Barbara Metzger (20 page)

Daphne’s own eyes were spitting fire as her mother turned to Graydon in delight. “Oh, I love surprises, dear, but I hate waiting. Won’t you tell us what’s inside now?”

Some gurgling noise came from Graydon’s throat, that was all. Daphne poured him a glass of sherry, and kicked him when she handed it over.

“It’s, ah, something special,” he managed to say. “For when you get back from Scotland. The, ah, surprise won’t be quite ready until then, will it, Daffy?”

She trod on his toes again, for calling her that silly name in front of Lady Seline. Daphne would wager her month’s allowance that no one ever called the Moon Goddess Sally. Right now Her Moonship was casting a very big shadow on Daphne’s life.

Meanwhile her mama was kissing the major’s cheek for his thoughtfulness. She ought to kiss him twice, Daphne fumed, the two-faced dastard. At least he’d had the sense to snatch the urn away from the footman and try to place it inconspicuously on the mantel. He even dismissed the servant before any more tittle-tattle hit the servants’ grapevine.

Lady Seline, of course, insisted the urn be given the place of honor among the other wedding gifts on display in the small parlor. She tucked her hand in Graydon’s elbow and led him there, to exclaim over the Sevres bowls and ormolu clocks and silver platters that Lady Whilton and Lord Hollister needed about as much as they needed Uncle Albert’s ashes. The widow cleared a space on the linen-draped table, right in the center.

“Now we can all take turns guessing at the secret contents,” she cooed. “How utterly delicious.” Lady Seline had not been happy to discover the vase was a joint venture between dearest Graydon and the country quiz. Nor was she happy when Lady Whilton suggested she might want to rest in her room this afternoon, or sit with the ladies at their sewing.

“Oh, goodness, no. You mustn’t think I’m such a poor traveler.” Or that much older than the fresh-faced Miss Whilton. She tapped Lord Howell’s arm lightly with her long, manicured fingers. “I cannot wait to see the countryside now that I am here, and breathe the wholesome air. In fact, I was hoping you’d drive me out to see your own estate this afternoon, Graydon dear.”

Graydon dear was watching his life pass before his eyes. He was drowning, and clutched at the only life ring he could think of. “It’s leased,” he gulped. “Can’t barge in on the tenants.”

“Oh, but I’m sure we can drive by. I so much want to view your childhood home.” And measure it for alterations.

“Sorry, Lady Bowles. Hate to disappoint a lady and all that, but I’m already engaged for the afternoon. My young cousins-to-be, you know. Down from school. I promised them a fishing trip today.”

“Cousins?” Seline inquired. “I thought you had no close relations.”

“He doesn’t,” Daphne replied, thinking the world was a better place without any more black-hearted Howells. “They are my cousins, and there is no reason for you not to escort Lady Bowles, Major. I can see to the boys for today.” And from now on. She’d make sure the boys were never again exposed to such a shameless libertine. A male influence? Hah! She’d have done better taking them to watch the rams at work.

“No, no, a promise is a promise,” Graydon insisted.

“Since when?” Daphne almost shouted, or cried.

Her mama stepped in and drew the widow aside. “No matter, Lady Bowles, you will get your chance to see Howell Hall this evening. We’ve been invited to dinner by Mr. Foggarty, the tenant. Perhaps you’d like to lie down after all. Daphne, do send off a note to the Hall that we’ll be bringing an additional guest. No, no, Lady Bowles, I assure you Mr. Foggarty won’t mind. He is everything gracious.”

He might be the kindest man in the county, but his table was still going to be at sixes and sevens, like Daphne’s room arrangements.

“I don’t believe I know a Mr. Foggarty,” Seline said.

“That’s because he’s not of the
ton.
He’s just a retired merchant,” Graydon commented, and noted Seline’s pursed lips that she’d be asked to take her mutton with a Cit. “Perhaps you’d rather not attend, since the company is so plebeian.”

Lady Bowles wasn’t to be routed that easily. Their host could have been a coal-heaver and she’d go. “No, no, I’m assured country manners are more relaxed. When in Rome, and all that.”

Both Daphne and Graydon were thinking that the Romans may have had a good idea, throwing their unwanted citizenry to the lions.

Lord Hollister was laughing. “That’s the first time I’ve heard Full Pockets Foggarty called plebeian. Why, he’s the richest man in four shires.”

