Jo Beverly (16 page)

Groaning at her faux pas, Genova made to retreat, but he rose, smiling. “Miss Smith. Another early riser. Join me, please.”

Genova curtsied. “I’m sorry if I intrude, my lord.”

“The table is laid for a reason, and I prefer conversation, if it is available, to reading at breakfast. Of course,” he added, holding out the chair next to him in invitation, “if you cannot bear the thought, I shall have some reading matter brought for you.”

Genova sat, both unnerved and flattered. It was simple courtesy, of course, an obligation to make guests at ease, but she felt as if she was truly brightening his day.

He took his seat, ringing a golden bell by his plate. A footman appeared from the corner of the room as if by magic. Genova realized that there was a service entrance concealed by the paneling. There would be a serving pantry, and probably stairs from there to the kitchens. Beyond the magnificent scale of this house lay another world necessary for its functioning.

She requested eggs and chocolate. A platter of rolls already sat on the table, so she took one and buttered it.

Once the footman left, Rothgar said, “Tell me, Miss Smith, what is your opinion of Lady Booth Carew?”

Genova had expected polite talk about the weather, not this. “It is not my place….”

“Come now, didn’t you fight Barbary pirates? I’d think you could wield sharp-edged truth.”

She could hardly refuse, and owed Lady Booth Carew no charity. “Very well, my lord, she seemed a thoughtless, selfish woman. Even so, I’m shocked that she abandoned her baby to strangers.”

“Not all mothers are devoted, and of course, she may not have thought the child would end up with strangers.”

Delicately put, but the inference was familiar. “Lord Ashart.”

“Quite. He supports at least three bastards that I know of, but Lady Booth was optimistic if she thought he would support hers.”

The footman returned then, saving Genova from an immediate response. So, Lord Rothgar kept himself informed about his cousin. Sadly, her mind was stumbling over the fact that Ashart was known to have bastards. Ridiculous to be shocked or offended. He was a libertine and a rake, and at least he did support them.

“What do you suppose Lady Booth thought would happen?” Rothgar asked, pouring chocolate for her.

Genova hadn’t considered that question before, and sipped as she did so. “I think she’s a very stupid woman.”

“But not insane.”

“I can only assume that she thought Lord Ashart would take care of the baby, and be embarrassed by that. Which suggests that she doesn’t know him well at all.”

“Or perhaps that she had some other plan. We will discover the truth eventually.”

Wasn’t there a saying about the mills of the gods grinding slowly but being impossible to evade?

“In the meantime,” Rothgar said, “her baby and maid seem settled in the nurseries, and I’ve alerted
the neighborhood for a Gaelic speaker. Have you celebrated Christmas in England before, Miss Smith?”

Some time later, Genova realized that she’d been skillfully drawn out to talk about her life. She remembered discussion of foreign parts, her hopes for the Christmas season, and even mention of her mother’s death and her father’s sickness and retirement. She didn’t think she’d revealed her discomfort in her stepmother’s house, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

The conversation broke when Lady Arradale came in, sat opposite Genova, and ordered coffee. Her smile seemed to indicate that nothing could make her day more perfect than to find Genova Smith sharing the breakfast table with her husband.

Talk turned to Christmas plans.

“Most of the guests will arrive by two,” Lady Arradale told Genova, “which will allow us a couple of daylight hours to ravage the countryside. It adds to the pleasure to return to the house as darkness falls.”

“It certainly makes the mulled wine and spiced ale welcome,” Rothgar commented, “which leads to celebratory spirits.”

“Quite.” The countess thanked the footman for the coffee, then smiled at Genova. “I found Christmas in great disorder here, with evergreens brought into the house before Christmas Eve. Can you imagine!”

The marquess seemed merely amused. “I have previously held Christmas festivities a little earlier, Miss Smith. I now understand that I’ve been dicing with fate.”

Lady Arradale frowned at him. “Everyone knows it brings bad luck.”

“And yet, we have survived.”

“By the skin of your teeth.”

“Do teeth have skin?”

“Only when revoltingly unclean.”

Lord Rothgar winced theatrically. “Not at the breakfast table, I pray, my love.”

