Jo Beverley (33 page)

Butler glared up, showing those crooked teeth. Then his crossbow was in his hand and firing before anyone could move. Mark cried out, staggering back to collapse into a chair, clutching the place where the horrid bolt stuck out of his jacket high on his shoulder.

“He shot me! Will. He
shot
me.”

Damaris ran to him. “Yes. Stay calm. I don’t think it’s too bad.” She could hear shouting in the lane and longed to be back at the window. What was happening? Was Fitz safe?

She ran to the door and flung it open. Two of Rothgar’s men stood there, looking uncertain. “Get a doctor,” she ordered one. “You, come in and attend to a wounded man.”

Then she ran back to Rothgar’s side, where he watched from the window.

Butler was hopelessly blocked now. People close to him would have given him space if they could, all the space in the world, but the hubbub was drawing more and more people into the lane from both ends.

Fitz moved forward, drawing his sword, and people shrank back, creating a narrow passage between the two men.

“You want to fight?” he said.

Butler swayed from foot to foot, glancing around, then back at Fitz. Damaris could see that he was panicked, unable to decide what to do, perhaps sure there still had to be a way out.

“I’m no thief,” he protested to all around. “I’ve done nothing. Stolen nothing. This man’s a bully-boy for a man with a grudge, that’s all. Let me away.”

“You just shot an innocent man,” Fitz pointed out, advancing almost casually, but preceded by his sword. “And not for the first time. You shot an innocent young woman in the country, didn’t you?”

Butler dragged out his own sword, but said, “Not me, sir. I’d not do that. Why would I do that?”

“How many dainty crossbows are there in England, I wonder? Strange coincidence.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Let me go and there’ll be no trouble. Otherwise, all these good people stand witness to what happens here. It’ll be murder. You’ll hang!”

“Where would you go? Your brother won’t help you anymore; you just shot him. And the money he gave you isn’t enough, is it? You’ll have to turn to apothecary work again, won’t you, and live on your wages?”

Enraged, Butler rushed at him, slashing his sword furiously. With screams and cries, people backed toward the walls.

Along the street householders began to open doors to let people in. Some were even pulling up children through upstairs windows.

Fitz parried Butler’s slashes, but that was all. But the sound was deadly. These weapons weren’t foils.

Damaris’s mouth had turned painfully dry. “If Fitz kills him, he’ll hang?” she asked.

“For killing a would-be murderer?” Rothgar sounded distant but calm. “A score of witnesses just saw Butler shoot his brother.”

“Then why doesn’t he
do
it?”

“What a bloodthirsty wench you are. It’s no easy matter to kill a man.”

A clatter behind made them both turn. A doctor came in, knelt by his patient, and went to work. Mark looked at her piteously, perhaps more agonized by his brother’s betrayal than by his wound. What tortuous bonds blood made.

“I saw you fight, my flimsy.”

Damaris whipped back to see that Butler was taunting Fitz now, and looking much more confident. What was he talking about?

“At milord Rothgar’s house against that madman,” he sneered. “I watched you. He was flailing around like a child and you couldn’t touch him. So I’ll prove my honor on you. That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it? All these good people are my witnesses. When I kill you, it’ll prove my innocence.”

“By all means,” said Fitz.

As some of the crowd escaped, the crush was easing a little, giving the two men more space.

“Have at you!” Butler yelled, and moved forward at speed, showing some skill. The blades clashed, and Damaris clutched something—Rothgar’s sleeve. Mark had said his brother liked to fence. Was he good enough…?

“Peace, child. There’s no true contest here.”

Fitz was proving that now, driving Butler down the widening space with masterful moves. He suffered one disadvantage, however: He was being careful of the crowd and Butler wasn’t. There were still many people trapped in the lane, and they pushed and squirmed in all directions to avoid the fight. A child began to howl.

“Can’t someone shoot him?” Damaris demanded.

“Too dangerous in a crowded space,” Rothgar said, though he had a sleek pistol in his hand.

Butler had realized that he’d misjudged Fitz’s ability. He was backing away now, running with sweat and glancing side to side, seeking escape like a rat in a trap. Soon he backed up against the handcart. People were stuck there, and they pressed away harder, while others cried out that they were being crushed.

Fitz retreated to give Butler space. Butler took one step, but then grabbed a young girl from where she clutched her mother’s skirts. A hostage!

The woman, a baby in her arms, wailed and begged.

Butler threw aside his sword and pulled out his dagger. “Now let me through!”

Rothgar raised his pistol.