“I’m sure I’ll be charmed.”

*

“What do you mean, you didn’t invite her?”

“Hush up, for goodness’ sake. People are staring.” They were at the rear of Howell Hall’s music room, where the vicar’s wife was performing at the pianoforte. Lady Bowles was seated next to their host, so Graydon could get away for his first words with Daphne since the widow’s arrival, albeit they had to be quiet words.

Daphne pasted a polite smile on her face for Admiral Benbow, sitting nearby, and repeated, although in a lower tone of venom, “What do you mean, you didn’t invite her?
I
didn’t invite her. My mother didn’t invite her. Your father didn’t—”

“Blister it, Daffy, I know who
didn’t
invite her. It was some curst footman at Howell House who did.”

“A footman?” she squealed, and Graydon coughed to cover the noise.

“Will you lower your voice! We’re in the briars as is, without ruining Foggarty’s entertainment. And yes, a footman. I sent a message about bringing the ashes, with a separate note to be delivered to Lady Bowles about another matter entirely. The butler was on holiday, so some underling—if I ever find out which one, he’ll be under six feet of dirt—handled the errands. He garbled the notes.”

“You expect me to believe that some untrained servant took it upon himself to invite your mistress to your father’s wedding?”

“More or less, yes. And she’s not my mistress!”

Admiral Benbow’s eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t quite that deaf. Daphne whispered, “Now who’s shouting? And if she’s not your mistress, why was she hanging on your sleeve all day and all through dinner? Why were you sending her messages? And why, my lord Mistruth, was she wearing your diamonds?”

Seline had appeared downstairs before they were to leave for Foggarty’s wearing another gray gown, this one of sheerest silk, with a décolletage that ended where the waist began. Filling in that vast, milk-white expanse between neck and neckline was a diamond necklace so exquisite that even Lord Hollister had to notice. He hadn’t looked at anyone but Cleo Whilton in weeks, but now he had trouble keeping his eyes above Seline’s chin. “Lovely, my dear, lovely,” he enthused, until Lady Whilton rapped his arm with her fan.

“Thank you, my lord. Doesn’t your son have excellent taste?”

Lady Whilton dragged her betrothed out to the carriages before he could comment on Graydon’s taste, in gems or in women.

Seline was telling the others: “And I’ve hardly had a chance to thank him.”

Daphne wondered how the woman meant to express her gratitude, if not by plastering herself to Graydon’s side as she seemed to be doing. Daphne also noted how Seline fiddled with the necklace all evening, drawing attention to it and her bosom, after which she would announce to everyone that dear Graydon had given it to her.

Daphne felt the complete dowd in her muslin and pearls, with a ribbon through her hair. The widow wore a matching gray turban on her head, with one black ostrich plume that complemented the one long black curl permitted to fall down her smooth, white, half-naked back.

“Not your mistress, hah! Next you’ll be telling me your horse recites Shakespeare.’’

“She’s not my mistress any longer, dash it. I never saw her when I went to London. The necklace was to be a farewell gift, an indication that the affair was over.”

“I should think a handshake would have done better. Your subtlety seems to have been lost on Lady Bowles.”

“Nothing subtle about it at all. These things are understood.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Thank heaven.”

“And neither, it seems, does the…lady.”

The vicar’s wife finished her piece. They applauded politely. Then Lady Bowles was persuaded to honor them with a few selections on the harp. It needed only that. “Get rid of her,” Daphne demanded.

“I haven’t even had a chance to speak to her in private. I couldn’t very well announce to her in front of the company that her invitation was an error, could I? Be reasonable, Daffy; how can I ask her to leave now that she’s here?”

Daphne was fanning herself, intent on the music.

“I promise I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her the affair is finished.”

The affair? Is that what you think she traipsed out of London during the Season for? Don’t flatter yourself,
dear
Graydon. It’s your title and fortune that harpy’s after now, not your—” More polite applause drowned out whatever Daphne almost said, happily.

Unhappily, Graydon insisted, “I never mentioned marriage to the woman, I swear. I never had the slightest honorable intention toward her.”

“Then tell her. That should do the trick of getting rid of the witch, unless you’re nodcock enough to present her with a diamond ring at the same time.”

Somehow Graydon didn’t think this was the appropriate moment to give Daffy that little gold locket.

