Jo Beverly (11 page)

“My goodness. I’m not aware of any Irish servants, but there must be some in the neighborhood. That will wait and you must all be so tired. Let’s make arrangements for little Charlie and then you can refresh yourself.”

She sent the maid to find a Mrs. Harbinger, and soon an older woman appeared. She was heavy-boned and could have looked glowering, but her eyes lit at the sight of the baby.

“Ah, the precious!” She came forward with the clear intention of taking Charlie. Sheena stepped back.

“She’s afraid,” Genova said quickly. “She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t think she understands what’s happening to her, poor girl.”

“This is Mrs. Harbinger, the nursery governess,” the countess explained. “She’s in charge of this part of the house.” She gave the nursery governess a vague explanation of Charlie’s arrival. It implied an accident on the road without actually telling lies.

The woman was all sympathy. “It’s only a matter of airing the baby nursery, my lady, and bringing another maid up here, with your permission. You can leave it all to me.”

“I know I can. I’ll see if there’s anyone in the area who speaks Gaelic, but in the meantime, I know you’ll be understanding with poor Miss O’Leary, who must feel very ill at ease.”

“Of course, my lady.” The woman wrapped an arm around Sheena’s shoulders and drew her to a chair near the fire, murmuring comfort all the while. The
Irish girl looked desperately at Genova for a moment, but then relaxed and even smiled at her new protector.

Genova felt a burden rise from her shoulders. That, at least, was all right.

Lady Arradale moved toward the door, and Lady Bryght kissed her son and gave him to the maid. She swept up a large shawl and wrapped it around herself. “I must come and see what’s happening. Ashart here. My stars!”

Soon the three of them were heading back down the stairs and through the maze of corridors. Genova was sure that by herself she’d be one of the wandering guests. After a number of turns, the countess opened a door to a fine bedchamber.

Genova saw some of her possessions, including the
presepe
box. This was her room? The splendor shocked her. She would have much preferred something simpler.

“We’d normally give you a room for yourself,” Lady Arradale said, “but over Christmas, every space will be required.”

Genova noticed then that various items belonged to Thalia. That explained the grandeur, but she’d hoped for a place of her own, no matter how plain. She’d not realized until the past three days how much she relished her privacy.

However, she said, “I’m accustomed to sharing a room with Lady Thalia.”

“She is delightful, isn’t she? Such a shame that Rothgar’s been cut off from his great-aunts all these years. Now the ice is broken, things will be different.”

Genova recalled a scene she’d witnessed once—ice breaking and people falling through it to their deaths. It was a strange saying, all in all.

The brisk countess opened an adjoining door. “There’s a closet attached, with a bed for the maid.”

It was a narrow dressing room, just large enough for a huge armoire, a chest of drawers, and a small bed. Even so, Genova envied Regeanne, who was putting
things away. The maid looked around, startled, then dipped a curtsy.

Lady Arradale waved for her to continue her work and closed the door again. “I gather Ashart visits the great-aunts in Tunbridge Wells?”

“A few times a year, I understand, my lady, but not while I’ve known them.”

The countess cocked her head and Genova was aware of being studied. “A handsome rascal, is he not?”

“We’ve only just met, my lady.”

“A moment tells us if a man is handsome or not, Miss Smith.”

Genova knew she was blushing and shed her fur-lined cloak as excuse. “He’s certainly handsome in that way, my lady. But handsome is that handsome does, and his behavior toward his poor child isn’t handsome at all.”

“Molly Carew’s behavior would drive a saint to distraction,” Lady Bryght said. “Such folly to think a man like Ashart would marry her under pressure, and I do believe she started the affair with just that in mind.”

That fired Genova’s sense of justice. “It was certainly wrong of her to become his mistress, but wasn’t it equally wrong of him to take one?”

Both ladies gave her an identical look.

“We’re speaking of folly rather than virtue,” the countess said, not unkindly. “Virtue, they say, is its own reward, and as such, it provides a thin cloak in winter. Seek also to be wise, Miss Smith.”

“There’s nothing between myself and Lord Ashart.”

Lady Bryght chuckled. “Very unwise. Keep your clothes between you at all times.”

