“What are you doing here?”
“Work here,” he said.
“The hell you do!” A sick feeling descended into the pit of Hunt’s stomach.
“Sorry. It is a fait accompli. Too late to save me from myself.”
“But why?”
Charlie leaned against the doorjamb, crossed his arms and met Hunt’s eyes straight on. “You did not really expect me to dash about the ton and idle my days away, did you?”
“Why not? It has worked to keep you alive thus far.”
“That was not living. I felt like a damn parasite. You may not be happy to see me here, brother, but here I am.”
Hunt studied his brother’s face. He recognized mutiny when he saw it. There was flint in his blue eyes. Charlie, for all his jesting, had a more serious nature than anyone knew, a nature suited to covert work. No one would ever suspect him of ulterior motives. But… “We will talk about this later, Charles. I need to discuss the exact nature of your duties with the secretary.”
“Too late,” Charlie said, pushing away from the doorjamb and dropping his arms to his sides. “I have been assigned to you.”
Damn! How could he do what he needed to do with his brother watching over his shoulder? He would have to think of some way to keep Charlie occupied until he could finish this assignment. Something safe.
“No,” Charlie said, reading his expression. “Did you think I did not know, Hunt? Did you think I haven’t heard the whispers about you, noticed the way some of your colleagues are uncomfortable when you join them? I have known for quite some time what you do, and why.”
Hunt turned to Ethan. “Tell him…”
“Sorry. He knows. He’s always known.”
He had suspected as much. Hunt had intended Charlie for the diplomatic corps. Ah, too late for that now. He sighed and poured a brandy for his brother. “Sit down, Charlie, and I will bring you up to date.”
Who is that woman?
Elise stared at the face in her dressing table mirror. She looked only vaguely familiar—her eyes, her mouth, her nose—but somehow not familiar at all. How ironic that the woman she had pretended to be should be more real to her than her own self.
The little clock on her writing desk struck seven as she picked up her brush to run it through her hair. Behind her in the mirror, the sight of a chair propped beneath her doorknob was a stark reminder of what her life had become. She could not even leave her door open for her maid. She was a self-imposed prisoner without bars, a hostage to her son’s safety.
She threw the brush down and stood, wondering what to do next. She couldn’t think, couldn’t eat or sleep. After the tedious voyage, broken only by occasional games of whist with Mr. Doyle and other passengers, she had sped from the docks to the house in Mayfair, leaving her things aboard to fetch later. Alas, no sign of William. Only Barrett awaited her.
He’d known she’d come. He did not have to find her. All he had to do was claim William and let the headmaster do the rest. And the irony was that Barrett did not want either of them. A man with a runaway wife was the object of many jokes. He only wanted to exert his power over them, enforce his “rights” and, perhaps, regain his standing in the ton and his family’s jewelry. He hadn’t bothered to retrieve her things from Captain Gilbert until she’d told him she’d brought the jewelry back.
She glanced again at the chair beneath the doorknob. That was one right, however, that he’d never reclaim. Even though he had agreed to her terms, he had come to her door every night. She’d heard his wheezing on the other side of the panel, had seen the knob twist with excruciating slowness, as if he were testing it. After a moment, he would go away, apparently unwilling to fuel the servants’ gossip by forcing the issue. But that day was coming. Already he was testing her door at any time of the night or day. He would not suffer her rejection long.
The worst of her regrets was Lockwood. Had she not known his passion, she might have been able to bear her husband’s touch. Tears burned her eyes and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Last night, facing his anger, she’d wanted to die. What was the use of trying to explain? Nothing could change the fact that she was Lord Barrett’s wife. Or that she would remain such for as long as William was a hostage.
And now Lockwood hated her. His scorn last night had cut deeply. The look in his eyes had told her that his love had turned to ashes. His pain had equaled hers. The difference was that she would always love him, and he had already stopped loving her.
