Andrea Kane (27 page)

She studied him, comprehension dawning. “Yes, I do. You want to help the workhouses, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I’m far from a poor man. But the sum of my own funds is but a fraction of Markham’s fortune. I could do so much. Not just token donations, but rampant reformation—providing more sanitary conditions, higher quality food, less crowded space. The possibilities are endless. Plus I’d have influence with the magistrates, the kind of influence only wealth and a title can provide.”

“And my father? Where does he factor into all this?”

Pierce drew a deep breath. “As I told you, I own each and every one of your father’s outstanding notes. He lives in perpetual fear of when I’ll choose to call them in. His sole comfort has been that, unless I went ahead and scandalized him with enforced bankruptcy, my nonexistent social status precluded me from penetrating his coveted social circles and slandering his name. Now even that peace of mind is gone. Overnight I’ve become a lofty nobleman, respected by all the
ton.
Why, I can stroll into White’s, attend grand country house parties—the options are limitless. I’ll be a constant, taunting thorn in Tragmore’s side. I doubt he’ll ever sleep again.” Jaw clenched, Pierce steeled himself for Daphne’s response.

It was anything but the one he’d expected.

With uncanny insight rather than shock, Daphne replied, “I know the kind of man you are, Pierce, despite the depth of your hatred. You don’t plan to call in those notes at all. You don’t want to bankrupt Father, any more than you want his money.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But not because I’m so fine a man. Because I want to see Tragmore squirm, to render him as helpless as all the people he’s victimized over the years.”

“Yes. But now complete that line of reasoning. You want to render him helpless, not merely to gloat, but so he can never again brutalize anyone as he did you, me, and Mama.”

Silently, Pierce ingested his wife’s words. Then he nodded. “I can’t dispute your point. Nevertheless, Tragmore will never know that holding those notes is the only victory I seek. So far as he’s concerned I could call them in at any time. He’s vulnerable and he’s terrified, and I glory in both. So don’t paint me a hero, Daphne. Given that blackmail is the only weapon capable of striking down a black-hearted bastard like your father, I use it without guilt or regret.”

“I agree.”

Pierce started. “You agree?”

“Absolutely. Father must be stopped. And threatening his wealth and social position is the only way to do it.” Daphne punctuated her declaration with an emphatic nod. “Now, tell me how I can help. What do you intend to accomplish today when we go to Tragmore and in what ways can I assist you?”

A mixture of pride and relief swept over Pierce’s face, and he shook his head in wondrous disbelief. “What an extraordinary combination of contradictions you are, Snow flame. So delicate, so strong.”

“Spirit and fire, I believe you said. Rife with untapped passion and exceptional instincts.”

He chuckled. “So I did.” Tenderly, he framed her face between his palms. “Let’s get dressed. During our carriage ride, I’ll explain my plan. Then we can put your exceptional instincts to work.”

Daphne’s smile was both jubilant and mischievous. “Wonderful! And, upon our return, may we do the same for my untapped passion?”

Stepping away, Pierce executed a formal bow, bringing Daphne’s fingers to his lips. “My pleasure, Your Grace.”

She brought her hand around to caress his jaw. “No, Your Grace. The pleasure will belong to us both.”

It wasn’t until after Daphne had walked off to gather her discarded gown that two staggering realizations struck Pierce.

He had just unflinchingly acted the part of a duke and he had actually taken the first tentative steps toward trust.

Perhaps prayers could, after all, be answered.

D
APHNE CLIMBED DOWN FROM
the carriage and paused, scanning the woods surrounding her father’s estate.

“Pierce, when we’ve finished with Father…” She hesitated, uncertain whether Pierce would honor or laugh at her request.

“We’ll peruse the woods before heading to Markham,” Pierce finished for her, his lips curving with tenderness rather than amusement. “I’m sure we can convince your friend—what was his name, Russet?—to join us. Markham has three times the acreage of Tragmore, resulting in thrice as many cozy foxholes in which to build one’s home.”

“Thank you.” Daphne’s smile was radiant, reminding Pierce yet again how seldom his wife had been indulged, how little it took to bring her joy.

He intended to drown her in it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly. “It isn’t necessary. You can go right upstairs and pack your things, leaving your father to me.”

