Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  Genova went with Thalia and Thalia’s maid, Regeanne, up to the next floor to find a good-sized bedchamber with adjoining parlor. The fires were already lit and the rooms tolerably warm, so it would do once the Trayce servants had hauled in all the old ladies’ comforts.

  Genova would sleep with Thalia in the big bed, and Regeanne would use the trundle bed that slid out from underneath.

  Supper was promised within the hour and Thalia went back down to her sister’s room. Genova felt obliged to stay and keep an eye on the nursemaid and baby, even though the maid had nodded off under the influence of brandied tea. At least she’d put the bundled baby on the floor first.

  On the short journey, they’d managed to coax names out of the Irishwoman. She was Sheena O’Leary and the baby was something like Sharleen. They had decided to call him Charlie.

  Charlie Dash. He sounded like trouble and was making a good start. The sooner this pair was back with the parents, the better.

  Genova put a hand to her head, which was fuzzy with brandy, and tried to think what to do.

  As soon as they’d arrived, she’d told the tale, and Lynchbold had promised to send help. Had he forgotten in the excitement of titled guests? Even so, where was Mr. Dash?

  Suspicions were forming like dark clouds on the horizon, and Genova was not one to twiddle her thumbs while a storm rose. She wrapped her warm shawl around herself and headed off to sort things out. She was almost at the head of the stairs when an icy waft of air told her someone had just arrived.

  “Ho, there! Innkeeper!”

  Cold air blended with the pure energy of that authoritative male voice. It reminded her so much of her father issuing orders from the bridge of one of his ships that she halted for a moment in wistful memory. Then she walked onto the landing to look down.

  Could this be Mr. Dash at last? It was not the sort of voice she’d expected.

  Below, in the darkly wainscoted hall, a tall man stood with his back to her in front of the blazing fire. He wore a long cloak, no hat, and tousled dark hair simply tied back. She hummed to herself with approval. She did love a vigorous, virile man, and it rose off him like the steam from his cloak.

  He’d stripped off his gloves and as he turned long hands in the warmth, green light flashed from a ring. Genova’s brows rose. An emerald of absurd size? It must be. This man would not wear glass.

  A vigorous, virile lord, then. Where was his entourage?

  Servants burst into the hall and flocked toward him, eager to make up for any lack. No wonder. Inn servants made most of their money from the vails of rich guests, and this one looked good for guineas.

  Still facing the fire, he unfastened his cloak and pushed it back with remarkable faith that someone would be there to take it. A manservant rushed to gather it in, staggering slightly under the weight.

  It looked like leather lined with fur. Thick gray fur.

  Wolf?

  What decent Englishman used wolf fur to line a cloak?

  One thing was certain. This was not plain Mr. Dash.

  Another was that he was gorgeous.

  Genova hadn’t seen his face yet, and the clothes beneath the cloak were ordinary—leather breeches, plain brown jacket, and high riding boots. All the same, everything about him, from cloak to ornaments to bearing, spoke of a truly splendid specimen of manhood.

  Genova had never been reluctant to enjoy a show of masculine delights, so she leaned on the railing and watched, pleasantly aware of faster heartbeats and deeper breathing.

  Turn around, she thought at him. I need to see your face.

  It would be a disappointment. There was always a flaw in the package.

  He turned to the right, speaking to a maid, and she saw a flash of gold. An earring! Better and better. She knew a single earring was fashionable among the wilder set of young gentlemen.

  He turned a bit more, revealing a promising profile and jewels catching fire in the lace at his throat. Lud, had the man been riding around in the dark loaded with treasure? He was either magnificent or a fool.

  Feeling as if she watched a play, Genova saw Lynchbold appear from stage right, bowing. “Sir! Welcome to the Lion and Unicorn.”

  The man inclined his head the slightest degree. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Dash. Lead me to her.”

  Genova straightened. Impossible!

