by Kate Archer
Daisy smiled and nodded in acquiescence.
My dear Daisy,
I was just beginning a response to the letter you sent me recently when a second arrived of the most unusual kind! Upon reading the name Dagobert, I instantly surmised it must be reference to the last and greatest of the Frankish Kings, now long buried in St. Denis Basilica in Paris. Oh, there is so much I could tell you about his fascinating history! Alas, I fear it would not interest you at this moment in time.
What puzzles me is why anybody would refer to King Dagobert as THE Dagobert or wonder where he is? Or, why would it even be important to know that he is in the Basilica? And then, there was a question of who had possession of him? It is all very odd.
I discussed the matter thoroughly with Lord Grayson and, while he had never heard of King Dagobert, he did have a clever suggestion. He posited that I should put it to the learned men and women it has been my pleasure to become acquainted with, and I have since sent letters all over England. I delayed my reply to you in the hopes that I would have received a response that might shed light on the subject, but so far none have been received. The only promising lead has been from Mr. Croydon, who writes me that he has a friend who is expert on French history and who he has written to on this matter.
Please be assured that the moment I hear something I will send the fastest messenger with the information. Further, I will conduct my own research and have already arranged to meet with Mr. Lackington to see if we can discover something at Lackington and Allen.
How darling of you to send me a mystery to consider!
Now, I must run, my friend. Lord Grayson has taken my free hand and tells me the sun is shining and we must go out and take in the day. As always, he looks entirely dashing and I cannot deny him.
Kitty Dermot
Daisy laid the letter down. “I do not suppose we are much further in our understanding, but I am grateful Lady Grayson will make inquiries.”
“What on earth could involve anybody with a long-dead Frankish king, I wonder?” Lady Bartholomew mused.
“There is something we are missing,” Lord Dalton said, “and I hope Lady Grayson can find it out, perhaps with Mr. Lackington’s assistance. The fellow has a shop with thousands of books in it, certainly there must be something they could discover if they put their minds to it. That is, assuming Grayson does not keep dragging his wife out of doors.”
Daisy found she must bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. Lord Dalton had little idea of how true that was. Daisy knew from Kitty’s letters that her friend was always buried in books somewhere, and Lord Grayson was always pulling her away from them. One moment she was delving into a paper recently published by the Royal Society, and the next she was picnicking under an old oak while her lord read her Shakespeare.
“So, the mystery continues,” Lord Bartholomew said.
Bellamy led the footmen in with trays of desserts—berries, jellies, cream tarts and a savarin cake. He sniffed as he laid it out on the card table that would usually see a game of whist. Daisy watched him, having some pity on the fellow, as Bellamy was never very approving of veering away from what would be usual. But then, Bellamy was never very approving of anything.
She supposed he was right in some respects, as a card game would be very usual and now there was nowhere to play.
In lieu of cards, Daisy urged Miss Minkerton to the pianoforte. As she had suspected, Lord Burke was all too happy to turn the pages for her. After a few airs, Miss Minkerton claimed that Daisy ought to have a chance, but Daisy had already an excuse prepared by way of a supposed sore finger.
She loved playing, and she thought herself skilled, but she would not for the world upstage Miss Minkerton’s moment or interrupt any progress she might be making with Lord Burke.
This, happily, left everybody free to admire Miss Minkerton. Lord Burke was very taken with her playing, as he always seemed to be, and her parents were suitably proud. It was perhaps not quite as delightful for Lord Dalton, as Daisy caught him stifling yawns and re-reading Kitty’s letter.
As for Daisy, she could not help her mind drifting to Lieutenant Farthmore and Lady Montague. She did not know what danger those two people were, but she feared they were dangerous indeed. Perhaps even more dangerous than her father had been. With him, she had at least known what she could expect.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Burke sat on the Minkerton’s wide veranda overlooking the sea and pretended to read a book, though he was far more engaged in watching Belle at her embroidery. He was certain nobody was so pert with a needle. Each stitch was an attack on the fabric, and then so often the stitch seemed to go wrong and she would adorably sigh, pull out the thread, and attack once more. It seemed everything she did was in some charming fashion.
