Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (12 page)

Giving her a shake, Daintry retorted, “I don’t care if he was, young lady. You have no business to talk to him that way, particularly when others are about. You will be fortunate if your papa does not thrash you soundly for such bad manners.”

“He won’t,” Charley said forlornly. “He never does.”

Worried about Deverill but caught off guard by a sudden bubble of laughter in her throat, Daintry released her, saying, “Your grandfather was right, you know; you are unnatural. Do you expect me to believe that you want your papa to spank you?”

“No, of course not.” The child grimaced. “I do not approve of violence, and most certainly not when it is directed toward me. But Papa pays me no heed at all. I heard you tell him you would deal with me, but he had not begun to move, you know, so there was not the least need for you to speak to him.”

“Your grandpapa had begun to move.”

Charley shuddered. “I know. Honestly, Aunt Daintry, I spoke without thinking, but it was nonsense that he was speaking. Aunt Ophelia says—”

“Sometimes,” Daintry said with a sigh, “I think Aunt Ophelia would have done better to interest us in needlework, like Cousin Ethelinda. Independence for women is an excellent notion, but in reality …” She strained her ears to make sense of what seemed to be an unceasing low roar from the drawing room.

Taking advantage of the pause, Charley said, “I’d rather teach Victor to come to me when I want him than learn to sew, and I’d much rather read history than learn to run a great house like Mama says I must, but”—she sighed—“Grandpapa once said that a female who argues facts of history might as well have a beard.”

“At least he didn’t quote Samuel Johnson to you, darling. Johnson believed the only virtuous woman is a silent one.”

Charley giggled. “Even Grandpapa would know better than to expect me to be silent.”

“Perhaps,” Daintry agreed, “but you may be sure he will not want to see your face again soon. Go upstairs now, and try after this to behave like a lady of quality.”

“If that man is truly not Lord Penthorpe, then who—?”

Daintry pointed toward the stairs. “Go, Charlotte.”

Charley went without another word, and shaking her head, Daintry turned back to the drawing room, pausing a moment to draw a deep breath before opening the door. The first person she saw was Deverill, and when his gaze met hers, she saw both amusement and frustration in his eyes. The amusement disappeared when Sir Geoffrey said loudly over the rest, “But damme, I say
again,
if he is not Penthorpe, then who the devil is he?”

Astonished that the point had not yet been clarified, Daintry caught Deverill’s gaze again. His rueful shrug coupled with the din that greeted Sir Geoffrey’s question informed her that he simply had not yet attempted to make himself heard.

St. Merryn snapped, “Damme, I don’t care who he is if he ain’t Penthorpe, for it’s Penthorpe I want to see. Where the devil is the fellow, I ask you? Stands to reason since he’s sent this fellow in his stead”—he glared at Deverill—“that the young whippersnapper means to delay his visit indefinitely or to turn tail altogether. Well, I won’t have it! He’s betrothed to my daughter, and by God, he will marry her. I have put my foot down, and there is no more to be said about it.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Lady Ophelia said.

When the earl turned indignantly to glare at her, Deverill said calmly, “I am afraid there is more to be said, sir. Penthorpe is dead. He fell at Waterloo.”

“What? Upon my soul, what did the fellow go and do a thing like that for? Are you sure?”

“Perfectly sure. I saw his body. In point of fact, he had a premonition beforehand and asked me to bring the news to you if he fell. When you mistook me for him, I was dumbfounded, sir, and I behaved badly. I am entirely at fault and can do no more than beg forgiveness, undeserving though I am to receive it.”

“Never mind that now,” St. Merryn said testily. “What I want to know is, who is going to marry my daughter? I’ve got a surfeit of women in this house, as you see, and here I thought the whole business was settled and I could get rid of one of them. Now I’ve got to begin all over again. I say,” he added with a speculative look, “you ain’t a married man, are you, lad?”

“No, sir, I have not that honor.”

“Honor be damned, it’s the one thing the Almighty did that I’d like to call Him to account for. To declare it a man’s duty to marry when he’d never done it himself was a curst bad thing!”

Lady St. Merryn gasped, “Blasphemy! Oh, how can you say such a thing? Where is my handkerchief, Ethelinda? Ring for some hartshorn at once. I feel quite faint.”

