“What fine swords—wherever did you get them?” Daphne asked. “Here, let me see one.”
Richard stopped jabbing and slashing and handed her the sword, hilt first. It was made from wood but cunningly painted to resemble metal, complete with jeweled hilt.
“These are impressive.”
“Uncle Malcolm gave them to us,” Lucien said, taking advantage of his brother’s unarmed state to prod him in the armpit.
Richard yelped and Daphne’s vision wavered. Malcolm . . .
She had to steady herself against a nearby bookshelf before handing the weapon back to her son. “Never attack an unarmed man, Lucien.” Her voice was raw and edged with hysteria. The boys had visited Malcolm—their father . . . How? How had this happened?
She swallowed down her fear. “Where did you see Sir Malcolm?”
“At Whitton Park, Mama, that’s where he lives.” Lucien sounded amazed his clever mama didn’t know such a simple fact. “Martín takes us with him when he sees his friend. She gives us cakes from the kitchen,” he added fatuously.
Daphne’s first urge was to run down to the stables, find the young idiot, and throttle him.
Nurse came into the room just then. “Ah, here you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, young masters. You haven’t finished the work the curate left for you.”
Daphne waited for the boys to leave before yanking the bellpull, pacing furiously until a servant answered.
“Find Martín Bouchard and send him to the library immediately.”
By the time Gates ushered a partially clad Martín into the library a half hour later, Daphne had walked a rut into the carpet.
Her usually imperturbable butler sported two telltale spots of red on his cheeks.
In fact, Martín was the only one who appeared to be at ease. He wore an expression of amused condescension but not a coat, waistcoat, or neckcloth. His unbuttoned shirt exposed a shocking expanse of muscular brown chest and Daphne felt the dreaded flush heat her face. Just looking at the man made her body taut and tingly and her brain hazy and hot; not even Hugh exuded such raw sexuality.
An insolent smile played around his sensual lips, telling her he was well aware of the effect his body had on women.
“You may go,” she told Gates, whose stiff posture radiated a degree of outrage she might have found amusing in other circumstances.
Daphne waited only until the door closed before launching her attack. “You have been taking my sons to Whitton Park?”
She watched in openmouthed astonishment as he lowered himself unbidden into a chair, stretched out his booted legs, and crossed his muscular arms. Once he was comfortable, he gave her a mocking smile along with a careless shrug.
Molten rage erupted inside her and she sprang to her feet, grasping the edges of the desk to stop herself from flying over it. “You will answer my question now or you will pack your things and get out today.”
Wide-eyed terror supplanted his smirk and he shot to his feet, understanding glimmering in his golden eyes as he realized he was dealing with a tigress protecting her cubs. “Oui, I mean yes, my lady.” He glanced from her face to the door, as if gauging the amount of time he’d need to reach it.
“Why?”
“I go to talk to a girl oo work for Aystink. Ay-sting.” He stopped and frowned. His jerky and laborious speech reminded Daphne that Hugh was always nagging the younger man to speak English.
“Je veux que vous parliez français,” she ordered.
His muscular shoulders sagged. “Thank you, my lady. My English is not so good,” he admitted, answering her in his own language.
“Answer the question,” she repeated in French.
“I never left the boys alone. They came with me and my friend to the kitchen and had something to eat, with some coffee.” He shuddered to communicate his feelings on English coffee. “I brought her some real coffee the second time,” he confided, momentarily distracted.
Daphne crossed her arms and he hurried on. “I only went three or four times and we didn’t see Aye—” He stopped and grimaced. “Aye—Ayestink.” He threw up his hands. “I cannot say that name.”
“Hastings, yes, I understand.” Daphne forced the words through clenched jaws. “Go on.”
“We didn’t see him until the third visit. He told me the boys were his nephews.” Martín shrugged. “So I thought nothing was wrong, eh? He asked me to return today because he had gifts for them. I did so and he gave them the swords and we all ate some cake—with good coffee this time—and then we left.” He raised his brows, his golden eyes hopeful.
“That is all—just the two times?”
“Oui.”
