“Then court them, instead, Sir Richard. I believe I make poor company. My head aches.” Daisy amazed herself at her waspishness. Fortunately—or unfortunately, as the case happened to be—the good Sir Richard did not, apparently, feel its sting.
“All the more reason to stay out on this balcony. It is very close within.”
“And close without.” Daisy grew bold. Surely he could not ignore this pointed rudeness?
But he did. The sky was darkening to purple before Mrs. Bartlett marched in and ordered—yes, ordered—the visitors out. One look at Daisy’s pained expression was enough to set the housekeeper on her mettle. With a few sharp words that were interspersed with “chaperone” and “unsuitable” and “not wishing to offend” and the like, the rabble—including, even, the reluctant Sir Richard Bridgewater—had called up their horses and chaises and hackney coaches. Some half hour later, they were all gone.
“You are a godsend, Mrs. Bartlett!”
“Now don’t go talking fustian, Miss Daisy! It is off to bed with you, with a hot posset. You look peaky”
Daisy eyed herself in the cheval glass. It was true that she was pale, and her glorious guinea gold locks seemed to make her features appear whiter, even, than they truly were. She sighed. If Armand came . . .
If? What was this if? She did not doubt that he would come, and that right quickly, if the first star was anything to go by. Suddenly, her blue eyes regained their sparkle and a little color crept into her cheeks, though Mrs. Bartlett still eyed her frowningly.
“You are a dear, Barty! I won’t be needing a hot posset, for I feel better already! Now please, please help me to select something wonderful to wear!”
“Your shift and a nightgown, young lady!”
Daisy giggled.
“And what is so funny, might I ask?”
But Daisy could not very well tell Mrs. Bartlett—who had known her since leading strings—that Armand had rather lasciviously suggested the very same. Doubtless, though, he had not had Mrs. Bartlett’s severe starched linens in mind.
So she shook her head meekly and promised “to be a good girl and run along.” Which she did, astonishing her maid by pulling out half her wardrobe and rifling through a dozen kid gloves, muffs, bonnets, and shawls until the poor girl thought her demented.
When Daisy finally mumbled that she was “to meet a gentleman—but hush,” little Annie’s curiosity was more than satisfied. Indeed, she set herself to expertly selecting out a satin court gown—never worn—with a band of azure silk across the bust line. The color exactly matched Daisy’s favorite draped undertunic, which was held in place, as usual, by crisscrossed ribbon bands. The open overdress that flowed into a deep sapphire silk was pinned closed across the hip by Grandfather Raven’s fifteenth birthday gift to her—a jewelled brooch encrusted, modestly, with pearls. Hem and cuffs were of embroidered azure satin and sparkled as she moved. Daisy—dream Daisy—had never looked better. Annie wished to set her hair high up in a chignon, but Daisy, on a sudden, intuitive whim, shook her head. Thus it was that her glorious bright hair was allowed to tumble, unpinned, across her shoulders and down a dainty, perfectly straight back. It did not escape entirely, however, for it was subjected to a hundred strokes at least of a very demanding brush, so that when Daisy was done, it gleamed like sunshine, or like the purest of spun gold. The room had long since been lighted by wax tapers, and only the moon now shone through the drawn curtains.
Daisy startled. It was late, then! Past sunset, certainly. She could not remember when she had last heard the hall clock chime. She dismissed Annie with a pleasant “thank you,” then waited for the door to click before diving behind the damask drapes and opening her long French window. It creaked as she peered out into the darkness. There was no sign of a rider or even a horse. She sighed, wondering if she was truly even more foolish than Lily. Fancy being so puffed up in her own consequence that she could think that a man like Armand . . .
But wait! There was a commotion below stairs, she could swear it. She strained her ears to listen but could hear no more than a whisper of deep voices. Sir Richard Bridgewater again? Perhaps he had left his silver-headed walking stick, or else his ridiculous beaver topper and fur-lined gloves. She would not risk going down and encountering him again. If she strained her ears, she could hear footsteps up to the gallery level. And more, beyond. Surely he would not be so presumptuous as to enter into the residential wing? But then, the Raven’s Ransom addled everyone’s wits.
