The Earl's Iron Warrant (The Duke's Pact Book 6)

by Kate Archer

  Lady Montague looked around for a chair, then said, “I see I am to be left standing.”

  “I am certain you will not be here long enough for it to become a burden,” Lord Dalton said, stretching his legs out as if to communicate his own comfort in being seated.

  Lady Montague sniffed and looked disapprovingly at the cat, who’d decided to make a sudden appearance by way of front paws on the table and peering at her.

  Daisy thought of how exactly disapproving the lady would be if she knew that she just now looked upon the feline murderess of her cousin. As it was, the only three people who knew of the cat’s involvement in the lieutenant’s demise were herself, Lord Dalton, and Lord Burke.

  “Miss Danworth, I am sure you are acquainted with the circumstances of my cousin’s unfortunate actions on the night he…expired,” Lady Montague said. “Though Sir Matthew has explained it all to me, I find I am more mystified than ever. Why should the lieutenant come here for a paltry amount of silver when he was already in possession of my very costly jewels?”

  “I have no idea, Lady Montague,” Daisy said. “How is one to understand what goes through a criminal’s mind?”

  “It does not make sense, though,” Lady Montague plowed on. “Why bring a boat here, only for some silver? Hearing of Lord Childress the things that I have, I cannot even imagine it being good silver. No, I am sure he was after something else and am equally sure you know what it was. I feel, that in some way, the answer to that may absolve my cousin somehow.”

  Daisy suppressed a shiver, as Lady Montague was drifting far too close to the truth.

  Lord Dalton stood and said, “I can clear up a few things for you, Lady Montague. I will inform you to cease your wondering. For, I can assure you if you continue to delve into this matter, it will not excuse your cousin at all. What it will result in, should the matter become fully and publicly understood, is you and your lord being stripped of your title by the regent for harboring a treasonous individual. That is, assuming you knew what he was all along, which I would be happy to claim that you did.”

  Lady Montague had paled. “I hardly think—”

  “You think too much,” Lord Dalton said. “My advice is you slink back to Yorkshire and explain to your husband that your no-good cousin has stolen your jewels. This is unlikely to come as a surprise to poor Lord Montague, as I am sure he is entirely inured to your near-constant missteps. If I hear that you have placed one foot out of line, I will go to the regent myself. And that, Lady Montague, will really be the end of you.”

  “I will back Lord Dalton, if it becomes necessary,” Lord Burke said. “I do not think I would tell any tales either. I think you certainly did know what your cousin was capable of and kept him around for your own convenient purposes.”

  Lady Montague staggered a bit on the uneven grass. Regaining her footing, she said, “I certainly did not know he was capable of stealing!”

  “So says you, I say otherwise,” Lord Dalton said, beginning to look bored with the conversation. “Pack up and be gone and do not trouble us again or it will be at your peril.”

  Lady Montague huffed and seemed as if she would say more, but no words came out.

  Bellamy, who had remained standing behind the lady, said, “May I show you the way out, Mrs. Montague?”

  She turned on him and screeched, “It is Lady Montague!”

  Bellamy had already started his walk back to the house and Daisy heard him say quietly, “So it is. For now.”

  Lady Montague clutched her ridiculous bonnet against the breeze and hurried after the butler, pink ribbons flapping behind her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Daisy watched Lady Montague storm out of the garden, refusing Bellamy’s arm to be helped up the steps and staggering up them herself. The back doors slammed behind her.

  “That went well, I thought,” Lord Dalton said.

  Daisy nodded, with a great sigh of relief. She did not know if that would be the end of trouble coming from Lady Montague, but she at least had hope for it. She could not imagine what would threaten the lady more than losing her rank. The prince had already warned her against stirring pots all over his realm and were she to delve more deeply into this circumstance, she would stir a very large pot indeed. Daisy had faced down the dragon and come out relatively unscathed.

