Daphne would have asked more, but the squire’s wife wandered up just then, and the moment was lost. The vicar’s words relieved her, and she was perfectly happy to put Sir Wesley out of her mind…provided he did not insist upon popping out of the fireplace at will.
From that moment on, there was never another chance for further investigation into Sir Wesley’s dastardly doings, and that suited Daphne just fine—she was far too busy to brood over some long dead distant relative—and thank God for that! Someone, it seemed, always needed her decision or advice, and there were social engagements galore. The coming wedding was the most prominent affair in the area in years, the circumstances surrounding the engagement adding a surprising cachet, and local hostesses competed vigorously for the attendance of the betrothed couple. There were breakfasts, dinner parties, and soirees, one enterprising matron even arranging a horseback ride to Land’s End for an alfresco meal served above the crashing surf on the rocks below.
Charles was busy with his own pursuits, and beyond a few short visits to Beaumont Place, he and Daphne only met these days at the various social functions that they attended. Sometimes, he would escort her to the event; other times, as in tonight’s outing, they would arrive separately, Daphne traveling with Adrian and April, Charles riding over from Lanyon Hall. This evening’s affair had been a small, informal soiree held by the squire and his wife, the fourth such function this week, and as he helped her into Sir Adrian’s carriage, Charles murmured, “I never realized how fatiguing being engaged could be.” He smiled down at her. “Will you be happy to put this all behind you?”
She smiled back at him, amazed at how swiftly he had become such an integral part of her life. “Indeed, it does seem that we are far more giddy here in the country than even in London.”
His lips quirked. “It’s amazing what a hint of scandal can do for one’s popularity.”
Her smile fled. “Do you mind it terribly?” she asked.
“Mind?” He shook his head. “If I did, my dear, I wouldn’t be here. I never do things that I do not want to.”
A little shiver ran down her spine when she realized that he meant every word. She had only seen his charming side so far, but now and then, she glimpsed the steel beneath the velvet, the glacier behind the warmth, and she knew a little spurt of unease. He was no longer a complete stranger, but she could not pretend that he was not still an unknown quantity to her or one that did not cause her anxious moments.
Adrian and April, having lingered talking to some of the younger guests, joined them, and in the flurry of goodbyes, there was no opportunity for further private conversation. With Adrian and April settled inside the Beaumont coach, Charles, who had ridden over with the viscount, gave Daphne a careless wave and rejoined Trevillyan for the ride back to Lanyon Hall.
As far as Charles was concerned, the wedding could not take place soon enough. Not only did he go around in an embarrassing randy state, his nights disturbed by the most explicitly erotic dreams imaginable, but he would also be quite happy to see the last of Lanyon Hall and his host. The viscount was likable enough, not a bad companion, although his bitterness at having lost Sir Huxley’s fortune still ate at him, and Charles had grown weary of veiled references to the unfairness of Fate and undeserving cubs who had the devil’s own luck. Certainly, the viscount drank too much, being in Charles’s opinion, far too fond of the bottle and the gaming table. He did not dislike the viscount—Trevillyan was no worse than any one of a dozen young bucks he could name, and he supposed that in Raoul’s circle, Trevillyan would have been considered a fine fellow.
Riding toward Lanyon Hall that night, Charles considered the course of his life had he decided not to pay Trevillyan a visit. He smiled wryly in the darkness. He owed the man a debt of gratitude that he could never repay, and an unpleasant chill slid down his back when he considered that if he had not come to visit, he would never have met Daphne. Never mind that Trevillyan discreetly deplored the coming union or was convinced that Charles would come to regret his gallantry. It was a fact: had he not come to visit and had Daphne not catapulted into his life, he would have resumed his reckless, lonely existence, never knowing or guessing at the depth of passion and joy that now consumed him.
Just thinking of returning to Stonegate without Daphne at his side filled him with dread. Dear, darling Daphne, he realized humbly, and Charles was seldom humble, had saved him from a cold, empty fate, and for the first time, he understood what Nell’s entrance in Julian’s life had meant to him.
Just as Wyndham Manor was no longer the lonely, austere place it had been before Julian had married Nell, so would Stonegate change under Daphne’s hand. Like a vibrant spring breeze, her presence would drive out all the old, ugly memories, and Stonegate would once again become the warm, welcoming home he remembered from his childhood. Before my mother died and Father brought home Sofia, he thought tightly. But he would not let the past intrude, would not allow himself to be lost in the black thoughts that so often bedeviled him, and again he thanked God for Daphne’s presence in his life. He smiled. Even if she came with a brother and sister and a few ghosts. Adrian and April presented no problems for him—he was very fond of the pair of them and delighted in their youthful exuberance—but the ghosts….
Charles was relieved that the problem of the ghosts appeared to have abated. Which was just as well, he decided, considering the demands and constraints on their time. He had hoped that he and Daphne would have had a chance to discover more about Sir Wesley and the little crying ghost in the intervening days, but events had conspired against them. Though they spoke privately about the unresolved situation, since the ghosts seemed to have become silent for the time being, they were willing to let sleeping dogs lie. Soon enough, he would be living at Beaumont Place, and then he and Daphne would be able to focus on the various manifestations that seemed to haunt the house. A slow grin crossed his face. And he would be able to make love to his wife any time he felt like it, and Sir Wesley be damned! Eager for his wedding day, for what the future might hold and happy for the first time in a long time, Charles kicked his horse into a gallop, wishing that Daphne waited for him at Lanyon Hall.
