by Betina Krahn
Ashton glared, hating the way Reynard was dragging this out. He grabbed a scone, ripped it open, and spread it with cream and preserves. When he’d taken a huge bite, Reynard smiled.
“Now, isn’t that better? Never take news on an empty stomach.”
“What news?” Ashton demanded, aching to be rid of Reynard.
“Word is that your brother is the object of a matrimonial campaign.”
Ashton managed what sounded like a hearty laugh—only part of which was forced. “Artie? Matrimonially targeted? Don’t be absurd.”
“Is it absurd that the only female he squired around the floor at Mountjoy’s ball was a rich American with a countess for a sponsor?”
How the devil—it took Ashton a supreme bit of effort to make his face and body appear casually alert.
“You were there?” He tipped a bit more coffee into his cup. “You saw this for yourself?”
“I arrived shortly after, but whispers were to be heard. And several of your family members were spotted arriving. . . Lady Sylvia, I believe, and the estimable Baron Beesock—your Uncle Bertram—and your Uncle Seward, among others. A veritable gathering of the family elders.” Reynard pursed his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t have figured the Meridians for offering up the family coronet to the highest bidder.”
“I fear you have it wrong, Fox. Artie is as clueless as ever. The family creaks and groans insisted he attend, hoping to see some signs of life in him. Did your sources not tell you that there was another who danced with that entrepreneurial princess?”
“Another?” Reynard paused, digesting that, and reached for more coffee. “Who might that have been?”
Ashton let his answer begin with raised eyebrows, and then slowly added a broadening smile until he was the very picture of smug insinuation.
“You?” Reynard sat back, surprised but quickly dismissive. “An untitled, penniless second son?”
“Yes, well.” Ash’s grin tightened at that reminder of how little he had to offer. “It makes as much sense as Artie marrying a beautiful, filthy-rich heiress.”
At that moment, the butler arrived with eggs, kippers, potatoes, and bacon. The pause gave Ash a moment to collect himself and realize that Fox probably already had the wealthy American in his sights, watching as she made forays into London society. He relaxed in earnest this time. Before him sat a potential source of knowledge about Miss Bumgarten.
“So what do you know about this well-heeled American?” he asked, not bothering to hide his curiosity. “I take it you’ve seen her and probably even been introduced.”
“Not yet, but I have done some investigation.” Fox piled his plate with food before continuing. “Family fortune made in silver, and quite a sum. She is a beauty, though not of the delicate Pear soap variety. Walks at a fast clip, pours her tea into houseplants when no one is looking, rides a huge, black devil of a horse—everywhere—and laughs loudly enough to give her sponsor the vapors.”
“You’re certain she’s here to snag a title? Perhaps she’s just on a grand tour, acquiring a much needed bit of continental polish.”
“A wardrobe of Worth gowns, a house near Hyde Park, and a pile of invitations engineered by the Countess of Kew?” Fox stuffed a kipper in his mouth and talked around it: “If she were just touring, she’d have taken a hotel suite and made friends with whatever displaced French nobles she found in the lobby.” He chewed, swallowed, and grinned. “No, no, my boy, she’s on the hunt. And it will be entertaining to see where she aims her considerable arsenal of feminine wiles.” He eyed Ashton while helping himself to more potatoes. “And as for Artie’s missing attractions . . . I assure you, a dukedom can make up for any number of manly deficits.”
Ashton appeared to take that into consideration while, in fact, reeling from the possibility that Fox might be right—at least where Daisy Bumgarten was concerned. She was a determined wench; he’d give her that. And Artie had partnered her through a whole dance or two, which had to be something of a social milestone for him. He recalled the fond way Artie had gazed at her silk butterflies, and he froze.
Good God. Had his elder brother actually been gazing at the chit’s bosoms? If so, things were worse than he thought. He had to get to Oxford and Huxley right away.
“Lovely breakfasting with you, Reynard, but I must be on my way.” He rose, plopped his napkin by his mostly bare plate, and finished his coffee in a couple of gulps. “Family business. Uncle Seward’s birthday, you know.” And he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the Fox with a mouthful of food and a look of surprise.
