Guilty Series (22 page)

“Lady Fitzhugh,” he said. “Miss Fitzhugh, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Wade.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, and she stared back at him, appalled by this new campaign he intended to launch, but he did not appear to notice. “Ladies,” he said with a bow, “it has been a pleasure.”

After he had gone, no one spoke for several mo
ments. Elizabeth, of course, was the first to do so. “What did he give you, Daphne?” she asked. “Did you forget a book in Hampshire?”

“Elizabeth,” reproved her mother. “It is not our business.”

Daphne owned scarcely a dozen books, having had to sell all of her father's, and she was certain she had not left behind even one of the precious few she did own. She untied the bow, pulled away the twine, and carefully tore off the wrapping paper. She was holding the book facedown, but the white linen cover alone confirmed her suspicion that it did not belong to her. “This is not mine,” she said, frowning. “I have never seen this before.”

She turned the volume over and read the gilded stamp on front. “
Le Langage des Fleurs
,” she read aloud, with a tightening pang of pain around her heart, “by Charlotte de la Tour.”

She stared at the golden fleur-de-lis below the title for a moment, then read the inscription he had written.

Daphne bit her lip. That night in the conservatory. He remembered. She felt herself softening inside, felt a hint of pleasure like a ray of sunshine peeping between dark, stormy clouds, and she closed the book with a snap, striving to come to her senses. She had no intention of getting hurt again.

“If this is not your own book, it must be a gift!” Elizabeth pronounced. “Oh, Daphne, a gift from the duke. Why, you are so discreet! You never said a word to us.”

Daphne looked up in dismay to find all three of them staring at her. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Do you not?” Lady Fitzhugh asked softly, giving her such a knowing look that Daphne wanted to scream. “It is a very poetic sort of gift, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Anne agreed with a sigh. “To be the recipient of a duke's attentions. How romantic.”

“Is it romantic and poetic?” asked Elizabeth.

“Of course it is, silly goose!” Anne cried, laughing. “It is
Le Langage des Fleurs
!”

“Yes, yes, but I'm not a silly goose, and what does it mean?”

“The language of flowers,” her mother explained. “You would know how to translate it, Elizabeth, if you had not railed so forcefully against
your French lessons as a child. It is a book that explains the poetic meaning of particular plants.”

“Lovers use it to send each other secret messages,” Anne said with delight. “It has become quite the thing. So, Daphne, are you engaged to him yet?”

“Anne!” Lady Fitzhugh cried. “You do not need to confide in us, Daphne, my dear. It is not our affair, and we shall respect your privacy.”

“But I am not engaged to him, nor shall I be!” She could tell by their faces they did not believe her, and she added, “There is nothing between us! Nothing at all!”

In her agitation, the book slipped from her fingers. As it fell to the floor, a small, flat posy of flowers tied with ribbon fell out, along with the two thin sheets of vellum in which they had been pressed. The posy and the papers floated down, surrounding the book on the floor.

“You see?” Anne cried. “A message already!”

Daphne picked up the bouquet, noting that though pressed flat, it was still fresh. He must have obtained the flowers on his way here, for they were not yet limp. One was a spike of tiny pink blossoms. Attached to it was a single flower of deep purple and pale yellow. She turned the stems in her fingers, studying it as the others came to surround her, also looking at her bouquet.

“The pink one is hyacinth,” Anne told her. “The purple is columbine.”

“Pink hyacinth signifies a game,” Elizabeth pronounced, looking up from the book, now open in
her hands. “And columbine means, ‘I will win.'”

A game of flowers was clever, she had to admit, but it was so very much like him to proclaim victory before that game had even begun.

“This is so exciting!” Elizabeth cried. “The Duke of Tremore himself courting our Daphne.”

“That is Daphne's personal correspondence,” Lady Fitzhugh reminded her daughter in a severe tone, “and as confidential as any letter. You should be ashamed of yourself. Apologize to Daphne and give her back her book!”

“I am sorry, Daphne,” Elizabeth said, chastened. She handed back the book. “This is a private matter between the duke and yourself.”

“Not for long, dear sister,” Anne said. “For if the Duke of Tremore is courting Daphne, every person in Town will know it within a few days. Everyone has been speculating about him choosing a wife ever since he took the emeralds to be reset. Oh, Daphne, if he has not offered for you, he must be intending to do so, for he would not have given you a gift, especially one like this. Oh, the papers will be filled with it, and with all of us.”

“I am afraid that is true,” Lady Fitzhugh said with a sigh of resignation that contrasted sharply with the delight of her daughters. “We had best prepare for the onslaught.”

Daphne sank into a chair. “Onslaught?”

