by Corwin, Amy
She ignored him. “Haven’t I made it clear that he is indisposed?”
Mr. Lyndel chuckled. A large drop of perspiration rolled down the center of his nose. He pulled out his handkerchief again to mop his brow, although the room was cool enough to make her shiver. She crossed her arms and eyed him, praying he would leave.
His lank, graying blond hair was swept forward to form a single curl like an upside down question mark on his forehead. When he ran the cloth over his temples, the question mark sagged into a bedraggled exclamation point. Another bead of sweat dangled from the curl and finally dropped onto his nose. With a nervous twitch, he hastily wiped it with his handkerchief.
“He’s indisposed right enough,” Mr. Lyndel said. “I’m well aware of that. But we have business. I’m not a man to leave unfinished business behind ‘im. Now go on and fetch him like a good gel.”
“I will not. What is this business, anyway?”
“I don’t expect he’d want the matter to be drug around like some dingleberry caught on a horse's arse, Miss.” He gave a chuckle in appreciation of his own vulgar wit.
She refrained from sniffing with disgust. However, she couldn’t quite control the tartness in her voice. “Since I have no intention of telling anyone about this conversation, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“Maybe so, but I’m not so green as I don’t know the weaker sex loves to prattle on a bit. Regular chatter-boxes, most of ‘em, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Her back teeth felt like they would splinter as she crushed them together, but she kept her mouth shut until she could give him a small, tight smile.
“Sir, my uncle trusts me implicitly with all his business affairs. Therefore, you may tell me what you require with no fear. I assure you the matter will remain confidential.”
“Well, then, I guess it won’t do no harm to tell Mr. Archer’s sweet niece. Such a comfortable-looking gel, too.” His pale, brown eyes lingered for a moment on her neckline. One of her hands moved to rest protectively at the base of her neck. “Mr. Archer placed a few wagers and what with one thing or another, there's the matter of five thousand pounds still outstanding. And a vowel from a lady who mistakenly gave it to Mr. Archer to hold instead of my humble self.”
“Five thousand pounds?” she asked. Feeling nauseated and dizzy, she glanced at the closed window. The room grew overheated despite the paleness of the late winter sun coming through the thick panes of glass, and the air was curiously thin. “Are you quite sure?”
“Oh, yes. Five thousand pounds. I came to collect it. It’s such a trifling sum that I feared Mr. Archer’d forget it.”
“No, I’m sure he wouldn't forget.”
“Then, if you’ll pay me, I’ll be off. The afternoon mail coach leaves at three sharp. I don’t want to miss it.”
“Of course not.” Her faintness increased. What should she do? None of them had five thousand pounds.
Was that what Mr. Dacy wanted, too? Had Mr. Lyndel sent him to get the money from her uncle?
“Do you know a Mr. Dacy?” she asked.
“Dacy? Was that the name he used?” A crafty look passed over his mottled face. “Tall, rough looking gent as looks like he’s been in a few fights?”
She nodded. The description certainly fit Mr. Dacy to her satisfaction.
“Oh, aye. He’s an associate of mine. He hasn’t caused you any trouble, has he?”
“No.” She thought about her uncle’s broken arm. She wouldn’t describe that as trouble. Murderous brutality, perhaps, but not mere trouble.
“Well, that’s why I thought it’d be best I should come down myself. You can’t always trust your business to be done properly through other parties, eh? So what about that small amount, Miss?”
“I…I don’t precisely have that sort of capital lying about Mr. Lyndel. You’ll have to permit me some time to find—that is, to come up with—or rather—I must go to my bank, you see—”
“Oh, I see right enough. Don’t think I don’t see. But perhaps another arrangement might suit us all. I believe in having options, you see. Adapt to any circumstance.” He edged closer, his eyes straying down the front of her bodice again. “And I did a bit o' research about your family. A passel of girls and not much of the ready, but nice connections with the peerage. So, I’ve got another offer for you, my pretty little gel. One which I should urge you to consider.”
