The Ladies In Love Series

by M. C. Beaton

  The next day he was quiet and courteous. He had shown Daisy to a room at the top of the house where a battered trunk held all the memories of Daisy’s mother and Daisy spent the day reading old letters and staring at old photographs that drew a picture of a once happy marriage.

  Lord Chatterton then exerted himself to amuse Bertie and Amy, taking them on a tour of the little village and buying them a bottle of the local wine and plates of little fresh clams. They were as charmed as Lord Chatterton meant them to be and began to think that Daisy’s papa was not such a bad fellow after all.

  They went back to the villa where several bottles of champagne were produced, ice cold from the deep cellar. Daisy was routed out of her dreams and pressed to join them.

  Then dinner was a lavish many-coursed affair with different wines for each remove. Daisy only drank a little of each. Her father’s almost wild gaiety was making her feel nervous and both Bertie and Amy were quite drunk.

  Rose had not put in an appearance and every time Daisy asked Lord Chatterton where she was, he changed the subject. They were dining on the terrace, watching a red sun sink into the Mediterranean. Daisy had a sudden overwhelming feeling that the Duke of Oxenden was quite near. She was aware of his presence with such a burst of intense feeling that she half turned in her chair, expecting his tall figure to be standing there. There was nothing but the short expanse of unkempt lawn and the long evening shadows of the pines.

  Lord Chatterton was circulating the brandy for the second time and pressing Daisy to have some more, when he suddenly cocked his head. An owl hooted softly from the woods. “An owl,” he said with a burst of laughter. “Nothing but a sweet little owl. You must excuse me ladies. I shall take this foul-smelling cigar into the garden and commune with the owl.” He dropped nimbly over the terrace and was soon lost to view in the deepening shadows of the trees.

  Lost to the conventions, Bertie and Amy sat with their arms around each other and Daisy felt as awkward as any gooseberry usually feels in the same situation. She decided to go and look for Rose. As she moved along the upstairs corridor, she was glad that Rose had a room to herself instead of sharing one with her father, although she obviously shared his bed from time to time.

  She knocked on the door of Rose’s room and waited. There was no reply. Rose must be asleep. But something in the quality of the silence made her gently open the door. Fumbling for a lucifer, she lit a candle on a small table by the door and held it above her head. The room reeked of patchouli and as she moved forward her foot struck an overturned scent bottle. The bed was empty, the closets open with their silent, empty hangers bearing witness to a hurried flight She moved quickly back and along the corridor to her father’s room. It had the same marks of hurried packing and a strong smell of patchouli indicated that Rose had done it for him.

  A sudden thought stabbed at Daisy’s heart. Her father wouldn’t…couldn’t…She ran to her own room.

  Her jewel box lay empty, her small store of rings and necklaces gone. Her trunks, recently brought from Toulon, had been opened and rifled. Several elaborate evening dresses were missing.

  Her reticule lay upside down on the floor. She knelt in the corner of the room and pried up a loose floorboard. Her small stock of money was safe. She thought to herself how she had laughed when she had hidden it, thinking she was turning into a typical Sarah Jenkins with an inbred distrust of foreigners.

  Daisy went slowly down the stairs. As she had expected, there was no sign of her father. His “owl” in the woods must have been Rose giving him the signal that the theft had been completed. Then she looked at Bertie and Amy with a sudden misgiving.

  Both got slowly to their feet as they noticed her tense white face.

  “Father and Rose have robbed me,” said Daisy baldly. “You had both better check your room. I”—here her voice broke—“I just haven’t the heart to…”

  Suddenly sobered, Bertie pushed Amy gently into her chair and then went out quickly. Both women waited in silence. There was a sound of loud swearing from above and then rapid footsteps.

  “He’s taken every blessed thing we have, Amy,” howled Bertie. “All my money, all your jewelry. Of all the thieving conniving—sorry, Daisy, but after all, don’t you know your old man’s a downright thief?”

