Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole

Chapter 18

A few days later, Daisyindeed returned to Lyondale, just as she promised. Unwilling to allow Daisy to go alone (or with an unmarried man as escort), Mrs. Bloomfield insisted on taking Daisy home herself. She left the school under the charge of the dour-looking Mrs. Cannon, who would ensure that the pupils behaved perfectly.

The duke had offered for them to stay at Lyondale, which would have been technically acceptable as both Mrs. Bloomfield and Miss Wallis would be there. But Daisy didn’t want even a breath of scandal to come near Tristan, so she wrote to Lady Weatherby, who responded with surprising speed, insisting that Daisy and her chaperone simply must stay with the Weatherbys as long as they liked, adding that Lady Caroline would be especially delighted for the company, and also it was such good news that Daisy wasn’t dead.

On a cold and blustery November day, Daisy rode up to Lyondale, accompanied by Mrs. Bloomfield and the Weatherbys. The ladies entered the great house and were immediately ushered inward all the way to the ballroom.

But on this day, the massive and imposing ballroom was not set up for festivities. Rather, rows of chairs were arranged to create a makeshift court. And in a large, well-cushioned chair at one end, the local magistrate sat in state, looking around as though wondering how he got there.

Others were present as well. Lady Rutherford and the Hon. Bella Merriot sat in the front row of chairs. Next to Lady Rutherford was the vicar, dressed in ecclesiastical black. Local gentry had come, and everyone turned to watch Daisy as she entered and took her seat, thankfully surrounded by Mrs. Bloomfield and the Weatherbys.

Tristan stood up, silencing all conversation. He turned to the magistrate and said, “Sir, I must first thank you for coming here to adjudicate this matter. It is my hope that for all concerned it can be settled here today, without the need for a full, formal inquiry.”

“Well, it is most irregular,” the magistrate said, frowning a little. “But for the Duke of Lyon…” He left the rest unsaid. Of course the law would bow to the desires of the highest-ranked gentleman around.

“Then we shall begin,” Tristan said. “There are a few matters to address today, and I have asked all of you to attend to assure the world that it was handled in a fair and prompt fashion.”

Several of the guests sat up straighter, flattered that the duke would request this of them.

Tristan continued without allowing anyone to interrupt. “The first matter is an accusation of theft. Let us hear from the man who made the accusation: Mr. Hornthwaite. Sir, please rise and come over to this table, which shall serve as our witness stand.”

The man at first demurred, citing his position in the church as a reason why he should not be questioned. But the crowd was anxious, eager to hear the root of this gossip, and it was clear the duke would prevail. So the vicar walked up and took his place, perhaps viewing it as a sort of pulpit for him to use as he liked.

Tristan began simply enough. “Now then, you are the vicar in Lyonton, at the church with no steeple. You are also the man who accused Miss Daisy Merriot of stealing items for a costume ball, among other things.”

“I did, as God would have wanted me to,” Hornthwaite said stiffly.

“If you made such an accusation, you must have evidence to back it up,” Tristan said.

Hornthwaite sniffed. “I know well Miss Daisy’s financial situation, your grace. Everyone around here does. The idea that this woman—”

“This lady,” Tristan corrected.

“This lady could afford a new dress of such quality is laughable.”

“Miss Daisy did not claim to purchase it. She has said it was a gift. Yet you accused her of theft. So now I hope to see evidence of that statement, beyond your assumptions.”

“I have not formally accused her of anything.”

“No, you merely announced it to an indiscriminate number of people in a very public environment, and then permitted the charge to spread, leaving her to be judged by hastily formed opinions, and perhaps abusing people’s implicit trust of a clergyman. Your sermon the following Sunday was on the subject of the sin of thievery, was it not?”

Hornthwaite looked quite smug, but he said, “It’s an eternally germane topic.”

“I’ll ask again, here in the presence of our esteemed magistrate,” Tristan said, his voice icy. “Do you have evidence?”

“Not as such,” the vicar ground out.

“Not. As. Such,” Tristan repeated, biting off each word. “So you must have, I assume, faith.”

“I do,” Hornthwaite said, straightening up.

