Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

“What is the name of Lady Davenport’s former lady’s maid—the one still at Whitton Park?”

  Will’s blond brows shot up. “You mean Fowler—or Mrs. Blake, rather?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. We came across her and her husband, a surly sort, just outside Elm Cottage. They were arguing behind the building. I suppose they could have tampered with my saddle when we were in the cottage.”

  “But why would they?”

  Hugh shrugged. “What if the two of them were doing something on behalf of Malcolm Hastings?”

  “You mean perhaps they thought to sabotage Lady Davenport’s horse and made a mistake?”

  Hugh snorted. “Only a true idiot could mistake Pasha for Lady Davenport’s mount.” Hugh paused. “Unless they tampered with both?”

  Will shook his head. “I already checked. Nothing wrong with her saddle or any of the others.”

  Hugh stared at the boys without really seeing them. “I give up,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Why the devil would Hastings—or his servants—want me injured or dead? What could he possibly stand to gain?”

  “Didn’t you thrash him once—at the public day, after your second year away at school?”

  Hugh shifted his sling and winced. “Good Lord,” he said, sifting through his memories. “Did I?”

  Will nodded. “It was when we found him back behind the stables with the old vicar’s daughter—she was crying.”

  Hugh squinted for a long moment and then shook his head. “Bloody hell! I’d forgotten all about that. What a memory you’ve got.” He raised his eyebrows at Will. “Old Vicar Hawthorne’s daughter, the one with the—”

  Will chuckled. “Aye, that’s the one. You asked her why she was crying and she said Hastings had tried to kiss her.”

  “Lord—that was ages ago. We were just boys—perhaps thirteen—it’s ludicrous.”

  “You humiliated him in front of several others.”

  Hugh shook his head. “No, that would be too foolish—even for Hastings.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “I have no idea.” Hugh scratched the scar where it disappeared into his hairline. “I can only think it has something to do with the threatening letters. I don’t suppose there has been any luck on that?”

  “I meant to tell you, I spoke with the agent the day of your injury. He says Hastings is not hiring. In fact, it appears he’s been letting servants go, quite a few of them.”

  “He’s skint?”

  Will nodded. “Aye, dodging dunning agents.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Well, if he’s not hiring, then we’ll need to find another way to get somebody into the house. I’ve been thinking Martín may be the answer.”

  Will blinked. “Your second mate? Why? What could he do?”

  “When I first met him, he was working in a brothel in New Orleans. Women flock to him like crows to corn.”

  William blanched at the word brothel; perhaps Hugh should have claimed he’d met Martín in a church or tending to lepers?

  “And how do you propose to utilize his skills?” Will’s mouth was a flat, disapproving line.

  “He’ll need to meet a wench on the Whitton staff. Any wench.”

  “It sounds like releasing a fox into the henhouse.”

  Hugh shrugged. “It’s not my henhouse. Besides, it’s far better to have Martín working his way through Whitton Park than Lessing Hall. We’ll be doing Lady Davenport a good turn if we can divert his energies.” He glanced at his friend’s outraged expression and bit back a grin. “Or perhaps you would like to try charming one of the ladies?”

  Will gave him a withering look. “Your ship won’t return for months—what should we do in the meantime?”

  “At this time of year the winds are propitious and I’m expecting the Ghost anytime during these next few weeks. For the time being we will just be extra watchful—we now know to check saddles, carriages—anything and everything. And see to it neither she nor the boys set foot beyond the front door without somebody watching.”

  Will nodded grudgingly, his thoughts obviously stuck on Martín.

  The boys were still stroking the long-suffering Pasha, who cut Hugh a look of equine martyrdom.

  “All right, Cousins, your tutor awaits.” Hugh turned back to Will. “For the time being just have your agent keep a round-the-clock watch on Hastings. When Martín returns I will place him in your hands to use as you see fit.” Hugh paused. “Please believe me when I say you will not be the only one who has to suffer his disrespectful behavior.” It was difficult not to laugh at the image of prudish Will dealing with the amoral golden-eyed Lothario. “I feel it’s only fair to warn you—” He stopped, as if he’d changed his mind.

