by Betina Krahn
“It wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t put Dancer in with a bunch of Betancourt mares,” Daisy declared defiantly. “It wasn’t his fault or mine. And from what I’ve seen of the stock and stables here, Dancer’s probably done them a big favor.”
“Daisy!” The countess seemed truly appalled. “Watch your language.”
“Well, the duke didn’t mind—once he realized what was going on.”
“He didn’t realize . . . ?” The countess chewed on that for a minute. “He doesn’t seem like the worldliest of gentlemen, but I would have expected him to at least know—well, no matter. We’ll put it behind us and get on with the business at hand. Any word on when that rascal Ashton Graham will arrive?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The rascal arrived that very night, sometime after the duke and his guests had retired. The house staff were flustered and, lacking instructions, found him a room on the third floor, near the old schoolroom that had been converted into the duke’s laboratory and display room. Once put to bed, Ashton was all but forgotten by a staff used to forgetting and overwhelmed by the number of mouths to feed and beds to make.
No one would have known he was there if the duke hadn’t insisted on showing Daisy his workroom and collections. Accompanied by the countess and a pair of older gentlemen who professed to share the duke’s love of nature, they climbed the wooden stairs to the long third-floor hallway.
“This used to be my schoolroom. Not much use for it since my tutoring days, so I converted it to my laboratory and display room. Wait until you see how I’ve arranged my collection.”
Daisy looked up when he halted unexpectedly, and she froze. There in the hallway before them stood Ashton, bare-chested, shirt and stockings in his hands, his trousers and mouth both hanging open. He was just as shocked to see them as they were to see him.
“Great Galatians—what are you doing up here?” Arthur demanded.
“I—I—they put me up here last night.” Ashton clutched his clothes a bit higher, flushing. “I arrived quite late and I’m not sure they knew who I was. Old Edgar seems to have completely lost his wits.... God knows he never had an abundant supply to begin with . . . but really . . . I am family.”
Daisy made a faint strangling noise and the countess grabbed her and turned her away even as the duke stepped between her and Ashton.
“Ye gods, man, show some manners,” one male guest declared.
“There are ladies present,” another put in.
“So I see,” Ashton said, and though Daisy couldn’t see him she could tell he was smiling. She knew what he looked like when he got that low, teasing timbre in his voice. “Good morning, Miss Bumgarten. Fabulous to see you again.” He paused for her response, but the countess’s punishing grip on her forbade one. “Well, I was just on my way downstairs to find a bathing room. Got to freshen up after a long ride and a longer night.” He leaned close to Arthur as he padded down the hall in bare feet. “You really must do something about putting a proper water closet up here, Artie. Especially if you’re going to sentence children to this level someday.”
It took a few moments for Arthur to collect himself and lead the group on to his laboratory. Daisy’s shock at seeing Ashton’s half-naked body was a perfect imitation of a young maiden’s response at being exposed to such unsettling sights. But inside, she was grappling with an unholy urge to rush down the stairs, drag him into her room, and throw him on her feathered bed. Oh my darlin’ Clementine—the man had a body just made for—A covert elbow from the countess brought her back to the duke’s explanation.
“. . . is where I do my preservations,” the duke said, gesturing to long tables set beneath the windows and the rows of brown bottles and tubes and peering glasses he called “scopes” arrayed on them. The gentlemen asked questions about the “micro-scopes” and he demonstrated by using one of his butterflies as a subject.
The countess shrank back with a look of horror when she saw what butterflies looked like up close. Daisy was surprised, then intrigued to learn the same thing. It occurred to her to ask if there were other things to view and before long, they were looking at flowers, leaves, onion skin, and twigs. There was a whole world, the duke declared, just out of sight.
When they moved on to his collections, Daisy found herself watching the duke with new eyes. With his microscope he had seen things few people had. It was little wonder that he had invested so much time and energy in such studies. With a home full of condescension, stinginess, and doddering elders, it was by far the best of the alternatives open to him.