“Anne is right, dear Daphne. If the duke is courting you, then every move you make will be observed and commented upon, as will ours. We shall
be inundated with visitors and discussed at length in the society papers.”

“How lovely,” Elizabeth said, laughing, “for we shall not lack for partners at the assemblies now! Daphne, do you think your duke could introduce us to his friends?”

“I despair of you, Elizabeth, I truly do!” Lady Fitzhugh said, sinking down in the chair beside Daphne's and laying a hand on her arm. “You must understand what this will mean, dear. You will be watched, and studied, and gossiped about. You must prepare yourself for that, for much of that gossip will not be favorable. Envy is a horrid emotion, and there will be a great quantity of it. Dukes are a rare commodity, and people can be full of avarice.”

Daphne stared down at the book in her hands. She did not want this. She did not want him to be courtly and romantic, for if he did, she might fall for it. She might start to believe he truly cared for her, when it was only a façade to get his way and satisfy his honor. He did not love her, but she knew from the hurt in her heart that she was in great danger of falling back in love with him.

“I am not worried about gossip at all,” she said, and stood up, hardening her heart against him. “For there is nothing to gossip about. There is no romance, there is no engagement, and I am not marrying him! The sooner everyone understands that, the better!”

Slapping the book in her hand against her palm, she walked out of the drawing room, leaving the
others looking after her, astonished by her outburst.

A game such as this required two players, she told herself as she went up the stairs to her room. She decided she simply would not play his game. She would not play the fool for him twice. Sometimes, even a duke had to take no for an answer.

L
ady Fitzhugh's prediction that their house would be inundated with callers began to come true the very next afternoon. The first visitor Daphne received was Lord Durand.

She was not in the best mood for receiving any callers. She and Elizabeth had just arrived home after a walk to Montagu House, where she had been refused entry into that exclusive museum because she had not applied ahead of time in writing for a ticket to view the collections. The statement that she was the daughter of Sir Henry Wade, whose excavations made up part of those collections, had not impressed the curators enough for them to break their rules. So, when she arrived back at the house in Russell Square and found that Durand
was waiting for her in the drawing room, her mood did not improve.

She halted at the bottom of the stairs, her hand tightening around the cap of the newel post. “Lord Durand?” she repeated, staring at Mary in shock as she handed the maid her bonnet and pelisse. “Why should he want to see me?”

The maid took them, and answered, “I don't know, miss, but Lady Fitzhugh said I should fetch you when you arrived.”

Before Daphne could reply, Lady Fitzhugh emerged from the drawing room upstairs, evidently having heard their voices down below. She came down the stairs to them at once.

“Lord Durand is here,” she whispered to Daphne. “He has been waiting for over half an hour.” She laid a hand on Daphne's arm, and said gently, “He has informed us that he is your grandfather—your mother's father—and he has only recently been made aware of his connection with you. Daphne, is this true?”

“Yes,” Daphne admitted, as she started up the stairs with her friend beside her. “But we have been estranged for years, and I have never met him in my life. Why should he wish to see me now?”

“He said he wishes to talk with you. He seems eager to meet you at last, and thinking it might perhaps be an awkward meeting for you, Sir Edward requested that he and I be present. The baron agreed. If you do not mind, of course.”

“No, not at all. I suppose I cannot refuse to see
him, even though he has refused to see me.”

“Has he?” Lady Fitzhugh frowned. “He seems quite eager to see you today. But in any case, I do not believe that would be your wisest course, dear. He has already acknowledged to Edward and myself his familial connection with you.”

“Has he?” she asked as Lady Fitzhugh opened the door and entered the drawing room. Daphne followed.

Her first sight of the baron rather startled her, and she paused in the doorway. She had not expected him to be an attractive man at all. She had envisioned a sort of wizened, stooping old fellow with a pursed-up mouth and meanness in his expression. Instead, she found a tall, elegant-looking man, with silver hair and a countenance that, though lined with the marks of his age, was quite a handsome one. Which made his first words all the more appalling.

“My dear granddaughter,” he cried, coming to take her hands in his. “It is so heartening to finally see you. Come, come, let me look at you.” He gave her appearance scarcely more than a glance from head to toe, then tucked her arm over his and led her past Sir Edward, who stood beside the fireplace, to the settee opposite the chair where Lady Fitzhugh had seated herself. “Let us have a nice visit together.”

Daphne pulled her arm out of his and chose the chair beside Lady Fitzhugh opposite the settee so that she could look directly at him, but before she
could ask the only question to which she wanted an answer, the baron spoke.

“I am so happy for you, my dear child. Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon? For what am I to be congratulated?”

“On your engagement to his grace, the Duke of Tremore, of course.”

Daphne was astonished. “I do not know what you mean. I am not engaged to the duke.”

