Chapter Thirteen
L ord Rothgar turned then to look at Sheena and Charlie. “Speaking of mysteries, a baby, Great-aunt Calliope? At your age?”
A rumble of laughter rolled through Lady Calliope. “Foolish boy! We’ll amuse you with the story later, but make known to you our companion and friend, Miss Smith.”
Genova curtsied, warmed by the “friend,” which raised her status a good deal.
“Welcome to Rothgar Abbey, Miss Smith.” Lord Rothgar extended his hand, which gave her no choice but to surrender hers for a kiss brushed just above her glove. “How courageous of you to venture among Mallorens and Trayces.”
“You make your families sound like Scylla and Charybdis, my lord.”
Another brief smile touched his lips. “An apt construct—if you were a sailor.”
Scylla and Charybdis were two of the challenges Ulysses had faced when sailing home to Ithaca.
“How clever you are!” Thalia declared. “Genova is a naval officer’s daughter and has spent a vast amount of time at sea. She fought Barbary pirates!”
“Not quite,” Genova tried to protest, but the marquess smiled fully.
“Then you are admirably qualified for this voyage. As long, of course, as you can decide which side is Scylla, the monster who desires to eat you, and which is Charybdis, the whirlpool that seeks to suck you into the depths.”
Without thinking, Genova glanced at Lord Ashart and caught him looking at her. Muscles deep within her contracted, and her breath shortened. In public, when separated by, perhaps, four feet!
Someone chuckled.
She looked quickly, her color rising, but the marchioness was chuckling at something Thalia had said. Everyone seemed in merry Christmas spirit, but Genova wanted to hint that Lady Calliope needed a warm bed.
She hesitated to abandon Sheena, but went over to curtsy to Lady Rothgar. “Excuse me, my lady, but Lady Calliope is tired from the journey. I think she would welcome her bed.”
Shrewd eyes took in the old lady. “Of course. We are caught up in excitement.”
In moments a senior servant was taking Lady Calliope and her servants up the grand staircase, its banisters twined with red and green cords, while Lord Rothgar guided Thalia and Ashart toward a room off the hall.
Scylla and Charybdis. Should she be there with Thalia or here with Sheena? She couldn’t abandon the girl now.
“So this is Lady Booth Carew’s baby,” Lady Rothgar said. “I gather some strange story attaches.”
Genova knew she was blushing. “My lady, I’m very sorry—”
Lady Rothgar waved a hand. “I’m sure you could do nothing but bring the child here. Is he healthy?”
“Yes, mylady. And the nurse, too.”
“Then come along. We have extensive nurseries and they are already in use.”
She turned and walked briskly toward the staircase, her heels rapping on the wooden floor like the rat-a-tat-tat of a battle drum.
Genova pushed that thought away and urged Sheena after, carrying the maid’s bundle herself.
At least one problem had evaporated. Sheena and Charlie were not to be thrown out.
In fact they would have a place in the family’s nursery, which was very generous.
As they climbed the stairs Genova found the bells. They hung from the cords wrapped around the banisters, and tinkled as she passed. Charming, but she could imagine the noise fraying the nerves.
They ascended a short flight to a half landing where the steps split to left and right.
As they turned to the left, Lady Rothgar said, “Why don’t you tell me some of this strange story as we go, Miss Smith?
This is a large and somewhat mazelike house.
It’s been added to by every generation, and the last marquess inserted corridors all over the place.
I don’t think we’ve lost a guest, though a few have wandered for a while. ”
Genova quickly decided to keep Ashart’s part to a minimum.
Scylla and Charybdis didn’t need any more problems. She began with the encounter with Lady Booth Carew.
Then, as they walked down a long, carpeted corridor hung with works of art and set with tables and chests holding treasures, she framed Ashart’s later arrival as coincidence.
“How very intriguing.” The marchioness turned right into another corridor. “Odd, however, to abandon the baby with strangers.”
“Indeed, my lady.”
