Page 68 of Barbarous

“Oh, excuse me. Please, pardon me. I’m terribly sorry,” Daphne muttered, treading on slippers and toes to get to the other side. The reward for leaving a swath of destruction was Malcolm, dead ahead. He was leaning against one of the large columns that flanked each side of the cardroom, as if needing its support to stand. More bodies separated them and Daphne had just pushed her way past a clutch of laughing young bucks when the orchestra struck up music heralding the arrival of a member of the royal family.

One advantage to being so tall was that Daphne could see over most heads: it was Ernest, the Duke of Cumberland. A buzz loud enough to overpower the orchestra swept through the cavernous room. Daphne assumed the duke must have made this public appearance to combat the rumors swirling around the death of his valet—the most scandalous being that Cumberland had murdered the man. Crowds of gawkers surged toward the duke, unable to resist the royal pull. This cleared a space and Daphne bolted toward Malcolm.

“Ah, Daphne,” he slurred. “Old Ernest is looking rather hagged, isn’t he? It’s my opinion he had a rather unsavory—”

“Keep your voice down!” Daphne hissed, swallowing her disgust at touching him and grabbing his elbow. The cardroom had been abandoned, the players gone to see what the commotion was about. She opened the door to the hall and peeked out. It was empty and only a short distance to the library. She opened one of the double doors and peered inside; also empty.

Daphne dropped Malcolm’s arm the second she entered the room, moving away from him. Malcolm fumbled with the door and Daphne realized he was locking it—or at least trying to, his hands so shaky he could hardly throw the bolt. He turned and grinned. “There, now we will be undisturbed while we talk.”

“What do you want?”

“Shame on you, Daphne! So hasty.” He wagged a finger at her. “I would like to conduct our courtship like civilized people, not like some coal miner and his trollop.”

Daphne ignored the tired old dig, and Malcolm made a beeline toward a cluster of decanters. He poured himself a drink, drained it in one swallow, and poured himself another. At this rate he’d be facedown on the floor before he got around to his blackmailing.

He turned, smacking his lips. “Your dead husband’s relatives have excellent taste in spirits.” He propped his hip against the massive desk behind him. “Now, where were we?”

“You were explaining why you are here.”

He shrugged extravagantly. “How else does a betrothed couple spend their evenings, but together?”

“We are not betrothed, nor will we be. Ever.”

Something in Daphne’s attitude pierced even the thick fog of drink that surrounded him. “Why are you so bold all of a sudden, you saucy piece? Do you think I will hesitate to use the evidence I have if you do not give me what I want? Your pitiful life won’t be worth living by the time I’m finished with your reputation—and that of our sons.”

Daphne let every ounce of loathing she felt show on her face. “You have received the only money I will ever give you. If you are wise, you will be grateful for it and go your own way. But I know you are the farthest thing from wise.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, his drink forgotten in his hand. “What?” The single word was filled with all the malice Daphne knew he bore her. It was the same look his uncle, Sir Walter, had given her mother every day of their married lives. Both men hated the fact their very existence depended on women so far beneath their station.

Daphne could recall the last time Malcolm’s loathing had possessed the power to hurt—the fateful day he’d accosted her in the woods just outside Whitton Park.

“You know what they call girls like you?” he had asked, not waiting for an answer as he backed her up against a tree. “They call them prick-teasers.”

Daphne had been more stunned by the vulgar phrase than his menacing behavior. He had taken advantage of her brief hesitation and sprung at her, slamming her head against the tree behind her hard enough to knock her unconscious.

And then he’d raped her.

The knowledge of what he’d done to her had hovered at the edges of her mind for years. It was never far from her conscious thoughts, but she’d kept it muted and tucked away. Until now.

Her body was shaking as if she were violently chilled; but she was hot all over—even her eyes were hot. Steam seemed to roll off her in waves, worsening her already poor vision. She blinked through her white-hot rage at her tormentor and released more than a decade’s worth of hatred.

“I have a letter, written, signed, and sworn by the late Lord Davenport before a magistrate. The letter warns that you might try to blackmail me.” She gave him a smile of pure loathing. “You may do whatever you want, of course, but you will never lay your repulsive hands on another penny of my son’s money. He is the Earl of Davenport and there is not a thing in the world you can do to change that.”

Daphne didn’t tell him that tomorrow morning she would change that; that she would tell the real Earl of Davenport the truth and render her son plain Lucien Redvers.

He set down his glass but it missed the desk, tumbling to the rug unnoticed.

“You’re lying. He never would have done such a thing. Especially not if he learned you tricked him.”

Daphne laughed, genuinely amused. “You are even stupider than I believed—which is saying something. The earl knew exactly what transpired and he knew exactly what manner of filth you are and he knew exactly what to do to stop you.” She thrilled at the expression of shock on his pale, bloated face. “He knew you would fritter away your wife’s money and one day come sniffing around your betters like a dog begging for scraps.” Her rage boiled over and she made no attempt to stop it. The fury in his eyes should have warned her, but instead, it stoked her anger.

One moment he was on the other side of the room gawking at her with an open mouth, the next he was slamming her against a bookcase. Her vision exploded in white, searing flashes and she slid to the floor, with Malcolm straddling her body.

“You lying whore,” he said between gritted teeth, squeezing her throat hard enough to cut off her air. Daphne bucked and twisted beneath him, striking him with her fists, clawing at his hands, but her vision blurred and her chest burned from lack of air. Her arms became too heavy to lift and the room began to darken—

Suddenly the crushing hands were gone and the punishing weight disappeared from her chest. Daphne rolled onto her side, choking and coughing and gasping for air.

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was Hugh, his hands around Malcolm’s neck, holding him a foot off the floor against a wall of books.