Daphne heaved a sigh and sat, motioning for him to do the same. He sat, but his posture remained as tense as a hare’s.
Daphne considered what she should say. She couldn’t forbid Malcolm to see the boys without generating questions from her sons, but it made her flesh crawl to think of him anywhere near the boys. Getting away from him was yet another good reason to go to London—even sooner, now.
She met Bouchard’s nervous gaze and spoke in French. “My cousin leads a somewhat, er, debauched existence and I don’t wish to expose my children to him.” That was no more than the truth. “Of course, you are welcome to go where you please and see whomever you please.” She stared hard at him, hoping he would understand her true feelings on the matter.
He swallowed audibly. “Oui, madam.”
“I would appreciate it if you said nothing of this to my sons—or to Sir Malcolm.”
“Oui, madam.” He gave her a tentative, respectful, and nervous smile. Daphne would have laughed at how quickly she’d tamed Hugh’s notoriously unruly second mate if she wasn’t so sick to her stomach.
“You may go.” She turned her blank stare to her desk to indicate her dismissal and he left without a sound. Once he was gone, Daphne slumped in her chair, nausea pitching and roiling inside her. She had planned to wait for Hugh’s return, to confess face-to-face and be prepared to leave. But now that Malcolm had seen her sons—talked to them? No, now she must speed up her departure. She must leave Lessing Hall without wasting another minute.
* * *
Daphne left Lessing Hall three days later. The trip to London with two lively boys was every bit as brutal as Daphne had anticipated. Even stretched over two days, with frequent stops, she was ready to throttle her offspring by the time the well-sprung Davenport coach rolled up in front of the towering town house.
Davenport House had been built after the family’s original London residence burned down in the Great Fire of 1666. The seventh Earl of Davenport had not rebuilt in the same location, which had not been far from where Pepys lived. Instead, he’d chosen to build a newer, even bigger mansion not far from Burlington House.
Because he was screamingly wealthy, the seventh earl had employed the master of English Baroque, Christopher Wren, to design his new house: a house complete with a dome, à la St. Paul’s Cathedral and Castle Howard.
By the time Daphne had settled the boys in their quarters and shared a late meal with them, she was grateful she’d not told her formidable sister-in-law—Thomas’s elder sister Lady Letitia—that she’d be arriving until a few days later. That tiny fib would give her three days to become accustomed to the city before hordes of visitors began descending.
She spent most of her first day addressing the myriad domestic matters that awaited her after an absence of four years. Again she ate an early dinner with the boys and got a full night’s sleep.
The second day was for entertainment, and she and Rowena took the twins to a marvelous shop which sold kites, marbles, dissected puzzles, and an intricate paper theater for the boys to assemble and manage. Later they spent an enjoyable few hours at Astley’s.
The third day they made Hatchards their first stop and Daphne placed an order for two hard-to-find books and purchased several crates of new books for herself and her sons. Next they went for ices and after that a visit to H
yde Park—which was blissfully empty in the hours before the daily strut commenced—to test out the new kites.
They returned to Davenport House to find Kemal in the massive entry hall, surrounded by mountains of luggage and issuing orders, while Ponsby, Daphne’s intimidating London butler, stared daggers at the turbaned man. But Kemal had faced bloodthirsty pirates and was unconcerned by the frosty glare of a mere butler.
Kemal gave her a low, graceful bow. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“You have only just arrived?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Daphne pulled off her gloves, taking her time and hoping he would elaborate, but it was Lucien who spoke.
“Is Mr. Boswell here?” Both boys were peering at the piles of luggage as if the monkey might be lurking within. “Or is he coming with Cousin Hugh?”
Kemal smiled, clearly amused by the notion of Hugh traveling with the devious monkey. “I am afraid not, Lord Davenport. Lord Ramsay is driving his new curricle and Mr. Boswell does not care for such travel.”
Daphne snorted and then composed her features when Kemal turned his calm, speculative gaze on her. She had come to like and respect the man during their brief time nursing Hugh. She also realized his sharp eyes missed very little and she would have sworn he was both aware of, and amused by, her infatuation with his employer.
