Chapter Twelve
The viscount’s home was a stately stone manse set in a park of venerable oaks and elms. Liveried footmen met Daisy, the countess, and Red at the door and showed them into a large salon decorated in gold silk damask, thick Persian carpets, and down-stuffed Louis Quatorze furnishings. Daisy’s heart quickened as a dozen faces turned to greet her. After the last two days, she could only think that each of them was assessing her and cataloging her value by some inscrutable noble standard.
Lady Esseme turned out to be a short, round woman with a pretty face and a contagious laugh. Her husband, the viscount, was moderately tall, dignified, and not without a streak of dry humor in his conversation. When he learned Red had spent most of his life in America’s untamed west, he informed his wife that Red must be seated beside him at dinner so he could ask a thousand and one questions as they dined. Present also were a baron, another viscount, their lady wives, and a pair of dowagers who didn’t seem to like each other much. One had brought her nephew with her.
Daisy was busy trying to memorize a dozen names with a trick the countess had taught her, when she found herself being drawn forcefully by their hostess to meet a younger man “of some renown.” She looked up and found herself caught in the pale gray gaze of Reynard Boulton, who was being introduced as a something-or-other to the Viscount Tannehill. Tannehill was the other viscount present—the exceptionally thin man whose name she had just committed to memory by comparing him to a stork.
“Miss Bumgarten.” He broke into a brilliant smile and reached for her hand almost before she offered it. “How lovely to see you again.”
“And you, sir,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry as dirt.
“You have met?” Lady Esseme asked, glancing at the countess, who seemed taken aback.
“I had no idea.” The countess’s smile was thin as she glanced at Daisy. “Who introduced you?”
“Ashton Graham,” Boulton answered for her. “Lovely to see you again, Lady Evelyn.” He released Daisy to take the countess’s barely offered hand. “We met at Holloway House. In the stables, actually.” He turned that diamond-sharp gaze on Daisy. “Miss Bumgarten was caring for a magnificent beast of a horse and I wangled an introduction out of Ash. You mustn’t blame Miss Bumgarten, Countess, I have a way of getting what I want, and I most certainly wanted to meet the lovely Miss Bumgarten.”
“He is such a rascal,” Lady Esseme said, rapping him on the sleeve with her fan. She tilted her head toward Daisy and lowered her voice. “Don’t doubt for a minute that he speaks the truth. He does get what he wants. But he’s so charming and so devilishly handsome that we have to forgive his devious ways.”
Far from taking offense, Boulton laughed and placed a hand over his heart. “My errors and indiscretions go before me, announcing to the world that I am sinful and flawed, but also”—he waggled his brows—“fun.”
Lady Esseme’s laughter drew the others into it and even Daisy chuckled at his audacious manner. It was only when they went in to dinner and she found herself seated beside him that she realized she would have to be on guard. Her dear, departed father had always said: “When a man tells you what he is, you’d best believe him.” Reynard Boulton had just pronounced himself an unrepentant sinner and a self-centered scapegrace . . . with an interest in her. His words to her as serving began confirmed it.
“Fair warning, Miss Bumgarten. Tell me nothing you wouldn’t want to see printed on the front page of the Times.” He managed to look abashed, but the expression disappeared so quickly, she realized it was an act. “I cannot keep a secret to save my soul. In fact, I can’t keep a secret to save anyone’s soul.” Then he chuckled and turned that charming smile on her again. “Now, tell me everything you know about everyone you know.”
She stared at him for a moment, wondering how a man could be so openly wicked and yet be accepted in such elegant company.
“I am afraid I have to disappoint you, Mr. Boulton. I’m new in England and haven’t met many people.”
“But you have met Ashton Graham, so you must have had some sort of adventure.”
“In a library?” She winced for effect.
“And the stables.” The words were strung together with oily insinuation. “Mustn’t forget where I saw you together.”
“You were in the stables, too, Mr. Boulton. Did we have ‘an adventure’ as well? Lands, what imaginations you Brits have.” She shook her head and concentrated on the soup being ladled into her bowl.
