Chapter Twenty-two
G enova headed back toward activities, but where to go?
She peeped into her own room, but Thalia was up and away. She knocked on Lady Calliope’s door but found that she, too, was elsewhere.
Genova was still nervous in this house where she knew hardly anyone. That realization was enough to stiffen her spine. She wasn’t going to skulk, so the Tapestry Room seemed the most likely place to mingle.
She was approaching the door when someone called, “Miss Smith!”
She turned to see Lady Bryght coming into the hall, her arms full of a tangle of green and red. “Could I impose upon you to help me untangle all this?”
Genova could hardly refuse, and she would enjoy being useful. That was another problem, she realized. Before her father’s retirement, and even in Portsmouth, she’d been busy, active, and productive.
Lady Bryght looked around, wrinkling her brow. “I think I’ll take it up to the library to spread on one of the big tables there. Come along.”
They went up to a magnificent room. Lit by tall windows, the long room gleamed with gilded wood, flaunted elaborate carvings, and clasped thousands of leather-bound books behind glass-paneled doors.
Down the center, three long oak tables were set with chairs and held branches of candles ready for use, each with polished reflectors to focus the light on the page. Newspapers and magazines were spread invitingly, and in the center of each table a book lay open on a book stand.
She noted a tall lectern chair beneath each window—the sort seen in medieval illustrations. These chairs could well date from that time, especially as they each had an ancient book chained in place. She’d heard that was the practice when books were handwritten and precious.
A fireplace blazed at one end of the room and a rich carpet covered the floor, but there were no upholstered chairs.
This was a room intended for study, not napping or chatter.
She wondered if the scribes and philosophers painted on the ceiling disapproved of Lady Bryght’s invasion with a mundane task.
Lady Bryght spilled the mess of green and red at one end of the center table without apparent concern. She sat in one chair and Genova took another, eying the mess dubiously.
“This was used to tie bundles of greenery last year,” Lady Bryght said, “but it wasn’t put away properly. Diana wants to reuse it, but I don’t know how much will be salvageable.”
Genova poked at the ribbons. “It’s astonishing how things can become so thoroughly tangled.”
“If there were merchants nearby, it would be easier to buy new.” Then Lady Bryght looked up with a smile. “That’s a very Malloren way of thinking. I was raised to be frugal.”
Genova chuckled, relaxing. “So was I. I’ve unpicked trimmings, unstrung beads, and made useful items out of scraps. Let’s try, at least.” She chose a green end and began to trace it back to free more of the ribbon.
Lady Bryght started on a piece of red. “Tell me more about life with the navy, Miss Smith. It must be fascinating.”
“In parts.” Genova was happy to entertain with her stories, however.
Lady Bryght didn’t only listen, so Genova learned a lot about the Malloren family. It was particularly interesting because it was an outsider’s view. Lady Bryght, as she’d implied, came from a family that owned only a modest manor.
“Sometimes the Mallorens act as if they’re gods,” she remarked at one point. “Especially Rothgar. Don’t let him bully you.”
“He seems kind.”
“Oh, he is, but like all of us, he has many sides.” Genova was thinking about portraits when Lady Bryght added, “He killed a man in a duel earlier in the year.”
Genova said, “I read about it in the paper.”
She hoped for more detail, something to make it a noble act, but Lady Bryght frowned at the yard of creased red ribbon she’d freed. “I don’t think this has to be in very long lengths.” She produced small scissors from her pocket and snipped it. “Now that,” she said, “is a very Malloren solution.”
“With blades?”
“Sometimes.”
Genova met the other woman’s eyes. Lady Bryght might claim to be ordinary, but she was a Malloren. “Is that a warning, my lady?”
Fair freckled skin blushes easily. “Don’t let my chatter upset you, Miss Smith. Oh, we must not be so formal. May I call you Genova? I do wish you to call me Portia.”
It was all a move in a game, but again, Genova could hardly refuse. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Portia began to wrap her length of ribbon around her fingers.
“I probably understand how you feel here. My only touch with greatness before I met Bryght was that our property sat close to Walgrave Towers and we knew the family. And now Fort—Lord Walgrave—is my brother-in-law, which I never would have imagined. His father and Rothgar were dire enemies.”
“But they made peace?”
Was that a message of hope?
Portia’s hands stilled. “He died.”
“How?”
Portia’s eyes were wide, and Genova thought she wouldn’t answer, but then she said, “Suicide. Here, as it happens. Everyone knows about it.”
Despite that, Genova knew that revelation hadn’t been planned. She had the strange notion that a true Malloren would have handled it better.
“Elf—Lady Walgrave—is hoping for a Christmas baby,” Portia said, too brightly. “The midwife is in residence, but nothing is happening yet.”
It was a clumsy change of subject, but gave aft opening for a question that had been puzzling Genova. “Isn’t it strange to expect an accouchement during a house party?”
“Elf has always spent Christmas here and wished to again. And they’re making changes at Walgrave Towers.”
Was that adequate explanation? Especially when Lord Walgrave’s father had committed suicide here. She teased free a bit more ribbon while trying to frame a question about that.
“Of course Rothgar is pleased to have Elf here at this time,” Portia chattered.
“Men do worry. Poor Bryght was in agonies because I’m so small, but Francis gave me no trouble at all.
” Then she looked up, wide-eyed again. “I’m sorry.
Married ladies aren’t supposed to discuss such matters with unmarried ones, but talking to you feels… different.”
“Different, I am,” Genova agreed wryly. “Being raised in ports and on naval ships has its effect.”
“But it’s delightful! I can see why Ashart was bowled over.”
