“I’m not privy to that information, but I promised her that it wouldn’t be read.” Paul stared at Alex. Daphne’s words that her brother would be devastated rang in Paul’s thoughts. Even with his newfound esprit de corps with Pembrooke and the others, Paul wouldn’t allow anyone to read Daphne’s writings. Her wishes drove Paul’s every action tonight.
With a nod, Pembrooke followed Paul. Somerton and Devan headed toward the opposite end of the building. One of Devan’s colorful curses followed the crash of something tipping over and falling to the floor. The brittle sound of glass breaking echoed through the large room.
Paul left his friend’s mostly silent yowling for Somerton to manage as he and Pembrooke methodically searched the two rooms closest to the front entrance of The Midnight Cryer office. The first offered little in way of hints of the diary’s whereabouts. The room contained hundreds upon hundreds of copies of the rag’s previous issues. As the piles attested, the paper’s talent for finding tidbits of gossip had become its primary focus. Tales of illicit liaisons, curious cuckoldry, and peculiar peccadilloes were rife through its pages and brought in a considerable amount of money. By far, the most popular features were the ones that ruined the ladies of society.
Paul’s gut tightened. Daphne would not suffer such a fate.
What a farce.
Hadn’t he already ruined her by taking her to bed? Dancing on the edge of ruin was nothing for him, but Daphne didn’t deserve the results of his selfishness. He exhaled and pushed the thoughts away. He could mourn later, after he had the journal. Not now.
With quick steps, Paul and Pembrooke headed toward the room closest to the front door. Pembrooke pressed down on the latch and pushed forward, but the door, like a mighty fortress, gave nothing. It was locked.
“Farris,” Paul whispered with a low growl. “We’re in dire need of your locksmith skills.”
The sound of two pairs of footsteps quickly made their way to them. Somerton stood behind with his lantern lifted in the air as Devan knelt and worked on the mechanism. Clicks from the lock and curses from Devan erupted into a quiet cacophony of sounds. Finally, after several long moments, a clack and a snap burst through the night. Devan stood and opened the door. He waved his hand as if inviting them all into the room for a civilized tea.
Before they could enter, a commotion broke outside in the street. A hackney carriage pulled in front of the shop’s front entrance with the horses’ neighing signaling their displeasure at the abrupt stop.
“Someone is here,” Paul hissed. “You need to leave.”
After a glance to the shop’s entrance, Somerton nodded and gave the lantern to Paul. “Farris and I will have your coachmen wait at the end of the alley. We need to leave immediately upon your arrival. Hurry.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Pembrooke said.
Paul shook his head. “No time to argue. If I’m not out in five minutes, leave without me.”
Pembrooke hesitated, then nodded and followed the other two.
None of his friends could afford to be discovered. For that matter, neither could he. A duke accused of stealing was a rare phenomenon, and Paul didn’t want to stir up any more scandal than he already would. He swept into the office and prayed he’d find the journal quickly.
His gaze shot to the large window in the office that faced the street in front of Richmond’s business.
“They’re in there, Mr. Richmond.” The street urchin peered inside. “I saw all four of ’em go in.”
Several large men stood behind the boy. The jingling of keys sounded like warning bells.
Paul swept into the office. If there was a merciful God, he’d find the journal before the men discovered him stealing from The Midnight Cryer. Richmond would have not only his life story but also another titillating tale of how low the Duke of Southart had sunk. Paul had little doubt the man would bring charges of stealing against him.
As if a beacon guided him, Paul immediately walked to the desk. Notes and inkstands cluttered the entire surface. He swept his gaze across the papers and bent to open a desk door, but in the middle of the desktop a journal lay like a sacrifice on an altar.
The worn claret-colored leather was ordinary, but the sight of a gold-leaf emblem of a diving magpie in the middle of the volume brought a smile to Paul’s face. It matched the black one Daphne had given him for Christmas. He picked it up, and immediately an image of his Moonbeam came to the forefront of his thoughts.
