Chapter Thirty-Two
Daisy put off going downstairs the next morning, enlisting Collette’s help to cure her swollen eyes and prepare for the most difficult day of her life. A poultice of black tea, it seemed, was the remedy for such swelling. Collette fussed about, anxious because she had never seen her mistress so tense and dispirited, or with eyes puffy from crying.
When Daisy descended with flagging steps to the morning room, she was shocked to find Arthur sitting among her family, chatting amicably and looking only slightly more fatigued than she was.
“Daisy, my dear.” He rose and poured her a cup of coffee, then ushered her to a seat. “I have decided to go to London with you,” he said. “I know you will be busy shopping and visiting”—he covered her hand on the table with his—“but surely you can find some time for your future husband.” His smile and his hand on hers were oddly determined.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said. “We have plenty of room.”
“I have to meet with Mr. Drexel on marriage matters—contracts and such. But I’ll have time of an evening for some socializing. Besides, your Uncle Red could use some male companionship. Yesterday the girls were using him as a yarn rack”—he held up his hands, a foot apart, in demonstration—“for their needlework.”
And there it was—no scene, no hysterics, not even any discussion. Her future and the betrothal that yesterday had been in shambles would go on as planned. Harmony had been restored, though she had no idea how or why.
As they climbed aboard carriages later and headed for the train station, trailing a mountain of baggage and two horses, Daisy felt her mother’s eyes watching her, even as she watched Arthur. But he showed no signs of his previous temper and rejection. He was in all things the doting groom-to-be.
It almost made her feel worse than if he’d railed, denounced her to her family, and tossed them all out on their arses. Almost.
By that night, as they settled into their London house, some of her angst and suspicion had subsided. She waited until dinner and some music from Claire’s violin had mellowed her mood to invite him out onto the terrace with her. He took her hand, smiled, and accompanied her.
“You’re wondering,” he said, leveling a thoughtful gaze on her.
“I am. A day ago, you were ready to denounce me to the world.”
“I never would have, Daisy. I was sore and my pride was singed. Fortunately I came to my senses in time to prevent real damage.”
“You truly want the wedding to go on?” She searched his face in the light from the French doors. “Knowing”—she couldn’t bring herself to say those hurtful words to him again—“what you know?”
“I am convinced that you and I can be amicable partners. And that love will grow between us as it should. Besides, we won’t have Ashton around Betancourt forever. I’m making it part of the wedding settlement that he receive funds to go to America to start a new life.” He studied her reaction without giving her any insight into his own. “Does that comfort you?”
“Yes.” She drew a deep breath and her tension drained as she saw the sincerity in his face. Nobility seemed etched into his every feature and texture. “Very much so.”
He saw her to the bottom of the stairs in the entry hall, and this time his good-night kiss fell exactly where he intended: square in the middle of her forehead.
* * *
Monsieur Pirouette, dressmaker to the wealthiest and most elegant ladies of London society, dropped everything to attend Miss Daisy Bumgarten’s request for a wedding gown and trousseau. Anything for the future duchess and her lovely young sisters, he crooned, ushering them into his lair a day later. The place was a warren of fabric stacks, cutting tables, newfangled sewing machines, dressmaker forms, and mirrors that created an illusion that there was no end to the monsieur’s domain. His assistants whisked the girls into dressing rooms where they were measured, fitted, and dazzled by a rich array of fabrics and the latest styles from Paris.
It turned out to be a small matter to get M. Pirouette to dig deep into his contacts among London’s elite for the whereabouts of one Reynard Boulton, otherwise known as the Fox. By midafternoon, a message Pirouette had sent was answered in person by none other than the Fox himself.
No stranger to backdoor dealings, he appeared at the alley entrance to Pirouette’s and was quickly shown to a fitting room where Daisy was dressing behind a screen.
“Ah,” the Fox said as she peeked over the top of the screen and broke into a beaming smile. “You. I would leave this instant, but I am apparently a glutton for punishment.”
“Good to see you, too, Reynard,” she said, sliding gingerly out of a skeleton of a dress that was full of chalk marks and silk pins. “You probably know more about who goes where than anyone in London.”
“Silver-tongued temptress,” he said dryly. “You’re trying to turn my head.”
