by Jo Beverley
“To think,” Ash said as he forked an oyster, “we might have met in Venice, my sweet. I was there in ”fifty-five.“
She looked at him, amused. “So was I, my lord, but I was only fourteen.”
“I’m sure you were delightful at fourteen.”
“I was a lanky tomboy.”
“Then at least I can say that you have improved with time.”
“A clever recovery, sir. And you? What were you like at eighteen?”
Maddie Knightsholme laughed at that. “Already a breaker of hearts, Miss Smith! We encountered Ashart in Naples, didn’t we, Rolo? Lethal, I assure you, in that Mediterranean heat.” She turned a sultry look on Rothgar. “I gather you, too, cut a swath through Europe in your day.”
“Maddie, you make me feel ancient. Even Ashart must be feeling the frost of time.”
“And we can’t have that. What would the world be without Ashart’s scandalous goings-on to amuse us?”
Maddie Knightsholme was a menace.
Miss Charlotte tittered. “Why, yes. I heard—”
Ash cut her off ruthlessly. “We could dine on stories about the Chevalier D’Eon.”
Maddie Knightsholme’s brows rose at his tone, but she addressed herself to her food. Miss Charlotte fell silent, too. Ash’s attention was on Rothgar. How would he react to that?
Sir Rolo, damn him, interrupted. “Aye, quite a state of things. I hear the new ambassador threw him out, but he refuses to go back to France, the impudent jackanapes. Be glad to see the back of him. Too much closeness to Their Majesties.”
Ash saw that Genova was looking puzzled and slightly shocked.
“You look confused, my dear. The Chevalier D’Eon was acting French ambassador until recently. He’s a most intriguing fellow and became a great favorite at court—especially with the queen.”
“Quite innocently,” Rothgar said in a warning tone.
“Oh, of course. However much in favor he was here, the same cannot be said of France, where he seems to have made enemies. Unwise, when he appears to have been misappropriating embassy funds. Strange,” Ash added, watching Rothgar, who he now knew had been the cause of the man’s downfall, “he seemed a clever fellow.”
“Clever enough to cut himself!” Sir Rolo declared, apparently oblivious to undercurrents. “Always the same with these fancy, tricksy ones. Give me bluff honesty. Gads, I heard the man wears dresses!”
The look on Genova’s face was priceless, and the moment to catch Rothgar unawares had passed.
“It’s true,” Ash told her. “I remember him at a ball in a stylish blue sacque, and in the park demure in gray and white.”
“Some say he is in fact a she!” said Miss Charlotte.
“Yet he was a dashing war hero,” Rothgar pointed out, “and decorated for bravery. Not that I would ever suggest that women cannot be brave.”
“I know no woman who is brilliant with a sword,” Ash said, “and D’Eon is that. Perhaps the best of our age. Rumor whispers,” he added to Rothgar, “that you fought him.”
It was a matter of some moment. Ash did not intend to come to swords with his cousin, but if he did, he wanted to be the victor.
“Informally,” Rothgar said.
“Who won?”
Rothgar smiled slightly. “We decided it would be diplomatic to call it a draw. And you?”
“I have never had the honor.”
“You should seek him out. To fence against a master clarifies the mind.”
“If one lives to appreciate it.”
“I’m sure a clear mind is of use in heaven, too.”
“But especially in hell.”
“Which is where that Wilkes deserves to be!” Sir Rolo interjected, and launched into his opinion of political scandal.
Ash did his part when necessary, knowing he had been given a warning. He was probably outclassed with a blade and should avoid that course. It had been years since he’d dreamed of bringing the vile Mallorens to account by defeating Rothgar in a duel, but he wished he believed he could.
He noticed Genova Smith frowning. “Wilkes is a boring fellow, isn’t he?” he said, but felt compelled to add, “Don’t let our family tensions weigh on you. There is nothing you can do.”
