Free Barbara Metzger by Lady Whiltons Wedding Page A

them of their children’s brangling. She’d pay them visits, of course, when she knew Graydon was elsewhere. Daphne knew she couldn’t stay on here in her childhood home, either, not when awful Uncle Albert was liable to pop in. That left Miles, worthy Miles, who was most likely too high-minded to outsmart that low-blow bounder.
    Mama had to marry Lord Hollister, if only to protect the boys from Uncle Albert. She and Cousin Harriet were right: Men did have all the power, and they needed every bit of it to keep her cousins from falling into their father’s evil clutches. Daphne didn’t think Uncle Albert would go through with his threats to see his sons sold into slavery or whatever, but the threats were bad enough.
    She’d have to go to him herself, Daphne decided, and tell him she didn’t want the cursed twenty thousand pounds, that she’d convince Mama to sign the paper if he’d just leave them alone. It would be Daphne’s decision and her mother’s, not Lord Hollister’s. That should please Mama, even if losing the money didn’t. One couldn’t ask for everything.

Chapter Eight
    Asshe walked from her mother’s room to hers, Daphne heard noises coming from Papa’s—now Uncle Albert’s—bedchamber. The mutters and mumbled curses she would have ignored, but the thumps and thuds sounded ominous. If she called for a footman, she’d likely wake the rest of the house, Cousin Harriet and the earl’s sister included, so Daphne decided to investigate herself.
    She scratched on the door and softly called: “Uncle Albert, it is I, Daphne. Do you need anything?’’
    What she heard could have been “Get in here.” It also could have been “Get out,” but she chose the former, cautiously opening the door a crack, prepared to duck flying missiles. When no boots or books came her way, she edged into the room, leaving the door ajar behind her, just in case.
    Uncle Albert was lurching about, his cane neglected, as he tried to open the brandy decanter. His hands were shaking so badly, he could not remove the stopper and his face was empurpled with his rage and frustration. His breath was coming in short, gasping inhales and long, rasping exhales. He did not look well, even for Uncle Albert.
    “Uncle, are you ill? Should I send for the doctor?”
    “What, some bloody rustic leech? Wouldn’t trust one of your quacks,” he panted out. “Terwent’ll be here in the morning with my potions and stuff. Not that they do much good anymore.” He stumbled closer and thrust the bottle at her. “May as well be of some use, now you’re here. Open the blasted thing.”
    Daphne was undecided, until the baron started waving his arms around, saliva dribbling out of the side of his mouth. Maybe Graydon would prove right after all, Daphne thought, and Uncle would collapse, unconscious, once he’d drunk his fill. For sure he was working himself into an apoplexy this way. She pulled the stopper away from the neck of the crystal decanter and looked around for a glass.
    “Here, give me that,” the baron snarled, grabbing the bottle and lifting it to his mouth. Daphne could hear his every gulp, and watch his bony Adam’s apple bob up and down. He finally lowered the decanter and wiped his lips with the back of his coat sleeve, and belched. “Better,” he grunted, and indeed his breathing was more even and his coloring more restored to its usual splotchy flush. He clumped over to the bed and threw himself down, still holding a firm grip on the bottle.
    “Should I ring for Ohlman to help you undress, Uncle? You’ll be more comfortable without your bootson, I’m sure.”
    “Wouldn’t let that bugger touch me. Or my boots. Terwent’ll be here in the morning,” he repeated, with another long swig from the bottle.
    “Then perhaps a blanket?” He was lying on all of his. The last thing Daphne wanted was for the soused baron to take a chill and have to be nursed here at the Manor. She found a quilt over the back of a chair