“Just to persuade you to help me find . . . someone.” She stepped into another bit of the seductive armor fashionable females wore in the battle of the sexes and dragged it up onto her shoulders.
“Dare I guess who?” he said, picking up a pair of silky knickers with one finger and tilting his head, imagining.
“I suspect you know. I need to see him and I have no idea where to start. He’s not at the place he usually stays—that Sever It House.”
He smirked at her mispronunciation. “Severin. And that’s because he’s skinned, again, and spending his nights trying to enlarge what little coin he has left at the tables. Could be at any one of a dozen places.”
“Is he . . . all right?” She gripped the top of the screen, standing on tiptoes, not caring that her anxiety for Ashton showed.
“He’s Ash. He’ll survive.”
“Can you find out where he’ll be tomorrow night and send me word?”
“I suppose I could. If I were sufficiently motivated,” he said, rocking back, clearly considering how he might make use of such information.
“How about . . . I promise never to lock you in a room with my three sisters,” she said, with wicked intent.
His jaunty mood dampened. “You don’t have to be so vicious. A simple ‘please, milord’ would have sufficed.”
An hour later, Reynard entered the bar of the Savoy and spotted Redmond Strait propped at the mahogany railing with a glass of fine Irish in his hand. The roguish old prospector had sent him an urgent message asking to meet at the elegant hotel’s bar . . . about the same time Daisy’s message arrived asking for a meeting. Red waved him over and offered him a drink.
“Scotch,” he told the bartender, and they adjourned to a nearby table.
“What is this about?” Reynard asked, propping the head of his walking stick against the table and removing his hat and gloves, setting them aside.
“You know a whole lot o’ folks, right?”
“I think that could be fairly said of me.” Reynard had never considered modesty a virtue.
“Well, I need to find somebody.” Red threw back the rest of his Irish and motioned to the bartender for another.
“And who might that be?” Reynard studied the westerner, dead certain now that the two favors he was undertaking would align, saving time.
“Ashton Graham. He’s gone missin’.”
“Ummm. And what do you want with him?”
“I wanna wrap my fingers ’round his throat and throttle him within an inch o’ his miser’ble life.” Red scratched his grizzled chin and narrowed one eye, taking on a piratical air.
“Oh, well, you may have to get in the queue, old boy.” Reynard nodded to the bartender, who set his drink before him and sipped. “The way he’s blowing through gaming establishments in the unsavory precincts of town, he’s making a fair number of enemies. As clever at cards and dice as he is, he has only one neck, and far too many people want to wring it.”
“Damn.” Red turned that over in his mind, not liking the sound of it. “Looks like I’ll just have to get to ’im first.” He leaned over the table toward Reynard, who flinched in spite of himself. “Where do I find ’im?”
* * *
The Chancery was a gambling den where wealthy patrons from Mayfair dared to rub elbows with a dangerous, sometimes criminal crowd. It was quite the thing in certain well-heeled circles for men to dip their toes in an exciting bit of iniquity. Situated near the river, west and south of St. James, the gaming house occupied what was once a wealthy trader’s town house, and was run by a woman whose beam and tonnage rivaled the White Star Line’s best steamer.
Beulah MacNeal sat on a substantial settee on a mezzanine overlooking the bustling floor of the Chancery, and she spotted them the minute they came in, dressed in rumpled suits, with hair sparse and eyes shifty. . . . They were out of place and seemed to know it. The shorter, skinnier one jumped at every burst of laughter or crack of a dealer’s shoe. The taller, heavier one was clearly looking for someone and maneuvered them to a clear space near the bar, where they could see the trade arrive. As they waited they filched food from the trays coming out of the nearby kitchen, filling their mouths and then pockets with stolen morsels.
They didn’t have to wait long; in lumbered two robust specimens she knew to be knucklers—men who did messy jobs for people who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. She watched as the pairs met, talked, and struck some kind of bargain.
* * *
“He’ll be here any time,” Bertram, Baron Beesock, told the hired bruisers. “I’ll signal like this when he enters.” He pulled on his ear.
“Remember,” Seward put in, from behind Bertram’s shoulder, “he’s no novice to fisticuffs, so don’t let him get in the first swing.”
