He shook his head. “Leave it to me. You can trust me, Daphne.”
“I know. Thank you.” The smile she gave him heated his blood.
“Your friends are almost to the river. We’d better hurry if we want to join them in harassing the swans.”
“I should not like to miss that,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.
Talking with her like this seemed so natural, so right. Under different circumstances—if Robert hadn’t died, if Ben’s leg hadn’t been injured—he and Daphne might
have spent a lifetime of days just like this. As it was, he probably had only a few weeks at best.
He would find the painting, and she’d have no further use for him.
Then the darkness would return.
T
he next afternoon, Ben sat in his study reviewing the papers that Averill had sent over for him to sign. Although they were standard, straightforward documents, Ben might as well have been deciphering hieroglyphics. He was distracted, and one unearthly beauty—with all-too-earthly charms—was to blame.
So instead of behaving like a responsible earl, he amused himself by spinning his seal stamp. The seal, an
F
with a fleur-de-lis behind it, made a surprisingly decent top. However, when Flemings, his butler, appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat, Ben accidentally knocked the iron stamp off the edge of his desk, and it plummeted into the wastebasket where it landed with a
thunk
. “Damn.”
Flemings eyed the wastebasket without lowering his chin. “Would you like me to retrieve it, my lord?”
“Actually, I thought I’d leave it there.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Sarcasm was often lost on Flemings. Or maybe the old bastard was a lot cleverer than he let on.
The butler tugged at the bottom of his jacket, which strained to cover the belly beneath. “Lord Biltmore is here to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Ben considered this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a visitor. True, it was only Hugh, but heaven forbid that the social calls become a routine occurrence. Hades had his underworld, a dragon had his lair, and Ben had his town house. Guests were to be endured, he supposed, but definitely not encouraged. “I suppose you can show him back here.”
“Very well.” Flemings turned to go, but not before his eyes flicked to the portrait behind Ben.
Good God. “Wait.”
The butler froze but did not turn around. Ben wondered why he tolerated such impertinence. Probably because Flemings tolerated his.
“Show him to the drawing room and offer him a drink. I’ll join him there shortly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And, Flemings?”
He froze again. Still did not turn around. “Do not let anyone near my study. No one—no guest nor member of the staff—is to enter, except you. And that should only be under dire circumstances. Do you understand?”
Flemings reluctantly faced him. “I believe I grasp your meaning, my lord. I am to keep everyone away from the sanctum… er, the study. I myself may enter, should conditions warrant it.”
“Good.” Ben reached for the cane he’d hung from a shelf.
“Am I correct in assuming that choking would qualify?”
“What?”
“If you were choking on a quail bone—would that be a dire circumstance?”
“Why in God’s name would I eat a quail in my study?”
“Because you were hungry, I suppose.” The butler’s lips twitched as though he slayed himself with his cheeky humor.
In response, Ben smiled with the indulgent sweetness he usually reserved for children who’ve botched the punch line of a worn-out joke. “Our visitor, Flemings?”
“I shall escort him to the drawing room at once.” The butler walked down the hall at a stately pace.
Ben could not resist calling after him. “For the record, Flemings, you’d better hope I don’t choke on a damned quail bone, because the next earl will not take kindly to your insolence.”
The butler’s reply echoed down the hallway. “Very good, my lord.”
Ben took a quick look at Daphne’s portrait before closing the door behind him and heading for the drawing room. If Hugh had seen the painting, it would have been disastrous. Daphne would never have forgiven him. He had to be more careful.
He found Hugh gazing out a window that overlooked the street. Upon hearing the
thump
of Ben’s cane on the hardwood floor, he turned and smiled broadly. “Foxburn, you’re looking well.”
“Don’t tell me cripple is the rage this season?”
“What?”
Ben sighed. “Never mind. What brings you here?”
“I thought we might discuss our impending trip to Biltmore Manor. Shall we sit?”
“What’s there to talk about? We’ll travel there in a coach. We’ll check that everything is satisfactory. We’ll return here.”
