Daisy felt she could breathe again. She would not have been so certain if she had noted the brooding eyes of a gentleman, darkly dressed in a frock coat trimmed with gold. He had just won a splendid, matched pair of high-stepping bays, but seemed to hold this to little account. Rather, his attention was fixed so wholly upon her shining eyes and remarkable ringlets, that he was forced to mutter an abstracted apology when he collided with Lady Dorset and her plaguey full-length hems. Fortunately, Daisy’s complacency remained intact, for she had no notion of his extraordinary attention.
As the grand clock struck half past the hour, Primrose finally appeared, arm in arm with the Marchioness of Rochester, a circumstance that caused many a knowing brow to lift. She suggested that they depart at once, for the hour was quite advanced and she was anxious to check that Lord Raven had taken his nightly regimen of syrups. The doctor had diligently prescribed them but it was a nightly battle of wills to get the obdurate earl to actually take them. Primrose half suspected her grandfather’s recovery was due more to his anticipation of a good, down-to-earth squabble than the mixtures themselves. Still, she would not, for the world, deprive Lord Raven of his opportunity to curse and fuss and mutter quite dreadful oaths under his breath. Besides, poor Richmond would be at his wit’s end. Despite all the years in his lordship’s service, he still did not know how to manage him as successfully as the most headstrong of his granddaughters.
Daisy volunteered to search out Lily, who was in danger of disgracing herself again by ambling out into the gardens without a chaperon. When she had departed, the marchioness asked, in a mild manner, how it came to be that three such very lovely sisters appeared to be flouting convention and appearing in society without at least one dowager or chaperone in tow. Primrose colored, for up until now she had quite thought herself past her last prayers and old enough to escort the other two without precipitating comment. When she said as much to her ladyship, however, that lady stared at her very hard for a moment and wondered, in a rather conversational voice, whether Primrose had ever looked in front of a glass.
“Well, of course I have!”
“Then you must know, my dear, that you are very far from being past your last prayers! If you are not as popular as your sisters are proving to be, I shall own myself most surprised.”
“Oh, that is only due to the ridiculous disposition of Grandfather’s will. I daresay you have heard of it?”
“I have, and it sounds precisely the sort of harebrained, addlepated type of notion he is capable of But if you think your popularity is owing only to his meddlesome nature, you mistake the matter entirely. My son, for example. . .”
“Oh, madame, pray say nothing about your son! I am perfectly certain he would not wish to be discussed in such a manner. He has been everything that is proper . . .”
“Has he, indeed? Well, I must say, then I am sadly mistaken in him, for I believed him to be as attractive in his own way as his dear father before him. And if he behaved with the utmost propriety in the face of such charm and undeniable beauty, he is less of a man than I gave him credit for!”
Primrose giggled. It was impossible to hold the marchioness at arm’s length. Like her son, her vivacious character was infectious.
Lady Rochester’s eyes twinkled. “So! It is as I suspected! You are in need of a chaperone! All of you! I shall write to Lord Raven tomorrow.”
Primrose sobered at once. “Please, he is not well. I daresay he will have an apoplexy if he is forced to house some dowager or other. His temper, you know, is not what it was.”
“Ha! His temper, I am certain, is exactly what it was! Leave him to me, my dear. I am spoiling for a good, old-fashioned fight and Lord Raven is bound to favor me with that, I am certain!”
On which point Miss Chartley was inclined to rather wholeheartedly concur, though if she still harbored doubts about the enterprise as a whole, she was wise enough not to say so.
Seven
“Dash it, Miles, I am smitten!” Lord Barrymore ignored the outraged protests of his dearest friend, who did not relish being woken at two in the morning for the edification of a lover’s discourse.
“She had hair as black as night and a smile that seemed to light up her eyes—right behind, you know. There was just the faintest dimple behind her cheeks and oh, she had the gayest laugh. You could not help but love her if you were to see her!”
“Then it is fortunate that I won’t, for Molly would undoubtedly throttle me and I would be forced to kill you, I am afraid.”
