Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  But then a voice spoke, mildly but firmly. “Ashart.”

  With a wry expression, Ash turned to his grandmother. Perhaps governed by tact, their audience was dispersing, chattering. Genova couldn’t see Damaris Myddleton. She felt rather sorry for her rival, for Damaris had not only lost, but mortified herself before everyone.

  Only Rothgar remained.

  Ash kept Genova’s hand in his as they walked over to the apparently calm old woman. Her eyes were not calm at all, however, unless ice is calm.

  “A word with you, Ashart. Rothgar, provide us with a room.”

  “Follow me, Grandmother.”

  Genova saw the old lady’s face pinch as if she’d like to disavow the relationship, but she turned and marched after him. Genova and Ash followed.

  This would not be pleasant. Lady Ashart intended to fight. Genova would give as good as she got. She would not let the old tyrant cause Ash any more pain.

  Rothgar opened the door to a room Genova hadn’t previously seen. It was of modest size, and gloomy for lack of windows, though one wall hung with heavy curtains.

  “This is the Garden Room,” Rothgar said. “The curtains conceal doors leading to a conservatory. Pleasant in summer, chilly in winter, even with the fire.”

  He touched a taper to the fire and lit candles, making the room brighter, though nothing could brighten the atmosphere.

  He left and the dowager sat like a queen on a throne, still in her hat and rich, blue cloak. “Only you, Ashart, could have three women fighting over you.”

  “Three?”

  “Lady Booth Carew. You denied ruining her, too.”

  “I did not get her with child, Grandy. The proof of that is on the premises, if you doubt my word.”

  The dowager’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t challenge him. “You won’t get an admission of guilt from her. She’s gone abroad.”

  “What?”

  “She’s married an Irishman called Lemoyne who has business in the West Indies, and gone there with him. I heard the story from Lady Dreyport in London en route here.”

  Ash and Genova shared a look. The final piece. Somewhere late in her venture, Molly Carew had met a rich man who would marry her and even take her away from the scandal she’d brought on herself. But she’d needed to get rid of the baby, and had done it as a final, spiteful slash without a thought to Sheena and her child.

  Genova hoped Molly Carew got what she deserved in life.

  “Which leaves you,” the dowager said, as if Genova wasn’t present, “free to marry Miss Myddleton. I see that you care for another, but it will not do. I gather she has nothing.”

  “She has herself.”

  “Feeble nonsense, and Miss Myddleton has a prior claim.”

  “If you made promises on my behalf, you had no authority to do so. I intend to marry Genova.”

  He spoke calmly, but Genova felt the tension in him.

  The dowager stiffened. “Against my wishes?”

  “If necessary, yes.”

  It was as if all stood still. Genova was astonished to hear a clock daring to tick.

  “Then I will leave your house and never speak to you again.”

  Genova felt Ash’s hand clench on hers, but nothing in his voice betrayed him when he said, “That is neither my wish nor Genova’s, Grandy, but we cannot stop you.”

  The old mouth tightened. Then tears glistened.

  Genova went to her knees beside the dowager. “Oh, my lady, don’t. Ash doesn’t need to marry money. He can put food on the table and coals in the hearth. We can build. Together we can build fortune and family.”

  “With what?” the dowager spat. “You can hardly be a credit to him at court!”

  “There is more to the world than court!”

  Ash raised Genova, perhaps moving her out of range. “Grandy, Genova’s right. I intend to build up the estates in many ways. There are fortunes to be made through trade.”

  “Trade!” It was a snarl of outrage.

  “Even the Duke of Bridgewater is repairing his fortunes with canals to ship his coal. Rothgar has given me advice, and Bryght Malloren—”

  The old woman surged to her feet. “What? Never! Do you want to drive me into my grave?”

  Genova thought it was a dangerous possibility and welcomed a knock on the door. When had Ash sought this advice from Rothgar? It had to have been this morning, and she realized, happiness blooming from bud to perfect flower, it had been part of his decision to marry her, long before things exploded.

