“Shall we take our places?” Daphne said, before the older man could ask any awkward questions.
The set lasted forever and just when she’d extricated herself from Simon, the Marquess of Abermarle appeared.
Daphne bit back a scream. Instead, she smiled and said, “I’m rather fatigued, my lord. Would you mind terribly if we sat out this set?”
“Not at all, my lady, I shall sit with you.”
She ground her teeth. “I am so thirsty. Would you—”
“Of course, perhaps some lemonade?”
“That would be lovely.” The instant Abermarle turned his back, she darted toward the cardroom. Her vision was poor, but not so poor she didn’t recognize Hugh’s towering form coming toward her.
“Blast and damn, blast and damn,” she muttered, pushing into the thickest part of the crowd. Guests were cheek by jowl, and the bodies formed a seemingly endless thicket. When a gap appeared on her left, she lunged toward it, bumping into a trio of wallflowers.
“Oh, excuse me. Please, pardon me. I’m terribly sorry,” Daphne muttered, treading on slippers and toes to get to the other side. The reward for leaving a swath of destruction was Malcolm, dead ahead. He was leaning against one of the large columns that flanked each side of the cardroom, as if needing its support to stand. More bodies separated them and Daphne had just pushed her way past a clutch of laughing young bucks when the orchestra struck up music heralding the arrival of a member of the royal family.
One advantage to being so tall was that Daphne could see over most heads: it was Ernest, the Duke of Cumberland. A buzz loud enough to overpower the orchestra swept through the cavernous room. Daphne assumed the duke must have made this public appearance to combat the rumors swirling around the death of his valet—the most scandalous being that Cumberland had murdered the man. Crowds of gawkers surged toward the duke, unable to resist the royal pull. This cleared a space and Daphne bolted toward Malcolm.
“Ah, Daphne,” he slurred. “Old Ernest is looking rather hagged, isn’t he? It’s my opinion he had a rather unsavory—”
“Keep your voice down!” Daphne hissed, swallowing her disgust at touching him and grabbing his elbow. The cardroom had been abandoned, the players gone to see what the commotion was about. She opened the door to the hall and peeked out. It was empty and only a short distance to the library. She opened one of the double doors and peered inside; also empty.
Daphne dropped Malcolm’s arm the second she entered the room, moving away from him. Malcolm fumbled with the door and Daphne realized he was locking it—or at least trying to, his hands so shaky he could hardly throw the bolt. He turned and grinned. “There, now we will be undisturbed while we talk.”
“What do you want?”
“Shame on you, Daphne! So hasty.” He wagged a finger at her. “I would like to conduct our courtship like civilized people, not like some coal miner and his trollop.”
Daphne ignored the tired old dig, and Malcolm made a beeline toward a cluster of decanters. He poured himself a drink, drained it in one swallow, and poured himself another. At this rate he’d be facedown on the floor before he got around to his blackmailing.
He turned, smacking his lips. “Your dead husband’s relatives have excellent taste in spirits.” He propped his hip against the massive desk behind him. “Now, where were we?”
“You were explaining why you are here.”
He shrugged extravagantly. “How else does a betrothed couple spend their evenings, but together?”
“We are not betrothed, nor will we be. Ever.”
Something in Daphne’s attitude pierced even the thick fog of drink that surrounded him. “Why are you so bold all of a sudden, you saucy piece? Do you think I will hesitate to use the evidence I have if you do not give me what I want? Your pitiful life won’t be worth living by the time I’m finished with your reputation—and that of our sons.”
Daphne let every ounce of loathing she felt show on her face. “You have received the only money I will ever give you. If you are wise, you will be grateful for it and go your own way. But I know you are the farthest thing from wise.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes, his drink forgotten in his hand. “What?” The single word was filled with all the malice Daphne knew he bore her. It was the same look his uncle, Sir Walter, had given her mother every day of their married lives. Both men hated the fact their very existence depended on women so far beneath their station.
