Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  “What could you have that I would want?” Rothgar queried, equally coolly. “Unless, of course, we are talking of a mechanical toy.”

  Toy? It sounded absurd to Elf, but a sudden tension showed otherwise.

  Color touched Fort’s cheeks, and he raised his chin. “Yes, I had it stolen from Rothgar Abbey for Murray to use in his plot. And yes, I hoped to cast some shadow over you.”

  “And the device does not concern you now?”

  “Why the devil should it?”

  “Because it disappeared last night.”

  Fort suddenly went pale. “God, I forgot . . . !” For a moment he looked at Elf, but flinched away as if he couldn’t stand the sight. “But it still can’t be the time. They had to get hold of some mystical stone.”

  “The Stone of Scone,” said Rothgar, all illusion of laziness gone. “What, precisely, have the king’s household been told?”

  “The Stone of . . . The Coronation stone? It’s gone?”

  “What have the king’s household been told?”

  Flinching under that tone, Fort matched Rothgar’s alertness. “To be careful of unexpected gifts.” After a moment, perhaps in response to Rothgar’s expression, he added, “Grenville didn’t want to be specific, fearing the king would tell Bute, and Bute would chatter of it.”

  “And in your case hoping that some blame would attach to me. Which means, I suppose, that the toy will be sent from me and thus not be entirely unexpected.” He turned to Cyn. “To Malloren House for our fastest horse, then all speed to Windsor to warn the king. Chastity, go with him and set Grainger to readying people to react on the instant. Send a message as well to Grenville.”

  As the couple ran out, Rothgar turned back to Fort, who was fighting his bonds. “The king, as you well know, was much taken with that toy. I had planned to give it to him on the birth of his child, and he knew it. Do you seriously think he will let his gentlemen prevent him from winding it up and seeing it work?”

  “They have been warned. Damn it. Untie me!”

  “There is nothing you can do that others cannot.”

  Elf interrupted the argument. “There was a large rock in the cellar where we were imprisoned.”

  Fort stared at her. “What? You never said anything.”

  “It was hardly of use in breaking out. It was about the size of a pillow.” She turned to Rothgar. “The stone is that, isn’t it? Just a flat boulder.”

  “Lightning blast you, let me free!”

  Rothgar ignored him. “So, they stole the stone, then put Walgrave out of action. In this cellar, I assume? I wonder why they didn’t kill you both.”

  “Because,” said Fort, “a dead earl causes more questions than a missing one.” He had ceased his struggles, and sagged wearily against the sofa back. “I’m sure they wanted as little mayhem as possible. The bloodshed is probably all your sister’s fault.”

  “Really!” exclaimed Elf. “How can that possibly be?”

  He turned to her. “Because in typical Malloren fashion, you meddled. Murray didn’t know what to make of you, and it heightened his nervousness to panic. In addition, you brought your own people into it, and that’s doubtless where the violence occurred.”

  “There may be some truth in that,” said Rothgar calmly. “But since they half killed the guard you had set on the toy, you can’t lay all the blood at our door. Do you know how long it would take to make the toy lethal?”

  “I am not precisely in their confidence,” Fort snapped. “They planned to pack the inner cavity with gunpowder and bits of metal so that when it was switched on, at a certain point it would explode, scattering shot all around.”

  “The chances being that if no hit was fatal, infection might carry the victim off.”

  Fort writhed once against his bonds, but then desisted, jaw tight. “I assume you intend to use this to destroy me.”

  “I? I am a singularly undestructive person. However, I do wish to have some words with you. Elf, leave us.”

  Elf looked between the two of them. “Not if you’re going to hurt him.”

  Rothgar turned to her, brows raised. “He is bound. I wouldn’t dream of it. But I could bear to know your feelings toward him.”

  She found it surprisingly difficult to give an honest response. “I . . . I do care for him. He didn’t force me or seduce me—”

  “Lisette!” exclaimed Fort maliciously. “Are you forgetting when I took you prisoner and tied you to my bed?”