“A marvelous collection, Your Grace,” she said as he offered her an arm to descend the stairs. “I can see why you’re so taken with them. The colors are so varied and so beautiful. I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t,” he said a bit sadly. “It is actually of profound importance to understand and nourish the great variety of living things in our world. I have read widely about conservation—that is what it’s called, preserving nature and respecting natural processes—conservation. Only recently have I realized that it also involves tilled and planted lands and pastures. There are places on Betancourt that sorely need tending. And I’ve you to thank for giving me a nudge to get out and about the land to see what is happening.”
“Oh, Your Grace, you credit me too much. You’re an earnest and thoughtful lord with a deep sense of responsibility for your land and people. You just needed a spark to get you going. And I bet you’ll have the place in top shape before long.”
They trailed out to the butterfly garden, set a small way from the rear of the house. It was a pale cousin of the magnificent collection at Marlton, but she could see he was unhappy with the comparison and spent time going through the roster of flowers with him, trying to recall which ones Albemarle said were most hardy. In the less productive part of the garden, she stepped off a stone and felt the ground squish underfoot. It turned out, the area chosen for the plantings was poorly drained. The duke, not being a horticulturist himself, had trusted the selection of site and plantings to a fellow hired by his uncle Bertram.
Daisy saw the duke’s irritation and took it on herself to tell him: “It’s easily fixed, Your Grace. Most of the plants are sound enough for replanting. There must be a lot of places near the house that would be better for your butterfly garden. Shall we have a look and select a spot? Plenty of sun, good drainage—”
“Not just now,” the duke said firmly, staring at his dampened shoes. A muscle twitched in his jaw, jolting Daisy with a memory of Ashton’s doing the same when he was annoyed. “I need to have a bit of think, here. Be so good as to go on back to the house, dear Daisy.” He gave her a pained smile. “I will join you later.”
Daisy walked back to the house with the countess, who shook her head and gave Daisy a sympathetic look.
“He’s upset about the garden,” the countess said. “I’ve never seen him in a mood before.”
“Nor have I,” Daisy said, untying her hat as they reached the front portico. “But he has a great deal to contend with here, and I can’t imagine he gets much help from family or the creaky old servants.” She paused and glanced around the entry hall, lowering her voice. “The whole place feels like it needs a good scrub—”
“Miss Bumgarten,” an aged but imperious voice interrupted.
“Yes?” She whirled about to find an old gent she recognized as the duke’s uncle Seward standing a few steps away.
“Lady Sylvia and the rest of the family request your presence in the morning room,” Seward intoned.
The time had come. She felt her heart begin to pound.
“Oh. I’ll be there sh-shortly,” Daisy said, stumbling over words. “I must fetch something from my room first.” She lifted her skirts and headed for the stairs with the countess at her back.
When they were alone in the upper hall, she turned to the countess.
“Find Uncle Red. Tell him it’s time and make sure he doesn’t take a nip before he gets to the morning room.”
The countess hurried down the west hallway to Red’s room and Daisy turned toward her room to get the Temple Church document. She stood for a moment in the sun streaming through the windowpanes in her chamber, feeling light headed and a bit panicky. Her entire future, her sisters’ futures, hinged on what occurred in the breakfast room a few minutes from now. And all she had to show them was one document proving one illegitimate baby’s parentage. It wasn’t much, but she prayed it would be enough.
She found Red and the countess waiting outside the morning room door, both gray faced and looking like they were facing a hanging judge. She squared her shoulders and produced a small, determined smile.
“Whatever the outcome,” she said quietly, “everything will be fine. I know the duke thinks well of me—noble ancestry or not—and surely his opinion will count for something.”
When the door opened and she glimpsed the six hoary heads and hostile faces that would soon pass judgment on her heritage, her knees turned to rubber. It was all she could do to make it to the table and lay the ribbon-wrapped velum before them like a sacrifice before ancient gods.
“What is this?” Lady Sylvia demanded hoarsely, staring at the document as if it might grow legs and skitter across the table.
