by Barton, Anne
She attempted to smooth her hair but it still resembled a magpie’s nest. With the air of a princess, she said, “If you do not appreciate my company, I’ll find someone who does.” She staggered away slowly, looking over her shoulder in case anyone should entreat her to stay. No one did, of course, and everyone exhaled in relief. Everyone except Olivia.
“How rude!”
“I believe she’s had too much of the punch,” Rose ventured.
“That’s no excuse. She should have a care for her reputation. One display like that can ruin a girl for life.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ben glanced at Daphne. Her throat worked as she swallowed nervously. “I don’t know. Gentlemen routinely become foxed and their reputations don’t suffer in the slightest. Shouldn’t ladies be afforded the same leniency?”
Olivia stared at her as though she’d sprouted another head. “That woman,” she spat, waving a finger in the direction she’d stumbled, “ought to be banned from polite society.”
Daphne’s face fell, and Ben knew exactly what she was thinking. “It just seems like everyone deserves a second chance.”
“Do you think Rose or I would be given a second chance?” Olivia demanded. “Do you think you’d be given a second chance?”
Her eyes downcast, Daphne shook her head. “I suppose not.”
Just then, the first fireworks blazed a path into the sky.
Rose covered her ears, but Olivia shouted above the crackling and booming. “This is spectacular!”
The women formed a front row while the men stood behind, all staring up into the brilliantly lit sky. Everyone became immediately absorbed in the show, except Daphne and Ben.
Daphne looked preoccupied—probably with her imminent fall from grace.
Ben—much to his surprise—found himself worried about Daphne.
He approached her on her free side and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Olivia didn’t mean those things. She was just protecting her claim to Averill.”
“Maybe so, but she was right. If the portrait is discovered, I won’t be given a second chance.” Her voice, which was only a whisper, wavered.
It could have been the punch, but before he knew what he was doing, he reached between them and took her hand. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed reassuringly. A current shot up his arm and radiated throughout his entire body. “You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll find the other painting.”
“What if you can’t?”
“I always, always deliver on promises, Daphne.” It was true. He had no idea in hell how he was going to deliver on this one, but he would. How hard could it be to find one amateur painting of a beautiful woman?
“Thank you for trying,” she said. “Thank you for this night.”
Her sad smile stirred something deep inside of him, a place he’d thought was long dead. He could see that she didn’t believe him, and who could blame her? In her eyes, he was probably nothing more than a bad-mannered half-cripple who drank too much. But he’d prove he was worthy of her confidence. He would get her out of this mess.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Better. Thank you for creating a diversion back there.”
“It was nothing.” She laughed softly. “We are a sorry pair, are we not?”
He chuckled even though he disagreed on one point—there was nothing sorry about Daphne. But he did like the notion of them being a pair.
Their clasped hands hidden in the folds of her skirt and the shadows, they stood and watched the fireworks. The red and white streaks in the sky briefly lit her upturned face. Her profile was enchanting—long lashes, a sloped nose, full lips, and a delicate chin. Even in the relative darkness, her light was irrepressible, as though she were a beacon that had been kept lit—just for him.
After a few moments, she leaned back toward him. Her head was so close that a few stray wisps of her hair tickled his chin. “Maybe you’re right and all is not lost.”
He rubbed his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. He felt uncharacteristically hopeful, too.
“If we can find the painting, there is a chance I could still find a decent, respectable man to marry me.”
Ben’s gut clenched and his hopes were squashed. Decent and respectable were adjectives that left him entirely out of the running.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Daphne knocked gently on the door to Anabelle’s bedchamber. “It’s me.”
“Enter.”
Odd. Her sister’s cheerful voice had not come from the direction of her bed. Daphne swung open the door and found her standing before a full-length mirror wearing a nightgown. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Shhh! Do you want Owen to come running?”
“If that is the only way to get you to stay in bed.”
“I’ve been very good, Daph. Honestly. I just wanted to peek at my stomach.” She smoothed the nightgown, pulling it tight across her belly. “Do you see anything yet?”
Daphne hesitated, unsure of the proper response, but then decided on honesty. “There’s a slight swell where there wasn’t before, but I suspect that I’m the only one who’d notice.”
Belle beamed. “I thought so, too! She’s growing.”
“She?”
“Did I say she? I meant the baby.”
Daphne chuckled. “I gathered. Now, do you think we could relocate to your bed, or at least the sofa in your dressing room? If Owen checks in on you, I don’t want to be blamed for your flagrant disregard of doctor’s orders.”
“Oh, it sounds horrid when you say it like that, Daph. I’d never do anything to jeopardize her well-being.”
Her. Interesting. She let it pass.
They moved to the sofa and Daphne made sure that her sister put her feet up. “Would you like something to drink? A bite to eat, perhaps?”
Belle blanched and placed a palm over her stomach. “Maybe later. Right now I want to hear all about Vauxhall Gardens.”
“It was a delightful evening. So much to do and see—the fountains and follies and fireworks—”
Anabelle swatted her arm. “I don’t want to hear about the scenery. Tell me the good bits. Did Lord Biltmore make any advances?”
“Belle!”
