Andrea Kane (14 page)

“The earl would
not
have understood.” Tragmore snapped. “He himself was a victim of that bloody bandit less than a fortnight ago. The difference is, he has no noose hanging around his neck.”

Daphne inclined her head quizzically. “What do you mean, Father?”

“Nothing! Just mingle, ingratiate yourself with the right people, and hope that a never-before-met, wealthy nobleman becomes smitten with you.”

“That’s hardly likely, given that we are already acquainted with all the guests,” Daphne replied, trying to fathom her father’s uncharacteristic mood. He was neither volatile nor disdainful. Rather, he seemed nervous, uncommonly off balance, almost desperate. “Are you seeking a husband for me?” she tried.

“What?” Tragmore gave her a disoriented look.

“You mentioned my snaring a man’s affections. I assumed—”

“I don’t give a damn if you wed or not, Daphne,” he cut in impatiently. “Unless of course your betrothed arrives with a fortune he is eager to share.”

So it was money. For whatever reason her father was worried about funds. Why? He would be amply compensated for their stolen jewels. Had some other business loss occurred? One she knew nothing about?

She glanced at her mother, who shrugged and averted her head. Daphne sighed. She should know better. Elizabeth stayed as far from the flame as possible.

“We’re here,” the marquis muttered. “Now remember what I said. Two hours. No more.”

“Of course, Harwick.” Elizabeth lay a soothing hand on his arm. “We’ll retire early so you can be rested for the hunt.”

Alighting from the carriage, they were ushered to the ballroom door and announced.

“Tragmore, welcome.” The Earl of Gantry made his way toward them. “And to your lovely wife and daughter, as well.”

“Thank you, Gantry,” Tragmore responded, instantly assuming his composed public veneer. “We’ve looked forward to your party for weeks.”

“I’m delighted to hear that.” Gantry smoothed the ends of his mustache and bowed to the ladies. “Lady Tragmore, Lady Daphne, my home is at your disposal. Your rooms have been prepared and your bags taken there by my servants. Now, you have nothing to concern yourselves with but laughter and merriment.”

“You are a most gracious host sir,” Elizabeth smiled. Gently, she took Daphne’s arm. “Come, dear, let’s find the ladies.”

“Oh, Tragmore?” Gantry stayed him with his hand. “Before you join the party, I have news I believe you should hear.”

Tragmore’s brows rose. “Have you received further word on that lowlife who invaded our homes?”

“Hmm? Oh, the bandit. No, unfortunately, I know as little now as I did a fortnight ago. Perhaps later in the evening we can compare our sordid stories and together deduce the scoundrel’s strategy. But, no, the news I refer to does not concern the bandit: It concerns Markham.”

“Markham?” Tragmore had expected anything but this. “Has he finally emerged from his estate? I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.” Tragmore glanced beyond Gantry, into the crowded ballroom. “Is he here tonight?”

“Hardly. He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Tragmore started. “When?”

“Nearly a week ago, from what I understand. No one seems able to supply many details. As you’d suspect, he’d died alone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Not only because of Markham’s passing, but because, as his son is also gone, the Markham line has reached its end.”

“True.” Gantry shook his head. “ ’Tis a pity. One’s name means so much.” He cleared his throat. “Which reminds me, I had occasion to ride into the village two days past, and I happened to see your daughter.”

“Daphne?” A warning spark ignited Tragmore’s blood.

“Yes. I must admit, I was surprised. I distinctly recall your mentioning that you’d forbidden her from visiting that peculiar vicar who so generously disperses our funds to the poor.”

“You saw her conversing with the vicar?”

“I did. They were taking tea in his garden.” Gantry averted his head, his attention captured by a group of men gesturing for him to join them. “You’ll have to excuse me, Tragmore. I’m being summoned. We’ll continue our talk a bit later.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “As for your daughter, may I suggest you use a heavier hand? It might ensure her obedience.”

Tragmore didn’t reply. He waited only until Gantry had moved off. Then he acted.

Elizabeth and Daphne were but twenty feet away. He reached them in three strides.

“Come with me.” His fingers bit into Daphne’s arm. “Now.”

Daphne flinched, her eyes widening with fear as she saw the rage on her father’s face.

