by Lily Dalton
“As if you are!” she replied. “You’ve said far too many terrible things to me and threatened me with public humiliation. Never once have you allowed me to explain my side of the story, of why I came to be at the Blue Swan that night.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” His lips bent into a satisfied smile. He backed away, to rest casually against the opposite wall, appearing in complete control of himself and the situation at hand. His gaze drifted admiringly over her neck and shoulders. “All that matters is that you were there. And that you have placed me on your invitation list as I asked.”
“I haven’t.” She tossed her head defiantly. “Yet.”
“But you will.”
“You were invited tonight, with no help from me—”
“Simply because Rackmorton wanted to show off.” He shrugged. At speaking those words, his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened. “I’ve no guarantees of additional invitations.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Are you declining to do this favor for me?” he teased. Or did he?
“What if I am?” She wanted him to say the words. To threaten her. Because he hadn’t outright ever done so, he’d only ever implied, and she couldn’t fully despise him until he did. Against all rationality, her heart still argued on behalf of the man she’d once believed him to be.
“Why don’t you find out?”
She glared at him.
“That’s what I thought.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I believe I could come to embrace this new role as a blackmailer.”
“I’m not at all surprised. It should come quite naturally to you, being that you are also a complete and utter blackguard!” She jabbed an angry finger in his direction. “Not only that, but you have a black heart, and a black soul—”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the edges, appearing nothing less than delighted.
At that moment, Kate entered the corridor. “I thought that was your voice I heard.”
Only then, she saw Cormack, and her eyes widened.
“Hello,” he said, one eyebrow raising up.
“How do you do?” she answered, blushing, and throwing a look of alarm to Daphne.
“I have certainly been better,” he answered smoothly. “I have just been called a veritable library of hateful names. What is yours?”
“Kate Fickett, sir, and you…” She glanced to Daphne, then to Cormack again. “Why…you must be Lord Raikes.”
“I’m flattered that you would know.”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips, and curtsied. “Oh, my lord, thank you for what you did. For saving my dear Miss Bevington, and for…for…” Her voice thickened, and tears came into her eyes. Daphne wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Only then did Kate push out the words: “—for settling my father’s debt.”
Daphne saw it. The ice in Cormack’s eyes melted a fraction, and his smile lost its dangerous edge.
“You are very welcome,” he answered quietly.
“I must repay you.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” he responded with a tilt of his chin. “It’s only money, and fortunately I have plenty. I’m pleased to have put it to good use.”
“Even so, sir, I’m so sorry you were drawn into such an unpleasant situation.”
“No apologies are necessary,” he assured, his gaze unwavering. His lips tightened into a thin smile. “Not from you.”
His gaze shifted obviously to Daphne, and he nodded curtly. “Good evening to you both.”
He pivoted on his heel and strode away. She and Kate stood for a few moments in silence.
“Oh, my,” whispered Kate.
“Yes,” Daphne said curtly. “I know.”
*
Cormack hadn’t intended to kiss her, just to talk—because to be honest, after seeing her in the drawing room, he could not stay away. Then, she had looked so lovely when she’d emerged from the cloakroom, a goddess in white silk, caught somewhere between light and half-light. There was something about Daphne Bevington in shadows, with her skin so golden and eyes so brilliant and blue…one glance, and he’d lost control of himself all over again. He’d thought if they talked he could instill some distance between them, at least on his part, but with each interaction his feelings for her grew that much more tangled.
He returned to the drawing room, now filled wall to wall with guests. Ladies in ball gowns and gentlemen in trousers and dark coats. Everyone made their way to sit in the orderly rows of chairs that had been placed around the room. His new friend, the duchess, situated herself in the front row, closest to the piano. Cormack could not help but notice the way Rackmorton hovered along the edge of the crowd, directing others to their seats, as if he oversaw the activity himself. That is, until he saw Daphne, who moments later appeared flushed and smiling, as if nothing at all had just occurred.
The muscles along Cormack’s shoulder’s clenched.
Rackmorton moved quickly, claiming her, leading her toward the front row as well to sit two chairs away from his mother. Her own mother, Lady Harwick, and younger sister—whose appearance was charmingly similar to Daphne’s—sat just behind, solemnly watching their approach. He did not miss the look of concern that passed between them. Above the heads of the seated guests, Daphne looked back to where he stood, pinning him for a moment…then she smiled at Rackmorton, gaily tossed her head and, with his hand on her back, lowered herself into the chair. Rackmorton, of course, took the one beside her.
That look she’d thrown him—
God, he felt incinerated, from the inside out. It told him exactly what she felt, that he had no say in her life. He didn’t, of course. She was right. All efforts to blackmail her aside, their dalliance had taken place in shadows and could never emerge into the light, could never become anything more. He certainly couldn’t marry her, as he was obligated elsewhere. Marrying the Snaith girl when she became of age was his only chance of putting the Northmore legacy back together again.
Rackmorton, on the other hand, could marry Daphne, and if that was what Daphne wanted, it was her decision. Why the temptation to meddle in her private affairs?
