Castleford folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. Now he had to track down the physicians who attended to the women in Katy’s establishment and the other brothels he had used in the last year. It should not take more than a few days at most.
He went to his dressing room and gave his valets orders to prepare him for the day. While he submitted to their attendance, a letter was brought up that had arrived in the midday mail.
Mr. Edwards had deigned to write. It was the first letter to come since that frantic one about the trespasser. Castleford read it while one valet shaved him and another pared his other hand’s nails.
Compared to the last massive missive, this time Mr. Edwards proved remarkably brief. In a few short lines he said the examination of the property progressed well, that all remained quiet on the property, and that he anticipated completion by week’s end. He did not even complain about the bedbugs.
One week. It only served as a reminder that matters had been dragging on with Daphne Joyes longer than they should have.
Castleford stood while the valets dressed him, and he calculated the battles won or lost thus far in that little siege. Memories from their evening in the garden tent had him smiling, then cursing himself for sentimentality in the next moment.
It had hardly been a victory. She had walked away with diamonds worth a nice-size fortune and a guaranteed home for life at his expense. There were mistresses of wealthy men who did not accumulate that much after a year of extending favors, rather than withholding them.
And he had walked away with temporary relief of an adolescent nature and a familiarity with her body that kept him awake at nights now.
No doubt his recent abstinence accounted for how vivid the memories of her passion and body were. Even now, if he did not consciously block the thoughts, he could hear her begging cries like her mouth was beside his ear. Just as he could feel her hand on him in her awkward, tentative caress. She might have been used by old Becksbridge, but she had not participated much if she showed so little skill. He liked knowing that more than he knew he should.
And yet there had been that moment afterwards, when he settled atop her, when he had sensed a stillness, as if her whole body held its breath and her soul calculated her danger. It was much like what he sensed when she looked back at him on the barge. And it was, he decided now, a milder form of the way she turned to stone in the greenhouse.
It had passed once she realized he was in no condition to ravish her. Yet it had been there, clearly, like a break or pause in her bliss, strong enough to interfere even with the aftermath of her violent sexual climax.
Perhaps now that she knew that he knew the truth about her history, it would disappear. She had not been pleased that he had pried. People never were, even if the outcome benefited them. As long as he knew what he knew, he had decided it was best to let her know he knew too.
It was possible that her sense of danger would always be there, however, unless she were totally agreeable in advance to be thoroughly seduced. So he would do what she wanted to make her so.
He would obtain the damned letters he had promised her, and he would finally have her.
Then—what? Loss of interest, most likely. A return to his habits and his whores, no doubt. The renewed onset of endless ennui, probably.
On the other hand, since Daphne Joyes had already been gifted as well as a mistress kept for a year, he might decide to enjoy the year that he was due.
D
aphne eyed the garments spread out on her bed. Simple and practical, she reminded herself. She lifted a white muslin dress and set it aside.
She began folding the clothing and placing it into the waiting valise. She tucked ten pounds deep inside one of the shoes too. Her hands shook while she worked, a result of the excitement that had claimed her once she made her decision to take this journey.
She unfolded Margaret’s letter and read it again.
I have been thinking of you often, Daphne, for reasons that I think you have guessed. Yes, come, quickly if you can. My situation will be changing for the worse, I fear, and I may not stay here much longer. I am afraid that the past threatens to catch us both soon. Currently all is calm in the towns, but there is anger in the air, and I am sorry to say that it extends to the whole region. Take care if you make this journey, and be sure to avoid the coaches that might take you into the city.
Did she imagine the urgency of the letter? The plea, and worse, the warning. She dared not assume so. Nor could she hope that all would remain calm up there. Certainly the newspapers printed nothing to support such a view.
Margaret’s letter worried her. An emotion akin to terror threaded all through the excitement with which she prepared, making it unpleasant and colored with the worst kind of foreboding.
It was time to leave London anyway. Dodging Castleford had done no good. Nor had succumbing far more than was wise. Perhaps her absence would finally turn his curiosity elsewhere or dull it enough.
She should experience relief at the notion of ending that game. Instead it saddened her. Life had certainly been more interesting the last weeks. And the duke—he had been more compelling than she had expected. Beneath that insouciance, that bored indifference, there dwelled a man much better and more complex than his public face suggested.
She called for a footman. He arrived while she cleared her dressing table of its brushes. She pulled her composure together and tried to sound authoritative.
“I will be making a short journey of several days. Please have the carriage prepared and brought round.”
The footman’s gaze rose from its discreet focus on the floor. She had surprised him. She hoped he would not ask for any proof that she had Lord Sebastian’s permission to use the carriage thus, because she did not. If Sebastian and Audrianna knew what was at stake, she was sure that they would not stand in her way, however.
“May I ask how many days, Mrs. Joyes? The coachman will want to know.”
“A week perhaps.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Will you be requiring an escort?”
She could probably use one, although it might only be awkward. “The coachman’s services will suffice.”
“I will ask the under butler, Mrs. Joyes.”
He left, and she returned to packing. If she were refused the carriage, she would just have to take the stagecoach.
She opened the dressing table’s drawer and paused when her gaze fell on the earrings that Castleford had given her.
She held them to her ears and bent to see them in the looking glass. What had he really thought as he looked at her wearing them, and nothing else? That she was the most expensive mistress he had never had? That she teased him because she was cruel or to obtain such gifts? That she had been a fool to give herself to Becksbridge for anything less?