Sir Rory Aldershot was a prime example. Daisy wondered whether she should lock her chamber. Perhaps she was being missish but with her sisters away . . . She heard a door slam. Grandfather Raven’s door, unless it was one of the sundry linen cupboards that lined that wing. Dared she peek? She wondered. For a moment, she was entirely at a loss, for she longed to know what was happening, yet was terrified to leave the window, lest she miss Armand’s clandestine arrival. In the event, her curiosity got the better of her, for far from locking her door, she opened it a crack. A flicker of light warned her that Grandfather Raven’s door was in truth ajar. She waited, a little, at sixes and sevens, not knowing whether to follow her instincts and investigate, or wait, as she had planned, for her handsome, oh-so breathtakingly wonderful cutpurse. No, she could never think of Armand as that . . .
She smiled and moved closer to the window, her decision unconsciously made. In the candlelight her ears flashed with the diamond drops she had fastened on, and her hair was a wave of pure, luxurious gold. She was aware of none of these things as she gazed with longing at the blackness outside. More than Venus and the first evening stars were out, now. There was an abundance of flickering points of light and the sky had changed, again, from purple to a velvety black. The moon was a gibbous—half crescent, half full. She shivered, wondering how far below there—if at all—stood a rider and his mare. She did not know how long she stood at the window, for her heart was filled with a deep yearning. Strange, tumbling emotions seized at her and held her entirely in their thrall. Some were deliciously pleasant, others more deeply poignant whilst others yet, seized at her very being and whispered of matters she had yet to learn the sense of. Her mouth parted, slightly, and she felt the azure ribbons tighten against her soft, untried breasts. Strange how her heart was beating! As if she could feel his presence in this very room . . . she whirled around and startled at the shadow cast upon her door frame. It was more ajar, now, than it had been. That was her last thought before being embraced, quite scandalously, in her own bedchamber.
It was Armand who cast her from him, gently, with a teasing smile on his wide, sensuous lips and an unconscionable grin that caused her to pout prodigiously and announce that he would be well served if she called out an alarm.
At which he only laughed, his teeth gleaming white in the half light.
“Did you doubt I would come?”
“No!”
“Not even a little?”
Daisy dropped her eyes.
“Oh! A little, then, you fickle maid!”
“It is past sunset!” There was a tiny reproach in her tone.
“If you have been decked out in all this finery since then, my little dove, I can understand your annoyance. By the by, you look . . .” He gazed at her assessingly.
“Bridal?”
He grinned. “There is that, but no. You look . . . you are going to think me appallingly unimaginative but the only adjective that rises to my tongue-tied palate is ... beautiful.”
Daisy laughed. “I can live with that.”
“Can you? How about breathtaking?”
“That, too.”
“Good, for I would hate to be tedious. And now, my love, I am going to disappoint you vastly, I fear.”
Since his words rang with a lazy confidence that set Daisy to shivering quite deliciously, she did not pay too much attention to the content of his words.
“Vastly?”
“Vastly” He nodded with decision then whisked her off her feet, so she must ne
eds throw her arms about his neck to steady herself. She giggled, then put a guilty hand to her mouth. She must be quiet, lest Grandfather Raven or any of the house staff hear her.
“I cannot elope with you this night.”
Daisy’s eyes fluttered open. They had closed the minute his lips had brushed across her brow.
“No?”
“No.”
She swallowed. “Then put me down, sir, for you have taken a great liberty with my person.”
Lord Valmont felt her back straighten against his palm. He laughed. “Oh, ye, of little faith! You doubt me still! We cannot elope, my dear, for Lord Raven greatly desires to be of the wedding party. Insists, in fact.”
Daisy looked wondering.
“You are pleased to tease!”
“Indeed, I always am! But this time, my dearest Daisy, dream Daisy, I speak only the truth. If you step down the corridor, you will find his chamber bursting with people.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Lord Valmont laughed. “Then let me be plain, Daisy dearest. In order of precedence, the Marquis and Marchioness of Rochester, the Earl of Raven, the Viscount and Viscountess of Barrymore, and the most reverend Archbishop of Westenbury, all await your pleasure.”
Daisy frowned. “Now you are certainly making no sense! ”
“Then come with me and allow light to dawn!”
