Jo Beverly (29 page)

She found two others, one a disastrous attempt at a man on horseback. Disastrous in technique, but again without indication of malice. Part of the disaster came from the attempt to show a wide smile. No normal human showed quite so many teeth.

Then Genova came across a series of pictures of a child, of an infant just beginning to sit up. Perhaps Lady Augusta had taken more lessons, for the attempt was a little better. Or perhaps the drawing master had done more than instruct. Many a lady’s portfolio of sketches was the work of her drawing master, not herself.

Whatever the explanation, the solid roundness of the infant was clear, and the positions seemed natural.
The head was in proportion to the body. Surely the many pictures of her firstborn child were not the work of a trapped, unhappy woman. Mrs. Harbinger had said she doted on her firstborn. But carelessly.

Genova remembered that this was Lord Rothgar as an infant. What was it like to grow up in awareness of such a troubled mother? To witness her at her worst. Was that why he’d developed an obsession with machines, which could be controlled, could be made right?

What did that say of herself? Perhaps her own interest in machines was as insignificant as a preference for cherries over plums, or perhaps it sprang from a rootless life often at the mercy of chaotic elements. Or even from her mother’s shocking, inexplicable death.

She shivered.

Ash looked up. “You’re cold?”

He rose and walked around the table, shrugging out of his embroidered coat. With some difficulty, she noticed. It was made to fit without a ripple.

He put it warm around her shoulders.

She could make a number of polite protests, but she gathered it close. “Thank you.”

He sent her a look that was troubled but caring, then sat again to his book. He’d read through over half of the journal, but she still could see no reaction.

She allowed herself a moment to admire him in his fine lawn shirt and embroidered silk waistcoat, and another to savor the delicious sense of him that encircled her from his coat. She peered at the buttons. She thought they really were diamond, but close to, she saw they were composed of many small stones.

She’d progressed far into absurdity if she could be relieved at that.

She settled back to work.

She put the pictures of husband and child to one side and closed the folio, then began on the letters. She untied another faded ribbon, red again. Lady Augusta had clearly liked red. Did her son’s fondness for it come in the blood?

She found a mix of letters to the Marchioness of Rothgar, and drafts or copies of letters Augusta had sent. They were in order, so someone had organized them. Of course they had. Two Marquesses of Rothgar must have searched these documents for evidence of Augusta’s motives.

Genova settled to read, holding Ash’s coat close, and admitting to some guilty pleasure at having an excuse to peer into private lives.

She skimmed letters from Lady Augusta’s mother, which were doting, but often included admonishments to cease being so wild and reminders that Augusta was a great lady now and must act with dignity.

Augusta’s letters to her mother were stilted and dutiful. The ones to her sisters and brothers were more relaxed but revealed no secrets. There were occasional letters back, and the sisters at least clearly envied Augusta her amiable, indulgent husband.

If Augusta had problems, to whom would she confide them?

Friends?

There were a few letters from friends, but by the time Genova started on the second bundle, she was struck by their rarity.

She herself was in the same situation, but it was because of her wandering life. She’d made and left a hundred friends. Sometimes she’d tried to keep up the connection through correspondence, but mail was slow and unreliable and she wasn’t an eager letter writer.

She glanced at Ash again. Perhaps one of the unusual skills she’d developed was the ability to judge people rapidly, and develop a friendship quickly. Someone met in a port might leave in weeks or even days.

Was it that friendships, like love, needed the test of time? Could she trust her rapid, passionate response to him? Was he, perhaps, wise to fix his eye on steadier goals?

She sighed at that, and he looked up. “This is tedious, isn’t it?”

He began to close his book, so she said, “No, it’s not that. Just a thought. I’ll tell you later.”

Maybe
, she added silently as he settled again.

She returned to Augusta and friends. Lady Augusta Trayce hadn’t led a wandering life, so her circle of acquaintances would have been stable. Yet Genova found no sign of a regular correspondence with one particular friend.