Denver grinned. Miles must at last be waking, if his rapier-sharp wits were returning on form. “Do be serious! I am in the suds and have not the faintest notion what to do about it. I promised to see her again, tomorrow, but I cannot. I have that devil Raven to see.”
“The earl? Is it he that you owe all those vast sums to?”
Barrymore nodded gloomily. “Yes, and though I have sold off the last of my brood mares, I cannot think where I am to procure the balance! The house is entailed and I dare not go to the cent percenters. They have already advanced me several hundred pounds.”
“Good Lord, what did you do with it? Don’t tell me you paid for that exquisite waistcoat, for I shall waste no sympathy on you!”
“This?” Denver dismissed his garment airily, though he did stop to flick a speck of dust off the impeccably embroidered seam.
“Heavens, no! I must still have the bill for this somewhere. Can’t think where. Reece will know.”
“Well, then? What did you do with the advance?”
“Oh! I bought a couple of coal mines.”
“You kid me.”
“No, indeed! Unfortunately, the wretched things are located in some ungodly place where it is practically impossible for a carriage to pass. That, I suppose, is how I managed to come by them so cheaply!”
“They are worth nothing, then?”
“Oh, by all accounts they are loaded! They have a very pure ore content and all that, only not a damned person can mine them!”
“How perplexing.”
“And annoying.”
“Yes.” The two gentlemen stared at each other for a moment, before Lord Barrymore shivered, slightly, and stoked up the fire.
“I should get the housemaid to see to that.”
“Wake her up at this time? Don’t be so ridiculous!”
Lord Frampton—otherwise known as Miles to his intimates—narrowly avoided commenting that he wished his friend had similar qualms when it came to waking him up. The viscount was pacing nervously up and down the parquet flooring, though, so he desisted, for it was clear that Lord Barrymore was more troubled than he cared to admit.
“Can I not lend you the money? I daresay I can raise the wind if ...”
Lord Barrymore shot him a dampening look. “God, Miles! I am not such a shimble-shamble fellow that I will sponge off my friends! No, tomorrow I shall see Lord Raven. If it is a debtor’s jail for me, then so be it. I daresay one gets used to it. I heard if one becomes accustomed to the smell, it is almost bearable.”
“That it should come to this! Is there anything I can do?”
“Will you seek out Miss Chartley for me and explain that though it is my heart’s desire to renew our acquaintance, circumstance forbids it?”
“Miss Chartley? Which one?”
“Is there more than one?”
Miles regarded his debonair friend pityingly. “Do you know nothing, my lord? The Miss Chartleys are the talk of the Ton! There is Miss Primrose, who is serene and self-composed, Miss Daisy, who is sunny and rather too ingenuous for my tastes, and then there is Miss Lily . . .”
“Lily! That is the one! Don’t you dare say a word against her! Oh, Miles, she is heavenly! So young and innocent! Has no notion of how to go on, you know . . .”
“Stop ranting, Barrymore! I have a plan!”
“What?”
“Offer for her! She is the very heiress you have been searching for!”
Lord Barrymore started to tell him he h
ad not been searching for heiresses, but Frampton was not listening in the least.
“Perhaps you will be lucky. You have the devil’s own luck, you know.” Denver refrained from responding that losing half his stable, a ruby pin, facing the prospect of several months in jail did not constitute particularly good luck. Miles was continuing quite blithely, and his words made no sense at all.
“If she is the heiress, she will be worth an unholy fortune.”
“What do you mean if? Do you enjoy talking in riddles, or is it just some unfortunate trick of fate?”
“If you read your newspapers, you would swallow your sarcasm! Riddles, indeed. You are very behind hand not to know of Lord Raven’s strange bequest.”
“Lord Raven? What has that noxious creature got to do with it?”
“Everything, I imagine. He is Miss Chartley’s grandfather. He also, by all accounts, holds the purse strings.” It did not take Lord Barrymore very much longer to draw out the truth from his dearest friend, though he did threaten strangulation and death by a long sword. These inducements caused Lord Frampton to explain rather more quickly than he might otherwise have been inclined.
