“She is tellin’ people that it’s almost like you aregladLord Childress is dead,” Betsy said.
“And so I am,” Daisy said. “Though I ought not advertise it.”
“But here’s the best part,” Betsy said, hurrying on, “it seems nobody does care. The grocer said nobody in town likes Lady Montague, what with her sneering down her nose and complaining all the time. When her cook came in the other day, he sent over the worst of his produce and he don’t care if he loses the business. Lady Montague can eat old potatoes for all he cares of it.”
Daisy stifled her laughter. She did not know what else Lady Montague was up to, and was rather afraid to find out, but it tickled her that the lady had been given old potatoes for her trouble.
“Then,” Betsy said, “our Mrs. Broadbent told the grocer if he was to hear of any more talk like that, he was to give the talker the what-for. She told him how to do it and he says he’s at the ready.”
“No, truly not,” Daisy said, laughing.
“Oh yes,” Betsy said. “Mrs. Broadbent calls it the laundry list speech. You just get in your mind all of your complaints, and then you say them all together with hardly a breath. It’s overpowering, she says.”
“I suppose it would be,” Daisy said, thinking back to Mrs. Broadbent’s what-for to poor Mr. Deer.
“And last night, the staff was all so moved at hearing the story that they swore they’d give any talkers the what-for too. Even Mr. Bellamy claimed he wasn’t above giving a good what-for when necessary. Though, he put his foot down at getting one.”
“Goodness,” Daisy said, catching her breath from laughing, “What else did you talk about?”
“Oh, after that it was mostly about the cat. Our Peggy said she spied Lord Dalton giving it a bath in the garden and talking to it about fleas and how it was a disgusting wretch, though she swears he said it fondly. Mr. Bellamy tried to claim the cat was a noble creature, or would be when it was not quite as mangy and had filled out a bit, and so it was worthy of the lord’s notice. Nobody could help but fall to pieces laughing over it and Mr. Bellamy got up and ordered his boys to make cocoa to settle his feelings.”
Daisy had not had any idea so much was discussed in the servants’ hall. She supposed she should have realized it. Her ideas of their table being filled with a vague silence never made any sense, now that she was considering it. As it happened, it was rather lively.
But how extraordinary. Her housekeeper had harangued a grocer in her defense and the staff were ready to give out Mrs. Broadbent’s particular style of what-fors.
And then, of course, Lord Dalton had washed a cat.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Charles had not set foot in the rudimentary kitchen of the cottage, except to retrieve a tray of cured meats or cheeses and rolls that Flanagan had sent over. Irish papist or no, the fellow understood that a gentleman might want to eat at any time of day and had supplied him accordingly.
However, he’d finally admitted to himself after one too many flea bites around his ankles, that somebody was going to have to bathe the wretched cat. He could not see his way clear to asking anybody lest he be viewed as favoring the cat, and so he’d determined to do it himself.
As he’d searched the cupboards for rags and soap, he came upon a bundle of letters tied up in ribbon and stuck far back in the silver drawer. After he’d wrestled with the cat and water and soap with only a few scratches for his trouble, he’d taken the letters to his decrepit drawing room and laid them out on a table.
As he read through them, one by one, a picture of Lord Childress’ activities began to emerge. At first, all he could make out was that it appeared the lord was using this location by the sea to move goods in some kind of smuggling operation. As he read on, he understood that it was not cases of brandy or bolts of silk that Childress was interested in. No, the lord shot far higher than that.
He was interested in works of art and one-of-a-kind items that might fetch an exorbitant price.
No wonder Childress had allowed his estates to fall into disrepair—it was not from them his income had been derived. It seemed this run-down cottage was the real base of his operations. It was a likely location—with a good telescope one might view any boats lurking offshore, and there were cement steps leading down to a lonely expanse of rocky beach not particularly suited to bathing.
In fact, the steps were behind a locked gate, were very obviously in disrepair, and he had yet to see anybody go near them. And why would anybody go near them, unless they were unloading a boat under cover of darkness?
He found several letters regarding the Palaskar collection of books. It seemed that the lord had, in the end, found they would be too much of a risk to steal, and so tricked the old man who had possession of them to give them up for a paltry sum. He had planned on keeping them, advertising his possession of them to likely people, and then selling them to the highest bidder. He had died before he could do so, and now they were the property of Charles’ father. Charles supposed he’d have to make an effort to track down the old man who’d been swindled and return them.
Though most of the letters were from Farthmore, they often mentioned another person named Jenkins. Little was said of him other thanhe was aware of the planor he wasready for the next step.
It was the last few letters in the pile, though, that gave him real pause. While he could only see what was sent to Childress and not what Childress himself had written to anybody else, the idea was clear enough.
The Dagobert was most definitely a thing, and not a person. It had been acquired from some unknown individual crossing into Spain from France. Whispers of it had made the rounds of the camps, and Farthmore made it his business to find the fellow, dispense with him, and make off with it. Its value was inestimable if the right sort of collector were approached, and Napoleon might even pay a ransom for it.
It seemed Childress had made vague promises to Farthmore of trading Miss Danworth’s hand for the Dagobert, then had reneged. Childress had written that he never did receive the Dagobert, and therefore, their agreement was nullified. The item was considered lost at sea.
Farthmore was irate about it and swore the Dagobert had been delivered by Jenkins.
Though he still did not know what a Dagobert was, Charles had a better understanding of what itmightbe. Some piece of stolen artwork that would fetch a good price. He assumed whatever it was had long been sold off, perhaps even to Napoleon, while Childress pocketed the money and claimed he’d never got it.
Farthmore had been a fool in so many ways. Not the least of which was thinking that Childress would connect himself to such a low branch of Lady Montague’s family tree by marrying off his daughter to him. Childress was far too conscious of rank to ever have considered it. He had only promised it as a swindle.