As Cousin Ethelinda rushed to obey, St. Merryn snorted and said to Deverill, “There, you see, lad. Too damned many women in this house, and now your friend Penthorpe has left Daintry on my hands. Damme, but perhaps all is not lost. Who the devil are you, lad? If you’re eligible, by God, you may have her!”

Seacourt laughed, but Charles exclaimed, “Father, really!”

Daintry saw Deverill frown and, holding her breath, looked quickly at her great-aunt, whose eyes were alight with expectant laughter. Daintry could see nothing funny in the situation.

St. Merryn, hands on his hips, was waiting for Deverill to speak. The others, too, were silent, waiting.

Looking from one to another, Deverill straightened, and for the first time Daintry thought he looked like a marquess’s son. His very size was intimidating, for he was taller than any of the other men, and broader, and much better looking.

“I am Deverill,” he said with quiet dignity.

There was a different quality to the silence now, as if the room held its breath, and suddenly she became aware of Catherine Chauncey, not only as a stranger in their midst but because the woman looked utterly fascinated by the scene she was witnessing. The thought passed through her mind in the split second before St. Merryn, nearly choking on the word, repeated, “Deverill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jervaulx’s son?”

“Yes, sir, his younger son. I’ve been abroad since leaving Oxford, with Wellington. I was a brigade major under Uxbridge at Waterloo. Penthorpe was my best friend, sir.”

“Don’t mention him to me again,” St. Merryn growled. “What the devil are you doing in my house?”

“I explained that. Penthorpe asked me—”

“Damme, I won’t have a Deverill in my house! Get out!”

Daintry, seeing that Deverill was about to obey the unjust command, said quickly, “Papa, he does not even know about the feud. That is to say, he knows, but he does not know what caused it, and nor do I, or—”

“Upon my soul, girl, it is not necessary for you to understand anything. Such matters are the business of men, and such business they will remain. If you have nothing of more interest to contribute to this conversation, keep silent.”

“But I have a great deal to say,” she insisted. “You cannot throw him out merely because of some outdated squabble between our grandfathers. That makes no sense at all.”

“Silence,” St. Merryn snapped. “You know nothing about it. We Tarrants have had nothing to do with Deverills for more than sixty years, and I do not propose to alter that fact today. Leave my property at once, sir, and never dare cross onto it again.”

Daintry, furious now, cried, “You are unjust, Papa! Even if the cause of the feud was something dreadful, Deverill had nothing to do with it, and if Lord Jervaulx never even thought the finer points important enough to pass on to him, there can be nothing to warrant such enmity now.”

“Deverill only recently became the heir,” St. Merryn said. “Stands to reason he don’t know everything yet. Jervaulx ain’t had time to tell him.”

Turning on her brother, Daintry said, “Do you know the facts, Charles? Has Papa told you? Well, has he?”

Charles, caught off guard, looked dismayed. “Here, I say, it’s none of my affair. Davina, tell her. Not my affair at all, but dash it, Daintry oughtn’t to talk to my father in that dashed impertinent fashion. Tell her.”

Davina, pressing her lips together, said nothing.

Looking around for allies, Daintry realized that Susan and Melissa—neither of whom she would have expected to fill that role—had vanished. Sir Geoffrey looked annoyed. Lady Catherine still looked fascinated. Lady St. Merryn was engaged with her salts bottle, and Cousin Ethelinda was engaged with Lady St. Merryn. Only Lady Ophelia appeared at all likely to back her.

“Aunt, please.”

But Lady Ophelia shook her head. “I can do nothing to prevent your father from making a fool of himself if he wishes to do so, my dear. Tuscombe Park does belong to him, after all, and he can deny anyone he dislikes the privilege of setting foot upon its soil.” She smiled at Deverill. “It has been extremely stimulating to make your acquaintance, young man.”

“Never mind that,” St. Merryn snapped. “Must I call my servants to escort you from the premises, sir?”

“That will not be necessary. I can find my way. Your servant.” Deverill bowed, his dignity apparently intact, and strode from the room, nodding at Sir Geoffrey, who held the door open for him, as though he had been a lackey.

