“Let’s get back to the stairs,” snapped the Duke, “and let’s pray that that fool Ffoulkes means to let us out soon.”
Upstairs, the guests and Lord Harry and Lady Mary had reassembled in the music room after searching without success for the missing couple.
All had downed several large measures of Bertie’s transatlantic concoctions and were feeling the effects. Ann Gore-Brookes had “tee-heed” helplessly all over the house and had finally relapsed into maudlin and drunken tears. With what was left sober in his brain, Bertie registered with some surprise that she actually said “boo-hoo” when she cried.
The Trentons had their heads together plotting an ingenious booby trap. Lady Cynthia Wampers and Miss Thomasina Forbes-Bennet had discovered that they hated each other. The one would make some devastatingly bitchy remark to the other and then they would both sit back panting, resting on their metaphorical lances before the next joust. Lord Albert Wampers was refereeing the tournament in a sleepy way, interrupting the worst remarks with a “Ah, harrumph, I say, what. Steady on! Steady on!” The Honorable Clive Fraser was asleep. Jo Phillips was moodily tinkling on the spinet, and Sir James Ffoulkes calmly surveyed the room with only a slight drooping of the lids to indicate that he was not as sober as he appeared.
Bertie began to feel obscurely that there was something badly wrong. His wits were never too nimble, but they had been momentarily sharpened with alcohol and a growing concern for that deuced pretty girl, Daisy Chatterton. He saw James Ffoulkes and Mrs. Phillips exchanging enigmatic looks and he didn’t like it. And, being Bertie, decided to say so.
“I say,” he said loudly. “I don’t like it.”
“Well, you made the beastly drinks,” remarked Sir James languidly.
“I’m not talking about the drinks. I’m talking about Miss Chatterton.”
“Don’t like Miss Chatterton?” said Sir James deliberately obtuse. “Now why, I wonder.”
“Oh, don’t be a silly ass,” said Bertie, pushing his lank hair out of his eyes. “Hadn’t we better let Oxenden and Miss Chatterton know that we can’t find ’em and they can come out now?”
Harry Trenton looked up. “Hey, Bertie’s got a point there.”
“This is rather embarrassing,” said Sir James smoothly. “I did endeavor to bring Toby and Daisy back to the party, but they… er… led me to believe that they did not wish to be disturbed.”
Bertie felt himself blushing with embarrassment. He should have thought of that, but again there was that mysterious interchange of glances between Sir James and Mrs. Phillips.
“The cellar,” he suddenly cried. “I forgot about the cellar. I say. I bet that’s where they are. I’ll just nip downstairs and—”
Sir James stepped forward and put a restraining arm round Bertie’s thin shoulders. “Don’t you know when you’re not wanted Bertie, old chap? Mix us up some more of that splendid potion, there’s a good boy….”
“What a way to end,” said the Duke of Oxenden. He and Daisy were standing on the cellar steps watching the black water slowly rising in the light of their guttering candle. “The stream in the grounds must have burst its banks.”
The couple had tried beating on the door and shouting, but the ancient door was too thick for any sound to carry through it.
The candle gave one final brave spurt of flame and went out, leaving them in a damp, dark blackness.
The Duke put an arm around Daisy’s slim body and held her close. She was shivering uncontrollably. She felt his long fingers pass lightly over her face. “Crying Daisy? Come now. I suggest we wait until the last minute and then swim across to the tallest of the wine racks and climb up as far as we can. Then the water should start flooding under the door and someone is bound to notice.”
“I can—can’t swim,” stammered Daisy through chattering teeth.
“I can,” said the Duke, “and provided you do exactly what I tell you to, I can get you over there with me.” There was a rustling sound beside her.
“You’re not taking off all your clothes,” squeaked Daisy.
“No, my beloved goose, I am merely removing this hellish hard collar and boiled shirt, my jacket and shoes. I suggest you remove those heavy stays.”
A strangled, shocked noise reached his ears.
“Now, now, Daisy,” he said gently. “I can’t see a thing in this pit. Take off your stays and put your dress back on.”