Of course, those letters could have been destroyed. If so, what might they have contained?

No. To follow that path was to join the Dowager Lady Ashart in her obsession. Genova had to believe that these papers were as complete as they could be. She kept reading, hoping for a glimmer of something among the banal.

A distant bell began to ring.

“That must be the dinner bell,” Ash said, seeming pulled from elsewhere. “Well? Revelations that escaped Rothgar?”

Genova refolded the letter she’d been reading. “I don’t think so, but you might like to look at these drawings.” She pushed them over.

He spread them. “Not very good, was she?”

Genova didn’t mention her thoughts. She wanted to see what he made of them.

“We have none of her drawings at Cheynings as far as I know. I wonder if Grandy destroyed them.”

Genova started at the affectionate name for the woman she had begun to think of as Loki incarnate. “Why would she do that?”

“Nothing can be allowed to tarnish the angel’s halo.”

“Lady Augusta?” Genova couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.

“Aren’t mothers supposed to dote? Anything else?”

Genova desperately wanted his account of the journal, but she gave him her impression of the letters, uncomfortable about judging the long-dead woman who had been younger than herself.

“The journal?” she asked at last.

He placed the drawings in the book to mark his place. “Flighty, self-centered, spoiled. At first all is honey, but she’s beginning to complain of his unkindness.”

Genova felt a chill. “Does she explain the cause?”

“Clearly. He scolds if she overspends her pin money. He spends too much time on estate matters. He expects her to read to his boring mother.”

“Oh.”

He stood. “She was a child. Why the devil did he marry her?”

“Perhaps he saw the girl in the sketch in the portrait gallery.”

“I wonder how quickly he regretted it. And,” he added, “how he behaved then.”

Genova wanted to argue, but she could imagine Augusta driving a sensible man to distraction. To violence, even. But to persistent cruelty that would break her mind?

The bell was still ringing, clearly being carried about the house to catch everyone’s attention.

“We are summoned to celebrate,” Ash said. “I’ll take everything to my room for further study.”

Genova felt some reluctance in giving over the letters with some unread, but she bridled her nosiness. She gave back his coat, and they left the room.

They detoured to his bedchamber so he could leave the papers there. Genova insisted on waiting outside. She still had some willpower.

He emerged moments later with his blond friend who had arrived yesterday. So, she would have been safe from weakness anyway.

Genova was trying to remember the name when Ash provided it. “Do you remember Fitzroger, Genova?”

Ash’s friend bowed, she curtsied, and she walked down the corridor between them, but with a feeling of being studied. Did Mr. Fitzroger not approve? Perhaps he, too, thought Ash should marry money, and didn’t know the betrothal was a sham.

T
 hey had just reached the bottom of the grand staircase when people began to look upward. Genova turned and saw Lord Rothgar on the landing.

“My friends, rejoice! I have the best possible Christmas news. My sister is safely delivered of a son, and all is well.”

Cheers and applause carried everyone toward the glittering dining room, but Genova was mostly struck by the true joy she’d seen on Lord Rothgar’s face. As he’d talked of clockworks, as he’d worked for peace, he must have been pressingly aware that some human events could not be made to work perfectly, no matter how hard one tried.

She sent up a prayer of thanks, and another that the baby thrive, and went on with the rest to the dining room. The table was now long enough for the whole company, and was spread with a splendid feast on platters of china, silver, and even gold.

Lord Rothgar and Lady Arradale sat together this time, in the middle of one side, with the great-aunts bracketing them. Ash and Genova were seated opposite. Unfortunately Miss Myddleton was on Ash’s other side, doubtless ready to try to monopolize his attention, but Genova felt that was a minor threat.

Except that she did envy the heiress’s emerald necklace, probably chosen to match Ash’s ring. Pearls were all very well, but they were unfortunately demure.

Music started, and she realized the musicians, including singers now, were performing in the hall to provide a background for this. Again, the music selected
seemed old, more ethereal than modern compositions, as if designed to carry them all away from reality.

