Chapter Twenty-Two
Ashton watched Daisy leave with a warm kernel of satisfaction glowing in his chest. It was regrettably short lived.
“You black-hearted, double-dealing scoundrel! Damn your eyes!”
Bertram’s curses ignited a storm of invective and vitriol. Ashton was momentarily stunned; he would never have guessed these desiccated gourds were capable of such violent emotion. Spittle and false teeth both flew.
“Out!” Aunt Sylvia snarled, rising halfway from her chair and flinging a boney finger toward the door before being overcome by her own fury, clutching her chest, and sinking back into her chair. “Get out, ungrateful cur. We’ll see naught but the back of you, from this day forward!”
Ashton retrieved and tucked Huxley’s book under his arm and strode out of the morning room, making sure the door slammed with a wall-trembling bang. He had done the right thing, skewered the old vultures who had held him and his brother hostage for most of their lives. It was probably a deathblow to his income and prospects, but just now it felt like a victory . . . no matter how Pyrrhic.
Reynard Boulton loomed up before him in the main hall. One look at the fire in Ashton’s eyes and the granite-hard set of his jaw told the Fox that something important was up.
“Ash, old chum—where are you off to in such a hurry?” He turned on his heel and kept pace as Ashton stormed out the doors.
“I’m going to get soused proper—probably drink twelve pints and start a fight.” He glanced at the elegantly turned-out heir to the Tannehill title. “You interested?”
“Sikes, yes!” Reynard squared his shoulders with a sly look. “Always up for a good, old-fashioned tear.”
They headed for the stable and the quickest transport available to the nearby Iron Penny Tavern.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Daisy freshened her hair and changed her dress into corded silk appropriate for a walk with a special gentleman, and hurried outside to find Arthur. He stood, a study in brown, scowling at a pond filled with water lilies and ducks. “Your Grace!” She approached with a beaming smile, but stopped dead the moment he looked up.
“Cursed ducks . . . I suppose they have to eat, but do they have to eat my water hyacinth?” He scowled and pointed. “Look at this—a ragged mess.”
She was taken aback; she had never seen him so cross. It took a moment for her to regroup and understand both his pique and her disappointment. He had no idea what had just transpired in the morning room and no idea that they were free to court in earnest now. Her excitement drained, replaced by determination.
Now—she sensed with an insight that was uniquely feminine—was the time to be understanding and helpful.
“Good Heavens, Arthur.” She swayed as she moved closer. “What has you in such a mood?”
He turned to her with an exasperated huff. “First it was the stables, then the butterfly garden, and now the duck pond. I just noticed the roof is showing wear and the glazing on many of the windows is cracked or missing. I went around to the entry and, dang me if the front doors aren’t in a sad state, too. What’s happened to Betancourt? Everywhere I look something needs tending or mending or replacing.”
“Well, houses do take upkeep,” she said, inserting her arm through his and urging him forward, leading him away from the view that disturbed him so. “Weather and years take a toll. And Betancourt has stood for—what?—hundreds of years? It is probably time for another round of care.”
“I thought Betancourt was being cared for. My uncles . . .” He halted and looked into her upturned face, conflict plain in his expression. “They have been my trustees since I was a boy. I expected that they were caring for the house and estate.” His frown deepened. “And now I see so much has been neglected.” He straightened and looked away. “I must bear the blame, for ignoring my duties. I’m not a boy anymore.”
“You’ve been occupied with your studies,” she said. “But now that you’ve taken notice, I’m sure you’ll have things righted in no time.” She turned to face him, alight with determination. “Tell you what—how about if I help you make a start. On the butterfly garden.”
“You wouldn’t think it too boring?” he asked, looking a bit less like a scarecrow that had the stuffing knocked out of him.
“I would love to help.” She gave an impish grin. “Society—all that tea and talk—bores me. I’d love to have something to sink my teeth into. Who decided to put your butterfly garden in a bog in the first place?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
After a fruitless search for the head gardener, who was reputed to be off fetching supplies of some kind, Daisy suggested looking for a plan or a map of the estate. That took them into the old duke’s study, where they found Uncle Bertram and Uncle Seward involved in a letter that had just arrived. At the sight of his nephew, Bertram dropped it to the desk and covered it with his arm.
“What is that, Uncle?”
