Lord Valmont cantered across the plains with a merry twinkle in his dark, rather rakish eyes. Without his cloak and bandanna he looked rather regal upon his steed, but he trusted this would not weigh too greatly in his disfavor. After all, a gentleman born could not help having prize Arabian mares or his coats tailored with impeccable precision by Scott.
He was wearing a riding coat of dashing blue velvet, trimmed in the military style with gold buttons and epaulettes of fine West Sussex braid. His finger flashed, briefly, with the light of a cabochon sapphire, and his neckerchief was tied, rather carelessly, in a cheval knot. Daisy could not have dreamed up a more dashing hero for herself, though his pockets were not filled with daggers or poisons, but rather with sugarplums hastily plundered from his mother’s living room dish.
The sun was dropping steadily from the sky, though it was still cheerfully light and the clouds were drifting away in lazy streams. Still, there was a way to traverse before the welcome lamps of London were lit and he was able to keep his assignation at Lord Raven’s residence. When he crossed the familiar Westenbury plains, he reined in a little, for the inn was busy with ostlers at this hour and he had no wish to be embroiled in carriage accidents, or to have to negotiate his way past any lumbering stagecoaches.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he caught sight of a wreck on the northbound road. Dash it, he would have to stop to help. It would be unthinkable to pass such a thing and not offer assistance of some sort. He glanced down at his elegantly wrought fob and suppressed a small sigh. At this rate, Daisy dream Daisy would have to watch the sun ushering in one more velvety night without him. He cursed.
“Ahoy, there! May I help?”
“God, you stupid dolt, of course you can! Get this thing off me!”
My lord rode a little closer and gasped a little. The wheels of the ill-sprung chaise were chopped to ribbons. No accident, this.
“ ’Ere! We don’t want no rescuin’, sir! You ride right on, hark yer!”
“Silence, you clod-hopping son of a street whore!”
“Oy! Forgivin’ yer ’oner, but I shall knock the teeth out of yer for that!”
My lord watched with interest as the carriage seemed to shake and quiver on its hinges. He could not see much beside a tangle of legs, but what he did see was sufficient to cause a wide grin to cross his remarkable features.
“How remarkably edifying! That you, in there, Sir Rory?”
He heard nought for answer but an outraged splutter, so he deemed it a suitable moment to carry on his way. After all, he was not partial to being called a “stupid dolt” when offering assistance. Further, he had never liked Sir Rory Aldershot, Esquire and possibly never would.
He assumed a jaunty whistle as he kicked in his heels and urged his wonderful Arabian steed on to something between a canter and a cautious trot. Only a horseman as skilled as Lord Valmont could achieve such a paradox, but indeed, Armand thought nothing of the feat, just as he thought nothing of the outraged bellows issuing from the shell of the chaise. A night outdoors would doubtless do Sir Rory the world of good. He was the most unconscionable fribble Lord Valmont had ever been duty-bound to greet. Too bad Quimby was but a stone’s throw from the Westenbury estates. Valmont grimaced, then found his eyes widening in surprise. The trot turned into a full-out canter as he skirted the road—to avoid any traffic from the inn—and cut across the verdant meadows that bordered the pathway.
A lady was running—faster than he’d ever had the felicity of seeing a female do, her skirts held fast in her hand, and her raven locks streaming down her back—flying, he thought, briefly—before being tangled in a branch of a chestnut tree. He had only time to hear a varied and rather colorful oath before coming up to her from behind.
“May I be of assistance?”
Her eyes widened in panic, then relaxed almost instantly. Lord Valmont noted they were a splendid green and were accompanied by a delightful dimple when she smiled.
“You! ”
“I might say the same! We appear to meet in rather odd circumstances.” Lord Valmont did an exaggerated bow from the saddle of his horse. Lily’s gaze wandered past him.
“Did you see . . .” Her eyes clouded.
Valmont scowled. “Sir Rory Aldershot and company?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t look so stricken. They were in the most delightful pickle. Sir Rory looks likely to lose his teeth, for he was not, sadly, endearing himself to the other rapscallion in the chaise.”
Lily grinned, jerked her head upward, then winced.