Daintry waited only until Geoffrey shut the door again before rounding on her father. “Papa, you are mistaken—”

“Silence, I said!” St. Merryn bellowed, advancing on her with menace in his eyes. “How dare you speak to me as you did? Have you no manners? Is this what your precious education has produced? You see, Ophelia?” Pausing in his advance, he glared at Lady Ophelia, who gazed imperturbably back. “You see what you have created with your foolish nonsense? At least Susan has had better sense than to—” He broke off, looking around the room in sudden bewilderment. “Where is Susan? And Melissa? Not that I want them, mind you, but where the devil did they disappear to?”

Seacourt said blandly, “I sent them away, sir, when it became clear that this discussion was no concern of theirs.”

“You did?” St. Merryn blinked at him owlishly. “Blessed if I know how you manage that sort of thing, lad.”

“A man is master of his own household, surely.”

“Oh, surely,” St. Merryn agreed, grimacing, “but how the devil he convinces the women of that fact is what I should like to know. I am master here at St. Merryn, right enough.” His glare swept the room, as if he dared anyone in it to challenge his declaration, and came to rest upon Daintry. “You still here? Thought I sent you to your bedchamber, girl.”

“No, Papa, you did not,” she said. “You ordered me to be silent and then demanded to know if I had any manners. Since I could not reply to the second statement without disobeying the first, and since the question was clearly rhetorical, I did not attempt to answer. But you did not tell me to leave the room.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, and I’ll tell you another thing, too, my girl. You are to have nothing more to do with that lying jackanapes Deverill. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, sir, but unless you mean for me to send regrets to Mount Edgcumbe and the other places to which I have accepted invitations for house parties, and to remain here throughout the entire London Season, I cannot promise to have nothing to do with him. When I encounter him, as I am extremely likely to do, good manners will demand that I be civil to the man.”

“Damn it, don’t quibble! Go away!”

She went, hearing Sir Geoffrey say as she passed him, “I do not know why you put up with her impertinence, sir. I am sure I should never tolerate such behavior from Melissa.”

On her father’s “Ha!” she closed the door, only to hear it open and shut again seconds later as she was nearing the stairway to the upper parts of the house. Turning, she beheld her sister-in-law, and stifled a sigh of annoyance.

“Really, Daintry,” Davina began before she had even caught up with her, “I cannot understand why you persist in stirring up such commotions. I had hoped, just this once, to come home to a little peace and quiet. Life amongst the
beau monde
is exhausting, and I had looked forward to finding at least a modicum of tranquility here at Tuscombe Park.”

“I suppose that means that you and Charles are at outs again,” Daintry said. “Who is the lovely Lady Catherine Chauncey, Davina? Is she Charles’s retaliation for your indiscretions in Brighton, or Geoffrey’s latest conquest?”

Davina stiffened. “You never cease to amaze me, Daintry. Such vulgar accusations are entirely unwarranted, I assure you. She is a cousin of Sir Geoffrey’s, just as he said, a widow for whom he feels a natural, even admirable, sense of responsibility. Her husband fell at one of those dreadful places on the Continent. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Daintry did feel slightly chagrined, but she saw no point in admitting as much. Instead, she said, “Is that a new gown? Did you have some new things made up for Charley, too?”

Davina’s gray eyes lit with laughter. “Goodness, are you going to tell me Charlotte wants new dresses? It must be for the very first time. I am persuaded she would liefer have a new riding habit, but I did not see any reason to have one made up at London prices or in Brighton, I can tell you. It was bad enough having to discover a new governess, but we did find an acceptable woman, who promised to come to us at once. I would like to know, however, just how Charlotte frightened away Miss Pettibone.”

“She asked her more questions than the good lady was able to answer,” Daintry said bluntly. “Miss Pettibone, my dear Davina, expected to teach her to do fancy needlework, to speak a few fashionable phrases in French, and to play the pianoforte in elegant style. She was not prepared for a child whose French surpassed her own and who reads Latin and a bit of Greek as well. Nor was she a match for Charley when it came to persuading her to practice deportment or her music lessons, things in which she has not the smallest interest. I only hope this new one is better.”

Davina shuddered. “I do not know how your aunt expects us to find a husband for such a child.”

“Well, you scarcely need think about it at this early date,” Daintry said, her ready sense of humor stirred by the thought.

“Oh, you may laugh,” Davina said bitterly, “but you, of all people, ought to understand the difficulty she will face. I am not the only one to suspect that it was not you who gave the
congé
to your various suitors, but they who fled in dismay. What gentleman wishes to marry a woman as well-educated as himself?”