Chapter Seven

Daphne awakened with a start. She stared around her in confusion. Brown velvet surrounded her at every corner. She blinked, trying to overcome the panic. As she stared around her, as she brought the ornately carved wood into full focus, she realized she had seen this room before.

She was in her guardian’s bed. Alone.

The previous night came flooding back. She blushed furiously, wondering if everyone knew she had fallen asleep in her guardian’s bed. What the Duke must think of her! How Annalise would laugh at her when she admitted her folly.

She rolled out of bed, embarrassed and oddly comforted. Last night, for the first time since Papa’s death, she had not had nightmares that haunted her throughout the day. Indeed, she has slept so deeply and contentedly, she could not remember her dreams at all and felt oddly refreshed rather than drained.

Someone had taken her robe and her slippers off her at some point. She flushed at the thought that the Duke might have done such a thing and hurriedly put them on. She hurried out the door and headed down to her own bedroom. The door was standing wide open.

Daphne stepped inside and before she could even think about ordering a bath or breakfast, stopped short. There were three enormous boxes on her bed. Someone had also settled an easel by the bright window. Flush with delight, she ripped into the boxes, marveling at the treasures inside. There were oils and watercolors. Canvas and charcoal. Pads of thick paper to sketch upon, new, shocking brushes of every imaginable size.

“Daph, what are you—”

Annalise stopped short, glancing around. Then she sent her friend a disgruntled look. “Surely you do not mean to paint today!”

Daphne beamed at Annalise. “Of course I do!”

Annalise shook her head, frowning disapprovingly. “Daphne, we have journals and ledgers and personal correspondence to peruse. You can’t waste precious time painting.”

Daphne ignored her, swinging open her armoire looking for an older gown she could wear while she worked. She found an old pinafore and decided it would do well enough.

“Daphne,” Annalise growled in her most threatening tone.

“Hush, Anna. I think the problem is I haven’t been thinking. I need to think about what I am doing. I always think best when I paint.”

“You daydream,” Annalise argued petulantly.

“I think about many things. If I did not have important issues to occupy my mind before, surely you cannot hold that against me.”

Annalise sighed. She had no right to dictate what Daphne did, and they both knew it. “Fine. I’ll continue with your father’s ledgers myself.”

“You are welcome to do as you see fit, Anna. I won’t hold it against you.”

After her friend had left, Daphne dressed in record time. She decided to start with oil and brought paints and canvas to the easel to begin.

It had not been a lie when she told Annalise that she thought best when she painted. One of the reasons she had always loved it so much was because the quiet time gave her the opportunity to look within and think. Sometimes, admittedly, she did think about the old legends and fairy tales and all the issues that entailed. Other times, she looked within to discover what was important to her and plan.

The first thing on her mind was the night she spent in a man’s bed. She flushed once more at the memory, although it had been a wholly innocent experience. No doubt her guardian was annoyed she had fallen asleep in his room. Still, arguing with him had worn her out.

She thought about his suggestion to throw a dinner party, but this time it did not annoy her as it might have done. She considered the ramifications if it did not go at all well, but then such blame could be put on her for her first attempt, could it not? It would also reinforce Chrysanthe’s close ties with a ducal family, and surely Lady Sinclair could only approve of that.

Daphne wrinkled her nose in disgust. The fact that Lady Sinclair was so absorbed about wealth and titles was an annoyance to her. Daphne did not think such things were all that important. She also felt only disgust for the fact that men of their set would take a young girl as a wife rather than honestly find a way to get out of debt.

Of course, that was part of how life with her father had been. They had never entertained fancy lords and ladies in the country. Some did, of course, but Papa had never put importance on such things. Daphne had been on friendly terms with each and every one of the crofters. She had loved to go down to the stables. She enjoyed watching the piglets roll about in the mud. Her father had raised her to measure someone’s worth by who they were inside rather than how they looked or how much money they had.

Considering all that, Daphne thought that if a man could not afford his life, he would be better of taking an honest job rather than using another to wipe clean his debt. That was what she would do, certainly.

As her paintbrush flew, she continued thinking about her father. She missed him. It was a constant ache, and although sometimes she became distracted with all London had to offer, the one true constant in her life, aside from her friends, was the gaping hole her father’s death had left.

