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"Anyway, Christiana agreed of course. After all, she had to marry Dicky because of Father's last faux pas, so she understood completely."
That was good, Daniel supposed, but he was now thoroughly confused again, not seeing how a father's faux pas could leave the girl in the kind of trouble where she needed a fast marriage. At least not the nine months kind. Perhaps he'd misjudged her there, he thought.
"So Christiana went to speak to Dicky about taking us out and about, but when she found him in the office, the idiot was dead."
Daniel bit his lip at her vexed tone. There was absolutely no grief in her voice at all, just irritation with the inconvenience of it all. But then George had never been one to inspire the finer feelings in those he encountered. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Did he fall and strike his head, or--"
"No. He was simply sitting in his chair dead," she said with exasperation, and then added with disgust, "He was obviously a victim of his own excess. We suspected his heart gave out. Certainly the glass and decanter of whiskey next to him suggested he didn't take the best care of himself. I ask you, who drinks hard liquor first thing in the morning?"
Daniel shook his head, finding it difficult to speak. She was just so annoyed as she spoke of the man's death, as if he'd deliberately done it to mess up her plans. After a moment, he asked, "Are you sure he is dead?"
Suzette gave him another one of those adorable "Don't be ridiculous" looks. "Well, obviously he isn't. He is here now," she pointed out, and then shook her head and added almost under her breath, "Though I could have sworn . . . The man didn't even stir when he fell off the chair and slammed his head on the floor. Nor when I dropped him and his head crashed to the hardwood floor again, or when we rolled him in the carpet and dragged him upstairs, or when we dropped him in the hall and he rolled out of the carpet, or--"
"Er," Daniel interrupted, and then coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, before asking, "Why exactly were you carting him about in a carpet?"
"Well, don't be dense," she said with exasperation. "We couldn't let anyone know he was dead, could we?"
"Couldn't you?" he asked uncertainly.
Suzette clucked with irritation. "Of course not. We would have had to go into mourning then. How would I find a husband if we were forced to abstain from polite society to observe mourning?"
"Ah. I see," Daniel said and he did see. Things were becoming much clearer. From her description of the abuse the man had taken without protest, George was most definitely probably dead.
"Of course, Christiana wanted to call in the authorities and report his death. But I reminded her that we only have the two weeks for me to find a husband and claim my dower."
"Hmm," Daniel said dryly, disappointment claiming him again as he realized that Suzette was just another woman in search of a husband with heavy pockets.
"So, she agreed to put Dicky in his bed, pack him in ice, tell the servants he was ill and keep his death a secret for two nights so that I could find a husband." Suzette's mouth twisted and she muttered, "All that trouble and the man wasn't even dead. I just know he shall ruin everything now. He'll keep us from attending any more balls to find a husband. If he had any sense of honor at all, the man would have stayed dead."
"Unfortunately, it appears he was merely unconscious," Daniel murmured. He was becoming quite certain George was dead. This might greatly simplify matters, or at least it would if Richard was willing to uphold the marriage to Christiana . . . and really, Daniel was beginning to think that would be the most honorable thing to do here. While he didn't think much of their looking to marry a man with money to solve their problems, it did seem a shame to cast the scandal of George's actions on these three women when none of it was their fault at all.
"Unconscious," Suzette spat the word with disgust. "He must have been, and he had obviously been drinking." She tsked with exasperation and stomped her foot, muttering, "Why could the beast not have been dead? I should have smothered him in his bed to be sure he was and stayed that way."
Daniel stared at her with amazement. His first thought was that, really, aside from her fortune hunting and homicidal tendencies, the woman was quite fascinating in her complete and utter lack of artifice. His next thought was that the ton would eat her alive. Artifice and subterfuge were necessary tools to survive society and she was obviously completely lacking in both.
Suzette suddenly heaved out a put upon breath and muttered, "I suppose I had best be sure I find a husband tonight. Otherwise, surely Dicky will find some way to throw a spanner in my plans."
Daniel's eyebrows flew up at her words and then she peered at him with interest.
"You're a handsome enough fellow," she commented thoughtfully.
Daniel blinked, and then muttered, "Oh . . . er . . . thank you. I think."
"You don't seem a dullard either," she added, tilting her head to inspect him consideringly.