  Many of the elite were plain Mr. and Mrs., being a generation or two removed from their titled ancestors, but this man was not a suitable mate for Mrs. Dash. She, though finely turned out, was a common vixen. He was a king of wolves.

  In Genova’s fanciful imagination, anyway. Ah, well, the moment had been pleasant while it lasted. Her king of wolves was just another spoiled lordling, title or not, and she had better deal with him.

  Before she could move, Lynchbold said, “I wish I could, sir. As soon as the ladies told me of your wife’s accident, I sent help. But my man found no coach.”

  What?

  “Accident?” Mr. Dash inquired. “Ladies?”

  A note of hostility sent a shiver down Genova’s spine. She couldn’t allow this…this wolf near the Trayce ladies. She had to get rid of him and the baby immediately.

  She gathered her skirts and headed down the stairs. “I can tell you about that, sir.”

  She realized too late that it was an overly dramatic entrance, and that it forced her to continue down the stairs under the lordly gentleman’s inspection. Face forward, his lean features and heavy-lidded eyes did not disappoint, and here she was in her most ordinary gown with her hair still disordered from the wind.

  He watched in eerie stillness, dark eyes steady, but when she reached the bottom, he moved into a bow worthy of court. “Ma’am!”

  The sweep of his hand from chest to elegant extension caught her eye, or perhaps it was flashing emerald flame. She fixed on that. Mr. Dash was clearly a wealthy man and it was shameful that his child and nurse be abandoned to strangers.

  Genova gave him a moderate, chilly curtsy. “I was in the party that assisted your wife, Mr. Dash, and I can give you a full account. If your wife’s coach has been pulled out of the ditch, I can’t imagine why she’s not here, but please don’t distress yourself about your child. We have little Charles and his wet nurse safe in our rooms.”

  “Charles?” he said, in a strange tone. His eyes might have widened, but lids shielded them too quickly for her to be sure. “She brought the precious darling with her?”

  Perhaps he was a better father than Genova had hoped. “Unwise in this weather,” she agreed, “but the infant seems healthy.”

  “Then take me to him, Miss…?”

  “Smith,” Genova said.

  She led the way upstairs, wishing, not for the first time, that she had a more interesting name. In the presence of this hawk of fine plumage, Miss Smith made her feel like a house sparrow, which she most certainly was not. She hoped he was noticing that her figure was excellent and her hair thick and blond, even if straggling somewhat from its pins.

  She felt a ridiculous temptation to tell him that she’d fought Barbary pirates, and won. She couldn’t remember a man ever putting her so on edge, and she’d met many interesting ones.

  She led him into the parlor to find the maid and the baby both still asleep. Because she’d been away from the room, the smell of soiled baby and grubby nurse hit her nose afresh, but that, of course, was the Dashes’ fault, not hers.

  Mr. Dash strolled forward, remarkably quietly for a man in boots and spurs, to look down at the infant. “Dear, sweet Charles. You said he’s well?”

  Genova joined him. “As best I can tell, sir. The maid speaks no English.”

  His brows rose. “What, then, does she speak?”

  “Irish Gaelic, I gather. You are not Irish, sir?”

  “No, but Mrs. Dash is.” He contemplated the sleeping baby, making no move to pick him up. That was hardly surprising. Many men thought babies none of their business. Genova just wished she didn’t feel that she should protest if he did. />
  “She has a terrible time keeping servants and must often take what she can get. She also has a terrible sense of direction. She’s doubtless set off back east. I’d better ride after her.”

  He walked toward the door.

  After a startled moment, Genova realized he was leaving. She rushed past and put herself in his way. “Surely her coachman would know better?”

  “He drinks, which is doubtless how he came to leave the road.”

  “Then I’m surprised you haven’t dismissed him.”

  “He’s her coachman, not mine. Mrs. Dash, as you doubtless noticed, is accustomed to having her own way.” Those heavy-lidded eyes held hers. “So, I might mention, am I.”

  His expression could be described as tranquil, but Genova’s every instinct screamed to get out of his way.

