Jo Beverley (28 page)

He straightened. “Damaris, we spoke of imagining ourselves the center of every situation. Your father was a man with a business empire that must have demanded every waking moment. I’m sure he did neglect you, but I doubt he had time for such a petty war.”

She shook her head. “No, I know him. I know him with the tainted blood that runs through my veins. He would do that. He’d use any weapon to hand to win the war, and it was war. I don’t understand it, but it was.”

She paced away from him and back again. “I’m afraid of my heritage, Fitz. I think he and my mother were closer in their natures than it appeared. He had little time to spend on obsessive dislike, and she had time for nothing else. I know why she hated him, but why did he hate her? He won. He had everything. I dread what’s in that chest.”

“Then leave it to me. I’ll check through it and let you know.”

“No, I need to do it.”

“Very well.” He opened the door and stood back for her to go through.

As she came close, she asked, “Shall I summon Maisie?”

“I believe we are strong enough. Where is it?”

His words put a bond on her, as if she’d made a promise. If perfect behavior was the price of his company, she’d pay it.

“It’s in a box room,” she said, and walked past him.

But he said, “Damaris.”

She paused.

“Consider that you may have the best of your parents rather than the worst. Any quality can be both good and bad.”

“Obsession?”

“The ability to focus on a target.”

“As I did with Ashart,” she said.
As I am now with you
. “What of spite?”

He shook his head. “As best I know, your father was brave, inventive, hardworking, and able to attract excellent, willing service. Your mother I know little of, and she probably was warped by his callous treatment, but I suspect that somewhere you’d find a practical, resourceful woman.”

“Then why couldn’t she put aside her mistake and make a new life from the fragments?”

He smiled. “There speaks your father, but your mother had a more passionate, less pragmatic heart.” Softly he added, “As do you.”

She smiled sadly. “It’s a perilous gift.”

She led the way up to the small room where the plain wooden chest sat amongst other boxes and trunks. Damaris wrinkled her nose. “I recognize that smell. My mother’s bedroom smelled like that.”

“Because she kept the chest under her bed.” Fitz put the branch of candles he’d brought on a pile of boxes, then opened the small window. “At least the stink doesn’t suggest a corpse.”

“Lud! Don’t even suggest it.”

“General rot, I’d say, with an overlay of spices and perfume. Let’s see these wonders of the Orient. Do you have the key?”

“No. I’m not sure where it is.”

He knelt and applied his lock picks. Damaris leaned against the closed door, allowing herself to admire his graceful movements and steady concentration. She was on her way to solving the problem of her safety, but what use was life without him?

He unlocked it, then rose. “Do you want the honor?”

She walked forward. “This little courage I believe I have.”

She tugged, but the lid was stuck. He lent his hand to her, perhaps before he thought that touch was unwise. As soon as the lid jerked up, he stepped back. At the smell, she retreated, too.

“What a mess!” She moved closer again to gingerly pick up embroidered white silk that was hopelessly stained by a lump of gray stuff sticking to it. She let go of the silk and brought her fingers to her nose to sniff. “Ambergris. From the belly of a whale and used to make perfumes. Precious in small amounts, but vile in excess.”

“Like some people I know.”

It was a joke, and she looked up at him in startled pleasure. It didn’t change anything, but it was wondrous.

“Perhaps we should do this outdoors,” she said.

“Too dangerous. Don’t wipe your fingers on your skirts.” He passed her his handkerchief. “Why put ambergris on precious silk? Your mother was so careless?”

“She was the antithesis of careless. No, I suspect this chest is a careful testament to hate.” She pulled the silk out of the way to reveal shattered, once-lovely vials and a wash of colored stains.

A thin wooden box poked up at one side. She pulled it out and realized it was a portfolio. When she untied silk cords, she found Oriental drawings, each ripped into quarters.

“And then she carefully put them away.” Damaris dropped the portfolio back into the trunk. “She was mad, and she was my mother.”

He put an arm around her and drew her close. She felt in his body the moment when he realized he shouldn’t do it, but he didn’t push her away.

“She was deeply hurt,” he said, rubbing her back. “Anyone can become overwrought when deeply hurt.”

Was he thinking of his brother?

She drew in strength from his tenderness, strength enough to draw back, to separate. “He sent these things to hurt her. As an insult, a reminder that his world was the Orient, not Worksop. She hit back by destroying them. But why keep them? Why live with the stink?”

She answered herself. “Dear heaven, so she would remember. So she would never heal. And perhaps because she hoped that one day he’d know what she’d done with them! She must have expected to die first, for she went wild when we received news of his death. I couldn’t understand why. I assumed she must have loved him after all. But it was because he’d escaped her one last, absolute time. She was mad, mad!”

He cradled her face. “Don’t, love. They worked out their spite on each other. Let it die with them.” She thought he might kiss her, and prayed for it, but he stepped away and closed the chest. “Let me get rid of it.”

His suggestion was sensible, but she rebelled. “No. Perhaps there’s something that can be rescued.”

His look was skeptical, but he opened the chest again.

She leaned forward and pulled up another layer of cloth—a stiff and rich garment of some kind, stained and stinking—but all she found beneath was a mess of crushed scrolls, shattered figurines, and more broken vials. “And it can only be worse below.”

She straightened and pulled on a golden cord that trailed out at one side. A gilded leather pouch came free. The leather was stained, but when she opened it the contents seemed unspoiled.

“Documents.” She stepped back to empty the papers onto a flat surface. She unfolded one and read it. “A copy of a letter she sent him. The same old complaints of abandonment and cruelty. What was the point?”