Daphne could recall the last time Malcolm’s loathing had possessed the power to hurt—the fateful day he’d accosted her in the woods just outside Whitton Park.
“You know what they call girls like you?” he had asked, not waiting for an answer as he backed her up against a tree. “They call them prick-teasers.”
Daphne had been more stunned by the vulgar phrase than his menacing behavior. He had taken advantage of her brief hesitation and sprung at her, slamming her head against the tree behind her hard enough to knock her unconscious.
And then he’d raped her.
The knowledge of what he’d done to her had hovered at the edges of her mind for years. It was never far from her conscious thoughts, but she’d kept it muted and tucked away. Until now.
Her body was shaking as if she were violently chilled; but she was hot all over—even her eyes were hot. Steam seemed to roll off her in waves, worsening her already poor vision. She blinked through her white-hot rage at her tormentor and released more than a decade’s worth of hatred.
“I have a letter, written, signed, and sworn by the late Lord Davenport before a magistrate. The letter warns that you might try to blackmail me.” She gave him a smile of pure loathing. “You may do whatever you want, of course, but you will never lay your repulsive hands on another penny of my son’s money. He is the Earl of Davenport and there is not a thing in the world you can do to change that.”
Daphne didn’t tell him that tomorrow morning she would change that; that she would tell the real Earl of Davenport the truth and render her son plain Lucien Redvers.
He set down his glass but it missed the desk, tumbling to the rug unnoticed.
“You’re lying. He never would have done such a thing. Especially not if he learned you tricked him.”
Daphne laughed, genuinely amused. “You are even stupider than I believed—which is saying something. The earl knew exactly what transpired and he knew exactly what manner of filth you are and he knew exactly what to do to stop you.” She thrilled at the expression of shock on his pale, bloated face. “He knew you would fritter away your wife’s money and one day come sniffing around your betters like a dog begging for scraps.” Her rage boiled over and she made no attempt to stop it. The fury in his eyes should have warned her, but instead, it stoked her anger.
One moment he was on the other side of the room gawking at her with an open mouth, the next he was slamming her against a bookcase. Her vision exploded in white, searing flashes and she slid to the floor, with Malcolm straddling her body.
“You lying whore,” he said between gritted teeth, squeezing her throat hard enough to cut off her air. Daphne bucked and twisted beneath him, striking him with her fists, clawing at his hands, but her vision blurred and her chest burned from lack of air. Her arms became too heavy to lift and the room began to darken—
Suddenly the crushing hands were gone and the punishing weight disappeared from her chest. Daphne rolled onto her side, choking and coughing and gasping for air.
The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Hugh, his hands around Malcolm’s neck, holding him a foot off the floor against a wall of books.
Her cousin’s face was dark purple and his eyes had rolled back into his head. Daphne lurched to her feet, staggering toward Hugh.
“Stop!” she rasped, clawing weakly at hands as hard as grappling hooks. “Stop or you will kill him. Hugh.” She pulled on his arms. “Hugh. Hugh!” She struck his forearms repeatedly, but it was like trying to move a coach with no wheels.
S
he fisted one hand and punched him in the shoulder with all her might. “Hugh!”
Pain exploded in her hand and arm.
Hugh turned to her. “You would let this swine live?” The words were like hot sparks from a blacksmith’s forge and his pupil was a black pinprick. His hand flexed even tighter around Malcolm’s throat.
“I care nothing for him but I would not see you hanged!” She pulled with all her strength, but his arm wouldn’t budge.
His gaze was still linked with hers when he relinquished his hold. Daphne had not anticipated the movement and would have fallen had Hugh not steadied her while Malcolm’s limp body slithered to the floor.
She pulled away from Hugh and dropped to her knees beside Malcolm. His pulse beat strongly, if erratically. Thank God. She slumped against the bookshelf and closed her eyes. Arms slipped around her shoulders and Hugh lifted her, cradling her against his chest. He carried her to the settee and laid her down before crouching beside her, taking her hand.