“Wait—the old cod was actually born?” he called after Ash.
Reynard chuckled at the irritable way Ash waved off the comment as he made his escape. His news seemed to have lit a fire under the usually unflappable Meridian spare. Now why was that?
He intended to find out. If there was anything Reynard Boulton couldn’t countenance, it was the existence of a secret he didn’t possess. He sighed, poured himself another coffee, and tucked into the eggs again. No sense in letting a proper breakfast go to waste. It would be simple enough to find out where Ashton Graham was headed.
* * *
The train to Oxford seemed to take forever. Daisy paced the aisle of the richly appointed first-class cabin between the countess’s and Uncle Red’s knees, checked on their horses in the baggage car three times, and fidgeted through the countess’s lecture on the history and structure of the university they were about to visit. When she got to the part about the importance of the “dons” and the protocol with which they must be addressed, Daisy groaned aloud.
“You must listen, Miss Bumgarten.” The countess shook her finger. “Whatever you do, show proper deference for the professor. As a rule, Oxford dons are not fond of women. It hasn’t been that many years since the faculty wasn’t even permitted to marry. Most colleges were founded by donations made as a duty to the church, you see. Historically the university produced clerics for the Church of England. Celibate and abstemious ones, at that.
“Women have always been considered lesser intellectual lights, unequal to the rigors of scholarship, so having a young woman poking around in his field of study may offend Professor Huxley. He must be approached carefully and with great attention to his scholarly sensibilities.”
There was that word again. “Sensibilities.” Daisy sighed and straightened the peplum of her jacket. She was sick of hearing about Englishmen’s easily offended sensibilities. You’d think they were all delicate flowers, to hear the countess talk. But to her it was just another way of saying “thin skinned” and “poor loser.” The English male took major offense at being challenged or discomforted in any way. He couldn’t bear being outdone at cards, on horseback, or even in conversation.
“Don’t worry, Countess,” she said with a wicked smile. “I’ll behave. Before I’m through, he’ll be dishing up facts on Charlotte Fitzroy like they’re bangers an’ mash.”
The countess closed her eyes and groaned quietly, no doubt regretting ever allowing Daisy and her uncle Red to hear about the unique culture and cuisine of the neighborhood pub. Now they couldn’t let a day pass without a reference to “bangers an’ mash” or “bubble an’ squeak” . . . usually accompanied by riotous laughter.
As the train pulled into the Oxford station, Daisy let down the window to stick her head out, and in came coal smoke, laden with the tang of machine oil, the smell of greasy food from the box-vendors, and the sweat-and-wet-wool odors of the mass of humanity crowded onto the platform. She coughed and quickly raised the window glass.
Red found them a cab and made arrangements for a second one to carry their luggage and Daisy’s newly hired lady’s maid, Collette, and groom, Banks. Daisy’s horse, Midnight Dancer, and Uncle Red’s favorite mount, Renegade, were inspected and tied on behind the second cab, with Banks seated on the luggage to watch over them.
Soon they were rolling through the city with Daisy’s nose practically pressed against the window. Ever
ywhere she looked something was pointing heavenward; spires and steeples topped every major building.
“I see what you mean about this place.” She glanced at the long-suffering countess out of the corner of her eye. “More da—danged churches than anyplace else on earth. No wonder they’re all abstainers.”
“Abstainers?” Red, who had dozed through the countess’s earlier lecture, looked horrified and headed to the other side windows for evidence.
“The architecture,” the countess said pointedly, peering at Daisy from under her hat brim, “is meant to elevate the inhabitants’ thoughts to a higher plane. A clear lesson on how one is expected to behave in these precincts.”
The brick-paved streets soon gave way to cobbled lanes lined with ancient houses, shops, and the fronts of grander establishments that the countess informed her were the “colleges” of the famed center of learning. Everywhere the streets were thick with young men garbed in black robes, some carrying books and folders and striding purposefully, others carrying a snout-full of drink and struggling to stay upright. Red looked vastly relieved as they passed a noisy ale hall, and he scratched his bristled chin.