“In other words, God is on your side.”

“I should hope so.”

“So you would stake your living on your intuition.”

“Excuse me, your grace?” he asked, faltering.

“You have been afforded a living as the vicar of the church in Lyonton. Is that not right? You were installed before I inherited the title, of course. I believe the Dukes of Lyon have traditionally been quite influential in choosing the curate here. But you have your living now.”

“Yes,” Hornthwaite said, unsure of where this was going.

“So you will stake it on this…matter of truth.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. If you can produce positive evidence of theft on the part of Miss Margaret Merriot, then you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing her go to gaol—and her stepsister embarrassed, the other servants likely shamed as well. An odd aspiration for a vicar, to see others made miserable, but I suppose you can point to some passage in the Bible to uphold your view.”

“And if I don’t do it?” Hornthwaite asked, clearly nervous now.

“Well, if you don’t—or if someone produces evidence that the dress was purchased for or gifted to Daisy Merriot—you’ll resign. Our local vicar must be a man who can be trusted. There must be no hint that a liar could have care of the whole parish. I recall some passage about bearing false witness. Sort of an important point, it was. A commandment, in fact.”

Hornthwaite knew he was being lured into a trap, but he couldn’t think of an escape. “That is clear in the Scripture, yes.”

“Excellent. We are all on the same page. Now, let us proceed. Mr. Kemble has taken on the role of legal counsel for Miss Daisy Merriot. Do you wish to avail yourself of a solicitor, Mr. Hornthwaite? Or will the angels defend you?”

“I shall speak for myself, your grace. And the young lady can pray for all the help she likes. The angels will ignore her.”

“This is most unfair!” Daisy burst out.

“Keep silent, Miss Merriot,” Tristan ordered, his tone forbidding. “Mr. Hornthwaite, you may return to your seat.”

Then Kemble stood up, taking over. “Your grace, I believe this matter will be easily resolved. If the footman—yes, John, you there—please bring in the person who has been waiting in the small parlor.”

Daisy looked around the room, puzzled. Who was missing from this assembly? Who could Kemble possibly want to interview?

Then a familiar figure entered through the large double doors. She was dressed smartly in a green gown, and had snapping brown eyes that missed nothing in the room.

“Poppy!” she whispered.

Her schoolmate strolled up the aisle and her gaze locked with Daisy’s for just an instant, but in that instant she felt all the warmth and rage and righteous indignation of a furious friend.

Poppy walked to the makeshift witness stand by the magistrate, and looked over the assembled guests as if she were the one who invited them in.

Kemble began his interview. “Your name is Poppy St. George, and you reside in London, is that correct?”

“That is true, sir.”

“And do you know Miss Daisy Merriot?”

“Very well, for we were at school together at Bloomfield Academy. Our headmistress, in the first row there, can confirm it.” She pointed out Mrs. Bloomfield with a smile.

“You are friends then.”

“Dear friends.”

“Tell me about your family, Miss St. George.”

“My stepfather is in trade, sir. He deals in fabrics.”

“Fabrics, you say. And is there anything about your family’s business that might be relevant to today’s matter?”

Poppy, having obviously expected this question, said, “Very much so, for the costume made in our shop is the very one Daisy wore to the ball.”

“Are you saying that you sent the ball gown to Miss Daisy?” Mr. Kemble asked, with the false surprise of a lawyer who asks a question to which he already knows the answer, but can’t wait for the rest of the courtroom to hear it for the first time.

“I did.”

“Poppy!” Daisy burst out. “Why did you? And why did you not say anything?”

“I wanted to make a game of it,” Poppy told her directly. “I never dreamed it would turn out as it has!”

“Details, please, Miss St. George. Why did this ball gown get made?” Kemble asked.