  “We will report this to the police,” said Daisy in a thin, cold voice.

  “Oh, you can’t,” exclaimed Amy. “Your own father…”

  “I know where to catch him,” said Bertie. “He’ll have gone straight to the casino. Dammit, we haven’t any money to get there.”

  “I have some. I hid it under the floorboards,” said Daisy.

  “Well,” retorted Bertie, “it’s a wise child that knows its own father.” Daisy winced.

  “We’ll go down to the village,” Bertie went on, “and see if we can hire some sort of vehicle.”

  The only vehicle left was an ancient horse and cart belonging to the Bar Publique. Undeterred by its ramshackle appearance, they paid in advance for its hire from Daisy’s money and ambled slowly off along the winding coast road to the casino at Anribes.

  Peasants heading homeward from a hard day in the stony fields stopped to look with amazement at the elegant trio in the old cart. Bertie had insisted that they all change into evening dress in case even the small casino had strict rules.

  They passed through a village and a peasant girl stopped to look enviously at the beautiful mesdames in their splendid gowns. For a moment her envy was briefly reflected in Daisy’s eyes. What must it be like, she mused, to wear nothing but loose cotton in this heat instead of being confined in a hot, fashionable hell of heavy stays and horsehair padding?

  Daisy was in no doubt about what she meant to do. If her father was indeed at the casino, she would have him arrested on the spot. She burned with revenge for the wrong done to her faithful friends.

  In all her distress, Daisy could only admire the aplomb with which Bertie consigned their battered chariot into the hands of a liveried flunkey outside the casino. All the courage that Bertie had always longed for had come to him unexpectedly through his unusual marriage. He was always grateful to Daisy for unwittingly having been the means of introducing him to Amy and so he stopped her on the threshold of the casino.

  “We’ll just get our money and stuff back,” he said. “That is, if your father’s here. We won’t bother calling the police.”

  But Daisy thought she knew her father better than Bertie and thought that it would be necessary to call in the local gendarmes before they could retrieve a penny of it.

  The casino was perched on a cliff outside the small town of Anribes. It was about the size of an average English seaside hotel and the main gambling room faced the sea. Long French windows opened onto a marble terrace. The rooms were furnished in a great deal of dusty red plush with gas candelabra lowered down over the green baize tables, casting the faces of the players into shadow.

  The light shone on the chests and hands of the players and Daisy saw at a table near the window, the unmistakable grimy, bony bosom of Rose. She whispered to Bertie and pointed.

  She and Amy stood in silence, holding each other’s hands, as they watched Bertie move across to the table.

  A lazy voice whispered in her ear, “Good evening, Daisy!” She whirled around and gazed up into the smiling eyes of the Duke of Oxenden.

  All Daisy’s rigid self-control broke. She threw herself against him, crying incoherently, “Oh, my father! Oh, the jewels! Oh, Bertie’s money! Oh, my father.”

  “Now then,” said the Duke, holding her tightly. “That sounds more like Shylock than Juliet.”

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. Heads began to turn, two officials began to walk toward them, there was a loud cry from the window table, and Bertie could be seen struggling with someone in the gloom while Rose screamed and screamed. The Duke put Daisy gently to one side and ran forward, as servants hurriedly raised the candelabra above the tables and exposed the tawdry room to the full glar
e of the gaslight.

  Lord Chatterton was struggling with Bertie. He looked up and saw the Duke of Oxenden and with a great wrench, broke himself free from Bertie’s clasp. He rushed out onto the terrace and with a tremendous leap, cleared the balustrade.

  To Daisy’s horrified eyes, it looked as if her father hung motionless for a second while the casino crowd stood frozen. Then he plunged down into the Mediterranean and was lost from view.

  The Duke was the first to move. He tore off his jacket and collar and dived headlong over the terrace. Daisy ran to the edge and looked over. The water far below was in the shadow of the cliffs and it was impossible to see anything in the pitch dark. Bertie was arguing volubly with the owner of the casino who seemed to think it was all Bertie’s fault.

