Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

Devil take his grandmother for pouring money into ways to attack the Mallorens. No, devil take him for allowing it. For the past five years, at least, he could have been in command of his own affairs. He hadn’t insisted on that, or resisted her urging to be more and more glorious at court.

  Diamond buttons, for Zeus’s sake.

  He slowed Zampira and surveyed his cousin’s domain. It was impressive and elegant, but Ash didn’t particularly desire its like. What he desired was hearty fields and tenants, and a house without crumbling plaster in damp corners.

  He’d spent his life blaming the Mallorens for any problems, but most of his current ones were not their fault. He knew Fitz had brought about some of the change. His friend’s casual observations had shaken Ash’s world until the realization had seeped in that a life of attack and retaliation was not what he wanted.

  It had been too late. He’d already taken Molly Carew home from the Knatchbull masquerade. Was that a Malloren plot? His predicament would be easier if it was, but he’d ridden back here hoping it wasn’t.

  He’d returned to the house and breakfasted in his room, having used the bellpull, a modern development that he would like to install in his homes. Then he’d wandered Rothgar Abbey, talking casually to servants when he could, but for the most part simply absorbing history and present truths from the walls.

  He wasn’t sure he’d learned anything of use, though he’d spent some time amid Rothgar’s collection of clockworks. He’d known of the interest. He’d been present at court when Rothgar and the Chevalier D’Eon had conducted a duel of sorts with automata.

  The acting French ambassador had presented the king with a showy dove of peace, all silver, pearl, and jewels, but with a very simple mechanism that picked up an olive branch and spread its wings.

  Rothgar’s automaton could be seen by the foolish as simple, since it consisted of a shepherd and shepherdess kissing beneath a tree, but it was exquisitely made. The movements were smooth and complex as the two lovers turned, looked, and kissed, the shepherd’s hand rising to touch his beloved’s cheek. At the same time, birds in the tree above broke into song, heads moving, wings spreading.

  It had been easy to see the mechanical room as sign of Rothgar the great manipulator, but Ash had recognized taste, and also interests that could mesh with his own. Clocks were part of astronomy, after all, and telescopes needed complex mechanisms.

  Such subjects were also excellent antidotes to inconvenient passion, but he couldn’t say they were working now. He was sharply aware of Genova Smith’s soft hand in his, of her generous body moving gracefully beside him, of the delicate perfume she wore, and of a deeper, spicier one that had stirred in the library.

  Her hair had not come down, which was a shame. His dreams had been haunted by her hair. She’d been right to stop him, though, and thank the gods for her willpower. Anyone could have come in, and if they’d been caught it would have sealed their fate.

  How had passion slipped loose when he’d only meant to see how far she would go to distract him?

  If that was her purpose.

  If she was Rothgar’s tool.

  If she didn’t drive him as crazy as poor Aunt Augusta. Perhaps the very air here was toxic to Trayces.

  He and Miss Smith entered the dining room to find the table increased to seat thirty or so. All seats were filled except two at Rothgar’s right hand.

  Ash recognized that his cousin had little choice. Everyone here would know of the family strife, and any lower honor could be seen as a slight. They were almost exactly equal in status, though the marquessate of Rothgar had been created a few years before the Ashart one.

  As he led Miss Smith to pride of place, he noted a slight nervous clutch of her fingers. For the first time it occurred to him that if she was involved in his affairs by accident, this must all be very difficult for her.

  As they sat, he assessed those nearby. Sir Rolo and Lady Knightsholme sat opposite. He was bluff and honest, and she bold, as the smile she flashed Ashart showed. She was the Malloren connection, though distantly.

  On his right, Miss Charlotte Malloren, middle-aged spinster and gossip, her eyes bright, her ears doubtless perked for juicy tidbits.

  Rothgar offered bisque from the tureen before him, indicating what others were available down the table. Footmen stood ready to ferry dishes around.

  Miss Smith took bisque in the way of one who doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Ash declined, annoyed that her boldness had been so easily tamed.

  Rothgar said, “I understand you have been enjoying my library, Miss Smith.”

  Ash saw her almost drop her spoon into her soup, and braced to intervene, but she collected herself. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did you enjoy anything in particular?”

  Ash had to fight to hide amusement.

  “I found the open books intriguing, my lord,” she said and he silently applauded.

  “I try to choose pages to stimulate thought.”

  “You!” It escaped and she blushed, but it seemed to bring her to life. What had been in those open books? Ash wondered.

  “I was surprised to see a biblical selection preaching against the rich and mighty, my lord.”

  “The rich and mighty should always remember the perils of their situation. Don’t you agree, Ashart?”

  Despite a smile, the question was pointed. “Is it not the gods’ way, to bring low anything that threatens them in greatness?” Ash responded.

  “And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Bread, Miss Smith?”

  She declined, but was bold enough now to redirect the discussion. “I found Lord William de Malloren interesting, Lord Rothgar, if only because nothing unusual seemed to happen to him. We so rarely hear from the quiet voices of history.”

  “And thus may have a false impression of the past.”

  So, thought Ash. Was that supposed to mean that their family history was wrong?

  “Stories about ordinary people would be tedious reading, wouldn’t they?” Maddie Knightsholme asked as the soup plates were taken away. She always liked to be the center of attention.

  During the serving of the main courses, Ash had to deflect nosy questions from Miss Charlotte. Oyster stew, turbot, battalia pie. Beans. When he turned back, Miss Smith, Rothgar, and the Knightsholmes were talking about Italy.

  “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

  G enova 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 gui
neas 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.