*

He tried to convince Seline to leave, he honestly did. He knew he’d never get anywhere with Daffy while his mistress—his ex-mistress—was in the house. He never got her alone at Foggarty’s, though, and his aunt shared their carriage on the way home. Graydon didn’t dare leave it till morning, however; Daffy’d be in such a taking by then, he’d need years to win back her trust, the little shrew. The adorable,
jealous
little shrew.

Cheered by that thought, he was smiling when he scratched on Seline’s door late that night, after everyone had gone to bed. She was waiting for him, an answering smile on her face and her arms outstretched.

Seline’s smile turned to pure rage and one outstretched arm grabbed up a china cat from a nearby table when he explained his mission.

He ducked. “Be reasonable,” he seemed to be repeating all night. It worked as well now as with Daphne. A perfume bottle followed the statue into the wall. “You know we never once discussed marriage.” He caught the pillow, and the hairbrush. “I wouldn’t have asked you to be my errand boy, so there was only one explanation for the necklace. We have to discuss this like adults.”

The book from her bedside hit him on the side of his face, but it didn’t hurt as much as her next words: “I’m not leaving.”

He loosened his neckcloth. “Please, Seline, you are making this deuced awkward.”

She folded her arms over her magnificent chest, still adorned with the necklace. “You invited me, sirrah, and I told that to all my friends when I made excuses not to attend their parties and such. I could never go back now without becoming a laughingstock.”

“How would you like to go to Brighton then? I would stand the expenses, of course.”

“With you?”

“No, dash it, that’s the whole point.”

“No,
chéri,
the whole point is Miss Daphne Whilton, isn’t it? If you think I am going to simply step aside so you can have your bucolic belle, your attics are to let. Besides, a girl has to look out for her own interests.”

“If it’s the matching ring and earbobs you want…”

“Dear Graydon, you always were so generous. I’m sorry, darling, but now that I’ve set my sights on a higher target, nothing but a wedding ring will do. No, I’m not leaving. Mr. Foggarty seemed taken with me, didn’t you think?”

Oh lud. How the hell was he going to explain this to Daffy?

Seline walked him to the door. “I’m truly sorry, dear boy; we would have suited, I think. But don’t worry. Miss Whilton looks good in green.” She planted a kiss where she’d hit him with the book and showed him out. “Good night,
mon cher
Major.”

And that was the way Daphne saw him, in the hallway outside the black widow’s door where she’d come to see what the commotion was about. Graydon’s clothes were all mussed, he wore a dazed expression on his face and lip rouge on his cheek, and he smelled of the widow’s scent.

“She’s not leaving,” he said.

So Daphne hauled off and hit him. It was no ladylike slap, but the full-fisted blow he’d taught her in case she ever had to defend her honor. Graydon supposed he was lucky she didn’t employ the other defensive maneuver he’d taught her. He also supposed this wasn’t a good time to give her the locket, either.

Chapter Twenty-One

Not only wouldn’t Daphne believe the major’s explanations, she wouldn’t even listen to them. Nor did she feel the slightest remorse when he appeared downstairs the following day sporting a large black-and-blue mark on his jaw. Good. The black matched his heart, and the blue…well, the blue matched Daphne’s spirits.

She threw herself with renewed vigor into the wedding plans. That way she wouldn’t have to think about Graydon’s perfidy or watch him drool down the demirep’s dress, the way every other male was doing, from Lord Hollister to the lowest footman with an excuse to hold a door for her. Even Ohlman’s breath came a little quicker when he poured the wine, from over Lady Seline’s shoulder. To be fair-minded, Daphne admitted Graydon paid the Moon Goddess no more attention than the others did—but no less, either.

A rose on her pillow melted some of the ice wall around her heart, especially when she read the accompanying note:
She’s not my mistress.
The message didn’t say she never was, which would have made Miss Whilton happier, except that she’d know it for a lie. Daphne no longer expected abstemious morality from her childhood friend—she’d stopped believing in the White Knight and Father Christmas, too. At least Graydon hadn’t thought she was that much of a gull.

“Did you get my message?” he asked hopefully when she passed in the hall, her nose in the air as though he’d brought the scent of the stable in with him, or the widow’s, again.

“Don’t waste the roses,” was all she said. “We need them for the wedding.”