Besides, if he interceded, who was to say she might not be married off to some other lecher a thousand times worse? Ton marriages were rarely undertaken for anything as gauche as love or affection or the prospect of happiness, but to create dynasties powerful enough to sustain future generations.
Though he needed her to penetrate the closed doors of the ton, in all other aspects he had to let her go.
Everyone grew silent as a slender woman in a silver gown took the floor, stood beside the pianist, and began to sing. Such a voice. Beautiful and rich, with a range that filled the room. She held everyone’s rapt attention. Which was what he’d hoped for. He moved along the shadows at the back of the room to slip out the door and returned to Rackmorton’s study. The small lamp they’d used before had burned out, leaving the room in darkness, with only the light through the window to see. Moving quickly, he took the key from the drawer, and hurried to the corridor, and the locked door. With a turn of the key, the lock clicked, and he entered the room, leaving the door open so that he could see. He avoided looking at the pictures on the walls, feeling as if he’d entered a gaol full of wrongly imprisoned women and yet was unable to set them free.
Most especially the picture of Daphne. He wanted to destroy it. Burn it. Blot it from his memory, but most of all from Rackmorton’s. But if the painting were to go missing, Rackmorton would know he’d taken it. He couldn’t chance being called out by one of the ton’s most influential lords and being locked out before he found the man who was responsible for Laura’s ruination.
At the desk, he removed the notebook. As with the painting, he considered taking it and immediately leaving, but how soon before Rackmorton would notice it gone? Would he be immediately determined to be the culprit, or would someone like the innocent housemaid stand accused? He didn’t feel comfortable taking that chance, because he didn’t really know w
hat he was dealing with in Rackmorton, whether he was truly dangerous or simply vulgar. Squinting, he found a match in his pocket and after a few attempts, struck light against the table. Opening the cover he examined the first page, slightly yellowed with age. Bloody hell, the bastard had horrible handwriting, and from the looks of things, the first page had been written by an adolescent boy. Legibility only slightly improved as he continued through the pages, but even when he could make out the letters, there was very little he understood. Everything appeared to have been written in coded jibberish, and even the names listed, which he assumed to be members of the Invisibilis, were clearly not real ones. Scrofulous Seymour and Blight Wither? Still, he read each name, doing his best to commit them to memory, noting that several had been marked through with thick black lines of ink, as if they no longer existed.
He struck another match. Silence pressed thick into his ears, making each turn of the page sound thunderous. Instinct told Cormack it was time to leave, and time to leave now. Yes, the musicale would remain underway for another hour at least, but go, yes, go he must, before he was discovered creeping about like a thief.
Taking one final glance through the pages of words that made no real sense, he closed the leather cover and returned the notebook to the drawer, and for a moment stared into the flat, dead eyes of the Medusa. He shunned the portrait of Daphne, vowing to return at some point and see it removed from Rackmorton’s wall, and destroyed. A moment later, and he’d turned the key in the lock and made his way toward the marquess’s desk. He’d only just returned it to its place, and shut the drawer, when the door opened. His heart nearly leapt from his throat as Rackmorton appeared.
“What are you doing in here?” said Rackmorton, his expression blank.
“Ah…well, I hope you don’t mind, but I bloody well needed a smoke, and I didn’t know where else to go without appearing rude.” Cormack produced a cigarette from his pocket, the French sort that he’d taken such a liking to in Bengal. “I was hoping to find matches. I forgot mine.”
Rackmorton grinned. “Things started to feel close in there for you, did they? I feel the same. Do you have another one of those?”
“Of course. Do you mind if I open your window?”
“It sticks, so allow me.”
Beside the open window, they lit the cigarettes and smoked together in silence for a few moments. The sound of music came through the open door, and through the glass he could just make out Daphne’s face.
“So some of the others and I are going out after tonight. Care to come along?”
It only made sense that Rackmorton’s set would be made up, at least in part, of members of the Invisibilis. This might be his chance to find out who might have visited the Duke of Rathcrispin’s hunting lodge three years before. “Yes, I would. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Be prepared to lose lots of money. We’re all very competitive.”
“All the better. Who doesn’t like a sharp-edged game, with potentially disastrous chances?”
Rackmorton nodded. “We’ll take my carriage. Send yours home for the night if you like.”
*
It was nearly two o’clock when Daphne and her mother and sister returned to Wolverton’s house in Hamilton Place. After kissing Wolverton good night, she and Clarissa went upstairs.
“What a fun night,” declared Clarissa.
“Yes, it was very nice,” Daphne replied without enthusiasm. She couldn’t help it. She felt so dissatisfied. She’d allowed Rackmorton to lead her about as if she belonged to him, just to nettle Cormack for telling her she shouldn’t, and now she feared she’d encouraged the man. Why had she done that? But she knew the answer: to make Cormack jealous. It had all been for naught, because by the end of the evening when she had left, the two men appeared to be fast friends, which was strange being that Cormack had warned her to stay away from the marquess.
“Soooo. What do you think about Mother and Mr. Birch?”
Daphne looked at her in surprise. “He…seems very nice.”
“They sat together all night. They talked and laughed together. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What are you saying?”
“What if Mother gets married again?”