Arriving at Lanyon Hall, Eames informed Charles that a note had been delivered for him while he had been gone. Handing him the envelope, Eames said, “You were not gone five minutes when it arrived, sir. I did not think it urgent, so I did not send it by one of our servants to Squire Henley’s. I hope I did right?”
“Of course you did,” broke in Trevillyan, his slurred words revealing that he was well on his way to being foxed. “If it had been important, Weston would have told you to be on the lookout for it.” Dismissing his butler, Trevillyan glanced at Charles. “Would you care to join me in another tipple before bed?”
Politely declining the offer, aware that Trevillyan had again imbibed more than enough for one evening, Charles bid his host good night and walked up the stairs to his rooms. Since he’d given his valet the evening off, Charles swiftly stripped off his clothes and hauled on a dark green velvet robe. Pouring himself a snifter of brandy, he seated himself on the sofa and picked up the letter.
Determined to put the lingering question of Raoul’s death to rest and to discover what he could about the murdered women before his wedding, Charles had been relentless in his search for answers. Unwilling to wait for Vinton’s report, he had spent the intervening time sleuthing on his own. He had been spending afternoons and evenings not given to the social demands to visiting pubs, inns, and downright dens of iniquity in the area, probing carefully and very cautiously about any strangers, any newcomers, anything odd in the neighborhood. It didn’t help that he was a stranger himself, but it was amazing what a sober man could learn from fellows who had enjoyed one round of ale or gin too many, and Charles had amiably bought many a round to loosen tongues that otherwise might not have wagged. But there was a danger in that, too—twice, he’d barely escaped unscathed from some equally sober gentlemen who had realized that the roug
hly dressed man sitting in the shadows was also rather openhanded with his blunt and had sought to relieve him of his purse. They had not succeeded and had limped away with a healthy respect for the quiet stranger.
Despite his efforts, Charles had nothing to show for his quest except for a few bruises, a much lighter purse, and an intimate knowledge of every smuggler’s haunt along the Cornish coast. He had learned one thing: the common folk were far more anxious about the dead women than the gentry realized. They were frightened for their womenfolk and spoke in low tones about the savage state of the two bodies. There was no mention of a third murdered woman, and Charles wondered if that corpse had ever actually existed. But of the sole thing he searched for, he found no sign. There was never a hint, never a whisper of a stranger, a newcomer in the area, not a word about someone who just might be a killer.
Thinking of his fruitless search, he grimaced, tapping the letter on his wrist. Perhaps Mr. Vinton had been more successful.
To Charles’s disgust, Mr. Vinton had discovered nothing helpful. Tossing the letter aside, Charles sat on the sofa, staring at nothing. Except for the two, possibly three, women done savagely to death, he had not found any evidence that pointed to their killer or killers and more importantly, to Raoul being alive and slaughtering innocents. He’d found no money trail, and no one seemed to have noticed or heard of any strangers in the area.
Charles leaned his head back against the sofa and sighed. If only he and Julian had found Raoul’s body, then there would not be this gnawing question at the back of his mind. Raoul had been shot twice in the chest, either wound likely fatal, yet it was possible that neither bullet had hit a vital organ. Certainly, Raoul had not been incapacitated enough to prevent him from disappearing down the sluice hole. The underground passageway had revealed no sign of him, and since it emptied into the river, again, it was possible that Raoul had managed to make it to the river and had allowed the current to take him far downstream before it tossed him up on a riverbank. Possible, Charles admitted, but unlikely. The lack of a body could indicate that Raoul did make it to the river and in all probability, drowned or was dead when he hit the water. If his body had been lodged under a rock, it might never be found, or it may even have been swept out to sea. But suppose Raoul had survived the shooting, survived the river, what then? Sofia was dead and unable to help him. So how did he manage to survive? He rubbed his forehead. Was it time for him to admit that Raoul was well and truly dead and that he was merely chasing shadows, seeing things that were not there? Charles took a deep breath. He had done what he could, used what resources he had at his command, and had come up empty-handed. Even though they had found no body, Raoul must be dead. He swallowed some brandy. His half brother was dead, and he would squander no more time or effort trying to prove otherwise.
The gruesome deaths of the two women that had brought him to Cornwall, Charles thought tiredly, had to have been the work of someone else. It was possible that their deaths were not even related to each other and that he had wasted time that could have been more pleasurably employed. The memory of Daphne’s soft mouth beneath his leaped to his mind, and his body reacted instantly. Ignoring the impudent organ that sprang to life between his legs, he tossed off the last of his brandy. Walking toward his bed, he decided that it was a good thing he’d been distracted by this Raoul business. If not for that, he’d have been spending every available moment in Daphne’s orbit, and he doubted that his resolution to keep his hands off of her would have been kept. Even if he didn’t plan to seduce her, he knew himself too well. He would have been unable to resist her allure, and soon enough, he would have sought a secluded moment alone with her, intending to only steal a kiss, but one kiss would lead to another…. With her sweet mouth beneath his, his hands would have sought out those soft, tempting curves, and if she did not deny him, and he knew she would not, in a moment, it would be too late….
