If You Give a Girl a Viscount (8 page)

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Authors: Kieran Kramer

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BOOK: If You Give a Girl a Viscount

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Mona made a satisfied grunt. “Exactly. What money we have will continue going to purchasing the girls’ things.”

Things
meaning the fripperies, gowns, and boxes of chocolates Mona had sent over from Edinburgh each month, which she shared only with Perdita and Cassandra.

Daisy restrained a sigh. “How long do you think Mr. Beebs will be pacified?” she asked Mona in a pointed manner. “Soon he’ll figure out that Cassandra is merely toying with him, especially if he gets word that she’s after the viscount. And then where will we be?”

“You’re jealous,” her stepmother said, “you ungrateful girl.”

Cassandra giggled.

Perdita snorted.

“I am
not
jealous,” Daisy said. “I simply don’t want us thrown out of our home.”

“If your father had been a better provider, we wouldn’t be in this position,” Mona said.

Her cold lack of respect for Daisy’s father’s memory, and her distortion of the facts, infuriated Daisy. “But it was
you
who spent all our savings,” she responded, heedless of the consequences.

“Silence!”
Mona stood up and swayed ever so slightly. “If you don’t stay out of Cassandra’s way with the viscount,” she told Daisy, “I’ll get rid of Hester and Joe.”

Daisy felt a sickening pit in her middle. “You can’t do that. The only place they could go is the poorhouse.”

“I know,” said Mona.

Daisy blinked her eyes rapidly. “I’d go, too, and I’d get them out. We’d live in a cottage.”

“Oh, really?” Cassandra laughed. “Not around here you wouldn’t. Not when everyone finds out you’re responsible for your father’s death.”

Daisy felt all the blood drain from her face. “I’ve told you.” She was horrified to hear her voice tremble. “That was an accident.”

Perdita snorted. “How do we know?”

Cassandra tossed aside her stitching. “At the very least, you’ll be sorely embarrassed if we tell the viscount—and the world—the circumstances. Especially when they find out about you and Cousin Roman.”

“Be quiet, Cassandra.” Daisy found herself half out of her chair, panicked at the thought that Hester or Joe might have overheard her.

Cassandra laughed. Mona and Perdita chuckled.

“Daisy’s not a virgin,” Perdita chanted.

“I’m going to tell the viscount,” Cassandra said.

“I did not have relations with your cousin Roman!” Daisy hissed. “I woke up with him. God knows how, but nothing happened. He might have been handsome, but he was an absolute boor and the last man I’d tumble into bed with—”

“Don’t you say that!” Mona looked completely insulted, but she always did, so her expression didn’t even change.

“You woke up betwixt his sheets,” Cassandra insisted. “And don’t blame the whisky. You were flirting with him all evening—”

“Hush!”
Daisy practically quivered. “It was a terrible time. Do you have no respect for my feelings?”

There was a split-second silence.

Daisy fell back in her seat, overwhelmed by shame—shame
and
grief—so much of both, she didn’t know what to say.

You’re human,
Hester had told her over and over.
Mistakes happen. Candles are left burning. You’re not the first to have set an accidental fire.

But even Hester didn’t know that when the fire had been detected and her father had come looking for her in her bedchamber and found her gone, Daisy had been in Cousin Roman’s bed, drunk and half clothed.

Only the Furies knew.

And so her father had thought her lost in the fire. He’d presumed she was in the bungalow, working on a sewing project. He’d been so stricken with grief standing before the conflagration that his heart—

It had given out not long afterward.

He’d had a history of weak spells, but Daisy knew—everyone knew—that when he mortally collapsed at dinner a week later, it was the trauma of that evening’s fire that had done him in.

Dear God.

She couldn’t think of that fateful night without shaking! She’d escaped Roman’s room with no one’s being the wiser. She’d even come up with a likely story for her absence from her bedchamber—she’d repaired to the kitchens for a late-night snack.

