Raven's Ransom (22 page)
“Hush, child! If my lord is such a ninny-hammered clodpole as to not suspect what kept you, let him forever remain in ignorance.”
“Impertinent jackanapes! If you have compromised the girl, you shall . . .”
“... wed her.” Lord Valmont’s tone was firm. “Sadly, I have not compromised her . . . yet, but since I have every intention of doing so, let us proceed at once.”
Whereupon the archbishop, who by now, after a long, trying, but singularly edifying day, had at last learned his cue, rose gracefully and announced that if the special license was to hand, they might proceed.
Rochester eyed Valmont doubtfully, but it seemed the young sprig was up to the rig, for he produced it from his waistcoat with a flourish and turned warm eyes upon Daisy.
“Daisy, dream Daisy, would you consent to being my wife?”
Daisy nodded.
“Though I am not a villain, not a cutpurse, not even on weekends, a highwayman?”
Daisy blinked. “Not even on weekends?” Her mouth was soft and kissable, her round, cornflower eyes rounder even than Armand remembered. He sighed, regretfully. “Not even on weekends.”
Daisy thought hard. “Then Lord Raven’s Ransom is essential to you!”
“A scurvy
pox
on Lord Raven’s Ransom! The only thing essential to me is
you!”
pox
on Lord Raven’s Ransom! The only thing essential to me is
you!”
Lord Raven,
most
put out, stepped upon his gouty foot. “What do you
mean,
a pox on my ransom?”
most
put out, stepped upon his gouty foot. “What do you
mean,
a pox on my ransom?”
Lord Valmont ignored him.
“I shall marry you, Armand, even if we are poor as church mice.”
Lord Valmont smiled. “Not likely, my dear, but I honor you for the sentiment.” He pulled off the cabachon cut sapphire that graced his finger and removed a soft, satin glove. Then, slipping the heavy jewel—too large, but Daisy did not mind—effortlessly onto her person, he continued in a conversational tone.
“Would you mind, very much, being Lady Valmont? One day it shall be the Countess of Westenbury, but since it is my mother who now holds that honor, and my father who is the current earl, I hope that shall be in the very distant future.”
Lord Valmont never
did
get to hear Daisy’s answer, for Lord Raven was roaring that his leg hurt and if they intended to have a wedding they had better get on with it right speedily.
did
get to hear Daisy’s answer, for Lord Raven was roaring that his leg hurt and if they intended to have a wedding they had better get on with it right speedily.
And so they did.
Postscript
The jewelled tricorne hat still molders in the closet along with Lord Raven’s other elegant trifles. The earl called for it at
once,
after the marriage of Daisy, the last of his famous granddaughters, all wed upon the selfsame day.
once,
after the marriage of Daisy, the last of his famous granddaughters, all wed upon the selfsame day.
Sadly, his undutiful kin would have none of it. Neither would his scoundrel grandsons-in-law, who all, in unison, demanded that he “burn the stupid thing.”
Thus Raven is still stuck with his riches and is plotting, to this day, which unsuspecting grandchild to bestow them upon.
He still glowers at Lord Valmont and roars at Denver, Lord Barrymore, who won his wager fair and square by selecting Lily over the king’s ransom. Even the mild-mannered Marquis of Rochester has had pitchers of lime cordial flung upon him upon occasion. All admit, however, that the earl has mellowed with time.
The Countess of Westenbury thinks Daisy much, much preferable to a “ ’igh kicker” or even a “moonkey.” They are the best of friends and outdo each other only in the matter of romances, where Daisy prefers Gothic and my lady wavers delightfully between Byron, Scott, and some of the more excessive French writers.
Gwenyth, Dowager Marchioness of Rochester, deprived of the privilege of sponsoring the Chartley sisters, is instead turning her illustrious attention to Raven himself. She bickers and scolds quite horribly, but rumors have been rife for some time about nuptials....
Finally: The viscount’s coal mines are thriving and “Raven’s Rail”—powered by one of the first multitubular boiler engines of its kind—has surpassed all expectation. Denver, Lord Barrymore, is no longer emptying his pockets of bills. As his very fine valet Hoskin puts it, “He has the luck of the devil himself.”
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