She was on her way to breakfast when Gates intercepted her with a letter on a salver.
“This came for you late last night, my lady. I’m afraid I did not see it until just now.”
Daphne recognized Malcolm’s handwriting even though she’d not seen it in over ten years. She no more wanted to pick up the white square of parchment than she wanted to put her hands in a viper’s nest, but . . .
She took the letter. “Thank you, Gates.” She turned around and headed toward the library, no longer hungry. Once inside, she ripped the letter open while leaning against the door.
I have not forgotten our little chat in the woods, even if you have. If I don’t have £1,000 in my account by the end of the week, I will come to see you personally. And I will have my proof with me. After I visit your newly returned nephew—who will no doubt be thrilled by what I have to show him—I will visit every one of your other relatives. And then, perhaps, I will go to the newspapers. I know exposing you will do nothing to forward my plan, but I will not hesitate to make your life a misery if you do not give me what I want. I know your mourning period is over and I would like to have our wedding take place soon. See how considerate I can be about observing all the proper conventions? Don’t make me show you how inconsiderate I can become.
She dropped her head back against the door with a soft thud. There was nothing new in this letter—she still didn’t know what “proof ” Malcolm had about the twins, but she doubted his threat was a hollow one. Whatever proof he had found, he must have either recently discovered it or he’d bided his time and waited for years—until Thomas could no longer protect her—to use it. Daphne could not imagine her impatient, reckless cousin waiting weeks—not to mention years—for anything, especially not something that would involve her humiliation. So, what was it Malcolm had recently learned? And from whom?
She pushed aside her pointless musing and went to her desk, staring at the parchment and quills that lay scattered across the glossy mahogany surface.
You must tell Hugh the truth. The invasive thought wrapped itself around her as tightly as the arms of a lover—just as it did every night before she went to bed and every morning when she woke in its embrace.
But each and every time she thought about telling Hugh the children were Malcolm’s, the same thought stopped her: He would never believe the earl had known. He would believe Daphne had passed off her bastards on an elderly widower—a moral, upstanding man who never would have agreed to such a deception.
She could see Hugh’s disgust and loathing in her mind’s eye. And it would be the same with his family members, servants, neighbors—anyone who learned the truth. Her sons would face those horrified, judging expressions and their lives would be ones of shame, isolation, and penury. All three of them would become social outcasts.
Daphne simply could not do that to them—not until she had to. And she did not have to . . . yet.
She looked down at the letter crumpled on the desk, and fury joined fear and humiliation. Why pay £1,000 to hide a secret she was going to have to confess, anyway? And the money she would pay was simply more money she would owe Hugh. What was she waiting for that she would even consider paying such an amount?
The answer to that was pitifully simple and foolish: Time. She needed as much time as she could get before she ruined her sons’ lives.
Wishing for more time was an irrational desire, but wasn’t she entitled to make just one irrational decision in her life? When had she ever done so in the past? Never! Not after Malcolm attacked her and not after she’d learned she was to have a child. She had wanted to run and run and run like a hunted animal. Instead, she had behaved with bloodless pragmatism and had married a man almost six decades older than she.
Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of Thomas and she angrily brushed them away. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t loved Thomas and been grateful for everything he’d done. He had been so good to her, treating her like the father she’d never had. But the truth was Malcolm had robbed her. With a single act of vicious violence he had made her a mother, but Daphne had never had a chance to be a lover or a wife. She hadn’t even thought of such things before Hugh—and if she had, she certainly hadn’t felt as if she had missed them. Until now.
Oh, she knew her foolish, pathetic, ridiculous, scandalous feelings for Hugh would not lead to love and marriage, but at least she felt alive and like a woman. Daphne’s face burned at the shameful admission—even to herself.
She needed a little more time, and this was the only way to get it.
She glared down at the hateful letter. Malcolm had been an inveterate gambler even before he’d reached his majority. He must have gambled away whatever came to him from his brief marriage to a young heiress from the Midlands, a downtrodden-looking woman Daphne had seen in Eastbourne a few times.
Nausea rose in her at the mere thought of being Malcolm’s wife. How could he be so stupid as to believe she would allow herself to be blackmailed into marriage with a man who’d raped her?
Daphne loved her sons and would not change what had happened, even if she could—how could she, if it meant losing them? But that did not mean she didn’t bear Malcolm hatred enough to reduce him to a pile of smoking cinders. The only positive thought she had for him was that he’d knocked her unconscious before defiling her; at least she had no horrid memories to give her nightmares—not that he hadn’t mocked and taunted her afterward.
A cracking noise made her jump and she looked down to see she’d snapped the quill in half. Daphne frowned; there was no point in becoming emotional about it after all these years. She was a grown woman—not a scared girl of seventeen. She had choices now. They weren’t good choices, but at least she was no longer powerless and destitute.
She stared at the ink and paper before her, hating what she was about to do. Giving in to a blackmailer might not be wise, but it was a small price to pay for more time—even a little more time.
Daphne picked up another quill from her desk.
* * *
Daphne halted in the doorway to the breakfast room. Hugh was seated at the table, eating. He usually ate in his room.
