If You Give A Girl A Viscount ib-4

by Kieran Kramer

  Daisy was once again rocked to her foundations. “I hate you. You used my father. He was a good man, and he didn’t deserve to be so ill treated.”

  Mona shrugged. “Water under the bridge.”

  But Daisy refused to give in to despair. “You won’t win. I don’t know how I’ll stop you, but you won’t win.”

  Mona sauntered to the window and gazed out. “I suggest you pull your head out of the sand and listen.” She turned around. “You need to understand that Perdita and I aren’t the enemy. Cassandra is. I didn’t say I longed for her to marry the viscount, did I? She wants to, and what she wants, she gets—especially if you have it first.”

  Daisy’s chest expanded with indignation. “But you’re her mother! It’s your duty to rear your daughters with principles. And you’ve done a terrible job, I might add.”

  Mona inclined her head. “You’re not just a little bit jealous that Cassandra is going to get what she wants—and you won’t? She’s got everything you don’t have, you know.”

  “No, I’m not jealous. The last person on earth I’d envy is Cassandra.”

  Mona’s eyes glittered. “I wasn’t going to do this, but you’re making me. You Highlanders are a stubborn lot.” She reached into her bodice and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Read this.”

  It was very old. And somehow familiar.

  The seal.

  She knew whose seal that was!

  Slowly, Daisy unfolded it and immediately recognized the writing as well:

  My dear Barnabas,

  She’s a precious little thing with smoky gray eyes and a tuft of ebony hair. As you desired, Miss Hausenstab is calling her Cassandra and will treat her with the same loving care I’ve seen her show her own infant daughter Perdita.

  I don’t know how I can be of service to little Cassandra, but as her godmother, I’ll consider it my duty and privilege to keep both you and your sweet baby girl in my thoughts and prayers always.

  Your old friend,

  Lady Pinckney née Lucy Warren

  Daisy’s knees began to tremble, and she sank onto the sofa. Mona was Miss Hausenstab. “Where did you get this note?”

  Mona sighed. “Didn’t you ever wonder how your father and I found each other to marry? It was no mere coincidence.”

  “Where—did—you—get—it?” Daisy’s jaw wobbled.

  Mona plopped down on the sofa next to her. “Barnabas kept it in a drawer in his desk, where he kept all his important papers.”

  “Who—who’s Lucy Warren?” Of course, Daisy already knew, but what did Mona know about her?

  Mona shrugged. “Some well-born girl Barnabas insisted on having involved in the adoption. I could’ve done without her interference and was glad to see her nosy self disappear after she saw us settled in London.”

  Daisy could hardly breathe. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It’s an awful lot to take in,” said Mona blithely. “Cassandra is Barnabas’s daughter, your half sister. She’s not my daughter in the least. She’s actually older than you by three months, but we told both of you she’s younger.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’d have the privilege of being the eldest when we married. Barnabas felt he owed you that. It’s why you’re Miss Montgomery. He didn’t want you displaced.”

  “Does Cassandra know?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she managed to keep it a secret from me? I wonder why?”

  “Because I told her if she doesn’t, she’ll get the same treatment I give you.”

  “That’s a good reason.” Daisy restrained a shudder, thinking of the number of times Mona had locked her in her room. “But why didn’t you want me to know the truth after Papa died?”

  “I was saving it for when I could get the most use out of it.”

  “Tell me more, please, about how this all started.”

  Mona lofted a brow. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Barnabas had an affair with a London actress a few months before he met your mother,” Mona said. “Cassandra was the result. Haven’t you ever wondered how someone who looks like me could produce such a breathtaking beauty?”

  “Not really.” Of course Daisy had, but she wouldn’t tell Mona that. It would be too cruel.

  “At any rate,” Mona went on, “after years alone, with occasional money coming in from your father, I contacted him and told him Cassandra was grown. He couldn’t resist wanting to see her, and when he did … I worked my wiles. It made perfect sense. He was grieving. And he got his daughter back. Somehow, I think he thought she’d fill the hole in his heart left by your mother’s death.”

  Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. “Did she?”

  Mona shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Daisy’s heart clenched—she’d thought she was her father’s North Star, that she’d been the one to pull him out of his grief.

  “I—I must go,” she said to Mona, and raced from the room.

  Her stepmother was right. It was an awful lot to take in. Cassandra was her real sister? Her older sister? Her father’s firstborn child?

  How shocking.

  How terrible.

  How wrong.

  What of Daisy’s relationship with her father? Had he loved her less than he’d loved Cassandra? He must have loved Cassandra a great deal to have married someone as unpleasant as Mona.

  For the first time, Daisy felt the stirrings of jealousy toward Cassandra.

  But she also saw Cassandra in a new light. No wonder her stepsister despised her. In the bosom of her loving family, Daisy had gotten everything Cassandra hadn’t over the years.

  It all made more sense now.

  Daisy needed to say something out loud about the situation, or she would burst from all the mixed emotions she felt. Into the looking glass in her bedchamber, she whispered, “Cassandra is my father’s daughter. My sister.”

  Not only did they share the same father, Cassandra wanted to steal away Daisy’s viscount!

  Daisy’s fear and jealousy compounded.

  You’re being illogical, she told herself. Cassandra is rude and unhelpful, even cruel. Charlie can’t stand her.

  But still. Her own father had been taken in by Mona.

  Could Charlie go the same route and be fooled by Cassandra?

  The entire revelation was still too big a notion to take in … Daisy would have to spend some time contemplating it.

  Meanwhile, she also had to deal with the second verbal grenade Mona had thrown her way. It involved the old letter Daisy still had tucked away in her turret room at Castle Vandemere, the note from Lady Pinckney to Barnabas—the one that had spurred Daisy on to write Lady Pinckney for help with getting the four hundred pounds.

  After reading the second letter, now Daisy knew Lady Pinckney was more than someone who’d once been an old friend or paramour of her father’s—she was Cassandra’s godmother, not hers.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was time for the sheep-shearing contest at Castle Vandemere, but Charlie wasn’t feeling in a competitive mood. He was worried about Daisy. She’d been acting distracted all afternoon, and he could swear she’d been crying. But she wouldn’t tell him anything.

  She stayed busy with the guests, which was typical of her.

  “You asked for a godmother’s help, so let me help,” he’d told her.

  “No,” she’d said flatly. “But thank you.”

  And moved on.

  And then taken a step back. “Sorry,” she’d whispered, and thrown him a small smile. “I do appreciate your concern.”

  Charlie didn’t know if he’d ever understand women. He also didn’t know if he’d ever understand what being a godmother was about, and he wished with all his heart that he didn’t have to worry about such matters.

  Except that serving as his grandmother’s stand-in had brought him to Daisy, and he couldn’t regret that.

  Now that the contest was about to begin, he felt compelled to
find her in the crowd and reassure himself that she was all right.

  A moment later, he saw her in conversation with Miss Cassandra, slightly apart from the crowd, and neither of them looked at all happy.

  Mr. King saw them, too. “What are they doing?” He stared at them with his hands on his hips, ignoring the noise of the crowd surrounding them.

  “I don’t know.” Charlie was equally fascinated, but he was trying to be low-key about it.

  “They appear to be in an argument of some kind.” The American watched the pair avidly. “I wonder who started it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Charlie was glad no one else was paying the young ladies the least bit of attention.

  “She’s stunning,” Mr. King said. “The stepsister. I never noticed her before now because she’s always staring daggers at your fiancée. But she has a fine figure. And some spirit, doesn’t she?”

  “I suppose she does,” said Charlie, not willing to dash her character to this stranger. He wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if he did that.

  Mr. King gave a little laugh. “She’s the one who belongs in a peer’s bed. Or anyone’s bed who’s powerful and rich.”