  Mr. Fitzroger came in, carefully expressionless, though he surprised Genova by winking at her. He had Lady Augusta’s journal, and he gave it to Ash, then left.

  Ash coaxed his grandmother back into her chair and put the book on her lap. “That’s Aunt Augusta’s journal, written during her marriage. I’ve read it. It leaves no doubt in my mind that whatever drove her to murder, it wasn’t the Mallorens.”

  “Forgery!” she snapped, but she gripped the book written by her youngest child.

  “Book, writing, and style match the earlier journals at Cheynings.”

  “And it paints a picture of an idyllic marriage?” The curl of the dowager’s lip showed that she knew better.

  “It paints a picture of a girl too young to be married, too young to be a mother. Perhaps in time she would have been ready, but she wasn’t when she wrote that.”

  “You’re speaking of a person you never knew. She was sweet, innocent, unspoiled.”

  Ash didn’t contradict her.

  “It was the perfect match!” the dowager protested. “He was handsome and good-humored, and would be a marquess. She wanted it.”

  Again Ash didn’t speak, and Genova gripped her hands to force her own silence. She recognized that the dowager would listen to no one but might come to express the truth herself.

  “Are you saying I was wrong to arrange it?” the old woman demanded, lines seeming deeper in her face. “How could I have known how it would be? I married at seventeen…”

  “Perhaps you couldn’t have known,” Ash said gently, “but she did write pleas for help.”

  So he’d read the letters.

  “Megrims and moods. The next letter, she’d be like a lark.”

  “Perhaps you read into her words what you wanted to.”

  The dowager’s jaw set and she glared at him. “It is all my fault, then? Everyone else is a saint?”

  He went down on one knee and took a clenched hand. “No one was a saint, but no one was a devil, either. Cry peace, my dear, and as Genova says, let us build.”

  My dear. Only the worst families have no happy memories, and this was not the worst family. There must have been many happy times.

  “You expect me to turn my gown and dig potatoes?” the dowager grumbled.

  “An unlikely picture,” he said, laughter in his voice, “though you are equal to it. As I said, I have the offer of help and advice from the Mallorens, and I intend to take it. I intend to claim the rights of kinship.”

  Genova winced at the ruthlessness of that, and the dowager’s nostrils flared. One hand formed a claw on the arm of her chair.

  Perhaps she mellowed, or perhaps she recognized a will even stronger than her own, but she snapped, “I’m old! I’ve rattled through the night in our second-best carriage. I want hot tea and a warm bed!”

  Ash looked up. “Genova?”

  Grateful for escape, Genova left the room, wondering how a suitable room could be found in this full house, and what would happen next. She didn’t believe that the dowager would give up the fight so easily, and there were true grievances on the other side. The old woman had done her best to hurt the Mallorens.

  Genova found Rothgar and Lady Arradale in the hall.

  Hovering, one might even say.

  “It’s going to be all right, I think,” Genova said, rather breathlessly. Reaction and bliss were taking their toll. She realized that she was also damp, sticky, and smelling of spiced plums.

  She brush
ed at her bodice, but then gave up. “She wants tea and a bed. The dowager, I mean. I think she intends to stay!”

  Instead of looking shocked, they both smiled. The old lady was Lord Rothgar’s grandmother, but all the same, he and Lady Arradale showed noble forgiveness.

  “She can have my room,” Lady Arradale said. “I’ll suffer in the cause and sleep with my husband.”

  The look she shared with Lord Rothgar before hurrying away indicated that one or the other bed was often empty anyway.

  Genova blew out a breath and looked around. “I’m sorry. We made rather a mess, and it’s the servants’ holiday.”

  “If we were saints, we’d clean it up. As it is, I intend to leave it until tomorrow.”

  Genova suspected that plums might damage the wood if left that long, and resolved to deal with it. She wouldn’t bother him with it, however. It wasn’t his mess.

  “What happened to Miss Myddleton?” she asked.

