Jo Beverly (12 page)

So, this was family business, except for herself. She was a key witness. She glanced at Ashart, who seemed
blandly uninterested, as if none of these events concerned him.

When called upon, she gave a carefully edited account of the acquiring of the baby, again leaving out anything to pin down Ashart’s part in it.

“How strange it is,” Lady Arradale said. “What should we do now?”

“Why, reunite little Charlie with his parents!” Thalia announced. “It will be in the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps it’s a case similar to when Christ was mislaid in the Temple.”

Genova almost choked on a crumb. “Reunion would be excellent, Thalia, but Lady Booth must know where her baby is.” She looked at Ashart. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

He met her gaze as tranquilly as an innocent angel. “She has that regrettable sense of direction, my dear.”

Genova kept her smile in place. “Then we must find and redirect her, my lord. I believe you were to try.”

“I was distracted”—his eyes said how—“but it shouldn’t be difficult. She has a house in Ireland.”

“She clearly is not there now.”

“But she must return there, or join fashionable circles in January—like a frog returning to its pond.”

This time Genova almost choked on a laugh. She put down the delicious lemon cake for the duration of battle. “In
January
, my lord? Your frog analogy is not quite apt.”

“Poetic license. I am,” he added, “ardently in favor of license.”

She spotted a target and fired at it. “A
marriage
license, you mean?”

“But of course!” Perdition, she’d forgotten the betrothal again. “A necessary evil in these reformed days. Once, we gentlemen could simply ride off with brides of wealth, nobility, and beauty.”

As he spoke, however, he turned from Genova to Lady Arradale and bowed slightly. Genova almost choked on air. Surely he wouldn’t take that line of attack? It could lead straight to a duel.

The countess parried his sultry look with one declaring that he was talking nonsense. Lord Rothgar seemed oblivious.

“A marriage license!” declared Thalia. “We’ll need one for a Christmas wedding. How is that done?”

“We’re in no hurry,” Ashart said quickly, calm cracking, “and Genova prefers banns.”

“You do, dear? Why?”

Genova thought of giving him the lie, but it wouldn’t serve. “I believe in traditional ways, Thalia.”

“Then we share that interest, Miss Smith,” Lord Rothgar said. “We celebrate Christmas here with all the old customs, as you will see. As for the missing mother, the weather is sharp and Christmas approaches. I will not send servants on an errand that isn’t urgent. Later will be soon enough to hunt her down.”

It was said pleasantly, but an image of baying hounds cracked the elegant hospitality.

“Miss Smith. Your cup is empty.” Lady Arradale smiled at Ashart. “Please bring Miss Smith’s cup to be refilled.”

Tense from the previous exchange, Genova expected Ashart to refuse the command. After a moment he obeyed, but she was sure this noble informality seemed as strange to him as it did to her. Probably in his own home he never lifted a finger to do anything.

Lady Arradale poured. “It would help to be able to communicate with the maid. Do we have any Gaelic speakers, Bey?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I’ll inquire.”

Genova paused in the act of taking back her cup. Extraordinary that a highborn lady call her husband by a familiar name in public, but no one here seemed surprised.

“That does strike me as strange, however,” Lord Rothgar added. “Ashart, does Lady Booth speak Gaelic?”

“I’ve seen no sign of it. I gather the Anglo-Irish can get by without.”

“So why hire a wet nurse with whom she couldn’t communicate? Would she have lacked choice? Was there perhaps another servant who could interpret?”

“Or,” Ashart said, “with this plan in mind, did she want a servant who could tell no tales?”

A connection clicked between the cousins, but Genova couldn’t tell if it was a meeting of minds or the tap of steel blades.

“Precisely.” Lord Rothgar almost purred it. “We must find a translator. Alas, that truth will probably have to wait a few days.”

Ashart took out his snuffbox. “Alas, indeed, but truth, like gold, never decays. Thus it lurks, like a keg of gunpowder beneath a house.”

Genova heard her cup rattle and held it to stop the noise. Her sudden tremble wasn’t because of the words, which meant nothing to her, but because of the reaction she’d glimpsed on Lord Rothgar’s face.

Ashart had said something crucial, and Lord Rothgar had moved
en garde.
What? Guy Fawkes had attempted to blow up King James I using gunpowder stored below Parliament, but that was ancient history now.

