Chapter Eighteen

Daphne desperately wanted to cry. She was warring with herself over issues of wants and needs, however. She wanted to crawl into that big, plush bed in his room and wait for James to come home. She wanted to wrap herself around him and hold on every single night until she had to leave. She wanted to spend every waking and sleeping moment in his arms.

She needed to get away from him, before she pushed him into breaking his code of honor. She needed to return to Lilac Manor with a husband who would never push her or make impossible demands upon her. She needed a husband who would let her be as much as possible, who would look after the family estates with integrity and honesty.

As tears were a want, and not a need, she refused them.

Clad only a diaphanous nightrail and matching dressing gown, she padded barefoot into the study. James and Anna were gone for the night, as usual. She was all alone.

She had checked on Villiers, who was comfortably sleeping. She was tired of painting and of reading and pacing and torturing herself with memories. It was a time of action.

She sat down at the writing desk and began to pen a note to Elliot. She started to tell him outright that she accepted his proposal. As she peered at the words, they stood out blaringly. They seemed cold and rude and awful. She wadded up the parchment and started again.

Impatient, she started again.

It took time for her to force a warm salutation and speak of only good wishes in his new home. She wanted to convey friendship, more than anything else. She quickly found herself explaining about Villiers and her worry about him. It was so easy to pour her heart out on a lone sheet of parchment.

She heard a crash in the front hall, and the sound of a woman crying out. Daphne glanced up, concerned. There were no additional sounds, however. She dipped her quill into the ink pot, deciding that someone had dropped something, perhaps a tray, or possibly they had even broken on of the expensive decorations that lined the hall. It was not important to her.

A few moments later, when a vaguely familiar, and wholly unwanted figure burst into the library, it mattered a great deal. Daphne stared, uncomprehending, at the portly figure of Brentwood, standing there with sweat pouring down his chubby jowls, his stomach heaving with deep breaths.

Daphne immediately stood up. “My Lord, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“Don’t you go and talk to me like that, you brazen hussy! I have been waiting weeks for your attention. I have it now, don’t I?” He let out an awful guffaw of amusement. “We’re leaving.”

Daphne stared at him as though he had gone completely mad. “What are you talking about?”

“We are leaving. Now.”

She simply stared at him. What was he doing here? Was this what that terrible sound had been? Why was he sweating?

“My lord, has there been an accident.”

Brentwood glared at her. “There will be if you don’t move. C’mon, bitch!”

Daphne stood still, her mind racing. Brentwood was here. James was gone. Villiers was incapable of coming to her aid. This beast was suffering under some misconception that she would go anywhere with him. Her heart began to thud with fear.

Think, Daphne ordered herself. She could not freeze now. If she lost her wits, she had no doubt this wretched man would take disgraceful advantage of the situation. She had to remain calm; she had to think.

Forcing a smile, she stepped towards him, spreading her hands magnanimously. “My Lord, won’t you sit. I shall order refreshment, and we can discuss this…” Travesty, she thought. “This misunderstanding.”

“The time of talk is over, you little slut. I have waited and waited. If you had taken the time, just once, to ride out with me, it would have never come to this.”

Daphne blinked at him. “Come to what?” she asked quietly.

He was in front of her in two strides. She stared at him, not understanding the glint in his mud-brown eyes until it was too late. His balled fist crashed into her cheek. Crying out in shock and pain, Daphne fell to the floor. For a moment, there was a blinding, burning light behind her eyes.

Breathing heavily, she managed to rise to her feet again. Swaying slightly, she opened her mouth to speak. His fist crashed into her face again. Three more times he hit her until she lay on the floor, weak and shaking. She just wanted to close her eyes, to escape, but she knew if she did things could only get worse.

He was going to keep hitting her until he killed her, or she agreed. Daphne blinked back tears. James had been right, he was an awful brute. Had she truly thought of marrying such a monster, just to be rid of James?

James. Oh love, she thought sadly, forgive me.

She would have to go with him. If she did not, she very much feared he would kill her before anyone could come to her aid. Even if James were to come through the door that instant, she could not bear for him to see her in such an inelegant position. That wasn’t even to mention what Brentwood might do to James and Anna before anyone could stop him.

Daphne sat up, shoving tangled hair out of her eyes. Her face was throbbing. What would happen when she left? Would he take her somewhere and beat her into submission? Or worse, would he take what she should have openly offered to James? She closed her eyes, fighting the pain. She had been so foolish. If only she could see him one last time…

“Please allow me to dress,” she whispered hoarsely, “and I shall gladly leave for wherever you wish to go.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Davernay.” He leaned down and clamped her arm in a bruising, vice-like grip. The smell of sweat and meat permeated her senses as he dragged her up. “So you can call for help.”

Daphne forced herself to look at the loathsome man. “I cannot go riding about London in naught but my dressing gown,” she snapped. “At least allow me shoes and a cloak.”

His laughter was most obscene. “You won’t need shoes or clothes where you are going.”

