Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

Hugh dispatched Kemal to fetch the two boys rather than chance encountering Daphne’s hatchet-faced protector in the schoolroom. While he waited, he sifted through the remarkable number of invitations he’d received since showing his face at White’s. Thus far, he hadn’t accepted a single one—he hadn’t come to London to attend ton functions; he’d come to find Hastings. Not that he’d had any luck.

  Instead of assemblies and balls and dinner parties, he’d gone to White’s, Boodle’s, Brooks’s, Watier’s and at least two dozen other lesser clubs and hells, looking for the bastard.

  Other than a handful of amusing incidents, Hugh’s tedious nights of drinking and gambling failed to yield even a groat of news about Hastings. By the end of three weeks Hugh had concluded the wretched sponger really had gone to some secret assignation.

  In any event, Hugh had had enough. He’d risen early and stayed out late and spent all the time he could stand in clubs, gaming establishments, and brothels. Until he had reliable information that Hastings was in London, Hugh would please himself. And pleasing himself meant seeing Daphne. Hugh was ravenous for her company. He needed to be with her, even if they only engaged in innocuous entertainments like sightseeing, meals, and bickering.

  Hugh tossed aside the unopened invitations and went to stare out the window of his private study. He’d moved from his original suite of rooms to one overlooking the street. This location was noisier but he was able to keep an eye on things—specifically the crowds of gawkers and newspapermen that accreted wherever he was. Just as he had at Lessing Hall, he’d needed to hire men to keep the street clear. Ponsby had reported no disturbances in the house or its environs and Hugh wanted to keep it that way.

  Hugh’s thoughts drifted back to Daphne. The constraint between them was his fault, and it made him want to smash things. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he just needed to be patient. He knew Mia was already attending ton functions; with any luck his silence would not have to go on for much longer.

  As to what he and Daphne would do once she knew the truth? Well, what could they do? It made no difference to him whether they became social outcasts, but he could hardly expect her to feel the same, especially not when she had two young sons.

  Hugh groaned. He’d never before experienced the particular brand of emotion he was feeling. Oh, he’d felt something similar on occasion, when he couldn’t get a woman out of his mind. But in the past, his obsessions had always been colored by the desire to get a particular woman into his bed. Not that he didn’t wish to get Daphne into his bed, because he wished that very much, but that wasn’t the entirety of what he wanted from her, or even the most compelling part. He’d enjoyed revisiting Lessing Hall with her and discussing the management of the property. He liked spending time with her sons, who were clever and charming and bursting with life. He liked their evenings together in the library, their chess games, their rides about the property, their—

  He exhaled heavily. He wasn’t just obsessed with her, he was—

  Hugh groaned and shoved a hand through his hair and propped himself up against the window frame, closing his eyes. He was behaving like a heartsick fool—because he was a heartsick fool.

  He’d wait until this bloody ball was over, then he’d remove himself from Davenport House even if he could not yet leave England. He would continue his search for Hastings, but at a distance.

  “Blast it all!” he cursed, pushing away from the window. It was not his way to be so self-sacrificing and civilized. If she did not have two small children, he would spirit her back to his ship, and make love to her until she agreed to—

  The door to his chambers flew open and two small bodies barreled into the room.

  “Hugh! Hugh!”

  Hugh smiled down at them, his throat oddly tight. Why had he ever believed Daphne would be the only one he missed when he left England behind?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Daphne woke early; indeed, sleep had eluded her for most of the night. Today was the Thornehill ball, and tomorrow morning she would tell Hugh the truth. And then she would leave—she had already paid for seats on the next mail coach. She would have to arrange for their possessions to be brought to Yorkshire later. If she began packing now, Rowena would cause a fuss. In fact, Daphne feared the older woman’s reaction to her news more than her sons’.

  Daphne scarcely recalled the house in Yorkshire. She had been to her grandfather’s property once, seven years ago, at Thomas’s urging when she’d inherited both the house and a moderate competence—the money she and the children would now use to live.