“This is the result of my search, at least what could be found on this side of the Atlantic. It is the birth record of Gemma Rose Howard, whom I believe to be my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.”
“On the Strait side,” Uncle Red put in, crossing his arms.
“Very well.” Lady Sylvia nodded to Uncle Bertram, who tugged the ribbon free and opened the document to read aloud.
“‘Be it known that on this date, October third, in the year of our Lord 1747, Gemma Rose Howard, a female child, was baptized into the grace of God at Temple Church in the Redcliffe Fee of Bristol, England. Attending were her mother, Hannah Violet Howard, a member of this parish; her father, Commodore Fitzroy Henry Lee, Royal Navy; and two witnesses: Sadie Marie McLeod and Captain Eli Cornwallis, Royal Navy.’”
Uncle Bertram looked up with a vengeful squint. “The rest is the dean of Temple Church’s signature and seal, which may or may not be—”
“Authentic?” came a deep voice from just inside the doors behind them. Daisy suddenly had gooseflesh and felt her stomach drop as she turned and glimpsed Ashton’s flinty expression. He stood with his feet spread, one hand propped on his waist and the other wrapped around a thick book. “I can assure you, uncles, aunts, and all, that it is perfectly authentic.”
“About damned time you got here,” Bertram growled.
“Bertie, language!” Sylvia snapped. “You, Nephew, how do you know it is authentic?”
“I was there when it was discovered and when it was inscribed by the dean of the parish. I saw the citation in the parish book myself. There is no doubt it is authentic. But you would be sensible to ask next: Who are these people? And what claims do they have to nobility?”
There was a short silence before Lady Sylvia snorted and accepted the prompt. “Very well. Who are these people and what have they to do with English nobles”—she wagged a finger at Daisy—“or this American person?”
“The commodore listed as the father of the girl is none other than the seventh son of Charlotte Fitzroy Lee, Countess of Lichfield.”
“Never heard of her,” Bertram snapped.
“Fortunately historians have heard of her,” Ashton said. “She was the daughter and favorite of King Charles the Second, our Restoration monarch.”
That took a moment to sink in, and Daisy watched as the old gals’ and gaffers’ faces began to animate with interest. Only Bertram seemed unimpressed. He glowered, his eyes flitting back and forth as he made the connections.
“So this baby was the great-granddaughter of King Charles, and this girl claims to be related to her? How do we know this Charlotte even existed?”
“Because the king himself said so,” Ashton said flatly, brushing past Bertram to drop the book on the table before Lady Sylvia and open it to a marked page. He tapped a section of print. “Right there.”
“Read it aloud,” Sylvia ordered, scowling. “So I can hear it.”
Daisy stepped forward and picked up Huxley’s book before Ashton could and began to read the now familiar passage.
“‘Charlotte Fitzroy was born on September fifth, in the year 1664, to Barbara Palmer, née Villiers, Countess of Castlemaine, acknowledged mistress of His Royal Highness King Charles the Second of England. The king acknowledged Charlotte from her birth and arranged a marriage for her with a son of the wealthy Lee family, who held positions of trust in his court. . . .’”
By the time she finished reading the entry, the oldsters were wide eyed and murmuring among themselves about the eighteen children and forty-two years of wedded life. Daisy offered the book around and the old crones peeked, nodded sagely, and waved her on. Only Bertram and Seward were left unconvinced . . . and ready to play the ace up their sleeve.
“So, are you willing to certify that this female is indeed the descendant of King Charles the Second of England?” Seward demanded of Ashton.
Daisy held her breath, knowing his opinion on her marriage to Arthur and feeling strangely conflicted about his testimony here. She wanted to marry Arthur; she wanted to be a duchess—didn’t she? She looked up at Ashton, whose wicked, love-me-senseless eyes were clouded in a way she had never seen before. She couldn’t tell what was going on inside him.
Seconds dragged by as he stared at her, deciding, weighing her fate in his capable hands.