Lady Arradale laughed and apologized to Genova, who was pondering the strange question herself.

“I have imposed good order,” the countess stated, “which means that Christmas will be celebrated at Christmas, and begin today.”

“Thus demanding a mostly family gathering,” Lord Rothgar explained. “Most people wish to spend Christmas in their own homes, so no one has been invited who is not connected to the family tree.”

“I’m not.” Genova instantly wished she could take the words back. She’d not been invited at all.

“But you are betrothed to my cousin.”

She’d managed to forget that detail.

Lady Arradale poured herself more coffee. “I’m told Old Barnabas promises mild temperatures for the afternoon, and even some sunny skies.”

“Old Barnabas,” said Rothgar, “remembers when he’s right and forgets when he’s wrong.”

Lady Arradale swatted his arm. “He will be right because I wish it so.”

“Ah, in that case the sun will shine as in July.”

A flicker of such sweet intimacy passed between them that Genova felt intrusive. She rose. “I must go and see if Lady Thalia is awake, and how Lady Calliope does.”

Rothgar stood to assist her. “Thank you for your company, Miss Smith. And please, don’t curtail your enjoyment to fret over my great-aunts. It is my honor and pleasure to provide them with all the attendants they require.”

“But it’s my reason for being here, my lord.”

“Your reason for coming here, perhaps, but now you are one of my guests. Thus your raison d’ětre is to have pleasure, full to the brim and overflowing, so that I may be a contented host.”

Feeling attacked, Genova said, “Whether I want to or not?”

Two pairs of surprised eyes studied her.

“We can probably find a dank cell and a hair shirt if you insist, Miss Smith.”

“Don’t tease, Bey. Miss Smith, you must do just as you wish. That is all we ask.”

Mortified by her idiotic reaction, Genova dropped a curtsy and escaped.

“I was maladroit,” said Rothgar in some surprise.

“With a Malloren all things are possible, even mistakes. But she is interestingly prickly, isn’t she?”

He sat down and refilled their cups. “Especially for a lady recently betrothed to one of the most eligible men in England.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“Oh, yes. The question is, is it real?”

“Why invent it?”

“To give him a reason to be here, perhaps. It would, however, serve us well to have Ashart bound to a sensible woman.”

“Bound? That sounds unpleasant, Bey.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “But it isn’t, is it? It could distract him from more pointless pursuits.”

“What pointless pursuits?”

“He believes that he has the means to harm me.”

“What?”

“D’Eon, I think. The letters I had forged that appeared to be from the French king.”

Her hand tightened on his. “How could he know about that?”

“Frailties and leaks. They can never be entirely prevented.”

“But why? Does the animosity run as deep as that? If the king learns what you did, the consequences could be dire.”

“Don’t frown,” he said, smoothing her brow. “We will woo him to family fondness and thus end all danger. But in the meantime, it suits us well to have him distracted.”

“By Miss Smith? Bey, is that fair to her?”

“She might make him an excellent wife.”

“A naval captain’s daughter?”

“You’re as high-nosed as Bryght. Naval warfare would be excellent training for any woman becoming granddaughter-in-law of the Dowager Lady Ashart.”

F
 eeling out of her depth, Genova escaped up to the nurseries, realizing by the time she arrived that the visit might be useful. She was entangled in things that could harm her. The more she understood, the better.

Ashart persisted in claiming that he was not Charlie’s father. Rothgar said he supported some bastards. Sheena might know something that would help clarify matters. If Ashart was speaking the truth, it would make a difference.

The parlor was empty, but she followed noises and found the nursery dining room. Little Francis Malloren was eating some sort of gruel with the assistance of his nursemaid, and the two Misses Inchcliff were breakfasting on buttered bread and cups of chocolate.

Genova greeted them all, then asked for Sheena. She was directed to a room across the corridor, where she found the baby nursery. It was small so as to be easily kept warm, and the walls were whitewashed, while the floor was bare wood. A nursery had to be readily cleaned.

There were two small beds with tall, railed sides, and two ornate cradles, one hung with cream silk, the other with blue. The blue one was clearly in use, but the baby was on Sheena’s lap, dressed in a long flannel gown.