  “Warn me about what, my lord?”

  “Well, you’d be wise to keep any woman you fancy out of Martín’s path. I doubt there’s a female alive who could resist him.”

  Will gave a snort of disgust, his mouth pursed with disapproval.

  Hugh threw back his head and laughed, and was immediately punished for his teasing by an agonizing pain in his ribs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Daphne was hunched over her desk with J. F. Fries’s Neue oder anthropologische Kritik der Vernunft and a German dictionary open before her. She’d hoped to finish a first draft of her paper before she left for London. She’d published several scholarly articles under an alias, Publius, but hadn’t sent anything to the London Philosophical Society since Thomas’s death.

  As things stood, it did not seem likely she would ever send anything to them again—not unless they wanted a paper on the subject of Hugh Redvers.

  Daphne was still staring at the same page she’d been looking at for the past half hour when the door opened and the subject of her irritating ruminations paused in the doorway, so handsome and vibrant her chest felt as though somebody were standing on it.

  “Am I disturbing you, my lady?”

  Daphne wanted to fling down her quill and shout, Yes! Of course you are! and then hurl a book at his head—a big book.

  Instead she gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat. How are you feeling this morning?”

  He gingerly folded his long body into the wingback chair across from her desk. “I am sore but otherwise quite well.” He lifted one boot as if to lay it on his opposite knee but then winced and lowered it back to the floor. “I never had a chance to thank you for your nursing.”

  A vision of his mouth on hers and his hand on her breast slammed into her like a tidal wave and her nipples hardened. She hunched her shoulders.

  “It is of no account,” she said, transferring a pile of papers from one side of the desk to the other. And then moving them back again.

  “It is of great account to me, Daphne.” He was no longer smiling and Daphne had no idea what his intense, almost harsh, expression meant. And then it was gone and he was once again amiable. “I wanted to thank you and I also have some questions for you.”

  “Questions?” she repeated shrilly.

  “William Standish thinks my accident was not an accident.”

  Daphne almost wept; for one terrible, endless moment she had feared he’d learned about Malcolm. She realized he was waiting for an answer. “As do I. I believe the girth on your saddle was cut.”

  “May I ask why you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

  Was there something odd in his voice? Something accusing?

  “It did not seem like the proper time when you were bedridden and groggy from laudanum. And I’ve not had a chance to speak to you since then.”

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Can you think of anyone who might have done this?”

  “Why would you think I would know anything?”

  His smile was oddly gentle. “I don’t think that, Daphne. I am only asking.”

  “No, I cannot think of anyone. Unless . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Daphne eyed his alert expression. It was too late to turn back now. “May I speak bluntly, my lord
?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Could it be somebody from your past?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and Daphne felt the hideous beginnings of a wild blush building, and sighed. “Could it be the brother, father, or . . . husband, of . . . somebody?”

  He stared blankly for a moment before throwing his head back and laughing. “Oww!” he yelled, clutching his side, but still laughing. When he’d finished laughing and gasping in pain, he looked up, wiping tears from his eyes. “My dear Daphne, are you trying to kill me? You have outdone even Will Standish in imaginative speculation.”

  Whatever that meant. Daphne gave him her coolest stare. “I am so pleased to amuse you.”

  “Do you believe it might be some cuckold with a very long memory? Or perhaps a man I’ve managed to cuckold in the brief time I’ve been back?”

  She didn’t answer and, to her surprise, he did not taunt her any further. Instead, he stretched out in his chair, tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling—as if the answer might be found there. The minutes ticked past and she took the opportunity to graze on his body like some ruminant released into a verdant pasture, her eyes lingering on the front of his snug breeches.