She ignored his knowing look. “I daresay Cook would like to know if Lord Ramsay will be here for dinner.”
“Of course, my lady.”
It was not the answer she was hoping for, but Daphne refused to expose either her curiosity or infatuation any further than she already had.
“I will leave you to it.” She ushered the boys up the grand blue-and-gold breccia steps that led to her chambers and the schoolroom.
So, he would be here soon—perhaps even tonight. The thought released a swarm of butterflies into her chest and Daphne frowned at her body’s treacherous reaction. She squared her shoulders as if she was preparing for battle. Which she was—against herself.
* * *
As it turned out, Hugh did not appear for dinner that night.
Daphne rose early the following morning, determined to continue with the second draft of her paper, no matter how little sleep she’d had. Instead, she sat at her desk, stared into space, and assessed her moral dilemma with an energy and enthusiasm she usually reserved for academic conundrums.
You would do better to draft your confession than to consider the morality of the situation, her rigid, relentless conscience nagged.
I will tell him when I tell him. Why should I make haste to ruin my sons’ lives when he seems to care only for gallivanting around the country with his lover?
Two wrongs do not make a right.
Daphne snorted. How profound.
But her conscience refused to be drawn into a petty argument, so Daphne stared down at the sheaf of foolscap before her without seeing it. She still had no idea what she would say to him about the woman. The best thing she could do—for her pride—was pretend she didn’t care. Which she shouldn’t. After all, what business was it of hers where he went or whom he went with?
Even the social stigma associated with lusting after her nephew had lost its ability to shock her. Daphne knew she should be ashamed, but instead she found it intriguing that her morality could be so flexible on such a social taboo.
She brushed the quill’s feathered edge against her jaw as she considered the fascinating topic of morality and society, her mind racing with possibilities for her next paper.
A knock on the library door interrupted her musings and Daphne looked up to find Ponsby standing in the doorway.
“Lady Letitia and Lady Anne are here, my lady.”
Daphne glanced at the clock and saw it was not quite eleven. Only one thing could have brought her sister-in-law to Davenport House so unfashionably early.
“Did Lord Ramsay arrive last night?”
“Yes, my lady—quite late.”
Daphne’s mouth curved into a grim smile. Hugh’s eldest aunt was a society matron who greatly resembled the late earl with her bone-thin height and piercing gray eyes. Unlike Thomas, however, she seemed to lack a softer side.
“I’m sure Lord Ramsay is eager to greet his aunt and cousin. Would you please let him know they have arrived and are waiting?”
Daphne didn’t care how late he’d arrived or how tired he was. He could entertain his family—a family he should have approached weeks ago rather than hiding at Lessing Hall. Or cavorting with his mistress.
Lady Anne rose when Daphne entered the Blue Drawing Room.
“It has been too long, Daphne.” The pretty brunette held out both hands, her green eyes sparkling. Anne was only a few years younger than Daphne and, although they’d only met twice before, she had enjoyed the brief time they’d spent conversing.
Daphne smiled. “It is very good of you both to call. I am glad to see you again.”
Lady Letitia—who’d remained seated in a cobalt-blue velvet wingback chair—harrumphed and pounded her silver-handled cane on the wood floor.
“Yes, yes, this is all well and good, but where is my nephew?”
Daphne kissed the old lady on her heavily powdered cheek. “He should be down shortly, ma’am.”
“Don’t tell me he is a worthless slugabed?”
Before Daphne could answer, the door opened and Hugh entered.
He grinned, looking from face to face, his gaze lingering on Daphne. “What a lovely sight for my poor old eye first thing in the morning!” In spite of a very late night, he looked fresh and unfairly elegant in a dark green coat and fashionable buff pantaloons. His hair was still damp so he must have made haste with his toilet to greet his guests.
Daphne ignored him and rearranged the skirts of her lavender gown.
Anne’s jaw sagged. “Hugh?” Her voice was breathy with wonder.
Hugh caught her up in a crushing embrace. “You must be Cousin Melinda’s girl—little Anne. You were hardly more than a baby when I last saw you.”
