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.”
“Withwhat?” 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 soughtthis 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.”
