Barbara Metzger (8 page)

“That’s if she agrees to see me. I cannot very well barge into the bedroom of a respectable female and demand she hear me out.”

Graydon had seen stranger things than that, too. In fact, he’d been considering undertaking such a maneuver soon, if he couldn’t have a private talk with Daffy. Now a private talk was the last thing he wanted, if he had to pay for his father’s sins as well as his own recently resurrected failings. What he had to do, and do fast before anyone questioned his presence here, was get this hobble with Albert resolved so his father and Lady Whilton could reach an understanding.

Graydon saw nothing for it but to cut a deal. Having recently come from the battlefront, he was a great proponent of negotiation. What they had to do, as he saw it, was get the old sot to hand over Lady Whilton’s twenty thousand pounds. The loose screw would do it, Graydon figured, for a like sum from the earl, under the table, of course. In effect his father would be paying his own bride’s dowry, but as long as she didn’t know it, she’d be satisfied at having got her money and her own way. The governor might have to up the ante some to win assurances from the bastard baron that there would be no future demands or threats on the boys, but he could afford it. Any price was worth it to see the last of that curst rum touch.

“But that’s dishonest,” the earl protested after Graydon explained his plan. “It’s lying to Cleo, and letting her keep her addlepated notions besides. Women’s independence and all that rot. I’m not sure I want to live under the cat’s paw.”

Graydon picked up the engagement ring from the table in front of his father. “Do you want to live alone the rest of your life?”

*

After seeing her mother put to bed with a dose of laudanum, Daphne didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t tired, but she didn’t want to face the earl—or his son—again this night. She was sure her mama would reconsider her hasty and impassioned decision in the morning.
She just had to, Daphne swore, for Lady Whilton and the earl were meant for each other. Daphne didn’t dare go offer Lord Hollister her reassurances, however.

Gracious, she couldn’t let difficulties between herself and Gray get between the older couple again. But how to convince her mother of that? By convincing Mama that Graydon hadn’t broken her heart, not by half. She’d been disappointed in his character, that was all. With all the recent gossip being confirmed and amplified by Uncle Albert—and not denied by Major Howell, Daphne noted—her assessment had been correct: Graydon was a libertine. Her heart wasn’t involved one jot in the decision to jilt him, she told herself firmly, rehearsing what she’d tell her mother in the morning. Not one iota.

Miles would make a much better husband. He’d teach her cousins and her future sons about the land and about honor. Yes, she’d do well to accept Miles’s steadfast loyalty. For sure Daphne could never go live with Mama and the earl, not after this upset, not if her presence was going to remind them of their children’s brangling. She’d pay them visits, of course, when she knew Graydon was elsewhere. Daphne knew she couldn’t stay on here in her childhood home, either, not when awful Uncle Albert was liable to pop in. That left Miles, worthy Miles, who was most likely too high-minded to outsmart that low-blow bounder.

Mama had to marry Lord Hollister, if only to protect the boys from Uncle Albert. She and Cousin Harriet were right: Men did have all the power, and they needed every bit of it to keep her cousins from falling into their father’s evil clutches. Daphne didn’t think Uncle Albert would go through with his threats to see his sons sold into slavery or whatever, but the threats were bad enough.

She’d have to go to him herself, Daphne decided, and tell him she didn’t want the cursed twenty thousand pounds, that she’d convince Mama to sign the paper if he’d just leave them alone. It would be Daphne’s decision and her mother’s, not Lord Hollister’s. That should please Mama, even if losing the money didn’t. One couldn’t ask for everything.

Chapter Eight

As
she walked from her mother’s room to hers, Daphne heard noises coming from Papa’s—now Uncle Albert’s—bedchamber. The mutters and mumbled curses she would have ignored, but the thumps and thuds sounded ominous. If she called for a footman, she’d likely wake the rest of the house, Cousin Harriet and the earl’s sister included, so Daphne decided to investigate herself.

She scratched on the door and softly called: “Uncle Albert, it is I, Daphne. Do you need anything?’’

What she heard could have been “Get in here.” It also could have been “Get out,” but she chose the former, cautiously opening the door a crack, prepared to duck flying missiles. When no boots or books came her way, she edged into the room, leaving the door ajar behind her, just in case.