But when Cousin Roman left for Australia, Cassandra came to Daisy and told her she knew the shameful fact of her true whereabouts that evening, and that was all it took …

She was now the Furies’ fool.

Daisy sat up in her chair and kept her eyes on the floor, incapable of looking at the three women avidly staring at her. She could feel their scorn.

And then she released an audible sigh of despair, not caring that they heard her. Forgetting to blow out a candle was perhaps forgivable. But the rest?

Daisy would never forgive herself, and neither would anyone else, including Hester and the viscount, if they knew the extent of it. So she must cooperate with these three women she despised, at least until she found her four hundred pounds. After that, she’d work so hard to make the estate better, they’d either leave because their tauntings couldn’t bother such a busy person as herself, or they’d stay and she’d—

Well, she’d have to continue enduring them. Because there was no way she was ever going to leave her home.

If that turned out to be the case, at least she’d be distracted. Creating and maintaining a thriving sheep herd would occupy her time, and she’d take satisfaction in knowing that she’d be providing a comfortable life for her, Hester, and Joe.

“Ladies,” she said in a thin, calm voice, “I promise you I’ll have as little to do with Viscount Lumley as possible, although I won’t break off the engagement.”

“You’d better!” Cassandra cried. “Or I’ll tell him everything.”

Daisy held up a hand. “If I break it off or if you tell him, he’ll leave straightaway.”

“He won’t if he’s in love with me.” Cassandra arched a smug brow.

Daisy kept her patience. “Give yourself at least a week or two to allow that to happen,” she said, her tone perfectly serious.

“Oh, right.” Her vain stepsister nodded.

“He’s probably already halfway in love with you,” Mona assured her ebony-haired daughter, “but you’ll want to clinch it.”

“Yes,” Perdita said. “You must clinch it.” She made a giant fist.

At her mother’s and sister’s exhortations, Cassandra’s eyes brightened and her mouth became a big O. But when she looked at Daisy, her expression turned surly. “You’d just better lie low until I clinch things. And then all bets are off. I’ll tell him everything if you so much as blink in his direction.”

“Right,” Daisy replied dryly, ignoring the fact that all three women were nodding vigorously, pleased with their campaign to destroy Daisy’s chance at marital bliss.

She turned her attention to Perdita. “I think it best if you prepare yourself to charm Mr. Beebs. Since we won’t have the funds to pay the
feu
duty, and Cassandra will be occupied with attempting to win away my fiancé, someone has to persuade Mr. Beebs not to demand payment.”

There was a silence.

Everyone knew Perdita couldn’t charm anyone!

Which led to Daisy’s next suggestion: “The other option is for you to give me permission to speak with Lord Lumley in a discreet manner about raising funds. If he’s a peer of the realm, surely he understands estate matters. Perhaps we can produce the
feu
duty without having to make Perdita work her wiles on Mr. Beebs.”

“Wiles?” Perdita gnashed her teeth. “What are wiles?”

“Charms,” Daisy told her. “You must try. We wouldn’t want to be removed from the castle before the viscount has the opportunity to propose to Cassandra.”

She hoped her point would stick.

Cassandra, her eyes wider than usual, grabbed her mother’s arm. “I’ve no time to waste on that little man, and Perdita’s about as charming as an old mare put out to pasture.”

Perdita merely sucked her teeth at the insult.

Mona’s mouth became a stubborn, flat line and her eyes, more beady than ever. She swiveled her square body in Daisy’s direction. “You may speak with the viscount when warranted. But only in a discreet manner.”

The woman’s tone was so threatening and low, Daisy felt the words vibrate in her breastbone.

“Don’t you dare make wedding plans with him,” Cassandra added, then poked Daisy’s arm. “Or kiss him again. That’s the most important thing.”

“It was a shocking display.” Mona shook her head. “Shocking.”

“It was,” Daisy said thoughtfully.

