Page 31 of Barbarous

I have not forgotten our little chat in the woods, even if you have. If I don’t have £1,000 in my account by the end of the week, I will come to see you personally. And I will have my proof with me. After I visit your newly returned nephew—who will no doubt be thrilled by what I have to show him—I will visit every one of your other relatives. And then, perhaps, I will go to the newspapers. I know exposing you will do nothing to forward my plan, but I will not hesitate to make your life a misery if you do not give me what I want. I know your mourning period is over and I would like to have our wedding take place soon. See how considerate I can be about observing all the proper conventions? Don’t make me show you how inconsiderate I can become.

She dropped her head back against the door with a soft thud. There was nothing new in this letter—she still didn’t know what “proof ” Malcolm had about the twins, but she doubted his threat was a hollow one. Whatever proof he had found, he must have either recently discovered it or he’d bided his time and waited for years—until Thomas could no longer protect her—to use it. Daphne could not imagine her impatient, reckless cousin waiting weeks—not to mention years—for anything, especially not something that would involve her humiliation. So, what was it Malcolm had recently learned? And from whom?

She pushed aside her pointless musing and went to her desk, staring at the parchment and quills that lay scattered across the glossy mahogany surface.

You must tell Hugh the truth. The invasive thought wrapped itself around her as tightly as the arms of a lover—just as it did every night before she went to bed and every morning when she woke in its embrace.

But each and every time she thought about telling Hugh the children were Malcolm’s, the same thought stopped her: He would never believe the earl had known. He would believe Daphne had passed off her bastards on an elderly widower—a moral, upstanding man who never would have agreed to such a deception.

She could see Hugh’s disgust and loathing in her mind’s eye. And it would be the same with his family members, servants, neighbors—anyone who learned the truth. Her sons would face those horrified, judging expressions and their lives would be ones of shame, isolation, and penury. All three of them would become social outcasts.

Daphne simply could not do that to them—not until she had to. And she did not have to . . . yet.

She looked down at the letter crumpled on the desk, and fury joined fear and humiliation. Why pay £1,000 to hide a secret she was going to have to confess, anyway? And the money she would pay was simply more money she would owe Hugh. What was she waiting for that she would even consider paying such an amount?

The answer to that was pitifully simple and foolish: Time. She needed as much time as she could get before she ruined her sons’ lives.

Wishing for more time was an irrational desire, but wasn’t she entitled to make just one irrational decision in her life? When had she ever done so in the past? Never! Not after Malcolm attacked her and not after she’d learned she was to have a child. She had wanted to run and run and run like a hunted animal. Instead, she had behaved with bloodless pragmatism and had married a man almost six decades older than she.

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of Thomas and she angrily brushed them away. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t loved Thomas and been grateful for everything he’d done. He had been so good to her, treating her like the father she’d never had. But the truth was Malcolm had robbed her. With a single act of vicious violence he had made her a mother, but Daphne had never had a chance to be a lover or a wife. She hadn’t even thought of such things before Hugh—and if she had, she certainly hadn’t felt as if she had missed them. Until now.

Oh, she knew her foolish, pathetic, ridiculous, scandalous feelings for Hugh would not lead to love and marriage, but at least she felt alive and like a woman. Daphne’s face burned at the shameful admission—even to herself.

She needed a little more time, and this was the only way to get it.

She glared down at the hateful letter. Malcolm had been an inveterate gambler even before he’d reached his majority. He must have gambled away whatever came to him from his brief marriage to a young heiress from the Midlands, a downtrodden-looking woman Daphne had seen in Eastbourne a few times.

Nausea rose in her at the mere thought of being Malcolm’s wife. How could he be so stupid as to believe she would allow herself to be blackmailed into marriage with a man who’d raped her?

Daphne loved her sons and would not change what had happened, even if she could—how could she, if it meant losing them? But that did not mean she didn’t bear Malcolm hatred enough to reduce him to a pile of smoking cinders. The only positive thought she had for him was that he’d knocked her unconscious before defiling her; at least she had no horrid memories to give her nightmares—not that he hadn’t mocked and taunted her afterward.

A cracking noise made her jump and she looked down to see she’d snapped the quill in half. Daphne frowned; there was no point in becoming emotional about it after all these years. She was a grown woman—not a scared girl of seventeen. She had choices now. They weren’t good choices, but at least she was no longer powerless and destitute.

She stared at the ink and paper before her, hating what she was about to do. Giving in to a blackmailer might not be wise, but it was a small price to pay for more time—even a little more time.

Daphne picked up another quill from her desk.

* * *

Daphne halted in the doorway to the breakfast room. Hugh was seated at the table, eating. He usually ate in his room.

He looked up from his newspaper and stood, his lips curving into a warm, welcoming smile. “Good morning, my dear.” He wore a dark green coat, buckskin breeches, and top boots that shone like black glass; he looked every inch the country gentleman. Well, except for the savage scar, eye patch, and wicked glint in his eye.

“Good morning.” She smoothed her already smooth gray skirt. “Some tea and toast, please,” she said to the hovering footman before taking the seat Hugh had pulled out for her—the chair closest to him.

“May I serve you something from the sideboard, my lady?”

“No, thank you.” It would be all she could do to choke down tea and toast.

He resumed his seat and Daphne watched with morbid fascination as he commenced to eat his breakfast: a sirloin, two slabs of ham, a mountain of eggs, several thick, crusty pieces of bread, a steaming cup of inky black coffee, and a pewter tankard of ale.

He grinned at her stunned expression. “I need some energy. I’m off to Tunbridge Wells today.”

“Will you be sprinting there?”

He chuckled. “Have you any commissions for me while I’m in town?”

Daphne thought about the transfer instructions she’d just written, authorizing the draught for Malcolm. Well, it would save her a trip.