  “After Fitzroger prevented her from trying to tear you from Ashart’s arms? She fell into a fit, and is now lying down with a vinegar cloth on her head, recovering from a momentary dementia brought on by greensickness.”

  “That won’t work, will it? So many heard her.”

  “All Mallorens. They will be discreet.”

  “I feel a little sorry for her. I think the dowager did tell her she was to be his bride.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m surprised Miss Myddleton doesn’t want to flee the house.”

  “She did. I persuaded her otherwise.”

  She frowned at him. “Is that kind?”

  “It’s necessary. When she appears composed, and accepts your betrothal, people will adjust their memory. However, Uncle Henry and Aunt Jane can’t be pleasant guardians. It’s not surprising if Miss Myddleton is desperate to marry. Matters must be better arranged.”

  She gave him a look. “Ensuring that the world turns smoothly, my lord?”

  He smiled. “It’s a fatal obsession, Miss Smith. You are warned. Which reminds me, I must go among my guests and make sure the gossip is already growing in the right direction.”

  Genova watched him go upstairs, presumably to the drawing room, then turned her mind to cleaning. The nursery and schoolroom were deserted, and they would have the necessaries. She hurried up there and returned victorious with a bucket and cloths, having filled the bucket with her own used washing water.

  Ingenuity could solve most problems.

  She had to duck out of the way before descending the last stairs, however, because Ash was escorting his grandmother up them.

  The dowager looked fierce and unhappy, but even so, her love for Ash was obvious, and Genova loved him even more for his kindness to the old dragon.

  Once they’d passed, she hurried down and cleaned up the mess she’d created, grinning at the memories. Without the happy result, the fight would still be a memory she’d cherish. How could she have known how much fun it would be? How could she find an excuse to do it again?

  She turned with the bucket to see Ash staring at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning up the mess we made.”

  “There are servants…. No, not in this madhouse, of course. But really, Genni!”

  She put down her bucket, eying him. “Am I not suited to be a marchioness, then?”

  He came toward her. “You won’t trap me that way.”

  She danced backward. “I was hoping for another fight.”

  “You like cleaning?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m not a fine lady, after all.”

  “You’re a fine enough lady for me.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “It’s this house. It drives Trayces insane.”

  “No, in this case, it restores sanity.” She let him catch her. “I adore you, Ash.”

  As their lips touched, they heard, “Oh, Ashart! Genova, dear!”

  With a rueful look, they turned to see Lady Thalia waving from the balcony. Hand in hand they went up to her.

  “I just wanted to be sure you hadn’t hurt yourself too badly, dear,” she said to Ash.

  “In falling? No, and Genova’s fine, too.”

  “Oh, no, not that, though it was most entertaining. I mean last night.”

  He shared a puzzled look with Genova, then looked back at his great-aunt. “You must be confused, Thalia. No one has been hurt. Don’t worry.”

  She crinkled her brow at him. “But Regeanne told me that there was blood on the sheets you sent to the laundry. Was it poor Mr. Fitzroger? I must go and see. Such a charming young man!”

  She turned and trotted off, long ribbons on her lacy cap fluttering behind her.

  Genova stood frozen, not sure what would happen now. Why hadn’t she realized that even with so little pain there might be some blood?

  “Genni?”

  She turned to him because she must. This shouldn’t damage anything, but she felt it might. He was frowning.

  “How could I not have known you were a virgin?”

  “I gather some women…”

  He shook his head. “I mean your nature, your honor. I’m such a fool. And I tried to persuade you to be my mistress!”

  She grabbed his hands and squeezed them. “Don’t buy a hair shirt yet. Barbary pirates, my bold manner, my language, my kisses. I went to your bed never expecting marriage, Ash. I will be hurt if you begin to suggest that I would have been a lesser woman if I had not been a virgin.”

  “You’re tying me in knots again. And Thalia spilled that little bit of information deliberately. Women!”