Fitz stepped to one side as if to give way, then spun and skewered Will Butler from the side.

Everyone watched in silence as Butler, looking astonished, crumpled to his knees, and the child tumbled from his arms. A man grabbed the screaming girl and gave her to the mother. Butler toppled to the ground and died, blood gushing from his mouth, eyes going blank.

Damaris clung to Rothgar. It was the first time she’d seen violent death, and her stomach heaved. The crowd was silent, too. A few had covered children’s eyes, but most, of all ages, simply stared.

Then they came to life, turning to chatter about the extraordinary events. The man with the handcart started relating how the dead man had tried to kill him. Others pointed to the window of the Swan, where the villain had shot someone.

Fitz stood still, looking down at the body.

Damaris scrambled out through the window, hearing one of her cane hoops crack, and ran to take him into her arms. He said nothing, but clung, his heart pounding against her. But then he moved back slightly, and there was the hint of a smile in his strained eyes. “Do I qualify as a hero yet?”

She laughed, but with tears. “I’d kneel, except the ground is very messy.”

He looked down and shuddered. Someone had flung a sheet over the body, but it was bloodstained, and little rivulets of blood trickled between cobblestones. He turned her away and they went toward the window, where Rothgar watched.

Damaris felt twisted around and wrung out, but she was realizing that she was free to walk the streets again. And she had a brother who hadn’t tried to kill her.

Best of all, she had her hero. No force on earth could separate them now. She was resolved on it.

Rothgar said, “Come along. We cannot be late for court.”

Damaris stared at him. “We can’t possibly! Not after this.”

“She’s right,” Fitz said. “The king disapproves of dueling, and this was closer to a street brawl.”

“There is some risk,” Rothgar agreed. “Do you wish to delay?”

Not long before, Damaris had insisted that Fitz must attend, but now she didn’t know. Then the drawing room had held promise of restoring Fitz’s reputation. Now he’d been involved in two violent events, and his brother had screamed treason.

She looked up at him, and he gave her a wry smile. “We’ve built such expectations. By all means, let us continue this drama to its end.”

W
hen they arrived back at Malloren House, Damaris knew she should rush to the elaborate preparations for court, but she had to have a little time alone with Fitz. Without explanation or apology, she took him to the reception room. There she drew him to the sofa, keeping hold of his hand. She wasn’t sure what to say, only that they needed to be together now.

“How is your mother?” she asked.

His hand tightened on hers. “She wouldn’t see me. I had to leave Libby to break the news. I don’t love her,” he said with a frown. “I can’t, even though it isn’t really her fault. She’d given up loving her babies before I was born. But she’ll never be other than she is.”

She realized that he was apologizing to her for his family. “No, but your sisters can be rescued.”

“But Sally—”

“Both your sisters. Do you want us to live at Cleeve Court?”

“Damaris—”

“Whatever happens at the drawing room, we will marry, Fitz. Accept that. So do you want to live at Cleeve Court?”

Half-exasperated, half-amused, he said, “No, not particularly.”

“Then why don’t we turn it into an asylum for your brother and others like him? If your mother dotes, as you say, she can live there in a comfortable apartment and not be too distressed by change.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“I’m a virago, remember? And one with the money to carry through my plans.”

He looked down for a moment in serious thought, then met her eyes again. “If all goes well today, will you honor me far beyond my deserts by becoming my wife, my sweet virago?”

She smiled through tears. “Of course. But I’ll marry you if all goes badly, too. I’m a pirate, sir, and I’ve captured you, so surrender to your fate.”

He gathered her in for a kiss that might have progressed to more if Lady Thalia hadn’t bustled in. “Oh, la! I approve of young love, my dears—oh, absolutely—but you both
must
prepare for court
now
!”

After a laughing final kiss, Damaris hurried upstairs, and under Lady Thalia’s stern supervision whirled through the absurd painting and powdering. Within the hour she stood before the mirror looking, in her opinion, like a porcelain doll.

Lady Thalia’s French maid had arranged her hair in complex plaits and curls that had then been powdered snow white. A silver comb held a short veil that hung down and ostrich feathers that stuck up. Her skin was white, too, with pink on the cheeks and lips.

“Magnificent!” Lady Thalia declared. “It needs only rubies. I’ll go along to Rothgar’s room now and tell him you’ll soon be there for them.”

She hurried out. Damaris picked up her golden fan and smiled at Maisie. “Wish me good fortune.”