“Oh?” Oriana asked stiffly. She felt anger and the first stirrings of fear.
How dare he research her family?
“And I'm pleased to see you’re a fine gel, Miss Archer. Very fine. So let me lay it out to you, all fair-like. I’m considering starting a new establishment in London, along the lines of White’s, you understand. Very exclusive. If I was to have the right hostess—a Society wife perhaps—it’d make all the difference in the world. Open up a number of doors for me as have been closed before.”
“Really? That is all very interesting, but I don’t see—”
“I'd be pleased to forget your uncle’s debt in exchange for your hand.”
“My hand?”
“Oh, nothing improper,” he hastened to assure her, elaborating on his impromptu offer. “Nothing at all. Quite on the up-and-up. I’d consider it an honor if you was to be my wife. No dowry expected, of course, just the Archer name—”
“You want me to marry you? I only met you five minutes ago. We’re strangers!” She cut off her words before she added that he was also loathsome.
“Well, yes, but there’s many as meet on the day of the nuptials, so that’s hardly important. If you was to consider it, you’d see the advantages. And of course, I needn’t mention your own illustrious forbearers in the form of Her Grace, your grandmother. I’m not a poor man. I have great expectations through the modest venture I touched on earlier, especially if I was in any way related to a duke.”
“I'd never consider such a thing!”
“Even if it was to ensure your uncle’s continued well-being?”
“What do you mean?”
“My dear, I don’t want to be crude or frighten such a tender young dove, but your uncle owes me. I don’t likes being owed. It ain’t good for the reputation.”
“Are you threatening my uncle?”
He shook his head and once more mopped his brow. The lank hair hung straight over his bushy brows now. He pinched the strands of his forelock between two thick fingers and twisted it back into a question mark. When it refused to stay in place, he licked his fingers and ran them over the hair, plastering it in place in the center of his forehead.
She watched, completely appalled.
“I’d never threaten anyone, Miss Archer. But I’m mortally afeared he may suffer some unknown fate if his debt isn’t paid.” He glanced at the ornate porcelain clock on the mantle. “I’d best be getting along, but you think on my offer. It’s a fair one. At your age, you won’t be getting many more. Not when you're only the daughter of a second son and all.”
“Brown!” she called. She wanted Mr. Lyndel out of her house. His very presence made her ill.
The butler stepped into the room promptly, his white gloved hands gently clasped in front of him.
“Brown, please escort Mr. Lyndel to the door.”
Mr. Lyndel placed his black hat on his head and smiled. “I’ll await your decision, Miss Archer. But don’t wait long.”
“Brown!” Her voice shook as she turned away. “Brown, please, show him to the door!”
“Yes, Miss,” Brown replied gloomily before he gestured for Mr. Lyndel to precede him.
Alone and trembling, she stared at the shelves lining the library. Most were frighteningly empty, reminding her of the truth of Mr. Lyndel's reminder that the Archers were not as well-heeled as they might like. Certainly not wealthy enough to come up with the sum her uncle owed.
Her gaze wandered to the few shelves still holding leather-bound books. Her eyes searched the deep green, maroon, and blue bindings as if their gold-lettered titles hel
d the keys to her problems.
What could she do? She swallowed convulsively for a few seconds, thinking about Mr. Dacy.
She had thought she had misjudged him.
Her honesty compelled her to amend that statement. She only hoped she had misunderstood his actions.
Now, it appeared the situation was exactly as she had feared. Mr. Dacy was here to make sure her uncle paid his terrible debt to Mr. Lyndel. It was Mr. Dacy who had broken her uncle’s arm and blackened his eye, trying to get the money.
No doubt, Mr. Dacy’s heavy wallet was the result of his association with Mr. Lyndel.
Her previous fantasies of Mr. Dacy as a romantic pirate rapidly turned more realistic. She could see him standing under a flag, the skull-and-crossbones on a field of unrelieved black. The banner wasn’t a romantic one from the pages of her novels. It was the symbol of fear and despair—and death.