It had been some days since the dinner at Miss Danworth’s house. He felt that night was the moment when he’d begun to dip his toe in the water. All along he’d convinced himself that Belle would never look upon him as a brother, but then they’d had so many walks round the garden where she seemed so interested in anything he said…well, he decided he must try. Subtly, of course. He would not wish to embarrass the lady with any feelings that were unwelcome.
He’d praised her painting as good enough to be confused for a Vernet. Certainly, it must be taken as a high compliment. She was skilled with a brush in a pleasant sort of way, but not exactly a master. It had been a flirtatious gambit, it really could not be seen otherwise.
It had seemed to go over well and that had given him some little bit of hope. It could be that Belle’s view of him was changing, that he was not so much a brother. Or it could be only his hopeful imagination.
The Minkertons’ butler, a thin and forlorn-looking fellow who always seemed as if he’d just heard bad news, came onto the veranda with a note on a silver tray and took it to Belle.
“Oh good, Branway,” she said, “you cannot know how grateful I am to have an interruption from this diabolical piece of needlework. It is torturing me, or I am torturing it, I hardly know which.”
Branway, seeming to be quite used to Miss Minkerton’s struggles in that department, only nodded sadly and held out the tray.
Belle opened the note and then laid it down on her lap. “We are invited to a card party at Miss Danworth’s house. It is to be a buffet. How lovely!”
Harry nodded, though he was not that enthusiastic over putting Belle and Dalton in the same room. He was not altogether clear whether Dalton had any designs on the lady. He’d once thought so, but he’d since seen no sign of it.
“Miss Danworth is very like a sister to you,” Belle said. “Is she not?”
“Oh, yes,” Harry said. After a long pause, he plowed on. “Though I would not like every lady I know to consider themselves my sister. Some may know me longer and still not be as a sister.”
“That is true,” Belle said. “Length of time cannot have anything to do with it.”
“No, it really cannot. And then, one may seem a sister at one early moment, and then not a sister at some later moment.”
“Yes, of course, things do change. I have often noted it.”
“Change, yes,” he said. “It is the nature of things.”
“Indeed,” Belle said, “things are always changing.”
“Often for the better.”
“Usually for the better, I think.”
“One must only recognize the change.”
“Yes, even when it is right in front of a person, they might not see it. At first.”
Belle had gone back to stabbing at her fabric. Harry could not tell if they were talking of the same idea or not. Was she saying she was not his sister? That their relationship was changing? Or was she only politely answering his roundabout conversation?
He suppressed a sigh and went back to the book he wasn’t reading. He hoped nobody would ever ask him about it, as he had been turning pages without reading for over a week.
Chapter Twelve
Betsy was brushing Daisy’
s hair, or at least that was what she was supposed to be doing. Daisy watched her maid fiddle with the brush and finally said, “What is it, Betsy? You are completely distracted.”
Betsy laid down the brush and said, “Mightily distracted. You see, I cannot decide if I ought to tell you of what I heard in the servants’ quarters, or whether I ought to leave it alone.”
“Now that you have mentioned it, I think you must tell me,” Daisy said, preparing herself to hear of Bellamy’s latest complaints. “I cannot go forward, forever wondering what it was.”
Betsy nodded enthusiastically. “That is very true. Well, it is just this—Mrs. Broadbent was in town yesterday and she heard from the grocer that Lady Montague has been telling all and sundry that Miss Danworth isn’t mourning as a dutiful daughter should.”
Daisy only nodded, though she would have liked to have hit Lady Montague over the head with her hairbrush at that moment.
“She is tellin’ people that it’s almost like you are glad Lord Childress is dead,” Betsy said.
“And so I am,” Daisy said. “Though I ought not advertise it.”
