Free Jo Beverley by A Most Unsuitable Man

he couldn’t persist. Perhaps Rothgar’s and Ashart’s patronage would avoid open embarrassment, but moving in those circles would be damned unpleasant. He prayed that the mess would be sorted out before it came to that.
    “Very well, my lord.” He executed one of his more flowery bows and retreated from the marquess’s presence, seeing one bright side to the mess. He could now protect Ash without abandoning Damaris. If, that was, he could persuade her to fall in with the plan to go to Cheynings as Genova Smith’s dear companion.
    He couldn’t face that on an empty stomach.
    He went to the breakfast room, where he found Ash and Genova still side by side, looking as if they could live upon air as long as they were together. Lord Bryght Malloren, Rothgar’s brother, was also at the table, but within minutes of Fitz’s arrival he made his excuses and left.
    Coincidence?
    Or had Lord Bryght been temporary bodyguard, even here in Rothgar Abbey?

Chapter 5
    W hen Damaris returned to her room, the desperate energy that had swept her through the morning drained away. Under the influence of laudanum she’d slept away most of yesterday. However, that and certainty of disaster had kept her sleepless through most of the night.
    She was exhausted, and after giving Maisie the news, she took off her outer clothes, crawled into bed, and fell fast asleep. She was woken by Maisie shaking her. “It’s quarter to one, miss. You have to get up.”
    Damaris rubbed her eyes. “Why? Dinner isn’t until three.”
    “Yes, but that Fitzroger stopped by to say you’re supposed to go down with him to a fencing match or some such at two. Part of your plan to appear not bothered about Lord Ashart, remember? Not that I think you ought to be having much to do with that one. He’s a fortune hunter for sure.”
    “Lord Ashart?” Damaris asked, deliberately misunderstanding. “Of course he is. Or was.”
    “Fitzroger!” Maisie exclaimed. “And here’s a note come from the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, and her servant said as it was right urgent. He’s waiting outside the door.”
    Damaris sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What could she want?”
    She opened the folded paper to find a terse command to present herself immediately in the dowager’s room. She considered refusing, but she wouldn’t show fear of the old tyrant, so she climbed out of bed.
    “I’ll put my traveling clothes back on for now, but prepare something for when I return.” She hurried into the heavy skirt and quilted jacket as she reviewed her wardrobe. “The Autumn Sunset.”
    Autumn Sunset was the mantua maker’s flowery term for the russety-pink silk used to make that gown. Damaris hadn’t worn it here yet, for while finding her feet in this strange new world she’d chosen more muted shades.
    Today, however, called for boldness if anything did.
    “Your hair’s all over,” Maisie said.
    Damaris sat so she could tidy it. “Hurry. You can redress it properly later.”
    “Then you’d best not dally, miss.”
    “Don’t worry. There will be no temptation to do that.”
    Damaris joined the footman and followed him on a winding route to a door, where he tapped. On command, he opened it.
    The old lady was bolstered up in bed, not looking like the tyrant she was. Lady Ashart was short and plump, which gave a deceitful impression of softness, especially as she dressed in gentle colors trimmed with frills of lace. A true wolf in sheep’s clothing.
    Her nightcap, though quilted for warmth, was edged with a deep frill of blue-embroidered English lace, and tied with blue ribbons beneath her plump chins. Her silvery curls frothed out, matching a fluffy shawl of gray wool. There was no old-person smell here, either, only a delicate hint of lavender.
    This had all been part of Damaris’s undoing. When she’d visited Cheynings as Ashart’s prospective bride, Lady Ashart had seemed kind—haughty, but gracious. There was no kindness in her now. She waved her