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CHAPTER FOUR

“I am awful,” Daphne announced to the headstones dotting a neatly trimmed square of grass. “Two days into this house party, and I want to leave. No reflection on present company.”

Sophronia had shown her the family plot, another feature sheltered within the rambling wood. A grotto, a folly, a fishing cottage, and many walking paths were tucked beneath a mature forest, and on its edge sat an ancient chapel and this cemetery.

Some of the headstones were no longer legible, two were recent, as headstones went, one large and one less imposing.

A hard bench sat along the wrought iron fencing, and sunshine gave the place a peaceful feeling.

A pair of common blue butterflies flitted about the smaller headstone, one lighting for a moment then dancing away.

“You talk to the departed,” a male voice said.

Montmarche stood at the edge of the trees. He wore riding attire again, and blunt spurs on his boots. “Am I interrupting?”

Daphne had watched him the previous evening, circulating among the guests, moving easily from room to room and from house to terrace.

He was entirely at home in the role of host, never tarrying too long with any person, occasionally adding a guest to one group, or drawing a guest away for a moment of conversation.

He’d taken Mrs. Cavanaugh for a stroll through the gardens, though what was there to see about formal parterres, privet hedges, and urns full of petunias?

“I talk to the departed,” Daphne said, “and to butterflies. Of course you may join me. Your family lies here.”

He let himself through the gate and took the place beside her.

“I pay my respects often, and then the mood leaves me and I don’t feel so inclined for weeks at a time.

Then I’m back again, burdening poor Maria with my every woe and regret.

She was endlessly patient with me in life, and she adored the butterflies.

Said there was nothing common about the common blue. ”

He missed his wife. That he admitted as much made him more human, less an aristocrat.

“James loved the butterflies as well. They’d pay their respects to him whenever he read in the garden,” Daphne said.

“I talk to him too, mostly about the children. He was a conscientious father, though I ought to have argued harder for my offspring. The uncles forbade me to address a departed spouse in the children’s hearing. ”

Montmarche set his hat on the bench and ran his hand through his hair. “Whyever should a man’s brothers forbid his widow from harmless behavior common to the bereaved?”

“They would like to have me declared an unfit parent. They would have sent Charles off to public school within weeks of James’s death, but James’s will specifically forbid such behavior until Charles was twelve. I still think it was too soon.”

Montmarche sat forward bracing his elbows on his knees. He shot a scowl at Daphne over his shoulder.

“The uncles want to control the children’s funds,” he said. “They are apparently not even subtle about that objective.”

“They want to control all the funds,” Daphne said. “Thank heavens I have a brother willing to stand up to the uncles, though even he can’t stop them from meddling. ”

“How can they get to your settlements?”

This was not a conversation to have with a near stranger, but Montmarche was a peer. He understood issues of inheritance and family intrigue, and he was asking Daphne to provide the details when he might well have changed the topic.

“The uncles—Mr. Terrance Cargill in particular—can show the courts that my brother has failed to exercise good judgment where I’m concerned, that I’m reckless and immoral. The usual slights hurled at women who think for themselves.”

“You think for yourself?” Montmarche regarded her with convincing gravity. “We can’t have you inspiring other ladies to domestic revolt, can we? Husbands might have to listen to their wives for a change and the realm would topple.”

He had a house full of guests, and yet, he’d sought the consolation of his wife’s graveside. “You listened to your countess. You solicited her advice, and you seek it still. You are teasing me.”

His smile was more charming for illuminating a sober countenance. “Guilty as charged. My sister has set notions about what this gathering is to accomplish, and I am to play the role assigned to me—a sensible role, but not one I auditioned for. How are you finding the company so far?”

That was a faultlessly executed change of topic. Daphne’s grasping in-laws hadn’t put him off, but a mention of old grief had.

“I find the company congenial,” Daphne said.

“The young people are getting along, and they are the usual source of drama at such gatherings. I am somewhat concerned for Charles. Some fool has—he’s been billeted with Mr. Absalom Offenbach, and I dislike what I’ve seen of that gentleman’s deportment. ”

Montmarche sat up and rested his arm along the back of the bench. “I’m told Mr. Offenbach is the cautionary tale.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He’s the stylish young swell who hasn’t a feather to fly with.

