Chapter 19 #2
“He gave Mr Hawke a letter Mother sent him, asking to borrow a considerable sum.” The lie came before she could think, though her head felt a little muddled. “It’s in my valise. Did you know she was being blackmailed by a scoundrel?”
Her aunt shrank back on the bench. Something in her eyes said she did know, but she was quick to deny it.
“It’s not true. We would have known.”
“It’s in the letter. That’s why I asked you to meet.” She lifted her cup to her lips, but something sharp and unfamiliar beneath the bergamot made her pause. She only pretended to drink.
“It must be a forgery.”
“Why would Mother lie?”
“Foolish girl,” she sneered. “Mr Hawke is lying. He killed your father and is concocting an elaborate story to hide the deed. I suspect the tale about his own mother is untrue.”
What a strange thing to say.
“You know the story about his mother is true. Uncle Samuel acted as mediator. He went to Shadowmere to resolve the question of who fathered Mrs Hawke’s child.”
Her aunt stopped breathing for a moment.
She held a distant stare, the colour draining from her face.
What was so shocking about Daphne’s uncle visiting Shadowmere?
It sounded like a rather honourable thing to do.
Suspicion stirred. She thought of her uncle’s secret family in Norfolk. The children he’d sired while married to her aunt. A will that failed to name his wife.
She shook her head, though it felt as heavy as lead.
Her gaze dropped to her half-empty teacup.
Her aunt hadn’t drunk a drop.
Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest.
“You don’t look well, Aunt.” Daphne slid out from the bench, though her steps wavered, and she gripped the table for support. “I’ll ask for a pot of fresh tea. Yours is cold.”
Before she could object, Daphne crossed to the counter.
The waiter told her to take a seat and he’d be with her shortly, but it wasn’t tea she wanted.
“I need you to do something for me.” He must have thought she’d been secretly swigging brandy. Some syllables sounded slurred. “My coachman, Jones, is parked outside the modiste’s. If I’m taken ill and helped out by my aunt, you must alert him at once.”
His brow creased. She likely looked fit for Bedlam.
“Please.”
He gave a curt nod and continued pouring wine into a carafe.
She returned to the booth, glad of a seat.
“I’ve ordered you a pot of coffee instead.” Daphne drew her teacup closer. “I don’t mind drinking cold tea.”
Cold tea laced with laudanum, no doubt.
What devilry had the woman planned?
She would soon find out.
Her aunt reached across the table and patted her hand. “All that business at Shadowmere was so long ago. I’d almost forgotten until Mr Hawke stormed into the ballroom to wreak havoc.”
She blinked quickly. “Is it hot in here? I fear I’ve come over quite faint.”
“It is rather warm, but then I’m in black crepe.”
“Forgive me. I don’t feel at all well. And I barely slept a wink last night.”
That was true.
Her aunt gripped the saucer and gave it a delicate shake. “Have another sip of tea, dear. I find it soothes the spirit. Fresh air will help.”
Daphne pressed her fingers to her forehead, as though it pained her. She needed a second to think.
The only way to know her aunt’s motive for slipping her laudanum was to play the fool and go along with the plan.
Was she supposed to wake in bed at home, wrists shackled to the bedposts? Or on a ship bound for India?
There was only one way to know.
“Yes, a brief walk outside might help.” She rose as if dazed. “Wait for the coffee. I shan’t be long.”
“Nonsense. I’m coming with you.” Aunt Augusta was on her feet, wrapping an arm around Daphne’s shoulders. “You’ve caught something at that dreadful house, I expect. The things that go on there defy belief.”
“Men do like their secrets,” she said, allowing Augusta to steer her through the coffeehouse and into the small cobbled yard at the back.
“None more so than Dominic Hawke,” her aunt snapped.
“I was referring to the thing Mr Hawke said about you and Uncle Samuel.” She felt her aunt’s arm tighten against her shoulder.
“What thing? Since when did the man indulge in idle gossip?”
Daphne didn’t answer. She let her head fall against her aunt’s shoulder.