“But here’s the best part,” Betsy said, hurrying on, “it seems nobody does care. The grocer said nobody in town likes Lady Montague, what with her sneering down her nose and complaining all the time. When her cook came in the other day, he sent over the worst of his produce and he don’t care if he loses the business. Lady Montague can eat old potatoes for all he cares of it.”
Daisy stifled her laughter. She did not know what else Lady Montague was up to, and was rather afraid to find out, but it tickled her that the lady had been given old potatoes for her trouble.
“Then,” Betsy said, “our Mrs. Broadbent told the grocer if he was to hear of any more talk like that, he was to give the talker the what-for. She told him how to do it and he says he’s at the ready.”
“No, truly not,” Daisy said, laughing.
“Oh yes,” Betsy said. “Mrs. Broadbent calls it the laundry list speech. You just get in your mind all of your complaints, and then you say them all together with hardly a breath. It’s overpowering, she says.”
“I suppose it would be,” Daisy said, thinking back to Mrs. Broadbent’s what-for to poor Mr. Deer.
“And last night, the staff was all so moved at hearing the story that they swore they’d give any talkers the what-for too. Even Mr. Bellamy claimed he wasn’t above giving a good what-for when necessary. Though, he put his foot down at getting one.”
“Goodness,” Daisy said, catching her breath from laughing, “What else did you talk about?”
“Oh, after that it was mostly about the cat. Our Peggy said she spied Lord Dalton giving it a bath in the garden and talking to it about fleas and how it was a disgusting wretch, though she swears he said it fondly. Mr. Bellamy tried to claim the cat was a noble creature, or would be when it was not quite as mangy and had filled out a bit, and so it was worthy of the lord’s notice. Nobody could help but fall to pieces laughing over it and Mr. Bellamy got up and ordered his boys to make cocoa to settle his feelings.”
Daisy had not had any idea so much was discussed in the servants’ hall. She supposed she should have realized it. Her ideas of their table being filled with a vague silence never made any sense, now that she was considering it. As it happened, it was rather lively.
But how extraordinary. Her housekeeper had harangued a grocer in her defense and the staff were ready to give out Mrs. Broadbent’s particular style of what-fors.
And then, of course, Lord Dalton had washed a cat.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Charles had not set foot in the rudimentary kitchen of the cottage, except to retrieve a tray of cured meats or cheeses and rolls that Flanagan had sent over. Irish papist or no, the fellow understood that a gentleman might want to eat at any time of day and had supplied him accordingly.
However, he’d finally admitted to himself after one too many flea bites around his ankles, that somebody was going to have to bathe the wretched cat. He could not see his way clear to asking anybody lest he be viewed as favoring the cat, and so he’d determined to do it himself.
As he’d searched the cupboards for rags and soap, he came upon a bundle of letters tied up in ribbon and stuck far back in the silver drawer. After he’d wrestled with the cat and water and soap with only a few scratches for his trouble, he’d taken the letters to his decrepit drawing room and laid them out on a table.
As he read through them, one by one, a picture of Lord Childress’ activities began to emerge. At first, all he could make out was that it appeared the lord was using this location by the sea to move goods in some kind of smuggling operation. As he read on, he understood that it was not cases of brandy or bolts of silk that Childress was interested in. No, the lord shot far higher than that.
He was interested in works of art and one-of-a-kind items that might fetch an exorbitant price.
No wonder Childress had allowed his estates to fall into disrepair—it was not from them his income had been derived. It seemed this run-down cottage was the real base of his operations. It was a likely location—with a good telescope one might view any boats lurking offshore, and there were cement steps leading down to a lonely expanse of rocky beach not particularly suited to bathing.
In fact, the steps were behind a locked gate, were very obviously in disrepair, and he had yet to see anybody go near them. And why would anybody go near them, unless they were unloading a boat under cover of darkness?
