The Diamond Key (4 page)

“Lynbrook was a dirty dish who deserved to die. If he weren’t godson to one of the king’s ministers, the whole affair would have been swept under the rug. They were making an example of young Ingram, was all.”

“Everyone says Ingram was the guilty party. He should have fired in the air instead of aiming to kill Lord Lynbrook.”

The earl felt the need to inspect his fingernails. “Now, now, you cannot know what went on at the field of honor that day.”

“I know there was no such thing as honor!” Lady Duchamp cried. “His own family disowned him for the deed. They say an acquaintance helped him flee the country and lent him a stake to live in the Colonies or some other heathen country.”

“A stake which he used to make his own fortune.” Lord Duchamp had his own sources of information in the servants’ quarters. He was not about to give his girl to any basket-scrambler, no matter how many acts of valor the chap performed.

“We are not speaking of money, we are speaking of moral fiber. Would you let your daughter marry a here-and-therian who ... who ...”

Torrie’s aching head was swiveling between her parents. “Who what?” she demanded.

Lady Duchamp brought her lace handkerchief to her lips. She had been feeling ill lately, and the day’s events had upset her constitution even more. All she wanted was to take to her bed, but not before she made her pigheaded husband and his stubborn daughter see reason.

“Normally I would never speak of these things to you, Torrie. Ladies are raised to pretend such wickedness does not exist.”

“Don’t go all mealy-mouthed on me, Maggie,” the earl said. “The gal is twenty years of age. She’s been out for three years. Do you honestly expect me to believe she does not know about ... about ...” When it came to it, Lord Duchamp could not discuss ... fornication with his wife and daughter.

“Do you mean birds-of-paradise and the like?” Torrie asked, rescuing both her parents. “Light skirts? Cyprians? Everyone knows men keep mistresses.”

“Not all men,” her father quickly clarified, noting the icy glare from his pale-faced lady.

“No decent husband,” Torrie’s mother added. “No honorable, loving husband would so demean his wife by keeping a ... a paramour.”

“Was that what the duel was about? Lord Ingall—or Mr. Ingram as he was then, I suppose—and Lord Lynbrook were fighting over a mistress? But the viscount was not wed then, so it would seem Lynbrook was the villain of the piece, since he was married.”

Neither the earl nor the countess met her eyes.

“Oh,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “Ingall’s mistress was Lord Lynbrook’s wife?”

The earl harumphed. “Hearsay only. There was another female, a faro dealer, I think.”

Torrie had to have a drink of the barley water at her side. “Ingall had two mistresses?”

“He could not have been more than three and twenty,” her father blustered. “A mere lad down from university. Wild oats, don’t you know, water under the bridge. There’s no saying he won’t make a decent husband now.”

“Tigers do not change their stripes,” the countess insisted. “Any woman who thinks she can reform a rake into a faithful husband is a fool, and no daughter of mine could be that featherheaded.”

“Well, no gal of mine goes back on her given word. I say she marries the man.”

“And I say she does not. Just how many vices must Viscount Ingall have before you consider him unfit for our child?” She counted off on her fingers: “The man is a womanizer. He is a wanderer. And he is a onetime murderer.”

“Ah, Maggie-o, you cannot know that. Men can change. I was not such a steady old chap in my youth.”

“You never fought a duel.”

“No one ever threatened my beloved,”

That quieted the countess, that and Daniel’s use of his old pet name for her, Lady Margaret O’Neill that she used to be, daughter of the laird.

Torrie tried to speak, but her father went on: “And I would challenge any man who dared offer you insult today, for you are still my beloved, and still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Gammon,” the lady replied, although a tender smile played about her lips. “You know I have lost my shape, and my hair is beginning to show gray.”

Duchamp would have taken her to their rooms right then, to show his lady wife how perfect she still was in his eyes, and in his arms, but he recalled his daughter’s presence. And his daughter’s unmarried state. “Duels are not the point. Besides, Ingall could have changed. Having to make his own way in the world could do that to a lad. They say he has a cool head for business, and there are whispers of service to the Crown. That means he’s a loyal Englishman, despite being tossed out. None of the other frippery fellows hanging on Torrie’s skirts have done anything for the country.”