“Harwick, what is it?” Elizabeth asked in a quivering voice.

“Stay out of this, Elizabeth,” he commanded. “I intend to have a private talk with our daughter. Immediately. And I suggest”—he turned blazing eyes on Daphne—“that she not make a scene.”

“Very well, Father.” Daphne’s mind was already racing, desperately trying to envision what damning information her father had just gleaned. Her hands shook violently as she gathered up her skirts and followed him to a deserted sitting room down the hall.

“You were with that bloody vicar again,” Tragmore ground out the moment he’d closed the door. “How many times have I forbidden you to go there? How many times have you disobeyed me?” He began to advance toward Daphne, his rage terrifying in its intensity.

Daphne’s heart began slamming against her ribs.

“ ’Twas only for a few minutes, Father,” she began.

“Liar!” His palm struck her face, and she cried out, instinctively pressing her fingers to her cheek.

“I’m not lying,” she whispered, backing away. “I was at the church for a mere quarter hour.”

“That’s a quarter hour more than you’re permitted.” The marquis lunged forward again, slapping Daphne so hard she lost her balance and toppled to the couch. “Damn you! I’d beat you within an inch of your life were we at Tragmore.”

“Please, Father.” Daphne crept to the far corner of the sofa, frantically trying to think of words to appease him.

An insistent pounding at the door rescued her.

“Tragmore? Tragmore are you in there?” The Earl of Gantry’s voice accompanied his determined knock.

Glowering at Daphne, Tragmore crossed the room and yanked open the door. “I’m in the midst of a discussion with my daughter, Gantry.”

The earl nodded his understanding. “I apologize for intruding. But a most intriguing situation is in the process of unfolding. Hollingsby just arrived, bringing an uninvited guest, who, according to our solicitor, has an important announcement to make. He’s requested that everyone converge in the ballroom.”

“Very well,” Tragmore agreed with a reluctant glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be there directly.” Closing the door, he waited until Gantry’s footsteps had faded. Then, he whirled about. “We are not finished, Daphne. Your defiance will be dealt with—
severely
dealt with—when we arrive home. Until then, make yourself scarce.” Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the red welts on her cheek, which had already begun to swell. “The marks of my discipline are unfortunately quite visible this time. You will not embarrass me further. Go to your room. And remain there until tomorrow when we take our leave. I shall tell the countess you’re not feeling well and are in bed.” He reached for the door handle once more. “We’ll resume your punishment at Tragmore.”

The slam reverberated behind him.

Long moments passed before Daphne rose, drawing a few steadying breaths to compose herself. Fate had granted her a temporary reprieve, and she was profoundly grateful for it. The thought of staying in her assigned chamber, far away from her father’s rage, was pure bliss. Oh, she’d bear the brunt of his beating once they returned home, but perhaps by then the edge would be off his anger, and her back would not be as badly whipped.

She’d face that ordeal when she had to. For now, all she wanted was the sanctuary of a quiet room, a soft bed, and her private thoughts.

Creeping into the hall, Daphne assured herself that it was empty. Evidently, all the guests had gathered in the ballroom for the grand announcement Lord Gantry had spoken of.

Weak with relief, Daphne was about to veer toward the guest quarters when she spied Mr. Hollingsby in the ballroom entranceway, leading a tall, starkly handsome man into the ballroom.

Pierce Thornton.

For an instant, Daphne was convinced her eyes deceived her. What on earth would Pierce Thornton be doing at the Earl of Gantry’s ball? He who detested the nobility and all they represented. He couldn’t be the bearer of the mysterious proclamation. ’Twas impossible.

But there was no mistaking that bold, assessing stare, that confident walk, those meltingly hard good looks.

It was most emphatically he.

Curiosity overshadowing pain, Daphne tiptoed down the deserted hallway, straining to hear the grand announcement Pierce was apparently about to make.

“Well, hello, Tragmore,” Pierce’s deep voice reached her ears. “I’m delighted to see you here tonight.”

“Thornton!” Her father’s muffled response sounded stunned—and frightened.
“You’re
Hollingsby’s guest?”

“Indeed I am. For tonight only. After which, invitations can be forwarded directly to my estate.”

“Your estate? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re about to find out.” Pierce’s tone was mocking.