The odds were three to one that Lily would be the answer to Lord Barrymore’s prayers. Privately, Lord Barrymore upped the ante, a little, for the stakes were higher than Lord Frampton supposed. It was more than mere money at stake, a complicated little twist that only gave fuel to the burning fires of a gambler born and bred. What were the chances, one might wonder, of achieving both stakes? A marriage of convenience might prove confoundedly inconvenient if it bore neither wealth nor mutual regard. Similarly, a financial windfall without any manner of accompanying warmth might prove sadly flat. Conversely, if he won Lily’s heart but not the prize, might he not feel disgruntled? Disillusioned? Disappointed? To his astonishment, he thought not. The scales tipped heavily in his mind, reweighing the odds to his decided advantage. Miles droned on, but his voice was a mere background blur. By the time he had slipped on his superbly fitting coat, his mind was almost made up.
A very thoughtful viscount returned to Barrymore Court that night. The nightingales had given way to the early morning robins and kestrels, but sleep eluded him like a teasing wisp of curling mist. Impossible to grasp.
The earl was in fine fettle the following morning. Still wheezing, he was brandishing a calling card and rubbing his hands in eager glee. Daisy sat by his bed—for he liked to see each of his three flowers separately, though he summoned them in with a fierce voice and vowed they were nothing but a trouble to him.
“Grandfather, if you are better, let Richmond move you to the window. I have planted a scented garden beneath the eaves, so you shall smell the fragrances of jasmine and rosemary and honeysuckle as you sit. The lemons are not quite ready yet, but their leaves smell sweetly. I am certain you shall love it.”
“Hmph! Lord Raven’s bushy-browed eyes softened almost perceptibly, though his tone remained a growl.” And what are you doing playing gardener, when there is a whole host of wastrel good-for-nothings I pay for the task?”
“Yes, but none that love you as much as I do!” Daisy peeped at him mischievously from under her shining, Rapunzel gold ringlets. She knew the earl would color up and be gruff, but be pleased, nonetheless.
“Ha! A tarradiddle if ever I heard one! And what do you know of love, little miss?”
Now it was Daisy’s turn to color. More than Lord Raven suspected, for in truth she could not—no matter how hard she tried—rid herself of the image of Barnacle Jack. To her astonishment, the earl’s lightning quick wits caught at her innermost thoughts in the most unnerving and thoroughly disconcerting manner. He lay back upon his pillows and chortled rudely.
“Ha, I warrant you yearn for a sight of that cutpurse you encountered upon your travels. Yes, I heard of that little adventure! You can’t hoodwink the likes of me as well as you may your sisters! Come closer, I shall tell you a secret.”
Daisy did, for there was no gainsaying the earl when he was in a troublesome mood. Lord Raven coughed a little but waved away the nasty potion Richmond instantly held in front of his face. “Oh, go away, do! It has come to a strange pass when a gentleman cannot have a little comfortable coze with his granddaughter without the whole world standing by! And close the door!” Resignedly, Richmond caught Daisy’s eye. She nodded, so he set down the glass, bowed regally—a sure sign he was affronted—and left the chamber.
“Good. A troublesome fellow, though no doubt he feels he is doing me some good. Now!” The earl’s yellowing teeth glinted a little in the sunlight. He took Daisy’s delicate, pink-gloved hands in his own rather bony ones.
“You are the most delicate of my flowers, but I do believe you might prove the hardiest! You shan’t settle for some society beau, no matter how much poetry he recites! I wonder if our Lily’s head shall be turned? I think not, though she stands in the gravest danger. That is the price one pays for being the youngest and most exotic! Still, I think she might surprise us yet. But come! We speak of you! If that fellow you came upon is worth half his salt, he shall find you and carry you off to his lair!”
Daisy’s eyes widened, for though she knew her grandfather was talking nonsense, it was nonsense she silently dreamed of. Not one of the bevy of suitors claiming her hand at Almack’s had turned her head so much as an inch.
“I have no notion of what you speak!”
“Have you not? Then you disappoint me vastly!” The earl looked at her hard, then chuckled. “Mr. Davenport offered for you yesterday.”
