Page 57 of Barbarous

Daphne looked away from the other woman’s piercing gaze. Did Letitia guess to what lengths the late Earl of Davenport had gone to avoid John Redvers’s inheriting? Daphne wouldn’t be surprised. She’d always suspected Letitia’s astute brain and sharp, prying eyes were a big part of why Thomas kept his family at arm’s length after they married.

“It is past a year, is it not?”

Daphne nodded. “Only a little.”

The older woman gave her signature snort. “Thomas would not have wished you to go on mourning. You must cast off your blacks.” She flicked a dismissive, hawk-like gaze over Daphne’s lavender gown. “You must see Madame Thérèse and give her my name. She possesses all the arrogance of her breed, but it is not misplaced. She will know how to dress you.”

Daphne murmured the appropriate thanks.

“I would love to accompany you, Daphne.”

Daphne smiled at Anne and nodded, not telling her cousin that she hoped to merely send Rowena along with her measurements and dispense entirely with the tedious act of shopping.

Lady Letitia chuckled suddenly. “You’ve no idea the number of impertinent questions I’ve endured these past weeks because of my wretched nephew. I look forward to extracting my pound of flesh from his hide in the weeks to come.”

“I encouraged him to come to London and pay his respects more than once,” Daphne said, happy to heap fuel on the flames of the old lady’s wrath.

“Ha! You are not his minder, gel, and he is a man grown.” She made a rude cluck of disgust. “God knows you have enough on your plate without taking my tiresome nephew in hand. Although I daresay you’re quite skilled at managing dolts after ten years of living with Thomas and my fool of a sister.” Lady Letitia shifted in her gilt chair, which was too small for her tall, angular frame. “I suppose I should ask how my batty sister goes on, but I doubt the answer would be either edifying or interesting, so I shan’t.” She gave the floor a sharp rap with her cane and heaved herself to her feet. “We must be getting on.”

Daphne accompanied the women to their elegant equipage and waited while Lady Letitia’s footman helped her inside. Once the frail-looking old woman was settled she turned to Daphne, an expression of bemusement resting oddly on her sharp features. “I must own I’m not sure I want to know the whole of what Hugh has been up to these past twenty years.”

Daphne knew exactly what she meant. As she watched her sister-in-law’s carriage roll away, she realized the only thing more agonizing than wondering what Hugh Redvers had done during his years abroad was wondering what he’d done for the past fortnight.

* * *

Hugh was still smiling when he climbed into the carriage waiting to take him to his club. One would have thought his Aunt Letitia’s own four children would have been enough to keep the woman occupied, but his aunt always spared attention—too much, in Hugh’s opinion—for her orphaned nephew.

His smile faltered when he thought of his other aunt—a woman whose attention he wanted far too much. Hugh grimaced at the memory of Daphne’s frosty expression this morning. She was not pleased with him.

Well, unfortunately—thanks to the Duke of Carlisle—Daphne’s displeasure could not be helped, at least not for now. Not surprisingly, the duke had buttonholed Hugh when he’d returned Mia to her family’s country estate.

“I would ask you not to speak of my daughter’s return to anyone, Lord Ramsay. I will have to admit your part in bringing her back, but I’d ask at least a month before you answer any questions—enough time that I might—” He’d broken off, his pale, freckled skin a fiery red. “Well, enough time for my daughter to get her story straight.”

Ha! Enough time for the duke to fabricate a story was more like it. But Hugh had given his word and now he must stand by it. So here he was, muzzled on the subject.

Hugh believed the duke was futilely swimming against the tide. There was too much money to be made on such a juicy story for it to remain a secret. Already word of Mia’s return had spread like wildfire—even from remote Yorkshire—and tales of the “Duke’s Mysterious Daughter” competed with Hugh’s name in the scandal sheets.

Hugh gazed out the carriage window at the crowded streets. After almost two weeks of dealing with Mia’s stiff, awkward family, he’d looked forward to returning to Lessing Hall—to Daphne—even though he knew their relations would necessarily be uneasy. When he’d returned to Lessing Hall to find Daphne gone, he told himself it was better that way—better for her to stay away from him. He had nothing but scandal to offer her. He would find whoever was threatening her and then board the Ghost and continue pursuing his wretched life’s work.

But then he’d spoken to Martín.

Hugh had been correct in believing Martín was the perfect man to insinuate himself into Whitton Park. Martín’s new lady-love—a kitchen maid in Hastings’s employ—told him Sir Malcolm had recently come into some money—money he claimed came from Lady Davenport.

Sir Malcolm had also boasted Daphne was to marry him now that her period of mourning was over. The maid hadn’t been the only witness to his words; several other servants had heard him make the same claim while he was deep in his cups.

Hastings had stayed at Whitton Park only long enough to pay his grumbling staff their much delayed wages before hying off to some mysterious assignation. The consensus among his employees was that Sir Malcolm’s assignation most likely involved a gaming table, cards, and a bottle of something expensive in London.

Hugh didn’t believe for a moment that Hastings’s newfound money was a wedding present from Daphne. But Hugh’s gut—a surprisingly reliable organ—told him the wretched little worm probably spoke the truth about the source of the money. The scene he’d encountered that first day—Hastings’s bloody face, Daphne’s disheveled appearance and furious eyes—was burned into his mind’s eye. Hastings was holding something over Daphne; Hugh was certain of it, and it maddened the hell out of him that she would not confide in him.

Lord! How he wished—for the hundredth time—he’d arrived in the clearing only a moment earlier that day. He knew he should just confront Daphne, but something about prying secrets from her left a bad taste in his mouth; he wouldn’t like somebody digging around in his past.

It pained him greatly that she wouldn’t come to him with her problems. He believed she’d been on the brink of confiding in him a dozen times, but any trust he’d built between them would have fled after she’d caught him with Mia in his lap.

“Blast and damn,” he muttered to the empty carriage. Hugh was sore, tired, and irritable. He wanted to be lounging in the library with a book and pretending to read while watching Daphne, or escorting her and the boys about London and engaging in foolishness. Unfortunately, Mia stood between them and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to clear the air—yet.

So, here he was, off to look for that idiot Hastings. Well, he might not be able to spend his time with her, but he could protect her. Just the thought of her doling out money to her repulsive cousin made his blood boil.

The best way to find the man would be to visit clubs, and clubs meant gaming and carousing—activities that now left him cold. Hugh heaved a sigh. The days ahead would be beyond taxing. He’d need to spend every waking hour reconnecting with old acquaintances who had long believed him dead, crafting vague responses to endless questions, dodging prying newspapermen—