“May be my kinda place, after all.”
The Holloway House was a dignified stone structure, provided with all the modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing “en suite.” Lush, parklike gardens stretched off toward one of the college greens. A small livery lay behind the main grounds and a well-regarded dining establishment took up a significant part of the main floor. At least they would be comfortable during their search for proof of her connection to Charlotte Fitzroy.
The countess announced she needed time to rest and refresh from the journey, but Daisy was eager to get started. After the countess retired, she wasted no time in setting off with Red to find Queen’s College. Following directions from the concierge of the hotel, they soon located the place.
An imposing iron gate opened onto the street, with a gatehouse beyond guarding the entrance to a quadrangle formed by buildings made of light-colored stone. A hound-faced fellow in a dark suit, wearing a bowler hat, confronted them the minute they stepped through the ornate arch. When they asked after Professor Broadman Huxley, he scowled and said the professor wasn’t there. It took a winsome smile from Daisy and the offer of a fragrant cigar from Red to get him to divulge that the professor didn’t lecture or give tutorials these days; he was “emeritus” . . . whatever that was. A young fellow in a black robe strolling through the gate heard him and paused to translate “emeritus” into “pensioned” for them. Apparently, the illustrious professor now spent most of his time on the college’s estates.
“But it’s important that we speak with him about his work on the Fitzroys.” Daisy produced a look of distress calculated to elicit gentlemanly assistance. “Could you point us in the direction of his estate?”
At the younger fellow’s insistence, the porter drew them something of a map. While he worked, Red slipped out to locate the nearest ale hall and secure a nip of the Irish and bottle of Scottish whiskey to say thanks.
They arrived back at Holloway House to find the countess standing in the lobby with her arms crossed and her foot tapping in annoyance.
“You walked into the town without a word to me?” she said.
“I was eager to get started,” Daisy said, producing the map. “We went to the college and found out the professor is ‘rusticating.’”
“He’s what?” The countess looked taken aback.
“Rusticating? That’s what the young fellow in the black robe said.” Daisy looked to Red, who nodded affirmation.
“‘Rusticating’ is a term used when a student is sent down from college for some breach of rules or standards,” the countess declared. “Surely a renowned professor like Huxley was not expelled for misconduct.”
“Well, I don’ know what he did, but he got a pension fer it,” Red put in, roundly confused.
That mollified the countess, who raised an eyebrow. “A sad attempt at humor, then. Come. It is much too late to begin scouring the countryside for this ‘estate.’ We should have dinner and begin our search the first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Seven
“Wha’ do ye want?” A round dumpling of a woman Wwith graying hair and the scent of flour and cinnamon about her answered Daisy’s knock on the cottage door the next morning. The porter’s map had proven exceptionally true, but it would have helped a great deal to know that “estate” was their hoity-toity way of saying “farm.” Englishmen. Daisy, Red, and the countess passed the place three times before realizing the picturesque cottage, outbuildings, and pens populated by all manner of farm animals were indeed their destination.
Daisy adjusted her jacket, glanced around the neat gardens, and smiled. “We have come to see Professor Huxley. This is his home?”
The old girl gave them a thorough once-over, openly assessing the carriage, the fine clothes, and the fancy horseflesh.
“Wull, ’e don’t tutor these days. And anyways, he ain’t here.”
“He can’t ’ave strayed far—not with such a handsome lass in th’ house,” Red said, with a wink that brought color and a surprised grin to the housekeeper’s worn face. Daisy watched him charming the woman and wondered where he had picked up the word “lass.”
“He be out in the far shed.” The woman pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “Bessie’s calvin’ an’ he’s . . . tendin’ ’er.”
“Would you mind if we wait, dear lady?” Red asked with a flourish.
She studied his grand appearance and gallant talk, but must have decided that purposeful flattery was better than no flattery at all, for she smiled coquettishly and gave a small dip at the knee.