The jangle of the keys became louder as the front door opened. Richmond’s voice boomed through the interior of the building. “Search the premises. I’ll start in my office.”
Paul turned with the journal, then stopped. He reached into a small pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved five guineas. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the coins on the desk. As Richmond’s heavy steps moved closer, Paul slipped from the room and headed to the back exit.
“There’s one of the gents,” the boy announced.
One of Richmond’s henchmen stumbled over a desk and dropped his lantern. A sudden explosion caused the room to light up like a midday sun had burst on the scene. Paul held his arm up to his eyes to protect his vision. Screams and shouts filled the night.
“Run!” one of Richmond’s men called out. “The fire is headed for the ink vat.”
Paul watched as the fire gained momentum from the papers strewn in a haphazard manner on the floor. Another sudden explosion rocked the building. The fire had grown three times in size. The level of heat that surrounded him hinted that the building would soon be engulfed in flames. Richmond and his men stood on the other side of the massive fire completely separated from Paul, who held Daphne’s diary. The only way they could catch him would be to run out the front door and turn at the corner of the street.
Paul didn’t look back but quickly made his way outside. He ran toward the end of the alley only to discover the carriage was gone and the street empty.
Someone yanked the neck of his greatcoat. “Imagine meeting you here, Your Grace.”
Paul clenched his fists, then swung around, knocking the blackguard to the ground.
“Whoa, Southart,” chuckled Lord William. “I’m just trying to help.” In a second, he was on his feet. “Come. We must leave.”
Paul nodded, but the effort did little to calm the roar to fight that crashed through him. He chanced a glance back at the building. Through the windows, orange and red flames fought their way outside as others crawled up the interior walls.
William mounted the horse next to him, then gave Paul a hand. With a silent huff of breath, Paul leapt on the horse behind William. The horse shot forward through the alley and rounded the corner into a side street.
Richmond’s deep bellow followed them. “Go find them. They left on horseback.”
Paul didn’t dare turn around to see if they’d been followed. Instead, he asked, “Who sent you?”
“No one.” William turned his head sideways and continued, “I was on my way to White’s and saw you, Pembrooke, Somerton, and Farris emerge from your house. It looked like a jolly good time, so I followed. I found your carriage and the others running toward it.”
“Did they tell you what we were doing?” Paul asked. The sounds of Richmond’s men following them had disappeared into the night.
“No.” William turned his attention back to the horse. When they approached the main road, he reeled the horse down another side street, then turned his head to address Paul again. “I guess it has something to do with a family member?”
Paul simply stared straight ahead. Under no circumstances would he divulge Daphne’s secret to Lord William Cavensham or any other family member.
The exertion of carrying two men together caused the horse to slow to a walk. The easier pace allowed more conversation.
Will turned once more in the saddle and regarded him. “Well, I’ll wager it has something to do with Daphne.”
Paul fought the urge to snap at the rogue in front of him. Instead, he echoed
Daphne’s words, “It’s none of your concern.”
William’s deep belly laugh broke the stillness of the night. “That’s the exact same look you gave me when I kissed her under the mistletoe.”
Paul lifted one brow in haughty indifference.
“Don’t misunderstand. I’ve never had any interest in her except as family. Since she is part of my family, I don’t want her hurt.” After meandering through various alleys and passageways, William miraculously led them from a side street to the front of Paul’s ducal mansion. “Besides, I can’t become entangled in an affair of the heart. I’m off to Northumberland again. I’m managing my great-aunt’s estate. It’s hard to woo a woman when I’ll probably be in the north for at least a month or so.”
Paul slipped off the horse with the journal clutched in his hand. “Then why did you kiss her?”
William soothed his black gelding with a pat, then turned his steely gaze to Paul. “You can’t deny she is beautiful. Plus, it was Christmas. When else would I get a chance to kiss her?”
