Chapter Six
Ashton blew through the front doors of the stately but somewhat past its prime Severin House, shouting orders for his valet to assemble his kit and sending a serving boy to the local livery to have his horse ready for the train in half an hour. As he headed for the main stairs, a voice from the drawing room halted him in his tracks.
“Ashton, old chum.”
Oh, God. Not now. He turned his head.
Reynard Boulton, heir of the Viscount Tannehill, thorough reprobate and spectacular gossip, was leaning against the door frame with his arms tucked across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. A sly look of assessment lighted his face as he took in Ashton’s exquisitely groomed appearance and evident unease.
“In need of money again?” Ashton raised his chin and continued to the staircase and up. “Out of luck, I’m afraid. I’m skinned myself.”
“You wound me,” Reynard said with exaggerated petulance, pushing off with his shoulder and sauntering to the center of the hall. “Suggesting that I only seek you out to put the touch on you.” He sniffed, making a show of forgiving the slight. “As it happens, I come bearing news.”
Ashton stopped dead in the middle of the stairs. His very skin contracted. To ignore such an entrée would be to court disaster. “The Fox,” as Reynard was known in fashionable circles, had a nose for scandal unequaled in the Western Hemisphere. If there was disgrace or depravity to be uncovered, the Fox found it first. If recklessness and ruination titillated society’s imagination, it was the Fox who supplied the details. If trouble and discord beset noble houses, the Fox was the first one to lay it about. And sometimes—chilling thought—even to stir it into existence.
The fact that he had brought news to Severin House could only mean that one of its hapless residents had fallen under Reynard’s jaundiced gaze and was about to become the subject of a campaign of curiosity. Since Ashton’s own waywardness had long since been diced and digested by society’s appetite for scandal, it could only be his poor brother who was about to fall under the Fox’s quizzing glass. And there could only be one aspect of his brother’s dull life that would be of interest to London’s premier gossip.
“News of what?” Ashton turned fully on the step, staring down at the future viscount. “Or should I say ‘whom’?”
“Surely you won’t make me divulge this juicy bit here in the hallway,” Reynard said, with a wicked glint in his eye. “I’ve had a long night of it, Ash. Haven’t been to bed yet, and I’m positively famished.”
“Damn it, Reynard—I’ve a train to catch.”
“Oh? And where are we going that requires such urgency? Hmm?”
Trapped. We. He wouldn’t put it past Reynard to follow him all the way to Oxford, if he didn’t hand over something. Swearing softly, Ashton stomped back down the steps, instructed the butler hovering nearby to lay on breakfast in the dining room, and led the treacherous Fox down the hall and into that little used chamber.
Coffee, scones with cream, and peach preserves were served immediately, thanks to the cook’s penchant for rising early and being prepared to provide whoever had furnished the upstairs beds the previous night with a suitably romantic breakfast. She always kept morning-appropriate delicacies at the ready, along with effective remedies for grievous overindulgence and intimate infestations. She was worth her weight in gold, their cook.
“Ummm.” Reynard savored the aroma of the coffee and scones. “Your cook is a marvel, Ash. Where did you say you found her, again?”
“I didn’t.” Ash sipped, feeling his empty stomach tighten in complaint around the coffee. “In fact, I make it a point never to say.”
“Selfish of you,” Reynard said, dishing himself heaps of peach preserves. “But then, I do appreciate the desire to protect a valuable asset.” He carefully bisected a scone and slathered it with clotted cream.
“About this juicy bit you have . . .” Ashton probed with less finesse than he would have liked. He needed to get past this and on to the station.
“You’re not eating?” Reynard studied him and chewed thoughtfully.
Ashton glared, hating the way Reynard was dragging this out. He grabbed a scone, ripped it open, and spread it with cream and preserves. When he’d taken a huge bite, Reynard smiled.
“Now, isn’t that better? Never take news on an empty stomach.”
“What news?” Ashton demanded, aching to be rid of Reynard.
“Word is that your brother is the object of a matrimonial campaign.”
Ashton managed what sounded like a hearty laugh—only part of which was forced. “Artie? Matrimonially targeted? Don’t be absurd.”
“Is it absurd that the only female he squired around the floor at Mountjoy’s ball was a rich American with a countess for a sponsor?”
How the devil—it took Ashton a supreme bit of effort to make his face and body appear casually alert.
“You were there?” He tipped a bit more coffee into his cup. “You saw this for yourself?”
“I arrived shortly after, but whispers were to be heard. And several of your family members were spotted arriving. . . Lady Sylvia, I believe, and the estimable Baron Beesock—your Uncle Bertram—and your Uncle Seward, among others. A veritable gathering of the family elders.” Reynard pursed his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t have figured the Meridians for offering up the family coronet to the highest bidder.”