Hugh walked in front of the sofa. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down?”
“Would it make you feel better?”
“It would, actually.”
Ben sat and immediately wished he’d helped himself to a drink before doing so.
As if he’d read his mind, Hugh went to the sideboard, poured a brandy, and brought it to him.
Hugh was a good lad. The least Ben could do was listen to him. “What, exactly, did you want to discuss?”
“I saw the Sherbourne sisters and Miss Honeycote at a dinner party last night.”
Ben raised a brow. Now Hugh had his full attention.
“I mentioned that we were going to spend a few days in the country, and Lady Olivia had a capital idea.”
“Lady Olivia—the loud one?”
Hugh winced. “I suppose she is, yes.”
“Go on.”
“She suggested that I host a house party.”
“What for?”
Hugh smiled, obviously pleased to have an answer at the ready. “Why, for the purpose of entertaining guests and enjoying a respite from town life.”
“The purpose of our visit is to take care of estate business—not to play charades. If you want to host a house party, I can’t stop you, but I don’t intend to stay for it.”
Hugh’s face fell. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because you seem to like spending time with Miss Honeycote and the Sherbourne sisters. I like them, too.”
“They are not as annoying as the majority of the misses on the marriage mart,” Ben admitted. “But to say I like spending time with them is an exaggeration.” Except when it came to Daphne. Was he that transparent?
“Lady Olivia thought that since we all had such a nice time at Vauxhall Gardens, a house party would provide an opportunity for us to get to know one another a bit better.”
“And just who else would you invite to this momentous event?”
Hugh shrugged. “Lady Olivia seemed keen on having Mr. Averill attend. Huntford and his duchess won’t make the trip, of course, but Mrs. Honeycote could accompany the young women. I thought I’d extend an invitation to the Seaton girls and—”
Ben arched a brow. “I don’t suppose they could leave their violins at home?”
Hugh frowned—a look that was half scolding, half disappointment. Ben was accustomed to such looks; it wasn’t unusual for him to receive a dozen before breakfast.
Only, he
wasn’t
used to receiving them from Hugh.
“Their playing isn’t so bad. You might like the Seaton sisters if you got to know them,” Hugh said.
Yes, and the Thames might freeze over in July, but since it was rare for Hugh to take a stand, Ben kept his doubts to himself. “You like them, then?”
“I don’t know Miss Jane very well, but Miss Louise has a sharp sense of humor—not unlike yours, if you want to know the truth.” The sudden ruddiness of Hugh’s cheeks suggested that perhaps he admired more than Lady Louise’s sense of humor.
Ben breathed a tad easier. “In that case, she sounds utterly charming.”
“I can round out our numbers with a few of my pals from Eton.” Hugh smiled as though pleased with himself.
“It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” Ben twirled his cane, balancing it in front of him. He glanced at Hugh, wishing his true motivation for wanting a house party was written on his face.
He seemed interested in the Seaton girl, but what if he still had designs on Daphne? Now that Ben knew her as a person—and not just a scandalous mystery woman in a portrait—he could no longer argue that she would be an unsuitable wife. If he had any reservations about her character, it was that she was almost too generous and kind. Too good to be true.
And yet, the idea of Hugh courting her made Ben want to slam his cane into his good knee and break the bloody stick clean in two.
“Did Lady Rose and Miss Honeycote agree that a house party would be a grand and welcome adventure?”
Hugh scratched his head. “Not in those words, exactly. Lady Rose is much more retiring than her sister—”
Ben snorted. “
Everyone
is more retiring than her sister.”
“True,” Hugh conceded. “Lady Rose seemed amenable, however.”
“And Miss Honeycote?” Ben focused on the spinning handle of his cane and feigned boredom.
“She seemed enthused at the prospect.”
“Did she?” Interesting. And dangerous. Didn’t she realize that if the second portrait was near Biltmore Manor, it was the worst possible place for her to be?
“She said something about needing a reprieve from balls and the like.” Hugh shook his head. “I thought young ladies lived for such entertainments.”