He looked up from his newspaper and stood, his lips curving into a warm, welcoming smile. “Good morning, my dear.” He wore a dark green coat, buckskin breeches, and top boots that shone like black glass; he looked every inch the country gentleman. Well, except for the savage scar, eye patch, and wicked glint in his eye.
“Good morning.” She smoothed her already smooth gray skirt. “Some tea and toast, please,” she said to the hovering footman before taking the seat Hugh had pulled out for her—the chair closest to him.
“May I serve you something from the sideboard, my lady?”
“No, thank you.” It would be all she could do to choke down tea and toast.
He resumed his seat and Daphne watched with morbid fascination as he commenced to eat his breakfast: a sirloin, two slabs of ham, a mountain of eggs, several thick, crusty pieces of bread, a steaming cup of inky black coffee, and a pewter tankard of ale.
He grinned at her stunned expression. “I need some energy. I’m off to Tunbridge Wells today.”
“Will you be sprinting there?”
He chuckled. “Have you any commissions for me while I’m in town?”
Daphne thought about the transfer instructions she’d just written, authorizing the draught for Malcolm. Well, it would save her a trip.
“Could you drop off a letter with my banker? I use Barings, and a gentleman named Pickard sees to my business.”
He finished chewing a mouthful of food and washed it down with some ale. “It would be my pleasure. Is there nothing else? Do you need any ribbons? Some lace? Colorful baubles? Perhaps the latest German philosophical tome?”
Daphne ignored his jesting. “Gates informed me two newspapermen were discovered hiding in the dairy.”
The humor drained from his face. “Ah, yes, that. I apologize.”
“It is hardly your fault
. Even so, I shouldn’t like any of them to approach the boys.”
“Neither would I. I’ve already engaged men from Eastbourne but will hire several more to patrol the property until the furor dies down.” He refilled his tankard from a pitcher. “There is another thing.”
“Yes?”
“I daresay you might have noticed there’s been a rather daunting amount of post for me?”
That was an understatement. It seemed every aristocrat in Britain had sent a missive in the past weeks. His formidable aunt, Lady Letitia, had sent several. Daphne could only imagine what Hugh’s stern, terrifying aunt had said—several times.
She allowed herself a slight smile. “Oh, has there? I hadn’t noticed.”
He snorted. “Very droll. In any case, I’m having a devil of a time keeping scads of family from converging on Lessing Hall and—”
“Oh, please—don’t keep them away on my account. I’m sure the boys would enjoy seeing family. Especially their Aunt Letitia, whom they’ve not seen since their christening. Also, a number of neighbors have called. On you, not on me. It is your duty to respond.”
“In any case,” he repeated, “I’ve only managed to delay my Aunt Letitia by promising to make haste to London. I shall be glad to accompany you to Town if you are willing to delay your departure until the Ghost returns.”
Daphne ignored the leaping and fluttering in her chest and said coolly, “When would that be?” Not that it mattered, as she’d done nothing about arranging her own plans.
“Unfortunately, it will be almost a month.”
A month! A month! She would have him here for another month!
“I will see if it fits with my plans.”
He winked at her. “Well, that’s all a man can ask, isn’t it?”
Daphne looked down at the toast she’d been holding halfway to her mouth for the past minute and bit it. Hard.
The meal continued in silence until Hugh pushed away from the table and leaned back in his chair, patting his flat midriff with one massive hand. “Poor Pasha! I’m afraid I shall need a ladder to mount him after this meal.”
Daphne pulled her eyes from the taut, narrow waist of his coat to the empty plates in front of him. “You are an insatiable eater.”
He stretched his immaculately booted legs while regarding her through a half-closed eye. “I am insatiable in many ways.”
The small bite of toast she’d taken expanded to the size of a loaf and she masticated laboriously before swallowing.
“What business have you in town?” She was impressed by how cool she sounded when he continued to look at her in such a manner.
“I, too, have some banking. It’s damned inconvenient hauling around trunks filled with pieces of eight.” Daphne’s eyes widened and Hugh laughed. “My dear Daphne, you really must not believe everything I say. I am actually well-acquainted with bank draughts.”
A new fantasy filled her mind, this one involving her teacup and his beautiful head.
He smiled, blissfully unaware of her violent thoughts. “Will tells me I can find some decent livestock and perhaps even a suitable rig in Tunbridge.” He took another drink of ale and casually dragged the back of his massive hand across his mouth.
Daphne’s cup clattered against her saucer.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said when he saw her shocked expression. He plucked up his napkin and dabbed it lightly over his mocking smile, making Daphne realize his lapse in table manners had been deliberate. She shook her head; he seemed unable to resist provoking a rise from her and she seemed unable to resist obliging him.
He tossed his napkin onto the table before standing, his lithe movements giving no sign he’d just consumed enough food for three men. “I should be off if I am going to be back by dinner. I shall see you this evening, Daphne.”
She waited until after he’d left the room before going to the window, which overlooked the front drive. In a few moments he descended the steps wearing a coat with a dozen capes and a tall beaver hat. He joined Kemal, who stood with the horses, and pulled on his gloves while exchanging a few words with the much smaller man.