“Ouch!”
“Hold on.” Lord Valmont’s foot hardly touched the stirrups as he leapt to the ground and began untangling the silky, dark strands from the prickly twigs. His horse remained perfectly still, save for a few nibbles of the long grass.
“Be quick!”
“I shall be as quick as I can, but your hair is so soft, it tangles.”
“Cut it, then.”
“What?” Armand gazed at her in astonishment.
“They shall catch up.”
“Then they shall have me to reckon with.” Valmont’s jaw hardened.
“You really mean that!”
“But of course I do!”
“The beastly wretch will turn you over to the authorities.”
“What?” Valmont looked puzzled until he remembered his fearsome role of cutpurse.
“Oh!” He smiled. “The boot shall be on the other foot, Miss Chartley. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I fear I may have misled you a little. I am the Honorable Henry, Mortimer, James Armand Garcia, eighth Viscount Valmont. At your service. Naturally.”
Lily gasped. “The Earl of Westenbury’s son?”
“You read your Debrett’s, I see. The very same.”
“Then Daisy . . .”
“Yes, it is very sad, but she will learn to live with it, I hope. Being a viscountess is no bad thing. One becomes accustomed.”
Lily giggled. “It is not Daisy I worry about but Grandfather. He will be furious!”
“Ah, the family feud. Still, indigestion was always a good thing for Raven. Too much harmony and he may wallow in a decline. You are running away, I take it?”
Lily nodded. “In a manner of speaking . . .”
“Very good, then, for we shall share his wrath! Hop on behind and I shall have you home in no time.”
“With my reputation in tatters! No, I thank you!”
“This from a lady perfectly willing to chop off her hair. Base ingratitude!” Armand smiled, but acknowledged she had a point. Inwardly, he cursed. A fine fix he was in when carrying Lily home would mean her ruination. Compromising his future sister-in-law seemed singularly maladroit under the circumstances. He searched about wildly for an answer then shaded his eyes narrowly as a dust cloud appeared on the horizon.
The thundering of hooves confirmed to his quick senses that this was no idle ostler from the inn, or stray postboy out for a quiet canter on the downs. He pushed Lily from the tree and grabbed the reins of his Arabian. He had no wish to frighten the powerful beast.
“You devil! I shall split you alive if you have touched so much as a hair on her head!”
Barrymore’s golden head bobbed from his borrowed mare. In less than a second he was on solid English soil, fists clenched.
“Lily! You are ...”
But his words were drowned by a flood of tears and laughter that relieved him so greatly that he had little time to spare for the bemused Valmont. Instead, he whisked his beloved off her feet—thus exposing a very pretty pair of ankles—and kissed her soundly. Then he pressed her to him again before eyeing the Honorable Henry, Mortimer, James Armand Garcia, eighth Viscount Valmont in some inquiring surprise.
“You are not Sir Rory Aldershot.”
“I am relieved you can distinguish the difference, sir. I do not approve either of Sir Rory’s tailor or of his unfortunate habit of wearing puce in company. In short, I fear, Sir Rory is a fribble.”
“And you are n
ot.” Barrymore’s eyes crinkled in sudden amusement. It was easy to be amused, he found, when he was cradling his wife.
“Certainly not! I, I fear, am a veritable pink of the Ton! You have only to note my impeccable tailoring . . .”
“Scott, if I mistake it not.”
“Indeed.” Armand bowed.
“I prefer Weston. And why, sir, were you making free with my wife?”
“Your wife?” Armand startled.
Lily giggled. “I hope you are right, my lord, when you say one becomes accustomed. I have been a viscountess these several hours and am not accustomed yet!”
Armand’s brow cleared. Saints alive, the lovely Lily was wedded! He was not going to be compromising her this day, after all!
“My felicitations. Barrymore—yes, I met you once at Burtons—I must most earnestly desire you to take over from here. I am due to enact my own elopement at sunset and fear I shall be unforgivably late!”
“Then by all means go!”
“You will let me pass unspit? I touched several strands of your lovely wife’s head, this day.”