The fleeting disturbance was gone without a trace. Lord Rothgar accepted a pinch of snuff from his cousin. “Marcus Aurelius was predictably naive when he claimed that no one was ever hurt by the truth.”

Ash offered snuff to Lord Bryght, who declined. “Doesn’t the Bible say that truth will set us free?”

“But is it worth the price?” Rothgar asked. “Freedom is never free. We must be willing to pay everything for it.”

“Seneca.” Ashart inclined his head, as if acknowledging a point scored. “He also said there is no genius without madness.”

Madness.

Instead of showing alarm, Lord Rothgar smiled. “I
am merely Daedalus, creator of mazes. Are we somewhat lost?”

“A maze?” interrupted Thalia. “Do you have a maze here, Beowulf? How delightful! I should love to try it.”

The ice of danger shattered.

“Alas, my dear, I do not. How could I have been so thoughtless?”

Thalia gave a little pout, but then smiled again. “It would doubtless not have been pleasant in winter. This has been so delightful, my dear boy, but now I need to retire. Such a long day.”

Lord Rothgar was there first, but Genova hurried to Thalia’s side, grateful for escape, and that Thalia had cut short that exchange, surely on purpose. Even so, she still prickled with awareness of a circling storm.

As they followed a footman upstairs, Thalia chattered of apricot crisps and tapestries and mazes and nothings. Genova was shocked by an urge to scream at her to shut up.

Oh, for a private space, no matter how mean, and peace and quiet in which to think!

A
 sh followed Thalia and Miss Smith out of the room, but not up the stairs. He had no desire for talk or scrutiny, though Thalia’s intervention had been as well. A duel to the death, even a verbal one, would be inconvenient.

“Are you accepting the olive branch?”

He turned to find Rothgar behind him. “Was the invitation here an olive branch?”

“What else?”

“A call to battle?”

One of the elegant hounds had accompanied its master, and Rothgar idly stroked its silky ears. “The enmity has always come from the Trayce side.”

“Has it? What was your purpose in inviting my family here?”

“How distressing,” Rothgar said, apparently to the dog, “to have a reputation that makes an invitation to Christmas revelries a matter for suspicion.” He looked up. “This is Boudicca, by the way.”

Ash was aware of being given a breathing moment, but took it. “What sort of dog is she?”

“A Persian gazelle hound. We have persuaded her and Zeno not to pursue the deer. It doubtless causes them frustration, but in a civilized world we cannot follow our rude natures. Perhaps you would like a pup from the next litter.”

After a moment, Rothgar added, “I make that offer only to people I believe know how to value a gift.”

Ash snapped his guards in place. “You cannot know me well enough to judge.”

“I have observed you. Having—I apologize for the unfairness—over ten years advantage on you, I have witnessed many stages.”

“So you baited your hook, and I took it.” Damnation. He was being pushed into leaving.

Rothgar’s brows rose. “I sent an invitation. I didn’t think you would come.”

“I wouldn’t have except for Genova, and the great-aunts.” Ash launched a dart. “You could have visited them anytime during the past thirty years.”

“I confess, I never thought of it. Given their fond memories, I’m slain with remorse.”

“Not apparently.”

“Perhaps I’m a walking corpse. How would you know?”

“I could stab you to see if you bleed.”

“But how embarrassing if I did.” Rothgar picked up a crystal dish from a nearby table and offered it. “Apricot crisp?”

Bemused, Ash picked one up and nibbled. “Very tasty.”

“And I haven’t had any since I was a child. You see how the disagreements between our families harm us all. You can have more if you stay. Having breached the portals it would be a shame, don’t you think, to leave with treats as yet untasted?”

Ash felt as if he was being entangled in gilded whimsy. “What if I’m here to seek out your weaknesses and use them against you?”

“Like Loki?”

Ash started at the apt reference to the Norse god of discord and destruction.

Rothgar spread his hands in apparent invitation. “Please, tell me first. I will follow the Bible and pluck them out. That excepts, of course, my family, especially my wife.”

At last, the blade. “My grandmother thought Lady Arradale would be an ideal wife for me.”

“The Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, as always, was wrong, but at least her taste is excellent. You should not let her ride and spur you, you know.”