They were preparing to mount when William Standish and his sister Meg approached in a gig. Hugh tossed his hat and whip to Kemal before striding toward Meg and sweeping her into an embrace that lifted her off the ground.
Bitter yearning clawed at her as Hugh swung the tiny woman around, both of them laughing. He gave her a kiss on the mouth and the two chatted in the manner of old friends. Had they been lovers, too? Was Rowena correct in believing Hugh was the father of this woman’s child—a beautiful blond-haired boy of sixteen or seventeen. A boy Daphne knew had no acknowledged father?
She glanced at William, who stood off to one side, watching the interaction between his sister and former master with an impassive expression. After a few minutes Hugh lifted the petite woman into the gig and waved as she drove away. And then he turned and smiled directly at Daphne, raising his crop to his hat in a mocking salute.
Daphne jerked back from the window and then felt like a fool. “Horrible man,” she muttered under her breath. After watching them disappear down the drive, she returned to the table. But her tea had grown cold and she had lost what little appetite she’d had.
* * *
Daphne received a letter from Randall a few days later. He’d written from his daughter’s house in West Riding—not far from one of the Earl of Davenport’s properties—to say he would inspect the northern estate while he was in the area. That meant he would not be back for the planned inspection of Elm Cottage.
Daphne would have postponed the outing another few weeks, but a young couple was waiting for its repairs before they could marry. Besides, she could hardly put off all her dealings with Hugh until Randall’s return. There were a dozen other tenant cottages that needed attention, not to mention a pressing drainage issue with the home farm.
Elm Cottage was on the border of the property that marched with Malcolm’s, and Daphne hadn’t been near the little farmstead since well before Thomas died. She arrived at the stables a few minutes early to find both Pasha and Carmel already saddled but nobody about. She’d just decided to step outside to look for Hugh when Rowena emerged from the tack room.
She saw Daphne and started. “I didn’t know you were going riding, my lady. I should have been there to help you dress.”
Daphne didn’t bother reminding the older woman she’d told her about the ride a mere two hours earlier.
“What are you doing down here, Rowena?”
“I had a recipe for Will Standish to bring to his sister.” Her eyes moved to something over Daphne’s shoulder and narrowed.
Hugh stood in the doorway behind her. “I’m sorry I’m late, Daphne.” He smiled at Rowena. “Ah, good afternoon, Miss Claxton.”
Rowena made a grunting sound. “I’d best be getting back,” she said to Daphne. “You be careful, my lady.”
Hugh watched her go with a rueful smile. “Was it something I said?”
Daphne could think of no acceptable excuse for her servant’s rude behavior. “Shall we be off, my lord?”
The day was another brilliant, sunny masterpiece with a sky the color of a robin’s egg. Daphne kept up a running commentary on the various schemes and plans she and Randall had formed for a few of the properties they passed, only pausing when they approached the cottage where William Standish lived with his nephew and sister.
The blond man was out pruning one of the fruit trees in his small orchard and Daphne prepared to rein in. Will saw them and paused in his work, but Hugh merely waved and did not stop.
How curious.
Daphne couldn’t help herself. “You mentioned on your first evening home that you and William Standish had once been quite close?”
“Yes, Will and I are the same age and Meg only a year younger. The three of us roamed the estate like a pack of young hounds. Their father was the earl’s steward for many years, a position I know he wanted Will to one day assume.�
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“Yes, Thomas offered him the position more than once, but Mr. Standish declined it.”
“Will loved working with horses too much to be steward. It was a bone of contention between him and his father.” He gave her a wry smile. “We are not as close as we once were. I’m afraid he’s been angry with me since I sent him back to England all those years ago.”
“Angry? Whatever for?”
“He believes I robbed him of a grand adventure when we switched identities and I sent him back in my place.”
“But you saved his life.”
“Most likely.”
“Surely he must be grateful for that.”
Hugh cut her a sideways look. “Must he?”
“Of course, he is not a foolish man.”
“Not foolish, but wistful, perhaps. I daresay reading the exploits of One-Eyed Standish in the newspapers all these years has caused its share of heartburn. He believes it could have been he who lived the life of a carefree, swashbuckling privateer.”
Daphne had no response for that; men were certainly odd creatures.
“The truth is the sultan’s men would have killed him before we even reached Oran rather than doctor him. A slave who could not work was not worth anything.”
“A slave? But I thought you said you avoided being sent to the slave markets?”
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “My dearest Daphne, I might not have been sold at market, but what else did you suppose I was to the sultan?” He did not wait for an answer. “In a way, Will is right to envy me. I’ve seen wondrous things in my life. A mountain exploding fire in the middle of the ocean, the Great Wall of China at dawn, a flock of coral-colored birds so vast the sky itself was pink.” He shrugged. “I robbed William of those things. But I also robbed him of rowing under the lash of a brutal overseer, of watching friends die from beatings, starvation, cruelty, or neglect, of quarrying stone under the merciless Saharan sun until you could hear your own brain boiling—” He stopped and laughed bitterly. “But what a bore I am.”
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