Uncle Albert was lurching about, his cane neglected, as he tried to open the brandy decanter. His hands were shaking so badly, he could not remove the stopper and his face was empurpled with his rage and frustration. His breath was coming in short, gasping inhales and long, rasping exhales. He did not look well, even for Uncle Albert.

“Uncle, are you ill? Should I send for the doctor?”

“What, some bloody rustic leech? Wouldn’t trust one of your quacks,” he panted out. “Terwent’ll be here in the morning with my potions and stuff. Not that they do much good anymore.” He stumbled closer and thrust the bottle at her. “May as well be of some use, now you’re here. Open the blasted thing.”

Daphne was undecided, until the baron started waving his arms around, saliva dribbling out of the side of his mouth. Maybe Graydon would prove right after all, Daphne thought, and Uncle would collapse, unconscious, once he’d drunk his fill. For sure he was working himself into an apoplexy this way. She pulled the stopper away from the neck of the crystal decanter and looked around for a glass.

“Here, give me that,” the baron snarled, grabbing the bottle and lifting it to his mouth. Daphne could hear his every gulp, and watch his bony Adam’s apple bob up and down. He finally lowered the decanter and wiped his lips with the back of his coat sleeve, and belched. “Better,” he grunted, and indeed his breathing was more even and his coloring more restored to its usual splotchy flush. He clumped over to the bed and threw himself down, still holding a firm grip on the bottle.

“Should I ring for Ohlman to help you undress, Uncle? You’ll be more comfortable without your boots
on, I’m sure.”

“Wouldn’t let that bugger touch me. Or my boots. Terwent’ll be here in the morning,” he repeated, with another long swig from the bottle.

“Then perhaps a blanket?” He was lying on all of his. The last thing Daphne wanted was for the soused baron to take a chill and have to be nursed here at the Manor. She found a quilt over the back of a chair and brought it closer, hesitating.

“What’s the matter, gel? I won’t bite. Not enough teeth left, heh-heh.” And he began that half laugh, half wheeze again, necessitating another hard swallow of brandy.

Daphne tossed the blanket over him and stepped back quickly, hoping that if the baron was going to fall into oblivion, he’d do it soon, before the brandy was gone and he threw another fit. His eyes seemed to be drifting shut, so she backed away cautiously. Unfortunately her foot hit his dropped cane on the floor, and she squealed as she tried to regain her balance.

Albert’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at her wildly, trying to recall her identity. He must have figured it out, for he growled, “What are you doing here anyway, gel? Young chits ain’t supposed to be in a man’s bedchamber. Didn’t your ma teach you that? She sure as hell didn’t teach you good sense, whistling a fortune down the wind when you tossed Howell out on his ear. No gel of mine’d be given the choice, I can tell you that. At least m’sister-in-law had the brains to hook the big fish, even if she let the minnow get away. Hollister’s as rich as Croesus,” he rambled on, eyes going unfocused again. “Doesn’t need my blunt. Shouldn’t get it. Ain’t right.”

Daphne decided to take the chance on a rational conversation with her uncle now that he was somewhat subdued. She didn’t think he’d be any more open to reasonable discourse tomorrow, when he finally awoke. “That’s what I came to discuss, Uncle Albert, Mama’s twenty thousand. You know it would cost you less in the long run to give it to her now, than if you had to keep paying out her widow’s pension if she never remarried.”

“What’s a female know about finance? You ain’t figuring the interest on the twenty thousand, interest I get to keep. And you ain’t figuring that my long run is getting shorter every day. I could have one more good ride on all that brass afore I cash in my chips.”

“Yes, well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. And to see to your comfort, of course.”

“Of course,” he mimicked. “You always cared so much for your dear uncle’s well-being, you used to run and hide when I came around. Still would, I warrant, if you didn’t want something. What is it, gel? Spit it out, I can’t stand mealymouthed chits.”

Talking so much made him wheeze again. The level in the bottle was getting dangerously low, so Daphne hurried into speech. “You’re right: Mama doesn’t need the money, and Lord Hollister feels he’d rather support her himself. She only wanted it for me, it seems, so I wouldn’t have to worry about marrying for money. I think I can convince Mama I don’t need it.”

“What, going to have young Howell after all?”

“No, definitely not.”

He pounded the bottle down on the bed, spilling a few drops. “What are you using for brains, girl, pigeon droppings? Fellow’s rich and handsome. So what if he’s a rake? You look the other way a bit like every other female, and in return you can have anything you want, even get to be a countess one day. Who knows but the jackstraw’ll come down heavy for your own dear uncle.”

