Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  Thrown off balance, Elf snapped, “I doubt you have the nerve for that, my lord.”

  He laughed, but it was not pleasant. “Try me. Oh, try me, Vespa. Here on the ballroom floor, if you want.”

  Elf fled for the cover of a simple question. “Vespa?”

  “It means wasp.”

  “Then I wish you would not be so rude, Walgrave.”

  “It suits you. You like to sting.”

  He stopped their progress by a large plinth crowned with flowers and turned to face her. Disconcertingly, he raised her hand for a flirtatious kiss. “Well?” he asked, smiling, blue eyes completely without warmth. “Many ladies like to pursue and torment the object of their adoration. Do you adore me, dearest Elf?”

  He could almost have posed himself for effect, with a spray of cream blossoms brushing his black shoulder, and the heavy perfume of roses all around.

  Elf did not let herself be swayed and assumed an equally false smile. “I adore you to the exact extent that you adore me, dearest Fort, for you torment me just as I torment you.”

  “Torment? I? When have I ever even sought you out? Whereas you seem drawn to me like a wasp to sweetness.”

  “Sweetness? Lud, my lord, but you are as sweet as my doctor’s favorite nostrums.”

  Frantically fanning her hot cheeks, however, Elf had to accept some truth in his observation. She had a history of seeking him out. Plague take the man. She would have walked away if not for the suspicion that he wanted her to, that it would mean victory for him.

  It was time for her plea for peace. Not only was it right, it would save her face. Before he could think of a new dart to throw, she placed her hand on his arm and compelled him to resume their promenade.

  “You mistake matters, my lord.” Deliberately, she fanned herself in a slow calming rhythm, smiling at friends nearby as if this discussion were of no importance. “I am a peacemaker, that is all. Your sister is married to my brother and thus you are, in a sense, part of my family. I cannot abide enmity in the family.”

  Carefully, she did not look at him.

  “Peacemaker. Then why are we always at war?”

  “It is not of my making.”

  “No? On the few occasions when we’ve been forced together, you have not hesitated to sting me.”

  “I?” Elf inclined her head to the duchess. “I cannot recollect a one.”

  “Think back to when we first met. You immediately accused me of being a heartless brother.”

  Elf was so startled that he remembered that she looked at him. “Since you had utterly failed to support poor Chastity in her time of need—”

  “The whole world thought her an unruly wanton. She’d been found with a man in her bed! In fact, I saw her with a man in her bed.”

  “My brothers would not abandon me in such a case!”

  “We can only pray that your faith is never put to the test. And in the end,” he added, “I did duel with her scoundrely seducer, as is my fraternal duty.”

  “You dueled with Cyn, you wretch, rather than with that horrid Vernham!”

  Why, oh why, did they always squabble?

  He sobered. “I knocked Vernham out. Your damned brother prevented me from killing him. It did not mesh with his intricate scheme.”

  “Rothgar’s scheme worked,” she pointed out. “It brought about Cyn and Chastity’s marriage.”

  “Yet ended with my father’s death.”

  So, suddenly, they were spun from bickering into somber reality. “It could not be helped,” she said quietly. “He went mad and tried to kill the king’s mother.”

  “Driven mad by your brother.”

  “No. Driven over the brink, perhaps, but he was already mad. Chastity told me about her imprisonment in Maidenhead, about the way your father tried to beat her, and that you stopped it.”

  He looked away. “It is not mad for a father to beat a wayward daughter.”

  “Was he sane at that time, then?”

  She could sense tension in him, as if he fought invisible bonds. Fought to leave, or fought to stay? Or just fought memories? “No. No, he was not sane. He enjoyed hurting her. He would have enjoyed killing her, I think. But—”

  “But you did not want him dead, for he was your father. I understand.”

  He looked back then and even wore a smile, but a wry one. “You understand nothing, Elf, being blessed instead of cursed.” Again he paused, but this time by a window, far from blossoms and perfumes. “Cease this peacemaking. You are destined for disappointment. My father was a troubled man and your brother used him and me as if we were puppets. In the process, he destroyed us both. I will not forget.”