What she had said before was true. If he had ailed, she could have accepted it. The natural course of time was something to be respected. Living in the countryside, she had seen that every day, from the aging nag her father had prized, to the older servants whose joints creaked at the end of the day. But her father had not been robbed of health, he had been robbed of life in the most violent way she could imagine.

She tried to recall that last day they had together. He had been distracted when she had interrupted his afternoon to gift him with her latest painting, but that was nothing new. Papa had always been absorbed in his work, just like the Duke. He had always made time for her, always made her feel appreciated and adored. If he could, he would take time to spend with her, or if he could not, he would invite her to spend her hours in the study with him if she liked.

So unlike the Duke. Her guardian would listen to her and make her promises or try to talk her around her worries, but he never asked her to stay. She mulled over that depressing thought before a smile broke over her, just as she added rays of sunlight to her painting. That she would willingly enclose herself in that stark, depressing prison he used for his study was laughable.

Then her mind flurried with details. The Duke did not lock his study at night. Indeed, she could imagine that he never locked that door. She had found that odd because her father always had, but what if most gentlemen did not lock their doors. What if her father had been hiding something there, something they had failed to see when they had cleared out his belongings?

She stared at her painting sightlessly, unwittingly adding flowers. That last day, no one had come to visit. The servants had been as shocked as she had by his death. Everyone had been shocked. There had been no broken windows, no doors left unlocked. One would have guessed that there had to be a sign of forced entry somewhere, but there hadn’t been.

No one had seen a thing. No one had heard aught.

Someone would have had to, Daphne thought wildly. Unless they were lying. Or… She gulped as that thought hit her.

Unless one of their trusted servants had pulled the trigger.

Her wild thoughts were interrupted as her door opened.

A sweetly smiling Darcie walked in, with her pert little white cap over her pretty auburn hair.

Daphne blanched.

* * * *

Daphne sat in front of the dressing table that night, disconcerted and frightened by her own realizations of that day. Darcie was choosing a gown for her to wear for the opera, to be followed by a trek through Vauxhall Gardens.

Blindly, Daphne applied her favorite perfume to her pulse points and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked paler than usual. Instinctively, she pinched her cheeks to color so no one would guess that aught was the matter. She was not quite ready to talk about what had occurred to her.

“Your painting is lovely, m’lady,” Darcie told her.

Daphne glanced her way, uncomfortable with the notion that Darcie could ever aid anyone in wickedness. Darcie was warm and sweet and slightly prudish, not at all a villainess to be accused. She comforted herself with that. Even if someone had betrayed her father, she knew Darcie would have had no part in it. She served only Daphne in the Davernay household. Daphne’s worries were hers.

“Thank you, Darcie,” she murmured softly.

“I think this gown would be good for this evening. It has a matching wrap.”

Daphne glanced at the gown and smiled. It was a lovely gown. A concoction of frothy cream was embroidered at bodice and the shoulder cap sleeves with ornate silk threads of green. Matching spirals followed down the skirt. The wrap that went with it was green with little white spirals embroidered into the soft material.

Daphne opened her jewelry box and stared down at the fortune in jewels. Her mother’s. Her heart softened as she tried to see her father, young and infatuated, gifting her mother with the treasures. Or perhaps some of them had been in her mother’s family. She had never asked her father. It had never seemed important to her before.

She selected a necklace of fiery emerald and icy diamonds and matching earrings. There were also combs to match for her hair.

Darcie was immediately at her side, starting on her hair. Although there was no need to curl the unruly mass, it took a while for Darcie to manage to tame it so that her hair was pinned up, with stubborn curls cascading down to frame her face and tickle at her neck.

Daphne put on the remaining jewelry and moved to finish dressing. The gown was soft as air around her, which always made her feel uncomfortable. Though by some measures the bodice was almost demure, it still revealed enough of a rise of her breasts to make her feel uncomfortable. She shoved her feet into dainty kid slippers, grasped her gloves and wrap and bid her maid a hasty goodnight.