“My stepfather was eager to import some new fabrics, very modish ones that might advance his standing among the various buyers, who are always looking for the next fashion. The dusk pattern, as we called it, was very intriguing, but we had to make sure a seamstress could work with it. Thus a gown was sewn start to finish, and I had the notion of a butterfly coming out and spreading its wings for the first time, and so that is what we created. As it happens, the measurements of our mannequin are identical to that of Miss Daisy Merriot, a fact I was well aware of. So when we had a finished gown and costume elements, I thought, why not send it to Daisy and let her find out for us how it wears? You see, I’d just had a letter from her discussing a ball that she would have liked to attend, but of course she had no suitable outfit, her wardrobe being quite modest ever since the death of her father.” She glanced over at Lady Rutherford with disdain.

“So you mailed the whole package to Miss Daisy at Rutherford Grange.”

“Yes. My plan was to let her know in a fortnight or so that I had sent it, and to inquire of her opinion of the gown. However, events did not fall out that way.”

“Indeed not.”

Daisy nodded in silent agreement.

“But the necklace!” Hornthwaite interjected.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Kemble said. He walked to his table and picked up a piece of paper. “I knew the vicar was most concerned about the ruby necklace Miss Daisy was wearing with the costume. So I inquired at the firm that insured the previous baron’s valuables. They have kindly sent along a list of items, and you’ll see, sir,” he said as he handed the sheet to the magistrate, “the description for item seventeen is that of the ruby necklace I hold here, which Miss Daisy lent to me for today’s proceedings. As indicated, it was first purchased for her late mother, and remained at Rutherford Grange ever since, so there is an impeccable path from original owner to now.”

The magistrate read the description and peered at the necklace, then nodded slowly. “They are one and the same. And I understand that Lady Rutherford herself announced on the night in question that she had never seen the necklace before. So Miss Daisy Merriot clearly could not have stolen it from her.”

The baroness pursed her lips, obviously annoyed to have her own words used in such a way. Daisy began to feel a spark of hope. Perhaps she would get out of this unscathed.

“Well, that seems to clear things up in regard to the accusation of theft,” said Tristan, clapping his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “Do you have other accusations to make, Hornthwaite?”

The vicar swallowed. “No.”

“No…” Tristan prompted.

“No, your grace.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. Now, if you’ll just make a short announcement to the good people gathered here, we can conclude this whole business.”

“Conclude?” Hornthwaite asked hopefully. “What do you wish me to say?”

“You’re the orator, not me. Just a short speech, man. Explain how wrong you were, how you regret defaming the reputation of Daisy Merriot…that sort of thing.”

“And then I can leave?”

Tristan nodded, and swept a hand outward to indicate that it was time.

Hornthwaite looked nervously over the crowd. They’d all heard everything, so his apology was a mere formality. For a man used to speaking every Sunday, his speech now was quiet. Tristan urged him to speak up more than once.

When Hornthwaite finished, he heaved a sigh of relief, though the looks of mingled shame and contempt on the faces of the others would likely haunt him for years.

Tristan held up a hand to stop anyone from leaving or speaking. “Thank you, all, for hearing Mr. Hornthwaite’s words. I think we can agree that he’s been brave throughout, from the first accusation to the revelation of his remarkable mistake.” Tristan offered a hand for Hornthwaite to shake. “Well done.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Hornthwaite said, bewildered.

“That’s all then. You’ll want to return to the vicarage, I expect.” Tristan paused for a fraction of a second, then delivered his final blow. “You better be moved out by the end of the month. I wish you the best of luck in finding a new position. Anyone who is interested in offering you a living should of course feel free to speak to me personally. I’ll be happy to explain the situation. That will be all.”

Hornthwaite paled, but said nothing.

Some others present were not so restrained.

“We can’t be without a vicar, your grace.”

“The search will take months!”

Lord Lyon smiled wider. “Not to worry. I have a candidate in mind. A military chaplain with a respectable, if humble, background. With luck, he’ll consent to take the position.” Then he turned back to Hornthwaite, looked him over with utterly aristocratic disdain, and said, “Why are you still here?”

Hornthwaite cast one look at Daisy, a look filled with hatred, and then looked to Lady Rutherford, who seemed to find the fan in her lap absolutely fascinating.

After a moment of deadly awkward silence, he hurried from the room.

“And now for the next matter at hand,” Tristan said. “Mr. Kemble, will you proceed?”

“Thank you, your grace. I wish to address the theft that occurred at Rutherford Grange.”