Charlie was waving hands and feet and making happy noises. Sheena was beaming with proud love and looking a different girl. Someone had provided a sturdy dress in a pink-striped material with narrow
ruffles at neck and sleeve. Her fichu and cap were bright white cotton.

She looked up, then gathered the baby, clearly intending to stand, but Genova waved her down. “No, please.”

“Good morning, Miss Smith,” the girl said carefully.

Progress. Genova walked closer. “Charlie looks well.”

Sheena’s blank and slightly worried look showed they hadn’t reached the stage of conversation.

Genova smiled and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

But she had to try. She pointed at the baby and said, “Father?” Then, “Papa?
Pater
?” Weren’t the Irish all Catholics, used to Latin?

Sheena simply stared, looking anxious.

Genova smiled again, but it was so frustrating. Sheena must know something. Probably not who Charlie’s father was, though, she realized. The baby had been conceived in England.

Without the mother’s evidence it was impossible to prove who the father of any child was, and some women didn’t even know. Was that Ashart’s rationale? Genova didn’t approve. Even if he knew other men might be the father, he couldn’t know he wasn’t, and it would take so little of his wealth to provide for the child.

She studied the infant for some resemblance, but a baby is a baby. He seemed to be staring at her with fascination, so she leaned closer, smiling. “Good morning, Charlie-boy. Are you fed and happy?”

The baby stretched his mouth and squawked as if he was trying to reply. He was delightful when clean and happy.

Sheena stood, offering him. Hesitantly, Genova gathered the bundle to herself, still looking down at the fascinating face. He was heavier than she’d expected, a solid item, full of the energy to grow.

She walked the room with him, but it offered little for those curious eyes, so she turned to the window.
From this height, they looked out to woodland and distant villages, and a river glinting in the brightening sun.

“A world to be explored, Charlie.”

The baby was looking up at her, not out, so she shifted him. When he faced the window his arms waved as if he was trying to reach the glass, or perhaps that world beyond.

Genova remembered the matter of commands, kisses, and guineas. A silly thing in one way, a perilous one in others. Crucial for this child. As Ashart had said, however, how many guineas would it take? How many kisses? More than a hundred. Perhaps a thousand.

A thousand kisses? In days?

Ridiculous, but dizzyingly delightful to her wickedest parts.

The baby squawked again, and she was glad of the distraction. “What are we going to do with you, Charlie, when you have your guineas? Would you like to go back to Ireland?”

But that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t simply give a girl like Sheena a large sum of money and wave farewell. She’d have to arrange some kind of supervision. Guardians, trustees. It was a morass of complications that daunted even her.

“You’re a problem, true enough,” she murmured against the baby’s quilted cap. “But I can’t regret taking care of you.”

Genova gave the baby back to Sheena.

“How old are you?” Genova asked. She pointed at the baby, holding up one bent finger, since he must be less than six months old. “Charlie.”

Then she pointed to herself and spread her hands twice for twenty, then held up two fingers. “Twenty-two.” A second later she realized it should be twenty-three today, but that would only confuse.

She pointed at Sheena. “You? How old? How many years?”

Sheena frowned for a moment, but then she spread one plump hand three times, then held up one finger.

Sixteen. As young as Genova feared. What was she to do?

Mrs. Harbinger walked in. “Miss Smith,” she said, with a small curtsy.

Genova gave the lady a similarly small curtsy, hoping it established equality. “Thank you for taking such good care of Sheena and the baby.”

“That is my job, Miss Smith.”

“These are lovely cradles,” Genova said, to continue the conversation.

“That they are. The blue is over a hundred years old, but the cream was made to match when the late marchioness gave birth to twins. The marquess’s youngest brother and sister,” she explained. “Lord Cynric and Lady Elfled. And for all that they called her Elf, she was as much of a hellion as he. We’ll use her cradle for her baby.”

“This nursery must have been very busy in those days.”

“That it was. And a blessing after what came before.”

Remembering, Genova was hard-pressed not to shiver. This might be the very room in which the murder had taken place.