Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Daphne woke to the solid warmth of Dominic beside her, to the tender ache in her chest, to the knowledge this wasn’t a dream.
He loved her.
Dominic Hawke.
A ruthless scoundrel to most. Hers alone in the dark.
He looked peaceful as he slept, nothing like the dangerous owner of a house that catered to sin. The man was a walking contradiction. While his hand rested gently on her hip, the scar on the arm braced above his head told its own story.
She watched him, wondering how they might manage when she could not live at Shadowmere and he would never relinquish the empire he’d built.
Perhaps they could find common ground.
Some arrangement to suit them both.
One of them would have to yield, and she knew who it would be.
But there was little point worrying now. Finding the clerk was Dominic’s priority. She would prod her aunt’s conscience. If Lord Templeton was a lying toad, surely she would know.
Dominic shifted, his leg brushing hers beneath the coverlet, his fingers firming on her hip. The memory of him inside her had heat pooling between her thighs.
She raised the sheet a fraction and lingered, her gaze moving slowly over him, the dark stubble along his jaw, the hollow at his throat, the broad expanse of his chest, lower still to the lean line of his hips and—
Sweet Mary.
He was already aroused.
“Lost something, angel?”
She dropped the bedsheet. “Yes, my inhibitions.”
He pulled her closer. “You won’t find them down there.”
“No. I lost them in a cottage at Shadowmere.”
His hand slid from her hip to the curve of her backside. “Or the garden. You weren’t so shy beneath the stars.”
“You’re entirely to blame, of course.”
The squeeze on her bottom stoked the fire in her belly.
“You sound surprised. I am a rotten scoundrel.” He rolled her on top of him with ease. “Perhaps I should remind you how wicked I am.”
The solid length of him pressed against her. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her over him in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Shall we stop?”
“Certainly not.”
He kissed her, his tongue moving in long, languid strokes.
“Will you take the lead, or shall I?” The husky timbre of his voice sent a shiver through her. “Well?”
She answered by rising over him and guiding him into her, just as she had last night. They moved together, achingly slow at first, then so fast and urgent her heart thumped wildly in her chest.
They fell back onto the bed, breathless, his arms closing around her. Below, doors opened and closed, voices drifted up, the clatter of the house going about its business, while he murmured something about doing it again.
“Now I know why you insisted I replace the trundle bed.” She touched his chest but it only fed her growing need for him.
The sudden chime of the church bells striking noon had them both sitting upright.
“Bloody hell.” He groaned, reaching for his trousers, nearly knocking his grandmother’s teacup off the nightstand. “I heard the milkmaid and must have fallen back to sleep.”
“Charlotte’s thick curtains earn their keep.” She felt his gaze linger on her bare skin as she crossed to the armoire in search of a clean chemise. “I thought she’d have sent the maid to wake us. We need water for the washbowl and I must write a note to my aunt.”
“I’m supposed to be at The Sentinel in an hour.”
She opened the drawer and took a pair of stockings.
“Is that where you’re meeting your friends?” She didn’t know he had friends besides Mr Ramsey and Mr Beattie.
“Stanton owns The Sentinel. He sent me the physician’s report. Montfort is skilled in picking apart legal documents and should have a list of all Irving’s properties.”
“So you won’t be scouring dockland warehouses alone?”
“No.” He looked at her, his gaze tracing the line of every curve. “I won’t be leaving this room if you insist on standing there like that.”
She was tempted to tease him, but pulled on her chemise. “You will be careful? Dockworkers are a different breed, and Mr Irving pays well enough to buy their loyalty.” A thought intruded. “The clerk may already be dead.”
He took his shirt and shook it out. She considered pulling up a chair and watching him dress.
“Sergeant Carter suspects the clerk is hiding, in fear for his life. That he can identify your father’s killer.”
“You spoke to Sergeant Carter?”
She almost said ‘without me’.
“I called at Bow Street yesterday and reminded him of the clerk’s importance to the case. He’s had the watchman monitor the clerk’s house, in the hope the maid might lead us to him.”
“You didn’t tell him you were searching Mr Irving’s properties?”
“I mentioned that the marriage contract in Irving’s possession is a forgery. And that it bears the clerk’s signature.” He shrugged on his coat. “He knows I’m gathering a list of his properties but not that I’m scouting them today.”
She had barely fastened the last button on her chemise and he was dressed and raking his fingers through his hair.
He crossed the room, his hands settling on her bare forearms before he kissed her as if he meant to bruise her lips.
