Daphne looked away from the other woman’s piercing gaze. Did Letitia guess to what lengths the late Earl of Davenport had gone to avoid John Redvers’s inheriting? Daphne wouldn’t be surprised. She’d always suspected Letitia’s astute brain and sharp, prying eyes were a big part of why Thomas kept his family at arm’s length after they married.
“It is past a year, is it not?”
Daphne nodded. “Only a little.”
The older woman gave her signature snort. “Thomas would not have wished you to go on mourning. You must cast off your blacks.” She flicked a dismissive, hawk-like gaze over Daphne’s lavender gown. “You must see Madame Thérèse and give her my name. She possesses all the arrogance of her breed, but it is not misplaced. She will know how to dress you.”
Daphne murmured the appropriate thanks.
“I would love to accompany you, Daphne.”
Daphne smiled at Anne and nodded, not telling her cousin that she hoped to merely send Rowena along with her measurements and dispense entirely with the tedious act of shopping.
Lady Letitia chuckled suddenly. “You’ve no idea the number of impertinent questions I’ve endured these past weeks because of my wretched nephew. I look forward to extracting my pound of flesh from his hide in the weeks to come.”
“I encouraged him to come to London and pay his respects more than once,” Daphne said, happy to heap fuel on the flames of the old lady’s wrath.
“Ha! You are not his minder, gel, and he is a man grown.” She made a rude cluck of disgust. “God knows you have enough on your plate without taking my tiresome nephew in hand. Although I daresay you’re quite skilled at managing dolts after ten years of living with Thomas and my fool of a sister.” Lady Letitia shifted in her gilt chair, which was too small for her tall, angular frame. “I suppose I should ask how my batty sister goes on, but I doubt the answer would be either edifying or interesting, so I shan’t.” She gave the floor a sharp rap with her cane and heaved herself to her feet. “We must be getting on.”
Daphne accompanied the women to their elegant equipage and waited while Lady Letitia’s footman helped her inside. Once the frail-looking old woman was settled she turned to Daphne, an expression of bemusement resting oddly on her sharp features. “I must own I’m not sure I want to know the whole of what Hugh has been up to these past twenty years.”
Daphne knew exactly what she meant. As she watched her sister-in-law’s carriage roll away, she realized the only thing more agonizing than wondering what Hugh Redvers had done during his years abroad was wondering what he’d done for the past fortnight.
* * *
Hugh was still smiling when he climbed into the carriage waiting to take him to his club. One would have thought his Aunt Letitia’s own four children would have been enough to keep the woman occupied, but his aunt always spared attention—too much, in Hugh’s opinion—for her orphaned nephew.
His smile faltered when he thought of his other aunt—a woman whose attention he wanted far too much. Hugh grimaced at the memory of Daphne’s frosty expression this morning. She was not pleased with him.
Well, unfortunately—thanks to the Duke of Carlisle—Daphne’s displeasure could not be helped, at least not for now. Not surprisingly, the duke had buttonholed Hugh when he’d returned Mia to her family’s country estate.
“I would ask you not to speak of my daughter’s return to anyone, Lord Ramsay. I will have to admit your part in bringing her back, but I’d ask at least a month before you answer any questions—enough time that I might—” He’d broken off, his pale, freckled skin a fiery red. “Well, enough time for my daughter to get her story straight.”
Ha! Enough time for the duke to fabricate a story was more like it. But Hugh had given his word and now he must stand by it. So here he was, muzzled on the subject.
Hugh believed the duke was futilely swimming against the tide. There was too much money to be made on such a juicy story for it to remain a secret. Already word of Mia’s return had spread like wildfire—even from remote Yorkshire—and tales of the “Duke’s Mysterious Daughter” competed with Hugh’s name in the scandal sheets.
Hugh gazed out the carriage window at the crowded streets. After almost two weeks of dealing with Mia’s stiff, awkward family, he’d looked forward to returning to Lessing Hall—to Daphne—even though he knew their relations would necessarily be uneasy. When he’d returned to Lessing Hall to find Daphne gone, he told himself it was better that way—better for her to stay away from him. He had nothing but scandal to offer her. He would find whoever was threatening her and then board the Ghost and continue pursuing his wretched life’s work.
But then he’d spoken to Martín.
Hugh had been correct in believing Martín was the perfect man to insinuate himself into Whitton Park. Martín’s new lady-love—a kitchen maid in Hastings’s employ—told him Sir Malcolm had recently come into some money—money he claimed came from Lady Davenport.
Sir Malcolm had also boasted Daphne was to marry him now that her period of mourning was over. The maid hadn’t been the only witness to his words; several other servants had heard him make the same claim while he was deep in his cups.
Hastings had stayed at Whitton Park only long enough to pay his grumbling staff their much delayed wages before hying off to some mysterious assignation. The consensus among his employees was that Sir Malcolm’s assignation most likely involved a gaming table, cards, and a bottle of something expensive in London.