“Did he?” Daisy looked rather uninterested. The earl chuckled. “He did, and though he is undoubtedly after your fortune, the scoundrel, I thought him somewhat better than Lord Quincey, who seemed uncertain whether it was you or Primrose he desired most in the world. I told him to think it over carefully before approaching me again.”
Daisy giggled. “Grandfather, I do believe you are enjoying all this! You are a scoundrel!”
“That may be, but in deadly earnest nonetheless. I look to see you settled well.”
Daisy withdrew her hands uncomfortably. “What if I don’t wish to be settled well?”
“You would have to be a very unnatural sort of a female, then, or else in love with a rogue!”
Daisy squirmed uneasily, causing the earl to emit an infuriating “Ha!” in the boomy voice she detested.
She stood up and opened the window. “You are pleased to tease! Well, have your fun, Grandfather, it will do you the world of good. Can you smell my garden? When the breeze is up it should be even better. And now, since you are impossible, I shall bid you good morning!”
“Running away?” The earl laughed. “Well, I shall have an amusing morning. Wake me when the Viscount of Barrymore arrives.”
So saying, he closed his eyes, though Daisy was not so foolish as to believe him asleep.
Lady Rochester laid her plans carefully. First, she invited the Darcy sisters to tea. No doubt, they would be in raptures over the invitation. She nibbled on her nails as she thought of other, equally provoking young ladies. There was always that spiteful Miss Pemberton . . . but no, even she would not inflict her upon poor Gareth. After all, if that whey-faced Miss Simmons did not panic him, surely a taste of Lady Susan’s sharp tongue would? She would teach him a lesson for so cavalierly shifting his matrimonial choice onto her shoulders as if it were of no more consequence than a ha’penny button. When my lord was suitably appalled, she would approach him—ever so carefully, of course—about the possibilities of sponsoring the Chartley sisters. If he appeared suspicious, she would pretend it was Miss Lily that she deemed the most suitable. That should be enough to stir the pot to a slow, but delicious boil. If proximity with Primrose did not open his eyes to all that was desirable about a marriage, she would wash her hands of him. Still, she had hopes.
It was a very surprised Miss Darcy who opened her mail the following morning. As she exclaimed in shrieks to her mama, her pudding-faced sister, and all of the suitably awed
neighbors, Lord Rochester had a fancy to her and she would have mutton’s brains if she did not have a fancy to be a marchioness. Her joy was only clouded, slightly, by the fact that her imbecilic sibling made a similar sort of a claim. Mrs. Olivia Darcy, accustomed to the wiles of her two rather unlovely daughters, sighed and sent a reply out to the waiting groom. “The Darcy sisters would be delighted ...” That is, if they hadn’t scalped each other by the dawn of the next day.
The afternoon tea was all Lady Rochester might have hoped it would be. Except for the abominable circumstance of Gareth arriving a full two hours late and sporting a most unapologetic grin, everything was as she had hoped.
Lady Susan acidly remarked that she was unaccustomed to gentlemen being tardy, a remark that caused the marquis to raise his brows loftily and announce that it was fortunate, then, that there was no likelihood of her ever forming part of his household. At which, she turned a bright red, pinched her nostrils in slightly, and chatted, rather pointedly, with Mr. Bentley, one of the gentlemen Lady Rochester had thought it expedient to invite.
The Darcy sisters outdid themselves to monopolize his company, each talking twice as loud as any of the other invited guests, and making pointed remarks about their gentility. Their grand uncle the Viscount of Leese seemed to creep into every conversation, Davina batting her eyelashes and Carlotta affecting a giggle that she considered rather provocative and had practiced, in private, for an age. Of course, the marquis did not share her views on the provocative nature of her rather shrill cackle. Politeness decreed, however, that he keep his revulsion in check.
This he did, under a curious cover of sublime but singularly bored civility. He spoke largely of the weather, digressing here and there to mention some small matters relating to hunting—of which he had no keen interest or knowledge—and coal locomotion, which did interest him, but which could hardly be expected to stimulate his listeners. Still, both Misses Darcy were heroic enough to pretend fascination, which only served to annoy him further. At precisely half past the hour of four, his eyes met his mother’s.
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