“Forget niceties. A knock on the head from behind is as good as a punch in the face to drop him,” Bertram said, narrowing his eyes. “Once he’s down, you can take your time breaking ribs and gouging eyes. Make him pay. But before he passes out, be sure to tell him his uncles say “Go to Hell.”
“What about th’ money?” one of the punishers demanded.
Bertram handed over a small, worn bit of leather that jingled.
“Feels light.” The fellow peeked inside and scowled. “The guv said we wus to collect first.”
“We’ll be watching from the roof,” Bertram said. “When it’s done, you’ll get the rest.” As the brutes backed off to watch the door, he smirked. “Ashton does well at the tables, he’ll have money on him. There’s a certain bit of justice, don’t you think, in him paying his own punishers.”
“We better hope he has enough on him to do so”—Seward watched the way one of their hirelings popped his big boney knuckles, and swallowed hard—“because we’re flat broke.”
* * *
Far above, Beulah beckoned over one of her muscular peacekeepers, handed him a scribbled note, and sent him with that message to the fellow who had been asking after this pair . . . the Fox.
* * *
Ashton paused a moment outside the door of the Chancery, feeling a bit too sober for the kind of action he would see inside London’s most infamous gambling hell. Just setting foot in the place was asking for trouble and he’d already had more than enough trouble to last a while. He explored his tender jaw, moving it from side to side. Sore losers were becoming an epidemic in London’s underbelly. But just a few more nights and he’d have enough to make his way to New York and a new life.
Grimly he set his face and shoulders and entered the place. Gambling was the one activity that seemed to stave off thoughts of all he was leaving behind. Of whom he was leaving behind. He strolled the perimeter of the playing floor, sizing up the competition and choosing a table of likely players. He had just snagged a brandy from the bar and was headed to a seat when a small mountain stepped into his path. Before he knew it, the bruiser was pushing him back behind a nearby column, where another big bloke waited to yank his arms behind him, and wrestle him to the back door.
He resisted, but calling for help never crossed his mind. This was a known hazard of his recent occupation—hard persuasions from unhappy tablemates and henchmen with more beef than brains. He’d dealt with such before and wasn’t overly concerned when they shoved him out into the damp, ill-lit alley. He stumbled and righted himself, turning to spread his arms and flash a disarming smile.
“Gents, this is some sort of mistake.” He watched one approach from the front with an ugly smile. He turned slowly, trying to keep both knucklers in view, but lost track of the second one. “I don’t know who sent you, but I’m quite sure I’m not the object of your strenuous intentions.”
“Yeah, you are, milord,” the closer one said, showing yellowed and decaying teeth that made Ashton pray there would be no biting involved. The next instant he was reeling from a powerful blow to the back of the head—crumpling slowly, seeing stars—and struggling to remain upright.
He got both feet under him, just in time to look up at the ham-sized fist headed straight for his nose. Instinct kicked in and he dodged, sending that blow raking the side of his head. With his skull pounding and ears ringing, he staggered and scrambled to focus the pain into a some kind of response.
A heartbeat later, he dove at the big man, knocking him back against a wall and delivering a series of furious punches. Beneath his obvious fat the bruiser bore layers of protective muscle, but that was not enough to keep him from feeling Ashton’s blows. Guttural curses and grunts of pain were all the bully-boy could manage. And then came another attack from the rear—something hard and heavy that landed across his ribs and knocked the breath from him.
Ash fell, rolled, and tried to fend off well-placed kicks and more blows with what looked to be a weighted truncheon. They’d come prepared to do real damage. In that split second, Ashton realized he was in a fight for his life.
* * *
Arthur arrived at the Chancery in a cab that refused to wait. As it drove away, he stood on the cracked pavement, eyeing the light and noise coming from the shaded windows, and the heavy door that opened only from the inside. If only he’d been able to convince the Fox to accompany him. The bounder said he had a previous commitment and flippantly wished the duke “good hunting.”
The door was opened by a large fellow with a pox-ravaged face and a piercing glare. Arthur provided Boulton’s name and that he was under instructions to consult Mrs. MacNeal, the proprietress. Whispers were passed to smaller men dressed as waiters, who led him to the rear of the establishment and up a set of substantial stairs. He had noticed the mezzanine overlooking the playing floor as he followed them, but had failed to see the very large woman sitting above it all, watching the trade below with a keen interest.