“Do you mean to brand me, Mr Hawke?”
“I mean to mark every inch. But if I don’t leave now, I never will.”
“Will you not wait for the water?”
“I’ll change at the hotel.” His arm came around her, his hand cupping her bottom. “Come to Mivart’s tonight. We could bathe together.”
She laughed softly. “And I thought you weren’t a romantic, Mr Hawke.”
Aunt Augusta had agreed to meet her at Pickins coffeehouse in Bishopsgate at four, conveniently close to her modiste. She had refused to pack Daphne’s things, stating matters had gone too far and it was time she came home.
She was already waiting in a discreet booth near the back when Daphne arrived and had ordered them both tea and lemon seed cake.
Her aunt muttered under her breath as she glanced at Daphne’s old blue pelisse from beneath the rim of her dark bonnet. “Have you no shame, girl? Surely the maids at Shadowmere have something black.”
“I’m not in mourning.”
“It does no harm to keep up appearances, though your father is still at the morgue pending enquiry.”
Daphne slid into the booth. “I’m told Sergeant Carter is looking for the witness who disappeared under suspicious circumstances.”
Aunt Augusta made a small puffing sound. “What was he doing, lurking by the river at night? No good, I should think. He could be a footpad in disguise. You know your father’s signet ring is missing?”
“Yes, Mr Hawke said the police suspect robbery.”
Her aunt scowled. “I warrant Hawke stripped it from his finger before he tossed him in the Thames.”
“Mr Hawke did not murder Papa.”
“You would say that. You’re in bed with the devil.”
“He has an alibi.”
“Yes, he was at Mivart’s gorging on the bones of his victims.”
“That’s enough, Aunt,” Daphne snapped.
Aunt Augusta sighed before nodding. “Let’s not bicker. Heaven knows we have enough strife coping with the gossip.” She smoothed her gloves and flicked her hand at the teapot. “You pour, dear. My nerves are in tatters since you left.”
Doubtless, this was the first of many jibes. Daphne steeled herself and poured the tea. “Have you heard from the solicitor? Has he mentioned the details of the will?”
“Once your father’s debts are settled, I’ll be counting the pennies in one hand. The fool mortgaged the house.”
The news came as no surprise. There was a reason he’d decided to sell his own daughter.
“It wasn’t to pay the Moseley brothers. You know they hound the family for the debt. You owe Mr Hawke your gratitude.”
Her aunt shivered. “I suppose he’ll want blood.”
“I’m sure he’ll settle for an explanation.” She took a long sip of tea, watching her aunt’s reaction over the rim of her cup.
“About what?” Her aunt harrumphed. “If it’s about your trip to Bengal, that wasn’t my idea. The pressure of the loan left your father doolally.”
“There’s the debt Mrs Foster is working to pay.”
Her aunt paled. “For heaven’s sake, speak quietly.” She glanced about as if the walls had ears. “Look. I see no harm in telling you now. Your father had a particular arrangement with her. She … provided certain services … to ease his financial burden.”
Daphne froze. She’d been living with a monster who deserved to rot in hell, not the city morgue.
“I know that Mrs Foster is currently paying Father’s debt to Lord Ainsley.”
Aunt Augusta leant closer. “It’s a dreadful affair. I had to give her some items from the house. The last of the silver. Your mother’s pearl earrings and cameo brooch.”
The comment landed like a stone in water.
Daphne dropped the cup on the saucer, the clatter ringing through the coffeehouse. A few people turned their heads to stare.
“They weren’t yours to sell,” she said through clenched teeth. “They were bequeathed to me. Besides the locket, they were all I had left of her.”
It was her own fault. She had left the most precious things behind.
Her eyes stung, though whether from grief or the blur in her vision, she couldn’t say.
“We’ll find a way to buy them back from the pawnbroker.” Her aunt took a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the spilt tea, then refilled Daphne’s cup. “It was only a temporary measure.”
“Did my father have the same arrangement with my mother?” she blurted. “She was so desperate to repay a loan, she begged the Moseley brothers for money.”
Aunt Augusta puckered her lips. “Who told you about the loan?” She poured the last of the milk into Daphne’s cup. “Your mother made us swear never to mention her … spending.”
Why was this the first she’d heard of it?
Why was Augusta not drinking her tea?
“That’s not the reason Mr Moseley gave.”
Aunt Augusta took a lump of sugar in the nippers and dropped it into her cup. “What did he say?” The spoon clinked against the china as she stirred. “You can hardly trust a moneylender’s word.”