  “No,” Charlie replied strongly. “No, she doesn’t. Miss Montgomery was in her cups when she said that, and I’m sure she regrets it.”

  They both watched as Miss Cassandra put her nose in the air.

  Daisy’s throat and cheeks turned pink.

  And then the two women walked in different directions.

  “They don’t like each other,” Mr. King said. “That’s for certain.”

  Charlie saw, too, that something ugly was going on between them, but he’d have to stave off his curiosity—and concern—for a little while.

  He had this nuisance of a contest to win.

  Yes, he liked to be the best at everything, but these were sheep.

  Sheep.

  If they were dragons, he’d be more interested in looking manly and courageous in front of Daisy and the crowd. As it was, if Mr. King somehow beat him, he’d just be glad his London friends weren’t here to see him make a fool of himself—and Daisy probably wouldn’t care that he’d lost, either.

  “What’s the prize if you win?” one of the visiting men called out as he and Mr. King pushed their ewes into position within circles Joe had drawn with chalk on the grass.

  “No prize,” replied Charlie, “just the glory of winning!”

  The man grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Charlie was a bit distracted—his first sheep was perhaps more stubborn than he’d realized—and he wondered if his shears were sharp enough. The crowd was also bigger than he’d imagined.

  Perdita, dressed in her Highland garb, sat in a large chair ready to cast judgment on the proceedings, although a village elder was the real judge.

  Even so, Perdita was obviously in her element.

  Suddenly, there was a loud roar of approval—about what, Charlie had no idea.

  Mr. King grinned. “Absolutely,” he said to the crowd, then looked at Charlie. “What do you say?”

  “To what?”

  “The loser must buy a round of drinks for everyone at the new pub in Glen Dewey,” Mr. King replied.

  A handsome man stepped forward. “At the grand opening which I, Gavin MacKee, will hold this very night!”

  All the men shouted, clapped, and whistled.

  “I’ll do one better,” Charlie told them. “If I lose, I’ll bring down another cask of Joe’s whisky to pass round instead.”

  “Oh no, ye won’t, Lord Lumley,” Gavin chided him. “I needs must make my living at the pub. Ye’ll be buying the round if ye lose, my friend.”

  “If you don’t win today, you need to feel the pain of losing in your pocket, lad!” someone else called out.

  “Tha’s right,” an old man said. “Whichever rich nabob loses must pay!”

  The crowd endorsed his remark with a hearty “Hurrah!”

  It was a simple, friendly bet.

  But it was a dangerous one to Charlie.

  He couldn’t afford to lose any longer.

  If he did, he’d have to borrow money from Daisy. A man didn’t shirk a bet. He’d have to buy a round of drinks for the men of the village.

  Which would mean he’d lose the bet with his friends in London.

  Which meant he’d be thrown onto the Marriage Mart because he was an honorable man, and honorable men confessed when they lost bets.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t it have been anything but a sheep-shearing contest?

  Inhaling a breath, he held his ewe still while the village elder walked to the center of the pen and lifted a scarlet handkerchief high in the air. “Just remember, gentlemen, you’re being evaluated on your speed and the quality of the shearing. No nicks on those poor ewes, mind you. And the fewer cuts the better. On your mark, get set, go!” The man brought the handkerchief down on the word go, and the match was on.

  Do it right, Charlie told himself.

  Finding the place to start was the hardest part of all. He put his arm under the ewe’s neck, just as Joe had shown him. When she tried to leap away with her hind legs, Charlie was able to tilt her back so she sat up like a person. Grabbing a fold of wool and skin on her belly, he made the first vital cut and prayed he wouldn’t nick her.

  And he didn’t. Breathing a discreet sigh of relief, he vowed not to observe what strategies Mr. King employed. Charlie would stay focused. Extremely focused.

  The crowd called to both of them, and Charlie ignored them as best he could. The ewe struggled more and more as he snipped at her wool with the shears, attempting to get the fluffy stuff off in one, big piece.

