Winter Fire - Malloran 06 Read online

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  WINTER FIRE

  JO BEVERLEY

  A SIGNET BOOK

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  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL. England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2003

  10 987654 3 21

  Copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2003

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  December 1763, in Surrey, en route to Rothgar Abbey

  “Many people pray for tedium,” Genova Smith’s mother had often said to her as a girl if she complained that she was bored. It had not convinced her then, and didn’t now. Two long days in a slow-moving coach, no matter how luxurious, had tested her tolerance to the breaking point.

  Her companions were not dull. The elderly Trayce ladies could be excellent company. Fat Lady Calliope Trayce was gruffly insightful. Thin Lady Thalia was charmingly eccentric. They could play three-handed whist forever.

  However, being eighty-four and seventy-seven, they slipped into a doze now and then, as now. Tilted against the sides of the coach, they looked like mismatched bookends, one snorting, one whistling.

  Genova’s books had worn out their appeal, and she couldn’t do needlework in the swaying, jolting coach. Though she’d never say so, even cards had become tedious. Dear Lord, send a diversion. Even a highwayman!

  The coach stopped.

  Genova looked out with alarm. Surely prayers like that weren’t answered. Heart beating faster, she slipped her pistol out of her carriage bag. She had to admit that her rapid heart was caused by excitement rather than fear.

  Action, at last.

  She’d checked and cocked the gun before she realized that highwaymen would make some sound. Didn’t they shout, “Stand and deliver!” or some such?

  Besides, no sane highwayman would attempt to stop an entourage of three carriages and four armed outriders, not even if tempted by the gilded ostentation of this vehicle. The Trayce ladies were ensconced in the personal traveling chariot of their great-nephew, the Marquess of Ashart.

  Genova had a low opinion of the marquess from a portrait of him that hung on his great-aunts’ wall in Tunbridge Wells, showing a vapid, powdered, and primped creature. This coach had confirmed her opinion. No true man needed deep padding, silk-lined walls, and ornate, gilded candle sconces—not to mention paintings of nubile nymphs on the ceiling.

  The coach was still stationary. Genova was sitting with her back to the horses, so she couldn’t see the cause. She leaned forward and craned.

  Ah. A coach was in the ditch, and the stranded traveler, a lady, was talking to Hockney, the chief outrider. The sky was low and trees whipped in a sharp wind. With the icy temperature out there, the poor lady must be freezing. They would have to take her up to the next inn.

  Genova glanced at the Trayce ladies, wondering if it was within her powers to decide that. They’d asked her to come on this journey as their lady companion—“For you’ve had such adventures!” Thalia had exclaimed— but her precise duties had never been specified.

  Anyway, Genova knew her “employment” had been an act of charity as much as necessity. The ladies had known she was uncomfortable in her stepmother’s house, and offered escape. She wanted to reward them with good care, however, so what should she do here?

  Her neck was protesting the angle, so she straightened. Perhaps Hockney, too, wasn’t sure he had the authority. She shrugged and gathered her cloak from the seat beside her. She despised ditherers, and what choice was there?

  She opened the door and climbed out, gasping as the icy air bit. She shut the door quickly before too much of the warmth escaped, then swung her cloak around herself, pulled up the hood, and fastened it.

  The thick blue cloak was a gift from the Trayce ladies, and the most luxurious Genova had ever owned. It was even lined with fur. Rabbit, to be sure, but fur, and in this situation, she appreciated that. She wished only that she’d remembered the matching muff.

  Tucking her hands under her cloak, she hurried over, feeling the cold already nibbling through her thin-soled shoes.

  The woman turned, showing a pretty but sharp face framed in rich, dark fur. She looked Genova up and down. “Who are you?”

  Well! No wonder Hockney was hesitating. There was a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Of course, the sable-trimmed woman probably knew rabbit fur when she saw it.

  “This is Miss Smith, ma’am,” Hockney said in a flat tone. His long face was chapped with cold, and an icicle was forming on the end of his nose. “Companion to Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce. Miss Smith, this is Mrs. Dash, whose coach has come to grief.”

  “Trayce!” Mrs. Dash exclaimed, transformed. “How kind of the ladies to stop! I am quite overwhelmed by the honor.”

  Perdition. A toadeater, and just the sort to presume on this encounter.

  “Oh, would you possibly, could you possibly…”

  How in the stars could she say no?

  “… take my baby on to warmth?”

  Genova gaped. “Baby?”

  Shining smile was replaced by piteous pleading.