  “Hmm.”

  The sound reminded her there was a man attached to the breeches and she looked up.

  He shrugged and then winced. “Nobody comes to mind just now but I shall give it careful thought. Can you think of anybody?”

  “Me?” Again her voice was sharp. “What would I know of such matters?”

  He pushed out his lower lip and tilted his head, his expression one of whimsy. “You introduced the subject. I thought you might have . . . inside knowledge.”

  Just what was he implying? “I know nothing of your exploits—now or then.”

  He smiled and rose to his feet, his hand moving to cradle his side. “My new curricle will be delivered later today. Perhaps you might care for a drive tomorrow?”

  Daphne blinked at the change of subject. “Have you asked Doctor Nichols?”

  Hugh came closer, until he was towering over her desk. And her. “I did, but he did not care for a ride. He suggested I ask you, instead.”

  Daphne bit her lip. “You are maddening, my lord.”

  “So I’ve been told. Often.”

  “Are you sure you are healed enough to be tooling about in a carriage?”

  “If it will make you feel better, you could take the ribbons and squire me about.”

  “I daresay the sight of a woman handling your cattle would cause you to suffer a relapse.” She lifted her shoulders. “If you believe it is wise to racket about in a curricle, then I am willing to trust your judgment.”

  He gave her an odd, lopsided smile. “Do you, Daphne? Trust my judgment, that is?”

  What did he mean? By the time she opened her mouth to ask, he had already turned to leave.

  The door closed with a soft click and Daphne lowered her head onto her desk. Hugh was looking for a person with reason to harm him. Of course he was. Good God. How she wished she had told the truth before this attempt on his health—or life. How could she possibly tell him now?

  * * *

  To Daphne’s relief, Hugh did not again raise the subject of his injury or who might have caused it. Nor did he avoid the subject because he was avoiding her. On the contrary, he seemed to seek out her company more than ever, going riding with Daphne and the boys, joining a fishing expedition on one particularly fine day, and even accompanying them into Eastbourne, twice.

  Two wonderful, glorious weeks flew by before she knew it. Hugh and Daphne had finished dinner one evening and were preparing to engage in a game of chess when a footman entered the library with a message.

  Hugh glanced at the rectangle of parchment on the salver and then at Daphne. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but this is in Delacroix’s hand—the Ghost has returned.” The message must have been brief because he looked up after only a few seconds. “I’m afraid I shall miss my chance to thrash you at chess this evening.”

  Daphne snorted softly. He was an average chess player, at best, and she had beaten him in every match so far.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, delivering a lingering kiss along with a lingering look. “I would not run off if I could delegate receipt of this particular package to anyone else.”

  Daphne hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding in her chest. She nodded and tugged her hand away. “I shall take the opportunity to work on the drain problem. I believe I might have found a solution.” She regretted her prosaic words the moment they left her mouth.

  Hugh laughed. “I look forward to discussing drains—or any other subject you desire—when I return, my dearest Daphne.”

  * * *

  Several hours later Daphne was still awake and working in the library. She was so engrossed in calculations and plans, she almost didn’t hear the sound of carriage wheels in the courtyard below. She consulted the mahogany longcase clock and saw it was after midnight. It could only be Hugh returning from the ship.

  She worked for another quarter hour and then realized she lacked one portion of the drawings, which must still be in Randall’s office. Grumbling, she picked up a candlestick and headed to fetch the plans. On her way she noticed a small candelabrum on the console table outside the smallest sitting room—a room nobody ever used.

  She opened the door and froze. The only source of light in the room came from the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Hugh sat on a sofa, and he wasn’t alone. Pale arms clung tightly to his neck and a woman’s face was buried in his cravat. He had his mouth to her ear but looked up at the sound and met Daphne’s eyes. For a moment neither of them moved; then the woman turned to see what had disturbed Hugh.