  He felt the stress build up in his belly and chest, which didn’t improve when he lost his grip and the ewe bolted.

  He cursed a blue streak in his head. He wasn’t laughing at all. Especially when he saw Mr. King’s tremendous progress, which he couldn’t help observing as he was required to chase after his ewe and bring her back to their shearing place.

  A shout went up. Mr. King was done with his first ewe!

  Dear God, Charlie thought. I’m in for it.

  Visions of London debutantes clamoring to marry him besieged him, but he was determined to cast them aside.

  A moment later, he’d finished his first sheep. He patted her rear and she ran bawling away, naked as she could be, with just a few little clumps of wool left on her. He thought he’d done a good job, but had he done it fast enough and well enough?

  “Only two to go!” he heard Joe call to him.

  Bloody hell, this was going to take ages.

  And it did. Charlie had never worked so hard in his life. It was meticulous work, all to be done while a sheep struggled beneath his nose. Sweat poured from his brow. His whole body was soaked with it, which made holding on to the next two ewes that much more difficult.

  People came and went. Refreshed themselves from a bucket of water, drank from flasks, made comments on their progress.

  Meanwhile, Mr. King was slaving away, too. Charlie had no idea how well he was doing, but he suspected they were close. The crowd’s teasing remarks ceased. Their noise got louder, more frantic.

  Charlie felt panic build in his middle, but he pushed it down once again.

  He couldn’t lose!

  “Charlie!” he heard Daisy’s voice call above the others.

  He took a half second to look up. She was over by the byre, standing on a low-lying stump so she could see him. Her eyes were lit with concern, and she was biting her lip when she caught his eye and waved at him.

  Cassandra stood next to Daisy. She wore a close-lipped smile when she waved at him, too, but her face was tight with something unpleasant.

  Daisy glanced down at her stepsister and made a small grimace that Charlie recognized as annoyance and perhaps a bit of confusion.

  Why was Cassandra standing so close? Why couldn’t she watch the contest somewhere else?

  Charlie was indignant on Da
isy’s behalf. She was only trying to cheer for him, but Cassandra was proving a bit of a bother.

  Daisy appeared to give up wondering why her stepsister was there because she cupped her hands together and called to him, “Win, Charlie, win!”

  That spindly utterance, delivered over the roar of the crowd, gave him a tremendous boost, and he went back to work with renewed vigor.

  Daisy had no idea what the true stakes of this match really were. If she knew, would she care?

  The third ewe bucked and bawled worse than the others. He’d saved her for last because he’d seen her around the pastures. She was bossy, given to bursts of pique.

  “Go, Viscount, go!” he heard a little boy scream from his right.

  “Mr. King’s ahead!” someone else called.

  “Aye, and it’s close,” an old man to the left of Charlie said.

  The ewe wriggled so hard, Charlie had to hold the shears up and away. He stumbled backward, the ewe twisted …

  “Go!”

  “He missed a spot!”

  “That damned ewe reminds me of my wife!”

  “Hurry!”

  Charlie had no idea if the crowd was talking about his ewe or Mr. King’s, and he certainly didn’t know which of them had to go or hurry.

  He reestablished his stance: knees bent, toes in …

  Sheep locked into position between his legs.

  This was it.

  Without blinking or breathing, he finished shearing the sheep.

  He dropped his shears and looked up and—

  Mr. King was shearing the last bit of wool off the right side of his ewe and …

  It was over.

  Over.

  Charlie wiped the sweat out of his eyes. His lungs were near bursting, but he forced himself to take slow, measured breaths. Already the village elder and his cohorts were examining the last two sheep for nicks and holding up the fleeces to see how neatly they’d been shorn.

  Charlie was sore, but he moved toward Mr. King as if he’d not just been working harder than he ever had before. Mr. King came toward him, as well. His rival looked as worn out as Charlie felt.

  They met in the middle and clasped hands.

  “It was a fine match,” Charlie said.