Chapter 14 #2
“It’s likely a coincidence,” Moseley continued, unperturbed. “But it shouldn’t be difficult to investigate. Look for those who befriended Lord Harland and your father. Men who had access to both households. I can supply a few names for a price.”
Dominic inwardly sighed. “I doubt it’s one I’m willing to pay.”
Moseley grinned. “It’s always good to test the boundaries. Besides, those men will likely be enjoying the delights at Shadowmere tomorrow.” His smile thinned. “Evil men often return to the scene of their crimes.”
Dominic’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.
Not because he might have poured wine for the fiend who’d harmed his mother.
But because the villain was still out there.
A faceless man who vanished in a crowd. And if he had killed Harland to keep his secret, he might turn his attention to Daphne.
She woke to the memory of Dominic’s mouth on hers, his hand a teasing glide between her thighs.
A sweet ache lingered in her chest. The stars had faded, but his presence remained.
The bed beside her might be cold, but a part of him was there with her.
Touching a place inside her she was too afraid to name.
She shook herself.
Such thoughts were dangerous.
They ruined debutantes during their first season, made fools of the innocent, filled weak hearts with hope.
She couldn’t afford to dream. Even if his mouth was heavenly and he sometimes said tender things. She would earn her keep, not live at a man’s pleasure.
She threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed, rubbing her arms against the morning chill. There was work to be done. The timing could not be better. Guests would pile through the doors tomorrow, revellers gathering for the Autumn Masque.
Her mocking snort broke the stillness.
Guests. They did not come by generous invitation.
The Masque was not a party, but a display of Dominic’s control. He had nearly drowned in weakness once. He would not do so again.
He had told her his mother took lovers to survive. That she paid for it with her life. And that one man bore the blame. But what had happened at Shadowmere when his father died?
Dominic was not careless with his hatred. Something he had not told her drove it. If she understood that, she might understand him.
She dressed in haste, snatched Mr Beattie’s list from the table, and went in search of the taskmaster. She found him talking to Mr Ramsey outside Dominic’s study, both men frowning over a sheaf of papers. Perhaps they’d misplaced the gilded fig leaves.
“Since this business with Miss Harland, he’s not thinking straight,” Mr Ramsey said, sounding rather irate.
She considered retreating before they noticed her.
“Every move he’s made follows a logical pattern,” Mr Beattie said in clear disagreement. “Have faith. This is another rational step to him discovering the truth.”
There was nothing logical about the way he’d touched her last night. Nothing rational about succumbing to this confounding attraction.
“The truth might see him killed. When the Moseleys issue a summons, the sexton sharpens his spade.”
The men heard her sharp intake of breath.
Both turned to stare as though she were a spy at Court.
She approached. “Has Mr Hawke heard from the Moseley brothers?”
While Mr Ramsey uttered an expletive, Mr Beattie gave a reassuring smile. “A letter arrived late last night. I’m sure Mr Hawke will explain once we’ve finished preparing for the Masque.”
Last night? He had said nothing to her.
“I see the list in your hand, Miss Harland,” Mr Beattie said, a poor attempt at distraction. “If you’d care to walk with me, we’ll check the completed tasks.”
She looked at the study’s solid oak door. “I’ll speak to Mr Hawke first. I’m keen to see the letter. After all, the debt to the Moseley brothers is mine.”
She spoke like the mistress of the house, not a fugitive clinging to freedom. But she would not be kept in the dark. And they were hiding something.
Mr Ramsey moved to block her path. “Hawke’s not in there. No one enters without his permission.” He rattled the brass doorknob to prove it was locked.
“Then tell me where I might find him.”
“Who can say? The estate is vast.”
Her chest constricted. She’d negotiated enough with her father to know when men expected compliance.
But Mr Ramsey had made a mistake.
“Then I have a wealth of ground to cover, and the air will do me good.” She thrust the list at Mr Beattie. “I’m confident you’ll find no problems. If you see Mr Hawke, tell him I’m looking for him. It’s a fine day. Perhaps I’ll begin with a walk to the church.”
She turned on her heels and strode along the corridor.
Mr Ramsey followed, boots striking the boards in sharp rebuke. “You can’t leave Shadowmere. Mr Hawke gave strict instructions.”
Mr Hawke was not her keeper. Nor her master.
She did not slow, even when the burly fellow reached her side. “Direct me to Mr Hawke, and I’ll discuss it with him.”