“Oh, indeed I do, Miss Damaris. You look so beautiful. Like a princess, you are!” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “And I do wish you well with Mr. Fitzroger, miss. Such a dashing hero! Better than a duke any day.”

Damaris gave her a careful hug, then left to find Fitz waiting outside the door.

Oh, yes, he was better than a duke, any day.

For once, his hair was neatly arranged and powdered. His suit was of cut velvet in shades of pale gold, braided in dark gold down the front and along the cuffs and pockets. His long brocade waistcoat repeated the gold shades and was fastened with golden buttons that looked to be centered with pale sapphires. Glass, she was sure, but the surprising touch of color matched his eyes. Similar stones winked on the buckles of his shoes.

She sank into a curtsy. “Sir, you render me breathless.”

He bowed, then raised her. “You do look rather bloodless.”

“You’re paler than usual, too,” she pointed out. He was lightly painted.

“We do what we must.”

He looked easier in his manner than she’d seen him in days, but she guessed the effort it took. It had been an extraordinary day, and everything could still go wrong.

All she could do was play her part. They proceeded down the corridor, almost filling the width because of her skirts.

When they entered Rothgar’s private sitting room, he was there with Lady Thalia. She saw the marquess assess her. He seemed to approve. He was in dense black velvet today, which seemed ominous, even when it was embroidered with flowers in rainbow colors. He opened a large flat box on the table.

She went to where the rubies gleamed on black velvet. “I’ve hardly seen them myself,” she said, touching the necklace. “When my mother died, our solicitor revealed that he had various jewels in his care. Lord Henry took charge and locked them away at Thornfield Hall. They made him nervous.”

“Understandably. They represent a fortune in themselves. May I assist you?”

She nodded and let Rothgar put the necklace around her throat, feeling the cool weight settle there. It was composed of a circle of rubies, each of large size, set in gold, with diamonds on each link between. The staggering element, however, was the smooth teardrop ruby that hung in the center.

A bloodred cabochon ruby,
she remembered.
A smooth surface beneath which seethes fire and mystery.
She glanced at Fitz. Had he known when he’d said that? How could he? She’d not then worn these jewels.

Lady Thalia clapped her hands. “Magnificent!”

Fitz seemed suddenly somber, however, probably because of such evidence of her wealth. He’d simply have to get used to it.

She put in earrings that each held a miniature of the teardrop jewel, and a bracelet composed of three bands of rubies. There was also a brooch, which she put over the clasp at her waist.

She heard voices just before Genova and Ashart arrived.

Genova said, “You look terrifyingly grand, Damaris.”

“I don’t feel it. You look lovely.”

The soft-cream-and-bright-blue gown was pretty and cheerful. It gave Damaris a pang. Why couldn’t she be pretty and cheerful? It had nothing to do with looks, however. She was a pirate’s daughter, inheritor of his bloody loot, and there was no purpose in fighting it.

Genova was wearing the pearls she’d worn at Christmas. Apparently they had been a gift from Lady Thalia, not a loan. Her only other ornaments were pearl earrings.

Damaris turned to Lord Rothgar. “I have a sapphire pin I want to give to Genova.”

She thought that as her guardian he might object to her giving away her property, and braced for battle, but he left and returned with all her jewelry boxes. She quickly found the brooch and gave it to her friend. “A belated birthday gift.”

Genova blushed but didn’t protest. “Thank you,” she said, pinning it to her bodice between her breasts. “It’s lovely. And it matches my ring.”

She showed the lovely sapphire she wore on her third finger.

Damaris hadn’t noticed it, but it was perfect—a round sapphire of exactly the right size. Not hugely flamboyant, but certainly not modest. The clear, strong blue said something about Genova’s clear and honest heart.

What ring would Fitz give her? An idea stirred, and as the others talked of the upcoming event she went to close her jewelry boxes, and to take something out.

Then she turned to find Genova practicing her court curtsy again and wobbling every time she started to rise. Everyone was on edge, perhaps all for different reasons.

Rothgar took away the jewelry boxes. When he returned he said, “The chairs are ready. It is time for our grand entrance.”

“Don’t you mean exit, my lord?” Damaris asked.

“Not at all. Beyond the front door lies the world, and thus our stage.”

Ashart took Genova’s hand and led her out. Fitz offered his to Damaris. She curled her fingers around his fingers.

Rothgar and Thalia came behind. She hoped they couldn’t hear when she said, “I have a gift for you.”

He raised a brow.