“I’m sure.” Daphne gathered up her skirts. “Consider it another victory for my newly freed spirit.” So saying, she marched up to the front door and knocked.

The Tragmore butler paled when he saw them there. “Lady Daphne. I wasn’t told to expect you.”

“I’m here to collect my things. But first, the duke and I would like to see my father.”

“Your f-father?” A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. “He’s—That is, I—”

“Well, well.” Tragmore stalked into the hallway, the dark circles under his eyes the only overt sign he’d lost sleep over yesterday’s events. “If it isn’t my wayward daughter and her hastily acquired husband.”

“We want to speak with you, Tragmore,” Pierce commanded. “Alone. Now.”

“By all means.” Enmity glittered in the marquis’s eyes. “Come into my study.” He dismissed the harried butler with a wave of his hand, then turned on his heel and strode down the hall. “You know the way.”

Cupping Daphne’s elbow, Pierce guided her to Tragmore’s study, closing the door behind them.

“Your gown looks rather the worse for wear, daughter.” Tragmore’s disdainful gaze swept Daphne head to toe. “Ah, I forgot your husband’s odiously crude upbringing. Did he demand his marital rights posthaste, tossing up your skirts in the carriage?”

Pierce acted before Daphne’s gasp had died on her lips. He stepped in front of his wife, clearly stating his intention to shield her from her father’s abuse. “Let me begin with rule number one, Tragmore. You will address my wife with all the respect due a duchess. If you raise your voice to her or insult her in any way, I’ll finish the thrashing I began yesterday. And, if you so much as raise a hand to strike her, I’ll kill you where you stand. Is that clear?”

Tragmore’s eyes narrowed. “You contemptible gutter rat. My assets weren’t enough, Markham’s title wasn’t enough. You didn’t rest until you’d seduced my daughter into joining your sick cat-and-mouse game.”

“Pierce didn’t seduce me, Father.” Shoulders back, Daphne walked out from behind her husband, coming to stand beside him. “He asked me to marry him while you were in London. I accepted. I consider myself a very lucky woman. Pierce gave me the strength to escape your brutality while I still held a small measure of self-respect.”

“Are you aware that your esteemed husband is blackmailing me?”

“I am.” Daphne smiled proudly. “And I commend his efforts. In fact, I’ve offered to help him in any way I can. So far as I’m concerned, you deserve to suffer poverty and public ridicule. For what you did to me and to Mama I hope Pierce calls in each and every one of your notes.”

The marquis’s shock at Daphne’s brazenness was instantly eclipsed by the implication of her final words. “Your mother? Is she involved, too? Damn you to hell, Thornton, have you stashed my wife at Markham?”

“Why?” Pierce’s brows rose in sardonic amusement. “Have you misplaced her?”

“You son of a—”

“Careful, Tragmore. That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”

Tragmore clenched his fists, which were white and trembling with rage. “So that’s why my messenger was turned away from Markham last night. I thought it stemmed from your spiteful determination to keep me from my daughter. In reality, it sprang from something far more ominous. You’ve not only abducted Daphne, you’ve seized Elizabeth as well.”

“Daphne is my wife.”

“Elizabeth is mine.”

“Is she, Father?” Daphne asked. “Then why don’t you treat her as such, with some care and respect? Instead, she is naught but your prey, the object of your violence. ’Tis no wonder she’s so desperate to escape you.” A flash of anger ignited Daphne’s eyes. “Pierce didn’t abduct Mama. She chose to go.”

“Chose?” Tragmore roared. “She has no right to choose. She relinquished that right and all her others the day she married me.” He shoved past Pierce. “I’ll drag her out of there myself.”

“No, you won’t,” Pierce clamped a hand on Tragmore’s forearm, staying his departure.

The marquis made several ineffective attempts to free himself. “Your threats mean nothing, Thornton. Not this time. This time the law is on
my
side. If you block my entry to Markham, I’ll contact my solicitor and—”

“I repeat, no you won’t. Because if you do I’ll call in your notes so fast, your head will spin.”

“You’ll do that anyway.”

“Perhaps not.”

Tragmore ceased his struggles. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes narrowed on Pierce’s face. “What does that mean?”

