by Jo Beverley
His fingers touched his hair and he realized the destruction the woman had wrought. He pulled the loosened ribbon free, memory rippling through him. If Genova Smith had been insinuated into the great-aunts’ household with this in mind, Rothgar had chosen his weapon well.
He walked to confront his cousin’s austere portrait. “My bane, as always,” he said under his breath. “Are you behind Molly’s plot? Is Genova Smith your tool? This time you won’t win, not even with a siren on your side.”
A siren that didn’t sing but argued.
Havoc.
A good word. The ancient battle cry that swept away all rules of war and set free rape, slaughter, and destruction. “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”
Dogs. A Persian gazelle hound that had been trained not to go after the quarry it had been bred to kill.
There hadn’t been a single word between him and Rothgar without meaning.
“You should not let her ride and spur you.”
Ash cursed at the portrait and strode out of the room.
Genova entered her bedchamber quietly. Three candles and firelight made it welcoming, but the bed-curtains were open and the bed was empty. For a moment her overwrought nerves threw up wild scenarios of murder or kidnapping.
By the next breath she knew what had happened. Thalia had rested a little, then realized that a game of whist was possible and that had been enough.
Regeanne helped Genova out of her gown, hoops, and stays, but then Genova said she would do the rest herself. She wasn’t used to a lady’s maid.
She washed and put on her nightgown, which was warm from hanging before the fire. The bed would be cozy, too, for the handles of two warming pans stuck out of the covers. She moved one over to Thalia’s side, drew the heavy curtains all around, then settled into the haven.
Warmth, however, did not soothe unwelcome heat.
Was it truly unwelcome?
How was it even possible that she feel this way? She and the marquess were strangers in every way.
She might as well protest that rock cannot burn. She’d seen lava flow, as hot and molten as the desire that had erupted between her a stranger on a moonlit window seat.
Chapter Twenty
Sleep came slowly, so that exhaustion caused Genova to wake later than usual. When she emerged from the bed in the morning, the fire was well established and the room warm. The gilded clock said nearly nine, but Thalia was still asleep, each breath a soft whistle, her frilly bed cap over one eye.
With a smile, Genova quietly redrew the bed-curtains, then added another piece of wood to the fire. She tenderly rearranged some of the figures in the presepe. It was Christmas Eve—both her birthday and the beginning of her favorite season. She wouldn’t let other events steal that from her.
Here, at last, she would experience a true English Christmas.
On ships and in ports around the world, English people tried to recreate Christmas, but it was never quite right. Hot climates did not suit the food, and the mounding snow of Canada or the Baltic seemed too lush. Last Christmas had been shadowed by grief.
Traveling here, she’d realized the truth. An English Christmas needed cold but a starker setting and the afternoon death of the light.
She went to the window and looked through frost feathers at the right sort of setting. The frosted grass of the park became in the distance black fields streaked with white. Old trees made crooked skeletons against a steely sky.
In this setting rich foods and evergreens would be carols of hope, and the Yule log would promise the return of long sunny days.
Contrasts and necessities. Winter darkness could make fire precious. Starvation made a dry crust taste like pandolce.
Pandolcetta mia…
Her stomach rumbled.
Genova laughed, glad that her wanton body still paid attention to honest hungers.
So, clothes. If Christmas traditions were followed here, today was for gathering greenery to bring into the house. Warm clothes, then.
Genova tapped on the closet door, then opened it, but Regeanne wasn’t there. She could dress herself in her simplest gowns and did so. She chose a plain closed dress of fawn-colored wool, adding warm woolen stockings and an extra flannel petticoat.
She gathered her hair into a simple knot, pushing aside the memory of last night, of Ashart holding pins in his beautiful hand. Of the touch of that hand…
Perish the man!
She fixed the knot, then pinned a small cap on top, thrusting one pin so hard she pricked herself. Tears threatened, and they weren’t from the pain.