"Erm," he said weakly.
"And you aren't old. That's another plus." Daniel was puzzling over that when she asked abruptly, "Are you rich?"
At first, he was just startled by the blunt question. Someone with that artifice and subterfuge she lacked would have gone about finding that out in a much more roundabout way. Actually, most members of the ton wouldn't even have tried to figure it out. They had all assumed for years that Daniel's family was well heeled, and his mother had worked very hard to ensure everyone thought that. However, the truth was that they had been near paupers, selling off old family antiques one at a time to keep the creditors at bay, while trying desperately to uphold the image of wealth everyone expected.
His mother had started pestering Daniel to find a wealthy wife the moment he'd come of age and he'd almost allowed himself to be pressured into it when one night, under the influence of too much alcohol, he'd confessed all to Richard. Richard hadn't been surprised. Much to Daniel's amazement it appeared his mother's efforts hadn't been as successful as she'd thought and his best friend had long suspected their financial state. Or, perhaps being that close he had simply noticed that Daniel wore the same clothes most of the time, treating them gingerly to make them last, or that their parlor was threadbare with wear, and that no one was allowed beyond the parlor, mostly because the rest of the house was nearly empty of furniture.
Whatever the case, Richard hadn't wanted to humiliate him by bringing up the subject, but had waited for Daniel to bring it up, and the moment he did, Richard offered to help. He offered to spot him for an investment he thought a good prospect. He would loan Daniel the money to invest, a loan that would be paid back with interest. It was only the last part that allowed Daniel to swallow his pride and accept the offer and he supposed Richard had known that and it was why he'd added it. So the two men had made the investment, and it had paid off. Even after paying back the loan with interest, Daniel had more than the initial loan, which he then promptly invested in another scheme Richard suggested.
Richard Fairgrave had the Midas touch when it came to investments and was generous in sharing his business acumen with friends. Over the last ten years that feigned wealth his mother had tried so desperately to project throughout his childhood, had become real wealth. That was the secret Richard and he shar
ed, and how Daniel had known it was the true Richard sending the letter.
"Well," Suzette asked. "Are you rich?"
Daniel scowled at the bellicose female. The answer was he was now one of the wealthiest lords in England thanks to Richard. But while that meant his own mother had eased up on pressuring him to find a rich wife, she still wanted him to find a wife and give her grandbabies. However, he also found himself constantly stalked by marriage-minded mamas and their braying daughters, and, frankly, while he'd thought it rather amusing in a twisted way when he'd been poor and knew they were getting no bargain, Daniel now found it vastly annoying. He was more than a stallion for stud with a bag of gold between his legs. And as entertaining as Suzette was, he didn't appreciate her interest in him being based only on his wealth. So he did what any reasonable man would do in this situation . . . he lied.
"I am as poor as a church mouse," he announced with feigned regret. "In fact, poorer than a church mouse since just this last year I inherited Woodrow from my uncle and it is a terrible mess in need of a great deal of repair and care that I cannot afford."
The last part wasn't a complete lie. He actually had inherited the family seat from his father's older brother a year ago, and it was in horrible repair, nearly falling down really. He did have the money to repair it, however, and had been doing so for the last year. Actually, he'd inherited the estate shortly before George's supposed death which had been meant to be Richard's death, and had been at the estate taking in the poor state of repair and seeing what needed to be done to return it to its earlier glory when he'd received news of George's death in the townhouse fire. By the time he got the news, the man's body, or what everyone had thought was his body, was interred in the Fairgrave family vault and the dust had settled. Daniel had sent a letter of condolence to Richard, or who he'd thought was Richard in London, and offered to come to him if he needed a friend, but had never received a reply.
Still, he'd intended to visit town and seek him out to see how he was handling his twin's death at some point, but there had seemed to be one problem after another with the reparations at the estate, and then his mother had fallen gravely ill and nearly died. She had recovered, fortunately, but it had been a slow recuperation for her and it was nearly six months before he'd felt he could leave and make his way into town. Daniel arrived after midnight, and had considered heading to Richard's townhouse at once to see how he faired, but the late hour and his own exhaustion from the journey had made him decide to go to bed instead and visit the next day. But he'd woken that next morning to Richard's letter coming to him from America of all places.