  Daisy blushed, as was becoming a common occurrence, as it dawned on her that she’d not faced down the dragon at all. Lord Dalton had done it.

  She was becoming more and more reliant on him. On his protection. Really, on his company. What was she to do when he was gone? He would not stay forever, hanging about in the garden and chasing off her enemies.

  Daisy was not at all certain of her feelings. It was very strange, as whatever she felt for him, it was not anything that had happened to her before. She looked forward to seeing him, was not at all put off by his frequently dour temperament, and often regretful that she’d declared in the beginning that he ought not to eat his dinner in the house.

  She was not at all afraid of him. Perhaps that was the feeling that affected her so much. He was a man, and she was not afraid of him. He was a man who often frightened people, but she was not afraid of him. She felt she knew that underneath his grumpiness and hard-edged exterior, he would never hurt her. How odd, to think that of a man.

  It had been a habit, for weeks, to blow out the last candle and gaze out the window at him. He sat on the bench with his brandy, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, the cat lounging on his lap or next to him.

  He was so handsome, but in a different way than she had known him in town. He was at once looking rather rakish in his state of déshabillé, but also endearing in his care for the cat.

  Her ventures to the window had been unnoticed until the night of the lieutenant’s death. That night, Lord Dalton had looked up and seen her by the light of the full moon. Mortified that she’d been spotted spying on him, she’d called out that she often preferred to have some night air before retiring. It had been the most ridiculous thing in the world and she’d promptly shut her window and jumped in her bed.

  But then, she had not given up the habit of staying by the window. She thought he might know it, though he pretended he did not.

  She could see from the markings the bench had made on the grass that he had moved it closer to the house. Only a foot or so, but closer. How close would he come?

  She knew she ought not allow her thoughts to travel in any particular direction in regard to Lord Dalton. It was soon to be shooting season and Daisy would be packed off to the duke’s estate while the lord made the rounds of house parties.

  Lord Burke and Miss Minkerton had been chattering on about their wedding ever since Lady Montague had stormed off. Of course, they had been talking of their wedding ever since the engagement and it seemed the appearance of Lady Montague was not enough to put them off it. It was to take place in a month in Somerset and there was much to arrange. It was not to be a small affair; they would have friends and relatives coming far and wide and expected more than a hundred at the wedding breakfast—every large house in the county would be commandeered to accommodate the guests.

  The Minkertons and their soon to be son-in-law would set off for home earlier than they had planned on account of it. Daisy was delighted for them, though she would miss Belle’s company.

  They rose and Miss Minkerton said, “We will be off to town now. I have explained to Lord Burke that there is a perfectly charming bonnet that ought to be included in my trousseau and he has insisted I have it.”

  Daisy smiled. “Of course he has insisted.”

  “And anything else she likes,” Lord Burke said. “Now is a time for weddings and the frippery that must come along with it. We may safely leave all unpleasantness behind, I think.”

  “Agreed,” Lord Dalton said.

  “Agreed?” Lord Burke said. “I had not thought to hear that sentiment from you, my friend.”

  Lord Dalton fed the cat a choice piece of ham and said, �
��I have grown weary of plots, whether they be Farthmore’s or Lady Montague’s. Or even my own. You may have noticed I did not do a thing to stop you chaining yourself. Let us finally have done with it all.”

  “Well said,” Lord Burke said.

  “Though, chaining, Lord Dalton?” Miss Minkerton said. “Lord Burke is not chaining himself.”

  “I am, and happily,” Lord Burke said.

  “Well, as long as it’s happily,” Miss Minkerton said, with an adorable shrug.

  As Lord Burke escorted Miss Minkerton out of the garden, Daisy was amused to hear him inquire, yet again, on the state of her by now long-healed ankle.

  “I will be sorry to see them go,” Mrs. Jellops said. “Though wherever we are to be in a month, I hope we can attend the wedding. Mrs. Phelps will be there, her house is very nearby. She’d said I ought to stay with her and she will show me her own recipe for mustard, which is a deal more civil than Mr. Flanagan’s, and we might entertain ourselves with piquet of an evening.”