Her stomach rumbled again. Hunger explained her weakness. How did she obtain breakfast in this house?
She eyed the bellpull, but she wasn’t familiar with that modern convenience. Besides, if she ordered breakfast here, she’d wake Thalia. She was reluctant to venture out into the strange house, but food must be available somewhere, and she would not be a timid mouse.
She wrapped her warm everyday shawl around her shoulders and left the room. If she didn’t find breakfast, she’d seek out the kitchens. She was close to a servant, after all, and bread and cheese would do.
She turned left. To her delight she remembered the way and soon arrived at the main staircase. The house seemed quiet, but she thought she could smell food somewhere and hear faint voices and rattles.
She went downstairs, fighting the feeling of being an intruder, wincing when her skirts brushed the banisters and stirred the tiny bells. She couldn’t help thinking of a cat being belled to stop it from pouncing on unwary birds.
At the bottom she looked around and noticed a powdered, liveried footman outside a door. He bowed. “Breakfast is served in here, mistress.”
She walked toward him, noticing that he wore gloves and a thick, quilted waistcoat. Lord Rothgar was a considerate master.
The footman opened the door at just the right moment so she could enter without much warm air escaping. A modest table was laid, and one man sat there, cup in hand, reading a magazine. The Marquess of Rothgar.
Groaning at her faux pas, Genova made to retreat, but he rose, smiling. “Miss Smith. Another early riser. Join me, please.”
Genova curtsied. “I’m sorry if I intrude, my lord.”
“The table is laid for a reason, and I prefer conversation, if it is available, to reading at breakfast. Of course,” he added, holding out the chair next to him in invitation, “if you cannot bear the thought, I shall have some reading matter brought for you.”
Genova sat, both unnerved and flattered. It was simple courtesy, of course, an obligation to make guests at ease, but she felt as if she was truly brightening his day.
He took his seat, ringing a golden bell by his plate. A footman appeared from the corner of the room as if by magic. Genova realized that there was a service entrance concealed by the paneling. There would be a serving pantry, and probably stairs from there to the kitchens. Beyond the magnificent scale of this house lay another world necessary for its functioning.
She requested eggs and chocolate. A platter of rolls already sat on the table, so she took one and buttered it.
Once the footman left, Rothgar said, “Tell me, Miss Smith, what is your opinion of Lady Booth Carew?”
Genova had expected polite talk about the weather, not this. “It is not my place…”
“Come now, didn’t you fight Barbary pirates? I’d think you could wield sharp-edged truth.”
She could hardly refuse, and owed Lady Booth Carew no charity. “Very well, my lord, she seemed a thoughtless, selfish woman. Even so, I’m shocked that she abandoned her baby to strangers.”
“Not all mothers are devoted, and of course, she may not have thought the child would end up with strangers.”
Delicately put, but the inference was familiar. “Lord Ashart.”
“Quite. He supports at least three bastards that I know of, but Lady Booth was optimistic if she thought he would support hers.”
The footman returned then, sa
ving Genova from an immediate response. So, Lord Rothgar kept himself informed about his cousin. Sadly, her mind was stumbling over the fact that Ashart was known to have bastards. Ridiculous to be shocked or offended. He was a libertine and a rake, and at least he did support them.
“What do you suppose Lady Booth thought would happen?” Rothgar asked, pouring chocolate for her.
Genova hadn’t considered that question before, and sipped as she did so. “I think she’s a very stupid woman.”
“But not insane.”
“I can only assume that she thought Lord Ashart would take care of the baby, and be embarrassed by that. Which suggests that she doesn’t know him well at all.”
“Or perhaps that she had some other plan. We will discover the truth eventually.”
Wasn’t there a saying about the mills of the gods grinding slowly but being impossible to evade?
“In the meantime,” Rothgar said, “her baby and maid seem settled in the nurseries, and I’ve alerted the neighborhood for a Gaelic speaker. Have you celebrated Christmas in England before, Miss Smith?”