His body and brain inflamed by the vision of losing himself in Daphne’s silken depths, he tossed aside his robe and crawled into bed. He lay there, painfully aware of the aching, throbbing rod that poked up from beneath the covers. Devil take it! And to think that he had ten more days in which to endure this punishment. Pray God the time passed swiftly.
The time did fly, but not as swiftly as Charles would have liked. For Daphne, the days passed far too quickly, the enormity of the changes in her life both exhilarating and frightening.
Beaumont Place buzzed as if preparing for a siege. Extra servants were hired; foodstuffs from Penzance and outlying areas poured into the house in a steady stream; wedding gifts arrived in bewildering numbers, and she wondered if Charles was related to half of England. The household had been in a frenzy of preparation for weeks, but for her, the wedding had been at a distance, her life still her own. Then overnight, the wedding was only two days away, and horses and coaches were driving up to the front of the house disgorging trunks, servants, and utter strangers who would soon be her relatives by marriage. There seemed to be an astonishing number of them, and as Charles made introductions, only a few stood out: Marcus Sherbrook, a cousin who looked remarkably like Charles, and of course, the Earl and Countess of Wyndham. Daphne had been nervous to meet them, anxious about what they must think of this sudden marriage, her lack of social connections and fortune preying heavily on her mind, but the earl’s warm smile and the friendly way the countess embraced her beguiled her. If she had thought that Marcus looked like Charles, she was utterly dumbfounded by the resemblance between Charles and the earl. They looked enough alike to be twins, she thought dazedly as she stared at the earl’s amazingly familiar features. Then realizing that she was standing and gawking like a village milkmaid, her cheeks bloomed red, her eyes dropped, and she muttered something unintelligible.
The countess, her eyes twinkling, hugged Daphne again and said, “Don’t be embarrassed. They do resemble each other to a remarkable degree. Unlike you, I was forewarned, and when I met Charles, I was not caught by surprise, but you…” She smiled at Daphne. “Charles, the wretch, never mentioned a word, did he?”
Utterly disarmed by the countess’s easy manner, Daphne said, “He is, indeed, a wretch, for he breathed not a word to me. Nor that Mr. Sherbrook also shared the family features.”
“Be that as it may, you must admit that I am, by far, the most handsome of the lot,” Charles murmured, trying to look modest and failing lamentably.
“Certainly the most arrogant,” the earl replied with a laugh. “It is, I’m afraid, his besetting sin.” Taking Daphne’s hand in his, he said, “We are most pleased to meet you, Miss Beaumont, and to welcome you to our family.” He slanted a mocking glance toward Charles. “Having only just met you, already I feel that you will have a leavening effect on that scamp you plan to marry. Believe me, he needs a firm hand.”
“Dash it all, Julian, don’t be filling her head with that sort of nonsense! I already go in fear that I shall live under the cat’s paw. She definitely doesn’t need you giving her pointers on how to bring me to heel.” He grinned down at Daphne. “She’ll manage quite well on her own.”
“Well, I certainly mean to try,” Daphne murmured.
Nell laughed and clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, I knew I would like you! You are exactly what Charles needs. I so feared he would fall prey to some sweetly biddable female who would be absolutely no good at all for him. Now tell me, where are Sir Adrian and your sister? Charles’s letters have been full of them, and I have been so looking forward to meeting them—they sound an enchanting pair.”
Nothing could have endeared Nell to Daphne more than Nell’s interest in her siblings. “They are awaiting us in the gold saloon.” She smiled. “My brother felt that it would be proper for me to meet you first. Won’t you come this way?”
Adrian and April rose nervously to their feet when Julian, Nell, and Marcus, escorted by Daphne and Charles, swept into the room, but once introductions were made, Julian’s friendly overtures and Nell’s warm interest calmed them, a
nd their nervousness vanished. They comported themselves very well, Daphne thought proudly several moments later, watching Adrian talking earnestly to the earl and Marcus while April sat on the sofa conversing prettily with the countess. Their manners were impeccable, and who would not be charmed by two such handsome and beautiful young people?
Charles came to stand by her side and whispered in her ear, “Are you scheming already to elicit Nell’s help when April makes her debut in London?”
Daphne had the grace to blush. “Not scheming,” she admitted with a guilty expression, “but I was hoping that if the Countess liked April enough, she might want to introduce her to some of the higher ranking members of the ton.” She glanced at Charles, her eyes glowing. “It would be most wonderful for April’s advancement in society. Just a word from the Countess could put all of London society at her feet. And if the earl helped him, Adrian would be asked to join the most select clubs for gentlemen in all of London. Under the aegis of the Earl and Countess of Wyndham, their positions in society would be assured.”
Seduction Becomes Her Page 19