Chapter Four
Latching on to the sound of voices, Daisy and the countess located the source in a cozy upstairs parlor tucked away at the back of the house. There, a well-marinated Redmond Strait stood before a half dozen wizened countenances that bore an uncanny resemblance to human remains they’d seen in the British Museum’s Egyptian Exhibit. Three old ladies sat around a tea table while an equal number of old gents loomed behind them. At their head was a veritable prune of a woman swathed from head to toe in what Daisy had learned was British deep-mourning attire.
Red hitched around at the sound of their entrance and grinned sloppily at the sight of his niece. The countess stammered apologies and, in a choked voice, introduced herself and her protégée. The duke’s family elders spoke not a word of greeting to either.
“As I said,” the one called Lady Sylvia addressed Uncle Red, “we are duty bound to see to the young duke’s interests and honor.” The others at her back nodded, all but one old gent who was listing badly to one side, looking as if he might be slipping into rigor mortis. “After all, there are standards to be maintained.”
Daisy gave Uncle Red an elbow in the ribs and, sensing the gravity of the moment, he rose to the challenge.
“Well, our Daisy—she ain’t exactly standard.” His chuckle made Daisy wince; under the influence, Uncle Red always imagined himself a wit. “But she does take a bit o’ maintainin’.”
The old lady cut a look at Daisy’s wearable flower garden, and Daisy decided then and there that she would never be invited to Christmas dinner.
“Coming back to the matter at hand,” Lady Sylvia continued, “it has been rumored that your niece has blood ties to an old English family. Were that not a possibility, we would not be having this interview. Proper bloodlines are critical to the honor of an old and venerated title like Meridian. Before permitting further contact between the duke and your niece, we must ask for proof of these claims to noble blood. To which noble house are the Bumgartens related?”
This was what she got, Daisy told herself, for recounting family lore as if it were fact. Uncle Red shook his head, seeming confused by the talk of ventilation and old ties and bloody houses.
“Bumgartens?” he blurted out. “Why, they’re common as fleas on yer ol’ hound dog.”
Daisy’s heart stopped, the countess’s jaw dropped, and the old fossils registered astonishment.
“It’s yer Straits that got a kiss o’ blue in their blood,” he continued, meeting Lady Sylvia’s gaze squarely. “That’s Daisy’s mother’s name. Lizzy Strait—’Lisbeth. Just like our Daize here is really Marguerite.”
“Well, then.” Lady Sylvia gave Daisy a look that could have parboiled a lobster. “To what noble house can the Straits be traced?”
He looked down at Daisy and blinked.
“Tell them . . . those names you talked about . . . remember?” she whispered, tightening her hold on his arm.
“Oh.” He shook free of Daisy’s grip to rub his chin, broaden his stance, and tilt his head back.
Daisy held her breath. She had seen him talk his way out of saloon fights and claim-jumping suits and late-night muggings, all while deeply under the influence. She had hopes that he could manage to say something coherent, until he opened his mouth and began to sing.
Dear Lord. It wasn’t even a melody. More a chant with a rising and falling cadence that was littered with odd names and comments about lands acquired and children born under some blanket or other. It was a bizarre performance she had seen part of once before, a few years back, when Red was three-sheets-to-the-wind and feeling even more sentimental than usual. But until this moment, she had never connected it with the vague and oft-embroidered story she’d been told about the Strait family’s beginnings.
Red’s drone began far back in the mists of time with a fellow named Beaufort—a name that sounded appallingly made-up to Daisy. This “Beaufort” fellow took sides against some king or other, and there were battles and knights and ladies who defied their fathers to wed. Along the way there were Wear-ricks and Woodpiles—at least that was what they sounded like when Red droned them. A bunch of Nibbles and dead sons and somebody who fled to “the colonies” just ahead of a hangman’s noose.
Daisy was desperate to shut him up, but he shook off her attempt to halt him and settled deeper into his trance. Her visual appeal to the countess for help went unnoticed; the poor woman was fanning herself, clearly waiting for a socially acceptable time to faint. Worst of all, the Meridian family fossils were staring at her uncle as if he were a freak of nature, like a two-headed calf or a talking pig.
Her matrimonial hopes were going down with all flags flying, and no nudges or tugs on coattails could break Red’s dogged concentration.
Then came a subtle shift in the names and she recognized the Howards, Palmers, Meades, Hazeletts, and finally the Straits. Her heart sank as she realized what was done was done. Come the morning, she’d have to start looking for another duke, or lower her sights to an earl or—if it came to that—even a baron.