“Wait here. I’ll see if I can locate him.”
Locate him? He had never been difficult to find.
Then it struck her. The letter. The summons.
Had he gone without telling her? Without trusting her?
Cold seeped into her bones.
Had he ridden to London? Alone?
Keen to test the theory, she said, “I’ll begin at the stables. One of the hands may have seen him. I expect he’s out ensuring there’s room to park twenty carriages tomorrow.”
Mr Ramsey stiffened. “For heaven’s sake, woman. Let me find him.”
“Why? I’ve nothing better to do.”
She’d reached the mews when Mr Ramsey caught her arm. One stall stood empty, tack hooks bare.
“Hawke isn’t here.”
“That much is obvious.” She’d known it before she set foot on the cobblestones.
“He went out early this morning to fetch supplies.”
“Supplies? You mean he rode to meet the Moseley brothers.” She faced him fully. Men summoned by the Moseleys were rarely seen at supper. “You knew, and you let him go alone?”
Mr Ramsey’s stern facade cracked. “Maybe you’re not aware, but once Hawke makes a decision, there’s no turning him.”
Oh, she was aware. At Lord Templeton’s ball, he’d decided to dance with her whether she agreed or not.
“Could you not have ridden behind and stayed out of sight?”
His nostrils flared. “This house is run on a strict set of rules. If Hawke can’t trust me to follow orders, then I’ve no business being here.”
Would it always be this way?
Would he always decide and she’d be expected to obey?
“I’m leaving the house to visit the church and the old housekeeper Mrs Buckley. I’m told she lives two miles from here.” She raised a hand to stall him when he tried to interrupt. “Any attempt to stop me won’t end well, Mr Ramsey.”
She was tired of secrets. Tired of being handled like a child.
Mr Ramsey’s laugh was more a bark. “I’ve a mind to throw you over my shoulder and tan your hide.”
Outrage stiffened her spine.
Was every man who lived here a heathen?
“You’ll not dare lay a hand on me, sir.” She scowled and prodded his chest. “I’m saving my strength for Mr Hawke, but perhaps I should test it on you.”
He found that even more amusing. “Give me fair warning. I’d like a seat in the stalls for that.”
“Do you know nothing about women, Mr Ramsey? We play the long game. Silence cuts deeper than any blow.”
She strode away, lengthening her stride when she sensed him close behind. “Do you mean to shadow me all day?”
“Wherever you go, I’m instructed to follow.”
“Then keep up,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve a fair distance to cover. I pray you’ve eaten.”
Mr Ramsey stayed with her for a mile, whistling idly at her heels. He watched her climb the stile and didn’t offer a hand.
She set off down the rutted country lane, dodging farmers’ carts laden with turnips, Mr Ramsey’s boots striking a steady march behind her. When the grey spire of All Saints rose behind the hedgerow, she angled towards it without hesitation.
She moved slowly through the churchyard, reading the names carved into stones the weather had tried to erase. She pictured him walking this path alone, flowers in hand, the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders.
Sighing, Mr Ramsey stepped ahead and pointed towards the edge of the churchyard. “Over there. Near the oak tree.”
So he’d decided to be helpful.
Perhaps he was tired and wanted to go home.
Benjamin Hawke’s grave lay neglected. Coarse grass forced its way through the cracks. The stone was dark with grime and moss. The contrast with the memorial beside it could not have been more stark. A son’s verdict, written in weeds.
“A man’s reputation follows him even in death,” Mr Ramsey said quietly. “Some say he shouldn’t rest in consecrated ground.”
She kept her gaze on the stone.
“Others say he was shot in cold blood.”
“What’s the truth?” she asked.
“No one cares.”
She looked at the memorial beside it, two white roses laid upon the grave. The plot was immaculate, the marble polished to a hard sheen.
“Mr Hawke must have loved his mother dearly. He’s not forgotten her.”
“And never will.”
She ran her fingers along the cold edge of the stone.
It would take everything she had not to yield when he returned. But if she meant to reach him, she would have to demand the truth.
“Why two roses?” There were more in the garden.
“That’s not for me to say.”
She didn’t press him. He’d said enough.
She walked out of the churchyard and followed the lane back to the stile, damp earth clinging to the hem of her skirt. She didn’t climb it, but continued on, trusting the maid’s directions.