Limbs trembling, she sat in a wing chair and ran her hand over the polished cherry armrest. The cool smoothness of the wood heated under her fingers as they ceaselessly stroked the surface, forward and back, forward and back.
What would she do? What could she do?
Each time her hand advanced, the questions repeated in her mind, ceaselessly revolving like the wagon wheel of a runaway carriage.
Well, she couldn’t marry Mr. Lyndel even to save her uncle. That idea was absurd. Knowing it was poor spirited of her, she briefly cursed Helen for not finding their uncle sooner. But she didn’t have the heart to be truly angry at her younger sister.
If Uncle John didn’t wish to be found, it was exceedingly difficult for any of them to discover his whereabouts. And Helen didn’t have the experience she had in this tricky task.
But she couldn't help her bitterness at the thought of his three days alone in London, in the company of Mr. Dacy and Mr. Lyndel. It was just the sort of thing Aunt Victoria hoped to prevent when she instituted her scheme of setting her various nieces and nephews to the task of accompanying Uncle John when she was unable to do so, herself. Their efforts were often fruitless, however, in stifling his pursuit of risky adventures.
The situation was enough to bring tears seeping through her lashes. Aunt Victoria would be furious when she found out. And she would no doubt blame all of them equally for their failure. Uncle John had rashly gambled away a sum he had no hopes of repaying. Unfortunately, the girls were responsible for leaving him too long on the loose in the metropolis.
Her mind circled wearily back to the crux of the matter. How were they going to pay the debt? They had no money except the household accounts. That amount was scarcely sufficient for their daily needs.
Even Mr. Dacy’s heavy purse was insufficient.
When she had last seen it, there was less than six hundred pounds remaining inside. She blushed and her fingers plucked guiltily at her skirt. Every now-and-again she removed a few coins, even though she felt slightly ill while doing it.
However, she left notes inside the pouch each time, indicating the amount borrowed. They had to eat, after all, and she couldn’t really pawn all the valuables in the house. The books, clock, and dishes belonged to her grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, whose money was rightfully lavished on her eldest son, the current duke.
It was very tiresome being the daughter of the second son. Nearly as wearisome as staying one step ahead of the third son, Uncle John, who grew ever more vexing as each year passed.
Her thoughts turned back to Mr. Dacy. He would be unlikely to lend the sum to them even if there were sufficient monies in his purse if he was there to force Uncle John to honor his debt.
Mr. Lyndel must be paying him very well if Mr. Dacy could carry around such an excess of funds. But then, they obviously expected to get five times the amount from Uncle John, regardless of the lengths they went to in order to get it.
In the end, only one point was completely clear to her.
Mr. Chilton Dacy had to leave.
If he remained in their house, she couldn’t protect her uncle and another accident could—and would—occur.
Chapter Fourteen
Complete Hand
That evening, Oriana still hadn't decided what to do about Mr. Lyndel. However, she did know she would have difficulties sitting through an interminable dinner with that worry hanging over her head. And given the threat to Uncle John, she couldn’t leave him alone.
“Uncle John, please.” Her right hand gripped the sleeve of her uncle’s good arm. “Helen and I don’t want to go to the squire’s dinner without you.”
Her uncle shook his arm in irritation. “I’m tired. Can’t I enjoy one evening alone?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to leave you—” she broke off awkwardly. She was frightened of returning from dinner to find her uncle unconscious, or worse.
“The devil take you! What harm do you imagine would befall me? Despite your fears, I’m not planning on jumping onto Buttercup’s back and galloping off to London! Now will you leave me in peace? Take Dacy and be off with the lot of you!”
“Mr. Dacy?”
“Yes, Dacy. He received an invitation, didn’t he? The dinner is in his honor, isn’t it?”
“But I assumed he would stay with you, Uncle.”
“With me? Why in heaven’s name would he stay with me?”
She felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. She expected Mr. Dacy to stay with her uncle because she believed he would commence beating him as soon as she and Helen left. She glanced around the library seeking inspiration and a convincing argument.
The sun was already setting and the room was thick with shadows. She hadn’t noticed the late hour. Although when her uncle sat down, she had watched one of the servants set the logs in the fireplace ablaze. The windows glowed with golden light within the embrace of the heavy draperies.
Her uncle eased himself into the wing chair across from her, stretching out his legs. They sat in the long beams of afternoon sunlight, staring at the motes of dust floating in the still air of the library.
“I just assumed he would keep you company.”
“You’re doing a lot of assuming, my girl.” Her uncle’s sharp brown eyes seemed to see all her doubts and fears and find them frightfully amusing.
She nibbled on her lower lip, trying to hold back the words thrusting themselves against her teeth. Over the years of supervising her uncle, she learned that saying too much was worse than silence.
Then inspiration rose gloriously like the sun over the ocean.
“He can’t go. He has no evening clothes.” She sat back in her chair and smiled.
“Nonsense. What about Andrew’s?”
“Andrew's clothes?” The sharp sting of tears nipped her eyelids.
Her brother had come home to The Orchards after an arduous trip home from the battlefield in Corunna in 1809. The wounds in his shoulder never really healed and pneumonia took advantage of his weakness.
He died less than a week later.
The pain of his loss remained as intense as it had then, when she sat by his bed, holding his hand and watching helplessly as his life slowly drained away.
She shook her head. “There isn’t anything left.”
“Have you looked?”
“No!” She choked on her rage at the idea.
Chilton Dacy wear Andrew’s clothes? Never. Not while she lived. And certainly not while there was the distinct possibility that he would give her uncle another beating unless they came up with the money owed to Mr. Lyndel.
“Don’t be hen-witted, Oriana.” His sharp eyes examined her face, and she thought she saw a hint of disappointment in the depths. “Do you only see the clothes and not the man inside them?”
“Of course not,” she replied, afraid she had done just that. Mr. Dacy had shown up dressed in laborer's clothing. And she had made assumptions about his character based upon that.
And her uncle's habit of taking up with rogues, of course.
Uncle John shook his head. “Then don't be rude to our guest.
Dacy would look devilishly fine in Andrew's clothing.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it! It's not just his clothing. Mr. Dacy is a scoundrel and not half the man Andrew was. My brother died for his country!”
“Pish-posh, girl. Dacy’s as fine a lad as any. He was a sharpshooter same as your brother. Told me all about it and that fine souvenir of a scar he’s got. Now don’t be a pea-hen and find something for him to wear.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth.
“But—”
“I won’t hear another word about it.”
“Yes, Uncle. I only hope this is not a terrible mistake,” she reluctantly agreed when she saw the obstinate look on her uncle's face.
“Mistake? I do not make mistakes, my dear. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
She contemplated mentioning the fact that she had just received a proposal of marriage from one of his mistakes, but she thought better of it. No sense wasting her breath when Uncle John was in one of his “superior” moods.
Bracing herself, she climbed the stairs. She reluctantly walked to the door of the room her brother had once occupied and hesitated. Her hand rested on the knob, the brass cold as death to her palm. Setting aside her fancies, she firmly turned the doorknob and entered.
Andrew died in this room, she thought, trying to keep her eyes away from the bed draped with a deep burgundy coverlet. An old rocker still sat beside it. A late shaft of red-streaked evening light streamed over the maple wood, glimmering on the shifting motes of dust dancing between the spindles of the back.
She spent Andrew’s last night in that rocker, watching him sleep. Shortly before dawn, exhausted and unable to stay awake, she had fallen into a light slumber with his hand in hers. When she awakened, he was gone. His fingers had already begun to cool, gripping hers.
The sense of failure and grim horror of that moment never left her.
The chamber had never really belonged to Andrew since he grew up at the new manor house a few miles away. But the room seemed more his than anyone’s.