Barrymore caught the mirthful glance his impish scamp of a wife shot Valmont and scowled. “Then let the reckoning be later! Right now, I have business with my wife.”
“Very good, my lord. Sensible, too. And now, adieu.”
He had no sooner mounted than Lily extricated herself from Denver, Lord Barrymore’s fond embrace, and emitted a sudden, rather unregal whoop of surprise. “Primmy! That was Primmy’s hair if ever I saw it!”
Barrymore looked resigned. “Miss Chartley?”
“Yes, in that chaise. It is tumbling out of our horrid charades hat. I saw it distinctly.”
“Many people have hair of that color. Can you not have mistaken it?”
Lily looked scornful. “Gentlemen know nothing of fashion. I tell you, Primmy’s copper color is unique!”
“But that is not Lord Raven’s chaise. It has a golden crest upon it.”
Lily shaded her eyes and squinted toward the inn, outside which the chaise had drawn to a very neat stop.
“I can’t precisely see, but certainly it is not Grandfather’s. His livery is different. Look! There is a man in there! ”
Barrymore shot Valmont a resigned glance. It was filled with such unspoken apology that even Armand, anxious as he was to set his own affairs in order, was forced to grin.
Lily looked alarmed. “Gracious heavens, do you think she is also being abducted?”
The gentlemen peered into the distance. Both seemed inclined to think not, for now another gentleman was emerging in a very orderly manner. He was deplorably attired, of course . . .
Lily gave a shriek. “It is Primmy! Oh, I do declare it is Primmy in our play clothes! Oh, come at once! This is beyond belief amazing!” With never a thought for the two handsome—if somewhat bewildered young men paying her court—she once more took up her skirts and headed directly for the inviting portals of the White Dragon Inn.
It did not take long for the story to unfold, but by this time, Lord Valmont had missed his sunset deadline and was staring with dismay out the twilight window. Lord Rochester had procured, upon the instant, the best private parlor the inn had to offer, but the question of Primrose’s reputation was now being hotly disputed. There was no telling who may have seen Miss Chartley in the marquis’s closed chaise. If she had been remarked at all, returning past nightfall in an unwedded state would be fatal.
Lily seemed to think Primrose’s copper-colored hair was fatal and my Lord Rochester, upon deep and earnest consideration—which caused Primrose’s color to heighten to a remarkable degree—was forced to concur.
Presently there came upon the door a rather timid knock and as Rochester sought to cover Primrose as best he could, the handle turned.
“What in tarnation? This is a private parlor!” As Rochester protested, Barrymore stepped forward in surprise.
“Your reverence! I thought you had departed long since! Come in, come in!” This the archbishop did, with a very sorry tale. He had wandered through the gardens, lost track, a little of the time, and discovered, to his horror, that “some elegant sprig in a confoundedly close-fitting morning coat”—had stolen his prize mare. Since it comprised half of his carriage’s team, he could not move an inch until the rapscallion returned.
At which, the Honorable Viscount Barrymore looked distinctly uncomfortable, Lily stared at her husband hard and the Viscount Valmont, no slow top, burst into an outright chuckle.
“Sprigged the nag, did you?”
“Well, what would you do?” Barrymore sounded indignant. “The rest of the mares were sorry little beasts without an ounce of speed between them.”
When apprised of the tale, the archbishop’s brow cleared and he murmured that abduction was a shocking thing and doubtless the Lord worked in strange ways. If it was his beast that had been the saving of her ladyship, then he must needs be satisfied.
Whereupon Lord Barrymore apologized most contritely—though his merry blue eyes lost none of their twinkle—and promised that even now the mare was being watered and fed. The archbishop harrumphed a little at this, but seemed mollified enough to take the seat that was offered him and he even nodded a little at the prospect of a fine cup of Bohea tea. Then Armand, eyes wickedly gleaming, suggested that the clergyman might once again—and maybe yet again, before the evening was done—prove his worth. The party stared at him, puzzled. That was for a fraction of a moment only, however, for Rochester’s eyes widened in quick comprehension.
“The very thing! Primrose, my dear, if you could dispense with pomp and circumstance, we might save your reputation yet!”
“What of the marchioness?”