Even Barrett had remarked upon it. I cannot tell which of us he dislikes most, madam. And neither of us has done him an unkind turn. Or is there something you are not telling me, Elise? Some clandestine meeting with Lockwood?
She’d been tempted to tell him that Lockwood held the same crime against her that he did—desertion. But she denied any knowledge of Lockwood’s motive. What an accomplished little tart she was becoming. Adultery, lying, theft, attempted murder—was there anything she hadn’t done in the name of motherhood or love? Was there anything she would not do?
She silenced her self-pity, lifted her plum velvet evening gown over her head and smoothed it over her hips. Barrett would make her wear the amethysts with the gown, as if to tell the ton that all his jewels were back. She smiled when she realized he would have to open the safe in the library. He no longer trusted her to keep the jewelry in her room. That, it would seem, was the only mistake Barrett had learned from.
A soft click drew her attention back to her door. The knob turned slowly, then turned in the opposite direction. Chills raced up her spine and her heart squeezed as she watched the door give slightly under quiet pressure. The chair held and the knob was released. Soft footsteps continued down the corridor.
She gasped for air, unaware that she’d been holding her breath.
Yes, it was just a matter of time.
Elise stood alone near the fireplace at one end of the ballroom. She could not accustom herself to the frigid winter temperatures after the balmy Caribbean weather. If it were not so cold, she would be tempted to take a walk out to the gardens. Lord Carlin’s winter ice sculptures were touted as amusing and unique.
Barrett, however, demanded that she remain prominently displayed where he could see her. Standing in conversation with two of his friends, he turned toward Elise and laughed. His friends laughed with him and she felt the heat creep up her cheeks. She had no idea what sort of lies he might be telling, but she did not care as long as he was not by her side.
She scanned the room again, looking for any familiar face, any friendly face. Alas, there were none. Barrett had refused to introduce her to anyone but their host and, without an introduction, no one engaged her in conversation. He deliberately intended to isolate her. Where were her former friends? She’d had few, since Barrett had begun cutting her off from them after their marriage. Would they even speak to her now?
She gathered her embroidered black kerseymere shawl closer around her shoulders as the clock on the mantel struck the hour of eleven. The deep fringe tickled her arms and she shivered. How long would she have to stay? The orchestra began another set and she moved toward the hallway. Perhaps she could escape for a few minutes and sit in the ladies retiring room.
A burst of laughter greeted her as she turned down the corridor. A large group was coming her way, and Lockwood was in the midst of them. She spun around but it was already too late.
“Ho, there, Madam,” he called to her.
She affected a look of surprise and turned back. Surely he wouldn’t embarrass her? “Good evening, Lord Lockwood.”
That smile, that mocking smile, curved his lips. He had her on edge, and he knew it. “Good evening, Lady Barrett.”
His companions paused and glanced curiously between them. If he did not speak soon, the insult would be obvious in his absence of an introduction. Lockwood allowed the moment to draw out before he relented.
“Madam, may I present my brother, Mr. Charles Hunter, and my sister and her husband, Lord Ethan a
nd Lady Sarah Travis?”
The men gave her a polite bow while Lady Sarah, a lovely, slender woman with violet eyes, came forward and took her hand. “How nice to make your acquaintance, madam.”
That was the first truly sincere greeting Elise had heard since arriving back in London. It was likely because Lady Sarah had not heard the on dit regarding her. “And yours, Lady Sarah.”
Lockwood looked as if he regretted the introductions. “Go on without me,” he told his party. “I’ll find you in a few minutes.”
She and Lockwood stood in silence until the others had passed into the ballroom. Then he turned back to her and said, “Well, here we are, alone at last, Daphne.”
He used the name like a weapon to wound her. She lifted her chin and stiffened her spine to take his scorn. “I suppose an apology would not be enough?”
“You suppose rightly.” His voice dripped sarcasm but his face remained impassive. To any observer, they might appear to be discussing the weather.
