by Kate Archer
“A large amount of people do, including the Minkertons. They have a large and rambling cottage by the sea, it is very charming. Lord Bartholomew is a baron whose land borders my own. They are longstanding friends.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“I do not doubt it. Belle Minkerton will only be out this coming season and Lord and Lady Bartholomew do not like town. Further, as they do not love the habits of the regent, they would hardly place themselves in Brighton.”
“Friends or not, I do not see why you should spend months with them.”
“You were just proposing to spend months with me,” Burke said.
“Deuced inconvenient, is all I say,” Charles said.
“Yes, it is, for you,” Burke said drily. “Why not go to Cabot and have a look at his horseflesh? He and Lady Cabot have expanded the stables to a remarkable degree.”
Charles folded his arms. “I will not visit any of my friends who have fallen to the Dukes’ Pact. I have vowed it.”
“Vowed it to who?” Lord Burke said, looking amused.
“To myself!” Charles said. “They are weak.”
“They are happy, and you are ridiculous.”
“I should throw you out, now that I know I cannot stay at your house.”
Before Lord Burke could throw himself out to be done with the conversation, Bellamy hurried in with a letter on a silver tray.
Charles looked at him in some annoyance. Bellamy said, “Sorry to disturb, but it is from the duke.”
As a usual matter, a letter from his father did not bring good news. Most of the old man’s letters were long and heated diatribes over how much Charles spent on a horse or a gambling debt or, his father feared, an actress.
That could not be the case this time, though. Charles had been cut off for some months and so there was nothing the old fellow could complain about.
“Ah,” Charles said, “I will wager he writes to call off this pact business. He sees he cannot win and he does not like to imagine his son begging dinners or setting himself up in other people’s houses. It becomes embarrassing and he wants no more part of it. I knew the old boy would come round eventually.”
“Perhaps you ought to read his letter before you relay its contents,” Burke said, settling himself into a chair.
Charles took the letter. “He is my father, I know how he thinks. He is too proud for this shameful nonsense to go on indefinitely.”
He tore the letter open and read through it. Charles could feel his temper rise with every word. “That motherless son of a—”
“Stop this instant,” Burke said, holding his hand up. “I do not know what your father has written, but there is no cause to throw those sorts of insults around.”
“Oh yes there is,” Charles said, handing the letter over to Burke. “Read it for yourself.”
Lord Burke took the letter and perused it. As Lord Dalton’s fury had increased word by word, Burke’s surprise kept apace.
Dalton,
As you may have heard, or will soon, Lord Childress has gone to meet his maker. (I cannot imagine God actually made him, so I assume he goes to the devil in the fastest conveyance possible.) He misjudged a fence and his hard head hit an even harder rock when he was thrown.
As you are aware, I am the estate’s entailed heir. What you most definitely do not know, as I cannot ever remember agreeing to this but there are papers that claim I did, I am now guardian to Miss Daisy Danworth, Lord Childress’ only child. It is all most irregular, as it ought not be the heir that is named guardian, but I have consulted with Spinks and he says we’d best just get on with it. He says the Chancery is so slow that the girl will be of age and married before a case is even heard.
Finding myself in such circumstances, I am determined to do right by the lady. However, I am much engaged with the estate at this present moment as we are set on doing long over-due renovations. The duchess and I will be moving into the dower house with your grandmother until the work is completed. Obviously, there will be no room for another person in that house, never mind the lady’s companion and her maid. As it is, we will find each other underfoot at every turn and I pray the duchess and the dowager do not strangle one another. (Yes, they get on perfectly well at a distance, but trap them in close quarters for too long a time and it will be like a couple of leopards tied in the same sack).
Therefore, I will require you to conduct this business on my behalf. Childress’ house in town was rented and the landlord wants them out. The estate in Shropshire is said to be in disarray and needs attention. I have been informed that the butler and housekeeper, who served both the estate and the London house, have run off together, and the cook has taken other employment. I presume there is still a footman or two lurking about. There is also a house in Ramsgate which is said to be in rather better shape.
You will escort Miss Danworth and her companion, Mrs. Jellops, to either of those two places, I care not. If you go to the estate, rectify its deficiencies. If you go to the house in Ramsgate, send me news of its real circumstances as I think the agent sounds over-enthusiastic. I have been informed there is a hunting lodge on the estate and a small cottage on the grounds at Ramsgate—those will be your choice of abode while the lady stays in the main house. You will bring your own staff for Miss Danworth’s use until suitable replacements can be found. Write weekly to tell me how you get on.
You will do as I ask, or I will see that every piece of unentailed property I own goes to your cousin Herbert. Consider this not a friendly request, but an iron warrant.
I will presume, though you are pressed into service, this is a welcome development. You cannot possibly afford to open the Brighton house, town shall be empty and dinners dried up, and I hear there are creditors banging on your door day and night.
As a last note, I am not so foolish as to give you funds directly to provide for the care of Miss Danworth. I will put the household kitty in the hands of her companion, Mrs. Jellops. Good luck prying gambling money from her sensible middle-aged fists.
