Lady Calliope said, “but she didn’t deserve such treatment.”
“But if Lord Rothgar is your great-nephew,” Miss Smith said, “he must be this Lady Augusta’s child.”
Thalia answered that. “Augusta’s firstborn, dear. Such a sweet child, and so very clever! I remember that he enjoyed apricot crisps, so I have brought some for him.”
Ash almost laughed. He’d give a fortune to see Rothgar’s face then!
“But surely,” Miss Smith said, in battle order again, “if there was wrongdoing, the Marquess of Rothgar would be as keen for justice for his mother as her own family.”
“Yet the matter gives him no obvious unease,” Ashart replied. “True, he put around a rumor that he would not marry because of the madness in his blood—his Trayce blood. That helped protect his father’s memory for years. But behold, he is now married without a qualm. Proof, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. What of love?”
“What of it?”
“Come, come
, my lord. History is full of crowns and even lives lost for love.”
“Lust, perhaps, Miss Smith, not love. And lust, of course, does not require marriage.”
She flinched. Devil take it, could she be telling the truth? Could she be an innocent Samaritan?
“About the baby,” she said, rather desperately.
Thalia sat up straighter. “I know. We will take him to Rothgar Abbey!”
He wasn’t the only one struck dumb by the notion. “Arrive at Rothgar Abbey with a misbegotten infant in train?” But then Ash laughed. “Well, why not? It is Christmas, after all. Do I need to provide an ass?”
Miss Smith shot him a look that clearly said that they already had one. Him.
Outrage turned instantly to amusement and arousal. Devil take it, but she was an exciting woman. Whatever the truth of her situation here, she clearly was no angel. She was too ripe, too bold, too responsive to a kiss. Sparks flew from her, igniting fires in him, and she knew it.
What a pity he couldn’t stay at Rothgar Abbey to investigate Miss Smith at leisure, not to mention witness his haughty cousin’s handling of the return of his pawn and his reception of nursery treats. It would also make it easier to assess exactly how to use his weapon.
It wouldn’t do, though. It would look as if he was accepting the invitation, as if he was ready to sue for peace. He probably shouldn’t return the pawn, either. Devil alone knew what Rothgar would do with it next. Cheynings would be a better option, but Thalia would be hard to convince.
Snares and entanglements. He raised his glass and wryly toasted the three ladies. “To Christmas, and all merriment of the season.”
Chapter Seven
Genova returned the toast, but she recognized malicious enjoyment behind it. She should be wary, if not afraid, yet something was firing her blood as it had not been in an age.
Not something. Someone. The Marquess of Ashart. In the year since her father’s retirement, she’d learned that she missed action and adventure. Now she was engaged in a duel with a formidable opponent, and the zest of it sparkled in her blood.
She was determined that he support his child, and he was determined to resist. It would be a glorious battle.
Thalia broke the moment. “Good, that’s settled! Now we can have a nice game of whist. Genova, dear, ring for the servants to clear the table.”
Genova did so. This hardly seemed the moment for a game, but Thalia adored whist and went after what she adored with the purpose of a willful child.
As they waited for the servants, Genova tried again to pin down practical details. “How are we to transport the baby and his maid? We can’t fit five adults in the main coach, and the secondary ones are packed.”
“Five?” asked Thalia, already with her cards in hand. “Oh, Ashart will ride. Won’t you, dear?”
“Always,” said the marquess.
Genova remembered his arrival in that ominous cloak. The outriders had ridden all day for two days, but that a marquess should choose to do so in such bitter weather seemed… unnatural.
The essential problem in the Trayce family was a woman who’d murdered her baby. Did insanity, or at least instability, run in the blood? Thalia, dear though she was, was dotty.
Now that Genova thought of it, wasn’t the madwoman’s son, Lord Rothgar, sometimes called the Dark Marquess? She seemed to remember reading of a duel not long ago in which he’d killed his opponent. The Portsmouth paper had regarded it as scandalous, and hinted that only royal favor had saved the marquess from dire consequences.
Caution chilled excitement. What was she blindly sailing into? What was she blindly carrying two innocents into? As the servants arrived and set to work, she said, “Perhaps we should think of some other plan—”
“Stop fussing, Genova,” Lady Calliope growled. “We have space in the coach, and you’ve arranged for a bed.”
“Which I haven’t.” Ashart caught the attention of one of the servants. “Tell the innkeeper I wish to see him.”
The man bowed and left.
As soon as the table was clear, Thalia sat and dealt the cards. They had finished the first hand when the innkeeper arrived, looking distressed.
“Milord, milord, I spoke the truth. This close to Christmas, many are on the roads, and with the weather so bad many stopped early. The arrival of such a large party as this…”
“So? Do you expect me to turn holy and sleep in the stables?”
Lynchbold winced at the tone. “No, no, milord! If you would be so gracious, there is a mattress already set up in the lady’s parlor upstairs. I gather it was for a maid, but it’s a good thick mattress, milord, and a maid can sleep in the kitchens.”