  Despite being tickled by the idea of Mrs. Jellops further corrupting Mrs. Phelps’ ideas about piquet, Daisy did not laugh. The subject of what was to be done with her and her companion in the next months had been raised and she waited to hear what Lord Dalton would say.

  He took so long to say anything that Daisy began to wonder if he’d given it any thought at all.

  Finally, he said, “Yes, as to that…I had thought I’d write to the hostesses that have kindly invited me to stay for shooting and let them know you would come as well. But then I thought…”

  Daisy felt as if her heart was dropping. He had thought to bring them along with him, but then he’d thought…

  “Then I thought, well it is very pleasant here and the notion that nobody can stay at the seaside beyond a certain date is nonsense and does it not become tedious to always spend one’s days shooting game for somebody else’s table?”

  “I would find it alarming to shoot anything at all,” Mrs. Jellops said. “But do you say that we ought to stay here, Lord Dalton?”

  “I suppose here is as good as anywhere,” Lord Dalton said. “You’ve got to be somewhere until Miss Danworth reaches her majority. Unless, of course, you prefer the estate in Shropshire.”

  Both Daisy and Mrs. Jellops recoiled at the idea. Daisy wished never to walk through those doors again. It had been the scene of her unhappy childhood and would still smell of her father’s tobacco.

  “I see that is not a preference,” Lord Dalton said.

  “If you do not mind staying here,” Daisy said, “I certainly do not mind it. Mrs. Jellops, do you mind it?”

  “Goodness, no,” the lady said. “Though I still hold out hope that we may travel to Somerset for the wedding.”

  “Burke is one of my oldest friends,” Lord Dalton said. “I suppose since he’s asked, I must go.”

  “I am relieved,” Mrs. Jellops said. “I had thought, what with your ideas of marriage…there were rumors of one of your friends being locked up to prevent one? I thought you might not be keen on the idea.”

  “I will not attempt to prevent the marriage,” Lord Dalton said, “my efforts in that direction have only resulted in failure. Though I would not go so far as keen.”

  “But,” Daisy said, “you do like Miss Minkerton?”

  “Yes, yes,” Lord Dalton said, waving his hands, “it is just…”

  “That you have said you will never…” Daisy trailed off.

  “As have you,” Lord Dalton said.

  There seemed to be nothing to say after that, and so the party grew silent. Daisy twisted her hands under the table. They were to stay here. It was not a circumstance she would have imagined. It was not unwelcome.

  But why? Why should they stay here? Why did not Lord Dalton go off to his rounds of country house parties? Was not shooting at things the highlight of a man’s year? Is that not what they talked about at their clubs? Her father and his cronies had spent hours talking about what they’d bagged, as if they had hunted tigers and not pheasants or foxes.

  As well, had it not always been the case, at the beginning of the London season, for ladies to be complaining that their husbands were still off shooting? Why should Lord Dalton suddenly pretend he found it tedious?

  She did not know, but she found herself very glad of it. She had no idea what she would have done if she were dragged from house to house. Would she keep to her rooms, pretending at deep mourning? Would she throw off the dark clothes and face down any remarks about it? Here, she could go on as she had done, appearing as herself with no pretense. Here, she would have time to think through what she wanted to make of her life.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Dalton had left the garden and gone back to his cottage to await his dinner, the cat following close behind. He supposed the one benefit of dining alone, or with only the company of a cat, was that he need not change clothes for it. He gazed around the shabby abode, realizing it was to be his home for some months more. What had he been thinking? He was near-certain the chimney would kill him with smoke once the weather made lighting a fire necessary.

