Barbara Metzger (12 page)

*

A dank wine cellar wasn’t a great place to rest a wounded leg, but it was a fine place to think of ghosts and ghouls and dead bodies coming to life to haunt their tormentors, if one were of a gothicy turn of mind. Graydon wasn’t. Unlike Daphne, he never once considered the metaphysical, miracle or mirage. No, he immediately figured that someone—not one of the servants, who would have caused an uproar at finding a cadaver between the Chablis and the claret—had made off with the baron’s corpse. For sure Albert hadn’t gone to seek better accommodations on his own.

Graydon knew that plenty of people in the house might have wished to see the baron disappear; in fact, he couldn’t think of a single person who would weep at the wastrel’s funeral. He could, however, think of only one resident of Woodhill Manor with enough daring and drive to do something about it. He slapped his thigh, then winced. But she was still his Daffy. They hadn’t drained the pluck out of her after all, in making her a perfect lady.

Then Graydon thought some more, and was less pleased with the results of his cogitations. She couldn’t have done it alone, moved Albert out of here and up one set of stairs or the other, to wherever she had him hidden. She must have had help, but who? Deuce take it, that must have been why she was so eager to see that Pomeroy twit.

How dare she turn to someone else in time of need?

It was Graydon who’d fished her out of Ryder’s pond that time before she drowned. (He chose to disremember that it was he who let her tag along on an illicit swimming trip.) And it was he who dragged her off the back of that stallion to safety when the horse took exception to a hare breaking cover. He did not forget that she was on a horse too strong for her to handle—his horse, in fact—because he’d given in to her teasing to let her ride the brute. He’d never forget the lesson, that Daffy had more bottom than brains sometimes, and had to be protected from danger, from distress, and from her own often disastrous impulses. He’d made a mull of things in the past, but he was trying now. It was his job, looking after her. Let Pomeroy watch out for the rest of the county.

Which Pomeroy was doing, Graydon was sure. Miles had left after breakfast without a private parley with Daffy, without even a fond farewell. The conscientious clod was out looking for a pack of sneak thieves, not a hidey-hole for a dead nobleman. He’d been on horseback besides; the baron wasn’t riding pillion.

If not Pomeroy, then who had helped Daffy, and why, and what the hell was she planning on doing with Uncle Albert?

*

“I? What have
I
done with him? What have
you
done with him, rather.”

They were alone in the conservatory, except for a gardener shuffling about at the potting table in the corner. This wasn’t how Graydon had planned on being alone with Daphne for the first time, but now wasn’t the time for what he had in mind anyway.

“What do you mean what have I done with him?” he asked now, watching her clip withered blooms off a rosebush. “You didn’t move him?”

She stopped clipping to look over her shoulder to make sure the gardener was out of hearing range. “Move him where?”

“How the devil should I know where! He’s not where I put him.”

“Aha! I knew you must have had something to do with—” Then his words penetrated. “He’s not…?”

“He’s not in the wine cellar. Where did you leave him?”

“In his bedchamber, where he wheezed himself to death making nasty remarks.” She shuddered.

Graydon wanted to take her in his arms but couldn’t, not with the gardener present. Besides, she still seemed as prickly as the rosebush. “Poor puss,” was all he said. “I didn’t know you knew he was dead when I moved him. I hoped to save you from that, at least.”

“Well, thank you, I suppose, although I lost two years off my life when I discovered him gone. What did you intend to do with him anyway?”

“Take him to Whilton House in London for his valet to find. I thought it might take long enough that the wedding could take place before the funeral.”

She nodded. “That was my hope, too.”

“By leaving him in his bed?”

“Of course not. I’m not that much a peagoose, Major. I simply hadn’t figured it out yet. I was
waiting to ask Miles—”

“Blast it, Daffy, how could you turn to that pompous jackass when I’m right here?”

She was cutting furiously at the plant now, half-live blossoms as well as the faded ones. “How was I supposed to know you’d help me?”

“You should have known, by Jupiter! I have always pulled your chestnuts from the fire.”

“That was ages ago. We’re not the same people. I have no reason to trust you the same way now.” And plenty of reasons not to, she implied, turning her back to him, attacking a different bush.

That hurt. And he had no answer except his word on it: “You can.”

The discussion had grown too personal for Daphne’s peace of mind. She wasn’t ready for this. Changing the somber mood, she turned back and taunted, “Certainly I can, after you’ve gone and lost Uncle Albert. Highly trustworthy, sir.”