* * * *

Chrysanthe peered around the corner, making sure none of the servants were about. She pulled her dressing gown more securely across her bodice as she padded down the hall.

She had returned only a little over an hour past with Mama. Papa was still staying out of their way. He was absolutely convinced that Daphne was little better than a whore, although Mama had boxed his ears the last time he’d said such an unsavory word in Chrysanthe’s presence. Personally, she thought Mama was being a trifle silly. Chrys knew much worse blasphemies than that particular word.

Her heart was heavy. Slowly, she tiptoed downstairs. Daphne was making the biggest mistake of her life. Everyone knew it. Even Anna knew it, and she was still denying that there was aught between her brother and Daph other than a passing friendship. She absolutely refused to simply sit and watch while one of her best friends in all the world made the greatest mistake of her life.

If Daphne refused to fight for the man she would, then Chrys would do it for her. Still, her heart ached in her breast at what she was about to do. Never, in her entire life, had she ever considered doing what she was about to do. She had never betrayed a single secret. She had never admitted to the mischief Daph and Anna had gotten into with her. But enough was enough. It was for Daphne’s own good.

Besides, Chrysanthe comforted herself, she was not absolutely certain that Elliot Morton was innocent.

She tiptoed to the doorway of the receiving room. She saw Mama sitting, twisting her hands together in agitation. She was still dressed in her ball gown. Chrysanthe inhaled sharply as she recognized her uncle. What was he doing here at this late hour?

“Chrysanthe, don’t hover,” her uncle said in a bored tone of voice. “In or out, girl? Haven’t I told you never do a thing halfway?”

Smiling slightly, Chrysanthe walked inside. Her uncle was a giant of a man with bulging muscle and sinew. He still stood straight and tall, a remarkable thing at his age, with keen, intelligent eyes and, she thought ruefully, very good hearing.

“I thought you were abed, Chrysanthe,” Lady Sinclair said unhappily.

She shrugged. “I heard the door, Mama.”

Chrysanthe sat down on a small stool, staring up at her uncle with badly disguised awe. She had always looked up to him. He was so smart and brave, so intelligent. He did not mingle with society near as much as Mama thought he should. He worked hard in the war office, ferreting out spies and doing good deeds for the good of all England. She used to want to be just like him. In truth, she still did.

“I am glad you are here, Uncle,” Chrysanthe said quietly. She sent her mother a worried look. “And you, Mama. I need to tell you something.”

Lady Sinclair sighed in resignation. “I suppose I am about to hear what you, Annalise and Daphne have been up to, aren’t I?”

Chrysanthe’s jaw dropped. “You knew?”

“Please, Chrysanthe. I did not spend eighteen years raising you without learning when you are trying to hide something. I did not believe it could possibly be dangerous. That is why I never tried to stop you.”

Chrys sighed. It was so hard to fool her mother.

Uncle sat down comfortably. She sent him a curious glance. He appeared to be amused.

“Well?” he urged her, smiling. “I’m waiting, Chrysanthe. Captivate your audience.”

This was it. The moment of betrayal.

She twisted her fingers in her lap. “It began on Daphne’s birthday…”

She told them everything. She told them everything they had thought of and assumed ever since Baron Davernay had died, what they had done, and what they had not. She told them about the attempted murders. She told them about Daphne’s tears. In addition, she told them about the Duke.

“Mama, she loves him so much,” Chrysanthe whispered. “She is going to marry her cousin, all because of some stupid notion that they could never be together because…” She trailed off, sniffing. It upset her each time she thought of it.

“Daphne told me there was no truth to the rumors,” Lady Sinclair noted.

“I am sure there is none at all,” Chrys cried. “Well, at least not with the Duke.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Chrysanthe choked back a laugh. “Daphne admitted she did sleep with Annalise.”

Her uncle burst into raucous laughter. “The minx!”

Even Mama managed a small smile. “We are fortunate your father is not here.”

Uncle was still laughing.

“Mama, we have to stop her somehow,” she begged.

“Chrysanthe dearest, I have no right to even try to intervene.”

“But you don’t understand!” Chrys cried out. “Ever since we were girls, Daphne talked about how her parents loved one another. All those years, and her father had never even considered being with another woman. No matter what she says, it was her dream to find that same kind of love. She loves Anna’s brother, but because of some stupid idea that it is forbidden—”

“He is her protector,” Lady Sinclair hissed. “Such things are taboo. Think, Chrysanthe, if, after living together all this time, they were wed, the scandal would be immense. Not even his title could protect them.”

Chrysanthe glared. “Mama, you always taught me that more than greed or envy or hate, love is the most powerful thing in all the world. Love fights. Love conquers. Love cannot be destroyed.”

“I meant every word,” Lady Sinclair snapped.

Uncle was studying them quietly, waiting for the best moment to attack.

He chose the lull for his offense. “Chrysanthe, I now understand all the peculiar questions you asked me, although I must ask why you no longer trust my judgment.”

Chrysanthe flushed. “I do trust you, Uncle.”

He tilted his head and gave her the look. Grown men had confessed, weeping all the while, to all manner of treacheries beneath his daunting stare. Not Chrysanthe.