With a touching little sob she began to fiddle with the fastenings of her dress, and the Duke of Oxenden realized with some surprise that this tantalizing striptease in the dark was uncomfortably erotic. He was relieved when he heard the crash of the heavy whalebone stays being dropped on the steps, a quick rustling, and a small voice saying, “I’m ready now.”
“Now stand behind me and put your arms tightly ’round my neck,” said the Duke. “That’s the girl. Now relax and go limp. Don’t try to struggle or to swim yourself. Here we go…”
Bertie Burke peered into the cocktail shaker. “All gone,” he said mournfully.
“Thomasina drank it all,” said Lady Cynthia waspishly.
Thomasina rounded on her, bristling with anger. With their ginger hair, long noses, and narrow closely set eyes, they looked like two battling foxes.
“Didn’t,” snapped Thomasina. “Anyway, drink’s the problem in your family…”
“Isn’t!”
“Is!”
“Your mother drinks gin.”
“Your mother’s got the gout.”
“Cat!”
“Tart!”
“Steady on! Steady the buffs!” said Lord Albert.
“I’ll nip down to the cellar and get more supplies. Key, please, James,” said Bertie.
“Oh, I think we have all had enough to drink,” said Sir James. He took the cellar key out of his pocket and waved it to-and-fro. Bertie made a lunge for it and with one quick movement, Sir James dropped it into Jo Phillips’s cleavage. “Now it’s gone where you can’t get it, young man.”
Now Bertie was very, very worried. He became more than ever convinced that something was badly wrong. A picture of Daisy’s innocent, childish face swam suddenly before his eyes and in a flash, he realized that the Honorable Miss Daisy Chatterton would not do anything to offend the proprieties. Summoning up the ghosts of his crusading ancestors, Bertie suddenly electrified the company by plunging his hand into Jo Phillips’s bosom, retrieving the key, and scuttling from the room before anyone could stop him.
“Let him go,” he heard Sir James snarl. “The game’s up.”
Daisy Chatterton and His Grace, the Most Noble Duke of Oxenden, sat perched on the top of a wine rack, huddled together. The Duke had his arms wrapped tightly around her and her small head was tucked under his chin. After their plunge through the icy water and finding herself safe for the moment at least, Daisy had given up worrying. Toby seemed so large and capable and unconcerned. How nice it would be, she thought dreamily, if somehow they did have to get married. How nice it would be to have a home, secure from the world, protected by someone who seemed to cope with life’s battles so well. She smiled in the darkness as she realized she had been dreaming of love in a cottage. Marriage to the Duke would mean life in a stately home and the awesome business of controlling a whole army of servants.
For his part, the Duke was prey to a series of novel and disturbing emotions. Passion he had felt on many occasions. But never this overwhelming feeling of tenderness. Dammit, he would kiss her. He searched in the darkness for her chin and turned her face up to his.
There was a frantic scrabbling at the lock, the cellar door flew open, and Bertie Burke stood there, the light from an oil lamp held above his head, streaming down the steps and shining on the black water.
Before they could cry out he had shouted “Daisy” and plunged into the water, oil lamp and all.
There were frantic gurglings and threshings and then his desperate cry of “I can’t swim!”
“Silly chump,” remarked the Duke ung
ratefully, plunging into the water. Bertie was dragged back to the steps by a firm hand and sent to get another lamp.
“Don’t rouse anyone,” said the Duke. “Miss Chatterton had to take off some of her clothes in order to swim. Just bring some lights, there’s a good boy.”
Bertie, who had been feeling like Sir Galahad a minute ago, thought that if anyone called him a “good boy” again, he would scream.
Daisy was helped down from her perch on the wine rack. Once again, she clasped her arms around the Duke’s neck and entered the icy water. He swam powerfully to the cellar steps with a few strokes and helped her out.
They stood very close together, each one of them waiting for something and not knowing quite what it was. Bertie appeared, followed closely by Amy who was carrying a lamp in one hand and a blanket in the other.
