Page 17 of Daisy and the Duke
“But Miss Merriot will be here too,” Jack pointed out. “Miss Daisy, I mean. It’s very confusing, you know. Miss Daisy is the elder, but it is Miss Bella who will be next in line, so she is to be called Miss Merriot…how does anyone knowwhatto address them as?”
“The locals seem to muddle through,” Tristan noted. “Of the irregularities in that succession, I imagine who gets called Miss Merriot is not very important.”
“Clearly, you’ve not spent enough times around ladies,” Jack said with a snort. “The pecking order iseverything.”
The addition of Daisy to the guest list was all that kept him from canceling the event. Tristan wasn’t sure if he was excited or scared to see her again.
“I made a fool of myself in front of her the last time I saw her. It was stupid to not tell her who I was.”
Jack shook his head. “Under the circumstances, it was natural to avoid the awkwardness of insisting on being addressed as a duke. She’ll forgive the lapse. You didn’t look a fool.”
“When a lady is more in command of herself than I could be, what else could I look like?”
“Like a lord, which is what you are, like it or not,” Jack said. “But that’s for another time. First, you must survive this dinner.”
And the fateful evening duly arrived. Tristan was dressed in an appropriately lordly manner. His new clothes still mostly felt stiff and uncomfortable to him, despite the fine fabrics they were cut from. That evening he wore a jacket in a deep tan broadcloth, which complemented both the white linen shirt beneath, and the lighter-colored, close-fitting pants. It was well-tailored, because all his clothing was well-tailored now, but he felt as if he were about to be strangled at any moment.
“Stop twitching, Tris,” Jack told him in the corridor before they walked down to the ground floor.
“I can’t help it. I’m not used to this formality of dress.”
“It’s no more formal than the military, and you never complained then.”
“One doesn’t complain in the army.”
“So you make up for lost time now!” Jack laughed. “Don’t worry. And don’t lose your temper.”
“It’s easy for you to talk about formality. You’re not going to face the gauntlet.” Unlike Tris, Jack wasn’t dressed for dinner, and in fact it was something of a triumph that he got dressed at all.
Jack had had a bad morning, coughing constantly until he was too weak to even stand. Tristan had decided that Jack was not to be allowed among the guests. He needed rest, not the stress of chatting with strangers. It was too bad—Tristan had been relying on his friend to deflect some of the worst questions that would inevitably be asked.
Instead, he ensured that Jack would be installed comfortably in the garden, on a chaise with a number of blankets to keep warm after the sun set. Tristan was taking the advice of Dr. Stelton, who recommended that Jack get as much fresh air as possible. A maid servant named Alice was under strict instructions to check on Mr. Kemble every half hour. Tris walked Jack down to the gardens and saw that he was settled.
Tris felt the crinkle of the letter in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Did you hear that Cater went out to India?”
“John Cater? Haven’t heard from him in an age.”
Tristan opened the letter. “He took his mother back to India so she could be near her family again. I don’t think she ever loved England, and as a widow, she had little reason to stay. But listen, Cater found a diamond mine. Or a place to dig a mine. He wants me to be a partner.”
Jack sighed. “A hundred to one it’s nothing at all. Even if there are diamonds, it takes a long time to develop such things.”
“He’s got a local partner, a man who knows the area. And Cater never let someone go hungry. He’s going to pay the workers well, so we can sleep at night, knowing that we’re not relying upon virtual slaves.”
“It sounds nice, but don’t get pulled into this, Tris,” Jack warned. “There are better ways to waste money.”
“I don’t have a lot of money to waste,” he said quietly. “If an investment like this did pay off, the returns could be astronomical.”
“If. Could.” Jack looked skeptical. “Those are not reassuring words. Let it go, Tris. If you must, give Cater a couple hundred as a gift to get things started, out of friendship. I’d say he deserves that, for he was always the sort who’d jump to help someone in a rough spot. But stay well away from any madcap scheme where you can’t even verify the facts.”
“You’re right, of course,” Tristan said, folding the letter back up. “I suppose it’s just the image, like a scene from theArabian Nights…caves filled with jewels, just waiting to be picked up.”
“Fairy tales!” Jack said from his comfortable chaise. “Cater’s a good man, but good men do not always make good businessmen. Now put this nonsense behind you. Go and greet your guests.”
Tristan returned to the house. The first guests arrived moments later. The village vicar, Mr. Hornthwaite, a man of around forty or forty-five, looked distinguished but austere in his mostly black clothing. Then another local worthy, Lady Weatherby and her eldest daughter, Lady Caroline, arrived. Lady Weatherby was short and plump and never closed her mouth. Lady Caroline was short and plump and never opened her mouth. Indeed, after she got one good look at Lord Lyon upon being introduced, she barely raised her eyes again. His scars ached suddenly, but Tristan smiled inwardly. That might put a crimp in Lady Weatherby’s obvious plans to make her daughter the next chatelaine of Lyondale.
There were a few other local gentlemen and a wife or two. Lord Dallmire, the young Lord Fothergill…all people he needed to know in order to function well in this corner of the world. He would either impress them or intimidate them, and he didn’t much care which it was.
Luckily, Miss Wallis helped to oil the wheels of social nicety. She chatted amiably with the Weatherbys about the approaching holiday season, and if the village ball at Christmas could hope to outdo the last one. Tristan listened with half an ear.