Graydon smiled. “A hit, Daffy, a palpable hit. But I insist he’s not lost, just temporarily misplaced. We have to assume Ohlman knows where.”

Daphne nodded. “Ohlman knows everything. I’ll go ask him before luncheon.”

“We’ll go ask him. I’m in this, too, sweetheart. I have to prove my reliability, don’t I?” He reached out to pick a rose, to tuck in her curls, but she must have guessed his intention, for she swatted his hand away from the bush.

“Don’t, we need them for the wedding,” she said, as if she hadn’t been decapitating the flowers and buds.

“So you think there will be a wedding after all? If so, there must be hope that the Whilton ladies have some forgiveness in them.”

“Mama will do what’s right for Mama,” Daphne stated firmly. “But yes, I think there will be a wedding in two weeks’ time. If we are not all arrested for body-snatching.”

Chapter Twelve

The noontime meal consisted of cold chicken, cold beef, and a cold shoulder from Lady Whilton. She had consented to join the family for luncheon; she had not yet forgiven the earl. She wasn’t ready to forgive his toplofty treatment of her, despite his seeming sincerity. He hadn’t groveled enough, in her estimation, to ensure there would be no repetition of such despotism in the future. She did thaw a bit when she realized he wasn’t just trying to coax her out of the megrims by saying Albert wouldn’t bother them anymore.

“You mean the baron has really gone back to London?” she asked the company at large. Cousin Harriet shrugged, but Daphne nodded vigorously.

It was Graydon who replied: “That was my understanding of his destination, ma’am, but perhaps his plans changed. Your estimable butler might have additional information. Have you anything to add, Ohlman?”

Daphne watched as Ohlman straightened from
serving the earl’s sister some pigeon pie. She saw that Graydon had none too subtly laid his finger alongside his nose, signaling the butler of his comprehension and connivance.

Ohlman cleared his throat. “Such was my understanding, ma’am, that the, ah, master was feeling poorly. Quite ill, indeed, and in something of a rush to be gone. You might say he was dead set on leaving us.”

Daphne hid her face behind a napkin. Graydon winked at her. Ohlman continued: “Of course, I have no way of knowing if he reached his final destination of London as of yet, but I doubt it. However, I can assure you, madam, that he is definitely no longer in the house.”

Graydon nodded and Daphne smiled at Ohlman, who continued serving the meal and directing the footmen. The old butler could only wonder if at least and at last these two recalcitrant lovers had reconciled, so in harmony did they seem.

*

Ohlman found out to the contrary later, to his disappointment, when they met after luncheon in the small butler’s pantry to make plans for the evening. Ohlman would see that the servants were all busy close to the house, if Miss Daphne would ensure none of the guests chose to take an evening stroll.

“But I’m coming with you,” she declared.

To which Lord Howell replied, “Oh, no, you’re not, brat. You are staying inside.”

Daphne stamped her foot. “Don’t start giving orders, Major. You are not in the army anymore.”

“And I’ve never turned a raw recruit over my knee, so don’t tempt me. You’re to keep as far away from the icehouse as possible, for your own good.”

“Now you’re sounding as patronizing as your father, thinking you know what’s best for everyone else. Don’t you Howell men ever learn?”

“And don’t you Whilton women ever use the brains God gave a duck to see what’s in your best interest?”

Ohlman cleared his throat.

Daphne took a deep breath. “Don’t be a cake, Gray. You’ll need help. You and Ohlman cannot manage Uncle Albert and the horses and the icehouse doors, and keep watch, too.”

“I’ll have my groom.”

“What? You might as well publish Uncle’s death in the newspapers!”

“Nonsense, the man knows better than to gossip. Besides, I’ll just say I’m carrying a load of bad ale back to London to complain to the shippers. Doing Ohlman here a favor.”

“No one will believe such a Banbury tale, the dashing Major Howell playing errand boy.”

“Thank you for the ‘dashing,’ my dear, I think. But they’re more liable to believe that than they’ll believe you just innocently happened near the icehouse in the middle of the night! Be reasonable, Daff; your reputation will be in shreds.”

Daphne knew he was right; the icehouse was nowhere near the gardens. “That’s Miss Whilton to you, Major.”

“And that bird won’t fly, brat, so stubble it. Save your airs for Moral Miles. You can’t be a lady and a grave robber both.”