The spectators greeted this statement with obvious confusion. One man even said, “Didn’t we just hear the end of that?”

Kemble shook his head. “I do not refer to the false accusation made by Mr. Hornthwaite. I refer to a previous theft, carried out several years ago.”

“I don’t understand,” Daisy said.

“You will, Miss Merriot,” the duke said quietly.

“Shortly after the death of William Merriot, Baron Rutherford, his second wife stated publicly that not only would she remain as baroness, not dowager, but that the title would even pass to her own daughter, Bella Merriot, who was born Bella Dunley, as that was the name of Lady Rutherford’s first husband. The baron’s daughter, Margaret, his only blood offspring, would inherit nothing—neither the title nor any part of the baron’s considerable holdings.”

“This is all well known,” Lady Rutherford said. “What need to bring it up now, after poor Daisy has already endured such a trying day?” She stood up. “We shall take our leave. Bella, walk with Daisy.”

“Everyone will remain exactly where they are,” Tristan declared. “Lady Rutherford, sit down.”

Eyes wide, she sank into her chair once again.

“Kemble, continue.”

“I was curious about the apparent details of the baron’s will,” Mr. Kemble said. “So I investigated the matter, seeking assistance from several colleagues in London. In particular, I wished to see a copy of the will. However, I discovered that no such document existed in the pertinent records. In fact, a very different will had been filed only a few weeks before his death.”

“So Papa did make a new will at the end?” Daisy asked.

Kemble pulled a document from his leather case. “He did, and it’s very clear that his only blood relation, his daughter, Margaret, was his sole heir to both the title and the estate. He made provision for his second wife to live at the estate for the rest of her life, if she chose. And he designated a thousand pounds a year to her, instead of the five hundred previously allotted. But that is all. She has no more claim to the title of baroness. She is the dowager baroness, and her daughter is Miss Bella Merriot, nee Dunley.”

“Mama, tell them it cannot be true!” Bella said, her voice small and frozen in the vast room. “You’re a lady. You’d never do such a thing. It would be wrong.”

Lady Rutherford refused to look at her, and did not answer.

“However,” Kemble went on. “For some reason the new will did not get filed properly. Why that is, we’ll never know. Possibly it was mere oversight, or possibly someone was paid to make the mistake. I do not accuse the dowager baroness on this point.” Kemble’s nonaccusation hung in the air, more damning than if he’d yelled it from the rooftops.

Kemble pulled out another document, and he went on, “I do make this accusation. The woman calling herself Lady Rutherford produced a forged document written expressly to benefit herself and her own daughter at Margaret Merriot’s expense.”

“But that’s impossible!” This comment came from a horrified Lord Dallmire in the audience. “Any such will must be signed and witnessed! Who would have put their names to any document that they could not be sure was genuine?”

“Excellent question,” Lady Rutherford said, high color in her cheeks. “Of course the will was signed and witnessed. Lord Fothergill did us the honor. The baron, rest his soul, and I visited the Fothergill estate to take care of the matter.”

“He passed away later that same year,” one of the townspeople noted. “He was very ill for a long time. There is no way to question him, either to confirm or deny what happened.”

“True, he is no longer alive, and thus cannot give evidence here today. But the current Lord Fothergill is here.”

A young man sitting in the third row stood up, and Daisy recognized him as the heir, the grandson of the man in question.

“Your grace,” he said bowing. “Should I take my seat at the witness stand?” He seemed to regard the whole interlude as a slightly odd diversion. He was happy to help, but he clearly didn’t think he had much to add.

“Yes, my lord,” Tristan said. “If you would, please answer the questions this man asks.”

Kemble then showed the young lord the document in question, asking if he could confirm the signature and date.

“The signature is…well, I can’t rightly say. My grandfather’s health affected his writing as well, and his signature may have been very shaky.”

“And the date?” Mr. Kemble asked, not at all perturbed by this lack of confidence.

“It says 28 June,” the man said. “No, that must be incorrect! By late May, my grandfather had taken to his bed. His visitors were very few, owing to his weakened state. He certainly would not have been able to sign a document at the end of June. He could not even sit up in bed, and he was scarcely aware of his surroundings. He lapsed into a coma and passed away not long after.”

