“An interesting question.”
“Bey!”
Rothgar smiled at him. “I merely seek to spare you anxiety. He will not succeed.”
“Ashart’s a ne’er-do-well in some ways, but he doesn’t make idle threats.”
“I should hope not. Since I have no desire to destroy him, we shall have to convince him to love us.”
“For Zeus’s sake!”
“What do you think of Miss Smith?”
Bryght frowned at the switch of topic. “You think she’s Ashart’s ally?”
“If so, she acts the opponent well. I thought it a most interesting exchange. Shall I play Cupid?”
“Ashart and a paid companion?”
“She’s the daughter, apparently, of a naval officer.”
“Even so.”
Rothgar tut-tutted. “You in particular should know that the right wife is more valuable than rubies, that personal qualities matter more than aristocratic bloodlines and a large dowry.”
“Says he who married a peeress who owns a large bite of the north of England.”
“You think that was aneasychoice? Next year, by the way, we Christmas in Yorkshire.”
Bryght shuddered. “In that case, my family will celebrate the season in our own, southern home.”
“As you will. According to Lady Thalia, Ashart and Miss Smith are already betrothed.”
Bryght stared. “She is somewhat dotty.”
“I suspect she’s as dotty as she cares to be, but it’s true that they don’t seem besotted. It has, however, provided Ashart with an excuse to stay. Is that its sole purpose? Another mystery to amuse us over the holidays. Delightful, wouldn’t you say?”
Instead, Bryght Malloren said something rude.
Chapter Seventeen
When Genova and Thalia reached their room, the old lady sat rather heavily. Regeanne rushed to put a footstool under her feet and fuss.
“Are you all right?” Genova asked.
Thalia sighed. “In prime twig for my age, dear, and delighted with the company. Dear Beowulf. I gave him the apricot crisps and he was touched that I remembered.”
Yes, he probably had been. He seemed honestly warm to his family, but the Dark Marquess was still there. It had been he who’d crossed swords with Ashart, and she couldn’t forget that he had killed.
“Thalia, do you know what Rothgar and Ashart were talking about down there? About truth, and explosives?”
“Oh, no, dear. How could I? It’s a very shifty sort of thing, though, truth.”
“Explosives aren’t. Look at Guy Fawkes.”
“But he was stopped, dear, so that was all right. You mustn’t worry about these matters. Men sort them out for themselves. Now, I’m going early to bed, but you must rejoin the company and enjoy yourself.”
“I couldn’t—”