“Nothing!” and “A letter,” Bertram and Seward answered together.
“From whom?” Arthur leaned across the desk and caught sight of the posting. “Addressed to me?”
“A note from the Countess of Dorchester,” Bertram said, trying to sound offhand, while Seward nodded anxiously.
“What about?” Arthur pulled on the corner of the letter, and after a moment Bertram had to let it go. Arthur raised it into the window light and read it aloud.
“‘. . . my heartfelt thanks for sending such a talented and remarkable soul as Dr. Edmonds to us. He has been a gift beyond price and has become almost a part of the family. Under his devoted care, the earl has rallied and is seen to improve daily. We believe he will soon be able to join us at table and to resume a healthy and fruitful life. Your Grace, we can never thank you enough for your kindness and generosity toward us. If we can ever be of service, you have only to ask. Your indebted servant, Rosalyn Lytton-Small, Countess of Dorchester.’”
He looked at his uncles in confusion.
“She thanks me? I’ve never heard of the woman, much less sent—”
“We—ahem—heard of the earl’s grave illness and sent our personal physician to him,” Bertram said, his manner so oily Daisy was surprised his hairpiece didn’t slide from his head. “An act of charity that we knew you, with your generous nature, would approve.”
“We made certain it was done in your name, Arthur.” Tall, thin Seward attempted an ingratiating smile that came off like a bad case of dyspepsia instead. “Everything we do is done to your credit.”
“Very well.” With a troubled look, Arthur tossed the letter onto the desk and glanced about the overstuffed bins, shelves, and cabinets. “We’ve come for a map of the estate. I know I saw one in here somewhere.”
“In my study? What were you doing in here?” Bertram stiffened slightly and glanced at Seward. Arthur was looking around and didn’t notice, but Daisy caught it well enough.
“Not long ago. I saw—there!” Arthur headed for a wooden bin on the floor beside a stuffed leather chair. Seward reached him just as he began to look through the rolled up documents.
“Let me,” Seward commanded, inserting himself between the bin and his nephew. “I believe I know just what you need.”
“And plans for the garden,” Arthur added, watching his uncle fumble with document after document.
“What garden?” Bertram came around the desk.
“The butterfly garden. The architect’s plans. The fellow we hired to design and site the garden. You hired.”
“Perhaps you have a plan of the garden itself?” Daisy suggested to Seward as he pawed through the maps.
“What business is this of yours?” Bertram snapped, drawing a dark look from Arthur.
“I just thought it might be good to consult the plan and learn why it was placed where it is,” Daisy answered, checking her rising temper.
“I can’t recall the fellow’s name,” Bertram said in clipped tones. “I shall have to consult the ledgers.” He caught Arthur’s displeasure. “We have a great deal to do, Arthur. We can’t be chasing about after your whims day after day.”
Arthur’s mouth was a grim line as he took the maps from Seward’s hands and escorted Daisy out.
They settled in the library, unrolling the maps on a table and looking them over to locate the various features of the grounds. After a while, Daisy paused and straightened.
“I don’t mean to seem critical of your family, but did it seem to you that your uncles were anxious to have you leave?”
“It’s always like that,” Arthur said, frowning as he scanned a second diagram. “Uncle Bertram doesn’t like his things disturbed.”
“His things?” She had to bite her tongue to keep from using language that would have shocked Arthur. “Surely all the documents concerning the estate are yours.”
Arthur sagged, and then braced himself on the table with his fists. “I suppose they are.” He hesitated, frowning. “I should have been tending to Betancourt’s affairs instead of . . .”
He didn’t have to finish it; the look on his face said it all. He was suddenly feeling the weight of his title. Ashton’s words in the Bodleian Library came back to her.
A duke’s home wasn’t his own. His time wasn’t his own. And someday his children wouldn’t be his own.
Such was the life she would choose by marrying Arthur.
It had to be worth it. Arthur had to be worth it.
Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped around the table and gave Arthur a kiss on the cheek.
He straightened with a look of surprise. And when she stayed close, he took the hint and lowered his lips to hers. It was soft and exploratory this time. More leisurely and vaguely pleasant. But in her mind and heart, there was an ocean of difference between her current response and the feelings she experienced when Ashton kissed her.
When the kiss ended, she lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in them, and forced a smile that she prayed would pass for the pleasure she hadn’t felt.