And Daisy, being a sweet and timid young thing, took Lord Valmont’s gloved hand in her own, satin-clad one, and finally—finally—obeyed.
“Ha!” Lord Raven was in his element. “What took you so long?”
He glared at Daisy, but the gleam of amusement was unmistakable.
“Fie, sir, that you should ask such a question!” Three lords protested in unison whilst two sisters—even proper Primrose—chuckled merrily.
Daisy blushed a deep crimson and looked likely to answer, but Lord Valmont stopped her with an imperious sweep of his lordly hand.
“Hush, child! If my lord is such a ninny-hammered clodpole as to not suspect what kept you, let him forever remain in ignorance.”
“Impertinent jackanapes! If you have compromised the girl, you shall . . .”
“... wed her.” Lord Valmont’s tone was firm. “Sadly, I have not compromised her . . . yet, but since I have every intention of doing so, let us proceed at once.”
Whereupon the archbishop, who by now, after a long, trying, but singularly edifying day, had at last learned his cue, rose gracefully and announced that if the special license was to hand, they might proceed.
Rochester eyed Valmont doubtfully, but it seemed the young sprig was up to the rig, for he produced it from his waistcoat with a flourish and turned warm eyes upon Daisy.
“Daisy, dream Daisy, would you consent to being my wife?”
Daisy nodded.
“Though I am not a villain, not a cutpurse, not even on weekends, a highwayman?”
Daisy blinked. “Not even on weekends?” Her mouth was soft and kissable, her round, cornflower eyes rounder even than Armand remembered. He sighed, regretfully. “Not even on weekends.”
Daisy thought hard. “Then Lord Raven’s Ransom is essential to you!”
“A scurvy pox on Lord Raven’s Ransom! The only thing essential to me is you!”
Lord Raven, most put out, stepped upon his gouty foot. “What do you mean, a pox on my ransom?”
Lord Valmont ignored him.
“I shall marry you, Armand, even if we are poor as church mice.”
Lord Valmont smiled. “Not likely, my dear, but I honor you for the sentiment.” He pulled off the cabachon cut sapphire that graced his finger and removed a soft, satin glove. Then, slipping the heavy jewel—too large, but Daisy did not mind—effortlessly onto her person, he continued in a conversational tone.
“Would you mind, very much, being Lady Valmont? One day it shall be the Countess of Westenbury, but since it is my mother who now holds that honor, and my father who is the current earl, I hope that shall be in the very distant future.”
Lord Valmont never did get to hear Daisy’s answer, for Lord Raven was roaring that his leg hurt and if they intended to have a wedding they had better get on with it right speedily.
And so they did.
Postscript
The jewelled tricorne hat still molders in the closet along with Lord Raven’s other elegant trifles. The earl called for it at once, after the marriage of Daisy, the last of his famous granddaughters, all wed upon the selfsame day.
Sadly, his undutiful kin would have none of it. Neither would his scoundrel grandsons-in-law, who all, in unison, demanded that he “burn the stupid thing.”
Thus Raven is still stuck with his riches and is plotting, to this day, which unsuspecting grandchild to bestow them upon.
He still glowers at Lord Valmont and roars at Denver, Lord Barrymore, who won his wager fair and square by selecting Lily over the king’s ransom. Even the mild-mannered Marquis of Rochester has had pitchers of lime cordial flung upon him upon occasion. All admit, however, that the earl has mellowed with time.
The Countess of Westenbury thinks Daisy much, much preferable to a “ ’igh kicker” or even a “moonkey.” They are the best of friends and outdo each other only in the matter of romances, where Daisy prefers Gothic and my lady wavers delightfully between Byron, Scott, and some of the more excessive French writers.
Gwenyth, Dowager Marchioness of Rochester, deprived of the privilege of sponsoring the Chartley sisters, is instead turning her illustrious attention to Raven himself. She bickers and scolds quite horribly, but rumors have been rife for some time about nuptials....
Finally: The viscount’s coal mines are thriving and “Raven’s Rail”—powered by one of the first multitubular boiler engines of its kind—has surpassed all expectation. Denver, Lord Barrymore, is no longer emptying his pockets of bills. As his very fine valet Hoskin puts it, “He has the luck of the devil himself.”
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