“She couldn’t let go of a bone, no matter how bitter it tasted.”

She looked at him. “As I was with Ashart.”

“He’s hardly bitter to any woman’s taste.”

“He’s not to my taste anymore.” She didn’t want to distress him, so she opened another letter. “More of the same. Why?”

He took it from her. “Dwelling on these things is another sort of poison. Sometimes people’s actions make no sense, and fretting over them is destructive. Let me check through this chest for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, but she gathered the papers back into the pouch.

“You should let me dispose of those, too. If you preserve them, you’ll preserve what they represent.”

“I won’t. But I feel I should at least glance at them before burning them.”

They emerged from the room to almost collide with a footman.

“Your lawyer asks for you, Miss Myddleton.”

“Thank you.” When the man left, Damaris turned to Fitz. “Am I presentable?”

He smiled. “Not for court, perhaps, but adequate for lawyers.”

Another little joke. She returned his handkerchief, unable to stop herself from saying something she shouldn’t. “I love you, Fitz. Whatever becomes of all this, I do. That is a treasure of itself, and I’ll not let it spoil.”

“But precious oil can ruin silk. Some combinations aren’t meant to be.” He touched her cheek. “Hearts don’t truly break, Damaris. They crack a little, but in time they heal. Like chilblains.”

She groaned at that descent to the mundane and hurried away. Despite humor there was no joy in her cracked heart. She could fight everyone else in the world, but how could she fight him, the strongest person she’d ever known?

As she approached the reception room she realized she still clutched the bag, and it carried the curdled aroma of ambergris and spices. She gave it to a statuelike footman to take to her bedchamber.

In the room she found her will ready to sign. Rothgar was there, along with two men who looked like upper servants. She read through the document and signed it; then the men witnessed her signature. In theory she was now safe, but that depended upon her half brother’s hearing about the will.

And being sane enough to accept that he’d lost.

When Mr. Dinwiddie and the witnesses left, she asked Rothgar, “Is there any word yet about my brother?”

“You were correct that his mother and he lived in Rosemary Terrace. Under the name Myddleton. He left there after her death, however, and sold the house. I haven’t yet discovered his new home. When we do, I doubt he’ll be conveniently waiting for us.”

“How could he hope to get away with this?”

“If your death had looked accidental, all would have been well. The crossbow attack is more curious. I suspect he’ll have an alibi.”

“Meaning only that he has someone else do the work. The drink in Pickmanwell was probably the work of a man with crooked teeth. Do we know if my brother looks like that?”

“No. He’s stocky, robust, and dark, with straight, even teeth.”

“That sounds like my father, which is only natural.” She looked up at the marquess. “Fitzroger wants to kill him.”

“A natural instinct. As it stands, alas, it would be murder. There are ways of dealing with such people short of that.”

She shivered. “It may not really be his fault. It’s my father’s blood running in us. What we want, we grasp, no matter what or who stands in the way.”

“Yet I don’t believe that you’d kill for gold, especially if you already possessed enough for comfort.”

“No.”

“To do so is evil, Damaris. Life is not sacred. If it were we would not execute criminals or wage war. But a life is worth more than gold. It is always worth more than gold.” He considered her. “You’ve left Fitzroger a substantial sum.”

The sudden switch of subject was a trick of his, but she was learning. “I don’t think I gave you permission to read my will, Lord Rothgar.”

“True, but it seemed important to know whom to watch next.”

“Not Fitz.” His brow rose slightly, but she didn’t fluster over the nickname. “And not Maisie or Genova, either. Should I watch you, my lord?”

He smiled. “Always, but I won’t slip poison into your wine to gain a burden like that.”

She lost patience with subtleties and fencing. “My lord, is Fitzroger’s scandal as dire as he thinks?”

He studied her. “He was caught in flagrante delicto with his brother’s wife. In a subsequent brawl, his brother received a blow to the head that left him subject to unpredictable rages.”

“He was fifteen, and she must have been much older.”

“Twenty-five, I believe.”

“Doesn’t that exonerate him somewhat?”

“My dear, we hang fifteen-year-olds for stealing bread. Many think it wise to cut off such poisonous shoots young.”

“Fitz’s army career argues that he’s no poisonous shoot.”

“To many he remains a dubious plant.”

Did the fact that he was discussing this mean he didn’t dismiss the possibility of a marriage? Or that it was unthinkable?

“Why is he still dubious?” she asked. “He’s clearly highly trusted in some quarters.”

He led her to a chair, and when they were both seated he said, “Five years ago he was taken away from his regiment to serve as flunky to generals and diplomats. Few know that he was a talented bodyguard who saved many lives. Sometimes diplomacy requires that defense and even attacks be kept secret. The effect, however, was that some thought he had contrived a life of ease away from the battlefield.”

“That’s horribly unfair.”

“Undoubtedly. Do you want him?”

She’d expected the question sooner or later, but it still stole her breath.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “But he thinks he’s unworthy of me because of that scandal. No, I think it’s more because of the injury to his brother. The headaches, the insane rages. How do I solve all this?”

“So wrens make play where eagles dare not perch,” he said. “Facts cannot be changed.”

“No?” She suspected he changed them whenever it suited him.

Perhaps his lips twitched. “His brother reannounces them at every opportunity, and Fitzroger has never denied them.”

“What’s the truth of his sister-in-law’s death?”

“In her guilt and shame she threw herself down a stairwell.”

“Or was pushed.”

“Or was pushed. But Lady Leyden told the world that her son was asleep at the time, drugged to deal with one of his violent headaches, which of course are a consequence of Fitzroger’s brutality.”