Genova braced herself for a tantrum, but the marquess sighed. “It will have to do.”
The innkeeper left, almost quaking with relief. Genova was weary of battle but had to make one more foray. “Would it be possible for Sheena to sleep with us, Thalia? With her speaking no English, it would be frightening for her to be put among strangers.”
“She’s already among strangers,” Lady Calliope snapped. “Stop pampering her. She probably sleeps in an earth-floor hovel in Ireland.”
Lord Ashart looked wry. “You truly do think I should sleep in the stables, don’t you, Miss Smith?”
“No, my lord, but…”
“But the girl can share the trundle bed with Regeanne,” said Thalia with a careless flutter of her hand. “Enough interruptions. Back to the game!”
The trundle bed was almost as big as the one it fit under, but Regeanne would not like it. It was the better option, however, so Genova dealt the next hand.
Ashart, however, rose. “Your indulgence, my dears, but I must check tomorrow’s arrangements. I’ll be back shortly.”
Thalia didn’t pout. Instead she beamed after him. “Isn’t he the dearest boy?”
Genova couldn’t stop herself. “He’s a rake, and he’s Charlie’s father, and he plans to abandon him like a worn-out shoe!”
Thalia looked at her, eyes wide and serious. “Oh, no, dear. A Trayce would never abandon his responsibilities.”
“And you said yourself that the supposed Mrs. Dash was not a reliable woman,” Lady Calliope pointed out. “Why believe her?”
“A point,” Genova conceded, frowning, “but what mother would abandon her child to strangers in this way?”
“It’s exactly what she has done, though, isn’t it? Whatever the truth behind this story, Lady Booth Carew is not here.”
Genova couldn’t argue with that.
Thalia gathered in the cards and laid out a game of patience, though her manner could not be called patient. She twitched for whist like a whippet eager for a walk. Genova felt more like a ship caught in a maelstrom, spinning out of control.
They would arrive at Rothgar Abbey, home of the possibly deranged and murderous Dark Marquess, with a mysterious, misbegotten baby in the party. And, she now realized, with Lord Rothgar’s cousin Ashart, who was apparently his mortal enemy!
She looked at the two old ladies, wishing she could see their unconcern as reassuring. Instead, it seemed like further evidence of family insanity.
Ashart returned and the game resumed. Seeing no alternative, Genova focused her mind on the cards. The one thing guaranteed to irritate was careless play. After a while, Ashart ordered rum punch. It was delicious but Genova only sipped at it. She had no intention of growing tipsy in this company.
Both old ladies drank deeply, but it had no noticeable effect until Lady Calliope slipped into sleep between one trick and the next. Genova sent for her menservants to carry her chair into her bedroom, relieved that the evening was finally over.
But then she recalled that Ashart would be coming upstairs with her and Thalia. Could he not sleep in this parlor? A question revealed that Lady Calliope’s two menservants slept here in order to be to hand.
That left no choice. A nobleman would not deign to sleep with lowly servants. While Ashart helped tipsy Thalia up the stairs, Geno
va followed with assorted items.
They entered the parlor, which was now a bedroom. A plain mattress was made up with sheets and blankets. A punch bowl and glasses sat on the hearth. Lynchbold was doing his best to make up for the inadequate room, but Genova didn’t think anyone needed more spirits.
The table had been turned into a washstand, with bowl, mirror, and towels. Leather saddlebags lay nearby, and the great cloak was spread over a chair, damp fur giving a predatory presence.
Thalia wove toward the table. “Three-handed whist?”
Oh, no. Genova dumped the things in her hands in order to steer Thalia into the bedchamber. When she finally shut the door, she sagged against it in relief.
Ridiculous to think she was in danger. Be he wicked as Lucifer, the marquess would not try to rape her in his great-aunt’s bed. But that wasn’t the peril, and she knew it. The danger came from the sizzle in her blood, from the way she responded to even a look, from the way she lusted for another fight.
Regeanne came over to help Thalia to bed and, thank heavens, didn’t look too put out over the baby. When the Frenchwoman whispered to be quiet, so as not to disturb the petit ange, Genova decided there might be hope of peace there, at least.
Sheena O’Leary and Charlie Carew were already fast asleep on the trundle, looking like innocent angels. But, Genova realized, a wet nurse could hardly be innocent. Sheena must have borne a child—and that baby had almost certainly died.
Some wet nurses fed two. Some gave their child to another mother’s care in order to earn the higher wages given to a nurse who devoted herself to her employer’s baby. Neither seemed likely here, and Genova’s heart clenched with pity.
It seemed unlikely that Sheena was married, so the poor girl must have suffered the shame of carrying an illegitimate baby, then the grief of losing it.
No wonder she’d seized the chance to escape and earn her keep this way. Poor, poor Sheena, especially as she seemed to have transferred all her mother love to little Charlie.
That left Genova no choice. She vowed that Lord Ashart’s innocent son and Sheena would be safe and together, even if she had to use her pistol.