A moment went by in which Cassandra and Perdita hurled the expected infantile insults of her character and kissing performance, but as Daisy was prepared for them, she was completely unmoved. The kisses had been worth it. Nothing her stepsisters said would ever make her regret them.

“All right,” she said quietly, masking her enjoyment at their obvious jealousy. “I’ll do my best to avoid the viscount. Although you know I promised to go fishing with him in the morning. And I can’t exactly avoid him entirely.”

“But watch yourself,” said Mona. “No flirting. No fawning. And find the
feu
duty without causing hardship to us. Or else.”

Or else
.

It was a phrase that Mona often bandied about with Daisy—and followed through upon, too—usually with forays into her bedchamber so she could rifle through her things and toss them out the window or into the fire. Other times, she’d lock her away with no supper. Several times, she’d made Daisy clean all the hearthstones with a tiny brush.

But this time, Mona’s
or else
carried more weight. This time, Mona was looking out the window at Joe, on his way back from visiting the sow and her piglets. He saw them inside staring at him, and he waved.

Daisy lifted a limp hand.

Poor Joe! And poor Hester!

Daisy would be nervous tonight drinking warm milk and sharing a nibble of shortbread with them near the kitchen fire.

Mona only laughed when she saw Joe.

Which made Daisy cringe. She knew very well what her stepmother’s
or else
meant this time.

She watched until Joe’s cap disappeared from view and girded herself mentally for the next few weeks. It promised to be a precarious journey.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Pardon my bluntness, but what the deuce is going on in your household?” Charlie asked Miss Montgomery early the next morning. It was cold and damp, the dew still clinging to the heather. They stood at the edge of the swirling burn, their fishing rods in the water. “I feel as if I’ve stepped into some Gothic tale. Your stepmother and stepsisters are … unusual, to say the least.”

Overnight, in the decidedly uncomfortable byre loft—away from the smiling Joe, the cheery Hester, and the mesmerizing force that was Miss Montgomery—he’d had the chance to replenish his waning stores of cynicism. He’d discovered the young miss was entirely kissable, which would have usually pleased him no end, but he couldn’t bear to let this particularly brazen money-seeker know she’d affected him so strongly.

It had been a shock to feel her respond with such passion to their second kiss, but then he’d guessed she was putting on for her stepmother, so
he’d
put on, and then it had seemed like a competition—

One that he hadn’t wanted to end.

“Of course,” he reminded her now, “your stepmother and stepsisters will find out eventually this engagement of ours is all a ruse.”

“Oh, well.” She blew a curl off her forehead. “We’ll have the money for the castle by then, won’t we? I’ll explain everything when the time is right. Stepmother will attribute the lie to my learning to be wily. Like her.”

“It’s convenient to have a dastardly relative at times, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Terribly.”

“But don’t even think of trapping me into a real marriage—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d rather live in a hut than stand at the altar with a man who—”

“Won’t allow his wife access to a farthing of his wealth,” he warned her.

“No, whose ilk will get stinking—”

“I know the rest.”

She flushed. “My point being, this is a temporary arrangement we must both endure.” She looked with concern at his black eye. “You definitely need something on that.”

He couldn’t believe she would still consider helping him, after all the barbs they’d exchanged. Unless she were still hoping … hoping he had a secret pocket full of money.

“Women entrap men into marriage all the time,” he reminded her. “And your stepmother is an obvious schemer. Am I supposed to believe you haven’t taken on her tendencies?”

“I’m nothing like her,” she lashed out. “Nor my stepsisters.”

She said it with such passion, he found her nearly pretty again. Funny that, as she was wearing a coarse gray gown, hideous boots, a lumpy wool shawl, and her hair wound in a tight knot at the back of her head.

At dinner last evening, Miss Cassandra had looked breathtakingly lovely in her fashionable gown and her abundance of ebony curls. Yet she excited no interest in him whatsoever.

This woman, in her grim but serviceable attire, somehow did.

She indicated the flannel bag on the ground. “I suspect you need another worm.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A trout just took yours.”