  “Your father was at fault, not my brother.”

  “But my father was my father, while your brother is your brother. You believe in family. You expect your brothers to support you, even if you are in the wrong. That is not a virtue reserved for the Mallorens, you know.”

  For the first time they were speaking seriously, and she was failing in her task. “But he’s dead,” she protested. “It’s past. Can’t time heal all wounds?”

  “It would appear not. Blood can be a soothing salve, however.”

  “I will not let you duel any of my brothers!”

  It was a ridiculous statement, but she was surprised when it summoned a faint smile from him. “You’ll sting me to death to prevent it?”

  This was not the Walgrave Lisette knew, but the hint of him made Elf’s lips unsteady. “I’ll do anything to prevent it. You are part of our family, deny it as you will. I will not let you kill in such a cause.”

  Suddenly his expression turned blank. “Are you saying your concern is for me?”

  “Well of course it is! You never asked to be entangled in any of this, and it isn’t fair that you suffer so. I can’t imagine that you will feel better if you manage to kill Rothgar, and it certainly won’t be easy to do.”

  “I might feel better if he killed me.”

  The flat tone caught at her heart. What could be so dire that he wished to be dead? Had his plan to force Bryght into a duel last year simply been an attempt at suicide?

  “Poor Elf,” he said, almost gently, touching her cheek, “you’ve turned pale and I am a wretch for invading your blithe existence with my dark soul.”

  After her time as Lisette, such a fleeting touch should not have startled her. It was the first time Fort had done such a thing to Elf Malloren, however, and her whole body quivered like a brushed harp string. His expression was different, too. Still somber, but not cold.

  “Take comfort, then,” he said. “I will cease trying to harm the Mallorens. I have been considering the matter for some time and you have just opened my mind. There are more kindly ways to carry my new responsibilities. Unless your brothers offend again, they are safe from me.”

  Trapped in incoherence, Elf could only say, “Thank you.”

  “ ’Tis nothing,” he said lightly. “And it frees you to devote your energies to stinging yourself a husband before you crumble entirely into dust.”

  With a brief kiss on her knuckles, he bowed and left her tumbling in a torrent of emotions.

  When she realized she was just standing there, Elf forced a light smile and strolled back toward her aunt as if supremely at ease. For comfort, she seized on the easiest emotion. Anger. Plague take the man for getting in the last word!

  That was such a minor part of it, however, that it hardly mattered.

  Suicide. He had considered killing himself or putting himself into a position where someone else could be depended upon to do it for him. Was that time past? His talk of more kindly ways offered hope, but it didn’t really address self-destruction.

  And what of his promise to end the feud? That should be unalloyed delight, and yet her heart ached.

  Absorbed by her thoughts, she changed course, for the ladies’ retiring room, hoping it would be empty and a suitable spot for contemplation.

  Apart from two maids who stood ready to offer assistan
ce, it was deserted. Elf settled on a sofa, fanned herself, and looked into a bleak future.

  How strange that the most meaningful conversation she had ever had with Fortitude Harleigh Ware could quite likely be their last.

  Where in the future would they meet? Despite his appearance here, Fort had little taste for balls and soirees. Elf rarely attended masculine events to do with sports or politics, and she certainly didn’t visit gaming houses and brothels.

  She should be delighted by the end of the feud. Considering the dangers caused by Fort’s enmity, she should be relieved that he had abandoned it and would cease meddling in her family’s affairs. Instead, she was painfully upset because they would rarely meet. Clearly her feelings for him were more serious than she had ever imagined.

  And he thought of her as a stinging pest.

  She considered two recent occasions when the whirling social eddies had thrown them together. Guiltily aware that her family was in some way at the root of his gloom, she had tried to lighten it. Perhaps she had become a little barbed as he clung to bitterness, but had she really been waspish?