Hugh didn’t believe for a moment that Hastings’s newfound money was a wedding present from Daphne. But Hugh’s gut—a surprisingly reliable organ—told him the wretched little worm probably spoke the truth about the source of the money. The scene he’d encountered that first day—Hastings’s bloody face, Daphne’s disheveled appearance and furious eyes—was burned into his mind’s eye. Hastings was holding something over Daphne; Hugh was certain of it, and it maddened the hell out of him that she would not confide in him.
Lord! How he wished—for the hundredth time—he’d arrived in the clearing only a moment earlier that day. He knew he should just confront Daphne, but something about prying secrets from her left a bad taste in his mouth; he wouldn’t like somebody digging around in his past.
It pained him greatly that she wouldn’t come to him with her problems. He believed she’d been on the brink of confiding in him a dozen times, but any trust he’d built between them would have fled after she’d caught him with Mia in his lap.
“Blast and damn,” he muttered to the empty carriage. Hugh was sore, tired, and irritable. He wanted to be lounging in the library with a book and pretending to read while watching Daphne, or escorting her and the boys about London and engaging in foolishness. Unfortunately, Mia stood between them and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to clear the air—yet.
So, here he was, off to look for that idiot Hastings. Well, he might not be able to spend his time with her, but he could protect her. Just the thought of her doling out money to her repulsive cousin made his blood boil.
The best way to find the man would be to visit clubs, and clubs meant gaming and carousing—activities that now left him cold. Hugh heaved a sigh. The days ahead would be beyond taxing. He’d need to spend every waking hour reconnecting with old acquaintances who had long believed him dead, crafting vague responses to endless questions, dodging prying newspapermen—
Hugh groaned. The bloody newspapers! He’d forgotten about the bloody newspapers. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back with a dull thunk. The scruffy men who invented and disseminated what passed for news had not been lingering about Davenport House this morning, but he’d eat his hat if they weren’t there by the time he returned home tonight.
Hugh yearned for the days when things were simpler, when all he had to worry about were murderous corsairs trying to kill him and the entire French navy trying to sink his ship.
Chapter Fourteen
Daphne froze in the doorway to the breakfast room. There
sat Hugh, enjoying one of his gargantuan breakfasts and perusing the paper.
She’d heard him return home often enough these past few weeks—his heavy step passing her door at first light and not leaving his chambers again until dark—but she’d not caught a glimpse of him since that first day.
But here he was, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
He got to his feet, his eye sweeping her from head to toe and then from toe to head, his expression flatteringly poleaxed. “Good God, Daphne, you are like a daffodil sprung to life in that shade of yellow. You look spectacular.”
Daphne gritted her teeth against the joy that exploded in her chest. “What a surprise, finding you here, my lord.”
He grinned at the chill in her voice. “Have you missed me, Daphne?”
“A fresh pot of coffee, please,” she said to one of the footmen, and then turned to find Hugh looming over her, a plate clasped in his huge hands and an ingratiating smile curving his lips.
“May I be your servant this morning, my lady?”
She plucked the plate from his fingers. “Please, resume your meal, Lord Ramsay.”
He chuckled and she heard the scrape of a chair as she approached the chafing dishes on the breakfront. Her appetite had fled the moment she’d seen him, but she hardly wanted him to know that.
“I am delighted to see you have left off your mourning, Daphne.”
She selected one of the smaller slabs of ham and some coddled eggs before taking the place setting farthest from his.
“How are you finding London so far?” he asked, undaunted by her frosty treatment.
“Busy.”
“But not all work, I trust?” He sawed off a chunk of very rare beef and Daphne blanched and looked away. He had not been losing sleep or been unable to eat worrying about that night at Lessing Hall. “Have you been keeping yourself entertained?”
“I am interviewing tutors, if you should wonder at the volume of young men coming and going from the house,” she said, and then wished she had not.
The forkful of beef stopped halfway to his mouth and he grinned. “I am obliged to you for setting my mind at rest. Lord knows what impression I may have put upon such activity otherwise.” He popped the beef into his mouth and chewed, his green eye sparkling.
Just what the devil did he mean by that? That young men couldn’t possibly be calling on her for any other reason? Daphne realized he was watching her expectantly and reminded herself how much he reveled in baiting her. She could deprive him of that much enjoyment, at least.
He washed down his food with a mouthful of coffee before speaking. “Is this tutor idea something my aunt has cooked up?”
“I hardly need Lady Letitia’s advice when it comes to educating my children.” She chewed her lip, wishing she could take back her churlish response.
His mouth curved into a slow smile but he said nothing, turning back to his rapidly diminishing breakfast.
The clink of cutlery filled the room. Silence was fine with Daphne.
“Have you seen much of my aunt?” Hugh asked.
Daphne studied his face for signs of a trap, but he appeared innocent. Well, as innocent as he could ever look. “Your aunt has taken me on as her pet project.” She frowned. “We have been paying calls—every day for weeks—not to mention the usual round of evening entertainments.” Her tone made it plain he would know as much if he ever bothered to leave his clubs.
He chortled but did not rise to the bait.
