Chapter 10 #2
Ramsey frowned at their exchange. If he was jealous, he could bugger off. Helping her fix the cottage all week didn’t give him any claim on her.
“Did you get what you needed in London?” Ramsey said.
Dominic ought to have recited their list of accomplishments, but all he could think about was her tongue tangled with his.
No. He hadn’t got what he needed.
He doubted he would until she was beneath him in bed.
“Mrs Haggert has agreed to arrange a meeting with the Moseley brothers. Expect her letter. Alert me the moment it arrives.”
“The witness has been kidnapped,” she added, though all Brown had done was step into a carriage. “His maid is almost certainly his lover. It’s all rather intriguing.”
“What did Mrs Flavell tell you?”
“Can we discuss it inside?” Dominic gestured towards the steps, where he’d found his father sleeping on occasion, too drunk to reach the door. “We haven’t eaten since supper.”
Ramsey shifted his stance. “There’ve been some developments here since you left. Best you hear them before you walk through that door.”
Dominic inwardly groaned.
If this was about the Masque, it could wait.
“A man named Irving called last night. Brought a big brute with him. Asked for Miss Harland by name.”
She clutched her chest and glanced around as though the fiend lurked behind the topiary. “What did he say? You didn’t tell him I’d been here? You didn’t mention the gardener’s cottage?”
“I told him I’d never heard of you. That Hawke was out of town.” Ramsey sniffed. “There was a scuffle, but Beattie marched them down the drive with two rifles aimed at their arses. Reckon they’ll be back.”
Irving clearly had a death wish.
“Make sure the footmen are armed. Keep the gates chained until the Masque. Hire more men if necessary.”
He didn’t look at her, but he felt her fear as keenly as if it were his own—her shallow breath, the stillness in her limbs.
It roused something fierce in him.
Something he had no right naming.
“Could you not have told us that inside?” Dominic said.
Ramsey gave an exasperated sigh. “We’ve another unwanted visitor. Lady Sanders arrived at dawn. She says she’s not leaving without—”
“My aunt is here?” Miss Harland paled.
“She’s come to take you home.”
Dominic tensed. Like hell she would.
“Sell me to Mr Irving, more like.” Her voice shook with fury. “She only lived with my father because she was broke. Uncle Samuel left everything to his secret family in Norfolk.”
“The Moseley brothers will expect her to repay the ten thousand pounds,” Dominic said. He knew exactly why Lady Sanders was here. Desperate people did foolish things.
“Don’t tell her you’ve agreed to pay the debt on my behalf,” Miss Harland replied. “She’s been running up credit herself, with no thought of who will settle the bills. She’ll be looking for a way to line the coffers.”
Dominic caught Ramsey’s widening eyes.
“You’re paying Harland’s debt?”
“It’s a trifle,” he said flatly. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. “The only way to keep Miss Harland from being marched aboard a ship in Fobbing Marshes.”
“And I shall find the means to repay your kindness, sir.”
“No need,” Dominic said. “Perhaps it will earn me a step towards the pearly gates.” Though he doubted he’d ever reach them. “I only wish someone had done the same for my mother.”
There. Let Ramsey call him a fool now.
“Where is Lady Sanders? Beattie had better be her shadow.”
Ramsey jerked his chin towards the hall. “In the drawing room. Taking tea. Beattie brought out the Sèvres.”
“Then let’s get this over with.”
Miss Harland leaned closer as they mounted the stairs. “I’m not leaving with her. I’m of age. She has no claim on me.”
“Trust me, Miss Harland. You’ll not leave here unless it’s of your own free will.”
He felt her gaze on him as they crossed the dark oak hall.
“If ever the day should come and you find I’m gone …” Her voice was quieter now. “Know it wasn’t you. I’d change nothing about the night you stormed into Lord Templeton’s ballroom and asked me to dance.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned leaving.
Why did he feel her slipping through his fingers? He fought the urge to reach for her hand. To hold it tight. To anchor her to him.
He’d change one thing.
He wouldn’t have left her to find her own way. To face the gossip alone. To shoulder it all without him.
My God. He was a mess.
Maybe it would be easier if she did leave.
“I gave you little choice,” he said.
The truth sat bitter on his tongue.
“Don’t you know me by now, Mr Hawke?” Her laugh was almost playful. “I danced with you because I wanted to. The decision was entirely selfish.”
He wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or fleeced.
“I suppose you kissed me to secure your ruin.”
“And because I suffered a brief bout of madness.”
If he were any other man, he’d pull her close and kiss her senseless. Say things he’d never dared admit, not even to himself.
“And I kissed you last night for precisely the same reason.”
“Then we’re even, Mr Hawke. We need never think of it again.”
He nearly laughed.
He’d thought of little else all morning.
Lady Sanders’ tea sloshed over the rim of her china cup when she laid eyes on her niece. Dressed in full mourning, her steel-grey hair scraped into a severe knot beneath a black bonnet, she thrust the saucer at Beattie, splashing drops across his pristine coat.