“I didn’t notice.” It was because he was taking too many glances at
her
.

“It takes a sensitive hand to pull in a large catch up here,” she said with a chuckle, pulling in a trout even as she spoke. “The fish are wily. They take the bait and swim off.”

He couldn’t help wondering if she were describing what
she
planned to do in this outlandish scenario.

“I’ll admit I need some practice,” he said, taking the wriggling trout from her and putting it in a bag filled with ferns. “However, don’t rest on your laurels. I still intend to best you.”

“Oh?” She gave him a sideways glance. “Shall we bet on it?”

“I’ve no money to wager,” he said.

“That shouldn’t stop us,” she insisted.

“I agree.” He raised a brow. “I’ve the perfect bet.”

“What is it?” Her wide blue eyes were full of excitement.

“A kiss,” he said. “Whoever loses must bestow one on the other party.”

She took a step away from him. “Lord Lumley,” she said in the same cool, confident tone she’d employed the day before when she’d reminded him of his duty to help her. “I’m not in the market for flirtation. And you know that a wager like that is not only inappropriate but ridiculous. No matter what, both of us will be involved in the kiss. So there is no incentive to win.”

“Yes,” he said, “but initiating it will be awkward for the loser, don’t you think?”

“I suspect you wouldn’t feel awkward in the least. You’re a rogue. You’ve said so yourself.”

“I suppose I am,” he said, tugging on his line. He’d caught his first trout. “But I can’t help wanting to foist that awkwardness upon
you
. I’d quite like to see how you’d handle the matter.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t approve of this wager. Move on to the next idea, please.”

“I dare you,” he said.

She kept ignoring him. In fact, she pulled in another fish. “I’m going to win, no matter what.”

He liked how she wouldn’t meet his gaze yet didn’t seem coy in the least.

“You only
think
you will,” he said back.

Another minute went by.

“I thought you Highland girls had more spunk.” He yanked in another trout and put it in the bag. “Although who can blame you for backing down? I’m winning, after all.”

“It’s a go,” she finally said, her profile stern, her brow furrowed. “And only because you can’t challenge a Highland girl’s spunk. When the sun rises over that branch”—she pointed to a beech tree—“the contest is over. But the kiss will be brief, and no one shall ever know.”

“Done,” he said.

Not a word passed between them as they cast their lines. She was concentrating. He could tell. She was anxious to best him.

He pulled in another fish.

She got two.

Within a half hour, they were neck and neck.

She sighed. “I suppose you can’t fish
and
contemplate ideas for raising four hundred pounds, all at the same time?”

She looked at him with a spark of challenge in her eyes.

“You supposed wrong,” he answered. “It’s been on my mind since the first moment you mentioned it. It’s why I’m here, after all.”

The sun was baking the grass dry. Soon, it would rise above the beech tree’s branch, which extended like a long arm over the water.

“What ideas have you?” She sounded anxious to know.

“The most important thing is to identify a source of the four hundred pounds,” he said. “We’re here in a remote corner of Scotland. Who here has that sort of money? The next question to ask is: why would they hand it over to us?”

Miss Montgomery attached another worm to her hook. “The villagers and farmers aren’t well off in the least. Even if they pooled their resources, I’m sure they wouldn’t have that amount. And then there’s Mr. Beebs, the overseer at the Keep. He’s been there for several years. He might as well be the owner himself. But he’s not. So I don’t think he has the funds.”

“Who does own the Keep?”

“Mr. Beebs is very quiet and doesn’t talk about them. Probably because absentee property owners aren’t looked fondly upon by the locals. They became quite prolific after the Clearances, of course.”

Charlie looked up at the fortress on the side of Ben Fennon. The Keep was a spectacular example of castle architecture. Its windows sparkled, the grounds were immaculate, and the building itself, with its scarlet pennants waving stiffly in the Highland breezes, had a general air of prosperity about it.

“Mr. Beebs’s employers must spare no expense to keep it looking so fine,” Charlie guessed.

