…
Despite her best attempts at polite conversation, appropriate mannerisms, and well-timed moments of restraint, Daphne remained the target of the duchess’s ire for most of the afternoon.
It was of no surprise. She had seen the disapproval the duchess had cast in her direction every time the duke had given her the smallest ounce of attention. But Daphne had thought, and rather naively so, that once the duke had left with Lady Isabella, the duchess would relent and be more civil.
Daphne was wrong.
Which was why it was nothing short of a miracle that she had managed to get through an entire dinner and even most of the requisite after-dinner tea, without the duchess issuing one cutting reply, queer question, or rude remark.
Her indifference, however much appreciated, was not exactly a blessing. Conversation was discouraged. And any hopes she had held of slipping the duke information regarding Burnham’s expenditures were thoroughly squashed.
Daphne was tired. Frustrated. And not wanting to tempt fate any further, she closed her eyes and complained of a headache most foul.
It was also, unfortunately, the absolute truth.
“You do look a little pale, dear,” Aunt Susan agreed, setting down her steaming cup on the side table and patting Daphne’s hand. “Have one of Her Grace’s staff take you to your room. I’ll have a maid draw you a nice hot bath.”
Daphne placed her other hand atop her aunt’s. “Thank you for your understanding, Aunt Susan. I am most grateful.”
“Alfred,” the duchess called, summoning a lanky footman standing near the sitting-room door. “Please take Miss Farrington to her room.”
Daphne dipped into a curtsy, grateful the duchess had declined any further comment.
“I do hope you feel better soon,” Henrietta added, as Alfred led Daphne away.
The black uniform of the footman blended into the darkness, the flickering flame on his candle the only light in the darker hallways of the mansion.
“Here you are, miss.” Alfred handed her the brass holder with the half-burned stick of beeswax before disappearing and leaving Daphne to realize it was not her room that he taken her to, but some sort of study.
“Alfred,” Daphne called, lifting the candle and stepping out into the hall. “I think you have made a mistake.” But the footman had vanished, his tall form invisible in the shadows.
What the devil was she to do now? She was only slightly familiar with the layout of the house, having received a brisk educational tour of the home upon her arrival. But knowing that the tapestries in the dining room were from the fifteenth century, approximately four hundred years prior, and according to biblical numerology, a divine and perfect period of time, was not going to aid her in discovering which way her bedroom lay or where her hot bath waited.
Daphne retreated into the room, her shoulders slumping as she leaned against the nearest wall.
The heady scent of cloves and man overwhelmed her just as a familiar voice tickled her ear.
“I apologize for the theatrics, but I wanted to speak with you away from prying ears.”
Daphne’s pulse quickened as the duke touched a wick to her flame, his candle sputtering to life, illuminating his handsome features and inquisitive eyes.
Daphne pushed away from the wall, her shoulders straightening as she righted herself. “So you had me misdirected? A simple note would have sufficed, Your Grace.”
A smile touched his lips. “But where is the fun in that? In truth, a note arouses suspicion, while a simple disappearance takes longer to be remarked upon.”
“And you know this from experience?”
“Of course. I always make sure to hide away intelligent American women with extensive knowledge of my financial affairs.”
He took hold of her arm just above the elbow and led her toward a large chair facing an equally enormous desk.
“And what is it that you would like to discuss in such secrecy?” Daphne asked, near breathless from his touch.
He walked around to the back of the desk and sat in a large upholstered chair. “I was hoping to be regaled with details from your afternoon in Emberton. Were you able to collect any more information regarding Burnham’s expenditures?”
Surprisingly enough, she had. Even with the duchess breathing down her neck, Daphne had managed to slip in an extra question or two. And certainly enough to implicate the cheat of a man.
“All but one shopkeeper confirmed our suspicions. His purchases are rather sporadic, but he occasionally places orders for special cuts of cheese, meat, and even linen. It isn’t enough to explain the thousands he has been hoarding, but it is certainly a start.”
The duke’s shoulders fell.
Daphne’s gaze dropped to the plush carpet covering the floor. She had expected the revelation to bring her some sense of gratification. She had, after all, revealed the true nature of Burnham’s character. But instead of pride swelling her chest, a hollow emptiness filled her.
Daphne reached out and put a hand on Edward’s arm. “I am sorry.”
He placed his large hand over hers. “It is what it is. The important thing is that you discovered his scheme and we can now bring him to justice.”
“What will you do next?”
He gave her fingers a little squeeze before retracting his hand and running it through his hair. “I summon Burnham.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. The duke would no doubt question the thief and then have the authorities take him to prison. It would all be very neat and tidily done.
He peered at her through the darkness, the flickering flames casting dark shadows across his face. “But first I must query you.”
“Me?” she asked.
“I wish to know your opinion of me.” His words came in a whisper, warm and rich, that stretched across the space between them.
Her opinion of him? He was arrogant and proud, yet exceedingly humble and modest. He was the quintessential aristocrat, yet nothing like his peers. How was she supposed to answer, when she did not yet fully know?