Some time later, Genova realized that she’d been skillfully drawn out to talk about her life. She remembered discussion of foreign parts, her hopes for the Christmas season, and even mention of her mother’s death and her father’s sickness and retirement. She didn’t think she’d revealed her discomfort in her stepmother’s house, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
The conversation broke when Lady Arradale came in, sat opposite Genova, and ordered coffee. Her smile seemed to indicate that nothing could make her day more perfect than to find Genova Smith sharing the breakfast table with her husband.
Talk turned to Christmas plans.
“Most of the guests will arrive by two,” Lady Arradale told Genova, “which will allow us a couple of daylight hours to ravage the countryside. It adds to the pleasure to return to the house as darkness falls.”
“It certainly makes the mulled wine and spiced ale welcome,” Rothgar commented, “which leads to celebratory spirits.”
“Quite.” The countess thanked the footman for the coffee, then smiled at Genova. “I found Christmas in great disorder here, with evergreens brought into the house before Christmas Eve. Can you imagine!”
The marquess seemed merely amused. “I have previously held Christmas festivities a little earlier, Miss Smith. I now understand that I’ve been dicing with fate.”
Lady Arradale frowned at him. “Everyone knows it brings bad luck.”
“And yet, we have survived.”
“By the skin of your teeth.”
“Do teeth have skin?”
“Only when revoltingly unclean.”
Lord Rothgar winced theatrically. “Not at the breakfast table, I pray, my love.”
Lady Arradale laughed and apologized to Genova, who was pondering the strange question herself.
“I have imposed good order,” the countess stated, “which means that Christmas will be celebrated at Christmas, and begin today.”
“Thus demanding a mostly family gathering,” Lord Rothgar explained. “Most people wish to spend Christmas in their own homes, so no one has been invited who is not connected to the family tree.”
“I’m not.” Genova instantly wished she could take the words back. She’d not been invited at all.
“But you are betrothed to my cousin.”
She’d managed to forget that detail.
Lady Arradale poured herself more coffee. “I’m told Old Barnabas promises mild temperatures for the afternoon, and even some sunny skies.”
“Old Barnabas,” said Rothgar, “remembers when he’s right and forgets when he’s wrong.”
Lady Arradale swatted his arm. “He will be right because I wish it so.”
“Ah, in that case the sun will shine as in July.”
A flicker of such sweet intimacy passed between them that Genova felt intrusive. She rose. “I must go and see if Lady Thalia is awake, and how Lady Calliope does.”
Rothgar stood to assist her. “Thank you for your company, Miss Smith. And please, don’t curtail your enjoyment to fret over my great-aunts. It is my honor and pleasure to provide them with all the attendants they require.”
“But it’s my reason for being here, my lord.”
“Your reason for coming here, perhaps, but now you are one of my guests. Thus your raison d’etre is to have pleasure, full to the brim and overflowing, so that I may be a contented host.”
Feeling attacked, Genova said, “Whether I want to or not?”
Two pairs of surprised eyes studied her.
“We can probably find a dank cell and a hair shirt if you insist, Miss Smith.”
“Don’t tease, Bey. Miss Smith, you must do just as you wish. That is all we ask.”
Mortified by her idiotic reaction, Genova dropped a curtsy and escaped.
“I was maladroit,” said Rothgar in some surprise.
“With a Malloren all things are possible, even mistakes. But she is interestingly prickly, isn’t she?”
He sat down and refilled their cups. “Especially for a lady recently betrothed to one of the most eligible men in England.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“Oh, yes. The question is, is it real?”
“Why invent it?”
“To give him a reason to be here, perhaps. It would, however, serve us well to have Ashart bound to a sensible woman.”
“Bound? That sounds unpleasant, Bey.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “But it isn’t, is it? It could distract him from more pointless pursuits.”
“What pointless pursuits?”
“He believes that he has the means to harm me.”