  “Your grandfather was a great man, Daphne. There is no shame in deriving one’s wealth from hard work and ingenuity, no matter what many in our class might think. Don’t let Walter Hastings’s bitterness spoil that,” Thomas had cautioned her when she’d told him to sell it.

  Thomas had been right, of course. The house was all Daphne had left of her coal baron grandfather’s fortune—most of which Walter Hastings had wasted. It was drafty, remote, and inhospitable, but it would be far enough from Lessing Hall and London that she could collect her wits and consider her future.

  A knock on her study door pulled her back to the present.

  Ponsby entered with a salver bearing a card: Sir Marcus Lawry.

  “I do not recall a Sir Marcus Lawry.”

  “He and the late earl were acquaintances of long standing.”

  Daphne looked at the stack of correspondence she’d hoped to get sorted today and then sighed.

  “Very well. Where is he?”

  “In the Yellow Drawing Room, your ladyship.”

  Daphne walked the short distance to the grand but uncomfortable drawing room, hoping the drafty room would keep the caller from staying too long.

  An ancient gentleman wearing a skirted coat and full court wig, complete with powder, greeted her. “Thank you very much for seeing me, Lady Davenport.” He made a stiff but courtly bow.

  “It is my pleasure. Please be seated, Sir Marcus.”

  He lowered himself with obvious relief onto one of the miserably hard chairs that littered the room.

  “I understand you knew my late husband?”

  His huge wig nodded. “We were close friends for many years. Although I did not see Thomas as often these past few years, we did correspond regularly. I saw him whenever he came to London, particularly if he came on a matter for the Society—that would be the Horticultural Society, of course—of which I am also a member. I was very sorry to have missed his funeral. I’m afraid health problems made that journey impossible.” Sir Marcus paused for a moment and then reached into the large pocket of his skirted chartreuse coat and extracted a battered leather packet. “I last saw Thomas when he came to London two years ago. I believe you were with him at the time.”

  “Yes, that was not long before his accident. He delivered a paper during that visit.”

  Sir Marcus smiled. “I was there to listen—absolutely brilliant, as usual. In any case, I’d committed to dinner at Davenport House but was called away at the last minute. Before I left, Thomas came to see me and gave me a letter.” A flush crept up his neck. “He told me the contents of the letter, just in case you should ever need a witness.” He laughed suddenly. “I’m not the best choice, you must be thinking. Especially as I could have given Thomas a good eight years!”

  So the man was even older than he looked—which was saying something. Daphne swallowed a guilty pang about seeing him in this arctic, cavernous room and not offering him tea.

  “When I read in the papers that Lord Ramsay had returned, I decided now was an excellent time to give you this. I have not been in the best of health and I felt I should pass it to you.” He struggled to stand up and hand her the packet and Daphne quickly rose and went to him, earning a grateful smile as he sank back into his seat. “Much obliged to you, my lady. You are as kind as you are beautiful.” A devilish twinkle sparkled in his cloudy green eyes as he surveyed her with the practiced look of a very old rake.


  Daphne couldn’t help smiling: here was Hugh in another forty years.

  “I will remain here while you read it, in case you have any questions.”

  “You are very kind. I shall order some tea.”

  “I would greatly appreciate it. At my age tea is one of the few pleasures I am still able to enjoy,” he added wickedly.

  They made small talk while the kitchen sent up a tray. After she’d settled her guest with a cup of tea and a large plate of biscuits, Daphne opened the packet. There were two envelopes. She opened the one entitled To Whom It May Concern first.

  I, Thomas Redvers, am writing this letter and swear to the validity of its contents before erstwhile magistrate, Sir Marcus Lawry.

  Knowing the malicious lengths to which Malcolm Hastings has gone in the past, I am compelled to leave this sworn document as proof against any claims he might make against my wife, Lady Daphne Davenport, or my sons. He has formerly, in order to blackmail money from my wife, threatened to make public spurious claims of patrimony of my two sons, Lucien and Richard Redvers. I, Thomas Lucien Edward Redvers, Earl of Davenport, do swear these children are the issue of my body.