“Between them, your aunt and Anne are contriving to introduce me to every member of the ton worth knowing.” Daphne did not share with him that she found the activity exhausting and vapid.
Still, it was better than the alternative—which was to get on with telling Hugh the truth, scandalizing the ton, and packing her sons off to the wilds of Yorkshire, where they could enjoy a life of shame, isolation, and penny-pinching economy.
Yes, and what about that, Daphne? Just when are you planning on getting around to that?
Daphne had no clever mental response.
“You have my deepest sympathies,” Hugh said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why, Daphne! You are not hanging on my every word?”
“No.”
He threw back his head and the breakfast room echoed with his laughter. Daphne told herself not to feel such a sense of achievement for merely making him laugh.
“I was offering you my sympathy for the past few weeks. I know how relentless my aunt can be.” He ate the last bite of beef and turned his attention to a slab of ham. “I expect Aunt Letitia to swoop in on me at any moment and take me in hand.”
“Is that why you have been hiding at your club?”
He chewed and swallowed before responding. “How astute of you, Daphne.”
“Coward.”
“And very proud of it.”
A laugh slipped out before she could stop it and he cocked one eyebrow in a way that made her vibrate with . . . something. She ignored whatever it was and fixed him with a cool stare.
He smiled at her attempt to suppress him. “Don’t you have any place to hide, Daphne?”
She took the opportunity of the footman’s arrival with fresh coffee to ignore him.
“To own the truth, I’d half expected my aunt to show up at White’s or Watier’s with that cane of hers and beat me over the head until I accompanied her to Almack’s.”
Daphne stirred milk into her coffee and enjoyed the mental image of the wizened, bent old lady beating Hugh with her cane.
“I see you like that thought, my lady.”
She did not bother to deny the accusation.
“I can only suppose she is biding her time and will pounce on me at this wretched ball of hers.”
His suspicion was correct, but Daphne felt no desire to warn him. Hugh would have very little rest once his aunt had him in her clutches. She smiled with grim anticipation at the thought of his formidable aunt attempting to mold the big man to her will. The two would be worthy opponents. For all his apparent amiability, Hugh had a will of iron.
He paused in his demolition of the ham steak. “I am at liberty today and had it in mind to take the boys to the Tower.”
Daphne experienced a strange pang at his words. Luckily she was quick enough to suppress an answering smile. As far as she was concerned, Lord Ramsay could save his charm for his redheaded mistress. Or fiancée. Or concubine. Or—
“Have they already been?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tsk, tsk, my lady, you are demolishing my delicate self-esteem this morning.” He laughed at her scowl. “I asked if the boys have already gone to the Tower?”
“Not yet.”
“Excellent. Would you care to accompany us, my dear Daphne?”
Her eyes narrowed at both his offer and endearment. He had been avoiding her since coming to London—for three weeks—and had disappeared with hardly a word two weeks before that. Did he think she would forget all about the episode at Lessing Hall if he stayed away long enough? Was that what he’d been up to?
“I am engaged this afternoon.”
“Ahhh.”
“But perhaps Rowena could accompany you.”
That amused him. “She wouldn’t consent to ride in the same vehicle with me unless it was a tumbril, she was a guard, and I was on my way to Madame Guillotine.” He shook his head. “No, thank you. I shall take Kemal with me; his boy-wrangling skills are unparalleled.” He heaved a sigh and laid down his knife and fork, his plate empty. “By the by, why does your faithful retainer hate me so intensely?”
“She does not hate you,” Daphne lied. “Yorkshire folk merely require time to warm up to new acquaintances.”
“Hmm. Are you dining at home tonight?”
Daphne blinked at the change of subject. “Yes, I’ve invited your cousins Melinda and Simon, as well as Anne.”
“But not my aunt?”
“She is engaged elsewhere.”
He smile
d. “Excellent. Please add me to your number.”
Daphne stared as he drank the last of his coffee. Just what had inspired this sudden urge for domesticity? Was he tired of gaming, carousing, and his redheaded companion?
“Well,” Hugh said, tossing his napkin onto the table and standing. “I had better find Kemal and collect the young monsters.” He dropped a mocking bow. “I shall see you this evening, my lady.” The door clicked shut behind him.
Go after him, tell him now.
I can’t, not when he is going to take the boys out. And tonight—
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
Daphne stared at the uneaten food on her plate, her body as taut and brittle as a dried-up twig.
Tell him.
“I . . . I can’t.”
“My lady?”
Daphne looked up to find the young footman, William, hovering beside her. “You said something, my lady?”
“I don’t need anything more, William, you may leave.” She waited until the door closed before shoving away the plate and dropping her head into her hands.
Tell him. The words pulsed in her head with the persistence of a war drum.
I will tell him. I will—
When?
I will tell him after the ball.
There was no answer—derisive, or otherwise—and her shoulders slumped with relief because she knew this time she meant it. Hugh would be relaunched into society, back in the bosom of his family. There could be no more excuse to delay. None.
Daphne could gather up the pieces of her life and escape with what was left.
* * *
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