  He made no aggressive move, but his intent beat against her. She knew this ability men had to give off danger, but it had never been directed at her so forcibly before. She was astonished by how hard it was not to slide away and be safe.

  She stiffened her spine. “You must make arrangements for the child before you leave, sir.”

  “Must?” The word seemed to astonish him. “The arrangements seem satisfactory. I will, of course, pay you to continue your hospitality for a few more hours.”

  “I do not want pay!”

  He inclined his head. “Then I thank you for your charity.” He took a small, significant step closer. “Are we going to fight for the right of way?”

  She made herself hold her ground. “Why should you wish to?”

  “An inveterate requirement that I have my own way.”

  “Your marriage must be interesting, then.”

  “A bloody battlefield—which does give me useful skills.” He put fingers on her shoulder and traced a line toward her neck. Even through the cloth of her winter gown, the invasion sent shivers through her.

  “Sir!” She seized his wrist, but he broke her hold with ease and cradled her neck. Not tightly, but her throat constricted and she felt she could hardly breathe. Even so, she would not move away from the door. She would not. He could hardly throttle her, here in a public inn.

  “Remove your hand, sir, or I will scream.”

  He pushed her back against the door, captured her head in both hands, and kissed her.

  Genova had never been assaulted with a kiss before, and shock held her captive for a moment as his mouth sealed hers. When he pressed closer, pressed his body against her, she came to her wits and gripped his wrists to pull his hands away.

  Hopeless.

  She kicked at him, but her skirts and his boots made the effort pathetic. She couldn’t twist her head, and when she tried to scream, his tongue invaded. Oh, for a knife or a pistol!

  Then something had an effect. He freed her lips, eased the pressure of his body….

  She pushed him away with all her strength and scrambled out of reach, gathering breath to cry for help if he came near her again.

  With an ironic, victorious bow he opened the door and escaped.

  “Perish it!” She ran after, but the damnable man must have slipped the key from this side and locked the door on the other.

  It took only moments to run through the bedroom and leave by that door, but by that time he was down the stairs. She arrived at the landing to hear the door slam, and reached the hall at the same time as the bewildered innkeeper.

  “He’s left his cloak and things! He’ll freeze.”

  “Not him,” said Genova grimly. “The devil looks after his own.”

  Chapter Three

  T he Marquess of Ashart left the inn and flinched in the blast of cold air. Damn the harridan who’d forced this on him, but he wasn’t being stuck with that child.

  He raced around to the stable where he’d left the horses and his groom, Bullen. A door showed light around it. He opened it and entered blessed warmth heavy with the tang of burning wood, tobacco, and spiced ale. Five men sat at a rough table, smoking pipes and drinking, and Bullen was one of them. They all rose. This must be a kind of grooms’ parlor—a place for them to take their ease between service.

  Ash addressed Bullen. “Get the horses. We’re leaving.”

  The middle-aged man didn’t move. “Your cloak, sir? You won’t want to travel without it.”

  Ash didn’t, but wasn’t going back for it.

  “No matter. Let’s be off.”

  “By your leave, sir,” Bullen said in a tone of patient martyrdom, “you may wish to know that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are staying at this establishment.”

  “The great-aunts? In December? You must be mistaken.”

  “No mistake, sir,” said one of the other men, his age and dignity suggesting that he was in charge of the stables. “An unplanned stop, sir, possibly because of the cold. And begging your pardon, sir, but your man’s right. You’ll court death if you ride off into this night in your jacket.”

  Plague take it, the men were right, and there was the mystery of his great-aunts. If they truly were here, he’d better find out why. Great-aunt Calliope in particular had no business traveling in this weather.

  It was also occurring to him that the intriguing Miss Smith might have information he wanted. She was clearly part of Molly Carew’s schemes.

  He addressed the head of the stables. “Do you know the Trayce ladies’ destination?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How many people do they have with them?”

  “Three coachmen and grooms, sir, and four outriders, as well as a bunch of maids and footmen. Quite a turn up here, for we’re not an inn that normally serves the nobility, though I hope we can do our part.”