“What?”
“D’Eon, I think. The letters I had forged that appeared to be from the French king.”
Her hand tightened on his. “How could he know about that?”
“Frailties and leaks. They can never be entirely prevented.”
“But why? Does the animosity run as deep as that? If the king learns what you did, the consequences could be dire.”
“Don’t frown,” he said, smoothing her brow. “We will woo him to family fondness and thus end all danger. But in the meantime, it suits us well to have him distracted.”
“By Miss Smith? Bey, is that fair to her?”
“She might make him an excellent wife.”
“A naval captain’s daughter?”
“You’re as high-nosed as Bryght. Naval warfare would be excellent training for any woman becoming granddaughter-in-law of the Dowager Lady Ashart.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Feeling out of her depth, Genova escaped up to the nurseries, realizing by the time she arrived that the visit might be useful. She was entangled in things that could harm her. The more she understood, the better.
Ashart persisted in claiming that he was not Charlie’s father. Rothgar said he supported some bastards. Sheena might know something that would help clarify matters. If Ashart was speaking the truth, it would make a difference.
The parlor was empty, but she followed noises and found the nursery dining room. Little Francis Malloren was eating some sort of gruel with the assistance of his nursemaid, and the two Misses Inchcliff were breakfasting on buttered bread and cups of chocolate.
Genova greeted them all, then asked for Sheena. She was directed to a room across the corridor, where she found the baby nursery. It was small so as to be easily kept warm, and the walls were whitewashed, while the floor was bare wood. A nursery had to be readily cleaned.
There were two small beds with tall, railed sides, and two ornate cradles, one hung with cream silk, the other with blue. The blue one was clearly in use, but the baby was on Sheena’s lap, dressed in a long flannel gown.
Charlie was waving hands and feet and making happy noises. Sheena was beaming with proud love and looking a different girl. Someone had provided a sturdy dress in a pink-striped material with narrow ruffles at neck and
sleeve. Her fichu and cap were bright white cotton.
She looked up, then gathered the baby, clearly intending to stand, but Genova waved her down. “No, please.”
“Good morning, Miss Smith,” the girl said carefully.
Progress. Genova walked closer. “Charlie looks well.”
Sheena’s blank and slightly worried look showed they hadn’t reached the stage of conversation.
Genova smiled and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But she had to try. She pointed at the baby and said, “Father?” Then, “Papa? Pater?” Weren’t the Irish all Catholics, used to Latin?
Sheena simply stared, looking anxious.
Genova smiled again, but it was so frustrating. Sheena must know something. Probably not who Charlie’s father was, though, she realized. The baby had been conceived in England.
Without the mother’s evidence it was impossible to prove who the father of any child was, and some women didn’t even know. Was that Ashart’s rationale? Genova didn’t approve. Even if he knew other men might be the father, he couldn’t know he wasn’t, and it would take so little of his wealth to provide for the child.
She studied the infant for some resemblance, but a baby is a baby. He seemed to be staring at her with fascination, so she leaned closer, smiling. “Good morning, Charlie-boy. Are you fed and happy?”
The baby stretched his mouth and squawked as if he was trying to reply. He was delightful when clean and happy.
Sheena stood, offering him. Hesitantly, Genova gathered the bundle to herself, still looking down at the fascinating face. He was heavier than she’d expected, a solid item, full of the energy to grow.
She walked the room with him, but it offered little for those curious eyes, so she turned to the window.
From this height, they looked out to woodland and distant villages, and a river glinting in the brightening sun.
“A world to be explored, Charlie.”
The baby was looking up at her, not out, so she shifted him. When he faced the window his arms waved as if he was trying to reach the glass, or perhaps that world beyond.
Genova remembered the matter of commands, kisses, and guineas. A silly thing in one way, a perilous one in others. Crucial for this child. As Ashart had said, however, how many guineas would it take? How many kisses? More than a hundred. Perhaps a thousand.
