Thank heavens there was no danger of her falling into the same trap.
She caught sight of thepresepebox and went to it. She needed to preserve the traditions and the memoriesit carried. The Nativity scene should have been up ten days ago.
She unlocked and opened the box, but then realized she must wait. For all the pleasantries about treating this house as her home, she would be expected below in short order. Despite the mock betrothal, despite hospitable kindness, she was merely the Trayce ladies’ attendant, and should be attending.
She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair, commanding herself to keep to her place and out of noble matters as much as possible. Then she found her warmest shawl, sucked in a deep breath, and sailed out to navigate between monster and whirlpool.
Chapter Fifteen
The promised footman waited outside the door like a sentry—far more finely turned out than Genova was. She followed him, making herself relax enough to appreciate the passing objets d’art and to try and remember the route. She might need Theseus’s ball of twine.
Soon they descended the grand staircase and crossed the gleaming floor. Genova summoned the image of herself as a flagship, cruising into hazardous waters, hoping for peace, but with guns primed and ready to fire.
The footman opened the door and she sailed through.
But if there were hazards here, they were deep below the surface.
In this awe-inspiring house, this room could be called cozy. It was twice as large as the drawing room at Trayce House, but no more than that, and a large fireplace triumphed over chill. The high ceiling was decorated with fine plasterwork, but the medieval tapestries that covered all available walls gave a welcoming warmth. The furnishings were grand, but they had the look of pieces chosen for comfort and well used over generations. Two cats and two dogs formed a carpet in front of the hearth.
Twenty or so people were taking tea in two groups, with no sign of servants. Lady Arradale presided over a tray from one sofa, while Thalia shared a sofa opposite with an extremely enceinte lady. Genova remembered that one of the family was expecting to beconfined any day. Lady Bryght presided over another group that included Lord Rothgar.
Genova paused, unsure which group to join. She’d choose the one without Ashart, but he was in neither. Then she saw him on the far side of the room, apparently investigating a folio of maps.
Apart.
He looked up, and their eyes locked. She raised her chin, refusing to be cowed. After a moment, he bowed as if in acknowledgment, and began to walk toward her.
“Genova! Come sit by me, do!”
Thalia’s voice snapped Genova’s entrancement, and she hurried to take the empty place on the sofa, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She willingly surrendered to the distraction of introductions.
Lord Bryght Malloren, tall and dark, was easily recognizable as Lord Rothgar’s brother. Half brother, she reminded herself. The expectant lady was the Countess of Walgrave, and Lord Rothgar’s sister. She didn’t resemble him, being russet-haired and sunny.
“Call me Lady Elf,” she said. “Everyone still does here.”
The handsome man who rose from a chair beside Lady Elf to carry Genova’s tea to her was the Earl of Walgrave.
Genova had never before been in a room with so many titled people. She was grateful for two men who were ordinary both in looks and status—Dr. Egan, Lord Rothgar’s librarian and archivist, and Dr. Marshall, curator of Anglo-Saxon antiquities. Dr. Egan was thin, sallow, and dominated by a large nose. Dr. Marshall was rotund, with a shiny, glowing face.
Ashart appeared in her line of sight and accepted a cup of tea from the countess. Was it his first?
“…don’t you think, dear?”
Genova jerked her attention away and said, “Yes, of course, Thalia,” hoping she wasn’t agreeing that the moon was made of cheese.
Apparently not. Only that winter walks were especially bracing.
As others chatted, Thalia pointed out some of the people in the other group. “That young man is Mr. Stackenhull, Beowulf’s music master. And the older lady is Mrs. Lely, the countess’s secretary. Such a trial to have property to manage. The couple are the Inchcliffs, and the glowering man is Lord Henry Malloren. He courted me once, but he’s never known how to please.” Thalia leaned closer and whispered, “When offered tea, he complained it wasn’t good honest ale.”
Like most confidential whispers, this was heard by others, but they seemed amused, and Lord Henry was too far away to hear. He might not mind, anyway. He had the lean, weather-beaten look of a “damn your eyes” type.
“The dumpy woman with Lord Henry is his wife. Never opens her mouth except to eat.”
Genova saw twitching lips and wondered how she could stop Thalia saying these things.
Then the door opened and a young woman came in. Genova noticed Ash startle and looked at the new arrival again. A little tall, slim, and with a straight-backed confidence that implied she belonged here.
She didn’t look like a Malloren, however, having mouse brown hair and rather commonplace features. That was the only word that came to mind. Commonplace, perhaps even a little plain, but saved by bright eyes, a wide smile, and an impression of being very pleased with her world.