“Portia!” laughed the countess, but she added, “It’s good advice, Miss Smith. He’s an infamous rascal.”

Genova remembered the ridiculous betrothal. What would these ladies think of her words when they heard? What could she possibly say to make things better now?

Oh, I forgot I do know he’s a rascal. That’s why I’m engaged to marry him….

“I heard Molly Carew left Lady Knatchbull’s masquerade with Ashart without a hint of shame,” Lady Bryght said. “She was dressed as Salome.”

“What?” asked the countess. “In the seven veils?”

“And not a stitch on underneath.”

“The result is a lesson to all wise women.” Lady Arradale went to the washstand. “There should be hot water.” She raised the linen covering a jug, and steam rose. “Good.”

She indicated a bellpull by the fireplace. “That rings in the servants’ quarters and will bring somebody at any time. Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Smith, and join us in the Tapestry Room when you’re ready. We have a few guests already with us, but most will arrive tomorrow. I’ll send a footman to wait by your door to guide you. Please treat Rothgar Abbey as your home.”

The two ladies left and Genova put a hand to her head as if that could stop its whirling. This had seemed such a simple voyage once. It had presented escape from her stepmother’s house, along with an opportunity to mingle with the great and observe their follies.

She had not planned to be a folly, stuck like a fly in the center of a gilded web.

But no, she was not so helpless as that. She would think of herself as a ship navigating between Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla, the many-headed monster, was an excellent image for the Malloren family, and Ashart enswirled her like a whirlpool.

She felt the effect even now, when she knew he was exactly the heartless rake she’d thought. Even if Lady Booth Carew had set out to seduce him, he’d let himself be seduced and was now denying responsibility for the innocent result.

Thank heavens there was no danger of her falling into the same trap.

She caught sight of the
presepe
box and went to it. She needed to preserve the traditions and the memories
it carried. The Nativity scene should have been up ten days ago.

She unlocked and opened the box, but then realized she must wait. For all the pleasantries about treating this house as her home, she would be expected below in short order. Despite the mock betrothal, despite hospitable kindness, she was merely the Trayce ladies’ attendant, and should be attending.

She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair, commanding herself to keep to her place and out of noble matters as much as possible. Then she found her warmest shawl, sucked in a deep breath, and sailed out to navigate between monster and whirlpool.

T
 he promised footman waited outside the door like a sentry—far more finely turned out than Genova was. She followed him, making herself relax enough to appreciate the passing objets d’art and to try and remember the route. She might need Theseus’s ball of twine.

Soon they descended the grand staircase and crossed the gleaming floor. Genova summoned the image of herself as a flagship, cruising into hazardous waters, hoping for peace, but with guns primed and ready to fire.

The footman opened the door and she sailed through.

But if there were hazards here, they were deep below the surface.

In this awe-inspiring house, this room could be called cozy. It was twice as large as the drawing room at Trayce House, but no more than that, and a large fireplace triumphed over chill. The high ceiling was decorated with fine plasterwork, but the medieval tapestries that covered all available walls gave a welcoming warmth. The furnishings were grand, but they had the look of pieces chosen for comfort and well used over generations. Two cats and two dogs formed a carpet in front of the hearth.

Twenty or so people were taking tea in two groups, with no sign of servants. Lady Arradale presided over a tray from one sofa, while Thalia shared a sofa opposite with an extremely enceinte lady. Genova remembered that one of the family was expecting to be
confined any day. Lady Bryght presided over another group that included Lord Rothgar.

Genova paused, unsure which group to join. She’d choose the one without Ashart, but he was in neither. Then she saw him on the far side of the room, apparently investigating a folio of maps.

Apart.

He looked up, and their eyes locked. She raised her chin, refusing to be cowed. After a moment, he bowed as if in acknowledgment, and began to walk toward her.

“Genova! Come sit by me, do!”

Thalia’s voice snapped Genova’s entrancement, and she hurried to take the empty place on the sofa, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She willingly surrendered to the distraction of introductions.

Lord Bryght Malloren, tall and dark, was easily recognizable as Lord Rothgar’s brother. Half brother, she reminded herself. The expectant lady was the Countess of Walgrave, and Lord Rothgar’s sister. She didn’t resemble him, being russet-haired and sunny.