Glastonburg
Lord Burke roared with laughter and set the letter down. “Good God, he is positively Machiavellian!”
Charles drummed his fingers on the desk. “He claims the dowager and my mother will be at odds in close quarters. A bit of nonsense. That makes me believe it is the two of them got together to launch this scheme. Yes, it smacks of them. My father is no more Machiavellian than a turnip. But those two? Machiavelli, himself, would be fuddled to find himself in the middle of one of their plots.”
“Who is this Herbert who is to inherit your land?” Lord Burke said, hardly containing his laughter.
“A lump of a fellow who could no more manage an estate than fly to the moon. Nobody knows what’s to be done with him.”
Lord Burke composed himself and said, “However this plan came into being probably matters little. The question is, what will you do? Your father has issued what he terms an iron warrant—will you give up so much to Herbert? All the while starving in your house in town?”
“I know what they think,” Charles said, ignoring Burke’s questions. “They think, put me in close quarters with Miss Danworth and surely I will drop at her feet and beg her to marry me. Ha! Of course that’s what they think.”
Burke shrugged. “You do seem well-suited,” he said. “She is as…cool…as you are. And you cannot claim she is not a beauty.”
“I do not deny it,” Charles said. “Though I will point out there are beauties everywhere to behold and most of them causing far less trouble than a lady of the ton.”
“Do they cause less trouble though?” Burke asked. “Marberry told me your last light o’ love threw you out when the money dried up.”
Charles did not answer. It was true that the actress he had spent a few pleasant months with had not been over-sympathetic in discovering that jewelry and rent were no longer to be forthcoming. She’d moved on to a more fertile field and he’d not been particularly broken up about it.
He could not say he was opposed to Miss Danworth’s company. She was one of the more interesting and intelligent ladies of his acquaintance. She did not fan herself or pretend at delicacy or engineer false laughter. She was not always working hard to be gay, as if all the world was a marvelous place. She was also exceedingly pleasant to look at.
He also could not claim that finding a comfortable place to reside for a few months, until he could make the rounds of shooting parties, would be so very terrible. What he was to do with the lady when the shooting started, he knew not, though he supposed he could drag her along from place to place. None of it was insurmountable.
However, what he was opposed to was this flagrant attempt to push him into a marriage by hook or by crook.
How little his own parents understood him! He would never marry. He would never bring life into the world. Not when he’d seen what men at war could do.
As it often did when he thought about the war, the scar that ran down his cheek began to burn. He could smell the smoke and the metallic stench of blood running into the ground. And then, as always, his memories led him back to Quatre Bras—that place that would never leave him in peace.
The battle had ended and the night had been cold. He’d lain in his tent, but despite the weariness of his limbs he could not sleep. The sounds of drunken men celebrating king-sanctioned murder while corpses lay rotting just a mile off had never disturbed before. After a battle, he’d been in the habit of forgetting, or reminding himself that it was war, or that it was a matter of survival—it was either the enemy or himself. That night, the whoops and howls, roars and curses, laughter and back-slapping seemed to surround his tent as if the gates of hell had opened. Closing his eyes did not erase what he had seen or what he had done. As if the tableau was still before him, two eyes filled with abject terror stared unblinking and final, terrible words were whispered. He’d watched it in his mind’s eye like a play, over and over again as the night wore on.
Sometime near dawn, the awful truth of humanity had stolen over him. They were all animals. They might drape themselves in fine fabrics and hold sway over the kingdom of beasts, but they were little better than well-dressed wolves. They were bloodthirsty predators—the war had simply allowed them to shrug off the sheen of civility they’d pretended at.
He had vowed that night that he would never indulge himself to bring in what he’d had a hand in taking out—a life. If one wished to be better than a beast, a price must be paid. He was determined to pay it. He would not create more men who would be sent to war and be turned into raging beasts.
“Now you have drifted far away,” Burke said, pulling Charles back to his library and the present day.
“I was just thinking,” Charles said.
Burke rose and said, “I will leave you, so you may think in peace. I am sure this will be a difficult matter to mull over.”
“There is nothing to mull, I have decided,” Charles said. “I will not allow one sovereign that is rightfully mine to go to Herbert Conway.”
Lord Burke smiled. “Your father will be delighted, and poor Herbert devastated.”
“I think I will go to Ramsgate, since you will also be there. If I am to be saddled with Miss Danworth, I might as well become acquainted with your precious Minkertons and you will be on hand to entertain me when I become too dull. In any case, it sounds a deal better than a run-down estate in Shropshire—Bellamy would be useless in a house that needed any real work done to it.”
“And so Bellamy comes to Ramsgate,” Lord Burke said softly. “I hope Childress has left an extensive wine cellar.”
Chapter Two
The house in Grosvenor Square was as it had never been before. The heaviness was gone, and Daisy felt as if she could finally breathe. One would have thought, seeing the black curtains in every front window, that the interior would be gloomy. The windows facing the back garden, however, had all been thrown open to let in sun and air. Daisy and Mrs. Jellops had taken to using a sitting room facing that garden to have their tea.