Without waiting for an answer, William rode off into the night, leaving Paul with a feeling of accomplishment seasoned with an acute sense of failure. He turned and found the loyal Southart butler waiting for his return. He would never refer to himself as Southart again, since he was nothing more than a bastard—a no-name noble masquerading as an aristocrat.
His sense of failure melted into longing. He wanted it to be Daphne who waited for him instead of Ives. The thought he’d not have her in his life drove him mad. But what could he offer her? He possessed an identity that brought him shame. He couldn’t burden her with that. She deserved a man who legitimately bore a worthy title, a well-intentioned man who could love her only as she deserved.
Paul let the pain have free rein over his thoughts and body. Every part of him ached knowing that he couldn’t have her as his wife.
As soon as he released the diary to Devan, Paul’s last connection to her would be finished.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rufina gently kneaded Paul’s leg. Distracted, he leaned against the winged Bergère chair upholstered in ivory brocade with the Southart seal embroidered in gold thread. A matching chair to the left faced the blazing fireplace that radiated warmth throughout the ground floor library. The fire made little difference as Paul sat frozen.
When he’d arrived home with the journal, it was after midnight. He’d sent Ives to bed, then roamed the halls like a ghost trying to find some contentment so he could rest. Throughout his walks, he’d held Daphne’s journal. Eventually, as he always did when he needed comfort, he found himself in Robbie’s room.
Paul had sat on his brother’s bed for what could have been five minutes or five hours. Time wasn’t a concept he appreciated tonight.
He corrected himself—he sat on his half brother’s bed. The normal peacefulness that usually embraced him when he sat in Robbie’s domain had entirely disappeared.
To distract himself, he’d opened a drawer on the table next to Robbie’s bed and found a book of children’s poems. Paul hadn’t seen it in years, but it had been his favorite as a child. Without complaint, Robbie had read them aloud repeatedly until Paul had memorized every one. He gently flipped open the book and a piece of paper, an unfinished letter addressed to him in Robbie’s handwriting, fell to the floor. It was almost as if Robbie had reached out to him this evening to offer his own comfort. When Paul had picked up the note, his trepidation had grown acute.
Unable to read it, he sought refuge in the library. He couldn’t bear any more pain this evening. Rufina had followed and hadn’t left his side since. Lady Margaret had the right of it. He needed a friend, and Rufina was fitting the bill nicely. Even her rough purr offered some solace.
It didn’t soothe the hunger that threatened to devour every inch of him. He craved Daphne more than life itself.
Absently, he stroked the soft fur behind the kitten’s ears. Rufina stretched, and the slight movement upended Daphne’s journal, which rested balanced on his leg. With a soft thud, it landed on the floor open. With his hand grasping the kitten, thus ensuring she wouldn’t fall, Paul bent and retrieved the journal.
His eyes betrayed him as he tried to shut the book. The opened page described an event he had a hard time recalling. The date written in a neat feminine hand indicated that Daphne had been ten at the time. Her words caused everything within him to still.
Today, Paul made my mother cry. He left a wildflower bouquet on the breakfast table. When she asked who they were for, he’d winked at me, then answered they were for her.
He’d remembered it was her birthday when no else did.
Of course, I recalled her special day. I embroidered a new tablecloth for her. I planned to give it to her last Christmas to make up for the cloth I ruined last summer. But it took longer than I thought. I kept missing stitches and having to go back and correct my mistakes. The hem was quite crooked. One spot looked like Athena took a bite out of it, but Mother said it was beautiful.
After breakfast, I took one of Paul’s daisies back to my room and pressed it in this journal as a token of the day. I’d never seen my mother cry before.
Proof that Paul Barstowe is a rakehell of the worst kind to make a woman cry—even if they were happy tears.
He skimmed forward and found another entry.
If it hadn’t been for Paul, my entire life would have been ruined last night. Mother insisted I attend the local assembly dance as a way to prepare for my upcoming Season. Of course, Alice attended and every man in the room had asked her to dance. I, on the other hand, stood like a tree stump rooted to the side of the room. Not a single man offered to dance with me.