His life will be one of making up the numbers, idling about his club, and avoiding creditors.

He’s good-looking, lazy, and entirely self-interested.

Unless he marries an heiress or settles to a profession, he’s likely to end up in disgrace. ”

Montmarche’s arm was not around Daphne’s shoulders, but his pose was casual. He either did not care for propriety as much as his formal mannerisms suggested, or in this place, he set propriety aside from long habit.

Did he ever cuddle with anybody? Hug his horse? His daughter? A favorite hound? Montmarche looked like a man with no use for simple affection, but he clearly loved his daughter, spoiled his horse, and missed his wife.

Daphne loosened the ribbons of her bonnet and set it next to Montmarche’s hat.

“I wish whoever had done the sleeping arrangements hadn’t put Charles in the same room with Mr. Offenbach.

Charles has weathered a few years at public school, but Offenbach is an order of magnitude more wicked than a schoolyard scoundrel. ”

“Offenbach doubtless was the schoolyard scoundrel. I’ll keep an eye on Lord Cargill, if you like. A host ought to be mindful of his guests.”

The offer was casual, though Montmarche would keep his word.

“I’d appreciate that. A mother is a nuisance to a boy of fifteen, particularly to a boy with a title and an expectation of wealth and responsibility.”

His lordship rose and offered Daphne his hand.

“I beg to differ, having watched my son come of age without the benefit of his mother’s guidance.

A mama can explain things a papa cannot, things one’s school chums hold forth about endlessly, from a position of vast ignorance.

What do young ladies truly want? Do women really care nothing for a man’s appearance so long as he’s jolly and reliable?

How does a fellow know a lady will be receptive to his kisses?

All manner of mysteries lie within a mother’s power to unlock. ”

Daphne took his hand and linked arms with him, looping her bonnet over her wrist. “Whereas a Papa’s job is to simply be there, setting an example of how a young lady should expect to be treated.

I cannot imagine Phoebe ever asking her father what young men truly want, or what his answer would have been. ”

Montmarche held the gate open for Daphne, then offered his arm. “Heaven knows, the young men have an answer for that one. A pack of rutting fools the lot of them.”

“Were you a rutting fool?” She took his arm for the sheer pleasure of touching a healthy male on a pretty day.

“Oh, quite. My father took me aside, explained the rules to me, and increased my allowance by an amount that allowed me to limit my frolicking to those parties who played the game by the same guidelines. I did not seek a wife until I’d grown bored with the whole business of being an heir about Town.

I fear George won’t have the same luxury. ”

“Viscount Killoway.”

The earl led her down the path that wound through the woods, where dappled shade and deep quiet created a fairytale setting for butterflies playing in sunbeams. He owned these woods, and thank heavens he had the wisdom to appreciate them.

“George only began using the title at university. Sophronia always calls him George, and the staff has been reluctant to apply the courtesy title to him.”

“Then you must set the example, my lord. Your son is of age, any day he might have to step into your shoes, and a courtesy title is a reminder of that possibility.”

Montmarche on first impression had an air of impatience, whether greeting guests, scolding his daughter, or in conversation. In the stables and in the woods, he was more relaxed. His pace was leisurely, his words measured.

“I suppose I don’t want him to grow up. Bad of me.”

“Human of you. Phoebe wails constantly about not having found a spouse yet, but ye gods. Why would any young woman be so desperate to take on the risks of childbed? Are a man’s affections worth dying for?

Is spinsterhood really a fate worse than death?

I loved my husband, but this desperation we visit upon our young women to marry anybody in breeches… I’m sorry.”

He regarded her from down the length of his nose as if she’d suggested Napoleon wasn’t a bad sort, except for that little business of causing several million deaths.

“I nearly died,” Daphne said, “with Charles. He was not in the correct position to be born, and the physician could only admonish me to try harder. If my sister-in-law hadn’t sent for a French midwife, I’d be dead, and all Phoebe wants, all she longs for—”

Daphne would have dashed off into the undergrowth to rant at the trees, but Montmarche covered her hand with his own.

“We lost a child,” he said. “Between George and Sophronia. She lived a few days, but was not robust. Like Sophronia, she came early. I nearly lost my wife to the grief.”