Page 30 of Unmasking the Diamond
Luca lowered himself into the chair opposite, studying her drawn features. “Very well. Then I will not waste words. I am here about your sister.”
“Which one? I have six, and I can scarce keep track.”
“Cressida—the late Duchess of Brackenford.”
The effect was immediate. Miss Dawlish’s whole body went taut, her lips tightening. “I have not heard that name in years. Not since her husband sent her away.”
“Was she ill? Did she show signs of madness?”
Her expression turned guarded. “If you are asking if my sister was mad, my lord, you have some nerve. That chapter in my life is closed. I have made my peace with it.”
“I did not mean to offend,” Luca started. “I only wish to understand?—”
“Why do you wish to understand something that does not concern you?” she snapped.
He inclined his head. “My apologies. I simply seek the truth.”
Her chin lifted in defiance. “Then understand this: as far as I am concerned, I no longer have a sister named Cressida. She embarrassed our family beyond repair.”
“That seems rather harsh,” he remarked.
She abruptly rose, swaying on her feet. He jumped forward instinctively to steady her, but she flung off his hands. “Good day, my lord.”
“Miss Dawlish, please?—”
“Enough.” She raised her hand sharply, commanding silence. “Leave and never return. If you do, I shall send for the constable.”
Her finality brooked no argument. Luca tipped his head in acquiescence. “I will trouble you no more.”
He withdrew down the drawing room, frustration simmering in his veins. He hadn’t meant to drive her to fury, yet the mere mention of Cressida had undone her composure. What disgrace could have been so grave that she disowned her own blood?
As he stepped into the street once more, Luca knew one thing with certainty: something was being deliberately hidden. And he would uncover it.
6
Charlotte stood before the looking glass, tilting her head one way, then the other, appraising the glossy curls pinned neatly into place. Her maid had outdone herself, though Charlotte would never admit aloud that she cared. Certainly not because Lord Luca was to join them for dinner. Good heavens, no. The very notion was absurd. The last thing she desired was to sit across the table from the most vexing man in London. How he contrived to unsettle her with every glance, every word, was a puzzle she had yet to solve.
A knock sounded, and before Charlotte could answer, Jane slipped inside.
“You look lovely,” Jane said.
Charlotte smoothed the sleeves of her pale blue gown. “This is one of my older dresses. I would not want Lord Luca to think I spent extra time on my person on his account.”
Jane arched a brow. “You spend a great deal of time speaking of Lord Luca for someone who claims to think nothing of him.”
“I do not,” Charlotte protested. “I hardly give him a thought.”
Jane’s silence said more than words. With a soft smile, she raised her brow as if to say she believed none of it. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Charlotte muttered, grateful at least that Jane let the matter rest.
Jane gestured towards the door. “Shall we go down? The dinner bell will sound any moment.”
As they stepped into the corridor, Charlotte asked, “Where is Alistair?”
“In his study. Where else?” Jane replied with fond resignation. “I often sit with him there, reading or embroidering while he works. Oh—” she added, “I invited Lord Luca’s brother, Lord Pendryn, to dine with us as well.”
Charlotte frowned. “I am not acquainted with Lord Pendryn.”