* * *
“You didn’t tell that scapegrace anything, I hope.” The countess whispered in her ear as the ladies retired to the sitting room while the gentlemen brought out their cigars. “He jests about not being able to keep a secret, but in fact, he has made tales of indiscretion and scandal his vocation. Guard your every word. And for Heaven’s sake, do not mention the duke’s name. Mr. Boulton will use whatever you give him to sink you like a rock.”
Forewarned is forearmed, Daisy thought later as she saw him bearing down on her across Lady Esseme’s golden salon. A “gossip-hawk” who apparently saw a tasty morsel in her. She sighed tightly. Could he somehow sense the mother lode of indiscretions she harbored inside her fancy clothes?
She smoothed her skirts around her on the sofa near the card table, where gentlemen and ladies were partnering for a game of vingt-et-un. Through dinner she had responded to Boulton’s questions with bits of western wisdom and cowboy lore that gave him a laugh but nothing more. She could tell that by the end of the meal he was frustrated by her simple but effective defense, and the look in his eye as he settled beside her on the settee said that in this next round he would be sharper.
“So, what do you think of our friend Ashton?” He came right out with it, no beating around the bush.
“Oh.” She adopted a smile. “I hardly know him well enough to call him a friend or to have formed an opinion. Except that he seems to know a lot about historical matters. I’ve recently become something of a family historian myself. Interesting stuff, history. It’s so . . . old.”
He laughed in spite of himself and eyed her in a way that said he was revising his idea of her. “Historian, eh? A rather bookish interest for such a vibrant, horse-loving young woman, wouldn’t you say?”
“An interest sparked by my travels. All those dusty old ruins with columns and castles with turrets. You know in Rome, Italy, they have one temple from the time of Julius Caesar that is still standing?” She let her wistful admiration shine. “We don’t have anything like that in the States.” She sighed for effect. “I guess we’re busier making history than studying it.”
“Be sure to tell Ashton that,” he said with no trace of sarcasm. “I’d love to hear his response.”
“Why? Would he find it ‘cheeky’? I think that’s the word.”
“He would find it a sacrilege. He’s drunk deep from the well of academia, and believes those of us who bear no initials after our names are lesser lights in the firmament.” He swept a hand across an imaginary sky.
“So, he’s a snob?”
“Absolutely. And a hypocrite. All mind over matter, until the ‘matter’ has lovely curves and pouty lips. Then his true nature comes out.”
“True nature?” She blinked. More than once. And it worked.
He gave her a patronizing smile and she silently blessed the countess and old Chuck Worth for giving her such an effective disguise.
“He’s something of a rake, Ashton Graham. In with the fast crowd at St. James. Carouses with the prince when he’s got the gilt.”
“Guilt?”
“Gilt. As in gold, my dear. He’s often strapped for funds, but the ladies don’t seem to mind. Prominent names have been linked with his.”
“How disturbing. Professor Huxley led us to believe he was something of a scholar.”
“The old cod would. Ash was his favorite student. He tried everything to get Ash a seat on the faculty, but the dons wouldn’t hear of it. He was a libertine, they said—unfit for the sober and godly pursuit of knowledge.”
“Tell me more.” She leaned in and saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly. She smiled. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
He smiled and patted her hand, eager to recount an old story for a new audience. “The duke’s and Ashton’s father died early on, and Arthur became heir to their bachelor uncle’s title. Artie was a quiet, bookish child, but Ashton was the opposite. If it hadn’t been for their old nurse, he wouldn’t have survived the thrashings up to age seven. That was when they were sent away to school. Eton. There, Ash stood up for his brother—scrapped and fought back when they called Artie a toady little bookworm—which, in fact, he was. Always had his nose buried in some tome or other and hated the playing fields and ‘manly’ pursuits of pranks and fighting. When he became the duke at twelve, they reeled him home and set tutors on him. Ash stayed on at school, where he became the opposite of Artie: brash, stubborn, quick with his fists, and fond of the suds.”
“Suds?” She frowned.