  “Oh, be quiet! I remember perfectly well that you didn’t offend against me at all when you had me bound. And last night, I had the very deuce of a job to get you to agree to . . . to what we did.”

  “Sex on the floor,” recalled Fort. “Sex in the bed. Sex on a coffin . . .”

  Face flaming, Elf clenched her fists and let out a cry of pure exasperation.

  “. . . sex, now I recall it, in the coffin.” He turned to her with a deceptively bland expression. “I’m quite surprised, actually, that you can walk.”

  Elf turned away. “I think perhaps I hate him.”

  “I think perhaps you don’t,” said Rothgar, gently touching her shoulder. “Unfortunately, I suspect he hates you or he would not try to shame you so.”

  She turned into his arms, and he held her close, telling her without words that, as always, all his strength and all his love was hers. She could have wept for shame at what she’d done.

  “I am surprised,” he said. “I would have thought you the last person in the world to inspire such bitterness.”

  “He has reasons, Bey. Not good ones, but reasons.” She pulled out of her brother’s arms and turned to meet Fort’s cynical eyes. “I was disguised, you see, so he didn’t know who I was. And when he was vulnerable, I pushed for answers to painful questions. I meant well, but he told me more than he’d ever want to tell a Malloren. I hope that one day he’ll forgive me.”

  “My dear Elf,” said Fort, “I think the excitement has turned your brain. There will be no ‘one day.’ Cyn is going to kill me. I must admit that I had not counted on him being around. As you remember, I fenced with him once before and though I’ve been working at it, he is surely still my master.”

  “None of my brothers will kill you unless I give them permission.” She turned to Rothgar. “Will they?”

  After a moment he said, “Not for this offense.”

  At that, Fort looked up at Rothgar. “I’m astonished at your inhuman calm. Can I at least look forward to the fact that you will beat her?”

  “I doubt it. And you can take that in whatever way you want. Elf, go now.”

  Elf saw just how tight a rein her brother had on himself. Despairing of any words to make things better, she left the room.

  Sappho waited in the hall, a pile of men’s black clothing over her arm. “Is Walgrave likely to need these?” she asked. “I sent to his house for them, but a winding sheet might be more appropriate.”

  “I gather he’s not going to die.” Lips unsteady, Elf touched the coat, seeing buttons she remembered from Midsummer Night on his boat. “Oh, God. I’ve created a disaster!”

  “Not at all.” Sappho put an arm around her. “It is my philosophy to put all such disasters firmly to the credit of men, and to leave men to sort them out.”

  Rothgar watched his sister leave the room and studied the closed door for a moment before turning to look at Fort. “Don’t brace yourself. I have no intention of touching you.”

  Fort rested his head back, eyes closed. “I gather I am just to be bludgeoned with words then. Don’t you think, with a father such as mine, I have developed calluses against that?”

  “I would be astonished to hear that he restricted himself to words. In fact, Walgrave, I need to offer you an apology.”

  Fort’s eyes opened to rest on the older man. “Now you do surprise me.”

  “I thought I might. My feelings about my sister’s involvement with you will depend largely on future events. That has little connection to my sin, which is t
hat of misjudging you.”

  “I am bewildered but entranced. Go on.”

  Rothgar moved to sit in a chair a good ten feet from the sofa. “Before Cyn’s involvement with Chastity, you were no more than a name to me, only of interest as the heir to a man who had become my enemy. I had assessed you to be the common sort of young buck, interested only in weapons, women, and wine.”

  “Ah, those were the days . . .”

  Rothgar continued. “Having come into my inheritance too early, I lack experience of the tedium of living under the shadow of a father who will give his son no part to play. Our encounters over Chastity’s affairs merely confirmed that you were uninteresting. Except, perhaps, after the fencing match.”

  “You were impressed because I didn’t sulk when beaten?”

  “Precisely.”

  Fort studied the marquess for a moment. “I don’t recall a warming of your attitude.”

  “Few people ever do. Nor did I warm. I merely noted it, and subsequently forgot to take it into account. You are correct in thinking I did my best to make you the instrument of your father’s death.”