  The other men and women left the tables and slowly crowded around Daisy and together they all stared in silence down into the black depths.

  “Mad,” exclaimed a Frenchwoman in disgust, finally turning away. “The English are all mad. No one could survive a dive like that. They are both dead.”

  “Dead!” whispered the crowd like some lugubrious Greek chorus.

  Daisy began to tremble. The Duke’s servants had gone to find a boat and after what seemed like an eternity, she could see it bobbing in the water. There was a hoarse cry of “Got him!” and the boat began to move toward the rocky shore.

  Daisy ran from the casino and out into the night, pursued by Bertie and Amy. Hampered by her long skirts, crying and sobbing, stumbling and falling, she ran down a small path at the side of the promontory.

  The Duke of Oxenden came slowly over the rocks toward her. He wordlessly held her in his arms and rocked her gently to-and-fro like a child.

  “I couldn’t find him,” he said, after a long time. “I couldn’t find him. I searched and searched. There may still be hope. Was your father a strong swimmer?”

  “I know very little about him,” choked Daisy. “Oh, what will I do?”

  The water from his sodden clothes was soaking her dress, but Daisy held him very tightly, the only safe refuge in a world that had gone mad.

  He gently disengaged himself. “Curzon is waiting in my yacht, Daisy. My servants will move your belongings on board. You belong to me, now, and I will take care of you for the rest of your life. We will be married as soon as possible. I love you, Daisy, and no one will ever hurt you or frighten you again.”

  Chapter 16

  Curzon gave the sherry glasses a final polish and arrayed them on a silver salver, ready to be carried into the drawing room. Nearly a year had passed since the horrifying episode at Anribes. Curzon reflected with satisfaction on the pleasure of working for a happily married couple. The new Duchess was so much in love with her husband, she seemed to glow from within. And the Duke of Oxenden… well, he was pretty much in the same state as his wife. There was merit, thought Curzon, in settling for the real thing. Not like poor Amy Burke. Her husband was still always head over heels in love with some woman or another. But, reflected Curzon, Amy was a realist. Bertie always came back to her, she said.

  The Duke’s stately home, Weatherby, seemed to glow in the late afternoon sunlight. The old Georgian house had taken on a new life as the Duchess’s laughter rang through the rooms and her love and happiness communicated themselves to all who came in touch with her. Even the Earl and Countess of Nottenstone ceased to battle and philander when they came on a visit.

  Curzon carried the tray of glasses into the drawing room. The London Season was once again in full swing, but the Duke and Duchess had elected to stay in the country. The former Daisy Chatterton sat by the long, open windows, looking out dreamily over the lawns. Her marriage had changed her from a childish girl into a mature woman. Her husband was sitting at his desk working on his estate books. He raised his head and smiled across at Daisy as Curzon came into the room; that special intimate smile of his that always took away her breath.

  Curzon set the tray down on the table and began to pour the sherry. “I see Your Grace has not yet read the Times,” he remarked anxiously.

  “Am I keeping it from you, Curzon?” teased the Duke. “Take it away. I will catch up with the news tomorrow. Oh, wait a minute. Let’s see if any of our friends are getting married, engaged, or buried. Now, where’s the social column. Ah, yes… Good God!”

  “What is it?” cried Daisy, starting to her feet.

  The Duke continued to stare at the social column as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Why, it must be a joke—” he started, and then—“Why, the old rascal.” He raised his head. “Come here, Daisy. I’m afraid this is going to be a shock. No—don’t go away, Curzon. I want you to hear this as well. A marriage is announced between Ann Gore-Brookes and—and Lord Chatterton!”

  “It’s not possible,” gasped Daisy.

  “We never found the body, you know,” said the Duke. “It seems as if your father was a strong swimmer after all.”

  “Where were they married?”

  “In Paris,” said the Duke.

  “Oh, poor Rose,” said Daisy.