“Sometimes you are the silliest flibbertigibbet. She laughs and talks with lots of people, some of them gentlemen. That doesn’t mean she’s going to marry them all.”
Clarissa looked at her with sudden seriousness. “Would you be upset if she did remarry?”
She closed her eyes, and in her mind saw her father’s smiling face, which made her heart hurt, but she knew the right thing to say. “Of course not. She’s still young and beautiful and I’d want her to be happy. I just wouldn’t want to encourage her into something when she wasn’t at all ready, by proposing love matches where there are none.”
“Yes, of course you’re right. Well, I suppose we’d best both get straight to sleep. Tomorrow will be a late night! The Vauxhall Gala! I can’t wait.” Clarissa removed her gloves, and ascended the staircase a few steps ahead of her.
“Neither can I,” Daphne declared.
She’d never gone to a gala, and everyone talked about what fun they were, if a bit wild at times. Kincraig had already lined up a cadre of young gentlemen to escort them and, yes, to keep them safe. Havering would also be there. She would go and have such a fine time she’d forget all about Cormack.
As soon as Clarissa disappeared into her room, Daphne hesitated outside hers. Returning back down the stairs, she entered the conservatory, where all the invitations to her ball sat carefully organized in boxes. Moonlight streamed through the windows, reflecting off wide palm fronds and the pale, round faces of night flowers. Their fragrance weighted the air, intoxicating and lush, making her feel like doing something reckless.
Half of the envelopes had already been sealed by the footmen, but everything past the Ms were still open to be completed tomorrow. Part of her wanted to challenge him, to call his bluff and see what he would do if she refused to carry through with his demands.
Still, she wrote the necessary address and enclosure card and inserted the envelope into the Rs. Tomorrow, Cormack, Lord Raikes, would receive his invitation.
Whether he attended was completely up to him.
*
A crash of thunder awakened Cormack from a dead sleep. He lay tangled in sheets, and stared at the Venetian plasterwork medallion at the center of his robin’s-egg-blue ceiling, attempting to command focus in a damnably blurry world.
Sunlight streamed through the parted curtains, along with the sound of birdsong and horses clopping by.
Another crash rippled through his head, accompanied by a dagger blade of pain, straight through his left eye. He groaned. “Oh, no.”
Lord, he shouldn’t have drunk so much, but the night had dragged on and he’d needed drink just to survive the company of his companions, a vapid lot of thirty-something-year-old children concerned only with gambling away their fortunes and indulging the next piece of willing female fluff—of which there had been endless supply, as long as coins flashed. He’d done his best to focus on the cards, blocking out the sights and sounds of libertines plundering a constant flow of purchased pleasure.
The night had left him more certain than ever his nephew, Michael, was the result of force, and no love affair, because he could not imagine Laura ever falling in love, even fleetingly, with any one of those lechers, at least two more of whom he had successfully identified as members of the Invisibilis, Dump Dump Dinglemore and Charlie Churlish, who when he’d inquired about their nicknames for each other had drunkenly flashed identical medallions to the one he carried in his pocket.
That is, until Rackmorton threw them a blistering glare. It had taken him several painful hours of carefully constructed conversation to deduce that neither had ever been to Rathcrispin’s hunting lodge, and thus would never have crossed paths with his sister.
He’d returned home, mortifyingly sotted and frustrated almost beyond bea
ring.
“You’re awake, I take it?”
Cormack started at the voice, and turned his head, which sent the world spinning again, but somehow at the center of the vortex he perceived a man sitting in the chair by the window, with long legs crossed at the ankles, his Hessians polished and gleaming. A raised newspaper obscured his identity.
“Unfortunately,” he croaked.
Lowered, the paper revealed a familiar face. “Good afternoon, then.”
“Havering,” he said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Fox chuckled. “You look terrible.”
Cormack closed his eyes. “I feel terrible.”
Havering, for his part, did not look terrible but annoyingly sober and clear-eyed. “It’s no surprise, when you run with that set.”
He wished he could say he had learned his lesson, but he would continue to do whatever it took to break into the social circles that protected the man he sought from discovery. He had to remain patient and trust his instincts that if he kept his eyes wide and his ears open, he would deduce the identity of Laura’s seducer.
“I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. No one answered the door. Nice house, but you need some servants.” He folded the newspaper, in the most practiced and efficient manner, and set it aside on the barrel-shaped table at his elbow, beside his top hat.
“I have servants…er…a servant.”
“Might it be that naked man or that naked woman sleeping under the table in the drawing room?”
“Damn it, Jackson.” He raised up onto one elbow and squinted at Havering. He’d done as Rackmorton suggested last night and dismissed Jackson for the evening. Clearly Jackson had found his own entertainment.
“Oh, I see. The fellow. I don’t believe he’ll be providing valet services this morning, judging from the number of bottles littered about the floor. First off you need a good butler, and he’ll set up all the rest. Would you like me to make inquiries?”
“I’d be grateful, thank you.” He ran a hand through his hair, exerting the pressure of his fingertips along the top of his skull, and in that small way, assuaging some of the pain. “But certainly the proper staffing of my house is not why you’re here.”