“You are mistaken, young man!” Lady Rutherford nearly shouted.

“With respect, ma’am, I am not. I spent every day at home that summer. A visit from the Baron Rutherford and you would have been an occasion I and the servants surely would have remembered. No such visit ever occurred.”

The noose was tightening, and Lady Rutherford clearly knew it. One by one, her excuses failed. Bit by bit, her carefully constructed lies fell apart. She looked around the room for friendly faces, and found none. Even her daughter sat silent and shocked.

“This is all nonsense,” Lady Rutherford shouted (even though Lady Rutherford never shouted). “Lies and deceit! I will not bear it. I will return to my home until reason shall prevail. Good day, my lords. Bella, come along, girl.”

Bella Merriot’s expression was ashen, but she rose on shaking limbs and wordlessly followed her mother.

Daisy watched them go, her mind overwhelmed by what had just occurred.

“My goodness, Lady Margaret,” Lady Weatherby said, relishing the new mode of address. “What a scandal. And you must be so upset.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Daisy said slowly.

“You’re a baroness, first and foremost,” the magistrate said, clearly shaken at the results of the makeshift trial. “To think that woman tried such a thing!”

“Monstrous,” Lord Dallmire declared.

Daisy could see how the titled guests closed ranks around her, horrified by this transgression more than any other. If one person’s title could be successfully stolen, why, any of them could be at risk. The rightful baroness must be supported at all costs!

And the rightful baroness was Daisy.

She was still trying to understand everything, not least that when the other observers came up to her and addressed her as my lady and Lady Rutherford, they were referring to her, Daisy, and no one else.

Then Poppy stepped up, and Daisy flung her arms about her old schoolmate. “Oh, Poppy,” she gasped. “It was you! You sent the dress!”

“And started quite the circus!” Poppy added. “I am glad it has ended well, but my goodness, you must have had a time.”

“You’ve no idea,” said Daisy. “But I shall tell you every last detail. How long are you here? Where are you staying? I’m at Lady Weatherby’s now, and I’m sure she’ll be glad to have you.”

But Poppy shook her head. “I have a room at Rampant House on the main street of Lyonton. Mr. Kemble arranged it all when he contacted me and asked me to come and give evidence for you. However, I’m afraid I must leave first thing tomorrow morning, for Rose needs me in London. She was glad for me to come, of course, but it is difficult for her without a full-time companion.”

“Oh, of course,” Daisy said, disappointed but understanding. “You’ll both have to come and visit me soon though.”

“As if I could keep Rose away, after she hears what occurred—”

Interrupting the girls’ talk, the duke raised his voice once more, commanding the attention of the room. “Attention, everyone! Thank you for coming, but I’m quite done with you now.”

The stunned guests filed out of the ballroom, whispering among themselves. Rumors would rage through the whole area by teatime.

Daisy slipped out of the room when Tristan turned away to speak to Kemble. She didn’t intend to leave—not exactly—but the thought of actually speaking to him as though nothing had happened was inconceivable. She remembered the very first time she saw him, his eyes studying her with such interest. She had felt so shy then, and she felt the same shyness returning. She needed a moment alone. So she left.

Or rather, she tried to leave. Daisy passed through the front doors and had got about twenty steps when she heard Tristan calling her name.

She turned. “I shouldn’t be here.” She didn’t mean to say that—she had no idea what to say—but that was what came out. She took a few more steps away from Lyondale.

Tristan was distraught at the words. “You can’t mean to run away, again.”

“No,” Daisy said, stopping. She looked everywhere but at him. “I don’t know what I mean to do.”

“Come back inside. It’s getting cold. And I need to talk to you. With you, I mean.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“No, we needn’t talk about anything, Tristan,” she said, thinking that he’d been through far too much today to discuss a topic as fraught as their relationship. “Please understand that I’m not upset at you. I know you are my true friend, no matter what happened.”

Tristan’s unhappy sigh clouded the air. “Friend? That’s how you think of me?”