“You would not permit a soldier to woo her, fearing she’d follow the drum!”

Lord Duchamp ignored that. “The viscount could be tired of his travels and wanting to set up his nursery. He’s the last of his line, according to Mullen, who knows his Debrett’s better than his Bible. At least we know Ingall ain’t after Torre’s dowry.”

“But he is not after her heart, either.”

“That can come in time.”

“What if it doesn’t? They would have a lifetime in a wretched marriage. I wanted better for her. I wanted what we have.”

The earl had to walk around the bed to take his beloved in his arms, no matter who might see. “Ah, Maggie-o, so did I. So did I. But would you not rather have her wed to a brave lad who has proved his worth, than to no one at all? Don’t you want to hold your grandchildren in your arms?”

Lady Duchamp started weeping, to her husband’s and daughter’s consternation. “No, no,” she said when they would have called for her maid, seen her laid down in Torrie’s bed, or called the physician back. “I am merely weary and overwrought at the thought that we might have lost Torrie. I cannot see her lost again, this time to a libertine.”

“But ... but the man is good to his dog,” Duchamp said, making one last try.

The look Lady Duchamp gave him, despite her tears and her wan complexion, could have withered an oak, much less an earl. “Men! Faugh.” She stiffened her backbone, and her resolve. “Well, if you pursue this course, Daniel Keyes, and this man, you do it alone. I will not stay in town to watch my daughter make a
mesalliance,
nor will I help establish a criminal in society’s ranks. I am returning to Dubron.” She named the family’s country seat, in Yorkshire.

“You’d travel to York, now, during the Season?” Lord Duchamp could not believe his ears.

“That is what I said. I am exhausted by the social rounds and the constant need to be somewhere every waking hour.”

She had been looking sadly pulled, the earl admitted. “Then you can accept fewer invitations, attend less balls and such.”

“No, I miss my roses.”

“But you hate the smell of the sheep.”

“I hate the stink of London worse. I shall simply grow more roses. I am adamant. I am going to the country.”

“I shall go with you, Mama,” Torrie finally got a chance to say, her father having sputtered to a standstill.

“No!” they both shouted, knowing she would never marry if buried in the downs, with naught but the sheep herders for company.

“But I cannot stay here without a chaperon,” Torrie pointed out.

“Your aunt is companion enough, with your father’s escort.”

“You mean
I
have to go to those infernal routs and ridottos?” the earl yelped.

Torrie could not match his volume, but her indignation was his equal. “Aunt Ann distrusts all men!”

“Then perhaps she is the best one to advise you about this ill-conceived notion to wed a man of such ill repute. I cannot be party to the travesty of selecting a life’s mate on a moment’s whim. It is contrary to everything I— everything I thought we—believed about love and romance and marriage. Why, you might have thrown your suitors’ cards into a hat three years ago, Torrie, and been done with making your choice long since. Your chances for happiness would have been greater.”

She reached over and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You and your father will come join me for the summer. If you have settled on this course, you can be married from the Duchamp chapel, the same as your father and I were, if the roof does not collapse under the weight of such hypocrisy. Recall, you will be vowing to love, honor, and obey this chance-met churl. Decide carefully, my dear, not in the heat of the moment, not in the heat of Madame Michaela’s fire.”

* * * *

After listening to her father rant and rage for twenty minutes, Torrie feigned fatigue. When he finally left, to complain about female perfidy to his friends at his club, Torrie tiptoed into her mother’s chambers, feeling like a child again. The physician had ordered Torrie to stay in bed for at least three days, and any member of the well-meaning household staff would have reported her disobedience.

Lady Duchamp was supervising two maids in packing her trunks.

“You are really leaving us, then, Mama?”

The countess dismissed her helpers. “We will easily finish this later. After all, I will not be needing most of my finery in Yorkshire.” Then she turned to Torrie. The fact that she did not immediately order her daughter back to bed was an indication of Lady Duchamp’s distraction. “Yes, I really am going away. I am quite looking forward to some time for solitary walks, to read my books, and of course to work on my gardens. You know I have not been feeling quite the thing these last few weeks. A sojourn in the country is sure to lift my spirits.”