“It means I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I thought you might.” Pierce released his grip, thrusting Tragmore away like a hideous insect. “I’m willing to have Hollingsby draw up a paper, which we both will sign, attesting to the fact that I won’t call in a single one of your notes.”

“And in return?”

“In return, the agreement will contain a stipulation clause.”

“Which is?”

“That you make no attempt to see, speak with, or in any other way contact Daphne or the marchioness.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“For how long?”

“As long as the ladies wish it.”

“Thorn—Markham,” the marquis amended, obviously striving with great difficulty to temper his fury, “I’m willing to compromise. But you’re not being reasonable. Daphne is one issue, Elizabeth quite another. I’ll agree to relinquish Daphne to you. Whether or not I approve, the two of you are wed. But Elizabeth—For heaven’s sake, Markham, surely you see the ramifications of what you’re demanding.”

“Frankly, no.”

“No?” Tragmore wiped his brow. “How would you suggest I explain my wife’s disappearance to the world?”

“The world? Ah, you mean the
ton.”

“Well, of course I mean the
ton.
Whom else would I mean?”

“If that’s your only concern, the problem is easily resolved,” Daphne intervened, unable to bear another moment of her father’s unfeeling tirade. “Tell the
ton
Mama is staying with me, helping me to oversee a staff, to adjust to my new role as a duchess, to adapt to married life in general. That should stifle the gossips.”

Tragmore hesitated.

“The final decision, of course, is yours.” Pierce shrugged, turning to his wife. “Do you need help collecting your things?”

“No. I’ll be just a few moments.” Taking Pierce’s cue, Daphne eased open the door.

“Good. By that time, your father will have made a decision. At which point I’ll know what to advise Hollingsby—whether he’ll be drawing up an agreement or arranging for a bankruptcy notice to be placed in the London
Gazette.”

“You vile—”

Daphne closed the door behind her, cutting off her father’s expletive. Pierce could more than handle things from here. Now all she needed was to collect her few treasured possessions, locate Russet, and leave Tragmore forever.

She hastened up the stairs and to her bedchamber, leaning back against the closed door and taking deep, calming breaths. Looking down at her hands, she was stunned to see they were shaking. Evidently, the confrontation with her father had affected her more profoundly than she’d realized.

Soberly, Daphne forced herself to look about her bedchamber, to remind herself that she was leaving her sadness and fear behind, that the foundation for her dread was no more. It was over at last, and the only thing that remained was to gather her things and bid her past good bye.

Crossing over to the dressing table, Daphne scooped up her brush and comb, suddenly struck by how very little else she truly cared to take. Her clothing consisted of but a few modest day and evening gowns, her personal items only an ongoing needlepoint that made her sleepless nights easier to bear and a few favorite books.

And her two prized possessions.

Having packed all she intended to, Daphne hastened to the bed, sliding her hand beneath the mattress to retrieve her scrapbook: a collection of articles describing the thefts of the Tin Cup Bandit. With a fond smile, she slipped the scrapbook into one of her bags, then turned to her nightstand and her final remaining treasure.

Juliet.

Daphne’s gaze softened as she picked up the elegant doll who, so far as she was concerned, was as beautiful as she’d been a dozen Christmases before, when her mother had flourished her before Daphne’s enchanted eyes. It mattered not that her dress was worn in spots, nor that her golden hair had lost some of its luster. She was Juliet, the precious doll who had absorbed Daphne’s childhood tears, listened patiently to her loneliness and fear, and offered her the constancy and comfort denied to her by fate.

For the umpteenth time, an image of the little girl at the workhouse flashed before Daphne’s eyes, evoking the same aching sadness as always. Unexpectedly, the blanket of hopelessness that customarily followed in its wake never occurred. Instead came a startling and miraculous realization, one that spawned the wonders of faith and hope, rather than futility and despair.

She was no longer her father’s daughter, but Pierce’s wife.

Exhilaration surged through Daphne’s blood as she envisioned all she could finally do, how many people she could aid. Why, with Pierce’s influence and their mutual resolve, the possibilities were limitless.

Infused with newly born hope, Daphne tucked Juliet beside the scrapbook and took up her bags, casting a final look about the bedchamber. Devoid of her personal touches, it looked coldly austere, like Tragmore’s other rooms and like the man who owned them. The similarity wasn’t surprising. Neither her father nor his manor had a soul.