She gasped, not sure if she’d heard him right. “Did you say I am deficient in some way?” It mattered not that she’d just said essentially the same thing.
They’d been sitting pressed against each other as he drove. But at his words, she scooted as far as she could—which wasn’t very far—to the other side of the narrow curricle seat. Rather than looking abashed, Dalton pressed on. “I’m not sure I’d use that term,” he said mildly, “but do you deny that you sometimes have a hard time discerning what motives lay behind people’s words? That you cannot understand whether something is meant to be taken seriously or in jest?”
She’d never really heard it expressed in such a way, but his explanation did come close to describing what she’d come to think of as her blindness.
“What of it?” she asked cautiously.
“I am simply saying that even with your extraordinary intellect, you were at a disadvantage when it came to catching on to Foster’s ruse.” Dalton took both reins in his left hand and placed his right one over hers where it lay in her lap. Though they were both wearing gloves, she could feel the warmth of him through the soft kid, and was comforted by the contact. “You are not responsible for what happened to Sommersby. No matter how guilty you feel at your relief that he is dead.”
His words struck her like a blow, and she felt tears spring in her eyes. She wanted to deny his accusation, but she could not. Her blissful sleep in the nights since they’d discovered Sommersby’s body was proof enough.
“I am horrid,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Only a monster would rejoice in someone’s demise.”
“Only a monster would do to you what Sommersby did,” he replied, reaching out to take her hand. “Only an unfeeling wretch would not feel some relief at knowing the man she feared for years was no longer a danger to her.”
Perhaps he was right, she thought, though some part of her still had doubts.
“You are doing what you can to find his killer,” Dalton continued in a soothing tone. “That is more than he has a right to. More than most would do for the man who tried to take her virtue.”
“I suppose so,” she said, wishing she could go back to her usual unflappable self. These past few weeks had turned her into one of those simpering ladies she’d once scorned. “I only wish I had been able to speak to him about … that night. Before he died, I mean. I wish I could have asked him why he did it. Why he broke my trust as he did.”
Dalton didn’t speak for a few moments, simply kept his eyes on the horses and the road ahead of them. Daphne had begun to wonder if he’d heard her at all when he finally spoke up. “I cannot pretend to know why a man would do such a thing to someone who trusted him. My sister’s husband was often a brute to her, and then would come back to her with tears and promises never to do it again. Then a short time would pass and he would beat her, hurt her, again.”
Daphne had not known this about Lady Serena’s husband, though she’d somehow known that there was some darkness in her past. Were there so many of these men, then? Who hurt those who loved them with little or no compunction? The notion had never occurred to her. And it was chilling.
“I once asked him,” Dalton continued, his steady voice and warm presence beside her giving her much needed succor, “why he did what he did to my sister, who once loved him beyond reason. Do you know what he said? What explanation he gave for brutalizing her again and again?”
She hardly dared ask, yet the words left her in almost a whisper. “What?”
“He said that he did not know. When it came to any sort of self-reflection, or ability to know his own motives, that was all he could say. He did not know.”
She thought about Sommersby for a moment. Was he, too, incapable of knowing himself? Of understanding the impulse that led him to force himself upon his oldest friend? It was a supremely unsatisfactory idea.
Leaning against his shoulder again, she wondered at how different Dalton was from Sommersby. Or even her father. He was a different sort altogether.
Still, she was frustrated at knowing so little of the reasons for Sommersby and his ilk to behave as they did.
“I like to know the explanations for why things happen,” she said into the silence. “Not knowing why is one of the things about Sommersby’s betrayal that haunted me the most. Not knowing if it was something I said or did that led him to think he could do that to me. Or if he’d have behaved as he did regardless.”
“I know Serena would have liked an answer, too,” he said. “But I can tell you this, Lady Daphne Forsyth. You didn’t make him hurt you. He made the choice to do what he did, and there’s nothing you could have said or done that would have justified his actions. I have no respect for a man who takes advantage of a woman. And if I’d known about what he did to you before he had the good grace to get himself murdered, I’d have been tempted to do the thing myself.”
There was a fierceness in his voice that was alien to his usual manner. A protectiveness that was both comforting and invigorating. She had once liked to think she could take care of herself—after Sommersby’s assault, she’d forced herself to do so, lest he come for her again. But after a lifetime of not being able to rely upon any of the men in her life—excepting perhaps Sommersby, Sr. before he left so unexpectedly—it was bewitching to think that she could count on the Duke of Maitland to stand by her side if the need arose.
Not knowing how to express her gratitude, she went with her impulse and simply squeezed his hand where it grasped hers.
“Thank you.”
That was all. Words inadequate to express the depth of her appreciation. But words were all she had at the moment.
Chapter 10
Once they reached Bexhill-on-Sea, or Bexhill as it was known familiarly, a brief stop at the local tavern was enough to give them direction to the Miller farm, where Lady Celeste’s erstwhile steward Mr. Renfrew lived with his daughter and son-in-law.