  Sworn, et cetera,

  Thomas Redvers, Earl of Davenport

  Daphne put the letter down and looked up.

  The old man was waiting, his expression serious. “Read the second letter, my lady, and then we can talk.”

  Dearest Daphne:

  I am writing this letter because I believe Malcolm might one day threaten you and our sons, not to mention the Redverses’ family honor. If I am correct, the accompanying letter will at least prove I was aware of his spurious claims. If I am wrong, there is no harm done. Sir Marcus is my closest friend—other than you—and he has made arrangements with his solicitor to deliver a copy to you in the event of his death.

  There is something else I must confess. My nephew, Hugh Redvers, is alive and operates as the privateer One-Eyed Standish.

  Daphne looked up. “He knew about Lord Ramsay.”

  Lawry nodded. “Yes. For the first few years it was just a suspicion. But then a friend of his—an admiral who’d come across Hugh in person—confirmed his suspicions.”

  Daphne’s eyes blurred and she ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut until she was sure no tears would fall. She opened them a moment later and forced herself to continue.

  I am sorry I could not bring myself to confide in you. I’ll admit it was partly due to shame; shame that I had so alienated the affections of my favorite nephew and heir that he would rather I believe him dead than come home.

  I also worried you would not accept the protection of marriage if you thought you were depriving Hugh of his inheritance. And, knowing you, you would have followed your conscience, no matter the consequences.

  A drop of water hit the page and a folded white handkerchief appeared above the letter.

  Daphne took it without looking up. “Thank you.”

  I could not have that, Daphne. You must believe me when I tell you that Hugh never wanted this life for himself. I knew he would not come back. That left my nephew John, and . . . well, I could not allow that to happen. Not only for you, but for the hundreds of people who rely on me. I have never regretted my decision to marry you. Nor do I regret my two fine sons.

  The letter accompanying this, and the word of Sir Marcus, should eliminate any claim Hastings might make. The scandal he could create, however, is another matter and there is no notary or judge who can purge the thoughts from people’s minds once the seed has been planted. If Hastings ever makes demands, you should approach William Standish for help. He knows how to reach Hugh. If you ever need an ally against Hastings, I believe you could find no better man than my nephew. I hope I am wrong in my suspicions and I regret I cannot always be here to protect you.

  My love to you, my adopted daughter.

  Thomas

  She folded the paper, smoothing out the wrinkles before looking up.

  “Thomas was a man among men,” Sir Marcus said. “I know you and the boys made his last years very happy ones.”

  “Thank you.”

  Even in death Thomas was protecting her and her sons—not to mention saving her from unspeakable ignominy. She thought of Hugh and the proof she could now offer him, and her heart sang.

  Hugh might be upset at her deception, but at least he would have no reason for disbelief or disgust. Well, at least not about her marriage. She would never tell him the truth about Malcolm—that episode was too shameful. Nor did he have any right to know such an unsavory, personal story. It would be far better if he believed she’d been a foolish and promiscuous young girl who’d gotten herself into trouble.

  Yes, she thought as the sick, grinding sensation returned to her stomach. Far better.

  * * *

  Hugh and Daphne arrived at Lady Letitia’s impressive gray fortress on Grosvenor Square a half hour early, along with the rest of Hugh’s family.

  Anne seized Daphne’s hands and held them out to her sides while she examined her gown, her mouth an O of surprise. “Did you choose this gown?”

  Daphne laughed at her obvious skepticism.

  Anne blushed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did, and you needn’t apologize. To answer your question, I did not. Rowena and Madame Thérèse engaged in fisticuffs and Madame won.”

  “It is absolutely stunning and perfect.”

  Daphne was not so sure of that, but she had no interest in discussing her clothing. Instead, she chatted with Anne and her parents for a few moments before excusing herself to greet Lady Letitia, who sat in great state on a tapestry-covered wingback chair, her gouty foot resting on a matching ottoman. She was swathed in puce from head to toes and diamonds the size of hazelnuts festooned her ample bosom and swollen fingers. She was talking to her butler, but waved him away when she saw Daphne approach.

