“She will certainly do her best.”
“Doesn’t that all hinge on”—she hesitated, realizing she was about to speak about his mother—“Lady Augusta? If it could be shown that her actions were nothing to do with the late marquess, wouldn’t that help?”
He looked at her. “I warned you about trying to make the world run smoothly, Miss Smith. And how can my family have had nothing to do with it? How can those around a tragedy not have contributed in some way, if only by what they failed to do?”
They had arrived back at the hall, where in a real fireplace, the Yule log crackled. Candles blazed, and the distant notes of a harp trickled through the great chamber, hinting at life elsewhere. The only other person, however, was a still, silent footman. Rothgar summoned him and the man carried her present up to her room.
“You wish to heal the Trayce family wounds,” he said, “and so do I. But alas, people are not clockwork.”
“He carries such a burden of hate.”
“He carries the burden of the dowager marchioness and her hate. Did he tell you that he was raised by her?”
She considered him warily, unsure if it was right to discuss Ash with him. “Yes.”
“It’s reasonable, even noble, that he feel allegiance to her, and I suspect she loves him like a mother. Not all mothers, however, are benign. She raised him to be a weapon. Or more precisely, to fire the ones of her making.”
“I think he sees himself more as Loki than Loki’s blind brother.”
“We all prefer to be the wielder rather than the tool.”
Something caught his eye, and Genova turned to see brilliance. Ash was watching them.
Genova knew now who Loki was. The Dowager Marchioness of Ashart.
“Ah, Ashart,” Rothgar said easily, leading Genova across the hall. The click of heels and the rustle of her own silk skirts seemed loud to her.
She expected to simply be handed over, but Rothgar said, “I have some things that might interest you, Ashart. Could I persuade you to accompany me?”
Ash looked wary, as well he might. What now? But then he bowed. “I am at your command.”
“Do you want Miss Smith to accompany us?”
Ash glanced at her, frowning slightly, but said, “It can only add to my delight.”
Rothgar took them upstairs and to a room beside the library. It was a library of sorts itself, but much smaller and in plain form, with the lower level composed entirely of drawers.
“The muniment room,” Rothgar said.
Genova’s interest sharpened. This room housed the family records and archives. Most would concern business and politics, but there could be letters and other such personal documents.
What had Ash been brought here to see? What hadshebeen brought to see? Rothgar had included her in a way that would have been hard for Ash to avoid.
There couldn’t be an easy solution here. If there were, the Mallorens would have produced it a generation ago.
One long table sat in the middle with just two chairs by it, though two others sat against the wall beneath the window. There was no fireplace, but she thought the room shared a section of wall with the library chimney, taking off the chill. Even so, it was cold enough to make her shiver in her silks, and she wished she still had two shawls instead of just one.
Rothgar opened a wide shallow drawer. “These are my mother’s papers. There are no startling revelations, no accusations or vindications, but you may want to read them.”
Genova saw some bundles of papers and two books or folios.
“Why were they not returned to Cheynings?” Ash asked, unmoving.
“At your family’s request, my father returned everything that my mother had brought with her, but he kept anything from after the marriage. By then, my mother was a Malloren. The dowager has always been welcome to come here and inspect them if she wished.”
“But you knew she’d never do that.”
“I was a child of four when my mother died.”