Bertie’s normally weak face seemed to have grown stronger lines. “You have had a very terrible experience, Miss Chatterton,” he said. “Please allow me to escort you to London tomorrow. Dreadful people, you know. Not talkin’ about you, Oxenden, but the rest of them… pah! Give me the goose bumps.”
Daisy half turned and looked slowly at the Duke. She was waiting for him to offer his escort, waiting for him to make some little move to indicate that he cared for her in some way.
“Dammit,” said the Duke. “I can’t find my studs. I must have dropped them on the steps.”
Daisy gave a tired little sigh and then smiled at Bertie. “I shall gladly accept your escort tomorrow, Mr. Burke. Come, Amy.”
Bertie looked after her and then turned to stare triumphantly at the Duke.
But Oxenden was still searching for his studs.
Chapter Eleven
No one could deny that Bertie Burke had behaved splendidly. The morning after the cellar episode, he had ridden twelve miles in the still pouring rain to commandeer a motorcar from “some scribe chappie” in the distant neighborhood. The writer had cheerfully given up his motor and Bertie returned in triumph to bear Daisy and Amy off to London.
A thin, watery sunlight was struggling through the clouds to shine over the towers and spires of London Town when they putt-putted into Mayfair. The Duke, the cellar, the manor, the storm, all began to fade in Daisy’s mind as if they had been part of some Gothic dream. Only the memory of the Duke’s hard arms around her continued to nag at a small corner of her brain.
She found herself liking Bertie Burke immensely. He was admittedly naive and ingenuous, but by no means the silly ass he was reported to be.
With his weak, trusting eyes and narrow head, he reminded her of a friendly mongrel. And there was nothing to worry about in Bertie. No hidden passions, no jealousies, no resentments. Only a comfortable doglike and incoherent devotion emanated from him.
Although cricket bored her to death, Daisy cheerfully accepted an invitation to visit Lords with him on the following afternoon, and made her way thankfully to her bedroom in the Nottenstones’ town house. That at least had the familiarity of a few weeks’ occupation.
The Duke had surprisingly elected to stay on in Sussex and help the Countess salvage wines from the cellar. He had appeared briefly to say good-bye to Daisy with all his noted chilly indifference.
The Season drew to its exhausting close as Daisy began to enjoy herself for the first time in Bertie’s undemanding company. He was always there when she needed an escort, happy as a puppy and as uncomplicated as a clear day.
The Earl and Countess of Nottenstone smiled on the relationship in public and joked about it in private. “What on earth can our little Daisy see in that chinless wonder,” remarked Angela to her husband. “He’s got money, of course, but that doesn’t seem to have interested La Chatterton to date. Are we going to invite him to Brinton?” The Nottenstones had a villa at Brinton, a fashionable seaside resort on the south coast. “Why not?” said the Earl. “I can hear him now. ‘Oh, I say. Definitely. Absolutely. How jolly. How ripping. Oh, definitely.’”
“Are we inviting Oxenden?” asked Angela, becoming suddenly interested in a papier-mâché powder box.
The Earl gave her a quick look. “Well, we usually do. Though I can’t see why he accepts. I would swear that man despises us.”
“He despises all of us,” said Angela lightly. “Then we’ll ask him. And who else?”
“Don’t know. Someone who is a bit of fun. Clive Fraser’s a good sport. And what about Ann Gore-Brookes?”
“What about her, tee-hee?” said his wife maliciously.
“Oh, you’re always sneering at her. But she’s a good sport. Got a good seat on a horse.”
“What on earth has that got to do with it?” said Angela pettishly. “Oh, ask who you want.”
Bertie replied to the invitation in the manner expected of him, but did something that no one in London society would have credited him with having the courage to do.
He went to see his father.
Sir Gerald Burke lived in an enormous Palladian mansion in Berkshire, entirely alone—that is, if you discounted a whole army of servants. In an age of eccentrics he still managed to be outstanding. He shared his meals in the enormous dining room with his horse, and the horse and he often sat through the long reaches of the night sharing the port decanter, Sir Gerald with a heavy silver goblet, the horse with a flower bowl. The beautiful cornices, mouldings, and wainscoting were peppered with shot. He had a horror of bugs and would let fly with a blast at a cockroach with enough shot to paralyze a whole warren of rabbits. He was immensely rich, but even the most determined of toadies and gold diggers had ceased to call. If a fly buzzed over the dinner table, Sir Gerald would seize his gun and blast off in all directions. There had been, in the past, several distressing accidents, although the horse remained miraculously unharmed.