“As I cannot.” Waves of guilt were washing over Torrie as she realized how much of her mother’s time had been wasted dragging a finicky miss to Venetian breakfasts and waltzing parties. She never had an inkling that her mother so disliked the social whirl. Why, she was making herself ill while Torrie danced through her slippers and suitors. “You and Papa were right. I ... I should have wed years ago. Sir Eric—”

“Would have made you a dreadful husband, as handsome and sweet-natured as he was. He was too young to know his own mind. Why, he still dangles after a different miss every Season.”

“Then Lord Brondale.”

“Who would have gone through your dowry in a year.”

“Major St. Leger?”

“Would have bored you in a week, reminiscing over his war experiences and recounting his wounds. No, you did right to refuse all of them.”

“On your advice. Can you not stay and help me now, Mama? I truly need your wisdom. You do not have to accompany me anywhere you do not wish to go. Aunt Ann—” Torrie tried not to shudder at the thought of having the sharp-tongued spinster act as her duenna.

“Marrying is a decision you have to make for yourself, my darling. Just use your heart, and not just that thick head you inherited from your father.”

Torrie tried to smile, but she could not help feeling that she was being abandoned. “But how will we go on without you here?”

“The same as you will when you have a household of your own to manage. This is good practice for you.”

“Papa will miss you terribly.”

“As I shall miss him. We have not been apart for more than a sennight since we wed over two decades ago.”

“Then don’t leave, Mama,” Torrie pleaded, the rasp in her voice more from tears than the smoke’s effects. “I need you. I do not know what to do!”

“Silly goose, you are three years older than I was when I wed your father, and I knew precisely what I was about. Your heart will give you the answers. And I have to leave town.”

“You ... have to?”

Lady Duchamp led Torrie to the chaise and drew her down, placing a blanket over her legs and pressing a cup of tea into her cold hands. “Yes, I shall tell you why if you promise not to tell your father.”

Torrie’s mind was working furiously. Was Lady Duchamp being blackmailed? Could she have a lover back in Yorkshire? Had she gambled away her pin money at silver loo? No, none of those, not her mother. She nodded. “I promise.”

The countess smiled. “I am breeding. I was feeling so down pin, I consulted a physician and he confirmed my suspicions. Do shut your mouth, dearest. Your tea is dribbling on my blanket.”

“A ... a baby?”

“Yes, and do not be so shocked. I have not yet reached my fortieth birthday, you know. Some women produce infants well later in life. I thought my chances of providing your father with an heir were long over, to my regret, but now there is a possibility. Or at least of another baby girl for him to cuddle and coddle.”

“A baby brother or sister.” Torrie could not get over it. She jumped up and urged her mother to take her place on the chaise. “Of course you must rest, and naturally you would want to be home at the Hall. Papa will be in alt.” Then the excitement drained from her face as her mother studied the fringe on her shawl. “You do not intend to tell him, do you?”

“Not yet. I cannot. You know how he would wrap me in cotton wool. You are doing it already. And he would insist on coming with me to Dubron.”

“As well he should. We will all go, of course.”

“No. That is why I shall not tell him until the summer. You and he must stay in London and find you a suitable husband.”

“Oh, Mama, what is a husband to your new baby? I can always find an eligible
parti
in Yorkshire.”

“What, among your father’s tenant farmers? Those are fine men, I am sure, but they cannot offer you the life you are used to living. And I refuse to have you dwindle into a perpetual aunt, like Lady Ann.”

Thoughts of turning into a replica of her acerbic aunt did not appeal to Torrie, either. “Then next year. I’ll meet the perfect man next year.”

“When I shall be less able to escort you to town. No, you needs must wed this year, and before the
ton
discovers my condition. Think, darling, if I have a son, you will no longer be such an heiress.”

“Fustian. I have Grandfather’s fortune.”

“But not your papa’s greater wealth.”

“Fine, then I will have fewer fortune hunters dangling after me.”

“You will have fewer gentlemen from which to make your choice. Poorer men can make good husbands, but they would never dare approach you if they cannot keep you in style. No decent man would, at any rate.”