Daphne leaned forward. “How does my opinion have anything to do with Burnham?”
He turned his face into the shadows. “Nothing, I suppose. And yet, everything. I have time set aside to speak with your brother tomorrow. I’m certain he would very much like to know whether or not I intend on investing in your family’s shipping line.”
“And will you?” she asked, her fingers digging into the soft leather.
He leaned forward, his eyes piercing into hers. “It depends.”
“On what?” she breathed. He was on the verge of agreement, she could feel it in her very bones. All he had to do was give his consent and sign the papers…
“On the documentation he provides…and if you are able to accept that not everything is as black and white as you are so determined to see it.”
Daphne blinked, uncertain of the duke’s direction. “You think I am incapable of seeing things in their various shades of gray?”
“Not incapable, just unwilling.” His voice lowered, the edges of it taking a slightly huskier tone. He stood and made his way to the front of the desk where he lounged against the polished wood, his arms crossing in front of his broad chest. “I fear you think that just because I am a duke that I fit into that neat little box of yours. That I can be neither dark-gray nor muddied white. I am all black as you have painted me, or not a duke at all.”
“That is absurd.” Even though she knew very well that it wasn’t.
“No?”
Daphne stood, not wanting to be pinned to the chair with his all-seeing eyes. “I am more than able to discern variances. I am not incapable of making allowances. But that is neither here nor there. You brought me here to discuss Mr. Burnham, not my personal views.”
A warm finger lifted her chin.
“I may have brought you here under the pretense of inquiring after Burnham, but I can assure you I am far more interested in you and whatever opinions you hold, especially where the
y concern me.”
Her breath caught in her throat and for a sheer instant she thought herself an invalid. Her limbs were unable to move but her nerves tingled as though her slippers had slid over the carpet and produced a shock.
But what was, perhaps, even more frightening than the possibility of momentary paralysis was the intensity of her attraction to the man whose parted mouth hovered mere inches from hers. She wanted him to touch her again. To place his lips against hers. To make her pulse race as it was doing now.
Logical thought would dictate that she retreat and politely ask the duke to retrieve a footman to take her to her room. But her reasoning was diluted by the heady scent of spicy cloves and virile male.
Daphne took a deep steadying breath. “I don’t fully know what to think about you, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps I can convince you to see otherwise.” His eyes darkened as they watched her, their depths filling with a hunger she was only now beginning to understand.
Her rational mind tried once again to assert itself, to argue the merits of quitting the room with her head held high. But Daphne was tired of doing what she was told. “And how do you propose to do that?”
He lowered his lips to her ear, his breath tickling her sensitive lobe. The hairs along her neck rose, as if warning her of the danger in remaining beside a man that was temptation incarnate.
“Kiss me, Miss Farrington, and discover for yourself.”
Her tongue swiped across her lips, though she was quite certain she hadn’t willed it to move. The very top of his throat was exposed, the white of his cravat having slipped ever so slightly from his constant tugging on the damnable knot. If she just leaned forward ever so slightly she could press her lips there, where his pulse lay, to see if his was as erratic as hers.
“Your Grace.” Alfred appeared out of nowhere, his pale face nearly scaring her witless. “Ten minutes have passed.”
Edward gave a deep shuddering breath before taking a step away. “Please take Miss Farrington to her chambers, Alfred. I trust you can find your way this time.”
Alfred handed Daphne a flickering flame. “Here you are, miss. Right this way.”
She had turned to follow the footman, her skirts swirling over her ankles, when she paused and tossed a look back at the candle-lit face of the duke. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you very much.”
Chapter Ten
Edward sat behind the same mahogany desk where only hours before, he had observed, admired, and lusted after a Farrington.
Unfortunately it was not the same Farrington who stood across from him now.
“It is a pleasure to see you,” Edward said, motioning for the man to sit.
Not as much of a pleasure as it would have been to see his sister, but a pleasure all the same. Farrington seemed to be a very decent and likeable fellow.
He bowed. “And you, Your Grace. I am most appreciative of your audience this morning.” Edward smiled. Of course the man was. Especially when he was here to discuss business.
“I assume you’ve brought with you documentation supporting your company’s recent profits?” Edward asked.
Nodding, Farrington placed the stack of papers he had been carrying on top of Edward’s desk. “These are only the most recent, Your Grace. I have many more papers detailing our—”
A sharp knock on the door sounded as Edward’s butler made his way into the room. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but Mr. Burnham is here to see you.”
Now? Edward was quite certain he had been very specific on his summons, requesting a time after he had negotiated things with Farrington.
Farrington lifted his ledgers. “I can return at another time, Your Grace.”
Edward stood and placed his hand on the pile, forcing them back down onto his desk. “No. You might as well stay to validate that Burnham did, indeed, sully your shipping company.”
Edward made his way around his desk and turned toward his butler. “Send him in.”
Burnham walked into the room, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Farrington. “I must admit I was surprised to receive your letter of summons, Your Grace,” he stated, his hawk-like nose lifting in the air.