She opened her other hand to reveal a ring—a man’s ring of heavy gold that held an oval cameo of buff and cream. Tiny diamonds circled it, so small they merely formed a glittering border.

“I can’t accept a ring from you, Damaris. Not yet.”

“The carving’s of a rapier with ribbons and flowers entwined. As soon as I remembered it, I knew it was meant for you. It’s a talisman for today. For strength and peace.”

“If I put it on, Rothgar will notice. He probably saw you take it.”

“This is mine to give or not, as I wish.” As they navigated the turn at the top of the stairs, she pressed the ring into his hand.

“This was part of your father’s loot?” he asked as they began the descent.

“Probably.”

“Somewhat embarrassing if I meet the true owner.”

But when they arrived in the hall and servants came forward with cloaks and muffs, she saw him slide it onto the middle finger of his right hand. It didn’t quite fit. Looking at her, he put it on the fourth finger. It was his right hand, but she knew that in some countries women wore a betrothal ring on that finger.

Damaris loved that thought and tried to hide it by looking down at her own rings, all of her own providing. Or rather, her father’s. She could understand now why her mother had rejected every gift, even with fury. She, however, would wear them all, and make friends with her brother, and hope Marcus Myddleton was gnashing his teeth in hell.

Six gilded sedan chairs were carried into the hall, and they entered them, ladies first. Fitz helped Damaris fit her hoops and skirts inside while avoiding knocking the plumes off her head.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

“This is court.” He closed the chair’s door. Damaris tucked her hands into her fur muff, the chairmen picked up the poles, and they were off.

As Rothgar had predicted, a small crowd waited to see them leave. If they were disappointed that the nobles were already packed away in boxes, they didn’t show it. They even applauded. No wonder Rothgar described this as a stage.

Ahead, she glimpsed Rothgar’s running footman, carrying his golden-knobbed staff, clearing the way and silently announcing the approach of the great. She’d prefer to be slipping through back streets.

When they entered the narrower streets around St. James’s Palace they became part of a stream of chairs and carriages. Here the crowd stood three or more deep, and children were hoisted on adult shoulders so they could see. They’d be taken to hangings, too, Damaris thought wildly. It was all the same to the mob.

Would the king have heard about Fitz’s brother?

Would he have heard about Will Butler?

What would he do?

Should she have urged Fitz not to come?

Then they passed beneath an arch into a crowded courtyard. Fitz opened the door and assisted her out. He seemed completely at ease, but he had that ability. She didn’t. Her heart was starting to pound in a way that threatened a fainting fit. She inhaled cold air as they joined their party to file up to the royal presence.

All around, people chattered and laughed, showing how familiar this all was to them. One man was even reading a book. Many bowed or curtsied to Rothgar, Ashart, and Lady Thalia. She caught curious eyes sliding away from her, and could imagine the whispers about the heiress.

She was more concerned by the less pleasant stares at Fitz. She was sure there was gossip concealed by hands or fans. She knew it couldn’t all be about him, but some would be, especially if this world knew about his brother and about William Butler’s death. A man in military uniform bowed to Fitz, who returned the salutation. A good sign, but she wished the officer hadn’t looked as if he were performing a daring act.

She prayed that her two gossips had done their work, and that the king would smile.

They entered the guardroom, where their outer clothing was taken. Damaris remembered thinking about King Charles I’s extra woolen underwear. She certainly lacked that.

At least the crowd here warmed the air. Before she could object, Damaris found herself separated from Fitz and between Rothgar and Lady Thalia. She twisted to try to be sure Fitz wasn’t slipping away, but Rothgar quietly said, “Behave.”

As they moved slowly onward, Rothgar remarked, “A gift of a ring?”

“He’s served me well,” she responded, working on posture and calm, suddenly remembering that she was soon going to have to sing before all these people. She’d tried to prepare, but events had swept that away. Compared to everything else, however, it didn’t matter if she croaked.

They entered the crowded room where their majesties sat on red-upholstered chairs that looked like thrones. Their ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting stood stiffly to hand, and at the queen’s side an elaborate cradle was attended by two nurses. A toddler wriggled on her silken lap.

This was the very image of a happy, healthy family, and Damaris saw that as a good omen.

Queen Charlotte was not pretty. Her face was sallow and long, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be a loved and loving wife. The king was fresh-faced, with rather bulging eyes, but he appeared amiable enough, with a word for each person who bowed or curtsied.

Surely he couldn’t refuse to recognize Fitz, but would he show him particular favor? Damaris spotted Mrs. Fayne standing hawk-eyed nearby.