“Fiddlesticks! She will be so relieved to see me leg-shackled to the right Miss Chartley she will not grumble at the shimble-shamble manner of the service.”
“But have you a special license?”
“No ... but....” Gareth, Lord Rochester, looked pleadingly in the archbishop’s direction. As he had hoped, the matter of the special license was waved away by his reverence, who, despite shuddering a little at Primrose’s unorthodox attire, nevertheless deemed the couple worthy of his matrimonial blessings. Consequently, he signed all necessary parchments with a flourish of ink and the only obstacle to wedded bliss was thus summarily overcome. And so, clad only in knee breeches and a sadly flopping hat, the very sensible Miss Chartley became, like her sister before her, a peeress of the realm.
Twenty-one
Daisy had long since finished her tammying. Growing alarmed at Primrose’s absence, she broached the subject with Grandfather Raven, who merely pinched her cheek affectionately and bade her “mind her own business.” This said with a wink and a guffaw she found mystifying, but which her good nature did not allow to question.
Instead, she tiptoed up to reach Lord Raven’s wizened cheek and there placed a timid kiss upon the leathery skin. Lord Raven was so taken aback he could only say “Ha!” and “Humph!” but Daisy smiled to herself, knowing he was pleased. She guiltily hoped he would feel the same way on the morrow, when she told him she was wed. Doubtless he would work himself into a fit of rage, but since that had never harmed him before, Daisy took leave to hope her disobedience would soon be forgiven. After all, if she were not now being wooed so steadily by a myriad of fortune hunters all after the Raven’s Ransom, there would have been no need to rush into the thing.
But now.... any moment Grandfather might betrothe her to some unsuitable upstart who cared more about the treasure trove than her. Armand, she trusted, with a small, secret sigh of contentment, was different. He may need the ransom, but he also needed her. His eyes would not glow like hot coals when they gazed upon her if this were not so. She quietly closed the oak door behind her and crossed the gallery. Sadly, she was accosted by an under butler, who took leave to tell her that a handful of callers had just arrived. Further, Mrs. Bartlett was out of cream puffs and sweetmeats.
Daisy had just time to stra
ighten her gown, whisper that slivers of bread with soured cream and some of the game salmon would just have to suffice, when she was accosted by one particularly bold suitor. He had strolled out of the receiving room and into the long gallery with the hope, he declared, of “catching a glimpse of a starry-eyed maid with pools of blue.” Daisy nearly snapped back that he was mixing his metaphors besides wasting his time, but faultless good manners intervened. She therefore nodded at the under butler and gently led the rake—she suspected he was such, for he cast her an appraising glance filled with a deplorably languishing look—back to the receiving room.
The afternoon seemed singularly tedious without the support of her sisters, whose absence was remarked upon repeatedly until her head ached. She was just coming to the end of a long string of polite excuses when the time chimed on the great-grandfather clock in the hall. Heavens! It must be close to sunset!
Abruptly, she put aside one of the posies that had been pressed into her elegantly gloved hand and moved toward the balcony. It was true that the sky was pinkening, and the sun dipping down beyond the far fir trees.
“Oh, do excuse me!” She turned around and nearly fell into the arms of Sir Richard Bridgewater, who had recently been betrothed to a speckle-haired heiress. Sadly, she had eloped with a footman, leaving poor Sir Richard in dun territory and urgently in need of a wife. Well, an heiress to be more precise about the matter.
“My dear Miss Chartley! Allow me to steady you!” Sir Richard placed his ringed fingers upon her scalloped sleeves. They were warm and slightly given to fat, though the moment was so fleeting Daisy may have been doing him an injustice.
“Sir! I am fine, I thank you.”
“Nonsense, Miss Chartley You look faint. Come, we shall take a stroll on this balcony whilst the others fight over your fair charms. The air shall do you good.” Sir Richard seemed to feel it was more than the air that would do her good, for he took the liberty of slipping his arm about her waist. Daisy was indignant.
“Sir!”
Sir Richard removed his arm huffily. “How quaint, Miss Chartley! You should go out a little more. I believe most young society misses are not so coy.”
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