“I’m her only surviving descendant.”

“She has grandchildren in Scotland and a daughter in a French convent. And of course,” Rothgar added, “she has me.”

This surprised a laugh, which Ash instantly regretted. He took a step back, a physical disengagement. “I’m welcome to stay?”

“You were invited, Cousin, but an invitation was never necessary. My relatives are always welcome in my homes.”

“Perhaps I should encourage our grandmother to come here, too.”

Ash expected at least a twitch of resistance, but Rothgar appeared completely unperturbed. “I would be charmed if you could arrange it.”

Thwarted, Ash turned and went up to his room. Rothgar had revealed nothing when he’d seen the baby and Miss Smith, nor when Ash had tossed a hint of the threat he held at his throat. It was frustrating, but exhilarating. He hadn’t known until now how he’d hungered to bring the contest into the open.

He had been raised to see the Mallorens as his enemy, as a cunning evil to be destroyed. In his grandmother’s eyes they were not only the cause of her daughter’s death, but of her husband’s, and possibly of two sons. She’d blame Aunt Harriet’s death from smallpox on them if she could.

It had burgeoned out of all reason, but suggestion of softening threw his grandmother into a tempest of rage and hurt, and certainly Rothgar was no long-suffering saint.

Could his apparent moves toward peace be trusted? The proof of that could be his willingness to clear away Molly’s mess, but that alone would require negotiations as complex and delicate as the Peace of Paris.

Which, as John Wilkes had remarked, “is like the Peace of God. It passeth all understanding.”

Bryght Malloren came out of the Tapestry Room to find his brother in an unusual state of contemplation. “He escaped unharmed?”

“Of course.” Rothgar led away from the hall to his office. Once the door shut, he asked, “Why do you think he came?”

“A chance meeting with his great-aunts?”

“If I’d known he merely needed an excuse, I would have provided one years ago. No, there’s been a change of some sort. The question is, how do we use it to reform him?”

“Struth, you plan to turn him virtuous?”

“I have little interest in his virtue. I plan to turn him into a proper cousin.”

“Bey, some family rifts cannot be healed.”

“With a Malloren, are not all things possible?”

“No,” Bryght said bluntly.

Rothgar smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps, but this is worth an attempt. So, what do we have that can hold him?”

“Whatever reason brought him here. What was all that about truth?”

“Interesting, wasn’t it? I suspect he holds some evidence that he believes could be a mistletoe branch.”

“Don’t you mean an olive branch?”

Rothgar shook his head. “I did try to have you educated well. Balder, Norse god of light, was impervious to all weapons except those made of mistletoe. When Loki, god of discord, discovered his weakness, he used it to kill him.”

Bryght’s hand twitched to where a sword might be. “You think Loki comes bearing weapons that could slay you? What?”

“An interesting question.”

“Bey!”

Rothgar smiled at him. “I merely seek to spare you anxiety. He will not succeed.”

“Ashart’s a ne’er-do-well in some ways, but he doesn’t make idle threats.”

“I should hope not. Since I have no desire to destroy him, we shall have to convince him to love us.”

“For Zeus’s sake!”

“What do you think of Miss Smith?”

Bryght frowned at the switch of topic. “You think she’s Ashart’s ally?”

“If so, she acts the opponent well. I thought it a most interesting exchange. Shall I play Cupid?”

“Ashart and a paid companion?”

“She’s the daughter, apparently, of a naval officer.”

“Even so.”

Rothgar tut-tutted. “You in particular should know that the right wife is more valuable than rubies, that personal qualities matter more than aristocratic bloodlines and a large dowry.”

“Says he who married a peeress who owns a large bite of the north of England.”

“You think that was an
easy
choice? Next year, by the way, we Christmas in Yorkshire.”

Bryght shuddered. “In that case, my family will celebrate the season in our own, southern home.”

“As you will. According to Lady Thalia, Ashart and Miss Smith are already betrothed.”

Bryght stared. “She is somewhat dotty.”

“I suspect she’s as dotty as she cares to be, but it’s true that they don’t seem besotted. It has, however, provided Ashart with an excuse to stay. Is that its sole purpose? Another mystery to amuse us over the holidays. Delightful, wouldn’t you say?”