“Ale. He went on to university, where he did well in spite of his loose-living ways. A social whirlwind, he was—invited everywhere for his presentable looks and entertaining wit—until the mamas started to complain and the papas started to threaten. There were rumors of duels, and he withdrew to more jaded company. Raked Hell itself, it is said. Make no mistake, my dear, he is most amusing company. Until he isn’t. I won’t trouble you with a list of families who have barred him from their doors.”
“Then, I must be wary of his presence from now on,” she said, watching the way he studied her face. What was he trying to do? Warn her of the dangers of Ashton’s company, certainly. But why would he do that?
“What are you doing in England?” he asked in lowered tones.
She felt a sudden chill. He was a student of scandal; did he sense there was more to her than a painstakingly acquired facade of manners? Had he heard things? London was full of well-heeled travelers....
“Have you ever been to New York, Mr. Boulton?”
“I have not had that pleasure,” he said, with a barely concealed condescension that hinted he had no idea of her reputation on the other side of the Atlantic.
“If you had, you would know why I decided to travel. It is big, dirty, and bustling, and the darnedest collection of human beings you can imagine. Park Avenue swells who light cigars with twenty-dollar bills, down to laborers who work dawn to dusk and still can’t buy enough food to keep body and soul together. Filth, smoke, and factories of all kinds taint the air, but the city still seems to collect people and money from all over the world.” She looked past him into a sudden, unwelcome vision: Mrs. Vanderbilt and her covey of acid-tongued gossips. “And those with hour-old fortunes work to distance themselves from those whose fortunes are only half an hour old.”
After a moment, he spoke, giving her a start.
“So, yours is a half-hour fortune, is it?” he asked. His intense gray eyes said he already knew the answer.
“Silver has no age, Mr. Boulton.” Her entire body tensed. “It has existed since the beginning of time and will continue until the end. We Bumgartens are just fortunate that it landed in our lap for—”
“How selfish of you to take up all of Miss Bumgarten’s time, Mr. Boulton.” Lady Esseme descended on them with a glint in her eye. Daisy looked around to find the countess watching anxiously from across the room, and she rose with a rueful expression.
“Mr. Boulton was tutoring me on the finer points of family history.” She gave him a determined smile that she hoped would quell any questions raised by her responses. “For which I am most grateful, sir.” With that, she joined her hostess and the countess at the newly vacated card table, and breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
It was another full day before the countess received a reply from her friend in Bristol and still more time before they were able to acquire tickets on a train. First class, it seemed, was very much in demand . . . though when she saw the first-class cabins bound for Bristol, Daisy wondered why. The compartments were not half as plush as the ones from London to Oxford; they were paneled in mismatched oak, their brass fittings were worn, and the finish on the leather upholstery was beginning to crack. But in all honesty, no amount of comfort or luxury could have soothed Daisy as the repetitive clack of the wheels on rails rasped against her nerves.
By noon, she was pacing again and insisting on trekking back to the baggage area to check on the horses. Red and the countess had tried to convince her that Banks would see to their beloved mounts, but she insisted on visiting them herself.
She stopped in the dining car, where she obtained a couple of carrots, and then made her way through general seating to the baggage car. She opened the door, expecting to see Banks draped across a shipping crate or propped against a grain bag beside the horses, but stopped dead at the sight of Ashton Graham stroking Dancer’s head and feeding him an apple.
The sound of the door alerted him to another’s presence. He glanced over his shoulder, then went back to petting her horse. She drew herself up and quelled the urge to press a hand to her racing heart.
“What are you doing on this train?” she demanded, hoping that she sounded more composed than she felt.
“How else was I to get to Bristol? I suppose I could have ridden horseback for days or hired a coach. But I’m not as fond of saddle sores as you apparently are, and coaches are slow and expensive. All in all, a train seemed the best choice.”
“And you just happened to choose the same train we’re on?” She reached for Dancer’s halter and scowled. “You followed us.”
“I did,” he admitted, relinquishing the horse to her. “I have to know where and how you obtain documentation of your ancestry. How else am I to authenticate your findings?”