It was a pretty-enough area, with the town itself situated on an elevation that allowed for a clear view in every direction. It was said that William the Conqueror had eaten his first meal in England near here, though Dalton had heard all sorts of tales relating to the King since it was so near the site of the Battle of Hastings. As boys, he and Kerr had come to Bexhill on any number of occasions, to watch the German soldiers who’d come here to escape Napoleon’s occupation at the invitation of the Hanoverian, George III.
“It is convenient that Mr. Renfrew was able to retire so near to where he lived and worked for so many years,” Daphne remarked as they turned onto a country lane not far from the town proper. “He must be able to keep in close contact with his friends, I think.”
“I imagine that is correct,” Dalton said as they came nearer to a rather impressive farm house with what appeared to be an extensive husbandry operation attached. “His daughter appears to have done well for herself, at any rate.”
“Or rather, her husband has done well,” Daphne said dryly. “Unless Renfrew’s daughter runs this farm all by herself. It is rare, I think that a woman should be able to do so. Even with the assistance of someone as influential as your aunt.”
“I suppose that’s correct,” he said ruefully. He forgot at times how much women were forced to rely upon their fathers and husbands for their subsistence. Daphne was helping to remind him.
As they neared the front door, a stable lad approached Dalton’s side of the curricle to take the reins from him, and as soon as Maitland had helped Daphne to the ground, the entrance of the farm house was opened by a curtsying, mob-capped maid.
“Milord, milady,” she said as she bowed and scraped, “how may I help ye?”
“The Duke of Maitland and Lady Daphne Forsyth to see Mr. Renfrew,” said Maitland in an amused tone. He had become accustomed to the people around Beauchamp House, who, if they did not precisely treat him like just another resident of the neighborhood, at the very least didn’t look as if they were somewhere between a faint and a seizure on greeting him, as this
maid seemed to be.
At the mention of Renfrew, however she looked nonplussed.
Fortunately, a pretty woman of middle years entered the hallway and on seeing her visitors, gave an elegant curtsy. “That will be all, Molly,” she said to the blushing maid, who looked half-relieved, half-disappointed to be supplanted by her mistress.
“Your grace,” said the lady, whom Dalton assumed was Mrs. Miller, “my lady, I’m afraid my father is indisposed at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”
Dalton’s heart sank at the news. Had they driven all this way on a fool’s errand?
“But we need to speak to him most urgently,” Daphne said in a brusque tone that revealed her nervousness.
Looking surprised, but not particularly conciliatory, Mrs. Miller said, “Perhaps we can step into the parlor for a moment and discuss this. I shall ring for some tea.”
Giving the woman his most charming smile, Dalton took Daphne’s arm. “That would be most appreciated, Mrs. Miller.”
The farmer’s wife ushered them into a small but well-furnished parlor, which seemed to serve the dual purposes of comfort and illustration of prosperity.
Once there, he waited for Daphne to take a seat on a low sofa, while Mrs. Miller sat calmly in an armchair. He remained standing, taking up a position before the handsome marble fireplace.
“Now, perhaps you can tell me what it is you wish to speak to my father about?” Mrs. Miller appeared to be wholly unruffled by their appearance in her drawing room.
Before Dalton could answer, Daphne said, “It is a confidential matter. Having to do with his former employer, Lady Celeste Beauchamp.”
“Perhaps you could tell us something about the nature of your father’s illness, Mrs. Miller?” Dalton asked hurriedly, before the other lady could respond to Daphne’s admission. “My aunt was quite fond of him as I recall, and I know she would wish me to inquire after his health. If there is anything we can do…”
The tense line between the matron’s eyes eased at Dalton’s words. “That is kind of you to ask, your grace. My father was fond of Lady Celeste as well. But I’m afraid he would not even remember her existence if I were to tell him you called.” Her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “His mind has gone, you see. And he is not the man he once was.”
At the news Mr. Renfrew was suffering from senility, Daphne emitted a distressed sound.
“We are quite sad to hear it, ma’am,” Dalton said, not sure where to proceed from here. “Is he able to receive visitors at all, or does that distress him too much?” He could at the very least find out the degree to which the man suffered from his mental ailment.
“He has good days and bad days,” Mrs. Miller said with a sad smile. “Unfortunately, today is not a good day. Though I know if he were well enough he would love to receive a visit from you, your grace. You were always one of his favorites. You and Lord Kerr.”
“But we’ve come all this way,” Daphne said in a weak voice. Clearly, she was not taking the news of their man’s indisposition well.
Moving to take a seat beside her, Dalton hoped that his nearness would give her comfort as it had done in the curricle.
Aloud, he said, “Mrs. Miller, perhaps you will be able to help us after all.”
Looking from Daphne to Dalton and then back again, Mr. Renfrew’s daughter said finally, “I will do what I can, your grace. Your aunt was quite good to my father.”
He smiled at that concession. Aunt Celeste had also been fond of Renfrew.
“Did Mr. Renfrew ever make mention of a letter or a note that my aunt asked him to hold for her?” he asked, hoping that the old man had done something to safeguard the clue to the location of the cipher before he lapsed fully into madness.
