“Yet he was a dashing war hero,” Rothgar pointed out, “and decorated for bravery. Not that I would ever suggest that women cannot be brave.”
“I know no woman who is brilliant with a sword,” Ash said, “and D’Eon is that. Perhaps the best of our age. Rumor whispers,” he added to Rothgar, “that you fought him.”
It was a matter of some moment. Ash did not intend to come to swords with his cousin, but if he did, he wanted to be the victor.
“Informally,” Rothgar said.
“Who won?”
Rothgar smiled slightly. “We decided it would be diplomatic to call it a draw. And you?”
“I have never had the honor.”
“You should seek him out. To fence against a master clarifies the mind.”
“If one lives to appreciate it.”
“I’m sure a clear mind is of use in heaven, too.”
“But especially in hell.”
“Which is where that Wilkes deserves to be!” Sir Rolo interjected, and launched into his opinion of political scandal.
Ash did his part when necessary, knowing he had been given a warning. He was probably outclassed with a blade and should avoid that course. It had beenyears since he’d dreamed of bringing the vile Mallorens to account by defeating Rothgar in a duel, but he wished he believed he could.
He noticed Genova Smith frowning. “Wilkes is a boring fellow, isn’t he?” he said, but felt compelled to add, “Don’t let our family tensions weigh on you. There is nothing you can do.”
She met his eyes. “Do you think it is as easy as that?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Genova saw Ashart mirror her frown as if he wanted to argue with her, but then the older lady on his other side demanded his attention.
She wished she could ignore the battle, for she was developing a headache, but it was hard when sitting between the combatants. This D’Eon was important, and the matters to do with him were connected to court, kings, and even treason.
Ashart and Rothgar had been tapping swords again, seeking out weaknesses. She hadn’t missed the point that Rothgar was almost certainly the more skilled in duello.
She took a deep drink of wine, glancing around at a table that seemed unaware of strife. Because she was looking for trouble, she caught an expression on the face of Miss Myddleton.
The heiress was seated between Lord Walgrave and a young man in a scarlet uniform. She appeared to be enjoying the company, but she shot a look up the table at Ashart that reminded Genova of a cat eying dinner on the wing.
He’s no bird for your stalking, she thought, but she knew it wasn’t true. A well-born heiress was precisely the sort of bride Ashart would choose.
The girl’s catlike eyes met Genova’s and Miss Myddleton smiled, apparently in polite query. The false betrothal allowed Genova to fire back a warning, and she enjoyed doing it. For the next few days, Ashart was hers and the heiress could keep her claws to herself.
The Wilkes affair had progressed to Russian art, and main dishes were being replaced by savories and sweets.
Simply to claim Ashart in front of the heiress, Genova covered his hand with hers. “Have you traveled to Russia, my lord?”
After a surprised glance, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Call me Ash, beloved. It’s what most of my intimates use.”
Genova knew Miss Myddleton’s eyes were upon her. “Ash, then. Even though it does unfortunately recall dead fires.”
A brow rose and a finger tickled her palm. “If you want proof that the fires are not dead, my sweet, you need only command.”
Heat rushed through her, but she was saved by Lady Arradale rising and commanding everyone’s attention. “My friends, Christmas gaiety is upon us already, I see, but first we must bring in the greenery.”
Others had been playing flirtatious games, and now there were shouts about greens and greenery that raised laughter. They were a euphemism for love play. A “lady with a green gown” was thought to have been with a lover in the grass.