“So that’s why you think I should wed Graydon, so you can bleed him dry? Well, think again. I won’t.”

Albert laughed, which turned into a long gasp for air. When he could speak again, after another swallow, he said, “So it’s to be that countrified chowder-head, is it? You’ll be sorry, mark my words.”

Daphne stood firm. “Your opinion is irrelevant, Uncle. If I marry Miles, my dowry will be sufficient, and he’ll still see that I want for nothing.”

“Nothing except a little rum-diddly-dum,” he said with a snicker. “What you ought to do is bed both of ’em. Then you’d see.”

“That’s a horrid suggestion, Uncle! As if I ever would do, you know, before marriage!”

“I know, all right. It’s that prunes-and-prisms Pomeroy that mightn’t.” He thought this was so funny, he slapped his knee, unfortunately with the bottle. He doubled over, choking again between cackles. The sniggers came less frequent as the wheezes and ragged inhalations took longer. He did rattle, “Try ’em both, you’ll take the rake every time.”

To which Daphne replied, “Never!”

Albert fell back on the pillows, the bottle tilted up, but he was gasping too hard to swallow. “Famous…last…words,” he managed to whisper, which turned out to be his. Last words, that is.

“But will you leave if Mama signs the paper relinquishing the money?” Daphne persisted.

Uncle Albert had already left.

“Uncle? Baron? Should I send for the doctor?” In her heart Daphne knew the doctor would be too late, by years. She tried to convince herself, though, that the baron had simply passed out finally. But his chest wasn’t rising, wasn’t falling, no matter how closely she watched. The hairs in his nose weren’t fluttering with every breath. There was no breath, period. Daphne tiptoed closer and lifted the bottle away from Albert’s hand, to stop it from dripping on the bed. He let her take it. He must be dead.

“God have mercy,” Daphne whispered, her hand to her mouth.

Not on this sinner, He wouldn’t. Uncle Albert was dead. He was going to stay dead, and he was going to get deader, if possible, soon, unless Daphne did something, but what? It was too late to send for the vicar, not that a few last-ditch prayers could have gotten this heathen into Heaven.

Mama. Daphne’d go ask her mother—no, Mama was fast asleep and liable to stay that way through half of tomorrow, after taking the laudanum tonight. Besides, she’d only go off into hysterics again.

Ohlman would know what had to be done. Their devoted and organized butler was capable of meeting any challenge. He’d send for the vicar, the undertaker, the lawyer—goodness, little Eldart was baron now!—and the heir. Efficient Ohlman would see to notices in the papers, hatchments for over the doors, refreshments for the funeral guests.

Guests. Wedding guests. “Oh no!” Daphne moaned. The wedding would have to be canceled, whether Mama and Lord Hollister became reconciled or not. The Whiltons would be in mourning, and even if they chose not to wear black for the blackguard, they couldn’t very well hold a festive celebration in his own house, with him fresh in the grave. A year, they’d have to wait. Six months at the minimum. The wretched marplot had managed to disrupt the wedding after all, for all the good it did him. The cad couldn’t even die without making things difficult for his relations.

If they let him. Perhaps it was reaction to the death, or the wine she’d had during the last crisis downstairs, or just all the tension of the past weeks, but Daphne wasn’t ready to concede. There just had to be a way to cheat Uncle Albert of this final victory. Heaven knew he’d cheated often enough in life. With a little time and thought, she’d figure a way to queer his game. And Ohlman must be asleep by now anyway. There was no reason to wake the man—he wasn’t getting any younger—or to rouse the whole household, which would be inevitable. No, Uncle Albert would still be dead in the morning. Unless Daphne could come up with a plan.

Somewhere in the back of Daphne’s mind was the idea that if she could just get rid of Uncle Albert before anyone found out, and just for the two weeks till the wedding, then the marriage could take place. Mama would be happy, Lord Hollister would be named guardian for Dart and Torry, and Uncle Albert wouldn’t be laughing at all of them from the depths of hell.

She’d need help, of course. She couldn’t ask the servants to take part in anything so improper, though, no matter how loyal and trustworthy they were, not even Ohlman. That wouldn’t be honorable. Pretending Uncle Albert was still alive was. At least it was in a good cause.