Free Daisy by MC Beaton Page B

parked the motor in the gloomy driveway he whispered, “No need to trouble Mater with our little adventure. She’s very sensitive, you know.”
    Daisy thought privately that Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone showed all the sensitivity of an overfed water buffalo and bit her lip.
    This time mater was waiting for them in the drawing room, fortifying herself from the sherry decanter. She twinkled at them with a roguishness hideous to behold. “Ah, now what have my two young things been up to?” She wagged a playful finger at them. “Have a glass of sherry, Daisy. I have told the housekeeper to bring the books and we’ll go over them together.”
    “Why?” asked Daisy, made bold by a sudden spasm of fear.
    “Why! So that you will learn how to run a mansion such as this, my dear. I am sure you will prove an apt pupil.”
    Daisy felt the prison walls closing about her.
    “I do not think it necessary to go to such trouble since the running of—of your household is no concern of mine,” she faltered.
    Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone put down her glass so forcefully that she nearly broke the stem. “My dear girl,” she snapped, “I gathered that you had accepted my son’s proposal of marriage and since you seemed such a pleasant girl, I decided to overlook your unfortunate family background. Father, you know.”
    Daisy’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her generous father who faithfully sent her allowance to Curzon every month. She got to her feet. “Your son did not propose and had he done so, I would not have accepted.”
    “Oh, I say!” bleated Freddie.
    “Furthermore,” went on Daisy, quite pink with anger, “it is very rude of you to insult my father. I wish to leave. Immediately!”
    Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone’s face turned puce then purple. She emitted a few strangled noises and then began to scream and drum her heels on the floor.
    “Now look what you’ve done!” shouted Freddie, ringing the bell like a fire alarm. “Poor Mater.”
    His boyish features suddenly seemed old and mean. “If you’ve killed her, then it’s your fault.”
    Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone had begun to moan. Two burly footmen and a lady’s maid rushed into the room and bore the anguished lady out. Freddie and Daisy faced each other in silence as the moans progressed up the stairs and slowly died away.
    “I must go,” Daisy said in a small voice. Freddie glared at her. “I think you should at least have the decency to stay until Mater recovers. I’ll go and tell the housekeeper to prepare your room. And”—as Daisy made a horrified movement to protest—“if you want to leave, you’ll need to go by yourself. ’Cause I ain’t taking you.”
    He went out of the room and slammed the door.
    Daisy stood stricken, listening to the sounds of his retreating footsteps. A statue of Niobe, all tears, gazed at her sympathetically across the room. She began to search feverishly in her reticule. No money. And even if she had money, she no longer had the courage to venture outside into the ever-thickening mist. She felt like a small animal, trapped in a cage of heavy furniture and stuffed birds.
    The Duke of Oxenden strolled up St. James’s toward his club, reflecting that the weather was so foul, it might as well be the middle of winter. Yellow acrid fog prowled the gloomy streets, bringing an early night to London. The gas lamps had already been lit and their faint bluish flames were only slightly discernible. He leaned against a lamppost to light a cigar. The mantle of the gas lamp above him had been broken and the light sputtered and hissed and sang its dreary winter melody over his head. A fine rain of soot was beginning to fall and his white cuffs were becoming slowly speckled. He walked on toward his club and pushed open the double glass doors to escape the dismal evening.
    But the fog was no respecter of class or persons. It hung over the club room in great yellow bands and dim figures could just be made out, sitting in their armchairs, like