  Even in the subdued light Daphne could see her hair was a gorgeous auburn and her enormous eyes were lined with what could only be kohl, a cosmetic aid Daphne had heard about but never seen. The woman was swathed in a black cloak; the only visible parts of her were two delicate arms and tiny feet shod with strange, colorful sandals.

  Hugh began to disentangle the woman’s arms. “Daphne.” He sounded pained rather than guilty at being caught clutching a strange woman in the middle of the night.

  Daphne locked eyes with the woman, who no longer looked startled. Instead, her perfect, bow-shaped mouth curved into an expression of regret or shame or—

  “Daphne?”

  She wrenched her eyes from the beautiful stranger and began backing out the open doorway, looking anywhere but at Hugh’s face. “I apologize for interrupting. I did not know anyone was in here. I came this way looking for the rest of the cottage plans. I was working on the drains,” she added inanely. “I didn’t know anyone was in here,” she repeated, searching behind her with one hand for the door handle.

  “Daphne, wait.” He lunged to his feet, his body angled toward her, one hand outstretched.

  Daphne’s vision wavered and blurred and her fumbling hand located the handle. As Hugh moved toward her, she stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut, seizing her heavy skirts in one hand and sprinting, not for the library, but for her chambers. She didn’t stop running until she was inside her room. She slammed the door shut and locked it before flinging herself onto her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, as if for protection. Something warm slithered down her cheek; she squeezed her eyes shut on the hot rush of tears but an image of Hugh with the woman in his arms waited for her behind her eyelids. She dropped her head back against the headboard and stared blindly at the opposite wall. Was this woman the “urgent package” Hugh needed to collect?

  Daphne snorted. How like a man to confuse a woman with a package!

  And he’d had the nerve—the temerity—the gall—to bring her here, into her home. Daphne bit her lip. Well, it was really his home; not that he knew that, of course. She ground her teeth as the image filled her head, even with her eyes open. She shook her head violently until the picture dissolved in a red haze of pain. The insidious thoughts, howev
er, were not so easily dislodged.

  How dare he bring his mistress to Lessing Hall? This was Daphne’s home—where her children and Lady Amelia and she lived.

  She squeezed the pillow until her arms ached. Who was the little redhead? His mistress? Or . . . might she be his wife? His wife? The thought was like a slap in the face.

  Why not? her cold inner voice demanded.

  Daphne hurled the pillow across the room and it struck a bronze statuette on the mantelpiece. The sculpture teetered back and forth several times before crashing to the marble hearth, the resultant clang deafening but strangely comforting.

  Daphne stared at the still-wobbling statue, horrified. She had never done such a thing in her life. Emotional outbursts of any kind were anathema to her. Even during the worst times—when she’d been living under Malcolm’s roof and enduring his constant harassment—she had not given in to her temper. No, not until Hugh arrived had she started feeling this way—behaving this way. Before he’d come along she’d had no trouble sleeping or concentrating and had spent her time raising her children, managing a household—several, in fact—and living a fulfilling life.

  And now? Now she spent her days gazing at nothing while thinking of him, seeking out opportunities to spend more time with him, and—and—

  A low, fierce growl slipped from her lips. Just who did he think he was? Some eastern potentate assembling his harem? In her home? The word harem created images that were far worse than the one of Hugh with the woman in his arms; images of Hugh reclining among silk cushions—his muscular body naked, of course—with kohl-eyed beauties around him, eager to please. He was touching them, his big, gentle hands stroking and exploring while they opened themselves to him and—

  The tightness between her thighs made her dizzy and she pressed her knees together, as if such pressure might stop the dreadfully titillating sensations. But it only sent teeth-gritting pleasure surging from her sex to the rest of her body.

  “Stop. It.”

  The sharp words focused her scattered wits. Daphne inhaled deeply, held a breath, and then slowly released it, an action that had often saved her sanity in the months following Malcolm’s attack. In a few moments she was less agitated, if not exactly calm.