Barbara Metzger (19 page)

Daphne was fretting along similar lines, chewing on her pencil stub, when Graydon entered the office, hoping to find a quiet place to read the newspapers.

She put the pencil down and gave him a tentative smile. “Can you help? Well, yes, I suppose you are the only one I can ask. With so many guests arriving soon, the room assignments are getting complicated. This is a trifle indelicate, but do you suppose it would be beyond the pale for me to move your father into the master bedroom? I mean, Uncle Albert won’t be coming, and the room would just sit there empty while we are getting overcrowded.”

He laughed. “A trifle indelicate? Daffy, that’s coming on too brown. What you mean is, there’s a connecting door and you wish to cut down on the wear and tear on the hall carpet!”

She laughed back. “I was thinking more of saving Mama the embarrassment of having the guests see the earl in his nightcap before breakfast.”

“I don’t think your mother cares,
Daffy, so do it if it will make things easier for you.”

“Even though Uncle Albert died there?”

“I don’t think those two would be distracted if a hundred barons died there. And they don’t know anyway, do they?”

“No, I couldn’t spoil Mama’s happiness.” She made some notations on her list, mostly to hide her blushes at the tone of the conversation. “Good, now that’s done.”

“See how much assistance I can be? What else shall I do for you?”

“Why, there’s nothing, but thank you. Surely you have business of your own. Howell Hall, your correspondence.” She nodded toward the papers in his hand. “The war news. I’m sorry if you cannot find a quiet spot. I can—”

“Botheration, Daffy, I don’t need to read about the latest parliamentary debate over the price of ammunition. I want to help you!”

She stared at him, at the vehemence in his voice. “Well, I’m sure I—”

He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking down at her. “Listen, Daffy, I’m not very good at this. But, well, do you remember that harum-scarum little girl you used to be?” He didn’t give a chance for her indignation to rise. “She was pluck to the backbone, but she was a sad romp. And you’re not that little girl anymore.”

“Certainly not! But that doesn’t mean I’m hen-hearted or anything.”

“Of course not, goose. I’d rather have you at my back than half the men in my regiment, but that’s not my point. I just meant that you’ve changed. And I’ve changed, too. I’m not that unbroken colt intent on kicking over the traces anymore.” He put his hand over hers, on the desk. “I just want the chance to show you.”

Daphne felt the tingle up to her shoulder, but she wasn’t sure what she was hearing. “You want…?”

“I want you not to rush into any bargain with the stodgy squire. I want…I suppose I want you to assign me some herculean task, to prove my worth.” He withdrew his hand and ran it through his hair. “I want some time alone with you.”

“That wouldn’t be…that is, I don’t think… Ah, but there is something you can help me with. The boys.”

“The boys?”

“Yes, Eldart and Torrence, my cousins. They’ll be home this afternoon, and I’m confused as to what to do with them.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. If she wasn’t offering cake, he’d accept the crumbs. “Well, if you put Dart in the master’s suite, that’ll be putting the cat among the pigeons for sure.”

“No, no, they have their rooms in the nursery wing. I meant about telling them about their father. I’m not a good conspirator after all, I suppose, because I keep worrying that we’ve done something terrible, so disrespectful to Uncle Albert.”

“Nonsense, the man was a rakeshame of the first order. He didn’t deserve your respect.”

“Yes, but what if Dart and Torry feel differently? I cannot lie to them, but I don’t want them to feel guilty forever, or blame me, because we did not mourn their father properly.”

“Then you’ll just have to ask them what they want to do. Do you want me to go with you to explain? After all, I share whatever blame there might be.”

Daphne eagerly accepted his assistance with this latest knotty problem, ignoring the new one he’d just given her. She’d think about the rest of his words later.

So they took the lads apart that afternoon after all the greetings had been made, the boys’ new inches made much of, their school records praised or disregarded as befitted the marks.

Daphne explained how their father was sick, and without his medication. Graydon explained how anger and drink exacerbated his condition. “So he died.”

The boys just stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Daphne and Graydon skipped the part about the wine cellar and the icehouse and the body snatchers, and went right to London and the cremation, on account of the wedding and all the company, and their aunt Cleo’s happiness.

“But we’ll hold a proper funeral right after the wedding, I promise, with all the pomp and ceremony befitting a baron.”

