Chapter 17 #2
Conversations died when Daphne entered Lady Parker’s crowded ballroom. Under the blaze of chandeliers, every head turned. Their eyes lingered on the deep purple silk of her gown, disapproval plain on every face.
Music drifted from the orchestra balcony, a lilting waltz at odds with the sudden hush.
But she would not stumble. She would not sweat.
Charlotte slipped her arm through Daphne’s in quiet solidarity. “Head high. Remember, they’re only vultures if you look like carrion. And you look exquisite tonight.”
She would have preferred to blend into the cream walls, hide behind the burgundy curtains, or find a quiet alcove and hope Mrs Foster ambled by.
But if Dominic had taught her anything, it was to own her space. To turn disdain to one’s advantage.
“If that chin dips, you’ll sleep in the coal shed tonight,” Charlotte teased. “Remember, walk slowly. Pause before speaking. Elegance comes not from jewels or fine clothes, but from presence.”
Charlotte guided her through the throng with practised ease, nodding to acquaintances and ignoring those who stared.
“You’re certain Mrs Foster will be here?” Daphne searched the sea of heads, looking for a woman with too much rouge and hair as wild as a bird’s nest.
“Her new protector is Lady Parker’s brother—Lord Ainsley. He never misses a ball.” Charlotte leant closer. “He would rather scandalise the room than be thought dull.”
“I suppose she’ll follow him around like a lapdog until he’s settled her debts.” Daphne didn’t smile. What would Mrs Foster do for money? Practically anything, it seemed. Did that extend to murder?
They circled the ballroom in search of the woman. Men gravitated towards Charlotte and looked straight through Daphne. Part of her was almost relieved. Her heart belonged elsewhere.
Charlotte tugged her sleeve. “There, by the terrace doors.”
Mrs Foster loitered beside a potted palm, peering through the fronds as though she were invisible. It might have helped had she not worn canary yellow.
Daphne followed the line of her gaze to Lord Ainsley—and stopped.
Dominic stood near the marble fireplace, listening with that same guarded stillness she knew too well. He didn’t spare Lord Ainsley a glance. He looked at her as if they were alone in the dark, his eyes slowly stripping away her clothes.
The air left her lungs. She should have looked away. Instead, the music seemed to fade as her thoughts returned to the memory of their entwined fingers and the hope nothing could part them.
Dominic.
For a moment she forgot why she had come.
Lord Ainsley had his own distractions. A curt nod at Mrs Foster and the woman disappeared through the terrace doors.
“We should follow her into the garden,” Daphne said, eager to put distance between her and Dominic before her composure deserted her completely.
Charlotte agreed, but her step faltered at the terrace doors.
“What’s wrong?” Daphne asked.
“Nothing.” Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly on the door frame. “I once learned a harsh lesson in a garden.” She released a quiet breath and stepped outside. “Come. I see her heading for the rotunda.”
Mrs Foster was not draped gracefully upon a stone bench like a goddess of Olympus. She was crouched behind the garden temple, ducking like a thief avoiding the watch.
“Mrs Foster,” Daphne called, leaning around a pillar. She found the woman sipping from a silver flask. “Is there something wrong with Lady Parker’s champagne? There’s ratafia if you prefer.”
“Go away,” came the brusque reply. Mrs Foster pushed the stopper back into the flask and slipped it into her reticule. “If Mr Hawke sees me talking to you, he’ll have my guts for garters.”
“You have greater worries than that.”
Mrs Foster jerked as if a rat trap had snapped beneath her feet. “No. Tell me you’ve not found more. I thought Ainsley was the only one.”
Daphne caught the sharp scent of brandy on her breath. “The only one?”
“The only loan amongst your father’s belongings.”
Daphne shook her head, though she was not entirely confused. Dominic’s story rang in her mind like a warning.
“My father’s debts are not your responsibility.”
Mrs Foster grasped her hand. “They’re not?” She sagged with relief. “Thank heavens. You persuaded Mr Hawke to settle the debt, as he did with Mr Moseley. Your aunt received a letter this morning, confirming the account has been paid.”
The injustice of it burned.
Her aunt would benefit from Dominic’s generosity and whatever remained in the will. Even in death, her father meant to punish her.
“I couldn’t possibly ask Mr Hawke for such a favour.” Yet the thought of repaying him in kind was tempting. “He believes you know something about his mother’s death.”
