Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (24 page)

“So, you think I’m mad. Now that’s a pot calling a kettle black.”

“It really is quite pointless to jab at me, Walgrave. I am armored beyond any weapon you possess. Yes, the blood of a mad mother runs in my veins. Your father was not mad, except at the end. He was a man who loved power too much, and considered the effect of his actions too little. He was also handicapped by pride, an uncontrolled temper, and an inability to accept being crossed. I suggest you contemplate those flaws.”

The marquess stood and straightened a snowy lace ruffle. “My apology is for misjudging you, and for putting you in a position that has caused you pain, then leaving you without aid.”

“You think I would have accepted succor from you?”

Rothgar merely continued. “Your pain shows, however, that you have a soul. I would not reject you as a suitor for Elf’s hand.”

Fort laughed. “Are we, perhaps, finished? I’m damned uncomfortable.”

“Yes. We are finished.” Rothgar walked out of the room.

In a moment, Sappho came in and cut the ropes that bound Fort to the sofa. He moved his arms to the front, wincing, and stood with a groan.

“Would you like a hot bath before you dress, my lord?” she asked.

“Oh, call me Fort.” He rubbed his battered hands over his face. “After tonight, any attempt to stand on
dignity seems absurd, don’t you think? But I must reject your kind offer. I have things I have to do.”

Elf paced the hall, listening intently, but heard no shouting or sounds of mayhem. When Rothgar emerged, he looked unruffled. But then, he generally did.

Her mouth dried. She supposed now she would face the real consequences of her folly. He merely said, “I assume you wish to return home.”

“Yes, please.”

It had never occurred to her to question that she would return to Malloren House, but she realized many families would bar the door against a fallen woman. What
was
Rothgar going to do?

He merely took her hand to lead her out to the coach, which had returned for them. Once inside, however, he said, “I do have words for you.”

“Yes?” Pain tightened within her and it was fear—not of punishment, but of his disappointment.

“I warned you once about Walgrave.”

“I meant no harm,” she said again.

“Those, my dear, are the most damning words in the language. You should have realized the rawness of his feelings and given him time to heal. Instead, you picked at him, demanding a response he was not capable of.”

“Did I do that? He called me Vespa.”

“At least he didn’t call you Torquemada.”

“Who?”

“An infamous torturer.”

“I am beginning to feel very poorly educated!”

“You cannot blame me for that. You were educated with Cyn, but were always of a flighty disposition. I should have suspected the apparent change.”

“Oh, Bey . . .” At the hint of humor in his voice, Elf brushed at tears in her eyes. She wasn’t sure she deserved his understanding, and desperately wanted to soften his feelings toward Fort.

“He’s a different person when not dealing with
Mallorens, you know. That’s what caused my ruin. Now, though, I’m not sure that person can ever exist for me.”

“This time, you will have to give him a chance to heal.”

“I’ve discovered that I am not of a patient disposition.” Elf looked at the small scabs still remaining from the first step of this adventure. “I’m afraid of what he might do.” She was equally afraid to tell her brother of Fort’s threats to make the whole story public.

Rothgar took her hand and studied the marks, but he made no comment. “I don’t say you must leave him be. I’m no oracle on these matters. Just be careful, and don’t push for more than he is ready to give.”

“Bey, what if I’m with child?”

“You must have thought of that.”

“I did. I know these things happen. I can travel . . . But it will be his child, too.”

“Then I think you must tell him. But I will not force a marriage. That would surely set the stage for tragedy.”

“Would it? I think I was hoping that you would.”

“Tush, tush. And you so independent. If you want him, my dear, you’ll have to woo him for yourself. Just step carefully. Now, enough of that. We are home, and you must explain your part in this.”

In an abrupt change of rhythm, he swept her into Malloren House in a whirlwind of questions and commands to hovering servants. Roberts, angrily grieving the slain Sally, was ordered to lead a party to the old tavern to see if the stone was still there and to scoop up any lingering Scots. A note to Grenville assured that a troop of soldiers would go there too, and that all ships sailing down the river would be stopped and searched.