  Genova laughed, bringing his hands to her lips to kiss them. “We’re a terrible challenge, aren’t we? I think she believes in honesty as much as we do. She was right. Don’t you agree it’s better to have this straight?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t change how I love you, but I’d have behaved differently…. It didn’t hurt?”

  “Only a twinge that I scarcely noticed.” But she glanced around, knowing her cheeks were red. “We can’t talk about things like this here!”

  Smile turned to grin. “You’re bashful.”

  “I am not. I’m discreet.”

  He turned her hand and kissed her palm. “Very well, I’ll be discreet, too. For now. Come back down with me. I have something to show you.”

  She let him draw her down the stairs, accompanied by tinkling bells, and across to the presepe. There, he took something out of his pocket. His handkerchief. No, something wrapped in his handkerchief. He gave it to her.

  “A ring?” she asked. “Do you carry around a selection of ladies’ rings?”

  “No, you’ll have to wait until I can have the perfect one made for you.”

  Puzzled, she unwrapped the handkerchief to find, not a ring, but a tiny dove, carved out of pale wood. A dove of peace, wings spread.

  “You missed a new figure for the presepe on your birthday,” he said, “so I rose early and begged the house carpenter to whittle this for me. He’ll paint it white….”

  She looked up at him, tears blurring her vision. “You are the most wonderful man.” She fixed the dove on the peak of the stable roof, then turned back to go into his arms.

  “No,” he said. “But with you by my side, I can try.”

  Lady Thalia watched from the landing. “There, see,” she said to her open locket. “Did I not say it would be so? Love will have its way, dearest. It only needs a little help.”

  Author’s Note

  I hope you have enjoyed this return to the Malloren world. If you are new to it, I hope you are now eager to pick up the five previous books and catch up on the adventures of Elf, Portia, and, of course, Rothgar.

  The titles of the previous Malloren books are

  My Lady Notorious (Cyn and Chastity)

  Tempting Fortune (Bryght and Portia)

  Something Wicked (Elf and Fort)

  Secrets of the Night (Brand and Rosa)

  Devilish (Bey and Diana)

  Secrets of the Ni
ght is out of print, but it will be reissued in March 2004. All the others are available. As with all in-print books, if your bookstore doesn’t have a copy, the shop can order it for you at no extra cost. You can also buy the books on-line.

  The theme of family runs strongly through the Malloren books, so it’s no surprise that it is important in Winter Fire, too. I hadn’t really thought much about Rothgar’s mother’s family, since he had little to do with them, but when I looked at the scraps of information I’d included in other books, the Trayces were clearly a troubled lot. Thus, Ash took form, an inheritor of all this, struggling to create a life for himself and his family under Rothgar’s shadow.

  The emphasis on court may be a bit uncomfortable for modern readers, but we still have the equivalents in today’s world, especially at the highest levels, where “dressing for success” and not offending those in power can be crucial. In the 1760s, the Court of St. James—the royal court—was the heart of power and influence. In the next forty years this would change, in part because of the illness of George III—the madness of King George—but also because the world was about to change. We are on the eve of two great revolutions, the American and the French. Remember that little problem of the army and taxation that worries Elf because Cyn is in Canada?

  Power is going to shift to Parliament, and to coalitions of great families. I’m sure the Trayce/Malloren/Ware one will play its part.

  Readers ask if I will write books about the next generation. The answer is, probably not. I don’t like to travel with my characters into old age and death. (Of course they do all live productive lives into old age before death!)

  However, I do plan to expand the world of the Mallorens and write other novels in which they’ll play a part. The next one will be about Damaris Myddleton and Octavius Fitzroger, who has his own special reasons for becoming friends with Ash. You can expect that book sometime late in 2004.

  New and reissued books of mine have been flowing over the past few years, but I normally write a book about every nine months, so that’s how often you can expect them from now. I know it seems a long time to wait—I feel the same about my favorite authors!—but to paraphrase what they say in restaurants, good books take time. To know when to expect my books on the shelves, please ask to be on one of my mailing lists. That information is at the end.