Mrs. Miller frowned, thinking. “I’m not quite sure, your grace. He gave me a great many items to put up in the attics, but I can have no notion of whether or not the missive your aunt entrusted to him is there. I did not go through them myself, you understand. And he keeps very few things in his bedchamber with him. Papa has always been a man with few needs for creature comforts.”
“Mrs. Miller,” Daphne began, and Dalton was almost afraid of what she would say. He was growing fonder of her by the minute, but he’d be blind not to notice that she had a way of setting up people’s backs with her words. “Do you suppose we could search through his things?”
Already he could see that Mrs. Miller was opening her mouth to deny them, but then Daphne continued, “It’s just that a man was murdered in Beauchamp House, and we think that something Lady Celeste gave your father could help us find what the killer was looking for.”
At the mention of murder, the other lady blanched, bringing a hand up to her throat. “How awful,” she said on a gasp. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“The man who was murdered was searching for something we think the killer has already found,” Daphne said, cleverly dancing around the truth of just what it was that Sommersby’s murderer had been looking for. “And Lady Celeste, being as brilliant as she was, left a clue with your father to the location of this artifact. If we find the artifact, we will, hopefully, find the killer.”
“I do not pretend to understand all that you just said, Lady Daphne,” Mrs. Miller said with a shake of her head. “But if I understand the gist of it, you need this paper in my father’s things in order to apprehend a murderer. In which case, I will be happy to let you look through his things. Though in his right mind, poor Papa would have been most put out to know you were doing so. Still, he was fond of Lady Celeste, and I should think he would be willing to help find the man bold enough to commit murder in her home.”
Dalton bit back a sigh of relief, thanking Mrs. Miller profusely for her cooperation.
As she led them upstairs to the third floor, where the attics were located, he said under his breath to Daphne, who walked beside him, “Well done, my dear. You knew exactly what to say.”
Her pleased smile told him that he, in turn, had known just what to say to her.
“I spoke from the heart,” she said, “just as Ivy told me to do when trying to persuade someone. I never guessed that it would actually work.” She sounded both surprised and pleased at her discovery.
They reached the door leading into the attic then. Handing a lit lamp to Dalton, then turning a large key in the antiquated lock, Mrs. Miller opened the door into the storage area. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said with a brisk nod. “Papa’s things are just to the left, near the chimney. I’ll send up a maid in an hour or so to see if you need any other help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” Daphne told her with a smile that lit up her entire face. For a moment, Dalton was stunned by her beauty.
“I am happy to help, my dear,” said the other woman, with a smile. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
When she was gone, Dalton turned to see Daphne staring after her.
“What is it?” he asked, concerned.
“It’s nothing,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “It’s just that I usually do not get on with people so well. It felt…”
“Nice?” he asked with a grin.
“Yes,” she said. “Nice.” Which sounded like the most wonderful feeling in the world when she said it just so.
Then her eyes cleared and she turned to indicate that he should lead the way.
No fool, Dalton followed her orders, and lifting the lamp to shed light on their path, he stepped into the musty attic room.
* * *
Unfortunately for Daphne and the duke, Mr. Renfrew had been a man who did not like to throw things away. So the number of crates and trunks they were forced to wade through was more than they had at first thought.
Mixed in amongst a few decades worth of The Farmers Journal, Daphne found stacks of letters exchanged between the steward and friends who appeared to be fellow stewards with interests in farming. Not to mention all the correspondence between the man and his eleven (Daphne counted) si
blings and four children.
“For a man who didn’t speak much,” Dalton remarked wryly, as he removed another stack of letters from the trunk he was examining, “Renfrew had much to say when he put pen to paper. I don’t know how he found time to work Aunt Celeste’s farmland given the number of letters he wrote.”
Daphne had wondered the same thing.
She also felt a pang of sympathy for the old man, who must have craved interaction with his peers if he was willing to put so much effort into writing them. Since she’d spent her whole life feeling as if she didn’t quite fit in, not only because of her intellectual pursuits, but also because of her odd nature, she could relate. She wondered, suddenly, if when she was gone someone would find her own saved letters from her mathematician colleagues equally as pathetic.
Aloud she said, “I should think if your aunt had found fault with his work she would have done something about it.”
She glanced over at him and saw that in his concentration on the task at hand, he’d disarranged his slightly overlong hair so that a golden lock of it fell onto his brow. He really was more handsome than a man should be allowed to be. What with his wide shoulders, trim waist, and face that might have been a Greek statue come to life, he was really more than she could have ever conjured from her imagination.
He must have felt her scrutiny then, because he looked up with a question in his eyes. “What is it? Did you find something?”
Blushing at having been caught staring, she shook her head. “No, I was just wondering if you had,” she lied.
With a wry smile, he lifted a small painting and handed it to her. “Does this answer your question?”
She gazed down at the artist’s rendering of what looked to be an exaggeratedly large ox. She knew it was an ox—for she’d never actually seen such a thing in her whole life—because affixed to the bottom of the simple frame was a brass plate that read “Beauchamp House Ox—Live weight 464 stone.”
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