“And I can’t be a grave robber, if that’s what it is, sitting in the parlor with my embroidery.”

They all knew she’d be at the icehouse after dark. Graydon should have saved his breath to convince the baron’s valet.

*

Terwent arrived midafternoon, insulted over his treatment at the hands of the bumbling footpads, bovine farmers, and insolent coachmen. Nor did he think the bandage tied around his head, from where it had connected with the baron’s flailing cane, did much for his appearance. He was wrong, it did; the wide swath of white cloth hid some of the pinch-faced valet’s resemblance to a dyspeptic dachshund.

Terwent refused to believe that his master wasn’t at Woodhill Manor. That was the ultimate indignity. He’d had to suffer some rustic quack’s ministrations, then a night in a hedge tavern sleeping on unaired, and likely unwashed, sheets, and a morning in a rattling coach going nowhere fast. And he had it all to do again in reverse, to find his missing master.

“No, the baron would not have left without me,” Terwent insisted. “He distinctly ordered me to arrive here as soon as possible before he drove off with that bumpkin.”

“That bumpkin is Miss Whilton’s devoted friend and hopeful suitor,” Graydon interjected with a touch of deviltry that brought a charming blush to Daphne’s cheeks and a splotch of something else altogether to the valet’s pasty complexion. They were in the butler’s pantry again, which was becoming more and more crowded. Ohlman had sent for the major when the valet refused to be dislodged, recalling Master Graydon’s facile tongue and easy disregard for the truth. Daphne had naturally followed, scenting more intrigue. Graydon was paying her back for snooping.

“Pardon, I’m sure, miss,” Terwent stammered. “But, but, I have his lordship’s medicines. He’d never go on without them. Or me.”

“But he didn’t, old chap.” Graydon placed his arm across the valet’s chicken-narrow shoulders and started herding him toward the front door. “He just tried to get to you sooner, to save you part of a wasted journey.”

“But how could I have missed him then?”

“Who knows? We’re not precisely sure who took him up. Perhaps they took a back road, or were in a closed carriage.”

The valet was confused. He hadn’t seen any carriages at all, just the farmer’s wagon.

“It’s possible he stopped in the village first,” Daphne suggested, seeing the indecision in Terwent’s beady eyes. “‘The Golden Crown serves a tolerable punch, I’ve always heard. The baron did like his, ah, refreshments, you know.”

Terwent knew all too well. He was afraid the baron was lying in some field right now, passed out among something unmentionable but common in uncivilized rural areas, something for Terwent to try to remove from his clothing tomorrow. The valet wrinkled his long, thin nose.

“No,” Graydon reflected. “I think he went straight to that low tavern where you were accosted and forced to spend the night. He was that worried about your health.”

That was pitching it too rum, Graydon realized. The baron’s being concerned with anyone else’s well-being or comfort was as likely as him traipsing cross-country through the cow chips, or staying at the village inn when he owned the whole of Woodhill Manor.

The valet’s eyes narrowed—from beady to slits—as Daphne, Graydon, and Ohlman watched him cogitate. They could almost hear the wheels spin. Terwent didn’t know what to think, except that the two nobs and the oldster in the wig were mighty eager to see him gone. There was some hugger-mugger afoot here, or his name wasn’t Versey Terwent, which it wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to confess his forged references now.

So what game were they playing, and was the baron in on it? Terwent wouldn’t put it past the old sot to shab off on him, owing his back salary and all. But Terwent had the luggage. The baron had to know Terwent would sell everything he could, and ditch all those potions and elixirs that were going to keep the dissipated drunkard virile, he thought. No, there was something deuced odd here. He was even more sure when Major Howell tossed him two golden boys, for expenses, until he found the baron.

In general, Terwent was not at all devoted to his employer, just to his salary, when he got it. Meantime, it was not an arduous job, since the baron didn’t change his clothes that often, and there was hardly any bathwater to lug around. He paid well when the dibs were in tune, which wasn’t often of late, but Terwent always managed to find the odd coin or two in the baron’s pockets when the old man was in his cups. Besides, other positions were hard to come by. With the baron as referent, they’d be just about impossible. Then, too, Lord Whilton clearly had one foot in the grave, despite all the nostrums in the kingdom. Terwent would have helped him lift the other foot, if he thought the baron had made the changes in his will the old rip had promised.