“I am.” He took a breath and turned to his family “creaks and groans.” “As a historian, I must say that there is documentation lacking from the other side of the ocean, but given what Redmond Strait was required to learn and the lineage of Charlotte Fitzroy . . . I would say it is more likely than not. I would see no impediment to Miss Bumgarten wedding the duke, should that be agreeable to them both. And should the financial arrangements prove suitable.” He swallowed hard, meeting his uncles’ gazes with a defiant spark. “I believe my duty here has been discharged.”
There were gasps and mutters as the full impact of Ashton’s report became clear. The uncles were appalled by the possibility of this courtship, despite the hint of a financial windfall, and Lady Sylvia was apoplectic.
Red, filled with indignation and stone-cold sober, pounded the table with a meaty fist and glared at the weaseling Meridian elders.
“Listen here, you sidewinders. My Daisy has passed yer damn-fool tests. She did it out o’ respect for yer family and care for th’ young duke’s feelings. But this ends here. She’s as noble as anybody in this room. So button yer lips and butt out. It’s up to her and him now.” He stuck his face in Bertram’s, and the baron wilted around the edges. “If they decide to get hitched, then we’ll talk money. Till then, there’ll be none o’ you lot standing in their way. Got it?”
Daisy was in shock as the countess took her arm and steered her out the door. It was over. Truly over. They had accepted her “proof ”—with a push from Ashton and a threat from Red. She had a path to marrying Arthur. Daisy’s relief was so great that it almost poured out through her eyes. Instead, she hugged the countess and Red, and in a burst of emotional excess, ran up to her rooms to write her mother a letter announcing that she intended to marry the Duke of Meridian and would soon be a duchess.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ashton watched Daisy leave with a warm kernel of satisfaction glowing in his chest. It was regrettably short lived.
“You black-hearted, double-dealing scoundrel! Damn your eyes!”
Bertram’s curses ignited a storm of invective and vitriol. Ashton was momentarily stunned; he would never have guessed these desiccated gourds were capable of such violent emotion. Spittle and false teeth both flew.
“Out!” Aunt Sylvia snarled, rising halfway from her chair and flinging a boney finger toward the door before being overcome by her own fury, clutching her chest, and sinking back into he
r chair. “Get out, ungrateful cur. We’ll see naught but the back of you, from this day forward!”
Ashton retrieved and tucked Huxley’s book under his arm and strode out of the morning room, making sure the door slammed with a wall-trembling bang. He had done the right thing, skewered the old vultures who had held him and his brother hostage for most of their lives. It was probably a deathblow to his income and prospects, but just now it felt like a victory . . . no matter how Pyrrhic.
Reynard Boulton loomed up before him in the main hall. One look at the fire in Ashton’s eyes and the granite-hard set of his jaw told the Fox that something important was up.
“Ash, old chum—where are you off to in such a hurry?” He turned on his heel and kept pace as Ashton stormed out the doors.
“I’m going to get soused proper—probably drink twelve pints and start a fight.” He glanced at the elegantly turned-out heir to the Tannehill title. “You interested?”
“Sikes, yes!” Reynard squared his shoulders with a sly look. “Always up for a good, old-fashioned tear.”
They headed for the stable and the quickest transport available to the nearby Iron Penny Tavern.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Daisy freshened her hair and changed her dress into corded silk appropriate for a walk with a special gentleman, and hurried outside to find Arthur. He stood, a study in brown, scowling at a pond filled with water lilies and ducks. “Your Grace!” She approached with a beaming smile, but stopped dead the moment he looked up.
“Cursed ducks . . . I suppose they have to eat, but do they have to eat my water hyacinth?” He scowled and pointed. “Look at this—a ragged mess.”
She was taken aback; she had never seen him so cross. It took a moment for her to regroup and understand both his pique and her disappointment. He had no idea what had just transpired in the morning room and no idea that they were free to court in earnest now. Her excitement drained, replaced by determination.
Now—she sensed with an insight that was uniquely feminine—was the time to be understanding and helpful.