It was still daylight but on a dull day, and hundreds of candles lit the room, sparkling off crystal, gold, and flashing jewelry. Finger bowls by each person stirred perfumes when used.

Genova balanced her attention between Ash and Lord Henry Malloren on her other side. He was a gruff, sinewy man with little to say, though at one point he grumbled that he’d hoped to get Damaris off his hands by now.

“Regular golden peach, she is,” he said, tucking into goose. “Father was a merchant captain. Bit of a privateer, if you ask me. Fell afoul of some pirates in the South China Sea and left me guardian. Imposition, but I’ve done my duty by her.”

“I’m sure you have,” Genova said, feeling a little sorry for Miss Myddleton. She didn’t miss that the heiress was also a sea captain’s daughter. It really was a shame that a man had come between them.

“Thought things might be settled,” Lord Henry added with a scowl at Genova.

“Really?” she said, angling her hand to show the large ring.

He made a sound like a growl and settled back to food.

Poor Damaris, who must have lost both parents, not just one, and found herself in the power of this unpleasant, resentful man. How had that come about? When Genova found herself trying to think of ways to rearrange Miss Myddleton’s life, she suppressed a laugh and attended to her dinner and light conversation all around.

Rich course followed rich course until Genova found herself unable to eat another bite. She contented herself with sipping wine, even though she’d done that too much as well.

As the meal flowed merrily toward its end, darkness fell and she realized there were no lights in the room
except firelight and the candles on and above the table. It made the gathering like a bright island in a dark ocean.

Some of the diners were drunk, but no one had slid under the table yet. Conveniences had been arranged in adjoining rooms for ladies and gentlemen. Genova used the ladies’ room at one point, startled to find her balance unreliable when she stood. No more wine, she decided, or heaven knew what she might do.

When she returned, Ash’s fingers twined with hers beneath the table. It seemed completely natural, though she did check that he wasn’t fondling Miss Myddleton’s at the same time. No, his other lay near his glass.

Ash raised her hand and kissed it. “We could probably slide under the table and make love there with no one the wiser.”

She could imagine it so vividly, she tingled. “Have you ever?”

“Yes.”

She giggled, and then she couldn’t stop. He swallowed her laughter in a kiss, a kiss that went on far too long. She knew that when they separated to laughter and bawdy jokes.

Ash broke into song.

Knowing the song, Genova clapped her hand over his mouth, but others took it up and finished it in a grand chorus that had her blushing.

It was all in high spirits, however, and song followed song, many of them cause for a blush. She’d heard them all before, though, and could have contributed
a few far bawdier if she’d been even drunker and lost to all shame.

At last the meal was over and dancing was announced. They all poured out and up the stairs to the ballroom. Or most.

Genova looked back and saw some guests snoring, including Lady Calliope, her red wig, topped with a diamond tiara, askew. Servants were beginning to take care of them. Genova supposed, with suppressed laughter, that one sleeper in a chair designed to be carried would make the work easier.

The ballroom was at its magical best, and music started up immediately. Lady Arradale called the first dance with her husband as partner, and Ash led out Genova.

The evening spun on like magic, even including a kissing dance where the couples progressed through a mistletoe arch. As the couples changed during the dance Genova ended up kissing Lord Rothgar, his chaplain, Dr. Egan, and Ash.

After that playful kiss, Ash snared her into a “snow-covered” bower designed to shield lovers from sight.

“How pretty this is,” she said.

“Rothgar has a gift for entertainments.”

She recognized the pull of the chains. “Peace, Ash.”

He stroked her brow with a finger. “I feel like one of those hapless victims caught in a fairy circle. How do I know what is real and what is false? If I succumb, am I lost forever?”

“Quite likely, yes. But think what you’ll have lost.”

He laughed. “You give no quarter, do you?”

“No.”

He played with her hand, then raised it to his lips. “Will you come up with me, then, and finish the reading of those papers?”