“The Fox sent you?” she asked, looking him over.
He nodded, momentarily dumbstruck.
She waved a hand at a nearby chair and he perched on the edge of it, trying not to stare at her greatly exaggerated curves and overly abundant bosoms. The candlelight surrounding her was kind, but couldn’t soften the calculating glint in her eyes. Her melodious voice was as compelling as a stage magician’s.
“You are looking for someone,” she crooned. “Who?”
“Ashton Graham,” Arthur said, feeling very much out of place. “My brother. I was told he would be here tonight.”
She looked to the runner standing nearby, dressed in black. He bent to her ear and after a moment she nodded. “He was here. I believe he met with some gents who escorted him outside . . . into the alley. Not really my business, what happens outside my walls. Perhaps you’d like to go and see if he’s still there.” She nodded to her assistant, who led Arthur down the steps and around tables of well-lubricated gamblers and revelers to a rear door.
The heavy door slammed behind him the minute he stepped into the dim alley, and it took a moment for him to realize that the thrashing bundle on the ground was Ashton and that the hulking fellow nearby was kicking the living daylights out of him. Shocked, Arthur looked around and saw a second bruiser rising from a pile of refuse with a vicious smirk. His brother—they were beating Ash!
Before he realized what he was doing, he seized the first thing at hand—an oak stave from a broken barrel. Raising it with both hands, he came up behind the bastard who had just gained his feet, and with a fury he’d never experienced before, swung that wood for all he was worth.
The force of the blow exploded up his arms and jarred his very teeth, but he lunged forward and swung back the other way in a blind fury. The thug bent with the first blow, gasping for air, but the second blow connected hard with the back of his head and he dropped like a plank.
Arthur’s presence registered with the second man, who turned from Ash to brandish his truncheon at Arthur with a sneer. “You wanna taste o’ this, pretty boy?” The second bruiser’s foot caught as he lunged, and he stumbled straight into Arthur’s swinging club.
Arthur called to Ash and headed for him, but his opponent shook off the blow and came upright. Ash whipped around on the ground to grab his ankles and send him sprawling. Seconds later, Ash was on him, landing blows of pain and fury, snarling, incoherent with rage.
Arthur came to his senses first, and grabbed Ashton—“Enough! He’s done!”—pulling him back, then off the inert thug.
Everything was still except their pounding hearts and heaving chests. As the roar of blood receded in his head, Arthur helped Ashton to his feet and led him over to a pile of discarded pallets and broken barrels. He pushed Ash to a seat on an overturned half barrel and inspected his face.
“You look awful,” he said, wincing and producing a handkerchief.
“Then not half as bad as I feel,” Ashton said, gripping his ribs beneath his battered coat and then dabbing at his bleeding mouth and forehead with Arthur’s accessory. “God. That was damn near the end of me.” He looked at the motionless forms splayed nearby. “Those bastards are pros.”
“Pros?” Arthur felt his chest with a hand and took a deep breath.
“Professional muscle, bully-boys, thugs. They had weighted truncheons and brass knuckles. Somebody paid to set them on me.”
“Who hates you that much?” Arthur scowled. “Besides family.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Ashton said with a chuckle that sent pain spearing through his midsection.
“Who’s laughing?” Arthur said, remembering his irritation. “You’re a real bounder, you know that. The old trots weren’t half wrong about you.”
“Wh-a-at?” Ashton stared at his elder brother in disbelief. “You just rescued my arse and now you’re calling me every name in the book. What’s gotten into you?” He was struck by another thought. “What the hell are you doing here in the first place?”
“I came here to have it out with you.”
“Over what?” Ashton turned to him in dismay. “What have I ever done to you?”
Arthur shoved to his feet and a second later Ashton followed. He was none too steady, but he was not about to take his brother’s ire sitting down.
“You know damned well!” Arthur snarled, and a moment later his fist landed in the middle of Ashton’s face with a crunch.