In the middle of this, Bryght walked in. “I smell mayhem in the air. And since I received an urgent summons . . .”

He was tall, dark, and astonishingly handsome, and his eyes sparkled with interest.

“You’re late for the action,” said Rothgar, and gave
a brief account which made Bryght’s eyes widen, especially when Rothgar made no secret of Elf’s activities.

“ ’Struth, Elf! And we’re not supposed to kill the villain?”

“Not until she gives us permission. Which is unlikely to be provided, I fear.”

“Pay attention, Bryght,” said Elf, pausing in a restless pacing to face him. “
I
decided that I wanted Fort to make love to me.
I
chased him and insisted on it. He gave me a number of opportunities to change my mind. And when we did it”—she cursed the heat in her cheeks—“he made it very, very good for me. If I’d been able to be honest about who I was, I would have no regrets at all. I don’t see why I should be denied all experience, all adventure, just because I’m a woman!”

“You should get your experience in marriage,” Bryght pointed out.

“As you did, I suppose.”

“It’s not the same. You could be pregnant.”

“And you could have caught the pox!”

“I was careful.”

“Since there doesn’t seem to be any way to be careful about pregnancy—”

“Actually, there are a few.”

“What?” Elf stared between her brothers. “Do you mean to tell me there are things a woman can do so as not to conceive a child, and I don’t know about them?”

“What use would they be?” Bryght demanded. “They’re whores’ tricks!”

Elf picked up a large, valuable Chinese vase and hurled it onto the floor. “The world needs changing.”

“Probably,” said Rothgar, amused. “At the moment, however, we need to make sure that some murderous traitors are dealt with without damage to our family’s reputation. I don’t entirely trust Grenville. I’m for Court. Bryght, you go with Roberts to see to the Stone of Scone and any malefactors who turn up there. I assume Portia is not with you?”

“No,” said Bryght, still staring at Elf as if she’d grown
horns. “I left her at Candleford. Travel wearies her these days.”

“Elf,” said Rothgar, “you should rest.”

“I’m going with Bryght.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Elf, “this is my adventure, and I want to see it to the end. Have Tressia ready for me.” She then swept up to her room calling for someone to clean up debris, and a maid, any maid, to help her into her habit.

Rage carried her up the stairs, but in her room, exhaustion and misery sank her limp into a chair. Oh God, oh God, it had all gone too fast for her to keep up.

And what of the future? It was one thing to face her brothers so boldly—even if she had been shaking inside. It was another to face the whole world. What if Fort carried out his threat to spread the story of their wickedness? She’d never be able to show her face in public, and even if her brothers didn’t kill him, they’d want to.

Every day.

Surely, on calm reflection, he wouldn’t do it.

She just hoped he didn’t spread the word before he had time for calm reflection!

She looked at her bed, so smooth and inviting, tempted to slip between the sheets and into sleep, to let others take care of everything. But that was the coward’s way out. She intended to see this through to the end.

Even before the maid came, she had stripped to her shift, and stood ready to don corset, petticoat, and her finest gray riding habit with the silver-braided jacket.

Since nothing quick could be done with her powdered hair, she just crowned it with the habit’s gray tricorne hat, jaunty plume flowing behind. In the mirror, with boots and whip, she looked the image of a proper lady. But pale. She hastily added some rouge to cheeks and lips.

Lud. Now she looked like a doxy.

Ah, plague take it. Telling herself she didn’t care what anyone thought, she swept downstairs.

“The tides are right,” said Bryght, still looking at her strangely. “We’re taking the boat. Roberts says your prison was in Wapping, down in the port. He thinks Alderman Parson’s Stairs should be close enough.”

“Very well,” said Elf. “Let’s be off.”

They rode down to the river, the servants jogging alongside, and found Rothgar’s barge awaiting them, eight sturdy liveried boatmen already at their benches. Once everyone was settled in the covered portion, the boat shot off into the river traffic, speeding downriver on the tides toward the Port of London.

The curtains all around the covered area were rolled up, giving a view of the lively activity on the river. Commanded to make all speed, the boatmen rammed their vessel through narrow gaps, exchanging searing abuse with others of their sort.

