Hawkeswell’s expression fell to one almost stunned. “I am touched, Castleford. I am not joking when I say that either. That you would pass on an exquisite woman if it meant we faced each other on the field of honor—”
Castleford decided not to clarify that he had not actually said that he would pass. “So?”
Hawkeswell thought it over for a good while. “She may be like a sister to my wife, but she is not one in fact. I have no standing to call you out,” he said.
“I am happy you see it that way.”
“I should try to talk you out of this, though.”
“Consider it done and spare us both.”
Hawkeswell opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and drank more wine. “When? I need to be prepared on the domestic front for when Verity hears of it.”
“Soon. A week . . . ten days at most. I only need to get her up to London first.”
“You are supremely confident. So confident that you have not asked for my word not to warn her through my wife.”
“There is no need to warn her. She already knows.”
Hawkeswell’s eyebrows rose high. “You actually announced your intentions?”
“Not exactly. But she knows.”
Hawkeswell scrutinized him, then grinned. “You already tried, didn’t you? You tried
and failed
. Don’t act exasperated by an absurd suggestion. I know you, and I have it right.” He slapped his knee in frustration. “Damnation, it is hell that Summerhays is not in town. We could lay bets on this and have a fine time watching the week you predict turn into a year. Or
never
.”
“It may take you a year to get an exquisite woman into bed, but I assure you it will be a week in my case.” Or two, perhaps. Three at the outside. But a year was ridiculous, and never was out of the question.
“Then you must have an ace in your hand that I do not know about.”
“Only my charm.”
Hawkeswell thought that was hilarious. He laughed so rudely that he turned red. Wiping his eyes of tears, he poured himself more wine. “We shall see how far your sodden charm gets you with
this
woman, Castleford.”
D
aphne parted the carriage blinds a bit and looked out. She noted glumly that they were already passing Hyde Park.
Beside her Katherine angled her head just enough so the slice of light coming in would not find her face. Not that anything much would, with the bonnet Katherine had worn. Its deep brim obscured all views except one face on, and a lace cap beneath the bonnet hid a good deal of that prospect too.
Daphne closed the curtain again. “No one is going to see you, I promise. You will be in this hired coach right up to the door, then inside in a blink. The servants will all be strangers and not take any note of you.”
“I am not afraid of being seen,” Katherine said. “I do not care for towns, that is all.”
“Then I am doubly sorry to have forced today’s visit to London on you, Katherine. I had little choice, however. I know you see that.”
Katherine remained a tense stone statue beside her. It had been cruel to insist she come, but Daphne really could not make this particular call alone, without another woman by her side. That would be stupid.
“I do not see why he did not come down to Cumberworth again,” Katherine muttered resentfully. “It was rude to request that you make the journey to see him, and for such a small thing. He may be a duke, but if he desires a social call, he should be the one inconvenienced, not you, and certainly not me.”
This was, Daphne decided, one of those times when their rule about not prying was very useful. Katherine had drawn erroneous conclusions about this visit to London all on her own. Daphne was under no obligation to explain that this was not a true social call, that this duke had not exactly
requested
this visit, and that more was at stake than Katherine could ever guess.
Castleford’s odd invitation sat in Daphne’s reticule. One paragraph, written in the flowing hand and formal voice of his secretary, Mr. Edwards, apologized in the duke’s name for not communicating sooner about her situation. Mr. Edwards explained that some questions had arisen about the property when the matter had been addressed last Tuesday, and they would in turn be taken up again soon. He requested her further patience.
Below Mr. Edwards’s signature, in another hand—one more individual and abrupt—a few more words had been penned
. You had best call Tuesday next, three o’clock. Castleford
.
She still had not decided what “you had best” meant. It could be interpreted as a busy man encouraging her to be present so her interests could have a voice in his deliberations. Read differently, however, the line sounded like a threat.
She did not expect it to be a pleasant meeting in either case. Since it was Tuesday he should be sober, so she doubted he would misbehave. However, the last time she had seen him they had been parting a scant fifteen minutes after she rejected his advances. Uncomfortable did not begin to describe that final quarter hour together. Nor, despite her clear preferences, had he truly stood down.
She saw him in her mind as he finally took his leave of her. Displeased. Annoyed. Watching her the way a hawk might a field mouse.
I may have to devote the next year to seeing you in high color again, Mrs. Joyes.
He left the property at dawn the next morning, before the household rose. She had listened to his horse on the lane and closed her eyes with a deep sigh of relief. Facing him might have been the smarter move, however, if he had allowed it. They possibly would have laughed about what happened in the greenhouse. He might even have apologized.
Instead, she had worried about his mood for the next three days. She had grown frantic when no word came on Wednesday about Tuesday’s deliberations. Then this odd letter arrived Friday afternoon.
The carriage stopped. Daphne pushed open the blinds, angled her head, and looked out. The breadth and height of Castleford’s house would impress anyone. There was nothing reserved, modest, or discreet about the structure. It possessed more exuberant decoration than had ever been fashionable in England and more windows than most manor houses. Its design spoke unapologetically of wealth, privilege, and lack of restraint.
Of course it did.
A host of servants in blue, braided, old-fashioned livery waited to serve her. Hose and pumps marched forward. White gloves handed her and Katherine down. Two periwigs beneath tricornered hats escorted them to the door. An impressive butler, decorated in gold buttons and embroidery, took her card, placed it on a silver tray held by a duller version of himself, then immediately led the way up the curving ceremonial staircase beyond the reception hall.
