Chapter Forty-four
S ilence fell except for the faint laughter and calls of children.
For a moment Genova believed it, but then she knew the claim was impossible. “You must be mistaken, Miss Myddleton.”
“Of course she is,” Ash snapped.
Damaris Myddleton laughed, cheeks fiery. “How could I be mistaken about that?” She swung to the dowager. “Is it not true?”
It seemed as if a hall full of avid listeners held their breath.
“Yes,” the dowager said.
Genova saw that Ash was frozen. He didn’t want to prove his grandmother a barefaced liar.
There was one way out of this disastrous moment. Genova saw Lady Arradale nearby and passed the baby to her. Then she turned on Ash.
“You rancid fish!”
He blinked at her.
“Scum on the sewer of life!”
“Genni…?”
She’d already noted the open door to the breakfast room, and now she ran for it. Clearly breakfast had been provided from yesterday’s food along with preserved fruits and such. There was a bit of everything.
“Genni, for God’s sake—”
He was close behind. She picked up a bowl of stewed plums, turned, and hurled the contents full at him. “You scurvy blackguard! I never want to see you again!”
He swept plums off his face. “Genova—”
She scooped out soft butter and threw. “Canker!” Cream. “Dunghill cock!” A jug of ale. “Strutting capon!”
“Capon!” he roared and threw himself at her so they tumbled squishily to the floor in the doorway.
She wriggled free because of a lucky elbow to the nose and pulled off the ring. As he scrambled up, she hurled it at him. “Gilded popinjay. Take back your vile diamond!”
They certainly had a fine audience, and despite a broken heart, Genova was enjoying herself.
She ran into the hall and saw an almost empty dish of sugarplums. She tossed the contents, frosting him with sugar. Then she grabbed a basket of walnuts and pelted him with them, one after another as he kept coming after her, undeterred.
When she ran out of nuts she looked for more missiles and realized she’d made a tactical error. He had her trapped near the fire and the presepe. When he lunged and grabbed her, she couldn’t escape.
She tried to wrench free back in the direction of food, but he cinched her to him unbreakably, her back to him. “Damn you, woman, I love you! Only you!”
“To hell with that!”
“To hell together, then.” Close to her ear, he hissed, “Break up over Damaris, dammit, and I’ll have to marry her!”
That fueled true fury. Genova bent forward, then swung back hard, connecting with his jaw. He cursed and his grip loosened. She ripped free and ran for the food. She turned back swinging a large ham bone.
He went down on one knee, stained, messy, and gorgeous, holding out the diamond ring. “Sweet Genni, forgiving Genni, redoubtable Genni. Marry me? Don’t hold my stupid words against me. It’s not really my fault if you turn me into a gibbering idiot.”
It was like running aground on hidden rocks. Distantly, Genova heard the dowager cry, “Ashart!” and Miss Myddleton shouting something.
Genova’s attention was all on him. “What?”
“I love you, Genni, I adore you, and I want to marry you. I need to marry you. You’re my sanity, my anchor, my balance on the edge. I was trying to find the right words earlier when my grandmother arrived.”
Genova looked around at the shocked but entertained guests.
Damaris Myddleton, seething, was locked in Mr. Fitzroger’s arms, presumably to stop her joining the fray. The Dowager Lady Ashart stood stock-still, glaring as if she wished she were the Gorgon and could turn Genova to stone.
It was also as if she was daring Genova to say yes.
Genova turned back to Ash, happiness bursting out in a laugh of delight. “Yes, Ash, beloved, I’ll marry you. But please, not that ring!”
“No!” cried Miss Myddleton. “He’s mine!”
Genova didn’t take her eyes off Ash’s brilliant, joyful face. He rose, pocketing the ring. “You see, you’re my wisdom, too. But,” he said, taking her into his arms, “I am not a capon.”
She smothered laughter in his sugary shoulder. “I know that.” She wove her arms around his neck, and they kissed slowly, gently, a sweet promise of a lifetime of heady delights.
But then a voice spoke, mildly but firmly. “Ashart.”
With a wry expression, Ash turned to his grandmother. Perhaps governed by tact, their audience was dispersing, chattering. Genova couldn’t see Damaris Myddleton. She felt rather sorry for her rival, for Damaris had not only lost, but mortified herself before everyone.
Only Rothgar remained.
Ash kept Genova’s hand in his as they walked over to the apparently calm old woman. Her eyes were not calm at all, however, unless ice is calm.
“A word with you, Ashart. Rothgar, provide us with a room.”
“Follow me, Grandmother.”
Genova saw the old lady’s face pinch as if she’d like to disavow the relationship, but she turned and marched after him. Genova and Ash followed.