“But now I see why it was issued.”
“Indeed?” Edward asked.
“Yes, of course,” Burnham continued. “I, too, believe an apology from Mr. Farrington is in order.” His eyes narrowed farther as they once again fell on the American. “Though I hardly think one is sufficient for the accusations his family cast upon my character, I am willing to make allowances.”
Edward’s gaze flicked toward Farrington who, despite a lifted chin and slightly flared nostrils, remained motionless beside him. Tilting his head, Edward returned his gaze to the impertinent man standing before him. “How very generous of you, Mr. Burnham.”
He nodded and touched a finger to his cravat. “I pride myself on my graciousness, Your Grace.”
Edward nodded. “I wonder if you don’t also pride yourself on other things, too, Mr. Burnham. Such as your remarkable skill with numbers.”
Burnham clasped his hands behind his back, his chest thrusting forward. “Indeed, I do. I find that I am nearly unrivaled in my knowledge of arithmetic.”
“Nearly.”
Burnham’s bushy brows came together. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Nearly,” Edward said again, enunciating both syllables of the word. He raised his hand and pointed toward a second stack of papers on his desk. “I have found someone whose talents rival your own.”
Burnham’s nose dipped ever so slightly. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I find that highly unlikely.”
“As did I.” He lifted the first sheet of foolscap off the pile. “But should you need convincing, Mr. Burnham, I have provided proof that such a person does, indeed, exist.”
Burnham’s brows lifted. “Might I take a look, Your Grace?”
“Yes, please.” Edward handed the thin sheet into the elder man’s expectant fingers.
Burnham’s red-rimmed eyes darted back and forth, scanning over Miss Farrington’s calculations, the rustle of foolscap the only sound in the imposing room. The slight breeze that had been stirring the draperies ceased, as though even the heavens were holding their breath in anticipation of Burnham’s response.
“Why, these are nothing more than simple deductions,” Burnham replied. His eyes lifted to Edward’s before a smile crept over his thin lips and his bony finger wagged. “I must say, you almost had me convinced. I did not think you one for jest, Your Grace.”
Edward returned Burnham’s smile. “I’m not. In fact, at present, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever been more serious.”
All traces of amusement were wiped clear of Burnham’s face, his eyes darting between Edward and Farrington. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what game is afoot.”
“I assure you there is no game, Mr. Burnham. At least, that is, not one played by me.”
Burnham shook the piece of foolscap, the thin paper crinkling in his fingers. “But this math is simple in its design. Why, a child could complete these problems.”
“Indeed,” Edward agreed, plucking the paper from Burnham’s hand. “Which is why I find it curious that a man with such an intimate knowledge of numbers had difficulty deducting them.”
Burnham frowned. “Should you be referring to me, Your Grace, I can assure you that I am fully capable of taking one away from three.”
“And yet, over the past eight years, you consistently made the same mistake, Mr. Burnham.” Edward walked toward the back of his desk and then produced one of the black ledgers. He set the leather-bound book in front of Burnham. “Which leaves me to conclude that you, in fact, do not know how to take one away from three. Or if you are as capable as you claim, that you did not properly calculate because you had a specific purpose for doing so.”
The elder man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the limp linen of his cravat. “You have been quite satisfied and, dare I say, even impres
sed with my service for almost a decade, Your Grace. Might I inquire why you have suddenly sought to question my competency?”
“You might inquire but I need not oblige you with an answer.”
Burnham gave a slow nod as his eyes flitted toward Farrington. “I only ask, because I wonder what person spoke against me, causing you to doubt. And if that person is reliable and worthy of your consideration.”
Edward leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. “Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Burnham?”
“Of course not,” he assured, pulling his gaze from Farrington and returning them to Edward. “I am merely concerned that you may have been misinformed.”
Edward lifted the ledger and ran a thumb over the worn binding. “Are you or are you not solely responsible for the figures recorded on these pages?”
“Well, I suppose,” Burnham sputtered. “But I—”
“Have you enlisted the help of a second party to aid in your endeavors without my knowledge or consent?”
“No, but—”
“Or allowed others access to my private ledgers and accounts?”
“No, of course, I would never, but—”
“Then it is you and you alone who holds responsibility for the contents of this ledger.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Burnham answered, his face a mottled shade of red.
Edward slammed his hand down on the smooth wood of the desktop. “Then I have been misinformed, but by whom, Mr. Burnham? The man who readily acknowledges ownership of the hand scrawled across pages of a ledger rife with mathematical error, or the man who discovers the discrepancies and makes me aware of their existence?”
“I—I can hardly say, Your Grace,”
“Which is why I must rely on the solid evidence found within the pages of not only this book, but the seven others in my possession.”
Burnham’s chest rose. “Might I remind Your Grace that without my counsel, many of the recorded transactions in that book never would have taken place?”
“A fact I do not dispute, Mr. Burnham, for without my success, you would have little from which to take. The more I prosper, the more do you.”
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