Daisy (23 page)

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 glare 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.”

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.…