Katherine paced alongside, wide-eyed, too overwhelmed to be afraid anymore. Daphne tried not to be equally awed by the luxurious appointments layering her view in every direction.
“Have you ever seen anything so fine?” Katherine whispered. “Do Audrianna and Verity live like this?”
“Both of their homes might be as large, but the effect is not so ancien régime in its ostentation.” Of course, neither friend now lived in a duke’s home, either. Not that all dukes dwelled in such excess. Becksbridge had not, but then there were stories that some of his ancestors were secretly Puritans.
“There are some scandalous doings in those paintings up there.” Katherine pointed to the ceiling high above, where gods and goddesses frolicked in bucolic landscapes, their nude poses full of amorous insinuations.
“Such things are not considered scandalous if the Roman gods do them.”
“What are they considered instead?”
“Allegorical. I have always thought that was just an excuse for men to look at naughty images, however.”
They entered the public rooms and passed through two huge drawing rooms. Finally their escort brought them to a chamber of relative simplicity at the end of the house, one paneled in medium tones of woods. Windows lined three of its walls, giving prospects of the river and Hyde Park. A pleasant cross breeze stirred the drapes.
The butler explained the duke would join them soon. Two servants arrived with trays of tiny cakes and tea. After some fussing and serving, she and Katherine were left alone.
Daphne sat on a settee and nibbled on a little cake that tasted of lemon. Her stomach had been tightening with every moment since they passed the park, and she could barely swallow it.
She probably worried for no reason. Castleford was not a total scoundrel, from the talk. He had been kind to both Audrianna and Verity at times. He might spend six days a week whoring and drinking, he might not care what was said of him, and he might delight in being bad, but no one had ever painted him as evil or cruel.
Unfortunately, putting her off that land would not qualify as either of those things. It would only be the act of a man making the best use of an inheritance. Hardly evil. Expected, actually. Smart.
She remembered the look in his eyes during those horrible few minutes after he stopped embracing her. She heard again the dark, sardonic tone with which he took his leave at the greenhouse door.
Her heart sank, and she ceased trying to be optimistic about how this meeting would end.
She probably should have begun packing right after she heard his horse galloping away at dawn.
S
oon, a little thunder of footsteps worked its way through the adjoining drawing room. Two footmen opened the doors to the airy chamber, then held them wide. A line of men walked in, led by Castleford.
He appeared less informal today, Daphne thought. Crisper. Tidier in indefinable ways. Harder.
He walked like a man striding through life with a purpose. His severe expression spoke of sharp attention to whatever matter was at hand.
It became quickly obvious that, for the moment, she was that matter.
He gave her a good look. His gaze reflected his elevated station in ways not seen before. A duke accustomed to always getting his way was examining a woman who had dared deny him that privilege.
He made introductions to her and Katherine of the two men who had entered behind him. The young one with blond hair, spectacles, an unexpectedly firm jaw, and an earnest expression was his secretary, Mr. Edwards. The older, portly, balding man was one of his solicitors, a Mr. Goodale. Mr. Goodale carried a large roll of paper under his arm.
“Mr. Edwards, please take Miss Johnson below and show her the garden,” Castleford said briskly, once the formalities had been completed. “She is an expert in horticulture. She is here to instruct you on all the things our gardeners are doing wrong, and you are to take notes for reference and improvements.”
Mr. Edwards pulled a little ledger book out of his coat for those notes. He bowed to Katherine. “Miss Johnson, if you would do me the honor?”
Clearly confused, Katherine allowed Mr. Edwards to remove her from the chamber.
Castleford settled into a chair facing the settee. Daphne hoped his relaxation in that chair heralded a similar relinquishment of the severity his face wore.
Another dark scrutiny came her way. This time she could see the devilish lights in his eyes, only today they made him appear more dangerous than mischievous. Castleford was not a different man today, but his temperament seemed to sharpen along with his wits when he remained cold sober.
“Forgive my removing Miss Johnson with that little deception regarding her purpose here, Mrs. Joyes. I thought you might not want your friend to hear our conversation. I did not know if you had confided in her,” he said.
“I have not confided. It is best she is not here.” She had counted on Castleford to be circumspect around Katherine during this visit and to communicate his decision without being explicit. She had not expected him to receive her with a little entourage in tow.
“Then let us discuss the business at hand. Goodale here has a talent for finding information quickly. He is much smarter than he looks and enjoys poring over documents and records. He did a bit of investigating, so that I would know what I required in order to make a decision last Tuesday.”
Her blood pounded in hard, slow beats. “Investigating ?” It was all she could do to get the word out in a calm voice.
She looked at Mr. Goodale cautiously. He in turn ignored the insult buried in Castleford’s praise and beamed with pleasure at his master’s expression of high regard.
“It is wise to research inherited property, to see just what is what,” Mr. Goodale explained. “His Grace was inclined to move quickly, but I convinced him to be more measured, to ensure there were no unexpected elements that required consideration.”
In other words, this solicitor had interfered with last Tuesday’s decision, whether it would have been good or bad for her. “How wise of you, sir.”
He bowed his head. “I like to think that I serve my patrons well and give good counsel.”
“Stop flattering yourself, Goodale,” Castleford said. “It is already wearying. You are only here for one reason, so get on with it.”