But then Paul appeared. Every woman turned and stared at him as if he were the most succulent cut of venison. Paul and Alex had planned to leave for London today, but Paul convinced Alex to stay.
Paul ignored everyone as he made his way to my side. He asked me to dance, and I swear the whole room grew quiet as we took to the floor. After the set finished, he bowed and took his leave. I could not have cared less if anyone talked to me for the rest of the night. He’d help prove that I wasn’t a wallflower.
I’m not exaggerating. When he left, he took part of my heart with him.
In spite of his melancholy, he chuckled out loud. He remembered that night. He’d tried to convince Pembrooke to attend the dance with him, but his friend had declined. Paul had known Daphne had looked forward to the assembly all week. That’s all she could talk about. When she’d come down the stairs that night looking resplendent in a simple silver silk frock, she’d been absolutely terrified that no one would dance with her.
He’d decided that he wouldn’t attend, but a nag made him change his mind. When he’d entered the Pemhill Community Assembly Hall, he’d found her immediately. Awkward and miserable, she hid in the shadows. As soon as she saw him, a smile lit her face, making her the most beautiful girl in the room.
So many of his happiest memories were tied to her.
Lord Paul Barstowe is by far the noblest man I’ve ever met. His sacrifices prove he’s a man to be admired—and dare I say it?
Yes, I do.
An honorable man who deserves love.
When Alex grieved over Alice’s death and became, frankly, unbearable, it was Paul who stood up to him and forced Alex to see how he was hurting all those around him.
When the London gossips were tearing my dearest Emma to pieces because she’d been discovered with Somerton in her bedroom at an inn, Paul came forward and offered for her. Though it broke my heart, his actions that day proved he’d help his friends no matter the cost or sacrifice.
When I was punished for ruining my mother’s best table linen, Paul snuck a basket of tarts to my room. Every time I see his face, I can’t help admiring the scar the magpie inflicted.
It’s his badge of honor.
He closed his eyes as the overwhelming awe crashed into him. She’d thought of him for years. While he’d been busy making
a mess of his life, she’d been writing about him—fantasizing about him. A wonderfully kind, not to mention spirited, woman had wanted him for ages. What a fool he’d been not to notice her until this year.
He flipped through the pages again. Any hint of Alice in Daphne’s writings Paul purposely ignored. The sexual fantasies about him made him blush. Though Daphne had been an innocent, her imagination was damn near unbelievable. Even he hadn’t experienced some of the things she’d described in detail.
If I ever have an opportunity, I hope I have the courage to tell him that I think I could fall in love with him easily. Sometimes the heart does what it wants no matter what common sense says.
His eyes burned at the tender words, but he refused to shed a tear. Such emotions would mean he deserved to be loved by her. As a bastard—even one with a noble title—he had little to offer her. He’d constantly be a thorn in her family’s side. Attending family gatherings would amount to torture for them all.
No. He’d not put his Moonbeam through such pain. He’d not make her suffer his embarrassments.
He leaned against his chair once more. The effort did little to relieve the ache in his heart as it shriveled into an empty shell. Rufina raised her head, then settled for a nap.
Tomorrow, he’d have Devan deliver the journal first thing. Paul would include a note telling her not to seek him out ever again.
If Daphne thought him noble, he couldn’t disappoint her.
Sending her away was the noblest act he would ever perform.
* * *
“My lady, I’ll go with you.” Tait stifled a yawn, but the weariness of his eyes betrayed how truly exhausted he was. All the late nights he’d sacrificed on Daphne’s behalf had caught up with him.
“No. I think it best if I go in alone.” Daphne gathered the fur muff that Paul had given her on Christmas. “Why don’t you return home? I’m certain His Grace will see me.”
She hoped she wasn’t telling a falsehood. But just to be on the safe side, Daphne planned to enter the house through the library doors if they were open. She’d not let Ives or a liveried Southart footman send her packing like an unwanted beggar.
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 30