“Daphne! Thank heavens you’re alive.” She rose from the velvet chair in a rustle of stiff skirts, ignoring Dominic entirely. “I feared you were lying dead in a ditch … or worse. Mr Moseley is said to favour ladies of fine lineage.”
Miss Harland didn’t cross the room to greet her aunt. She remained at his side. “I’m perfectly well. Did you not receive my note?”
“Note?” Lady Sanders’ eyes widened in horror. “Your father was murdered and tossed in the Thames, and you’re worried about a missing letter?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not relieved. He left you his worldly possessions. Surely there’s enough to rent a townhouse somewhere.”
“South of the river. What on earth am I to do in Bermondsey?” She gave a delicate shudder, as though she’d been banished to the Arctic. “And really, it’s no way to talk about the man who raised you.”
Miss Harland stiffened. “The man who planned to sell me to that decrepit, cabbage-loving oaf? Who made our lives an utter misery? Who dined at White’s while we ate bread and Cook’s tasteless jam? The man who—”
“Yes, yes. Your father was a wastrel. Of that there’s no doubt.” The lady acknowledged him with a grunt. “And if you had Mr Hawke kill him, I daresay no one would blame you.”
“I have an alibi,” he said coolly. “Let me remind you, you’re in my home and will show me the respect I’m owed.”
Lady Sanders gave a mocking snort. “Mr Hawke, you run a bawdy house. Shadowmere can hardly be considered a respectable abode.”
Dominic almost smiled.
“On the contrary. I lease rooms to the elite. What they choose to do behind closed doors is their affair, not mine.”
Lady Sanders waved a hand at Miss Harland. “And is seducing my niece just another one of your rented entertainments? Or do you plan to offer her to your friends when you tire of her?”
The vein in his temple pulsed. His vision narrowed on the matron with a serpent’s tongue. Slowly, he withdrew his watch. “You have two minutes to say what you came for before I toss you out.”
Lady Sanders’ mouth opened and closed like a startled fish. “I—I came to take my niece home. Away from this perfidious den.”
“Home?” Miss Harland stepped forward, one hand settling on her hip. “Or straight to the docks and a ship bound for Bengal?”
The matron’s cheeks flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The best I can offer is a townhouse in Bermondsey. You will have to lower your sights. A solicitor or a banker perhaps. But we’ll find you a respectable suitor.”
Miss Harland was undeterred. “My place is at Shadowmere now. In whatever capacity that may be. Mr Hawke might be so eager to keep me, he’ll propose.”
Maybe in some other life. One where he wasn’t jaded and half the ton wasn’t out for his blood. Sooner or later, he’d fall short. And she deserved better.
“Propose? Mr Hawke?” Lady Sanders sneered. “They’ll have you in Bedlam, girl, with such crazed notions.”
Even Beattie couldn’t stomach the absurdity. He coughed, nearly choking on his own spittle.
“Was there anything else, Lady Sanders?” Dominic nodded towards the hall. “Unless you’d care to stay for the Masque. I’m sure we could paint you as Pomona and pin a few leaves over what’s left of your modesty.”
The old vulture stiffened under her mourning bonnet, lips pinched. “Filthy swine. My niece will come to her senses soon enough.” Her hand swept the room and stalled, as though she’d expected tawdry excess and found refinement instead. “She was made for better things than … this.”
Better? Four months crammed aboard a rat-infested steamship, bound for Bengal? Playing broodmare to a red-faced merchant eager for heirs and a pliant young wife?
“What’s better than freedom?” He was on a similar journey himself—to shed his father’s shackles, to seek retribution so those closest to him might finally rest in peace. “Perhaps you should focus on finding out who killed your brother. Name a suspect, and I’ll investigate.”
“Sergeant Carter is more than capable,” she countered. “I expect he’ll want to know what happened to Daphne.”
He didn’t take kindly to veiled threats. “By all means, tell him. Your next move will determine whether you’re sincere or just another greedy wretch with a despicable plan.”
He’d stake a fortune on the latter.
Had anyone in Miss Harland’s life not sought to profit from her? No wonder she hadn’t wept for her father. No wonder she wasn’t scrambling to start afresh with that cold-blooded relic of an aunt.
“I think that concludes our business.” He flicked a hand towards the door. “No need to finish your tea. Beattie will see you out.”
Lady Sanders drew back as though struck. “Daphne, will you stand there and allow him to speak to me in this vile manner?”
“After your cutting remarks, Mr Hawke is well within his rights.”
Lady Sanders snatched up her reticule. “I expected better of my brother’s daughter.” She drew herself up. “When you decide to behave sensibly, my door remains open.”
It was hardly surprising he felt the urge to shield her from these fiends. And he was beginning to forget that it was vengeance, not devotion, that had brought him here.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest. He was losing sight of the plan. Forgetting the woman and child whose pain had set him on this path.
He didn’t care who had killed Harland.
This was never about his own suffering.
It was never meant to be about her.
It was about making someone answer.
Happiness had never been the prize.
Daphne Harland was not meant for a man like him.