Her hostess stopped at another junction. “Is Ashart the father, do you think?”
Genova abandoned pretense. “He insists not.”
“He was Lady Booth’s lover about a year ago, which would make it possible.” Lady Rothgar glanced at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak so frankly of such matters to an unmarried lady.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in seafaring circles, Lady Rothgar. I’m not easily shocked.”
The marchioness smiled. “As my husband said, you should fit in here excellently. But I must tell you that I choose to go by my own title of Arradale in all but the most formal situations. No, don’t be embarrassed. You were quite correct. It is I who is out of order.”
“You’re very kind, Lady Arradale.”
Genova meant it. Despite daunting grandeur and all the other problems, she was ready to like the Dark Marquess’s wife.
“To be kind we must get our innocents to a simpler and warmer setting. Come along.”
Genova noticed then that Sheena was standing in the center of the corridor, as far from anything as she could get. She must be terrified of breaking something.
The countess led them around another corner into a short corridor that appeared to go nowhere. She opened a door and revealed a plain, narrow staircase, whose sides brushed her wide skirts as she went up.
“Do you have a plan for dealing with the baby, Miss Smith?”
Genova wished she could see Lady Arradale’s face, the better to judge the tone of the question. Was she to be held solely responsible?
“Lady Booth must be found,” she said, choosing her words. “Lord Ashart will help, since he knows the lady so well.”
The “will” was her statement of intent, and that was probably obvious. At the top of the stairs, Lady Arradale flashed her a smile. “We will make sure he does.”
They had reached a plain but carpeted corridor, and Lady Arradale seemed to hesitate, tapping her lips with one finger. She wore rings worth a fortune, and what’s more, she wore one on every finger.
“I wasn’t in London last winter, but Lady Booth’s scandal ran well into summer. She claimed all along that she was with child by Ashart. When he wouldn’t marry her, she fled to Ireland, and eventually announced the birth of a son.”
Disappointment stabbed Genova. “So it is his. And now the poor woman is driven to extremes to force him to accept his responsibilities.”
“A singularly foolish way to go about it, wouldn’t you say? And…inconvenient. You burn for justice, which I completely understand, but we’d prefer to attempt peace rather than war over the next few days. We didn’t expect Ashart to attend, you see, but now he’s here, we wish to make best use of it.”
“I understand, my lady.”
And Genova did. Aristocratic peacemaking would come before justice for a baby. It was the way of the world, but it meant that Genova would be the only one to truly care about Sheena and Charlie.
Lady Arradale nodded, then continued along the corridor. Genova heard childish sounds nearby. The countess opened a door, and laughter danced out. Genova urged Sheena into a warm room of comfortable dimensions and closed the door after them. This, at least, was right.
The room could be the parlor of a modest house, and the fire, shielded by an ornate metal guard, banished all trace of cold. In her cloak, Genova was already too warm.
The walls were painted a pale green, the woodwork was white, and a Turkish carpet cushioned the floor. A spinet sat in one corner, a drum and some recorders on top of it. There were comfortable chairs, some child-sized, and an assortment of books and toys on shelves.
Two blond girls, in matching blue gowns open over white quilted petticoats, sat on the carpet to one side of the fire playing with dolls. A maid in a chair was keeping an eye on them while doing some plain sewing.
In the center of the room, two other mobcapped maids sat on the floor with a copper-haired toddler. The sturdy, dark-haired one of the pair sat back observing, while the slender one helped the child build with brightly colored blocks.
Both maids looked up.
Lady Arradale said, “Look what we have, Portia. A baby.”
The slender maid was not a maid. Her copperish curls bubbled out from beneath a pretty, lace-trimmed cap rather than a servant’s mobcap, and her gown was clearly of the finest quality. She scrambled to her feet, proving to be petite but close to Genova’s age.
“How lovely. Whose?”
“Lady Booth Carew’s.”
“It’s Ashart’s, then?”
It was like a nail in his coffin.