“How do you feel?”
“Short of breath.”
His expression was bleak. “You were almost permanently short of breath.”
She glanced at the library door. “Malcolm locked it, how were you able to enter?”
He pointed toward a door that looked like it concealed a large cupboard. “It is a secret entrance, built into the house for some long ago nefarious purpose. I used to play here with Simon and John when we were young.”
“How did you know we were in here?”
“I saw you—when you turned to avoid me. I followed your progress by watching the crowd.” He smiled. “You left quite a trail of destruction in your wake.” He ran his finger down her cheek, ending under her chin, which he tilted so that he might see her better. “I seem to be in the habit of interrupting you in the process of chastising Hastings.”
“I was not so lucky this time. Without your help I would not be breathing right now.”
He glanced at Malcolm’s still crumpled form and his face darkened. He stood. “What do you want me to do with him? You could have him before a magistrate. I would gladly stand witness. Or I could take care of him in a less conspicuous fashion.”
Daphne shuddered at what his second suggestion must mean. “I do not want the attention a magistrate would draw. Have him taken to wherever he is lodging. I don’t think I will have any further problems with him.”
“Daphne, I do not—”
“Please, Hugh.”
Hugh subjected her to a long, hard look. “This is a mistake.”
“It is what I want.”
He finally nodded. “Very well, I will do as you say. Come, let’s get you tidied up so that we may leave with as little fuss as possible.” He took her hand and led her to a large mirror, watching as she set her hair and dress to rights.
“I’m afraid you will have no small amount of bruising.” He grimaced at the already vivid marks around her sapphire necklace. “I will fetch your wrap, it should hide most of the marks.” He glanced at Malcolm. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a few moments? I must summon my groom and tell my aunt I am taking you home.”
“Oh no, Hugh, you cannot leave your own ball so early.”
Hugh did not answer. Instead, he led her to a chair, this one facing Malcolm but far across the room. “I will be back directly. If he makes any move at all you may hit him with this.” He grabbed a marble statue from the table and handed it to her. He grinned suddenly, the expression causing her heart to beat madly. “Or just hit him if the urge strikes you.”
* * *
Hugh returned a short time later with his groom, Wilkins, a glum, older man who never smiled. The two looked at Malcolm’s prone form and exchanged a few quiet words before Wilkins departed.
Hugh arranged Daphne’s wrap about her neck and shoulders and stood back.
“It interferes with your masterpiece of a gown, but your neck is already several colors so it is best to sacrifice fashion at this point. I told Aunt Letitia you were suffering from a headache.” He jerked his chin toward Malcolm’s inert form. “Wilkins will take him to wherever he is lodging. Now come, before somebody bumbles in here.”
The guests were at supper and they made their way toward the servants’ entrance without any interruptions. The Davenport coach awaited them in the mews. It was pitch-dark in the narrow alley and Daphne was unable to see Hugh’s face as the carriage rumbled away from Thornehill House.
“Thank you, Hugh.”
“Whatever for?” He sounded his usual, teasing self again. Daphne’s remaining strand of self-control snapped. “For saving my life, you idiot.” Was the man never serious?
His laughter filled the darkness. “That is twice in one night you’ve called me an idiot. I’m beginning to think you like me. Besides, I don’t know why you’re thanking me. If I’d kept better watch on you, you wouldn’t need to hide your bruises for the next month.” After a brief pause he added, “But if you really want to thank me, you can do so later, in a manner of my own choosing.”
Daphne doubted he would feel quite so amorous after she’d told him everything.
Chapter Seventeen
Hugh handed his hat and gloves to the footman who’d waited up for them at Davenport House and turned to Daphne.
“Will you join me in the library?”
