Chapter Sixteen
A sh followed Thalia and Miss Smith out of the room, but not up the stairs. He had no desire for talk or scrutiny, though Thalia’s intervention had been as well. A duel to the death, even a verbal one, would be inconvenient.
“Are you accepting the olive branch?”
He turned to find Rothgar behind him. “Was the invitation here an olive branch?”
“What else?”
“A call to battle?”
One of the elegant hounds had accompanied its master, and Rothgar idly stroked its silky ears. “The enmity has always come from the Trayce side.”
“Has it? What was your purpose in inviting my family here?”
“How distressing,” Rothgar said, apparently to the dog, “to have a reputation that makes an invitation to Christmas revelries a matter for suspicion.” He looked up. “This is Boudicca, by the way.”
Ash was aware of being given a breathing moment, but took it. “What sort of dog is she?”
“A Persian gazelle hound. We have persuaded her and Zeno not to pursue the deer. It doubtless causes them frustration, but in a civilized world we cannot follow our rude natures. Perhaps you would like a pup from the next litter.”
After a moment, Rothgar added, “I make that offer only to people I believe know how to value a gift.”
Ash snapped his guards in place. “You cannot know me well enough to judge.”
“I have observed you. Having—I apologize for the unfairness—over ten years advantage on you, I have witnessed many stages.”
“So you baited your hook, and I took it.” Damnation. He was being pushed into leaving.
Rothgar’s brows rose. “I sent an invitation. I didn’t think you would come.”
“I wouldn’t have except for Genova, and the great-aunts.” Ash launched a dart. “You could have visited them anytime during the past thirty years.”
“I confess, I never thought of it. Given their fond memories, I’m slain with remorse.”
“Not apparently.”
“Perhaps I’m a walking corpse. How would you know?”
“I could stab you to see if you bleed.”
“But how embarrassing if I did.” Rothgar picked up a crystal dish from a nearby table and offered it. “Apricot crisp?”
Bemused, Ash picked one up and nibbled. “Very tasty.”
“And I haven’t had any since I was a child. You see how the disagreements between our families harm us all. You can have more if you stay. Having breached the portals it would be a shame, don’t you think, to leave with treats as yet untasted?”
Ash felt as if he was being entangled in gilded whimsy. “What if I’m here to seek out your weaknesses and use them against you?”
“Like Loki?”
Ash started at the apt reference to the Norse god of discord and destruction.
Rothgar spread his hands in apparent invitation. “Please, tell me first. I will follow the Bible and pluck them out. That excepts, of course, my family, especially my wife.”
At last, the blade. “My grandmother thought Lady Arradale would be an ideal wife for me.”
“The Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, as always, was wrong, but at least her taste is excellent. You should not let her ride and spur you, you know.”
“I’m her only surviving descendant.”
“She has grandchildren in Scotland and a daughter in a French convent. And of course,” Rothgar added, “she has me.”
This surprised a laugh, which Ash instantly regretted. He took a step back, a physical disengagement. “I’m welcome to stay?”
“You were invited, Cousin, but an invitation was never necessary. My relatives are always welcome in my homes.”
“Perhaps I should encourage our grandmother to come here, too.”
Ash expected at least a twitch of resistance, but Rothgar appeared completely unperturbed. “I would be charmed if you could arrange it.”
Thwarted, Ash turned and went up to his room.
Rothgar had revealed nothing when he’d seen the baby and Miss Smith, nor when Ash had tossed a hint of the threat he held at his throat.
It was frustrating, but exhilarating. He hadn’t known until now how he’d hungered to bring the contest into the open.
He had been raised to see the Mallorens as his enemy, as a cunning evil to be destroyed. In his grandmother’s eyes they were not only the cause of her daughter’s death, but of her husband’s, and possibly of two sons. She’d blame Aunt Harriet’s death from smallpox on them if she could.
It had burgeoned out of all reason, but suggestion of softening threw his grandmother into a tempest of rage and hurt, and certainly Rothgar was no long-suffering saint.
Could his apparent moves toward peace be trusted? The proof of that could be his willingness to clear away Molly’s mess, but that alone would require negotiations as complex and delicate as the Peace of Paris.
Which, as John Wilkes had remarked, “is like the Peace of God. It passeth all understanding.”
Bryght Malloren came out of the Tapestry Room to find his brother in an unusual state of contemplation. “He escaped unharmed?”
“Of course.” Rothgar led away from the hall to his office. Once the door shut, he asked, “Why do you think he came?”
“A chance meeting with his great-aunts?”
“If I’d known he merely needed an excuse, I would have provided one years ago. No, there’s been a change of some sort. The question is, how do we use it to reform him?”
“Struth, you plan to turn him virtuous?”
“I have little interest in his virtue. I plan to turn him into a proper cousin.”
“Bey, some family rifts cannot be healed.”
“With a Malloren, are not all things possible?”
“No,” Bryght said bluntly.
Rothgar smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps, but this is worth an attempt. So, what do we have that can hold him?”
“Whatever reason brought him here. What was all that about truth?”
“Interesting, wasn’t it? I suspect he holds some evidence that he believes could be a mistletoe branch.”
“Don’t you mean an olive branch?”
Rothgar shook his head. “I did try to have you educated well. Balder, Norse god of light, was impervious to all weapons except those made of mistletoe. When Loki, god of discord, discovered his weakness, he used it to kill him.”
Bryght’s hand twitched to where a sword might be. “You think Loki comes bearing weapons that could slay you? What?”
“An interesting question.”
“Bey!”
Rothgar smiled at him. “I merely seek to spare you anxiety. He will not succeed.”
“Ashart’s a ne’er-do-well in some ways, but he doesn’t make idle threats.”
“I should hope not. Since I have no desire to destroy him, we shall have to convince him to love us.”
“For Zeus’s sake!”
“What do you think of Miss Smith?”
Bryght frowned at the switch of topic. “You think she’s Ashart’s ally?”
“If so, she acts the opponent well. I thought it a most interesting exchange. Shall I play Cupid?”
“Ashart and a paid companion?”
“She’s the daughter, apparently, of a naval officer.”
“Even so.”
Rothgar tut-tutted. “You in particular should know that the right wife is more valuable than rubies, that personal qualities matter more than aristocratic bloodlines and a large dowry.”
“Says he who married a peeress who owns a large bite of the north of England.”
“You think that was an easy choice? Next year, by the way, we Christmas in Yorkshire.”
Bryght shuddered. “In that case, my family will celebrate the season in our own, southern home.”
“As you will. According to Lady Thalia, Ashart and Miss Smith are already betrothed.”
Bryght stared. “She is somewhat dotty.”
“I suspect she’s as dotty as she cares to be, but it’s true that they don’t seem besotted. It has, however, provided Ashart with an excuse to stay. Is that its sole purpose? Another mystery to amuse us over the holidays. Delightful, wouldn’t you say?”
Instead, Bryght Malloren said something rude.