“True, and it’s why the village endures his presence. Occasionally, he employs local help to maintain the castle and its grounds, although many times he resorts to using craftsman and laborers from Edinburgh, Glasgow, or even England, depending on the project.”

“Have you been inside?”

“No. But according to the villagers who’ve had that privilege, the interior’s as lavish now as it was back then. Hester says it used to be a showpiece—the heart and soul of Glen Dewey. But since Mr. Beebs took up residence, no one visits anymore. The Highland games and the subsequent
ceilidh
—all held on the Keep’s grounds—ceased, as well.”

“That’s a shame.” And Charlie truly felt it was. “Can you not hold the festivities at Castle Vandemere?”

“I suppose we could, although it wouldn’t be the same. We cling to the side of a cliff here, and our grounds aren’t nearly as extensive as those at the Keep. Vandemere itself is small and snug, more charming than the Keep, in my opinion, but it’s hardly adequate for a
ceilidh
grand enough for all of Glen Dewey to attend. But you’re right. The Keep’s inaccessibility is all the more reason to keep Vandemere from crumbling. The locals need some reminder of our history and a recollection of the traditions that bind us. It’s no accident that since Mr. Beebs has been in residence, village morale is the lowest it’s ever been.”

While she was speaking, she caught another trout.

She was now in the lead.

Charlie attended to his own line, baiting it with the largest worm he could find in the flannel bag. “All right, then. No one here has four hundred pounds. We’ll have to go outside Glen Dewey to find it, perhaps to wealthy folk who don’t know about its treasures. People like those travelers at Brawton who dropped me nearby.”

“Yes,” said Miss Montgomery.

“Do they stalk deer in Brawton?” He pulled in two more trout. He was winning now.

Miss Montgomery shook her head. “It has only fishing to recommend it.”

“They certainly don’t have Joe’s whisky, either.” Just remembering how good it was made Charlie happy.

“Nor has Brawton ever had a Highland games,” Miss Montgomery said.

“Do they have any castles there?” Suddenly, Charlie was praying they didn’t.

“No.”

He saw Miss Montgomery’s eyes gleam with something … he hoped something along the lines of what he was thinking. “You said yourself at dinner last night—Glen Dewey has all that’s best about the Highlands.”

She nodded vigorously. “But we’ve no inn. We’re not set up to host visitors, especially lots of them at once.”

“But that’s what you need—many visitors at once. Rich ones. People who’ll pay to stay somewhere in style. People who want … the Highland experience.”

“I like that,” she said. “The Highland experience. Perhaps they could stay with us at Castle Vandemere.”

“It’s too small.”

She winced. “And it’s not very grand. Not at the moment.”

Something zinged between them. A flash of understanding.

“We need a place like the Keep,”
Charlie said.

Miss Montgomery said it, too, at the very same time.

And then he noticed that the sun was over the branch of the beech tree.

“I won,” the viscount said, a slow grin spreading over his face.

Daisy was so excited about the idea forming in her head, she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“I won the bet,” he explained further, and held up the sack of trout.

“Oh, that.” She whirled away from him to stare at the Keep. Was it the solution to her money woes? “We’ll worry about the bet later. Let’s think about the Keep. Can we borrow it?”

It was an outrageous idea.

“You can always ask.” Lord Lumley grabbed her wrist. “And we won’t think about the bet later. Now’s more like it.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “But the bet’s not important—not in the least.”

“Which is why we need to get it out of the way. I won’t be able to fully concentrate on the task at hand while it’s hanging in the air between us.”

“I don’t feel it hanging in the air at all.” She huffed.

“That’s because you’re all business. It’s time you had some fun.”

“This is an inopportune moment.” She flapped her hands at her sides. “We have an idea. A
marvelous
idea.”

“It’s never the wrong time.”

Never?

“Not even during church?” she demanded to know.

“That’s the best time.” His voice was like silk.

“Are you saying you’ve kissed someone during church?”