“Aghhhh!” Ashton staggered back, stunned by the fact of the blow as much as the force behind it. “Shit, shit, shit!” He held his nose and felt blood run. His milquetoast, bug-obsessed brother had just broken his nose! He straightened—holding his damaged nose—into Arthur’s righteous glare. “What the hell was that for, you little shit?”
“For taking my bride away from me before I ever had a chance with her,” Arthur bellowed, and swung hard at Ash again. This time, Ashton was better prepared and blocked the blow, though at some cost. His entire body was aching, throbbing, and in some places on fire. Instinct honed by years of down-and-dirty fighting made him retaliate with a counterpunch.
“Owwwwww!” Arthur grabbed his jaw, staggered, and then wiped blood from his mouth. Looking at it, his eyes flew wide. “You hit me!”
“You deserved it, you horse’s arse.”
“After I just saved your bloody life? You hit me after I saved you?”
“I’ve saved yours a hundred times, you numskull. You only survived Eton because I fought for you every damned day! I had more nosebleeds—” It registered that Arthur’s anger had to do with Daisy. He thought Ashton had—“I never did anything to Daisy or with Daisy. She was yours from the first day we met and that never changed. She was determined to marry you and she deserves to.” For a moment his physical misery gave place to the ache in his heart and a growing sense of dread.
“Something happened.” Ashton glared back at his elder brother. “What happened? What did you do?”
“What did I do?” Arthur stuck out his chin. “I asked her to marry me, honorably and decently. She said yes. Then I found out she’s in love with you, my own brother. You went and stole her heart before I had a chance to win it.”
“What makes you think she’s in love with me?” Ashton felt his heart pounding harder than when he was fighting.
“She told me so. I asked her flat out and she said she did.”
“You asked her? What kind of damn fool move was that?”
“I saw the way you looked at each other, the way she glowed when she talked to you, the way you softened around her. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I could see the truth when I caught you kissing her!” And he threw another punch.
“Goddamn it, Artie, don’t make me—”
But he did. Again and again. They traded blows that rocked their senses and sanity and finally brought them, bruised and bloodied, to their knees.
* * *
On the nearby roof, Seward pulled on Bertram’s arm, trying to get him to abandon the spectacle unfolding in the alley below.
“Come on, Bertram.” His voice was constricted. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“And miss this? It’s even better than what we planned—the bastards are bashing each other senseless.” He almost giggled with pleasure.
“But when those bruisers wake up, they’ll be mad as hell.” Seward inched back to the parapet of the Chancery’s roof for another peek.
“We’ll be long gone and they’ll have no clue who we are or where to find us,” Bertram scoffed, then brightened. “Wish we could hear what they’re saying. Whoa, did you see that one?”
* * *
“This is one bad idea, Daize,” Red said as they exited the cab onto the pavement before the Chancery. “If he’s here, what’ll you say to ’im?”
“It’s no good talking to her.” Reynard Boulton turned from paying the cabbie, then ushered them toward the forbidding front door. “She’s in love.”
“I never said that,” she said, frowning at Reynard.
“You didn’t have to,” he said dismissively, then pounded the knocker on the door. It swung open and the beefy doorman with the scarred face broke into an odd smile at the sight of him.
“Your Lordship.” He nodded and opened wide to admit them.
“Is she here?” he asked.
“She’s always here,” the fellow said, snapping his fingers for a servant to take the men’s hats and walking sticks. Daisy surrendered her shawl. The doorman led them across the bustling gaming floor to the stairs at the rear.
Daisy had never seen such a place—music fast and loud, men in evening clothes and women in scandalous gowns, crystal chandeliers glowing, champagne flowing. Gaiety was everywhere, but with an edge that took her to her limit of comfort. As they climbed the stairs she asked Reynard who “she” was and he just smiled.
Moments later she was stunned to be introduced to a woman of middle years and prodigious bulk, with the fashion sense of a Parisian madam. Mrs. MacNeal was in the unique position of owning this establishment because of either remarkable talents or a remarkable life. Daisy had no right to judge either, so when she offered her hand and smiled, the woman seemed surprised and produced a lovely smile.
“You’ve had business tonight,” Reynard said as they stood before the lady.
“Two brothers,” she said, sipping from her champagne glass. “Two rough boys. And two old fellows who ate like they were starving.” She threaded her fingers together with a sly expression. “They fit into one story. And now you, Reynard, and this lady and this gentleman, who is no gentleman.” She gestured to Red, who flushed and grinned.