She met his eyes. “Do you think it is as easy as that?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Genova saw Ashart mirror her frown as if he wanted to argue with her, but then the older lady on his other side demanded his attention.
She wished she could ignore the battle, for she was developing a headache, but it was hard when sitting between the combatants. This D’Eon was important, and the matters to do with him were connected to court, kings, and even treason.
Ashart and Rothgar had been tapping swords again, seeking out weaknesses. She hadn’t missed the point that Rothgar was almost certainly the more skilled in duello.
She took a deep drink of wine, glancing around at a table that seemed unaware of strife. Because she was looking for trouble, she caught an expression on the face of Miss Myddleton.
The heiress was seated between Lord Walgrave and a young man in a scarlet uniform. She appeared to be enjoying the company, but she shot a look up the table at Ashart that reminded Genova of a cat eying dinner on the wing.
He’s no bird for your stalking, she thought, but she knew it wasn’t true. A well-born heiress was precisely the sort of bride Ashart would choose.
The girl’s catlike eyes met Genova’s and Miss Myddleton smiled, apparently in polite query. The false betrothal allowed Genova to fire back a warning, and she enjoyed doing it. For the next few days, Ashart was hers and the heiress could keep her claws to herself.
The Wilkes affair had progressed to Russian art, and main dishes were being replaced by savories and sweets.
Simply to claim Ashart in front of the heiress, Genova covered his hand with hers. “Have you traveled to Russia, my lord?”
After a surprised glance, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Call me Ash, beloved. It’s what most of my intimates use.”
Genova knew Miss Myddleton’s eyes were upon her. “Ash, then. Even though it does unfortunately recall dead fires.”
A brow rose and a finger tickled her palm. “If you want proof that the fires are not dead, my sweet, you need only command.”
Heat rushed through her, but she was saved by Lady Arradale rising and commanding everyone’s attention. “My friends, Christmas gaiety is upon us already, I see, but first we must bring in the greenery.”
Others had been playing flirtatious games, and now there were shouts about greens and greenery that raised laughter. They were a euphemism for love play. A “lady with a green gown” was thought to have been with a lover in the grass.
Much time spent with Ashart, and that would be her fate.
“And mistletoe, of course!” called the young officer, winking at Miss Myddleton. She smiled, but her eyes slid again to Ashart.
The officer tried song.
Hey, ho, the mistletoe,
It’s off to the greenwood we do go.
My lady fine and I.
Other men joined in, singing to their partner. Miss Myddleton had to respond appropriately, as did Genova. She was helped by the fact that Ashart had an excellent baritone voice.
Hey, ho, the mistletoe bough,
That a daring lass stands under now
To tempt the man in her eye.
Hey, ho, the mistletoe kiss
That leads many men to wedded bliss
To a lady by and by.
“There’ll be mistletoe enough,” the countess assured everyone, laughing. “It only requires harvesting, and so, to work!”
“Not everyone is conscripted for hard labor,” Rothgar said as the company rose. “But we insist on the young bachelors taking part. The felling and handling of the Yule log requires their vigor.”
“Vigor?” Ashart queried.
“My lady tells me that in the north they believe that the more virile bachelors bring in
the log, the more strength it bestows on the house in which it burns.”
“Then I wonder if I should contribute.”
An uneasy stillness rippled out from the two men. Despite high spirits, clearly everyone was aware of the enmity.
“I have wondered,” Rothgar said, “why this custom assumes that virile bachelors are preserving their vigor.”
Laughter shattered tension, and even Ashart smiled. “Then I will contribute my little all.”
Good humor restored, everyone flowed into the hall in a stream of chatter and laughter. Beneath it, however, ran the same sort of fever Genova had tasted once in Venice, during one of the wild festivals there. She remembered behaving then with a little less caution than she should.
She didn’t want to do this. She feared taking part in what was, in effect, a pagan ritual, where she’d be paired, she knew, with Ashart. She glanced around and hurried after the Trayce ladies, who were entering the Tapestry Room.