“I fear you have it wrong, Fox. Artie is as clueless as ever. The family creaks and groans insisted he attend, hoping to see some signs of life in him. Did your sources not tell you that there was another who danced with that entrepreneurial princess?”
“Another?” Reynard paused, digesting that, and reached for more coffee. “Who might that have been?”
Ashton let his answer begin with raised eyebrows, and then slowly added a broadening smile until he was the very picture of smug insinuation.
“You?” Reynard sat back, surprised but quickly dismissive. “An untitled, penniless second son?”
“Yes, well.” Ash’s grin tightened at that reminder of how little he had to offer. “It makes as much sense as Artie marrying a beautiful, filthy-rich heiress.”
At that moment, the butler arrived with eggs, kippers, potatoes, and bacon. The pause gave Ash a moment to collect himself and realize that Fox probably already had the wealthy American in his sights, watching as she made forays into London society. He relaxed in earnest this time. Before him sat a potential source of knowledge about Miss Bumgarten.
“So what do you know about this well-heeled American?” he asked, not bothering to hide his curiosity. “I take it you’ve seen her and probably even been introduced.”
“Not yet, but I have done some investigation.” Fox piled his plate with food before continuing. “Family fortune made in silver, and quite a sum. She is a beauty, though not of the delicate Pear soap variety. Walks at a fast clip, pours her tea into houseplants when no one is looking, rides a huge, black devil of a horse—everywhere—and laughs loudly enough to give her sponsor the vapors.”
“You’re certain she’s here to snag a title? Perhaps she’s just on a grand tour, acquiring a much needed bit of continental polish.”
“A wardrobe of Worth gowns, a house near Hyde Park, and a pile of invitations engineered by the Countess of Kew?” Fox stuffed a kipper in his mouth and talked around it: “If she were just touring, she’d have taken a hotel suite and made friends with whatever displaced French nobles she found in the lobby.” He chewed, swallowed, and grinned. “No, no, my boy, she’s on the hunt. And it will be entertaining to see where she aims her considerable arsenal of feminine wiles.” He eyed Ashton while helping himself to more potatoes. “And as for Artie’s missing attractions . . . I assure you, a dukedom can make up for any number of manly deficits.”
Ashton appeared to take that into consideration while, in fact, reeling from the possibility that Fox might be right—at least where Daisy Bumgarten was concerned. She was a determined wench; he’d give her that. And Artie had partnered her through a whole dance or two, which had to be something of a social milestone for him. He recalled the fond way Artie had gazed at her silk butterflies, and he froze.
Good God. Had his elder brother actually been gazing at the chit’s bosoms? If so, things were worse than he thought. He had to get to Oxford and Huxley right away.
“Lovely breakfasting with you, Reynard, but I must be on my way.” He rose, plopped his napkin by his mostly bare plate, and finished his coffee in a couple of gulps. “Family business. Uncle Seward’s birthday, you know.” And he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the Fox with a mouthful of food and a look of surprise.
“Wait—the old cod was actually born?” he called after Ash.
Reynard chuckled at the irritable way Ash waved off the comment as he made his escape. His news seemed to have lit a fire under the usually unflappable Meridian spare. Now why was that?
He intended to find out. If there was anything Reynard Boulton couldn’t countenance, it was the existence of a secret he didn’t possess. He sighed, poured himself another coffee, and tucked into the eggs again. No sense in letting a proper breakfast go to waste. It would be simple enough to find out where Ashton Graham was headed.
* * *
The train to Oxford seemed to take forever. Daisy paced the aisle of the richly appointed first-class cabin between the countess’s and Uncle Red’s knees, checked on their horses in the baggage car three times, and fidgeted through the countess’s lecture on the history and structure of the university they were about to visit. When she got to the part about the importance of the “dons” and the protocol with which they must be addressed, Daisy groaned aloud.
“You must listen, Miss Bumgarten.” The countess shook her finger. “Whatever you do, show proper deference for the professor. As a rule, Oxford dons are not fond of women. It hasn’t been that many years since the faculty wasn’t even permitted to marry. Most colleges were founded by donations made as a duty to the church, you see. Historically the university produced clerics for the Church of England. Celibate and abstemious ones, at that.
“Women have always been considered lesser intellectual lights, unequal to the rigors of scholarship, so having a young woman poking around in his field of study may offend Professor Huxley. He must be approached carefully and with great attention to his scholarly sensibilities.”
There was that word again. “Sensibilities.” Daisy sighed and straightened the peplum of her jacket. She was sick of hearing about Englishmen’s easily offended sensibilities. You’d think they were all delicate flowers, to hear the countess talk. But to her it was just another way of saying “thin skinned” and “poor loser.” The English male took major offense at being challenged or discomforted in any way. He couldn’t bear being outdone at cards, on horseback, or even in conversation.