  He sighed. He knew what he’d been thinking. He’d thought Miss Danworth would despise being dragged from place to place, being asked to smile pleasantly and go along with whatever hare-brained schemes the hostess had cooked up for the ladies. As far as he understood it, when the women were not piled into a cart to watch the shooting from afar, they were led on long walks for picnics or driven through some local village to shop for ribbons they might have bought before they got there. The evenings consisted of dinner and then, hopefully, cards or pool or some other sensible activity. A few hostesses were not so sensible and, in a bid for originality he assumed, came up with some more painful plan, the worst of which was charades. Finally, there was the inevitable ball toward the end of it where everybody pretended to be more delighted than they actually were. This was followed by packing up and moving onto the next house, where the same would commence all over again.

  It was not just Miss Danworth who would find the whole procedure tedious, he would as well. He used to think all the nonsense was worth it because of the shooting. But he had distinctly noticed that these days he preferred to be well away from the sound of a gun firing. It set him on edge.

  He did not know what Miss Danworth thought of gunfire, but he sensed that she was on edge about something herself. It was not Farthmore, that rogue was dead. It was not Lady Montague, that lady had been dispatched to everybody’s satisfaction and had since decamped to Yorkshire to deliver the bad news about her jewels to her long-suffering lord.

  There was something else. The night they’d received Lady Grayson’s letter and discovered what the Dagobert was, and that it was in the house posing as a bedpost, she had seemed to be overcome in some way. In the moment he’d spoken of her father having some agreement with Farthmore to wait until her majority, something had flashed in her eyes, some sudden knowing. It seemed as if she’d understood why her father would wish to wait until she was of age, though it remained unfathomable to him. She’d said nothing, but the mention of it had sparked something in her—some idea, or some recollection.

  She’d gone white as a sheet and gripped the arm of her chair, as if she understood and was horrified.

  Had she experienced some sort of memory, long forgotten? He suspected that whatever she had realized still haunted her, even if the two parties to it were long gone. There were times in the garden, when she did not know anybody was watching, that she looked as if she saw nothing, as if her mind’s eye was very far away.

  He found it irked him that he did not know what she thought about.

  As for his extended stay in this hovel, what was done was done. He’d stay here, and in a month he’d take Miss Danworth and Mrs. Jellops to Somerset for Burke’s wedding and then…then, he did not know what he would do. He presumed his father would write with some new set of directions, and threats about giving everything that was unentailed to his idiot cousin Herbert if he did not com
ply.

  The cat suddenly dug her nails into his calf. He pulled her away by the scruff of her neck and set her down. It seemed whenever she decided that dinner was running late, she expressed her irritation with a scratch. “I am not your prey, you wretch.”

  The cat sat implacably staring at him.

  “Oh, I know what you think,” he said. “You think I make too many arrangements to suit Daisy…Miss Danworth. You think my father’s outrageous plan is working. You think I grow fond of the lady and that’s why I’ve put myself in this ridiculous situation.”

  The cat did not comment one way or the other, but only turned and strolled away, waving her tail high in the air.

  “I haven’t,” he called after her. “No more than in the usual way.”

  Was that exactly true, though? Had he not allowed himself to grow a little too fond of Miss Danworth? Had he not found it adorable, or at least a deal less icy than was her usual habit, that she spied on him every night? On the night of Farthmore’s death, under the full moon when she’d been caught out, she’d claimed she preferred to take in the night air. A ridiculous and charming ruse.

  He’d since pretended he did not note her there at her window, but of course he had. He always watched while the candles burned in her room and then looked away when the last candle was tamped out.

  He could, he’d realized, keep his head down and, in the darkness, she would not realize his eyes occasionally looked up. He also could move the bench closer to the house by subtle degrees. Or not so subtle degrees, as the case might be. It would be extraordinary if she had not noticed, though she had not commented on it.

  Was it a game? Or was he developing feelings that were growing a little too strong to ignore? What if those feelings were leading somewhere? That somewhere being a place he’d claimed he would never go?

  If it were so, there would be certain…hurdles to jump.