Free Barbara Metzger by Lady Whiltons Wedding Page B

and brought it closer, hesitating.
    “What’s the matter, gel? I won’t bite. Not enough teeth left, heh-heh.” And he began that half laugh, half wheeze again, necessitating another hard swallow of brandy.
    Daphne tossed the blanket over him and stepped back quickly, hoping that if the baron was going to fall into oblivion, he’d do it soon, before the brandy was gone and he threw another fit. His eyes seemed to be drifting shut, so she backed away cautiously. Unfortunately her foot hit his dropped cane on the floor, and she squealed as she tried to regain her balance.
    Albert’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at her wildly, trying to recall her identity. He must have figured it out, for he growled, “What are you doing here anyway, gel? Young chits ain’t supposed to be in a man’s bedchamber. Didn’t your ma teach you that? She sure as hell didn’t teach you good sense, whistling a fortune down the wind when you tossed Howell out on his ear. No gel of mine’d be given the choice, I can tell you that. At least m’sister-in-law had the brains to hook the big fish, even if she let the minnow get away. Hollister’s as rich as Croesus,” he rambled on, eyes going unfocused again. “Doesn’t need my blunt. Shouldn’t get it. Ain’t right.”
    Daphne decided to take the chance on a rational conversation with her uncle now that he was somewhat subdued. She didn’t think he’d be any more open to reasonable discourse tomorrow, when he finally awoke. “That’s what I came to discuss, Uncle Albert, Mama’s twenty thousand. You know it would cost you less in the long run to give it to her now, than if you had to keep paying out her widow’s pension if she never remarried.”
    “What’s a female know about finance? You ain’t figuring the interest on the twenty thousand, interest I get to keep. And you ain’t figuring that my long run is getting shorter every day. I could have one more good ride on all that brass afore I cash in my chips.”
    “Yes, well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. And to see to your comfort, of course.”
    “Of course,” he mimicked. “You always cared so much for your dear uncle’s well-being, you used to run and hide when I came around. Still would, I warrant, if you didn’t want something. What is it, gel? Spit it out, I can’t stand mealymouthed chits.”
    Talking so much made him wheeze again. The level in the bottle was getting dangerously low, so Daphne hurried into speech. “You’re right: Mama doesn’t need the money, and Lord Hollister feels he’d rather support her himself. She only wanted it for me, it seems, so I wouldn’t have to worry about marrying for money. I think I can convince Mama I don’t need it.”
    “What, going to have young Howell after all?”
    “No, definitely not.”
    He pounded the bottle down on the bed, spilling a few drops. “What are you using for brains, girl, pigeon droppings? Fellow’s rich and handsome. So what if he’s a rake? You look the other way a bit like every other female, and in return you can have anything you want, even get to be a countess one day. Who knows but the jackstraw’ll come down heavy for your own dear uncle.”
    “So that’s why you think I should wed Graydon, so you can bleed him dry? Well, think again. I won’t.”
    Albert laughed, which turned into a long gasp for air. When he could speak again, after another swallow, he said, “So it’s to be that countrified chowder-head, is it? You’ll be sorry, mark my words.”
    Daphne stood firm. “Your opinion is irrelevant, Uncle. If I marry Miles, my dowry will be sufficient, and he’ll still see that I want for nothing.”
    “Nothing except a little rum-diddly-dum,” he said with a snicker. “What you ought to do is bed both of ’em. Then you’d see.”
    “That’s a horrid suggestion, Uncle! As if I ever would do, you know, before marriage!”
    “I know, all right. It’s that prunes-and-prisms Pomeroy that