“You need a doctor.” Augusta opened the gate and peered along the alley behind. “Like your mother, you’ve a weak constitution.”
They hurried along the narrow passage, avoiding barrels and sidestepping a dead cat half-hidden in a drift of coal ash.
Daphne didn’t recognise the carriage parked in New Street, or the jarvey perched atop the box, his tricorn pulled low.
“Father sold the carriage,” she muttered.
“It’s the hired vehicle I’ve yet to return.”
Another lie. The interior was polished to a high sheen and smelled of new leather, not spilt gin and stale sweat.
Her aunt bundled her onto a padded seat and told the jarvey to hurry, but gave no direction.
Daphne gripped her reticule as the vehicle lurched forward. Beneath the velvet lining lay the pocket pistol Mrs Flavell had given her. The blade was already in her stocking.
Her aunt sat beside her, arm firm around her shoulders. “Do you remember the thing Mr Hawke told you? Think, dear.”
She rubbed her eyes and mumbled the words. “Mr Hawke. I’m in love with Mr Hawke.” It felt good to say it aloud. Even slurred, it was the truest thing she’d said all afternoon. “Lord Templeton told him about Uncle Samuel’s visit to Shadowmere.”
“Yes, to act as mediator. We’ve established that.”
Daphne rocked in her seat. What harm would it do to make a wild accusation? “And that Uncle may have fathered Mrs Hawke’s child himself.”
Perhaps she was over-performing.
She’d never been a natural actress.
Still, it hit the mark.
“That’s preposterous. Your uncle acted on your father’s behalf. He was too weak to confront the problem.” She muttered under her breath. “Your father was barely sober after your mother died.”
Yes, Daphne recalled her aunt and uncle living with them for a time. Her father had been short-tempered, snapping at her over small things. She had assumed it was grief. The hostility had never quite left him. He’d been happy for her to live in Bengal.
“I know nothing more than that.” She let her head tip back against the seat. “Mr Hawke mentioned giving the information to Sergeant Carter.”
“Sergeant Carter.” Her aunt reached for the overhead strap. “Why trouble him over the actions of a Jezebel?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d used the term. Every mistress her uncle kept was given the same moniker.
A realisation settled over her, cold as dread.
One she prayed was wrong.
“Uncle Samuel gave Mrs Hawke a loan to clear the debts.” She let herself slip on the seat as the carriage turned a corner. “He did the same for Father many times. Mother saved sovereigns in an old Earl Grey tin.”
She’d once caught her mother hiding it in the cupboard.
Mrs Flavell had included the same tin in the valise she’d given Daphne. And the other items. A wool shawl—her mother always covered herself when Uncle Samuel visited. The Oriental wrapper. Her uncle had been raised in Canton.
“Your uncle was a generous man. He helped those in difficulty, nothing more. Don’t twist it into something sordid.”
“Mother was with child and it wasn’t Father’s.”
Her aunt’s derisive snort echoed in the carriage. “This family has been plagued by Jezebels. Judging by your recent behaviour, it’s in the blood. I’ve spent a lifetime paying for others’ misdeeds.”
Only then did Daphne catch the stench of the river. The thud of hammers, the shouts of men. It took a moment to realise they were entering the docks.
She knew where her aunt was taking her. Not home to a warm supper and a comfortable bed, but away from here. Far enough that her uncle’s secret would remain buried.
Augusta would collect her reward, and wouldn’t have to suffer the shame of living in Bermondsey.
She remained silent as the carriage turned into Burr Street. The Red Lion Brewhouse loomed on the left, its chimney breathing sour malt into the early evening air. Beyond, the six-storey warehouses rose like brick-built cliffs, not merely blocking the light but choking the last of the day.
The carriage slowed before the last of them.
Mr Irving would be waiting inside with a roll of folded banknotes, perhaps an old chest of jewels, a fitting prize for a scheming devil.
All Daphne had to decide was whether to draw her pistol and waste her only shot on her aunt.