“I’d advise that you don’t attempt to figure out the workings of a woman’s mind. Not only is it futile, but it will give you the devil of a headache.” So, Daphne wanted to escape town and the constant fear of being recognized. He understood the desire to run, but it was too risky.
“If you are dead set on hosting a house party, I cannot stop you, but I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. The staff will not be prepared for a large gathering. Who would act as your hostess, planning menus and overseeing activities?”
“My housekeeper, Mrs. Norris, is accustomed to the role. She took on hostess duties after my mother died. I doubt anyone would be more excited at that prospect than she.”
Ben held out his empty glass and Hugh took the not-so-subtle hint. As he retrieved the glass and walked to the sideboard, he said, “I do hope you’ll stay, Foxburn, and not just because we’re short on gentlemen. I think it would be good for you to get out of your study—and socialize.”
Good grief, the last thing he needed was for Hugh to make him some kind of project. Didn’t he realize it was the other way around? The sooner Ben could fulfill his promise to Robert the better. And, now that he thought on it, maybe a house party that included several potential matches for Hugh—excluding Daphne—was actually a step in the right direction.
“I will consider it.”
Hugh beamed and handed Ben his glass, replenished with brandy. “I’m so glad to hear it.”
“Not because I need you to save me from my lonely, bitter life. I happen to like my life this way.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.”
Ben tossed back a healthy swig, welcoming the warm sting that traveled down his throat and settled in his chest. “Are we done here?”
Hugh laughed and slapped him on the back good-naturedly. “I suppose we are. You won’t regret this, Foxburn. We’re going to have a grand time.”
As his protégé bounded out of the room, Ben dragged a hand down his face. Damn, but he felt old. His leg throbbed and just the thought of traveling an entire day in a coach gave him the beginnings of a headache.
He had to talk to Daphne and make her aware of the risks if she attended. Charlton lived only a couple miles from Hugh’s country house. There was every possibility that she’d run into him at dinner or while riding or walking the grounds. And if Charlton
did
have the second portrait in his possession, he would recognize Daphne just as surely as Ben had.
He swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp and hobbled out of the room, back to his study. There was no question—another meeting with Daphne was required.
The problem was, Ben looked forward to it far more than he should.
Hatching: (1) A shading technique in which the artist draws a series of thin, parallel lines. (2) The act of devising a plan in the hope of preventing one’s monumental fall from grace.
T
he next day Daphne was blessedly busy preparing for her visit to the orphanage. First, she finished mending a pile of linens and blouses for the girls. Afterward, she ventured to the market to purchase some fresh fruit and a few other treats she’d promised them.
Anything to keep her mind off the latest note she’d received from Benjamin.
He’d hinted that he had a matter of some urgency to discuss with her and wanted to meet in the park again today. Since she already had plans to visit the foundling home, she’d written back, suggesting that they meet tomorrow instead.
In between her chores and errands, she managed to walk through the foyer at least thirteen times in the hopes that she’d find a letter on the silver salver on the
side table. The butler had begun to look at her strangely, as though he resented her constantly encroaching on his territory.
But alas, there was no reply from Benjamin.
Mama planned to come along to the orphanage. She hadn’t been since before her trip to Bath and was eager to see the girls, whom she said reminded her of Anabelle and Daphne when they were young… and poor.
Which was not so long ago.
The grandfather clock gonged four times and Daphne plucked her bonnet from a hook beside the door. “Mama, please hurry. I want to spend some time with the girls outdoors before they go to dinner.”
“Coming, my dear.” Mama swept into the foyer wearing a fetching feathered hat. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was engrossed in my book. The chapter ended with the heroine chained to a dungeon wall.”
“I read that one to you. Don’t you remember, she—”
“Stop!” Mama slapped her gloved hands over her ears with a vehemence that made Daphne giggle.
She’d read book after book to Mama during the dark days of her illness. Daphne thought that Mama had liked the stories. She’d certainly
seemed
to be listening, but due to her opium-induced haze, she remembered none of them.