Thalia spotted her and shooed her away. “Genova, what are you doing? You must go out with the young people!”
“I’m here to look after you—”
“Fie on that! There’s a footman near every door. Away with you.”
Genova retreated. She considered slipping away until everyone left, but she could imagine the result. Someone, probably Ashart, would start a hunt, and he’d know she was hiding specifically from him.
She went upstairs for her outdoor clothing, taking her time in the hope that the party might leave without her. When she returned to the stairs, however, people were still milling about in the hall.
Ah well, she thought as she went down, pulling on her gloves, she had guineas to earn and had thought of a way to speed the process.
Most of the ladies now wore cloaks or heavy caraco jackets. Most of the gentlemen wore long redingote coats. Everyone wore hats, gloves, and sturdy footwear. None of them looked the slightest like country laborers.
Genova was probably the one here most familiar with hard work, which might be why she didn’t feel as if she belonged. She hovered, pretending to admire a classical statue until she realized that studying a naked man could not improve her reputation.
She turned away, looking for Portia, or even Lady Arradale, and saw Ashart coming down at last, but with Damaris Myddleton on his arm. The heiress’s eyes seemed to seek out Genova’s so she could signal her triumph.
Ashart had added only gloves and hat. Perhaps he had no extra layer other than his riding cloak, which would be too heavy for a stroll. Would a marquess spend Christmas with only the contents of a saddlebag? More Trayce eccentricity.
Miss Myddleton’s waist-length cape was trimmed, and probably lined, with fur. Genova guessed mink. She hoped the heiress was wearing woolen stockings and an extra petticoat or two. Such a shame if she got chilblains.
Trying not to think catty thoughts, Genova strolled over to meet the two at the bottom of the stairs, to claim Ashart’s other arm. He raised her gloved hand and kissed it.
“A guinea, please,” she said.
With a cocked brow, he produced one and gave it to her.
“You charge him for kisses, Miss Smith?” Miss Myddleton asked.
“In a game.” Ashart’s eyes never left Genova. “Something like the mistletoe bough. Does that really count as a kiss, Miss Smith?”
“If you need lessons, sir…”
“A definition, perhaps?”
“That would be as difficult as defining a true husband.”
“Vows said before a minister,” inserted Miss Myddleton, tightening her paw—hand—on Ashart’s sleeve.
Genova suddenly felt sorry for the young woman. “What if the vows are broken, Miss Myddleton? The law doesn’t allow a lady to end a marriage for that.”
“It’s remarkably hard for a gentleman,” Ashart said. “Thus, the bonds are best considered binding, no matter what becomes of the vows.”
“Is that why you’re not bound, Ashart?” Miss Myddleton demanded.
“But I am. To Miss Smith. My word is given and will be kept unless she insists on her freedom.”
It was cruel as a blade, and Genova winced. Miss Myddleton snatched away her hand, a spot of angry color in each cheek. Had she not heard before? Or chosen not to believe.
“I must wish you both happy then,” she said, pitch too high.
“Must,” Ashart echoed, eyes on Genova.
“Must,” Genova replied.
When the heiress marched off to talk to others Genova said, “That was unnecessarily cruel.”
He dropped the amorous manner. “Is your soft heart touched? Damaris Myddleton wouldn’t be trying to sink cat’s claws into plain Mr. Dash.”
“I wonder.”
He was probably right, however. Miss Myddleton might be attracted to handsome Mr. Dash, but she wouldn’t invest her fortune in him.
The young officer came over. “We’re planning the correct handling of the Yule log, Ashart. Hoping you’ll give your advice.”
He’d probably been sent to drag in the unwilling bachelor. With a bow to Genova, Ashart went to join the other men.
Lady Arradale and Portia had not come down yet. It was possible they wouldn’t be joining the party at all, since traditionally only unmarried people brought in the greenery. Lord Bryght seemed to be part of it, however, and she saw Lord Rothgar join the men.
“Miss Smith.”
