“Goodness, no,” the lady said. “Though I still hold out hope that we may travel to Somerset for the wedding.”
“Burke is one of my oldest friends,” Lord Dalton said. “I suppose since he’s asked, I must go.”
“I am relieved,” Mrs. Jellops said. “I had thought, what with your ideas of marriage…there were rumors of one of your friends being locked up to prevent one? I thought you might not be keen on the idea.”
“I will not attempt to prevent the marriage,” Lord Dalton said, “my efforts in that direction have only resulted in failure. Though I would not go so far askeen.”
“But,” Daisy said, “you do like Miss Minkerton?”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Dalton said, waving his hands, “it is just…”
“That you have said you will never…” Daisy trailed off.
“As have you,” Lord Dalton said.
There seemed to be nothing to say after that, and so the party grew silent. Daisy twisted her hands under the table. They were to stay here. It was not a circumstance she would have imagined. It was not unwelcome.
But why? Why should they stay here? Why did not Lord Dalton go off to his rounds of country house parties? Was not shooting at things the highlight of a man’s year? Is that not what they talked about at their clubs? Her father and his cronies had spent hours talking about what they’d bagged, as if they had hunted tigers and not pheasants or foxes.
As well, had it not always been the case, at the beginning of the London season, for ladies to be complaining that their husbands were still off shooting? Why should Lord Dalton suddenly pretend he found it tedious?
She did not know, but she found herself very glad of it. She had no idea what she would have done if she were dragged from house to house. Would she keep to her rooms, pretending at deep mourning? Would she throw off the dark clothes and face down any remarks about it? Here, she could go on as she had done, appearing as herself with no pretense. Here, she would have time to think through what she wanted to make of her life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dalton had left the garden and gone back to his cottage to await his dinner, the cat following close behind. He supposed the one benefit of dining alone, or with only the company of a cat, was that he need not change clothes for it. He gazed around the shabby abode, realizing it was to be his home for some months more. What had he been thinking? He was near-certain the chimney would kill him with smoke once the weather made lighting a fire necessary.
He sighed. He knew what he’d been thinking. He’d thought Miss Danworth would despise being dragged from place to place, being asked to smile pleasantly and go along with whatever hare-brained schemes the hostess had cooked up for the ladies. As far as he understood it, when the women were not piled into a cart to watch the shooting from afar, they were led on long walks for picnics or driven through some local village to shop for ribbons they might have bought before they got there. The evenings consisted of dinner and then, hopefully, cards or pool or some other sensible activity. A few hostesses were not so sensible and, in a bid for originality he assumed, came up with some more painful plan, the worst of which was charades. Finally, there was the inevitable ball toward the end of it where everybody pretended to be more delighted than they actually were. This was followed by packing up and moving onto the next house, where the same would commence all over again.
It was not just Miss Danworth who would find the whole procedure tedious, he would as well. He used to think all the nonsense was worth it because of the shooting. But he had distinctly noticed that these days he preferred to be well away from the sound of a gun firing. It set him on edge.
He did not know what Miss Danworth thought of gunfire, but he sensed that she was on edge about something herself. It was not Farthmore, that rogue was dead. It was not Lady Montague, that lady had been dispatched to everybody’s satisfaction and had since decamped to Yorkshire to deliver the bad news about her jewels to her long-suffering lord.
There was something else. The night they’d received Lady Grayson’s letter and discovered what the Dagobert was, and that it was in the house posing as a bedpost, she had seemed to be overcome in some way. In the moment he’d spoken of her father having some agreement with Farthmore to wait until her majority, something had flashed in her eyes, some sudden knowing. It seemed as if she’d understood why her father would wish to wait until she was of age, though it remained unfathomable to him. She’d said nothing, but the mention of it had sparked something in her—some idea, or some recollection.
She’d gone white as a sheet and gripped the arm of her chair, as if she understood and was horrified.
Had she experienced some sort of memory, long forgotten? He suspected that whatever she had realized still haunted her, even if the two parties to it were long gone. There were times in the garden, when she did not know anybody was watching, that she looked as if she saw nothing, as if her mind’s eye was very far away.
He found it irked him that he did not know what she thought about.
As for his extended stay in this hovel, what was done was done. He’d stay here, and in a month he’d take Miss Danworth and Mrs. Jellops to Somerset for Burke’s wedding and then…then, he did not know what he would do. He presumed his father would write with some new set of directions, and threats about giving everything that was unentailed to his idiot cousin Herbert if he did not comply.
The cat suddenly dug her nails into his calf. He pulled her away by the scruff of her neck and set her down. It seemed whenever she decided that dinner was running late, she expressed her irritation with a scratch. “I am not your prey, you wretch.”
The cat sat implacably staring at him.
“Oh, I know what you think,” he said. “You think I make too many arrangements to suit Daisy…Miss Danworth. You think my father’s outrageous plan is working. You think I grow fond of the lady andthat’swhy I’ve put myself in this ridiculous situation.”
The cat did not comment one way or the other, but only turned and strolled away, waving her tail high in the air.
“I haven’t,” he called after her. “No more than in the usual way.”
Was that exactly true, though? Had he not allowed himself to grow a little too fond of Miss Danworth? Had he not found it adorable, or at least a deal less icy than was her usual habit, that she spied on him every night? On the night of Farthmore’s death, under the full moon when she’d been caught out, she’d claimed she preferred to take in the night air. A ridiculous and charming ruse.
He’d since pretended he did not note her there at her window, but of course he had. He always watched while the candles burned in her room and then looked away when the last candle was tamped out.
He could, he’d realized, keep his head down and, in the darkness, she would not realize his eyes occasionally looked up. He also could move the bench closer to the house by subtle degrees. Or not so subtle degrees, as the case might be. It would be extraordinary if she had not noticed, though she had not commented on it.