Daisy looked down at the ground, her emotions fluttering nervously in her chest. “I…I’m not certain how to think of you.”

“How about as a suitor?” he asked. “I thought I made my interest fairly plain. Or have you forgotten our night already?”

“I have forgotten nothing,” she said, with a slow flush.

“Because I meant it.” Tristan took her hand. “Please come back inside.”

She let him hold her hand, but didn’t step back toward the house. “You never believed that I was a thief?”

He actually laughed. “Not for a moment. Your personality is defined by what you give, not what you take. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

Daisy looked up, surprise taking her breath away for a second.

He didn’t wait for her to recover. “On the balcony that night,” he said, “I intended to ask you what you wanted me to do, after telling you about the whole mess with the diamond mines. I needed to know your mind, so I could offer you marriage, or—”

“You never mentioned marriage before, not even after we…” She stopped, suddenly shy.

“I was wrong,” he said bluntly. “I was worried that I’d lost my financial independence, and only a strategic marriage would save me. And you had talked about how much you were needed at the Grange, how it was your home. And I didn’t understand till too late how you were being used there, and how you took it upon yourself to hold the place together while your stepmother was squandering the fortune that wasn’t even hers.”

“So now you can make a strategic marriage,” she said, feeling devastated. “To me. For I’m an heiress, and titled again.” Was that all that mattered?

“What? No, Daisy. That’s not it at all. Did I not tell you? The diamond mine is real! I mean, it is producing real diamonds, and I have nothing to fear about losing all my money to repay that loan. I am wealthy on my own now. Daisy,” he said, taking her hands in his, “I’m not asking you to save Lyondale with your inheritance. I want you to marry me because I love you.”

She found her voice. “Love?”

“Yes. It’s not required for a marriage, from what I can see, but I would prefer it in mine. And I think I could eventually persuade you to love me as well.”

“Oh, Tristan. It’s too late for that.”

He looked stricken. “Too late?”

“I already fell in love with you. Ages ago.” Daisy couldn’t stop from smiling as she said it.

“Oh,” he said, his relief obvious. “Then you should definitely marry me.”

“Is that…proper?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Considering all the things I want to do with you, yes. Marriage would be a proper and very necessary step.”

Daisy’s cheeks burned at the intimation. “Tristan,” she whispered. “You can’t say things like that.”

“You’ll be surprised by the things I’ll say when we’re alone, love.” Tristan held her closer, enjoying her reaction. “Remember, I’m only a lord through an accident of succession. Whereas you’re a born lady and a baroness and the talk of the shire. And your family name is just as good as mine, for those who care about such things. You belong with me. And Lyondale needs a family in it.”

“A family?”

“Naturally. Everyone should come. Elaine, Jacob. Bring the chickens. I don’t care. Just so I have you.”

Daisy smiled at the image. She paused, then said, “Yes.”

His arm tightened around her, as though he wasn’t quite sure what she said. “What?”

“Yes. I’d be delighted to marry you. Following a proper courtship, that is. And following an actual proposal.” She frowned, thinking. “I think everything may have got a bit jumbled up, although I did enjoy some parts very much.”

“Then let’s address the first matter. I can court you?”

She nodded decisively. “Yes.”

He gave her a delighted smile. “Excellent. Now, can I kiss you, to seal the bargain?”

“Out here?”

“No one’s watching,” he said, his voice teasing and challenging.

She tilted her head up. “Then do it, before I change my mind.”

At the touch of his lips on hers, Daisy knew she would never change her mind about Tristan Brooks, the very surprising Duke of Lyon. She did love him, and she grew dizzy at the thought of marrying him, so she could be with him every day.

When the kiss ended, she heard voices, and turned to see everyone watching: maids and footmen and the majordomo and Poppy and Mrs. Bloomfield and the Weatherbys and Mr. Kemble, whose pleased smile she could see even from this distance.

But she was too happy to be embarrassed. Instead, she put her arms around Tristan and whispered, “We’ve been caught. You are thoroughly compromised, and you’re stuck with me now.”

He just grinned and said, “Good. That was what I hoped for.” He put his arm around her and led her back inside. “Come, love. We have plans to make.”