Daphne peeked around the corner and into the ballroom in time to see Pierce walk away from Hollingsby and her father, toward the crowd of questioning faces. “Mr. Hollingsby was kind enough to invite me here tonight so that I might share my extraordinary news with all of you at once.”

A hum of speculation arose among the guests.

“As most of you know, the Duke of Markham passed on recently, alone and presumably without an heir.” Pierce’s arresting gaze swept the room. “I’m here tonight as the duke’s sole living heir—the newly named Duke of Markham.”

Stunned silence prevailed, hovering for a full minute before exploding into loud exclamations of astonishment and wonder.

“It’s all quite true,” Hollingsby interjected. “I myself drew up the codicil to the late duke’s will. Mr. Thornton—” he broke off, coughed discreetly, “His Grace—is Markham’s sole surviving son.”

Hundreds of people seemed to swarm around Pierce at once, but Daphne was aware of only two things: her own anguished surprise, and the look of sheer terror on her father’s face.

The strings resumed playing, the guests broke into small, gossiping groups, and suddenly Daphne realized how vulnerable her position was. How long did she expect to remain undetected? Any moment someone was bound to stroll into the hallway and see her.

Reversing her steps, she slipped back toward the guest chambers.

For what purpose? To sleep?

That question brought her up short. After this latest shocking revelation, sleep would be an impossibility.

Acting on impulse, Daphne slipped into the morning room, then out the door leading to Gantry’s fragrant gardens.

Here, she could be alone with her thoughts.

Pierce, the Duke of Markham.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to sort it all out. What would this mean? How long had he known? Would this change him, his priorities? Why hadn’t he told her at Tragmore? What did he want of her? Was the announcement of his title related to the mysterious hold he had over her father?

“Here you are. I thought I’d have to tear down the manor in order to find you.”

Daphne whipped about to see Pierce leaning against a tree, watching her intently.

“I had no idea you were looking for me, Mr. Thornton—pardon me, Your Grace.”

“So, you did hear my announcement. I thought I caught a glimpse of you in the hall.” Slowly, Pierce strolled toward her.

“Yes. I heard.” Daphne bowed her head and turned away.

“You must have many questions.”

Silence.

“Ask them.”

To Daphne’s dismay, hot tears filled her eyes. “I—I don’t know where to begin.”

“You can begin by looking at me.” Gently, Pierce turned her around, framing her face between his palms.

Daphne flinched.

“Daphne?” Questioningly, Pierce raised her chin with his thumb and took in her swollen cheek. Thunder erupted on his face. “That filthy son of a bitch. I’m going in there and kill him.”

“Pierce—don’t. Please.” Daphne grabbed his arm. “I can’t bear any more violence tonight. I just can’t.” Her defenses crumbling, she relented, letting the scalding tears course down her cheeks. “I can’t bear any more.”

“You don’t have to.” Instantly, Pierce enfolded her in his arms, pressing her wet face to his waistcoat. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here. You don’t have to endure it alone anymore.”

Daphne melted into his strength, unable to refuse these few moments of comfort, the joy of feeling Pierce’s arms around her. “How could you be a duke?” she wept.

Pierce kissed her hair. “That sounds more like an accusation than a celebration,” he noted dryly.

“But you loathe the nobility.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Pulling back, Daphne stared up into his eyes. “Yes. You do. Still. Even now. Then why are you joining its ranks? And why did you lie to me about who you are?”

“I never lied to you. Everything I told you was true. I grew up in the streets. I
am
a bastard. Until the day before yesterday, I had no idea who my father was.”

Daphne’s damp eyes widened. “He didn’t tell you himself?”

“No. Evidently, the late duke never felt the need to impart that tidbit of information to me. He let Hollingsby do it. In fact, my esteemed sire had no use for either my mother or me while he lived. But now that he’s dead, he needs someone to accept his precious title, a title that would otherwise be extinct. Thus, his bastard must be validated.”

“I told you never to refer to yourself that way.” Daphne lay her palm on Pierce’s jaw, wanting somehow to ease his pain.

Pierce turned his lips into her hand. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “And I still want to kill your father.”

“You wanted to kill him long before you discovered he struck me. Why?”

“We have quite a history together, the marquis and I.”

“Did he know you were Markham’s son prior to tonight?”