“Call me Lady Elf,” she said. “Everyone still does here.”

The handsome man who rose from a chair beside Lady Elf to carry Genova’s tea to her was the Earl of Walgrave.

Genova had never before been in a room with so many titled people. She was grateful for two men who were ordinary both in looks and status—Dr. Egan, Lord Rothgar’s librarian and archivist, and Dr. Marshall, curator of Anglo-Saxon antiquities. Dr. Egan was thin, sallow, and dominated by a large nose. Dr. Marshall was rotund, with a shiny, glowing face.

Ashart appeared in her line of sight and accepted a cup of tea from the countess. Was it his first?

“…don’t you think, dear?”

Genova jerked her attention away and said, “Yes, of course, Thalia,” hoping she wasn’t agreeing that the moon was made of cheese.

Apparently not. Only that winter walks were especially bracing.

As others chatted, Thalia pointed out some of the people in the other group. “That young man is Mr. Stackenhull, Beowulf’s music master. And the older lady is Mrs. Lely, the countess’s secretary. Such a trial to have property to manage. The couple are the Inchcliffs, and the glowering man is Lord Henry Malloren. He courted me once, but he’s never known how to please.” Thalia leaned closer and whispered, “When offered tea, he complained it wasn’t good honest ale.”

Like most confidential whispers, this was heard by others, but they seemed amused, and Lord Henry was too far away to hear. He might not mind, anyway. He had the lean, weather-beaten look of a “damn your eyes” type.

“The dumpy woman with Lord Henry is his wife. Never opens her mouth except to eat.”

Genova saw twitching lips and wondered how she could stop Thalia saying these things.

Then the door opened and a young woman came in. Genova noticed Ash startle and looked at the new arrival again. A little tall, slim, and with a straight-backed confidence that implied she belonged here.

She didn’t look like a Malloren, however, having mouse brown hair and rather commonplace features. That was the only word that came to mind. Commonplace, perhaps even a little plain, but saved by bright eyes, a wide smile, and an impression of being very pleased with her world.

Genova glanced at Ash again, but he was talking to Dr. Egan.

The young woman turned toward their group, but Lord Henry called out, “Damaris! There you are at last. Make yourself useful, girl. Play us a tune!”

The young woman stopped, smile fixed, and Genova thought she would refuse, but she curtsied—“Of course, Lord Henry”—and went to a harpsichord. A lowly companion? Or a tyrannized daughter?

Lady Arradale spoke in a voice designed to carry. “How kind, Miss Myddleton.” She turned to Genova. “Miss Myddleton is Lord Henry’s ward, and we are so fortunate to have her here. She plays beautifully.”

Notes began to tinkle out, rapid and precise.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Genova said.

“She sings beautifully, too.”

Expensively trained, Genova assumed.
Ward
probably meant money, which might be why confidence overshadowed a lack of looks. Genova thought she might like Miss Myddleton, especially as the young woman was playing for the company as if that were her greatest joy. Sulking never served.

And presumably, Miss Myddleton wasn’t any sort of Malloren. An outsider, like herself.

Then she saw the smile the young woman shot at Ashart. Those long-lidded eyes were, in fact, catlike—slightly slanted, and predatory. How dare she look at Ashart like that!

The stab of jealousy was irrational but real. While playing her part in the conversation, Genova studied Ashart’s response. After a slight bow he seemed to ignore Miss Myddleton, but he was aware of her. Genova was sure of that.

She knew she had no proprietary rights, but by heaven, if she had to play the besotted betrothed, she would not have her supposed beloved ogling other women!

“Another cake, Miss Smith?”

Genova found Lady Elf offering the plate and looking quizzical. Had her thoughts shown? To cover that, she plunged back into the conversation, not looking at Ashart at all, but irritatingly aware of the fluent notes spilling out of the harpsichord.

Then Lord Rothgar joined their group. “I think it is time to discuss the mysteries and complexities.” Lady Bryght had come with him, and Dr. Egan and Dr. Marshall discreetly excused themselves.