Genova turned to find Damaris Myddleton approaching and suppressed a sigh.
“I understand you’ve spent time at sea,” the young woman said. “How fascinating. I hope to hear some of your stories.”
Genova recognized a masterly tactic. Open rivalry would get Miss Myddleton nowhere, so now she angled to become a confidante.
When the stars fell into the sea.
“I would be delighted to share them,” she said politely, “but your life would be as fascinating to me, Miss Myddleton.”
“Then I will trade stories of fashionable circles for your stories of foreign parts.”
Miss Myddleton’s smile was an excellent simulation of warmth, but there was acid in the word foreign. Genova, it was made clear, did not belong. The fact that she knew it did not improve her temper.
“I’m sure that will be delightful.” She did not try to sound sincere.
The slanted eyes narrowed. “Lady Thalia said you fought off Barbary pirates.”
“She does tend to exaggerate.”
“But not by much, I think. She also says you are redoubtable. I’m sure you are. I must tell you, however, that I intend to marry Ashart, and I believe I can get what I want.”
Perhaps a better woman would tell the truth, but Genova fired back, “You’re welcome to try.”
“Oh, I will. I have his grandmother’s approval.”
That was a heavy gun and Miss Myddleton clearly knew it.
“I didn’t expect to meet him here, of course,” she went on, looking at her quarry across the room, “but it seems an excellent opportunity to settle matters.”
Genova found herself fascinated and even admiring in a way. Most well-bred women were trained to take the indirect path, to get their way by coyness and wiles, or to depend on a man to win them what they wanted. She had to like one who fired directly at her target.
“Will it not be difficult for you to marry into a family so at odds with the Mallorens?”
Miss Myddleton looked back at her. “I’m not a Malloren, and anyway, with Ashart here, the feud must be over.”
“It isn’t. Don’t do anything to create more difficulties.”
The young woman studied Genova, looking alert and intelligent. She might even make Ashart a good marchioness, especially if she drew back and made him hunt her and her fortune.
“Difficulties for whom?”
“For everyone, but particularly for Ash.”
The intimate term slipped out and shattered any hope of accord.
“I will never create any kind of difficulty for Ashart, which is more than can be sa
id of you, Miss Smith. One bitter rift may be ending here, but the wrong marriage will create another. You will alienate Ashart from his grandmother, from the woman who raised him. They are devoted to one another.”
With that salvo, Miss Myddleton stalked away and Genova struggled not to show the effect of her words. The hunting cat, damn her, was probably right.
Then she came to her senses. None of this mattered because this betrothal was false. Ashart probably would marry Damaris Myddleton, and at least the heiress had spine enough to stand up to him. He needed that.
The doors were flung open then for them to leave. Fresh, cool air and sunshine were a brisk relief.
Ashart came over. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said composedly, linking her arm with his. “Perhaps a little dull from food and wine.”
It was time to put her plan into action. She didn’t think she could endure this mock betrothal much longer.
“Some brisk exercise in the open air will be just the mustard,” she said.
With a laugh he kissed her quickly and slipped the guinea into her pocket, out of sight of others but in a sliding touch that she could not ignore.
She almost faltered, but pursued her plan. “I’m so grateful that Englishmen don’t wear mustaches,” she said as they went down the steps. “So ticklish.”
“Vast experience, I gather.” But he stopped her midflight and kissed her more thoroughly, the slide into her pocket firmer and more challenging. “You’re cheating, my pet.”
“We established no rules.” As they continued down the steps, Genova saw that all eyes were on them, but the mood seemed indulgent. “So you must not object. Am I taxing your fortune?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said as they reached the gravel and he drew her into his arms. “I can muster the price.”
As his lips met hers, Genova recognized a familiarity. Her own lips, her body, shaped themselves to his without thought. She’d come to this stage with Walsingham. It had taken weeks.
She pulled away. “You stole one I’d prepared, but that doesn’t matter. It only needs the word. Must, must, must, must, must!”