  “Ah, Daphne. Come, sit beside me, my dear.” She gestured to a chair.

  “Good evening, my lady.”

  The older woman scrutinized her through her ornate quizzing glass. “I suppose that sour-faced maid of yours chose that gown?”

  Daphne’s gown was midnight-blue silk that was far too low cut and form-hugging for her comfort. Not only that, but she wore only one nearly insubstantial petticoat beneath it. But it was too late to regret her decision now—even if it was leading to conversations she found more than a little tedious.

  “I usually leave all my clothing decisions in Rowena’s hands, but this gown was chosen by Madame Thérèse.”

  Lady Letitia gave a bark of laughter. “Wise decision. I daresay your head is too full of high-flown rubbish to give a tinker’s cuss what you wear—just like my brother’s head was.” She tapped her glass against the upholstered arm of her chair and kept Daphne pinned like an insect with her steely stare. “I dread to think what your life was like with my brother.”

  Daphne began to protest, but the old woman forestalled her with a loud tsk tsk.

  “I know he wasn’t cruel to you, my dear. But he and my sister are like a pair of helpless infants who require tending. I daresay it was you who took care of them both. Before you came along, I expected Thomas and Amelia to be wearing bibs and slippers every time I visited Lessing Hall.” Something like sadness seeped into her hard gray eyes. “You were good for my brother in many ways. I’m pleased he could return the favor.”

  Daphne’s brow wrinkled. What was the older woman saying?

  Lady Letitia waved her hand. “But that is of no consequence now.” Her eyes slid to where Hugh stood. “I daresay you needed a whip and spurs to get him here tonight.”

  Surprisingly, Hugh had been ready and waiting with no prodding from anyone. He had also been uncharacteristically subdued and quiet during the brief carriage ride.

  “I believe he was eager to come this evening,” she lied.

  “Hmmph.” Lady Letitia’s glare intensified the longer her eyes lingered on Hugh, who was talking to his cousin Simon. “I’d as well se
t my money on fire or toss it out a coach window as expect him to appreciate this ball.”

  “I cannot imagine he is insensible of the honor you do him.”

  “Ha! Then you must lack for imagination, missy. Just look at him over there. As happy and carefree as a lark. No thought for how he has disrupted our lives—especially yours—by returning willy-nilly after almost two decades.”

  Daphne took full advantage of the older woman’s order to study Hugh.

  He had his hands clasped behind his back and was leaning down to hear something Simon was saying, a ready smile on his gorgeous face. There were miles of muscular calf and thigh encased in stockings and snug black-satin breeches. He wore a green-gold waistcoat beneath his black tailcoat, a color that made his blond hair shine like a newly minted guinea under the blazing chandeliers. It was indecent, really, how godlike he looked talking to his shorter and stockier cousin.

  But even in elegant evening clothes—and without the saber and tricorn the broadsheet artists were so fond of depicting him with—he still looked like the King’s Pirate rather than a staid English peer.

  Daphne turned and met Lady Letitia’s too-shrewd gaze. Naturally she blushed as though she were guilty of something.

  “I daresay you know a great deal about doltish men, having been married to Thomas. I do not like to speak ill of the dead,” Lady Letitia said, preparing to do exactly that, “but my brother was even less cognizant of his surroundings than the rest of his species. Most of the time he went about wishing we were all orchids he could feed manure and keep in the dark.”

  Daphne bit back a smile. Thomas would have enjoyed setting to rights his sister’s confusion of mushrooms and orchids.

  Anne came to ask her grandmother a question and the mysterious conversation was over.

  * * *

  The massive drawing room—its cream walls and black-and-white marble floors obscured by acres of exotic tropical flowers—filled up quickly as the handpicked elite of London society arrived for the exclusive pre-ball dinner. Daphne found herself passed from hand to hand among the crème de la crème of the English aristocracy and knew her sister-in-law was behind it.