“I shall be in directly.” Daphne needed to see her sons before commencing the task at hand. The boys were fast asleep when she entered the room they shared. A candle had been left burning in a wall sconce beside the door because Lucien was terrified of the dark, although he would never admit it.
Even in sleep they were two very different boys. Lucien had kicked off his blankets and slept with one bare foot hanging off the end of the bed. Richard was lying perfectly aligned in the middle of the bed, his blanket neatly pulled up around him. They would survive whatever happened tomorrow; the three of them together would survive. She kissed them and extinguished the light before making her way to the library.
Hugh turned away from the window when she entered. “All is well with the boys?”
How had he known where she’d gone? “Yes, they are sound sleepers. You could murder them in their beds without waking them.” Daphne took a seat on the large leather sofa nearest the fireplace, which he must have lighted. She was glad of the warmth as she felt chilled to the bone.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Perhaps some sherry.”
She took the glass of amber liquid he offered and drank it quickly, the shock of the alcohol making her gasp.
Hugh raised his eyebrows but made no comment as he took the chair opposite her.
She dropped her eyes to his legs, rather than his face.
“Tonight I must disclose something I’d always hoped would stay private.”
The muscles under the smooth black satin of his breeches grew taut as he stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles.
“Malcolm Hastings is the father of your sons.”
Daphne’s head whipped up. “How—Who—?”
“I made the connection myself when I saw him tonight.”
Daphne gaped.
“He is blackmailing you, I take it?”
She nodded dumbly.
Reproach and pain flickered across his face. “Why did you not tell me, Daphne?”
It was the last thing she expected him to say; the very last thing. “I—I was afraid of what you might think.”
“Which was?”
“That I’d deceived Thomas when I married him.”
He shook his head. “I hoped you might believe better of me, but I suppose I did little to earn it.” Daphne closed her eyes at the disappointment in his voice. She heard him sigh. “Will you tell me what happened?”
When she opened her eyes she saw his expression was patient—the way it was with her sons or Lady Amelia or anyone else who was in need of some gentle handling. How could she ever have thought he would not believe her?
“Malcolm attac
ked me.”
He remained silent but the temperature in the room dropped.
Daphne lowered her gaze to the floor between them, where the intricate, repetitive patterns in the rug were somehow soothing.
“Sir Walter brought Malcolm to live at Whitton Park when it became obvious my mother would not give him a son. I was not much more than a child and he was already a young man, but, even so, we never got along. He did spiteful things, taunted me, insulted my mother—but he never laid hands on me until after his uncle died. He didn’t even wait a year before he began throwing house parties—debauches where he and his friends would gamble night and day. Sometimes he even brought in women.
“I did what I could to avoid him and his friends, but it became increasingly difficult. One day I encountered a group of them while out walking. They pressured me to join them firing pistols—just a lark to alleviate their boredom.” She laughed bitterly. “What could be more quaint than a girl shooting a pistol? Anyway, I . . . I bested Malcolm and they laughed and taunted him. He found me afterward, alone. He was furious. He said—well, it doesn’t matter what he said. I ran and he chased me into the woods, attacked me, and . . . well, to put it bluntly, he raped me.” She said the words quickly, before she lost her nerve.
“He struck me hard enough that I lost consciousness. Fortunately, I have no memory of the actual event. Of course the truth of what had happened became unavoidable several weeks later.”
A loud noise startled her into looking up. The glass Hugh had been holding lay in shards on the carpet, blood and brandy dripping from his fingers.
Daphne was up in a heartbeat and dropped beside his chair, taking his hand in hers. It was curled into a rigid claw. His face was carved from granite and bore the same terrifying expression it had earlier. “Hugh?”
He tried to pull away. “It is nothing.”
“It is something. Give me your handkerchief.” She wished she’d had the sense to wear her spectacles. Instead, she had to find the few shards of glass embedded in his hand by touch. Once she was sure she’d found them all, she wrapped the square of cloth around his cut fingers.
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