“Becky’s th’ name, sarr. Housekeeper fer th’ perfesser.” She regarded Daisy and the countess with less approval, but stepped back and waved them forward. “In with ’e, then, and I’ll put a kettle on. Could be a spell b’fore he’s finished.”
Red and the countess followed the housekeeper inside, but Daisy paused on the doorstep, then turned without a word and strode off through the gardens in search of her quarry.
The place was an idealized miniature of a working farm . . . everything half scale and what the gentry would call “quaint.” The cottage sat amidst a well-tended garden of hollyhocks, daylilies, nasturtiums, and asters, and was climbed by prolific red roses. Hedge roses climbed sheds and fence posts along a path of well-laid bricks that swept through flocks of ducks, geese, and chickens, then later broadened to include a vine-covered arbor complete with a stone bench. Each paddock, fence, and shed was neatly whitewashed and the barn itself was a brick, hip-roofed structure with carved stone cornices and no small number of furbelows. It was nothing less than idyllic. Exactly the kind of place a high-minded professor might choose to live out his twilight years.
As she approached the farthest shed, she heard a man’s harried voice floating from it and hurried to the edge of the half wall that made up the sides of the structure. Inside, an older man in plus fours, rubber boots, and tweed coat and vest paced beside a doe-eyed cow lying on a bed of straw. The beast’s sides bulged; she was indeed in the throes of giving birth.
“Come now, Bessie, let’s get on with it,” the professor implored. “This is a fully natural process. Part of intricate weave of the fabric of life. A touch of the grand and eternal mystery.” Exasperation began to show as he pointed to a book lying atop the far wall. “You’ve heard what Erasmus and John Locke had to say: Nothing worthwhile comes without effort. Put your heart into it and give it a proper push.”
“Professor?” Daisy called, standing on her tiptoes to lean over the side of the shed. “Professor Broadman Huxley?”
The man turned partway, scowled at her, and declared “Not now” with a dismissive wave. “I’m engaged in a tricky bit of animal husbandry, here.”
Daisy frowned. “I have traveled a long way to see you, Professor. All the way from New York.”
“If you’ve waited t
hat long, you can wait a bit longer,” he said irritably. “This poor creature is giving birth and in need of instruction.”
He knelt by the cow, produced a small book from his jacket pocket, and began to read to her in a language that sounded suspiciously like Latin.
“What the devil are you doing?” she called.
He turned halfway, clearly annoyed. “Dipping into philosophy from the wisdom of the Greats. The classical masters are full of it.”
“They’re full of it all right,” she muttered. The old boy was thick as cow pies. Stepping around the shed for a better look, she spotted a pair of hooves protruding from the cow’s rear quarters. While she watched, the cow’s muscles contracted and the forelegs were thrust out further, and then retreated as soon as the contraction passed. The same ineffectual process was repeated twice more before it struck her what was happening.
“Is it her first calf?” she called to the professor. He bristled and read louder. “I said: Is she a first-calf heifer? How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know who you are, young woman”—he turned, still squatting, red faced, and irritable—“but your presence here is both inappropriate and unwanted. Be so good as to remove yourself and allow me to minister to this poor creature.”
“Minister?” Daisy was struck forcefully by the old boy’s high-handed dismissal, but fought past her annoyance to concentrate on the emerging crisis. “Reading to her is not going to do a bit of good. She’s got a big calf.” She pointed. “Look at the size of those legs and hooves.”
Before he could respond, she had removed her gloves and was around the open end of the shed, unbuttoning her jacket.
“Now, see here—” He stood and spread his arms to bar her from the sight. When she darted around him to look closer at the business end, he gasped. “Come away from there, this instant! This is most unseemly!”
“It’s not just unseemly, it’s downright dangerous.” She draped her jacket over the nearest shed wall and rolled up her sleeves. “Most cows give birth out in the pasture with no trouble, but sometimes—especially with first-calf heifers—a calf may be too big for a cow to birth by herself. That’s what’s happening here, and if we don’t help her, she’ll go into shock and she and the calf will die—you’ll lose them both.”