Red’s chant ended as abruptly as it began, leaving him a little spent. He lurched forward, dropped both fists on the table with a thump, and gave the old trots a toothy grin.
“That enough for you Me-rid-ians? ’Cause that’s all I got.”
Not an eye blinked and not a breath was taken.
Daisy braced for the blistering rebuke that was surely coming their way. She was wholly unprepared for the old lady to turn to her relatives with an angry nod that elicited a response in kind.
“We shall have to have documentation.” Old Lady Sylvia poked her head out of her shell of black bombazine like a peevish old turtle. “Testaments of authenticity.”
Documentation? For a drunken rant?
The countess roused from her shock enough to assure Lady Sylvia that they could and would most certainly provide proof.
“In a fortnight,” Lady Sylvia added a stipulation.
“But we may have to range afar to delve into estate records and parish archives,” the countess protested. “It may take more than—”
“Two weeks,” the old lady insisted, her countenance tight with intolerance. “We shall have guests at Betancourt in two weeks’ time. Present your proof then and we shall see what we shall see.”
Suddenly past her limit, Daisy stepped between Uncle Red and the old lady with a fierce expression.
“We’ll be there. With all the proof you need.” She caught the old woman’s eye and held it, refusing to defer. “Count on it.”
“What I am counting on,” Lady Sylvia responded acidly, “is the duke’s brother. Lord Ashton will represent our family in the matter, to inspect your ‘proofs’ and determine if they are authentic.”
It took a moment to sink in. Daisy couldn’t have been more shocked if they’d tossed a bucket of cold water in her face. The duke’s brother with the roving hands and dangerous eyes? Sweet Jesus. He was going to pass judgment on her heritage?
“How do we know the duke’s brother would recognize such ‘proof’ if it jumped up and bit him in the—”
“Lord Ashton is something of a scholar,” the old lady declared with enough volume to suggest it was her final word on the subject. “He is exceedingly knowledgeable on the documentation of England’s glorious history. We shall trust his assessment. He is, after all, a prime Meridian.”
Lady Sylvia sank back into her veiling with a wave that signaled the interview was over.
Her face on fire, Daisy threaded her arm through Uncle Red’s and helped the countess turn him toward the door. His performance seemed to have taken the starch out of him; he was wobbly on his—
Standing between them and the door was the duke’s tall, dark, and arrogant brother. His long, muscular legs were spread, his arms were crossed, and his expression fairly glowed with intensity. Daisy cringed. How long had he been there? Had he seen Uncle Red’s performance?
Against her better judgment she allowed her gaze to be drawn to his and saw a slow-forming smile curl the edges of his mouth.
Of course he had.
Ignoring the shiver that ran through her, she forced her chin up and dragged Uncle Red around him and out the door.
“What the devil was all that?” she demanded of Uncle Red as they maneuvered him toward the main staircase. He seemed confused by her irritation.
“Your ancestors,” the countess supplied, leaning past Red to scowl at Daisy. “The scions of noble houses are all taught to recite their genealogy. We should have had someone looking into it, documenting it. Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”
“I didn’t know. I’d heard a few stories, but”—she turned on Red—“where did you get all that malarkey you dished out back there?”
“My pa taught me it.” Red teetered precariously and Daisy motioned for help to the countess, who looked around to see who was nearby before taking a supportive grip on Red’s arm. “Said it was for me to learn and say. Like his pa taught him. An’ his pa before him.”
Daisy groaned at the challenge they faced—proving a lineage based entirely on rum-soaked memory. By the time they got Red down the stairs and sent a footman for their carriage, all she could think about was the promise of trouble on Lord Ashton’s handsome face.
“I need a drink,” Uncle Red muttered, smacking his lips. She could have throttled him. But then he grinned that sweet, lopsided, utterly stewed grin of his and she sighed instead.
“Me too.”
* * *
Ashton watched his quarry collect her dignity and exit the interview with a crimson face. The part where she tried to get the old boy to shut up was priceless. And Aunt Sylvia’s horror at the prospect of being related, even remotely, to jug-bit Redmond Strait was enough to make his night.
He made a sardonic bow to the family and sauntered out, trying to scrub the vision of Daisy Bumgarten’s hypnotic blue eyes from his head.