  Perhaps she had. But if it took a sting to shock him out of his dark isolation, she didn’t regret it. In fact, she would apply it again!

  Truth was, she thought wistfully, she’d enjoyed their few encounters even when she’d thought him surly. From first meeting she’d been intrigued by him, and aware of her physical response.

  And now, because of Vauxhall, his insubstantial attractions had very real form. His body, his mouth, his taste could be summoned at will. In fact, they crept into her mind, will or not, at unlikely moments.

  More powerful perhaps than her knowledge of his body was that she had come to know him. She had seen him, really seen him, at ease with others. A phantasm of the man he could be, should be, haunted her mind. Not a saintly man, but one capable of consideration, kindness, and humor.

  One capable of joy.

  With a wry smile, Elf remembered both Chastity and Portia claiming Fort had those virtues. They had been proved correct.

  But what should she do in the future to help that promising young man triumph over the dark, embittered cynic?

  With a start, she remembered the Scots and treason. It was all tangled up together, though, for in the end she wanted Fort to be a carefree young man. She doubted he’d be that when facing noose or ax.

  She rose and checked her appearance in the mirror. Duty called. She must apply her mind to catching the traitors.

  Then, perhaps, just perhaps, she would sting Fort again and see what happened.

  Fort’s visit to the Devonshire ball had not cured his restlessness, for now Elfled Malloren was even more of a distracting presence in his mind. Perhaps his father’s insanity had been the type to run in families.

  Elf Malloren!

  No less suitable lady could be imagined, but for a moment there he had wanted her. Not physically, though she was well enough he supposed, but possessively. He’d wanted her for his own.

  The madness had struck when she’d said she was worried for him. He’d thought her devotion, her cheerful affection, reserved for her family. He’d envied them that. His sisters cared for him, but their family past left scars on all of them. Theirs wasn’t the unquestioning love Elf wrapped around her brothers.

  The thought of having that warmth for himself, of having someone who would believe in him, trust him, who would care, and smother every shadow in smiles and chatter . . .

  Gads. He’d used to think her chatter irritating, hadn’t he?

  Now, however, he realized it was her weapon of choice.

  Fort muttered a curse and rapped the roof of the carriage. When his coachman opened the trap, Fort directed him to drive to the establishment of Signor Angelo, the most noted instructor in duello in England. Even at this late hour, Angelo would not turn away his wealthiest student.

  Fort had become a regular at Angelo’s, practicing to kill Mallorens.

  “Why at this hour, my lord?” asked the Florentine, leading the way into his practice room, a large, plain chamber. The only decoration here came from the masks and weapons hanging on the walls. The empty space echoed their movements like a cavern.

  “Whim,” said Fort, stripping off his coat and waistcoat. “Ten times your normal fee, Angelo.”

  Dark eyes bright with interest, the swordsmaster bowed and went to light the wall sconces all around the room.

  Fort took off his shoes, chose a mask and a foil, and stood ready.

  “Whom do you want to kill now, my lord?” asked Angelo, moving en garde opposite.

  “Perhaps you.”

  Angelo laughed, saluting with the foil. “Buone fortuna! But I will not kill you for your impudence. I agree to your excessive demands, my friend, only because I do not want to see you dead at the end of a sword before you have found your way.” He lunged, Fort parried, riposted, and the bout was on.

  “Tonight,” said Fort, pressing his attack, “I do not want to kill. I am just restless.”

  “Aha!” cried the Italian, dancing backward, blade clicking and hissing in counterpoint to Fort’s. “It is a woman. At last, my friend, it is a woman!”

  “Damn your eyes, it is not!” Fort shouted, but then saved his breath as the swordsmaster executed a lightning move and he found himself hard-pressed.

  Chapter 8

  To evade Amanda’s perceptive eyes, Elf breakfasted in bed the next morning.