  “Poor Rose nothing,” said her husband reading on. “Maid of honor was Miss Rose Wellington-Jones-Smythe. Ann Gore-Brookes is very rich, you know.”

  Daisy gave a shudder. “To think that I could have married someone like my father… with his mistress holding up my wedding train and not even been aware… oh, we must warn Ann.”

  The Duke shook his head. “Under the girlish tee-hee exterior of Ann Gore-Brookes lies a heart of iron. Once Ann is safely wed to your father, Rose will be paid off and I doubt if your Papa will be able to set foot in another casino again. Now,” he teased, his golden eyes alight with mischief, “aren’t you glad you’ve got me?”

  “Yes,” said Daisy simply, throwing herself into his arms as he rose from the desk.

  Curzon coughed discreetly and rattled the tray, but the ducal couple were oblivious to anyone or anything else.

  Curzon poured himself a glass of sherry and raised it in salute to his master and mistress. And then putting the glass gently down on the tray, he went out and very quietly closed the door.

  He waylaid a footman who was about to enter the drawing room with a basket of logs. “Their Graces do not wish to be disturbed,” said Curzon.

  “Lumme!” said the footman, putting down his basket. “Not again.”

  Curzon shook his head. Servants were not what they used to be. Nothing in England was what it used to be. And then he smiled at the closed door.

  Well, at least there was one thing that never changed.…

  Part VI

  Poppy

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  For Kathryn Falk, with love

  Chapter 1

  It would have been easy to feel sorry for Penelope Smith, because she lived in quite terrible surroundings. But Penelope—pronounced Penny-lope by her family—was not in the least sorry for herself. At the age of seventeen she showed signs of having inherited all her dead mother’s stoicism, chirpy cheerfulness, and optimism. She had also inherited her mother’s blond beauty, which, although dimmed by dirt and dreary circumstances, occasionally flashed through in all its splendor after her twice-yearly bath.

  Penelope lived in Bermondsey, under the shadow of London Bridge Station, in a thin, mean brick house lodged tightly in the company of other equally thin, mean brick houses in a long dark street called Cutler’s Fields. With her lived her noisy and drunken father, Bert, and her two small sisters, Emily and Josie. Emily was four and Josie ten. The late Mrs. Smith had departed this world after seeing Emily safely into it, and Penelope’s mourning for her mother was the only t
hing that dampened her sunny spirits.

  The day that was to change her life did not have an auspicious beginning. First of all her father, who had managed to remain sober for all of three months, had fallen from grace in a very dramatic way, drinking hot gin at the Pig and Crumpet until it came out of his ears, figuratively speaking, and out of everywhere else, literally speaking. He had had a noisy encounter during the night with several green snakes and two avenging angels, and Penelope had had to call in the help of the neighbors to hold him down. By the time he had collapsed into a smelly and exhausted sleep, Penelope had heard the worst of it—her father had lost his well-paying bricklaying job, since his foreman also patronized the Pig and Crumpet, and Mr. Smith had told the foreman in no uncertain terms where to lay his bricks.

  As Penelope sliced bread for breakfast and poured milk for her two little sisters, she realized she would have to find work. Now, her father had sworn to take his belt to her if she ever demeaned herself by taking a job. Although Bert Smith lived amongst some of the worst squalor London had to offer, he had all the grandiosity of the truly drunk and pretended his daughters were young ladies.

  But Penelope had quickly learned the ways of her father and knew his latest bout would be followed by a hangover, remorse, and maudlin guilt and that he would be in no position to argue.

  Penelope’s mind was busy as she prepared her sisters for school. Bert Smith had insisted on an education for his girls, and there was at least that to be said for him should he ever get as far as the recording angel. Josie and Emily were pale and silent. They had not had much sleep because of the drama of their papa’s delirium tremens, and they were frightened he would awake before they could escape from the house. Unlike Penelope the younger girls favored their father, being small and dark and wiry.