“Then there is no possible way I can make amends, Lord Lockwood, since I have nothing else to offer.”
He ran one strong finger down her arm. “I can think of dozens of things. A baker’s dozen.”
Her knees weakened at the low tone of his voice and the memory of his intimate touch. “You know I cannot.”
“You had no such qualms before. Why come all missish now? Is adultery not the same in London as it is in St. Claire?”
“I… I did not know that Barrett…” Oh, how could the truth make any difference now except to cause them both pain? Perhaps it would be easier if he thought the worst of her. “That he would find me,” she finished in a rush.
“You made me an adulterer, Elise. That was one of the few sins left that I had not committed. Were you laughing when I told you I loved you? Asked you to marry me?”
She looked down. She could not bear the rawness in his tone, the anger and revulsion in his eyes. “It would be best if we did not speak again.”
“Not so fast, m’dear,” he said, staying her with a hand on her arm. “I am entitled to recompense, am I not? I think I shall take it a little at a time. Savor it.”
“Barrett—”
“Is a toad,” he finished. “And will not stand in my way.”
Little matter that Barrett would take his fury out on her. Doubtless that would not stand in Lockwood’s way, either. An angry retort hovered on her tongue.
“Well, well! What is this? A St. Claire reunion?”
Relief mingled with fear as she turned toward the voice behind her. “Mr. Doyle, how nice to see you again.”
Lockwood scowled. “Doyle. What are you doing here?”
“In England?” he asked, a jovial smile on his face. “Has our little baker not told you? We were shipmates on the voyage home. I’ve been reassigned. I’ll be bound for India come spring.”
“You were traveling together?” Lockwood looked at her and she could see the disgust in his face. He suspected her of sleeping with Mr. Doyle! She shook her head, hoping he would believe her.
“Yes,” Doyle said, evidently missing the tension between them and the implication of Lockwood’s question. “And it would have been deuced dull without her. She was the only one on board who could play a hand of whist with any finesse. And imagine my surprise when she confessed she was Lady Barrett.”
“She told you?”
“There…seemed no point in keeping the secret any longer, since I was coming back.” Elise nearly choked on the words. “Mr. Doyle was kind enough to keep me from spending all day in my cabin.”
“Yes,” Lockwood agreed. “How fortunate you had him to…relieve your tedium.”
Mr. Doyle glanced between them and frowned. “I say, have I interrupted something?”
“I was just leaving.”
“What the devil got into him?” Mr. Doyle asked as they watched Lockwood disappear into the ballroom. “Is he angry? What did I say?”
“Nothing, sir. It was not you at all. I am afraid I have offended Lord Lockwood.”
“You? Impossible. But let’s not speak of Lockwood. I’d rather hear how you are getting on. I know you thought your husband was dead. Were you surprised? How did he receive you?”
“He expected me, Mr. Doyle. After all, he had brought my son back to England. He knew I would not be far behind.”
“Yes, and how is little William? I know you had some misgivings regarding his health.”
“William is…is well. I am here now, and Barrett has accepted me back.”
“Ah, all is forgiven, eh? Well, he’d be a fool to turn you away, madam. You are a rare prize. I am only surprised that you were amongst us on St. Claire so long and none of us guessed.” He leaned closer and whispered dramatically, “I’d have kept your secret, madam. I never give a lady away.”
She merely smiled.
“I was sorry I did not get a chance to say goodbye to you when we docked. I went looking for you, but Gilbert told me you’d dashed off the moment the gangway was down. Did you ever go back to collect your things?”
“Barrett sent for them,” she said, having only a vague recollection of her valise arriving and being taken to the attic after Barrett removed the jewels. Those garments were far too light for a London winter. “But shall we talk about you, instead? India? How exciting.”
“Yes, one of the northern regions. I am all enthusiasm. I’ve been taking lessons in Hindi, learning the history of the region and studying the political… But you are not interested in this. Shall we just say that I am embracing my new assignment and leave it at that?”