“Almost literally,” Genova muttered, then felt herself blush.
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean it was doubtless very rash of us.”
“Which doesn’t mean it was unwise.” Portia tugged on her length of ribbon, tightening a central knot of red and green.
“Stop!” Genova exclaimed, then said, “I’m sorry….”
Portia laughed. “No matter. I lack patience with tasks like this. I surrender that Gordian section to you.” She chose another loose end. “Ashart is quite fascinating, isn’t he?”
So they were back to that. Safer, no doubt, than other subjects. “To every woman?” Genova asked, concentrating on loosening red from green.
“He has rank and charm and knows how to use it.”
“Then he’d make the devil of a husband.”
“Doubts already?”
“A million of them.” No harm in admitting that. A woman would have to be feather witted not to worry about marrying a man like the Marquess of Ashart.
Portia cocked her head. “But a man like that is a very rewarding husband if he is a true one.”
“Faithful, you mean? I doubt—”
“More than faithful. A friend. A friend of the heart. Sharer of strength and secrets, even in winter. Especially,” Portia added, “in winter.”
Genova responded to that deep within, but was it another pointed message? If the Mallorens wanted the betrothal to become real, she doubted it was for her benefit.
“Ashart and I have nothing like that,” she said.
“I believe you only met two days ago. Within two days of meeting Bryght I had no idea of what we could be.”
Genova hesitated, but she was tired of fighting tangles and the simplest way to cut through this was with truth.
“This is different,” she said. “The betrothal is false. Ashart and I argued. Some people interrupted….” Too late she realized that the telling might be embarrassing.
“It appeared that we were behaving improperly. Then Thalia arrived and said we were betrothed, in order to save my reputation. We intend to break it soon.”
Portia’s main reaction seemed to be fascination. “How improperly?”
“Portia!”
“It’s a salient point.”
“We fell to the floor. In the argument. Then he kissed me. On his bed.”
Portia’s eyes went wide. “You were in his bedroom?”
“No!” Genova knew her cheeks were flaming. “We were in the parlor, but he was sleeping there. On a mattress on the floor.”
She looked to the sages on the painted ceiling for help, but they frowned severely back at her. “It wasn’t so very bad. But we were both in our nightwear.”
Portia broke into laughter. “Oh, my. It is quite in the family tradition!”
“I just wanted to get my needlework.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Portia waved a hand. “But it’s delightful. Bryght broke into the house where I was staying and I tried to shoot him.”
“Broke in?” The Mallorens were as mad as the Trayces.
“There was something hidden there that Rothgar wanted, and they thought the house was empty.” Portia seemed to think that was explanation enough. “Who saw you?”
“What?”
“You said someone interrupted. Who was it?”
“A man called Brokesby and his sister.”
Portia winced. “Tattling Tess? No wonder Thalia intervened. And her presence would help. Despite their eccentricities, the Trayce ladies are beyond reproach. Even though the story will be ricocheting around England, embellished by Christmas cheer, it will only be amusement. Passion between a betrothed couple is naughty but not ruinous.”
“Even when the engagement is broken?”
“Even then.”
Genova looked down at the impossible tangle of ribbons. “I do worry about my reputation. Lord Ashart said that we should act the lovers for a day or two to seal the story.”
“He’s right. First convince the world the attraction is real, then show that the bond cannot last. Unlike this one.” She gave up on another knot and snipped some ribbon free.
The flash of sharp blades made Genova shudder. “There’s no cause for a duel between Rothgar and Ashart, is there?”
“Rothgar doesn’t permit duels in the family, and he considers Ashart one of the family.”
“I doubt Ashart agrees.”
“Even so, it would be hard for him to push Rothgar that far.”
Hard, but not impossible. Was that Ashart’s plan—to push Rothgar into a deadly duel? He had made that dangerous remark about Lady Arradale.
“I gather Lord Rothgar is a skilled swordsman.”
“They all are,” Portia said. “Rothgar trained them quite brutally, from what Bryght has said, because he wanted to be sure they couldn’t fall victim to the sort of bully who uses sword skill to murder.
Bryght says he’ll do the same with Francis and any other sons we have.
Pistols and swords.” Her brow wrinkled. “I suppose it will be for the best.”
“It probably is. I’ve seen good men hurt or cowed that way. The whole matter of dueling should be made illegal!”
“I gather it is in a way, but it’s rarely enforced.
Men have their own brutal code.” Portia looked at Genova.
“That was the kind of man Curry was—the swordsman Rothgar defeated. He’d killed a number of men in duels.
According to Bryght, he’d been paid to kill Rothgar that way, and almost succeeded. ”
This could be an attempt to glorify, but Genova suspected it was true. She’d find it hard to see Rothgar as a cold-blooded murderer. It didn’t reassure her much, however, to know that he could be a cold-blooded executioner.
How was she to enjoy Christmas in the midst of this?
Portia looked at the tangle of ribbons. “This is carrying frugality too far. I shall take it back to Diana and say so.” She gathered the mess into her arms, keeping the liberated streamers safe.
Genova caught a straggler and wound it on top, suspecting that ribbons had been a pretext to slide her some information and warn her of danger.
Portia headed for the door and Genova opened it for her, unready to mingle with others now. “Will it be all right for me to stay here?”
“Yes, of course! It is magnificent, isn’t it? And I hear the horn, which means arrivals. Best to be out of the way.”
She left Genova with an image of being trodden under a stampede of Malloren feet. That was whimsy, but other problems were not. Behind this jovial Christmas cheer lay altogether too many deaths.