“Do we have to?” asked Dart.

And, “Can we go riding now, Daffy?” asked Torry. So much for guilt, blame, and their sense of loss.

Graydon smiled over their heads at Daphne, who smiled back and said, “Yes, if Lord Howell will accompany you. There have been outlaws in the neighborhood. I don’t want you out by yourselves.”

The boys ran off with a whoop to put on their riding clothes, and Graydon glared at Daphne. “You said you wanted to help,” she innocently replied to his raised eyebrow. Then grinned.

Hercules had it easy, Graydon thought in the ensuing days. He didn’t have to bear-lead two wild young cubs who’d been shut in a schoolroom for months. They needed a man’s influence, Daffy had pleaded. Their tutor was a scholar, she insisted, and could only keep them occupied for an hour or two in the mornings. They’d be bored and underfoot otherwise, she cajoled, and hadn’t he offered to help?

It wasn’t that he minded the boys. They were likable enough lads, who listened well to the major’s lessons on shooting and fishing and riding, all the activities he remembered from his own youth and still enjoyed. Torry and Dart caught on quickly, just the way their cousin Daffy had. But they weren’t Daffy. Graydon was no nearer to her—and his goal—than he’d been before.

That’s what he thought. No Greek hero could have won Daphne’s admiration more easily than by befriending her beloved cousins. As she watched through the windows Daphne marveled at how quickly he won the boys’ affection, how kind and caring he was to devote so much time to them. And what a wonderful father Gray would be to his own sons, she thought with an ache in her heart caused only partially by yearning to go join their croquet match instead of selecting music with the church organist.

A few days later, Graydon received two messages among his correspondence sent down from Howell House in London: The diamond necklace and the baron were both awaiting his lordship’s pleasure. His lordship, however, was finding uncommon pleasure in the Hampshire countryside and didn’t wish to make the journey to London. Even if the trip took a mere two days, they were two days lost in his campaign to win Daffy’s regard. Further, he was determined to instill in Dart and Torry a love for the land that they would keep forever. If Dart was to be baron, Graydon wanted to make sure he was better than the last, committed to his property and people instead of his own profligacy. Dart should know every inch of his grounds, every one of his tenants, the way Graydon would want his son to know, if he had a son.

The major’s own father’s benign absentee land-lordship wasn’t good enough. Graydon resented that his ancestral estates were being overseen by bailiffs, inhabited by strangers. As soon as that lease with Mr. Foggarty was over, he intended to take up residence. On the other hand, if Howell Hall wasn’t rented, he and his father would have had to stay there, far away from Lady Whilton and her precious daughter.

No, he did not want to leave. And that trip to London boded ill on two counts: Seline the Moon Goddess’s tantrums, and Terwent. So Graydon took the easy way out: he sent a message. Most of the staff at the Grosvenor Square house was off on holiday until after his father’s honeymoon in Scotland, Graydon having decided to take up bachelor lodgings again if he came to Town. Still, he thought, there should be someone competent enough to complete two simple missions.
Deliver the package at Rundell’s jeweler’s,
he scrawled,
to Lady Seline Bowles with a note saying thank you, and bring the urn from the Biggs establishment to Hampshire as soon as possible.

A very junior footman received the note. The butler was out of town, the underbutler was away for two days, and the note, as far as James could cipher it out, indicated the young master wanted the pieces of work done instantly. So he fetched the two parcels, showing Lord Howell’s note as his
bona fides,
and laboriously penned a message to the master’s light-o’-love:
Thank you, and please—
James did a bit of editorializing—
bring the urn from the Biggs establishment to Hampshire as soon as possible.

*

Lady Seline was packed and ready to go before the ink was dry on the footman’s note. The diamonds were lovely, of course, but the invitation to join dear Graydon for his father’s wedding was better. It was as good as a declaration, in her opinion. And Lady Seline was nothing if not opinionated.

Seline believed, for instance, that darling Howell’s message could have been more loverlike, rather than the courteously worded note making her his lackey. She meant to take the dear boy to task, when she had a firmer commitment, of course. Like the ring that went with the choker, which she knew for a fact had been in Rundell’s window just last week. Perhaps she’d tease him a bit about his rag manners before accepting the proposal she knew was coming. A man didn’t invite his mistress to his former fiancée’s house without good and honorable reason.