“I’m not suggesting that he, or you, did anything improper. But it would be nice to know where you stand with him. Did you walk with him, perhaps, or exchange glances during the fireworks?”
“No. The group stayed together for the better part of the evening.”
“Aha! ‘For the better part of the evening’ means that you did spend some time alone with him.”
Heat crept up Daphne’s cheeks. The only person she’d spent time alone with was Lord Foxburn. Benjamin. She blushed some more. If she didn’t confess some of the details, Belle would just make Olivia tell. “Not with him. Lord Foxburn’s leg was hurting and he asked if I’d take a walk with him while he stretched it out.”
Anabelle’s eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. “Is that what he told you?”
“Mmm.” Daphne busied herself untangling the fringe on a throw pillow.
“Just out of curiosity, how do you feel about the earl?”
She could have said she felt sorry for him. It would have been the easy way out, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Benjamin wasn’t the type of person to be pitied, even in a white lie. “I admire his courage and his loyalty to Lord Biltmore. His older brother was Lord Foxburn’s best friend, and he died at Waterloo.”
“Ah, yes,” Belle said sadly. “Owen mentioned it. Is the earl putting up barriers between you and Lord Biltmore?”
Dash it all. For once, she wished Anabelle wasn’t so shrewd. “He’s very protective of his young friend. I believe Lord Foxburn wants to make sure his protégé doesn’t fall victim to a fortune hunter.”
“Of all the—” Belle tried to spring to her feet, but Daphne gently held down her shoulders. “You don’t need Lord Biltmore’s money. And even i
f you did, he’d be lucky to marry someone as thoughtful and kind as you.”
“It’s all right. I’m not sure that I managed to capture Lord Biltmore’s affections anyway.”
Belle rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. You could capture the affections of any man you chose.” She paused for a moment and then tilted her head. “But perhaps he hasn’t captured yours?”
Daphne shrugged. “I don’t think we have a… romantic connection.” Heaven help her, her face must be as red as a beet.
“Oh.” Anabelle seemed to consider this. “That’s another matter entirely.”
“Did you, er, that is, did you always feel that spark with Owen? Even before you knew that he was as smitten with you as you were with him?”
It was Belle’s turn to blush. “Yes. It was there from the start.”
Daphne sighed. Few couples were blessed with marriages as passionate as her sister’s and Owen’s. Daphne dreamed of a love match, but she supposed it was far more important to marry a man with a kind nature and a gentle temperament.
“It will happen for you, too, when you meet the right gentleman.”
“What if you feel something like a spark… but it’s with the wrong gentleman?”
Anabelle gasped. “That way lies heartbreak.”
They sat in silence for a few moments before her sister ventured, “Are you speaking of Lord Foxburn, by any chance?”
Daphne couldn’t quite bring herself to respond, so she gave a noncommittal shrug that Belle was sure to see through.
She reached for Daphne’s hands and squeezed them affectionately. “Lord Foxburn is undeniably handsome, and the fact that he’s a war hero lends him an even more dashing air. But regardless of the attraction you might feel toward him, he is not the man for you.”
“How do you know?”
“Owen says he has a very dark side and that his mission in life is to make everyone as miserable as he is. You deserve better.”
Belle would say that. But then, she didn’t know about the portraits. Daphne wasn’t the innocent her sister believed her to be. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a matter of deserving someone, but the point is moot. You’re right—Lord Foxburn and I would never suit. I get the impression that he doesn’t approve of me.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” Belle flung her arms in exasperation. “He doesn’t approve of anyone. I can’t imagine living with a boor like that.”
For some mysterious reason, Daphne felt the need to defend him. “He merely says what the rest of us are thinking.”
“Perhaps, but exercising self-control is a requirement in civilized society.”
“Which is why Lord Foxburn prefers solitude.”
“But you do not,” Anabelle reminded her. “You thrive on helping others.”
Her sister was right. Daphne leaned her head on Belle’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d do just fine. But you wouldn’t have half as many gorgeous dresses. Do you want to see how the ball gown is coming along?”
Belle had insisted on creating an elegant new dress for Daphne. Her sister said the gorgeous gold silk trimmed in faceted beads would shine like a diamond in the sun.
Daphne sat up and shot Belle a scolding look. “In case you’ve forgotten, I will remind you that you’re a duchess now. And you’re with child. You shouldn’t be working so hard on a ball gown for me.”
Her sister pushed her spectacles farther up her nose. “I am quite aware of that. Do you want to see it, or not?”
“Yes, please!”
Belle glided to her armoire and withdrew the dress, which—even in its unfinished state—nearly took Daphne’s breath away.
“Oh, it’s…”
“Stunning?”
“Yes.”
“Come see.” Belle pulled Daphne by the hand and positioned her in front of the looking glass. Standing behind her, Belle placed the work in progress under Daphne’s chin and sighed happily. “I knew the colors would be perfect.”
“Thank you,” Daphne breathed. “For everything.”
“You see?” Anabelle said. “Everything is going to work out. You shall soon have the most beautiful gown in the British Empire—and in France for that matter. Mama is well and growing stronger every day. You are under the protection of your brother-in-law, who happens to be a strikingly handsome duke. Best of all, you’re the kindest, gentlest, purest soul I know. What could possibly go wrong?”