He had not treated her as if he thought any of those things. Oh, he had a game of seduction afoot, that was undeniable, but twice now he had shown uncommon decency in how he played it.
His questions about her marriage echoed in her head. She was not convinced he would let it rest there, even if he thoroughly seduced her now. Not unless she was out of sight and, eventually, out of his mind. He was not known for any constancy, and a week should discourage him.
She went to her little writing table and dipped the pen. She did not write to Castleford. Instead she penned a note to Lord Sebastian and Audrianna, to leave in the drawer, asking them to put the ear bobs in safekeeping, should they return and chance upon them. Once she finished her journey, she would hand them back to their rightful owner.
Chapter Fifteen
T
wo days later, Castleford took pains in replotting the final chapter in “The Seduction of Daphne Joyes,” well aware that by now the story should be in its epilogue, at least.
He even went about town himself to do it.
He called at the jewelers again. Phillip all but kissed his feet as he left with another little box in his hands.
He stopped at a flower shop and personally chose the blooms to be delivered to his house.
He kept an appointment with a famed musician, bought him very expensive wine, and after some small talk offered him a ridiculous sum to play his violin that evening on the garden terrace.
Prior to going to Park Lane to call on Daphne and lure her away, he rode to Brooks’s. He needed to make quick use of their library to jot a note.
No sooner had he entered than three men sitting together near the window hailed him and called him over like old friends too long parted.
He recognized them as Sir Marcus Valmare, his son Cato Valmare, and Mr. Jeoffrey Drumblewhite. The last was a gentleman from Hampshire known to dabble in more trade than was truly acceptable. Commercial interests were a late development in his life, and there had been talk of severing his membership in the club because of it.
“Castleford, you look well.” Sir Marcus effused so loudly that he might be speaking to an old, deaf relative. A beefy, tall bear of a fellow, he owned a florid face and a good head of white hair that he kept long and wavy, as if to rub it in the noses of his balding contemporaries. “Doesn’t he look well, Drumblewhite?”
“Most well. Most well.” Drumblewhite was one of the balding ones, with a slight build and squinting eyes. He sounded like he spoke through his nose.
“Sit, sit,” Sir Marcus insisted. “It has been too long.”
It had been forever, but Castleford was in too good a mood to make a fine point of it. “I have something I must do. Perhaps another time.”
“Ohhh,
siiittt
, Your Grace. Pass a few minutes with an old friend,” Sir Marcus cajoled with a big smile. He pulled a chair out and all but pushed Castleford’s ass into it.
He sat. Cato Valmare, who thought himself very clever—he actually went around calling himself that, lest the descriptive not stick merely on account of others’ impressions—watched with lids at half-mast. Castleford gazed back just as lazily. They began a contest to see who could appear more indifferent.
“I say, Castleford,” Sir Marcus said casually. “Quite a find you have had on that land. Whoever expected such a thing?”
“Everyone except me, it appears,” Castleford said.
“Of course, finding minerals and extracting them are two different things,” Cato said with a superior tone.
“I cannot disagree with that view, Valmare. No matter how one cuts it, they are two different things,” Castleford said.
“It takes considerable investment to mine land properly,” Mr. Drumblewhite said in a nasal voice, as if he taught a lesson to a child. “It is always a big gamble, since the deposits may not be what are expected.”
“I am told that it is wise to watch the managers every hour too,” Sir Marcus said, leaning forward in confidence.
“How boring,” Castleford drawled.
Sir Marcus slapped his knee. “Exactly. I was just telling Drumblewhite here that you are not a man who likes to be bored. You have better ways to spend your time, eh?” His eyebrows rose with insinuation. “Better if he sold out, then, Drumblewhite said. Did you not say that, sir?”
“Indeed I did, Sir Marcus. While you are reputed to have great luck in the financial area, Your Grace, no doubt you prefer other activities, as suits one as esteemed as yourself. The natural order is to let other men get their hands dirty; those born to it.”
Castleford folded his arms and extended his legs. “Alas, one cannot escape such matters entirely. And I have a rule against ever selling land. It is a family tradition.”
Sir Marcus glanced at Drumblewhite, then at Cato. “How unfortunate for you. But, perhaps not entirely so. With the right partners much of the nuisance can still be relieved. Why, Drumblewhite here, for example, has a way with such affairs, inherited no doubt from that merchant hidden among his mother’s ancestors. You understand that I mean no offense by mentioning that, Drumblewhite. I merely point out that your talent comes with your blood and is a natural inclination that cannot be resisted.”
Drumblewhite bowed his head, whether in modesty regarding this talent or in shame, Castleford could not tell. “I would, of course, be happy to help Your Grace in any way, should you have need of me.”
“Why, we all would, would we not? Eh, Cato? It is what friends are for,” Sir Marcus exclaimed.
Cato finally chimed in. “I wonder if a partnership is the best way to handle such help, however. Drumblewhite, when you manage another’s business, what is the fee?”
“Fee? I am a gentleman, sir. I take no fees.”
“No fee?” Castleford said. “You would do this as a kindness? I am touched, Mr. Drumblewhite.”
“I only ask a consideration for my expertise. Another esteemed gentleman in a similar situation generously gave me one quarter of the ownership in his canal, for example. He is freed of all concerns as a result.”