“I remember you,” the girl said, blushing furiously. Daphne was pleased to see he had the same effect on his blood relations as on her. “How wonderful that you are alive, Hugh.”
He laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Lady Letitia’s cane thumped the floor. “Leave the poor gel alone, you rascal!”
Hugh winked at Anne and turned to his aunt, who was glaring up at him with eyes as cold and hard as gunmetal.
“Aunt Letitia, how delightful to see you again.” He moved as if to embrace her, but she planted the foot of her cane against his chest.
“Not so hasty, young man. Stand back and turn around, so that I might see you.”
His green eye danced as he held out his arms and turned for her, clearly pleased to display his magnificent person.
“That’s enough,” she snapped when it was clear the order hadn’t reduced him to mortification. She dropped her glass but not her glare. “Hugh.” The old lady made his name sound like an execration. “You may kiss me.” She finally offered up her powdered cheek.
He did, but he also folded her into a gentle embrace. “How good it is to see you, Aunt.”
Even thick powder could not hide the rosy tint that spread over her high cheekbones. “Hmmph! You’re looking well enough for your age, I suppose.”
Hugh grinned. “I would ask after your health, Auntie, but I can see you are blooming and have not changed even a whit in almost two decades.”
She shot him a withering look. “I see time has not dimmed your frivolous nature.” Her lips, already thin, became even thinner. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your dramatic reappearance, boy. I can assure you that I have not.”
“I apologize for my lack of sensitivity, Aunt.” He dropped his chin but Daphne saw his lips curve.
So did Lady Letitia, and her color flared. “You are a rude, selfish boy who has always taken pleasure in making mischief at the expense of others!”
“I cannot argue
with you, Aunt.”
His docility only angered her more. “I suppose it would have been too much to ask that you notify the family before you made your public entrance?”
“Again, I cannot argue with you, nor do I wish to. I can only tender my deepest apologies.”
Lady Letitia’s steely eyes narrowed and she made a rude noise. “Must you tower over me like a great lurch? I shall get a crick in my neck staring up at you.”
Hugh dropped to one knee and took her hand. “I hope you shall give me an opportunity to make up for my shamefully de trop reappearance, Aunt.”
Lady Letitia snatched away her hand. “Fool!” She jabbed her cane at the nearest chair. “Sit!”
Still grinning, Hugh sat and the tension dissipated.
“Well,” Anne whispered, lowering herself onto the settee beside Daphne. “I am glad that is over. She has been furious for weeks.”
They watched for a moment as Hugh and his aunt spoke.
“So,” Anne said, turning back to Daphne. “What are your plans now that you are out of mourning?”
Daphne tried to keep one ear on Hugh’s conversation with his aunt while answering Anne’s many questions, but Hugh and Lady Letitia—normally loud—had chosen to speak in almost inaudible tones. Which made her even more curious.
Daphne and Anne were just making plans to go riding that day when Hugh stood and gave them a rueful smile.
“I hate to dash off, ladies, but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.”
Prior engagement? What prior engagement? He had only just arrived in the middle of the night.
He kissed his aunt’s cheek, embraced Anne, and took Daphne’s hand. “Please do not set a cover for me this evening. I’m afraid I shall not return until quite late.”
Daphne tugged away her hand, disappointment mingling with pain. “I shall notify Cook.”
“Hmph,” Lady Letitia snorted.
Hugh chuckled at his aunt’s nonverbal comment and gave Daphne a conspiring wink.
Lady Letitia waited until the door shut behind him before shaking her head. “That man! What a hornet’s nest he has cracked open with his dramatic return.” Her words said one thing but the glint in her eyes said she wasn’t entirely disappointed. “I’ve informed my inconsiderate oaf of a nephew you are both in good time to attend the ball I am giving for that idiot John’s unfortunate daughter.” Her expression became grim. “She’s got more hair than wit, and I’m grateful her father died before he could get his hands on her meager dowry.” Lady Letitia gave a dismissive tsk at Daphne’s horrified expression. “Oh, don’t give me that prudish look, missy! Thomas must have said that much and more when he faced the dreadful prospect of John as his heir.”
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