“The old men,” Reynard said. “What did they look like?”
“One with a bull neck and a belly and temper to match. The other a weasel, quick and easily frightened. I believe they’re on my roof at the moment.”
“Could you see they come down?”
She smiled and nodded. “For you, I can.”
“Where are the others, Mrs. MacNeal?” Daisy ventured. “It is important we speak to them.”
The proprietress turned to her majordomo. “Show them the rear door.”
“As ever,” Reynard said, kissing her hand without a trace of mockery, “I am in your debt.”
Moments later, they stood just inside the rear door, gaping at the sight of Ashton and Arthur in the alley beyond, battered and bloodied, propping each other up in order to take swings at each other.
“Say you’re going to marry her,” Ashton snarled, giving him a shake. “She’s got her heart set on being a duchess—she’s worked for years to come this far. You’re not goin’ to let her down, you hear?”
“You’re so keen to see her wed—marry her yourself!” Arthur snapped, locking his knees and leaning against Ashton’s shoulders.
“You’re the one with the damned title. You’re the one who can make her a duchess, so you’re the one who’s going to do so.”
“S-says who?” Arthur was beginning to slur his words through bruised and swollen lips.
“Says me,” Ashton panted, scarcely able to see for the sweat and blood running in his eyes.
“Yeah, well, I decided I don’t want to get married.” Arthur was struggling to stay upright. “Did you know there are women everywhere? I did not know that. All kinds of women. Like those sisters of hers. Have you seen them?” He tried to whistle, but it came out as mostly air. “Pretty as pictures—no, as butterflies. There’s women all over th’ place, and I never even had one! It’s not fair that the one I get stuck with wants you.”
“You’re not stuck with her, you jackass. You’re lucky to have ’er. She’s an angel, a marvel among women. She knows stuff you can’t imagine. I saw her pull a calf out of a cow, single-handed. She can make a horse dance in time to music, and she’s not afraid of coyotes or sidewinders or polecats—just ask Red.” He shook Arthur by the coat. “She spent two damned years tryin’ to catch a duke and you’re gonna marry her or else.”
* * *
Daisy stood, dumbfounded, watching her betrothed husband and the man she loved threaten and beat each other, each trying to convince the other to marry her. It was shocking and absurd and utterly humiliating.
She reached for Red’s hand as he stood beside her, and when he would have charged out into the alley, she held him back, pleading for restraint with hurt-filled eyes. He put an arm around her as she listened and her heart seemed to slide to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees.
Then it came, the final blow.
“So, she loves you, but you don’t want to marry ’er.” Arthur seemed to be running out of steam for this head-to-head collision. He pulled out his most devastating charge: “Either you don’t love her, or you don’t want to get married. Which is it?”
She froze, listening, blinking away the tears collecting in her eyes.
The pause seemed to go on forever.
Ashton dropped his arms and disengaged from Arthur.
He stood looking down, and his shoulders rounded slightly.
“I love her. Curse your eyes, I love her with everything in me.” He looked up with anger so old it had grown cold and grim. “Don’t you see? I have nothing to give her. Nothing. No home, no position, no income, no title. No future. And she deserves all of that and more.”
Watching him recount his lack of worldly goods, rank and position, her heart protested that none of that mattered to her any more. A moment later, she finally understood; it still mattered a great deal to him. More, in fact, than she did. It was pride, his precious male pride, that kept him from seeing that he could have all of that and so much more . . . if he would only open his heart and let go of the past to embrace the future.
Frustration boiled up in her, hot and potent.
How dare they toss her back and forth like some damned cricket ball?
She pushed away from Red and dashed through the door before Reynard could stop her. She halted a few feet from them, spread her feet, and propped her fists on her hips. If their ears hadn’t been ringing from the blows they’d taken, they probably could have heard the lightning flashing in her eyes.
“You miserable, low-down, yellow-bellied—” She halted and turned to Arthur. “I thought we had settled the matter of our marriage. You told me it would go forward, and in good faith, I believed you. Now I hear you whining about how you’d rather enjoy the entire field before settling on just one flower. You regret not having sampled the charms of many women? What a heart-warming complaint from a man who two months ago hardly knew how to ask a lady for a dance. You say you don’t want to marry me because I love someone else? Well, I’m not sure that will be a problem for long.”