The days following her father’s demise had been chaotic. A hatchment was attached above the front doors, a minister secured and mourners hired, Daisy and Mrs. Jellops were fitted for dour mourning clothes, announcements were made in the newspapers, and personal notices were written. Though, as Daisy applied the dark wax to each black-bordered missive, she wondered who among the receivers of the news would weep.
There were a hundred other details to attend to and her father’s librarian, Mr. Crackwilder, was instrumental in seeing that all got done properly. Though he was soon to be Lady Grayson’s librarian, his last act for her was to ensure that the valuable Palaskar collection of books was safely moved to the Shropshire estate.
A funeral service, which she blessedly did not have to attend, was given. The minister had explained that though ladies did not usually attend the service, there was nothing in the church teachings that forbid it. He’d wondered if she had strong feelings about saying a last farewell to her father. Of course, her feelings were rather strong, though she did not dare reveal their joyfulness. Rather, she’d said she did not trust herself to stay upright during such a proceeding. The minister had nodded knowingly and appeared relieved. He could not possibly have been more relieved than she was.
The funeral was about as well attended as she would have expected. Lord Childress’ few close cronies made an appearance and arrived drunk, according to one of the church wardens. However, those who had nodded to the lord on the street or gambled with him at his club, or invited him to large affairs, stayed away. They may have wished to keep the peace with the bad-tempered gentleman while he lived but felt no compunction to honor him now that he was dead.
The committal was to take place in their own churchyard in Shropshire. Daisy was vastly relieved to see the body finally leave the house covered in heaps of flowers to overwhelm the smell of decay. It had lain in the drawing room for some days like a constant threat. She and Mrs. Jellops had slept in the same bed every night he remained downstairs, in case his ghost struggled out of his body and came to terrorize them.
Her father’s solicitor enlightened them as to Lord Childress’ will, and of course it was as meanspirited as the man himself. He left Daisy nothing from his unentailed property, not even her mother’s jewelry, though he left all sorts of insults to be paid out. Lord Grey was to get one shilling as a testament to his miserly habits at the club, and a feather duster was to be purchased and handed to Mr. Johnson in recognition of his weak and ineffectual nature. Daisy had not been disappointed in any of it as she had not expected any other result. She was surprised that the Duke of Glastonburg had consented to be her guardian, but she supposed she would not mind spending her mourning period on his estate.
As to the items in the house that were now rightfully owned by the duke, quite a few of them had fled in the pockets of the butler and housekeeper, who had run off together. Though it meant the loss of a good amount of silver, Daisy was not sorry to see them go. They were miserable creatures, both of them, and deserved one another.
Of course, it was rather difficult to go on without those two senior servants. Daisy had not the first idea what was to be done about dinners or what the maids ought to be doing all day. Considering the recent quality of the dinners, she knew well enough they took advantage of her ignorance. Mrs. Jellops did what she could with them, but they were all soon to be out of employment and so they were not particularly awed by the lady’s directives. They might have revolted entirely if Daisy had not held back their letters of recommendation until they began answering advertisements.
None of it could make her unhappy, though. The beast, the murderer of her mother, was dead. She was alive and twelve months away from total, absolute, and permanent freedom.
The only thing they waited for now was a
summons from the duke. He would let Daisy and Mrs. Jellops know when they were to be packed and travel to his estate in Somerset. Her only qualm, when she’d first heard that the duke was to oversee her affairs, was that his son, Lord Dalton, might be in residence. She’d dismissed the idea, though. It was unlikely the lord would be hanging round his father’s house when he might be in his own, which she understood to be in Brighton. She was both relieved and vaguely unhappy by the realization, though she assured herself it was only the expected dearth of company her own age that depressed her spirits.
A footman had finally delivered the waited for communication to her hands.
Daisy tore open the sheet and read its close scrawled message.
My Dear Miss Danworth.
My most fervent condolences on the recent passing of Lord Childress.
As you know, I am the entailed heir of that gentleman’s estate, and have also been named your guardian in his will. It is not altogether usual, and my solicitor tells me that you may challenge it in Chancery Court if you so wish and I would not stand in your way. However, he also advises that particular court moves like boots through molasses. As you only have a twelvemonth until your majority, I suggest we simply proceed.
As it is not altogether seemly to have the entailed heir act as guardian, I have named my son as my agent. He will escort you to Ramsgate for the summer months and attend you there, staying in the cottage I have been told is located on the grounds.
The solicitor has informed me that your father’s butler and housekeeper have decamped. Lord Dalton’s butler, Mr. Bellamy, will take over the butler’s duties. You may hire any housekeeper you like, or my son will do the duty if you prefer. I assume you have a lady’s maid you will bring with you. The rest can be hired locally.
Mrs. Jellops will go on as your companion and I will place the household budget, which will be two hundred pounds per month, in that lady’s hands. I understand the lady to be one of commonsense and that will take the burden off your shoulders. Should you require more, I am happy to provide. My intention is that you want for nothing and are provided every comfort.