  She tried to keep her attention on treason, but found thoughts of Fort exploding in her mind like fireworks, making everything else invisible. It was his pain, she decided, picking at a currant bun, that had brought her to this state. At the Devonshire ball Fort’s cynical mask had slipped to show her he suffered. She couldn’t bear anyone to be in such pain.

  Pondering it through a sleepless night, she’d decided that the roots of the problem must lie in the matter of his father’s death.

  Before inheriting his title, Fort had been brash and fun-loving, if inclined to easy anger. With his family in crisis, anger had taken over, but there still had been none of this dark bitterness. That had only emerged after the tragic masquerade ball.

  Grief for his father?

  She didn’t think so. He lived under something darker and more twisted than grief.

  With a grimace, Elf wiped crumbs from her fingers with the linen serviette. She hadn’t eaten a morsel, and had no appetite to try.

  Thinking back to the masquerade in November of last year, she realized that she’d paid shockingly little attention to the fourth earl’s death. She’d not been in the hall when the shot had been fired. Immediately afterward she’d been busy tending to Princess Augusta and some other women who had fainted. As soon as the ball ended, she’d thrown herself into arranging Cyn and Chastity’s wedding.

  Now she wondered exactly what had happened to affect Fort in such a malignant way. She would have to find out. She suspected there would be no peace for anyone until she did.

  With frustration she realized this too would have to wait until one of her brothers turned up to tell her exactly what had happened.

  Where on earth were they? Three days had passed since she’d sent messages. At least one of them should be here by now. Everything was becoming too complex and intertwined, too hazardous for one person to handle, even a Malloren.

  What were those servants up to? She’d heard nothing. Suddenly she wondered if Grainger had ignored her instructions and kept reports from her. If so, she’d have his head! She rang for Chantal, then slid out of bed and dashed a note to Grainger demanding a report.

  The maid’s first command was to take the note to a footman to be delivered posthaste.

  Once dressed, Elf went downstairs to find that Amanda had gone to visit her old nurse, leaving a pile of invitations for scrutiny. Elf flicked through them without interest. The social whirl seemed increasingly pointless, though she was restless enough to want entertainment.

  She was restless enough to pace the room for hours, waiti
ng for word from Grainger, but instead she forced discipline upon herself. She sat in the sunlight with a piece of delicate stitchery, just as a lady should.

  Thus innocently occupied, she set to a tight analysis of the treasonous plot and her choice of actions. Instead, her mind kept twisting away to Fort as if seeking something in particular. Suddenly she tossed down her needlework and hurried back to hunt through the pile of invitations.

  Aha! She pulled out the one teasing her mind. Lady Yardley was holding a masquerade. Lady Yardley was a very proper matron and her entertainment would be nothing like Vauxhall. Why, then, had it caught Elf’s interest?

  Then she realized where her wanton mind was traveling.

  Lady Yardley was Fort’s aunt. That might mean he would put in an appearance. More to the point, at a masquerade she could be Lisette again. If he attended, he might recognize her scarlet and gold and seek her out. Perhaps in that setting Elf could meet the smiling, kindly Fort again.

  Of course, she would risk exposure, which would be embarrassing and could even be dangerous.

  Excitement warred with nervousness, holding her there staring at the engraved card until she was jerked out of her thoughts by a knock at the door.

  Amanda’s footman entered. “A person by the name of Roberts wishes to speak with you, milady.”

  Roberts?

  Who was Roberts?

  Then Elf remembered he was one of the Malloren servants set to watching Fort. She puffed out a breath, relieved to have something practical to drag her out of insanity.

  You have a possible threat to the king in your hands, she silently berated herself as she hurried after the footman. Yet all you can think about is dressing in scarlet and seeking out a wicked night with Fort Ware!

  With luck, Roberts knew where the Scots were living. That would give her some control over the situation.

  The footman took her to the housekeeper’s parlor, where Roberts waited, dressed in the breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He must surely blend into the crowded streets without trouble. It was comforting to see such expertise.