“Me?” She clasped her chest and stumbled back. “I never knew her. I met your father months after he ended his affair with Mrs Hawke.”
Questions filled her mind, but she focused on the one that might prove her father’s innocence—at least in this.
“You were his lover for a decade, yet never had a child.”
Mrs Foster paused. Her throat worked before she said, “After his riding accident, he was incapable.”
That was the answer Daphne had hoped to hear.
But why the hesitation? Why the strain?
“You know what was said about my father and Mrs Hawke.” She had to tread carefully. It wasn’t her place to repeat such a guarded secret, though Dominic had accused Lord Templeton outright.
“He swore it wasn’t true.”
Daphne needed her to be specific. “You believed him?”
“He had no reason to lie.”
“Other than Mr Hawke might kill him for it.”
Mrs Foster stepped closer. “We spoke about it at the time. Before Mr Hawke built his sordid empire. Before he stormed into Lord Templeton’s ball to ruin you.”
Ruin? Daphne remembered Dominic’s hand closing around hers, the music fading as he led her from the floor. In that moment he had felt less like a scandal and more like salvation.
She forced the image aside. “You’re avoiding the question. Did you believe him?”
“Yes. He blamed Lord Templeton. There was some question about the timing. Your uncle acted as mediator. He took the physician’s report to Shadowmere as proof.”
She resisted the urge to gasp. “Proof he couldn’t be—”
“The child’s father.” Mrs Foster raised her hands as though calling for calm. “It was a long time ago. The details scarcely matter now.”
They mattered to Dominic. More now than ever.
“What did Lord Templeton say at the time?”
Mrs Foster’s composure cracked. “I don’t know.” She gripped the pillar and glanced towards the house. “You need to leave. I’ll not give Lord Ainsley a reason to raise the interest.”
Interest. “Tell him you won’t pay.”
“I can’t. He’s covering the rent.”
Charlotte leaned towards Daphne. “If we’re finished, we should go. Lord Ainsley has stepped onto the terrace. He’s one to avoid.”
Still, Daphne had one more question. “There were ligature marks on my father’s wrists when they found his body. Was it a game gone wrong? An accident you made look like murder.”
Mrs Foster paled. “I hated what that man made me do.” She shuddered with revulsion. “But you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“Lord Ainsley is coming this way—” Charlotte stopped abruptly. “Wait. Hawke has called him back. They’re talking on the steps.”
Daphne looked at Mrs Foster. “Once I have the truth and my father’s killer is in custody, I shall find a way to free you of the debt.”
She moved to leave, but Mrs Foster caught her arm. “Your father spoke with Lord Templeton before he left the ball. They agreed to meet privately that night, after he’d visited Mr Irving. I don’t know if they ever did. But I can’t risk causing trouble.”
Daphne went stone-still.
Lord Templeton and her father, meeting in secret the night of the murder. The implications were difficult to ignore. No wonder he’d argued with Dominic. Templeton was up to his neck in the mire.
Charlotte touched her sleeve. “We must go.”
“Is Dominic still there?”
“Yes. Ainsley’s gone, but Hawke hasn’t moved.”
She stepped onto the grass and saw him beneath the terrace lamps, his hands clasped behind his back, though she remembered how they felt on her skin. The firm line of his mouth was unchanged, though she knew how it softened when he kissed her.
Her pulse quickened as she drew nearer, unsure how he would greet her. With warmth or the cold civility he had shown the day before?
His gaze never left her as she mounted the steps.
She managed a smile. “Mr Hawke.”
He inclined his head. “Miss Harland.”
Formality sat between them like a stone wall.
Unsure what to do, she stepped past him, but his hand closed around her wrist. Not roughly. Firm enough that she felt the heat of his fingers through her glove.
“Dance with me.”
It was the last thing she should do.
A dance would be a slow, exquisite form of torture.
She lifted her chin. “Is that an invitation or a command, Mr Hawke?”
He held her gaze. “I seek permission, Miss Harland.”
That, more than the request itself, undid her.
She should have refused. Thought of her sanity.
Instead, she said, “Very well. Perhaps we might compare notes. I assume you’re here to make enquiries.”
“Something like that.”
Charlotte excused herself. “I believe I see someone I ought to greet. I’ll leave you to your enquiries.”
Dominic inclined his head, but they did not follow Charlotte into the ballroom. Relaxing his grip on her wrist, he closed the distance between them and every nerve in her body sparked to life.
“Shall we dance here on the terrace?”