She turned on Ashton, who stared at her as if her hair were on fire.
“And you. You love me so dearly, you would give me everything you desire. How gallant. Did it never occur to you to give me what I want? I as much as told you that I love you, and you stood as dumb as a doorstop, refusing to say what was as plain as the nose on your face.”
“I didn’t want to burden you. I thought it would be easier if—”
“If you didn’t say it out loud, it would be easier on your conscience when you handed me over to somebody else?”
“You were determined to marry a duke, to make a future for your sisters.” He looked into her eyes. “I was trying to give you what you want.”
She narrowed her eyes and stepped closer, landing equidistant between them. “Well, how lovely. Here is what I want: a husband, a week from Saturday at the church in the village of Betany. I’ll be there in my white wedding gown with flowers and organ music and the vicar all ready to go. One of you idiots had better show up with a ring and a damn big apology.”
She advanced on Ashton, considered his injuries up close, and grabbed his shirtfront, pulling him down so they were nose to nose.
“Just to help you make up your mind . . .” She pulled him down further and planted a bone-melting kiss on his damaged mouth that more than made up for the pain it caused.
She turned to Arthur, said, “I don’t believe I ever got to demonstrate the real possibilities in a wife’s affections,” and kissed him with enough heat to cauterize the splits in his swollen lip. He staggered, dazed, when she released him.
As she headed for Red and Reynard Boulton, who stood gaping at her from the gaming house’s rear entrance, down the alley came the Chancery’s doorman and another burly employee. Before them, being shoved roughly along by grips on their collars, came Bertram and Seward, looking considerably worse than at their last encounter. “You.” She approached near enough to see their unshaved faces, rumpled clothes, and the resentment burning in their eyes.
“You’ll never be a duchess,” Bertram snapped. “Even Arthur—that worthless, ungrateful dolt—knows better than to mingle his noble blood with the likes of yours.”
Ashton moved like quicksilver and landed a fist hard on the wretch’s jaw, sending him reeling. If it hadn’t been for the doorman’s grip on his collar and coat, he’d have sprawled in the filthy alley. He turned to Seward, who put up his hands, pleading to be spared.
“We didn’t mean to. We thought . . . you needed . . . a-a—”
“A few broken ribs?” Ashton gave him a tap on the jaw, after all.
Daisy, head held high, blew through the knot of people in the doorway, and Uncle Red and Reynard Boulton—both torn between watching what would happen next and following her—exchanged looks and then headed after her. As one of the Chancery servants hailed them a cab, she recovered enough to spear Reynard with a dangerous look.
“I’d better not hear a word about this—now or ever. Because if I do, and I’m not married nine days from now, I just might decide to marry you.”
Reynard blinked, looking truly unsettled by that threat.
“My lips are sealed.”
* * *
In the alley, Bertram and Seward were dropped between their hirelings and sat mutely trying to recover. The doorman looked around and gave Ashton an approving nod. “Anything else you need, milord?”
“A constable or two,” Ashton said, trying not to grin and make his lip bleed further. “Or four.”
“Yes, indeed.” Minutes after he ducked inside, they heard constables’ whistles in the nearby street.
The hired thugs were roused and taken into custody along with Bertram and Seward. “They’re good friends,” Ashton put in. “If I were you, I’d be sure to put them in a cell together.”
Wicked delight bloomed in the head constable’s face.
“A fine idea, guv.”
“What?” Bertram froze as he was being hauled to the Black Maria. “You can’t do this. I demand a separate cell. I am the Baron Beesock—”
“Never heard of ye.”
“I’ll have your job for—”
Ashton threw an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and turned him toward the still open door of the Chancery.
“If she ever kisses you like that again,” he said a bit too calmly, “you’re a dead man.”
Arthur laughed, despite how much it hurt.
They were met by the doorman with a tray containing two substantial glasses of liquor. “Mrs. MacNeal thought you might need this. But she asks that you take it where you are.” His grin was wry and a bit chilling. “Wouldn’t want to scare the customers.”