  “The dear one is in the coach with the maid. It’s so cold. If you could…” Mrs. Dash brought gloved hands out of her muff to clasp them in prayer. “I’m to meet my husband at the Lion and Unicorn in Hockham. He will take charge of everything, I assure you. I will not mind waiting here if only my poor infant is safe and warm.”

  There could be no question now. “Of course, Mrs. Dash. Please, I’m sure we will be glad to help.”

  Mrs. Dash hurried over to th
e tilted carriage and shouted at someone inside. A bundle was tossed out, then another passed with care. The baby.

  Then, Mrs. Dash’s coachman virtually hoisted out a bulky maid. The mother thrust her baby back into the maid’s arms and urged her over toward Genova. It took some urging. The maid’s round face expressed sullen anxiety.

  The poor creature was probably freezing. She wore a hooded cloak, but it wasn’t fur-lined, and Genova doubted that Mrs. Dash’s coach was kept as warm as the Marquess of Ashart’s, which had regularly refreshed hot bricks. The baby, at least, was so bundled up it was scarcely visible.

  “Go with this lady!” Mrs. Dash yelled, pointing, then added in a normal voice, “She doesn’t speak much English.”

  “Then what does she speak?”

  “Irish. What they call Gaelic. Please, Miss Smith, get my poor baby into shelter!”

  Genova stiffened at the shrill command, but the woman was right. That was the most important thing. Genova picked up the bundle and steered the maid toward the gilded coach. It was easy as dragging an ox, almost as if the woman didn’t want to go.

  She must be afraid. She was in a strange country among people who didn’t speak her language. She’d been tossed around in an accident, possibly hurt, and now was being handed off to strangers.

  Genova began to explain to her in a gentle, soothing voice. She herself had spent most of her life traveling with her mother and her naval-captain father, often in places where she didn’t know the language. She’d learned that even when people didn’t understand words, they could often understand tone.

  Perhaps it worked. The maid turned her round freckled face up to Genova, then quickened her steps.

  Another outrider had dismounted and stood ready to open the door. Genova passed him the maid’s bundle, which gave off a sour smell. “I don’t suppose anyone here speaks Gaelic, do they?”

  “Not that I know, Miss Smith.”

  “Pity. Ask anyway.”

  He opened the door and Genova hefted the maid into the warmth, then scrambled after so the door could be shut again.

  Thalia stirred, then her eyes opened brightly. “What have we here, then?”

  Despite her years, Lady Thalia Trayce could be called pretty, with her fluffy white hair and big blue eyes. It was unfortunate that she insisted on dressing in a very youthful style, but she was invariably kind. She and Genova had become good friends, which was why Genova was on this journey.

  “A traveler requiring succor,” Genova said, realizing that not all the smell had been from the maid’s bundle. “Or two, really. Maid and baby. Maid only speaks Gaelic.”

  “My, my!” Despite the stale, cheesy smell, Thalia looked as if she’d been given a treat. With the tedium of traveling, that was probably true.

  The coach jerked into movement, and Genova looked out at Mrs. Dash, intending to wave or give some gesture that all would be well. She should have said that they would send help. It was obvious, but she should have said it.

  However, the woman’s expression stilled her.

  The bright smile could be relief that her child was in good hands, but it did not look like that at all. It almost looked gleeful.

  Was that because Mrs. Dash now thought that she had the entree to the grand Trayce family? Genova’s instincts said no—that it was something else, and that she might regret this act of charity.

  Three hours later, she knew her instincts, as usual, had been correct.

  Chapter Two

  It had not taken long to reach the Lion and Unicorn Inn at Hockham, but there’d been no sign of Mr. Dash.

  It was a simple establishment, not at all like the grand ones carefully planned on their itinerary, but the early winter dark had been settling as they arrived, and the temperature plunging, and the place had rooms. Thalia had insisted that they stop for the night.

  “I know you,” Genova said. “You want to see the end of this story.”

  “Well, why not, dear? Oh, brandied tea. How very nice!”

  The crafty innkeeper had done his best to tempt the rich guests, and Genova had not tried to interfere. She worried about the Dashes presuming on the acquaintance, but she worried more about the tired old ladies, and it would be cruel to force the outriders to spend more time in the bitter cold.

  Mr. Lynchbold showed them two good sets of rooms, but on different floors. Lady Calliope took the ground floor because she couldn’t climb stairs, and in fact could hardly walk. Her menservants carried her there in her sturdy chair, her personal maid following.

  Genova went with Thalia and Thalia’s maid, Regeanne, up to the next floor to find a good-sized bedchamber with adjoining parlor. The fires were already lit and the rooms tolerably warm, so it would do once the Trayce servants had hauled in all the old ladies’ comforts.

  Genova would sleep with Thalia in the big bed, and Regeanne would use the trundle bed that slid out from underneath.