  Fort sucked in a breath. “And now you think an apology will make all right?”

  “Not at all. Apologies rarely change anything. I am apologizing to ease my own conscience, and in the faint hope that it might help you come to terms with your situation. And I am not apologizing for using you. It was a completely logical strategy.”

  “Oh, please. Tell me why.”

  “I intend to. I had no fixed plan that night other than to show your father the proof of his treason and thus compel him to agree to Chastity’s marriage. Knowing your father’s temperament, I did hope to drive him to kill himself, for he was a dangerous poison to leave loose. I did not expect, however, that he would try to kill someone else. I should have. Suicide is perhaps the greatest act of self-blame. Your father never blamed himself for anything.”

  “Another miscalculation. You must have been in an agony of self-blame. What a pity—”

  “—I did not kill myself?” Rothgar smiled. “I have learned to handle guilt. I have, however, blamed myself for misjudging you. As your father raged in the hall, waving his pistol, you, Bryght, and myself were nearby with weapons of our own. I instantly decided that your father should die, but it really would have been inconvenient to have a Malloren do it. I and your father were known to be at odds, and in his ravings he was spewing lies about me and treason. I merely left it till the last moment, hoping you would prove to be the rather shallow man of action I thought you to be.”

  Fort shrugged slightly. “As I am. I killed him.”

  “You could have wounded him. You could probably have shot the pistol from his hand. You’re a good shot and you were close.”

  Fort’s jaw clenched. “I thought this was an apology, not an inquisition.”

  “Milles pardons.” Rothgar inclined his head. “Of course you had to kill him to save your family from ruin. The apology is because I misjudged you and gave no thought to you afterward. I assumed you to be the sort of clod who could kill a father—even a hated father—without a scar. I have come to see that is not so. As far as I can tell, your actions since becoming earl have been responsible and mature, except insofar as they concern my family. I have to suggest to you that as your father turned his own self-blame against me and Princess Augusta, so you are turning it against all Mallorens.”

  “So, you think I’m mad. Now that’s a pot calling a kettle black.”

  “It really is quite pointless to jab at me, Walgrave. I am armored beyond any weapon you possess. Yes, the blood of a mad mother runs in my veins. Your father was not mad, except at the end. He was a man who loved power too much, and considered the effect of his actions too little. He was also handicapped by pride, an uncontrolled temper, and an inability to accept being crossed. I suggest you contemplate those flaws.”

  The marquess stood and straightened a snowy lace ruffle. “My apology is for misjudging you, and for putting you in a position that has caused you pain, then leaving you without aid.”

  “You think I would have accepted succor from you?”

  Rothgar merely continued. “Your pain shows, however, that you have a soul. I would not reject you as a suitor for Elf’s hand.”

  Fort laughed. “Are we, perhaps, finished? I’m damned uncomfortable.”

  “Yes. We are finished.” Rothgar walked out of the room.

  In a moment, Sappho came in and cut the ropes that bound Fort to the sofa. He moved his arms to the front, wincing, and stood with a groan.

  “Would you like a hot bath before you dress, my lord?” she asked.

  “Oh, call me Fort.” He rubbed his battered hands over his face. “After tonight, any attempt to stand on dignity seems absurd, don’t you think? But I must reject your kind offer. I have things I have to do.”

  Elf paced the hall, listening intently, but heard no shouting or sounds of mayhem. When Rothgar emerged, he looked unruffled. But then, he generally did.

  Her mouth dried. She supposed now she would face the real consequences of her folly. He merely said, “I assume you wish to return home.”

  “Yes, please.”

  It had never occurred to her to question that she would return to Malloren House, but she realized many families would bar the door against a fallen woman. What was Rothgar going to do?

  He merely took her hand to lead her out to the coach, which had returned for them. Once inside, however, he said, “I do have words for you.”

  “Yes?” Pain tightened within her and it was fear—not of punishment, but of his disappointment.

  “I warned you once about Walgrave.”