“If you wish,” she allowed. In point of fact, she did not want to let him go. He was the one friend she had in London.
“Allow me to escort you into the ballroom. Will you dance?”
The thought of Barrett’s scowl chilled her. “I fear my husband is a bit jealous. He does not like me dancing with anyone but him.”
“Ah, well. I suppose I can understand his reluctance, since he has just got you back. I would likely feel the same.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Doyle.” Much too kind.
“Well, shall we go in? I’d like to meet this husband of yours.”
“I am afraid he might not understand our friendship, sir. I shall be pleased to introduce you, but if you would refrain from mentioning that we were on shipboard together, I would appreciate it.”
He gave her his first wary look, as if he’d just now realized that her relationship with her husband was not all it should be. “Of course, madam. As you wish.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hunt stood next to the French doors in the ballroom, wishing he could get quietly drunk. He hadn’t moved from his position in more than an hour, and each time a footman had passed him, he’d taken another glass of wine. Across the room, Daph— Elise—stood by the fireplace. After introducing Gavin Doyle to her husband, she’d been left alone.
The rich plum velvet of her gown was a perfect frame for her beauty, and reminiscent of the plum silk she’d worn in St. Claire. Her embroidered silk shawl glowed with rich colors that complemented her gown. She wore amethysts at her throat and in her hair, and she stood so still that she might have been posing for a portrait.
He sipped his wine and glanced around the ballroom. Barrett was circulating, greeting friends and enemies alike. Was he too stupid to know the difference? Good God! Hunt wanted to vomit every time he thought of Elise in Barrett’s bed. This was worse by far than anything he’d imagined when he’d found her gone upon his return to San Marco.
Mrs. Herrera had denied any knowledge of where she might be. She’d said, in fact, that her employer had been “different” since Hunt had arrived on the island. She accused him of driving Mrs. Hobbs away, of imposing himself on her and taking advantage of her vulnerability. She’d said much more, and by the time she was done, Hunt had come closer than he’d ever been to striking a woman.
Harder still had been facing Mrs. Breton. Hannah. She would never know, now, how
Layton had felt about her. The impossible sadness of that brought a lump to his throat. And no, Mrs. Breton hadn’t known where Daphne had gone or why, but she wished her well and hoped she would see her again one day.
When he’d found the Gulf Stream gone from the harbor, he had a sinking feeling in his gut. Not only was Daphne gone, but he’d have to wait for the next England-bound ship before he could get off the island. Had he planned to go after her? No. She’d made it clear that she did not want him.
What stung the worst was that she hadn’t left word for him. Hadn’t scratched a single line of explanation or apology. But she’d taken the time to deed her property to her housekeeper and her business to her friend. And she’d remembered to pack the pouch of jewels in the single valise Mrs. Herrera said was missing. She’d thought of everyone but him.
Or had “Yes, Lockwood… Please. Again…” been her way of saying goodbye? He still had the taste of her on his tongue, could smell the wild orchids in her hair and feel her heat as she took him deep inside. Two months had done nothing to dull that memory or quell the hunger. He finished his wine and looked around for a footman. Instead, he found Gavin Doyle.
“Admiring our mutual friend, Lockwood? She is quite a pretty picture, is she not?”
“Quite,” he answered. He was not about to discuss the viscountess.
“I feel a little sorry for her. She looks a bit wistful—as if she belongs here, but is ill at ease.”
Hunt shrugged. “She will adjust. How long ago did you arrive?”
Doyle frowned as if he were thinking. “Nearly a fortnight now. We had a speedy voyage. Captain Gilbert said the trade currents were assisting. No storms and just one rainfall.”
Two weeks. Elise had been in Barrett’s bed for two weeks. Hunt’s stomach turned. He had better change the subject before he was tempted to put a fist through Barrett’s face.
“I hear you’ve been reassigned.”
“Yes. Delhi, India.”
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