  Supper was promised within the hour and Thalia went back down to her sister’s room. Genova felt obliged to stay and keep an eye on the nursemaid and baby, even though the maid had nodded off under the influence of brandied tea. At least she’d put the bundled baby on the floor first.

  On the short journey, they’d managed to coax names out of the Irishwoman. She was Sheena O’Leary and the baby was something like Sharleen. They had decided to call him Charlie.

  Charlie Dash. He sounded like trouble and was making a good start. The sooner this pair was back with the parents, the better.

  Genova put a hand to her head, which was fuzzy with brandy, and tried to think what to do.

  As soon as they’d arrived, she’d told the tale, and Lynchbold had promised to send help. Had he forgotten in the excitement of titled guests? Even so, where was Mr. Dash?

  Suspicions were forming like dark clouds on the horizon, and Genova was not one to twiddle her thumbs while a storm rose. She wrapped her warm shawl around herself and headed off to sort things out. She was almost at the head of the stairs when an icy waft of air told her someone had just arrived.

  “Ho, there! Innkeeper!”

  Cold air blended with the pure energy of that authoritative male voice. It reminded her so much of her father issuing orders from the bridge of one of his ships that she halted for a moment in wistful memory. Then she walked onto the landing to look down.

  Could this be Mr. Dash at last? It was not the sort of voice she’d expected.

  Below, in the darkly wainscoted hall, a tall man stood with his back to her in front of the blazing fire. He wore a long cloak, no hat, and tousled dark hair simply tied back. She hummed to herself with approval. She did love a vigorous, virile man, and it rose off him like the steam from his cloak.

  He’d stripped off his gloves and as he turned long hands in the warmth, green light flashed from a ring. Genova’s brows rose. An emerald of absurd size? It must be. This man would not wear glass.

  A vigorous, virile lord, then. Where was his entourage?

  Servants burst into the hall and flocked toward him, eager to make up for any lack. No wonder. Inn servants made most of their money from the vails of rich guests, and this one looked good for guineas.

  Still facing the fire, he unfastened his cloak and pushed it back with remarkable faith that someone would be there to take it. A manservant rushed to gather it in, staggering slightly under the weight.

  It looked like leather lined with fur. Thick gray fur.

  Wolf?

  What decent Englishman used wolf fur to line a cloak?

  One thing was certain. This was not plain Mr. Dash.

  Another was that he was gorgeous.

  Genova hadn’t seen his face yet, and the clothes beneath the cloak were ordinary—leather breeches, plain brown jacket, and high riding boots. All the same, everything about him, from cloak to ornaments to bearing, spoke of a truly splendid specimen of manhood.

  Genova had never been reluctant to enjoy a show of masculine delights, so she leaned on the railing and watched, pleasantly
aware of faster heartbeats and deeper breathing.

  Turn around, she thought at him. I need to see your face.

  It would be a disappointment. There was always a flaw in the package.

  He turned to the right, speaking to a maid, and she saw a flash of gold. An earring! Better and better. She knew a single earring was fashionable among the wilder set of young gentlemen.

  He turned a bit more, revealing a promising profile and jewels catching fire in the lace at his throat. Lud, had the man been riding around in the dark loaded with treasure? He was either magnificent or a fool.

  Feeling as if she watched a play, Genova saw Lynchbold appear from stage right, bowing. “Sir! Welcome to the Lion and Unicorn.”

  The man inclined his head the slightest degree. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Dash. Lead me to her.”

  Genova straightened. Impossible!

  Many of the elite were plain Mr. and Mrs., being a generation or two removed from their titled ancestors, but this man was not a suitable mate for Mrs. Dash. She, though finely turned out, was a common vixen. He was a king of wolves.

  In Genova’s fanciful imagination, anyway. Ah, well, the moment had been pleasant while it lasted. Her king of wolves was just another spoiled lordling, title or not, and she had better deal with him.

  Before she could move, Lynchbold said, “I wish I could, sir. As soon as the ladies told me of your wife’s accident, I sent help. But my man found no coach.”

  What?

  “Accident?” Mr. Dash inquired. “Ladies?”

  A note of hostility sent a shiver down Genova’s spine. She couldn’t allow this… this wolf near the Trayce ladies. She had to get rid of him and the baby immediately.

  She gathered her skirts and headed down the stairs. “I can tell you about that, sir.”

  She realized too late that it was an overly dramatic entrance, and that it forced her to continue down the stairs under the lordly gentleman’s inspection. Face forward, his lean features and heavy-lidded eyes did not disappoint, and here she was in her most ordinary gown with her hair still disordered from the wind.