  It was said with pride, so Ashart said, “I’m sure you can.”

  “By your leave, sir,” said Bullen, with rather heavy-handed patience, “you might remember that the ladies requested your assistance with a journey, and you ordered your coach and servants be put at their disposal?”

  “I might,” said Ash with an edge, but recollection was stirring. A letter from the great-aunts, which he’d tossed to his secretary to deal with. He’d assumed a short trip, however, and here they were days from Tunbridge Wells in blood-freezing weather, their travel arrangements obviously in chaos. If this was due to mismanagement by his people, heads would roll.

  “We stay the night here,” Ash said. “We may have to escort them on tomorrow.” He turned to the head groom. “What do you make of tomorrow’s weather?”

  “Milder than today, sir, but that’s not saying much. I hope your relatives don’t have far to go.”

  “So do I. Perhaps they’ve gone batty. Could be said to run in the family.”

  The grooms shared an uneasy look.

  “Don’t worry,” Ash said. “It only strikes at the full moon.”

  “It is the full moon, sir,” the head groom said, but he was clearly too sensible to take nonsense seriously.

  “That probably explains everything.” Ash looked at the disapproving Bullen. “Where’s Fitz?”

  “Said he’d wait in the tap, sir.”

  Ash tossed a coin on the table and thanked the men, then headed back out into the cold. Gads, but it was perishing out.

  A lit door at the back of the inn beckoned. He headed for it and found it opened straight into the tap room, another place fugged with smoke and smelling of ale. It was warm, however, which was a blessing.

  Most of those drinking looked like local men, but Ash spotted his friend Octavius Fitzroger alone at a table across the room, a flagon and a plate in front of him. Trust Fitz to get right to the serious business of food and drink.

  Ash was aware of silence and of people watching him as he crossed the room. They would be recognizing that he was a stranger, not just to the inn, but to their lives. He realized he was still wearing jewels, which he wouldn’t normally do in circumstances like this. He’d put them on only before arrival, hoping to remind Molly whom she dealt with.

  Too late to correct that now, and
he couldn’t pass himself off as an ordinary man if he tried. Being a marquess from the age of eight left its marks.

  The locals settled back to their talk and drink as Ash slid onto the bench opposite Fitz.

  “Well?” Fitz asked. He was tall, blond, and slender, but it was the slenderness of a rapier. Though only two years older than Ash, Fitz had been an adventurer and a soldier and matched Ash’s temperament well. A recent friendship had rapidly become close.

  “Not well. Molly’s not here.”

  “That sounds excellent to me.”

  “I need to deal with her. This can’t go on. Apparently her coach went into a ditch a few miles east of here, but some other travelers came across her and took up her baby and nurse.”

  Fitz straightened. “The baby’s here?”

  “Guarded by an adventuress by the unlikely name of Miss Smith, who did her best to stick me with it. I was planning to leave, but now I find the great-aunts are here.”

  Fitz stared at him. “The Tunbridge Wells great-aunts? What have you been drinking?”

  “Unless the whole staff of grooms is lunatic, it’s true.”

  A blowsy barmaid sauntered over, prepared to fetch Ash a drink. He shook his head. “I do remember providing the traveling chariot and some servants, but I assumed a short trip. I need to take care of them, and I want to discover what this Miss Smith knows. I’m quite looking forward to that.”

  “Poor woman.”

  “She’ll deserve everything she gets.”

  Fitz drank from his tankard. “What’s Molly up to now? How can abandoning her baby here help her cause? Does she think to touch your tender heart?”

  Ash swore at him, but without heat. “I intend to find out. Perhaps she heard about the king’s decree.”

  “That you marry a suitable woman before appearing at court again? He didn’t specify whom.”

  “Thank Jupiter. It would be like Molly to seize on that, though, with reason. Since she’s the cause for royal disapproval, any other bride will only cause a slight thaw.”