She’d forgive him for the last-minute invitation, of course. He’d had to test the waters, to make sure Miss Whilton’s family wouldn’t be offended. Seline supposed his gallantry owed the little country chit that much. And he was gallant, if not eloquent, sending a magnificent gift so she wouldn’t feel slighted.

The poor dear must be finding it awkward, Seline considered, forced into company with the forward miss. Well, the discomfort would be over as soon as Seline got to Hampshire, for she’d see the two were never in each other’s company. That’s what she was invited for, wasn’t it? To be at dearest Graydon’s side. And to bring his father’s wedding gift, of course.

The tall alabaster vase was an odd choice, she thought. She’d opened the crate as soon as her carriage left the city and headed toward country roads, the driver ordered to spring the horses. With her maid asleep on the opposite seat, and the precious crate nestled at Seline’s side, what else was she to do? Besides, the top wasn’t nailed down, and the straw packing lifted quite easily.

The raven-haired widow decided the thing must be a rare antique, or Napoleon’s own, or something to make it more valuable than it seemed at first glance, although she did admire the cloudy swirls of black and gold in the grayish alabaster. (Graydon had settled on something smoky as the best match to the baron’s character.) Then she tried to lift it, to see if there was an inscription or a date. The vase weighed so much, there must be something special indeed inside, for the top was sealed with wax and string. Seline didn’t dare open the lid. Well, she would have, had the journey not come to a halt so soon. She was in Hampshire the same day she’d received dear Graydon’s note. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

Chapter Twenty

Changed? The man swore he’d changed? The only thing that changed was Daphne’s room assignments. And without notice. He forgot, was all the blackguard could mumble. Forgot? In a toad’s toenail! How in Heaven’s name could he forget he’d invited this elegant, sophisticated woman of the world? His world. His mistress, by all that was holy! No, he hadn’t forgotten; he’d been afraid of telling Daphne lest it ruin his current, pass the time till something better comes along, flirtation. With her! The lying, cheating, conniving scoundrel!

Daphne was almost as angry at herself because she hadn’t changed enough, either. She was still the gullible little fool, almost believing his tender promises, his gentle touches, his affectionate smiles. They hadn’t meant one blasted thing, not to him, at any rate. Did the leopard change its spots? No, not even when it was made into a lap robe, which was about as flat and dead as she was wishing Major Lord Howell at this very moment. How dare he make a May game out of her until his paramour arrived?

And bearing gifts, by Jupiter!

It wasn’t enough that Daphne had to greet the stunning widow and welcome her to Woodhill while Graydon was struck all aheap at the woman’s incredible beauty. No, she had to explain the urn, too, while he stood mumchance after removing the woman’s silver-fox stole to reveal a diaphanous confection of the palest gray, with silver ribands under her magnificent breasts. Daphne threw her own barely adequate chest back, in her simple muslin.

And how could he have trusted Uncle Albert’s ashes to a woman who used rouge and eye blacking? Daphne hadn’t told Cousin Harriet, but he’d blabbed to his bird of paradise! If Lady Bowles was like all the other she-cats of her ilk, interested in nothing but the latest
on-dit,
the news would be all over London, with half the guests wondering if they were to attend a wedding or a funeral. And they’d be wondering at Mama’s lack of mourning, chiding her for disrespect and breaking society’s rules. Oh, how could he?

As easily as he’d agreed his father should move to the baron’s suite, the sly dog. Well, if Graydon thought Daphne was moving Lady Bowles into the newly vacated room next to his, let him think again. Daphne would rot in hell first, which she was most likely going to, anyway, for all the lies she was telling.

“The vase? Oh, that’s a surprise Graydon and I devised for you, Mama. Gray ordered it when he was in London last week.”

Lady Bowles had insisted the urn be carried in by one of her own footmen, in her silver and black livery. She hefted it from him by the handles, and made a show of presenting it to the bridal pair, with her best wishes from “Dear Graydon.” Lord Hollister almost dropped the unexpected weight, then handed it back to the footman with a questioning look toward his son. Knowing the ruby brooch had been his son’s wedding gift, the earl was almost as astonished as Graydon, but not quite. Graydon still didn’t say anything, his face gone almost as gray as the smoky urn. Daphne didn’t notice his coloring, only that he’d selected a container to match his mistress’s signature colors. And her eyes.