“Don’t worry, Countess,” she said with a wicked smile. “I’ll behave. Before I’m through, he’ll be dishing up facts on Charlotte Fitzroy like they’re bangers an’ mash.”
The countess closed her eyes and groaned quietly, no doubt regretting ever allowing Daisy and her uncle Red to hear about the unique culture and cuisine of the neighborhood pub. Now they couldn’t let a day pass without a reference to “bangers an’ mash” or “bubble an’ squeak” . . . usually accompanied by riotous laughter.
As the train pulled into the Oxford station, Daisy let down the window to stick her head out, and in came coal smoke, laden with the tang of machine oil, the smell of greasy food from the box-vendors, and the sweat-and-wet-wool odors of the mass of humanity crowded onto the platform. She coughed and quickly raised the window glass.
Red found them a cab and made arrangements for a second one to carry their luggage and Daisy’s newly hired lady’s maid, Collette, and groom, Banks. Daisy’s horse, Midnight Dancer, and Uncle Red’s favorite mount, Renegade, were inspected and tied on behind the second cab, with Banks seated on the luggage to watch over them.
Soon they were rolling through the city with Daisy’s nose practically pressed against the window. Everywhere she looked something was pointing heavenward; spires and steeples topped every major building.
“I see what you mean about this place.” She glanced at the long-suffering countess out of the corner of her eye. “More da—danged churches than anyplace else on earth. No wonder they’re all abstainers.”
“Abstainers?” Red, who had dozed through the countess’s earlier lecture, looked horrified and headed to the other side windows for evidence.
“The architecture,” the countess said pointedly, peering at Daisy from under her hat brim, “is meant to elevate the inhabitants’ thoughts to a higher plane. A clear lesson on how one is expected to behave in these precincts.”
The brick-paved streets soon gave way to cobbled lanes lined with ancient houses, shops, and the fronts of grander establishments that the countess informed her were the “colleges” of the famed center of learning. Everywhere the streets were thick with young men garbed in black robes, some carrying books and folders and striding purposefully, others carrying a snout-full of drink and struggling to stay upright. Red looked vastly relieved as they passed a noisy ale hall, and he scratched his bristled chin.
“May be my kinda place, after all.”
The Holloway House was a dignified stone structure, provided with all the modern conveniences, including indoor plumbing “en suite.” Lush, parklike gardens stretched off toward one of the college greens. A small livery lay behind the main grounds and a well-regarded dining establishment took up a significant part of the main floor. At least they would be comfortable during their search for proof of her connection to Charlotte Fitzroy.
The countess announced she needed time to rest and refresh from the journey, but Daisy was eager to get started. After the countess retired, she wasted no time in setting off with Red to find Queen’s College. Following directions from the concierge of the hotel, they soon located the place.
An imposing iron gate opened onto the street, with a gatehouse beyond guarding the entrance to a quadrangle formed by buildings made of light-colored stone. A hound-faced fellow in a dark suit, wearing a bowler hat, confronted them the minute they stepped through the ornate arch. When they asked after Professor Broadman Huxley, he scowled and said the professor wasn’t there. It took a winsome smile from Daisy and the offer of a fragrant cigar from Red to get him to divulge that the professor didn’t lecture or give tutorials these days; he was “emeritus” . . . whatever that was. A young fellow in a black robe strolling through the gate heard him and paused to translate “emeritus” into “pensioned” for them. Apparently, the illustrious professor now spent most of his time on the college’s estates.
“But it’s important that we speak with him about his work on the Fitzroys.” Daisy produced a look of distress calculated to elicit gentlemanly assistance. “Could you point us in the direction of his estate?”
At the younger fellow’s insistence, the porter drew them something of a map. While he worked, Red slipped out to locate the nearest ale hall and secure a nip of the Irish and bottle of Scottish whiskey to say thanks.
They arrived back at Holloway House to find the countess standing in the lobby with her arms crossed and her foot tapping in annoyance.
“You walked into the town without a word to me?” she said.
“I was eager to get started,” Daisy said, producing the map. “We went to the college and found out the professor is ‘rusticating.’”
“He’s what?” The countess looked taken aback.
“Rusticating? That’s what the young fellow in the black robe said.” Daisy looked to Red, who nodded affirmation.
“‘Rusticating’ is a term used when a student is sent down from college for some breach of rules or standards,” the countess declared. “Surely a renowned professor like Huxley was not expelled for misconduct.”
“Well, I don’ know what he did, but he got a pension fer it,” Red put in, roundly confused.
That mollified the countess, who raised an eyebrow. “A sad attempt at humor, then. Come. It is much too late to begin scouring the countryside for this ‘estate.’ We should have dinner and begin our search the first thing in the morning.”