“The terrace?” She had to admit the idea was romantic.
“I know you like to feel breathless beneath the stars.”
Only when he was the cause.
She glanced towards the ballroom. “Without music?”
“We don’t need music.”
“We don’t?”
“When we touch, we always find a rhythm.”
He guided her into the first step, his hand settling at her waist with a familiarity that caught her breath.
Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“And I thought you wore that exquisite gown to torment me.”
“Charlotte thought deep plum would suit me.”
“It does. A little too much.”
“You seem to like everything I wear.”
“It isn’t the clothes.”
His thumb shifted slightly against her waist, easing the knot in her chest. He wasn’t angry. Not distant or cold.
Yet she didn’t understand why he’d asked her to dance. And while she wanted nothing more than to lean into him, their differences still lay between them.
“I didn’t lie about my reasons for staying at Shadowmere. I was angry and afraid and had nowhere else to go.”
He breathed slowly through his nose. “You should have told me Charlotte offered you an incentive to stay. There would have been no misunderstanding between us then.”
“You said I could use the cottage until we’d caught my father’s killer. And I told you more than once I planned to leave. We spoke of Oxford and Bath.”
“I thought us being lovers changed that.”
Lovers. The word settled in a place reserved for him.
He held her so she could feel his hard body.
“I can’t read minds, Dominic.”
“Yet you live in mine.”
The admission sent a ripple of heat through her. She could not have this conversation—not now. Her emotions were too raw, and they had come here to find a killer.
She steadied herself. “Then perhaps we should focus on why we’re here tonight. Lord Templeton—”
“I don’t give a damn about Templeton.” His voice cut across hers. “I told him I’d shoot him if I saw him again.”
His fingers gave a brief squeeze as they turned.
“Mrs Foster said my father arranged to meet Lord Templeton on the night he died. A man his size could throw a body over Blackfriars Bridge. And he had motive.”
She felt him stiffen.
“Yes. He wished to hide the deplorable way he treated my mother. Templeton knew I’d kill him if I found out. I still might.”
Her step faltered, but he firmed his grip on her waist.
“I’m quite sure your mother meant to save you, not see you hanged for ridding the world of a wastrel.”
Perhaps the word might was important. Vengeance had been his only goal before … before them. Something had changed.
They turned slowly across the terrace, the lamps casting long shadows over the stone, a faint breeze lifting the hem of her gown. She was reluctant to say more, but he needed to hear the truth.
“Mrs Foster recalled something that happened years ago. My uncle acted as mediator. He took the physician’s report to Shadowmere to prove the accident had left my father incapable. That only left Lord Templeton. No other names were mentioned.”
He swore under his breath. “That bastard.”
He stopped dancing, though he held her tight.
Unsure what he might do, she reminded him of one important fact. “Without proof, it’s hearsay. Perhaps if you told me how she died, we might make a case against him.”
The answer did not come easily.
“Poison,” he said at last. “No one else knows but the physician who attended her. A good man who’s no longer with us.”
It wasn’t the shock that made her heart stumble, but the water gathering along his lower lashes. Whatever they were to one another now, he trusted her with the truth.
“I can see why you stormed into the ballroom bent on vengeance.” Why he had not given the daughter of his enemy a second thought. “I’ll visit my aunt tomorrow. She will corroborate the story.”
He cleared his throat. “You’ll not go alone.”
“If you appear beside me, she’ll say nothing at all. I’ll suggest we meet at a coffeehouse.” If she went home, her aunt would insist she live under her roof, not Charlotte’s.
“I’ll sit where she can’t see me.”
“Dominic, everyone notices you.”
“Then take Charlotte.”
She touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
He studied her for a moment, as though deciding whether to argue further. Perhaps he didn’t wish to overstep after his careless mention of marriage.
“Very well. I’ve business of my own tomorrow.”
“Business?” She had no right to ask.
“I’m meeting friends. We’ve compiled a list of properties owned by Irving. We mean to find the missing clerk.”
“Will you send word if you do?”
“I’ll be in town for a few days. May I call on you at Charlotte’s?” He paused before saying, “I need to know if your aunt confirms Mrs Foster’s story.”
“Of course.”
He held her gaze a second longer, as though reluctant to let the moment end. Slowly, his hand slipped from her waist.
The absence left her feeling as hollow as a drum.
She drew a breath. “Is our dance at an end, Mr Hawke?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You know it’s not.”