How did she know about the chant? How did she know to pick those particular families? And how did she get the old boy to muff the names so convincingly? He rolled his shoulders and sternly refocused his thoughts. The only thing that really mattered was that he’d just learned how resourceful she truly was. He mustn’t underestimate her.
By the time he reached the grand staircase, she and the countess were already on the lower level, ushering her uncle to the front doors.
So she wanted to be a duchess, did she? His smile took on a wicked cast. It was time Miss Bumgarten learned a few of the facts of noble life.
* * *
Ashton rose earlier than usual the next morning, dressed to the nines, and presented himself at his quarry’s London address at half past ten.
As he was admitted to the sizeable house, he noted the marble-clad foyer, sweeping curved staircase, and portraits and gilt-framed landscapes that lined the entry hall. Daisy had surrounded herself with the trappings of old English aristocracy, perfect for receiving guests and insinuating herself into London society. The countess’s influence, no doubt.
“Miss Bumgarten is not yet receiving callers,” he was informed by the imperious old butler. Ashton thrust his hat and gloves into the servant’s hands with patrician imperative.
“I am not a ‘caller,’ per se. I am here on important family business. Inform Miss Bumgarten that Lord Ashton Graham is waiting in the drawing room. And”—he held up a finger as the man started to sputter—“I’ll need some coffee. I had something of a late night.”
“Really, sir—this is most—you cannot possibly—”
The butler trailed anxiously after Ashton but knew better than to interfere. Proper servants knew to honor all requests—even outrageous ones—from noblemen. And Miss Bumgarten had managed to acquire proper servants to staff her proper house.
Ashton grabbed the ornate handles and pulled open the massive drawing room doors to reveal a shocking tableau of enterprise and exhaustion. Coffee cups, a drained brandy decanter, several half-finished cigars, and carelessly shed shoes littered tables and carpet respectively.
A guttural snuffling sound drew his eye to the figure of Redmond Strait sprawled over a club chair, snoring away. The westerner’s collar and evening coat had been tossed aside and his vest and viciously starched shirtfront were flung open. His stocking-clad feet rested on an ottoman and his arms hung limply over the sides of the chair.
On the windowed side of the grand chamber Daisy Bumgarten was face down, on a card table littered with well-used writing paper, pens, and ink. The laces of both her gown and corset had been loosened. Her bodice was spread enough to reveal tantalizing expanses of bare back, and her breasts were in very real danger of spilling out of her slackened bodice onto the tabletop. A choking sound from the butler told Ash that the servant was just as shocked as he was by the sight.
“R-really, m-milord.” The butler’s stammer said that such a tawdry scene exceeded even his most jaded expectations.
“As I said,” Ashton managed, his gaze fixed on Daisy’s luscious dishabille, “critical family business. Coffee, man. Trust me when I say that your mistress will need it.”
As the butler hurried out, Ashton strolled forward and forced his gaze from his quarry’s delectable figure to the papers on the tabletop beneath it. He picked up one page and perused the bold script, thinking that it suited her before registering that he held a list of names, locations, and offspring.
He glanced around, reading in those pages and the room’s disarray what had taken place. She’d come straight home and spent the balance of the night documenting the old boy’s ramblings and picking his brain for details of her lineage. His narrowed gaze came back to her. Or making up said details. Many a title-hungry mama had resorted to embroidering or even fabricating a family tree in order to snag a husband for—
He halted and frowned at Redmond Strait.
Where was that ambitious mama, anyway? What was Daisy Bumgarten doing rambling about the continent in the care of a rummy old uncle and a sponsor whose respectability and social connections clearly had been bought?
Deferring that question, he pulled another page from under her elbow and looked it over. Damn, if she hadn’t copied the old boy’s words exactly, mistake by priceless mistake. He gave in to the urge to stare at her. Just now, sprawled over her writing like a schoolgirl over her sums, she didn’t look like a wily and ruthless title hunter.
He bent to speak directly into her ear but found himself inhaling the perfume of her warmth, tracing her unguarded features with his eyes, sweeping her half-naked back with a tactile glance. She seemed so fresh, so sensual, so—Get on with it, man, before you start salivating.
“Miss Bumgarten.” He smacked a hand on the tabletop, startling her awake. She jerked up, blinking in confusion and batting down a piece of writing paper stuck to her cheek. He grinned at the sight she made with her eyes widened by shock and a blot of ink on one cheek, deliciously unaware that the tops of her nipples were peeping over the rim of her bodice. “I suggest you pull yourself together. You’re in danger of satisfying my rather prurient curiosity.”