  “I meant no harm,” she said again.

  “Those, my dear, are the most damning words in the language. You should have realized the rawness of his feelings and given him time to heal. Instead, you picked at him, demanding a response he was not capable of.”

  “Did I do that? He called me Vespa.”

  “At least he didn’t call you Torquemada.”

  “Who?”

  “An infamous torturer.”

  “I am beginning to feel very poorly educated!”

  “You cannot blame me for that. You were educated with Cyn, but were always of a flighty disposition. I should have suspected the apparent change.”

  “Oh, Bey . . .” At the hint of humor in his voice, Elf brushed at tears in her eyes. She wasn’t sure she deserved his understanding, and desperately wanted to soften his feelings toward Fort.

  “He’s a different person when not dealing with Mallorens, you know. That’s what caused my ruin. Now, though, I’m not sure that person can ever exist for me.”

  “This time, you will have to give him a chance to heal.”

  “I’ve discovered that I am not of a patient disposition.” Elf looked at the small scabs still remaining from the first step of this adventure. “I’m afraid of what he might do.” She was equally afraid to tell her brother of Fort’s threats to make the whole story public.

  Rothgar took her hand and studied the marks, but he made no comment. “I don’t say you must leave him be. I’m no oracle on these matters. Just be careful, and don’t push for more than he is ready to give.”

  “Bey, what if I’m with child?”

  “You must have thought of that.”

  “I did. I know these things happen. I can travel . . . But it will be his child, too.”

  “Then I think you must tell him. But I will not force a marriage. That would surely set the stage for tragedy.”

  “Would it? I think I was hoping that you would.”

  “Tush, tush. And you so independent. If you want him, my dear, you’ll have to woo him for yourself. Just step carefully. Now, enough of that. We are home, and you must explain your part in this.”

  In an abrupt change of rhythm, he swept her into Malloren House in a whirlwind of questions and commands to hovering servants. Roberts, angrily grieving the slain Sally, was ordered to lead a
party to the old tavern to see if the stone was still there and to scoop up any lingering Scots. A note to Grenville assured that a troop of soldiers would go there too, and that all ships sailing down the river would be stopped and searched.

  In the middle of this, Bryght walked in. “I smell mayhem in the air. And since I received an urgent summons . . .”

  He was tall, dark, and astonishingly handsome, and his eyes sparkled with interest.

  “You’re late for the action,” said Rothgar, and gave a brief account which made Bryght’s eyes widen, especially when Rothgar made no secret of Elf’s activities.

  “ ’Struth, Elf! And we’re not supposed to kill the villain?”

  “Not until she gives us permission. Which is unlikely to be provided, I fear.”

  “Pay attention, Bryght,” said Elf, pausing in a restless pacing to face him. “I decided that I wanted Fort to make love to me. I chased him and insisted on it. He gave me a number of opportunities to change my mind. And when we did it”—she cursed the heat in her cheeks—“he made it very, very good for me. If I’d been able to be honest about who I was, I would have no regrets at all. I don’t see why I should be denied all experience, all adventure, just because I’m a woman!”

  “You should get your experience in marriage,” Bryght pointed out.

  “As you did, I suppose.”

  “It’s not the same. You could be pregnant.”

  “And you could have caught the pox!”

  “I was careful.”

  “Since there doesn’t seem to be any way to be careful about pregnancy—”

  “Actually, there are a few.”

  “What?” Elf stared between her brothers. “Do you mean to tell me there are things a woman can do so as not to conceive a child, and I don’t know about them?”

  “What use would they be?” Bryght demanded. “They’re whores’ tricks!”

  Elf picked up a large, valuable Chinese vase and hurled it onto the floor. “The world needs changing.”

  “Probably,” said Rothgar, amused. “At the moment, however, we need to make sure that some murderous traitors are dealt with without damage to our family’s reputation. I don’t entirely trust Grenville. I’m for Court. Bryght, you go with Roberts to see to the Stone of Scone and any malefactors who turn up there. I assume Portia is not with you?”