The criminals could learn a few lessons from his niece, he thought with wry amusement. She glared right back.

“There is something about that Elliot Morton that I don’t trust,” she insisted. “He seems quite wicked.”

To her surprise, her mother nodded her agreement. “I would never trust my daughter with him,” she said quietly.

Mama’s brother lifted a curious brow. “Oh?”

Mama laughed. “Elliot Morton simply oozes blatant sensuality. Oh, Chrysanthe, you would be right never to trust him. You would offer him your virtue and do any manner of terrible things, all without him ever asking. He may not be a particularly foul creature, however, but I do believe him to be one of the most dangerous animals in all of England.”

To Lady Sinclair’s annoyance, her brother laughed. “Spoken like a true woman.”

He stood then and peered out the door. He slowly turned back, frowning at his little, precocious niece.

“Do not fear that Mister Morton is a danger to your friend, not in the way you think,” he added when Chrysanthe opened her mouth to object. “One of your theories rings true, Chrysanthe. Someone has been trying, with increasing carelessness, to kill your friend for over a month now. It is also obvious that someone tried to kill her cousin.”

“But—”

“A man is innocent until proven guilty, my dear. I will do my own investigation into these matters. Rest assured, Chrysanthe, I will get to the bottom of this.”

Lady Sinclair stood, resting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Is Daphne Davernay in danger now?”

Her brother shifted uncomfortably. “Most likely. Her maid will know by now that she failed. Whoever these killers are, they are tenacious. It is only by mere chance they have not been discovered by now.”

“Mama—”

“Not now,” Lady Sinclair murmured. She had eyes only for her brother. “So, she could be attacked at any time, is that correct?”

“The probabilities would suggest she is never safe,” he agreed simply.

All three turned towards the doorway when there was a sudden banging on the front door. Servants came running past, helping two, bedraggled young women inside. Daphne ran forward to embrace a sobbing Annalise.

“Dear heavens,” Lady Sinclair whispered. She came forward. “Eton, bring them in here,” she ordered.

The grim-faced butler helped a limping woman to a soft settee, murmuring soothingly all the while. The young woman, obviously a servant, was coated in dried blood. Her face was an abstract of deep, purpling bruises. Her nose was crooked and continued to seep blood, even as she wept.

Chrysanthe drew Annalise back, taking her hands in her own and squeezing support. “Anna, what has happened?”

Lady Sinclair poured a snifter of her husband’s finest scotch. Her eyes were riveted to the young, broken servant. Quietly, she ordered her manservant to bring warm water to bathe her wounds.

“Daphne,” Annalise gasped. She took a long, deep breath. “He has Daphne.”

“Who?” Chrysanthe cried out. “Elliot?”

“Brentwood.” She promptly fell to her knees, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed.

“Brentwood?” Chrysanthe murmured, frowning. Nothing at all had pointed to the foul man.

“Kenneth?” Chrysanthe’s uncle muttered. “The Earl?”

Weeping still, Anna nodded. She lifted her tear-stained face to look at all of them. “James kept refusing his offers, but he would not give up. And now…now…” She could say no more.

Lady Sinclair sat by the young maid-servant. She brushed back blood-caked hair, surveying the damage. She took one shuddering breath, then another.

“He is capable of this?” she asked at last.

Chrysanthe helped Annalise to her feet. She wrapped a supporting arm around her waist. Anna leaned heavily, struggling to bring herself under control. The moment she once more looked at her trusty maid, she began to weep with fervor once more.

“Edith said she tried to deny him,” she managed around her tears. “When she came to, he was gone. No one saw a thing.”

“Where is your brother?” Chrysanthe worried.

“James went after them. But what if she’s already dead? What if—”

“He will be headed to Gretna Green,” Lady Sinclair said simply. “He will not dare hurt her more than necessary until he has what he wants.”

“Mama, nothing pointed to him at all,” Chrysanthe wailed. “I never even suspected him.”

Annalise stared at her, shocked.

“I told them everything,” Chrys admitted sadly.

Anna sagged, whether with relief or fear, no one could say.

“A man can be foul and treacherous without being guilty of every crime ever committed, Chrysanthe,” he uncle told her simply.

“D-do you think he will hurt her?”

Chrysanthe shared a panicked look with her mother.

“No more than necessary to gain his ends.”

Lady Sinclair came to embrace the two girls. “He may not even have to touch her,” she murmured. “He could threaten to hurt someone she loved, or a pet. He could threaten to burn down her home. It would be lies, most likely, but if he thought she may go along with him just to protect that she loved—”

“She would,” Chrysanthe whimpered. “Daphne would die to protect a stranger, much less…us.”

“James said you would not turn us away,” Annalise whispered. “He said you would help all you could.”

Lady Sinclair smiled sadly. “James has a good memory. Come, girls. No more can be done tonight.”

“What will he do when he finds them?” Annalise wanted to know.

“Oh, he will likely kill him,” Lady Sinclair announced quite cheerfully.