“Mrs Buckley won’t tell you anything,” Mr Ramsey said, still trailing her like an errant ghost. “She swore an oath to her mistress and wouldn’t grant the Lord her confession.”
She did not wait for him.
“Often it’s the things people don’t say that prove telling.”
Mrs Buckley’s tiny cottage sat beyond a bend in the lane, its thatch threaded with ivy, a narrow plume of smoke rising from the chimney. Hardly the dwelling of a secret-keeper.
The woman who answered looked near seventy, her cheeks rosy from the hearth. Warm air, rich with the scent of butter and something freshly baked, met Daphne at the door.
Mr Ramsey cleared his throat. “Mrs Buckley.”
The woman’s expression brightened. “Mr Ramsey. What brings you here today?” Her kind eyes settled on Daphne. “No need to explain. I can see why you wouldn’t want her at Shadowmere this weekend.”
“Miss Harland is a guest, not a maid.”
Mrs Buckley paled, studying Daphne as though she had sprouted horns.
“Not a guest for the Masque,” Daphne corrected. “Mr Hawke allows me to stay in the cottage while we try to prove neither of us killed Lord Harland. My father.”
Her fingers gripped the jamb. “I see. Well, you’d better come in. I’ve just finished baking scones. They should be cool enough to eat.”
The cottage was well tended, copper pans polished bright above a scrubbed pine table. Standing in the warmth of it, she had almost forgotten she was furious with Dominic.
Mrs Buckley set the scones between them and poured the tea. They sat for half an hour over refilled teacups, speaking of the Masque: candles ordered, musicians engaged, the house bracing for another spectacle.
“I expect Mr Beattie is ticking jobs off his list, making sure it’s all ship-shape. That man would walk through fire for Mr Hawke.”
It was good to know someone looked after him. She doubted he made it easy.
“There were over thirty tasks on the list he gave me.” Daphne dabbed the crumbs off her lips with a napkin. “Mr Beattie will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
“I’m surprised Mr Hawke could spare you today.”
“He’s in London and doesn’t know we’re here.”
Mrs Buckley’s frown deepened. “London? The day before the Masque?”
Mr Ramsey excused himself and rose abruptly. “We should return before Beattie sends out the cavalry.”
They thanked her for her hospitality, but Daphne paused at the threshold and gripped Mrs Buckley’s hand.
“I intend to lock myself in the cottage tomorrow night, but is there anyone I should be wary of? Men I should avoid at all costs?”
Mrs Buckley patted her hand. “Spend the weekend here. Two maids are coming from Shadowmere. You won’t be alone.”
Daphne glanced at Mr Ramsey pacing the lane, then lowered her voice. “Perhaps I should. But I find myself drawn to Mr Hawke as surely as a compass points north. I must see him in his worst light if I’m to make any decisions about the future. I believe he finds solace in my company too.”
Her pulse quickened at the admission.
None of it was a lie. He did not wear his armour so tightly when he was with her.
Mrs Buckley’s smile faded. “Mr Hawke carries ghosts heavier than most. I’ve never known him seek comfort. Only justice.”
Justice. As though that were enough.
“Because of his father?”
“Because of the company his father kept.”
The journey might not be a waste after all.
“We’re seeking his creditors in a bid to find answers. My father was one. Someone killed him and threw him in the Thames.”
Guilt stirred.
She wished she cared enough to mourn him properly.
Mrs Buckley clutched her chest. “The past is best left buried.”
Buried men had a habit of resurfacing.
“The past will destroy Mr Hawke. I need to know the names of his father’s creditors. One will suffice.”
Mrs Buckley hesitated but described a few men she called gamblers and rogues. No one Daphne recognised. “That’s all I can tell you. It’s all I could tell Mr Hawke when he asked.”
“Did his mother not say anything that might help us discover the identity of these men?”
Mrs Buckley shook her head. “No. Mrs Hawke kept her own confidence. She was afraid the truth might damage her son.”
The truth had damaged him anyway.
Daphne squeezed the woman’s hand. “It’s the not knowing that hurts him most.” She paused. “If you think of anything that might prove useful, please send word to Shadowmere.”
She made to leave, but Mrs Buckley gripped her hand. “There was someone she mentioned once. It’s the only time she ever referred to the debts. She kept those secrets, even from me.”
Daphne’s heart galloped. “What did she say?”
“That Lord Templeton could bleed a desert dry and call it charity.”