He found several letters regarding the Palaskar collection of books. It seemed that the lord had, in the end, found they would be too much of a risk to steal, and so tricked the old man who had possession of them to give them up for a paltry sum. He had planned on keeping them, advertising his possession of them to likely people, and then selling them to the highest bidder. He had died before he could do so, and now they were the property of Charles’ father. Charles supposed he’d have to make an effort to track down the old man who’d been swindled and return them.
Though most of the letters were from Farthmore, they often mentioned another person named Jenkins. Little was said of him other than he was aware of the plan or he was ready for the next step.
It was the last few letters in the pile, though, that gave him real pause. While he could only see what was sent to Childress and not what Childress himself had written to anybody else, the idea was clear enough.
The Dagobert was most definitely a thing, and not a person. It had been acquired from some unknown individual crossing into Spain from France. Whispers of it had made the rounds of the camps, and Farthmore made it his business to find the fellow, dispense with him, and make off with it. Its value was inestimable if the right sort of collector were approached, and Napoleon might even pay a ransom for it.
It seemed Childress had made vague promises to Farthmore of trading Miss Danworth’s hand for the Dagobert, then had reneged. Childress had written that he never did receive the Dagobert, and therefore, their agreement was nullified. The item was considered lost at sea.
Farthmore was irate about it and swore the Dagobert had been delivered by Jenkins.
Though he still did not know what a Dagobert was, Charles had a better understanding of what it might be. Some piece of stolen artwork that would fetch a good price. He assumed whatever it was had long been sold off, perhaps even to Napoleon, while Childress pocketed the money and claimed he’d never got it.
Farthmore had been a fool in so many ways. Not the least of which was thinking that Childress would connect himself to such a low branch of Lady Montague’s family tree by marrying off his daughter to him. Childress was far too conscious of rank to ever have considered it. He had only promised it as a swindle.
Charles picked up the letter and examined the date on it. August of 1814, just months after the failed siege of Tarragona. Just months after Farthmore would have returned from Spain.
The last letter was in a different tone and far more recent. Farthmore wrote that he agreed to wa
it until Miss Danworth’s twenty-first birthday to claim his prize. Charles could not make out what the prize was—Lord Childress would have no ability to force Miss Danworth to marry Farthmore. If he were intent on forcing her, he would hardly wait until she had the maturity to fight him off—he would have tried it when she was sixteen. Further, at her twenty-first she would also have the funds to support herself and would have no need of her father’s house. At her majority, Childress would have lost all power to pressure her into anything.
Charles paused. Perhaps there had been some scheme in the works about the money she was to come into. Or, more likely, perhaps Childress just sought to put Farthmore off for another few years.
While Farthmore served General Murray in Spain, he’d got his hands on something valuable called the Dagobert and he’d gone to his reliably criminal partner with it. But, like most criminals, it looked like that partner turned out to be a double-dealer.
At least, that was how it seemed. He dared not discount that Farthmore might have some scheme still in mind that involved Daisy.
Not Daisy, you idiot!
Miss Danworth.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The card party had been arranged and Daisy was quite looking forward to it. It would break up the sameness of the days, pleasant as they had been. Most had been taken up with tea in the garden, usually with the company of Lord Burke and Miss Minkerton. Lord Dalton would bring out a book and Daisy often observed him when she pretended at some embroidery work. He seemed to lose himself when reading and his features softened quite a bit—it was as if a mask he wore publicly dropped away. Even his scar seemed to recede and fade. She found it both fascinating and unnerving.
While she was being fascinated and unnerved, Lord Burke and Miss Minkerton seemed to be progressing nicely. Miss Minkerton had, at some point in her travels round the garden, managed to twist her ankle. This of course necessitated leaning heavily on Lord Burke’s arm, and the occasional offer from the gentleman to carry the lady if she deemed it necessary. So far, she had not deemed it necessary, but Lord Burke seemed to hold out hope that she would. Daisy did not know to what extent Miss Minkerton suffered, or whether she suffered at all, but it was a fortuitous condition the lady found herself in. Lord Burke appeared delighted with her injury.