This would not be pleasant. Lady Ashart intended to fight. Genova would give as good as she got. She would not let the old tyrant cause Ash any more pain.
Rothgar opened the door to a room Genova hadn’t previously seen. It was of modest size, and gloomy for lack of windows, though one wall hung with heavy curtains.
“This is the Garden Room,” Rothgar said. “The curtains conceal doors leading to a conservatory. Pleasant in summer, chilly in winter, even with the fire.”
He touched a taper to the fire and lit candles, making the room brighter, though nothing could brighten the atmosphere.
He left and the dowager sat like a queen on a throne, still in her hat and rich, blue cloak. “Only you, Ashart, could have three women fighting over you.”
“Three?”
“Lady Booth Carew. You denied ruining her, too.”
“I did not get her with child, Grandy. The proof of that is on the premises, if you doubt my word.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t challenge him. “You won’t get an admission of guilt from her. She’s gone abroad.”
“What?”
“She’s married an Irishman called Lemoyne who has business in the West Indies, and gone there with him. I heard the story from Lady Dreyport in London en route here.”
Ash and Genova shared a look. The final piece.
Somewhere late in her venture, Molly Carew had met a rich man who would marry her and even take her away from the scandal she’d brought on herself.
But she’d needed to get rid of the baby, and had done it as a final, spiteful slash without a thought to Sheena and her child.
Genova hoped Molly Carew got what she deserved in life.
“Which leaves you,” the dowager said, as if Genova wasn’t present, “free to marry Miss Myddleton. I see that you care for another, but it will not do. I gather she has nothing.”
“She has herself.”
“Feeble nonsense, and Miss Myddleton has a prior claim.”
“If you made promises on my behalf, you had no authority to do so. I intend to marry Genova.”
He spoke calmly, but Genova felt the tension in him.
The dowager stiffened. “Against my wishes?”
“If necessary, yes.”
It was as if all stood still. Genova was astonished to hear a clock daring to tick.
“Then I will leave your house and never speak to you again.”
Genova felt Ash’s hand clench on hers, but nothing in his voice betrayed him when he said, “That is neither my wish nor Genova’s, Grandy, but we cannot stop you.”
The old mouth tightened. Then tears glistened.
Genova went to her knees beside the dowager. “Oh, my lady, don’t. Ash doesn’t need to marry money. He can put food on the table and coals in the hearth. We can build. Together we can build fortune and family.”
“With what?” the dowager spat. “You can hardly be a credit to him at court!”
“There is more to the world than court!”
Ash raised Genova, perhaps moving her out of range. “Grandy, Genova’s right. I intend to build up the estates in many ways. There are fortunes to be made through trade.”
“Trade!” It was a snarl of outrage.
“Even the Duke of Bridgewater is repairing his fortunes with canals to ship his coal. Rothgar has given me advice, and Bryght Malloren—”
The old woman surged to her feet. “What? Never! Do you want to drive me into my grave?”
Genova thought it was a dangerous possibility and welcomed a knock on the door.
When had Ash sought this advice from Rothgar?
It had to have been this morning, and she realized, happiness blooming from bud to perfect flower, it had been part of his decision to marry her, long before things exploded.
Mr. Fitzroger came in, carefully expressionless, though he surprised Genova by winking at her. He had Lady Augusta’s journal, and he gave it to Ash, then left.
Ash coaxed his grandmother back into her chair and put the book on her lap. “That’s Aunt Augusta’s journal, written during her marriage. I’ve read it. It leaves no doubt in my mind that whatever drove her to murder, it wasn’t the Mallorens.”
“Forgery!” she snapped, but she gripped the book written by her youngest child.
“Book, writing, and style match the earlier journals at Cheynings.”
“And it paints a picture of an idyllic marriage?” The curl of the dowager’s lip showed that she knew better.
“It paints a picture of a girl too young to be married, too young to be a mother. Perhaps in time she would have been ready, but she wasn’t when she wrote that.”
“You’re speaking of a person you never knew. She was sweet, innocent, unspoiled.”
Ash didn’t contradict her.
“It was the perfect match!” the dowager protested. “He was handsome and good-humored, and would be a marquess. She wanted it.”
Again Ash didn’t speak, and Genova gripped her hands to force her own silence. She recognized that the dowager would listen to no one but might come to express the truth herself.
“Are you saying I was wrong to arrange it?” the old woman demanded, lines seeming deeper in her face. “How could I have known how it would be? I married at seventeen…”
“Perhaps you couldn’t have known,” Ash said gently, “but she did write pleas for help.”
So he’d read the letters.
“Megrims and moods. The next letter, she’d be like a lark.”