She shook her head at herself as she headed downstairs. She was being ridiculous. That Daphne knew it only made it that much worse. She was afraid that she would give something away, that somehow Darcie would guess at what Daphne was thinking and be hurt.

Her guardian was already downstairs, waiting. Annalise had still not finished dressing. Daphne blushed the moment she saw him, remembering the night.

“I did not mean to fall asleep,” she blurted.

He sent her an amused look. “I did not think you had, Miss Davernay.”

She frowned up at him. “I thought you told me to call you James.”

He smiled and leaned down to her ear to keep others from overhearing. “I said I am James in my bedroom, Daphne. Outside the bedroom we must keep up appearances.”

“That is ridiculous,” she told him shortly. “I should always be Daphne, and you should always be James.”

“You are Miss Davernay, and I am your Duke,” he corrected her with a wicked glint in his eye.

Daphne wrinkled her nose. “Well, one would think that you would give me leave to call you by your given name since you rescued me.”

“Mmm. One would think,” he agreed caustically.

Daphne glared at him. It did not work. He was the implacable, annoying Duke once more. What was the matter with her? All day long she had foolishly thought of him as a man, and not just any man. A kind man. A handsome man. A man who she could…

She shivered. A man whom she could lay down beside and cuddle with through the night. A man she could hug. A man she could love.

How foolish could she be? The fact that he was not old or fat did not mean he would be a considerate husband. Indeed, how could she ever, even in her most private of fantasies, think of him as generous and kind and tender. He was nothing like her father.

Daphne struggled to push these thoughts aside when Annalise appeared. She looked stunning in buttercup yellow. There were no frills, only soft, straight lines that made her look more elegant and less like a little girl playing dress up.

In the carriage, Daphne grew tired of the stiff silence. She felt His Grace staring at her, and Daphne was struggling not to meet his gaze. Annalise, in turn, was watching both of them with a subdued look of curiosity.

She was sick and tired of holding her tongue and playing the good girl. She felt a bit rebellious. It did occur to her that perhaps Chrysanthe sometimes felt this way, and fought against it.

“I have decided to throw a dinner party,” she announced boldly.

“A dinner party? Daphne, you have never arranged anything of the sort!” Annalise exclaimed, shocked.

“Yes, a dinner party, Anna,” Daphne retorted. She was still annoyed over their disagreement this morning. “I think it will be, if naught else, educational.”

“Who would you invite?” Annalise sputtered, still shocked.

“The Sinclairs, among others, I would guess,” James sneered.

“Oh, Daphne, you mustn’t meddle,” Annalise hissed.

“I am not meddling. I am throwing a party.”

“Where would you even…” Annalise trailed off and sent her brother a fulminating look. “James, tell me you did not put this idea in her head.”

Daphne was impressed. She had seen the stern teachers at Miss Throckmorton’s School for Girls completely lose their bladders beneath Annalise’s glowers. Her brother did not seem at all phased.

“I did, Annalise, and if Miss Davernay desires to throw a party, far be it from me to stop her.”

“Oh, James,” Annlise cried.

“What’s done is done,” he said dismissively. “Let me know when you decide to throw the dinner, Daphne, and I will make certain it is in our schedule. That is,” he added quietly, “if I am invited.”

“I may be capable of questioning the rules of our set, Your Grace, but I am hardly given to kicking a man out of his own home,” Daphne told him quietly.

A delicious thought had just occurred to her. She might be able to make a few changes for the party, and make them permanent. Her eyes glittered with glee at the thought.

Annalise slouched back, utterly bereft at being overcome. She thought that it was a waste of care and time for her friend to plan a foolish dinner party.

“What is the opera about tonight?” she asked her brother, pouting.

James stared at Daphne while he said, “A young girl too foolish to mind her betters.”

Daphne snorted. “I presume by betters the writer meant men.”

“You’ll see. Tell me, Miss Davernay, how did you spend your day? Painting?”

“I did paint today,” she told him uncomfortably. “Please convey my gratitude to Villiers for going shopping for me. I had not expected quite so much.”

“Yes,” Annalise hissed at the reminder of Daphne’s wasted day. “She was quite overcome this morning.”

Daphne could only gawk at her guardian as he grinned. It was not at all comforting.