Elf didn’t know whether to giggle or swoon. This certainly wasn’t the grand manner of travel the barge was accustomed to, but she suspected the boatmen were enjoying every moment.

Glancing at her brother, she saw his lips turn up in a smile of pure enjoyment. He caught her look and they shared a smile both of excitement and camaraderie. Suddenly, he held out his hand and she placed hers in it, tears threatening, especially when he gave her hand a friendly squeeze.

She really did have the best brothers in the world, though she suspected her twin was storing up a long and pointed lecture for her.

Then she looked ahead to see the almost solid barrier of London Bridge hurtling toward them. Most of the houses that had lined it since medieval times had recently been torn down, but the bridge itself was untouched. The nineteen broad stone arches were supported on wide rock starlings with only narrow passages beneath each.

“We aren’t going to shoot the bridge, are we?”

“You wanted adventure,” said Bryght. “Hold on!”

His eyes might be shining with anticipation, but Elf saw all the servants turn pale, and a few start to say their last prayers. People regularly drowned trying to shoot London Bridge, and the wise disembarked from their boats and crossed the barrier on foot, leaving their watermen to take their chances as professionals should.

Their speed seemed horrendous, and the gap they were aiming for impossibly narrow. With the oars, it was impossible. Surely they must crash into the stone starling—

She screamed and hunched down, even as oars fended them off and into the maelstrom. But by then the water’s roar deafened her even to her own voice.

Into the dark roar.

Boat jars against stone.

Tossing wildly.

Bryght seizing her.

Clinging together as the boat spins . . .

Out into sunlight and wild water.

Boat tipping, twirling.

Oars digging.

Boatmen shouting.

Noise receding.

Water calming.

Laughter.

Everyone—boatmen, servants, and nobles—burst into wild laughter at the sheer joy of being alive.

Then the men settled to their oars, speeding them on down to Parson’s Stairs.

Elf became aware that one side of her habit was drenched. “I have made one discovery,” she said, pulling the clinging material away from her arm. “Adventure and vanity do not go hand in hand.”

“Ah,” said Bryght, removing his coat to wring out his sleeve, “but there is something so damnably attractive about a person living life to the full.”

“Is there?”

He smiled at her. “For someone of the same inclination. I have this strange suspicion that you are not, after
all, like our sister Hilda. She seems content with a dull husband and bucolic placidity.”

“You’ve been buried in the country for months.”

“With Portia. Who is never dull.”

They were slowing, heading toward the busy wharves that lined the river here, the boatmen cleverly avoiding sand banks and shoals. The stairs ahead must be Parson’s.

“One way or another,” said Elf, “I doubt I’ll end up with a dull, bucolic husband like Hilda’s. Do you have your pistols with you?”

“Of course.”

“Then I hope they didn’t get wet. Give me one, please.”

“Why?”

“I would just prefer to be armed.”

With a sigh, he signed to a servant who clutched an oilcloth package. Unwrapped, it revealed a gleaming pistol case. Bryght opened it to take out two handsome guns.

“Oh, Gemini!” Elf exclaimed. “I never returned Fort’s pistol. He doubtless
will
have me transported—”

“You can explain that later.” Bryght handed her one gun. “It’s loaded and primed, so be careful. And don’t shoot anyone unnecessarily.”

“I’m the gentle lady here, am I not?”

“I think the reason we don’t give women guns is that they are dangerous enough without them.”

“Ah, that reminds me of another complaint I have—”

“I quiver. For now, let’s hope this Murray and the stone are here. If he’s taking ship, they might be trying to catch the last of the tide.”

The boat had to wait a moment for a wherry to discharge its passengers, but then it nudged up against the stairs, and Bryght handed Elf out. The scene appeared completely normal.

Not peaceful, no, in the middle of the bustling wharves, but with no sense of alarm.

Alderman Parson’s Stairs were squeezed in between
wharves loaded down with goods coming and going to the great sailing vessels out in the river. Jostling watermen abused one another with cheerful insults interspersed with social comments such as “How’s the missus?”