Well… for one thing, her half-naked image could surface at any time, bringing shame upon herself and everyone she loved. Daphne swallowed past the knot in her throat.
All things considered, there was quite a lot that could go wrong.
Before Ben’s injury, he never would have considered taking a coach to Robert’s house, which was a mere three blocks away. But after the previous day’s exertions, his leg was about as flexible as a log, and walking more than a few yards was out of the question.
Last evening had been successful, in at least one respect. He and Daphne had a plan of action. They’d forged an alliance of sorts, and he was beginning to understand her. A couple of questions still plagued him. How had her mother recovered? How had her sister, a lowly seamstress, ended up married to a duke?
Eventually, he would solve the entire puzzle, but for now he was content with knowing why she’d posed for the portraits. She hadn’t been coerced, and she hadn’t been the artist’s lover.
And while he was greatly relieved on both accounts, he didn’t care to examine why.
His coach drew up to Robert’s town house, although he supposed it was actually Hugh’s house now. Strange to think of it that way.
Getting out of the coach was something of a struggle, but Richard, the footman, knew better than to offer assistance. Any helping hand he extended was likely to feel the smack of Ben’s cane. He clambered out, wondering how the hell he’d been reduced to a caricature of a dowager viscountess.
He walked to the front door and was immediately admitted by Hugh’s butler, who’d known Ben since he was a lad. “Good afternoon, my lord. I assume you’re here to see Lord Biltmore?”
Actually, he’d prefer it if Hugh happened to be on an errand. He wasn’t much in the mood for a social visit. Come to think of it, he never was. “No need to disturb him if he’s occupied, Randalls. I actually only need to look for a few documents in Robert’s study.”
The butler took his hat and hung it on a hook near the door. “The study is just where the master happens to be. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He dipped another bow before heading down the hall.
Ben tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Hugh was in Robert’s study. In the months since Robert’s death, Hugh had avoided it. Ben had taken care of all pressing estate issues and closed the door behind him when he left, assuming that all would remain as it was.
But nothing was the same as before.
A minute later, Hugh ambled down the hall. He walked like his older brother had, except that he lacked Robert’s confidence and bravado. But maybe that, too, would change with time. “Foxburn! An unexpected treat, this—seeing you so soon after the wonderful evening at Vauxhall. Randalls said you’re searching for some papers? I’ve been slowly familiarizing myself with the various accounting books and a few contracts. Is there something I can help you find?”
“No.” He hadn’t expected Hugh to be interested. In the past he’d been all too happy to give Ben free rein of the study, rummaging to his heart’s content. “It’s… something of a personal nature. Nothing you need to worry yourself about, but I wonder if I could see his receipts from earlier this year.”
“Of course, of course,” Hugh replied, all solicitousness. “Come this way. Can I get you a drink, some refreshments?”
“I’ll pour myself a brandy from the sideboard in Robert’s… er… your study.”
Hugh looked at him strangely but ushered him into the room and waved him to the chair behind the desk. “I’ve filed most of the rece
ipts in the top right drawer. Letters and other correspondence are in the small wooden box on the shelf behind you. I didn’t feel right reading Robert’s personal letters, but I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them either.”
Ben turned and stared at the little chest. “The box was a fine idea.”
Hugh beamed as if the offhand compliment was the highest praise. “If you’re sure you don’t need any assistance—”
“No.”
His face fell a little. “Very good, then. I’ll leave you to your task. Take as much time as you need. I shall be in the drawing room if you need me.” He swept a stack of papers off the desk as he left and quietly closed the door behind him.
Ben shook off his melancholy. He was here for a reason, and Daphne was counting on him.
But still, first things first.
He lumbered to the sideboard and poured himself a healthy splash of brandy, relieved to see the familiar decanter and glasses. He’d shared many a drink with Robert in this room, from this tray.
The receipts were stacked in the drawer, just as Hugh had said, in neatly bound bundles. Robert certainly hadn’t done that. And neither had Ben. Perhaps Hugh was more competent than either Robert or he had given him credit for.
He untied the first bundle and rifled through the receipts. The papers itemized groceries from Fortnum & Mason, books from Hatchards, and boots from Hoby’s, and dozens of other purchases. All were dated the previous month, and a quick check of the next bundle revealed they were separated by month.
Ben counted backward and reached for the twelfth bundle from the top. Christ, had it really been almost a year since Robert died? And if so, why was he still so miserable?
The stack contained nothing of interest, just more incidental expenditures—hats, fabric, snuff, and the like. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. Robert obviously didn’t buy the painting of Daphne on Oxford Street, so how had he come to possess it?
Ben stood and wandered back to the sideboard where he poured another drink. As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, he scanned the shelves before him. Miniature portraits of Robert’s mother and father, both of whom had died when their carriage overturned five years ago, stared back at him, seemingly pleading that he take care of their only living son. A portrait of Robert’s older brother who’d died two years ago after falling off his horse. The accident was the reason that a few short months after purchasing his commission, Robert had unexpectedly become a viscount.