Sir Gerald was also famous for his frequent choleric rages, when he ran through his mansion dismissing all the staff. But since he could never remember any of their faces, they simply rehired themselves the next day. Unemployment in England was at a peak and the servants would rather take their chances of dying from a stray bullet than from starvation outside.
Bertie was terrified of him and hardly ever went near him. In fact, his father paid him a generous allowance to stay away.
“Hullo, hullo, McWhirter,” said Bertie breezily, handing his hat and cane to the burly Scotch butler. “Father home?”
“Aye, that he is,” said McWhirter gloomily. “But it’s a rare fine day for the flies. Ye’d be better to leave, Mr. Bertie.”
A sound of a shot reverberated around the hall. “There you are,” said McWhirter with a kind of gloomy relish. “Flies.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Bertie with an airiness he was far from feeling. “I grew up with it, you know. Well, here goes.”
He strode into the drawing room and promptly dived under a coffee table as another blast nearly punctured his eardrums.
His father’s scarlet and broken-veined face appeared upside down in Bertie’s range of vision. “What’ye doin’ under there?”
“Saving my life,” said Bertie, getting up and brushing down his trousers.
The French windows were standing open showing a summer vista of rose arbors and cool green lawns. Bertie had a sudden impulse to take to his heels and run, but the thought of Daisy kept him where he was. A bee was hesitating on the threshold of the windows. If it entered the room all conversation would be killed… and perhaps Bertie as well. He plunged in.
“Look here, father. I’m going to get married.”
Sir Gerald actually put down his shotgun. “You…” he said slowly. “Married?” Then he began to laugh with great wheezy gulps until he sank down exhausted on the chesterfield. “Who’s the gel?” asked Sir Gerald when he could speak.
“The Honorable Daisy Chatterton.”
“Chatterton!” howled Sir Gerald. “How dare you, sir. How dare you try to drag down the name of Burke by marrying some cardsharp’s bitch.”
“Oh, I say,” bleated Bertie.
&
nbsp; “The Madeira, sir,” said McWhirter at his elbow.
“You—what’s your name?” roared Sir Gerald.
“Grange, sir,” replied the butler. Every time he was fired, McWhirter changed his name and re-hired himself.
“Don’t dare interrupt me when I’m havin’ a family powwow, or you’ll end up in the street with all them other cheeky butlers.”
“Very good, sir,” said McWhirter, relieved that he would not have to think of a change of name for the time being anyway.
“Now, look here,” said Sir Gerald. “You marry that gel and I’ll cut you off without a penny.”
“Then cut me off,” said Bertie, made cool-headed by desperation. “I’ll earn my living.”
“Pah! Utter twaddle. Earn your living, you spineless fool. At what?”
“I’ll become a cardsharp,” said Bertie, studying his nails. “I’d better hoof off to France and ask her pater for some lessons. Then,” he replied, warming to the subject, “I’ll set up a house in London and call it Burke’s Baccarat… no, no, Burke’s Bohemia… or maybe Burke’s…”
“Burke’s Backside’s more like it,” snarled his parent. “You wouldn’t anyway.”
Bertie had burned his bridges and felt about ten feet tall. “Oh, yes I would, you horrible old man. And the only thing I’ll take from you are a few photographs of yourself to terrify m’children.”
He marched to the door, but was stopped by the sound of his father’s voice, “I’ll double your allowance.”
“You’ll what?”
“You heard me. Never thought to hear you standin’ up to me. Gel’s made a man out of you. Got m’blessing.”
Bertie’s sentimental soul was touched. He was about to stay and thank his parent in the warmest terms possible, but the bee made a suicidal lunge into the room. Before his father could reach the shotgun, Bertie was out of the room and running hard. Just wait till he told Daisy!
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