It was plausible, curse his hide. Why did everything he said have to seem so reasonable, when every sensible conclusion about his involvement warned that he was not to be trusted? She stroked Dancer’s head and neck. As the countess never failed to remind her, he was here at his hostile and condescending family’s insistence. And yet, to this date, he had been more help than hindrance.
Why was that? And why would he bother to try to talk her out of her pursuit of his brother when he could just discredit her findings? Lord knew, the evidence for a noble ancestor was slim enough.
“You’re homesick,” he said, his voice low, lulling, and too damned close for comfort.
“What?” She turned halfway to frown at him in the dim light filtering through the screened upper windows.
He stood close by with his long legs spread, his arms crossed, and his gaze intent.
“Why would you say that?”
“That’s why you visit your horses so frequently and insist on taking care of them personally. You miss your home out west.”
It was a declaration of just how keenly he’d studied her. It should have alarmed her and sent her storming back to the safety of her first class accommodations. Instead, she felt a worrisome warmth rise inside her.
He had guessed a truth that she could not, would not reveal to anyone. If her beloved Uncle Red knew how she really felt, he would pack her up and head for New York in a heartbeat. And the countess had invested so much time and effort, and recruited so many of her own personal connections to her protégée’s progress that it would be seen as her personal failure if Daisy withdrew now. It was a campaign in which she could no longer retreat. She must win or . . . win.
“Suppose I am. What of it?”
“Why don’t you go home, Daisy Bumgarten? Back to your horses and big sky and magnificent mountains.”
“You know why,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze. From the warmth in his voice, she already knew what she would see there. She offered Dancer a carrot and the big horse gave it a halfhearted nibble.
“English noble life is not for you.” He stepped closer and she pulled back. “You deserve better than a marriage that is nothing but a contract to duty and obligation.”
“You’re trying too hard. Hanging crepe all around, trying to convince me to pack it up and go home. Why is that? If noble life is as bad as you say, why do families like yours fight fang-and-claw to hang on to every last shred of it?”
He was silent for a moment, and then stepped to the other side of Dancer’s head.
“Because they’re arrogant, greedy, and too lazy to strike out and make a life for themselves.” His low, resonant voice vibrated her very fingertips.
The big horse turned to him, nuzzled the hand he offered, and then butted his head into Ashton’s chest, insisting on a cuddle.
Daisy’s jaw dropped as Ashton smiled and stroked the horse’s head. Dancer only did that to one other person in the world—her. Curse that four-legger’s faithless hide. She had always thought animals were superior judges of character. Dancer was apparently as lacking in moral fiber as she was—because right now all she wanted to do was curl up in Ashton’s lap and have him stroke and caress her the same way! Watching his hands—those strong, beautiful hands—moving gently over Dancer’s lustrous coat, she felt her resolve melting like butter on a hot biscuit.
“Does that describe you, too?” she said, trying to put at least a few brash words between him and her warming skin and weakening knees. “Arrogant, greedy, and too lazy to make a life for yourself?”
“I confess to a history of free-spending and high-handed ways. But I would like to think at least some of my pursuits have had a higher purpose.” He didn’t look at her.
“Like your study of history,” she said. “You might have been a professor, except for those free-spending, high-living ways.”
“Who told you that?” He looked over Dancer’s neck with a frown.
“It’s true, then. You wanted to be a professor and were refused.”
“Just as you wanted to be a New York debutant and were refused,” he countered. “New money, new manners, and too much spirit. So you decided to prove your worth and advance your sisters with a duke for a husband.” He stepped around Dancer to confront her. “And you picked Artie. Naive, good-hearted, easily dazzled Arthur, Duke of Meridian.” He loomed over her, his hands clenched at his sides. “Can’t you see that marrying him would be disastrous for you both?”
“You think I would embarrass him,” she charged, desperate to put words between them. His male scent was pouring like steam into her blood.
“Your manners, when you decide to use them, are impeccable,” he countered.
“You think I couldn’t make him happy.”
His laugh came from deep in his chest and had a knowing edge.
“Sweetness, you could make a fence post happy.”