The baron did not seem at all taken aback by her words. “Of course, of course. I understand. The duke explained to me how impetuous his proposal had been, and how you expected him to court you in the proper way before allowing your engagement to be announced officially.”

“Did he indeed?” she responded through clenched teeth.

“Yes, and I understand. You have every right to expect even a duke to woo you first.”

“I have no intention of marrying him,” she said, not knowing who was succeeding in irritating her more, Anthony or the baron. Just now, she had enough for both of them.

The baron winked at her. “Not many other young ladies would be so brave as to keep a duke dangling, but he seems fond enough of you that he is resigned to it. However, I must invoke a word of caution, my dear. Do not push him too far. He is a duke, after all.”

Daphne had a feeling she was going to be hearing
that phrase quite often. “I am not marrying him,” she said. “Pray do not speak of an engagement that does not exist.”

“This desire for secrecy on your part seems a pointless business, for the duke made it clear to me that he would make no secret of his suit. You are my granddaughter, and as an honorable gentleman, I have an obligation to you. I am impelled to provide you with some counsel on this courtship, though of course, I already gave the duke my permission and my blessing.”

She was getting very tired of honorable gentlemen. “I do not wish to be your obligation, sir.”

Before he could reply, she rushed on to the only subject she wished to discuss. “Why did you hush up my mother's elopement to my father, and how did you keep it a secret?”

The baron glanced at Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh. He frowned, as if annoyed at this abrupt change in the conversation to uncomfortable questions, but he answered her. “My daughter was very young, only seventeen. I did not approve of the match, for the obvious difference in their station made it clear to me that such a marriage would be unsuitable. When they eloped, I chose to avoid the inevitable scandal, and told people I had sent Jane to relatives living in Italy because she wanted to study art.”

Daphne listened, gratified that he was finally admitting the truth about her parents, but he was doing so as if reciting a prepared speech, and there
was a hint of resentment beneath the rehearsed words. “I deemed it for the best.”

Daphne folded her arms, giving him a hard stare. “Did you?”

The baron shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the cool contempt in her question, but Daphne was unmoved by his discomfiture. “Why did you then compound your wrong by refusing to acknowledge me? I know my father was an orphan with no family or connections, but he was a brilliant man, a good man, and your daughter loved him. He was a knight. You knew they had married. You knew that I was your granddaughter, yet you refused to acknowledge me. Are you ashamed of me that you have treated me thus?”

The baron was frowning at this rapid stream of words, looking displeased that such an attack was to be part of their first conversation together. But he did not speak in a tone that conveyed that displeasure. Instead, he forced away his frown and spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “Daphne, it is not at all what you think.”

“Is it not?”

“No, no.” He gave another uncomfortable glance at Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh, but they remained silent and gave him no help. Lady Fitzhugh was embroidering, and Sir Edward stood idly stirring the fire with a poker. Neither seemed to notice the awkward silence in the room. Even the baron's slight cough did not cause either of them to look up.

With clear reluctance, he returned his attention
to Daphne, who was staring at him in stony silence. “Your father was in Durham, near my estates at Cramond, only a short distance away. He was giving a lecture on Roman antiquities to the Historical Society. My daughter chose to attend. They began meeting secretly, and a week later, they came to me and announced they intended to marry. Needless to say, I disapproved.”

“Did you disown her?”

He denied it at once. “No, no. I was furious, for several reasons. Your father was an orphan of no family or connections whatsoever. He was nearly twenty years older than my Jane, and he scarcely had the money to support a wife and children. If they had intended to live with me, I could perhaps have been persuaded to forgive the match, but he intended to cart your mother off to some godforsaken place in the Mediterranean. Also, I did not believe any marriage of lasting happiness could be based on a week's affection. My daughter and I quarreled. She and your father eloped that night, and a few days later, they were on a ship out of Edinburgh, bound for Naples. I never saw my daughter again. My wife is gone, and I have no other children. Can you understand my feelings of betrayal and bitterness?”

“You say you did not disown her, but you did. You disowned her in your heart, and never answered any of her letters to you. Nor did you answer mine.”

He winced at her blunt way of putting it. “I hope you can understand.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, still feeling no compunction to see his point of view. “No, I do not understand your actions at all, sir. Not only did you wrong your daughter, you have wronged hers as well. I wrote to you, and received a response from an attorney representing your interests. Shall I tell you what he said?”

He tried to respond, but she did not allow him that opportunity. “I was told in very explicit terms that I could not possibly be your granddaughter,” she continued, “and that any attempt of mine to gain either money or connection to you would be futile. My father had just died. I was in the middle of the Moroccan desert, with no money, no family at hand to help me. I wrote to you from Tangier, and waited six months for your response to my letter, spending what little money I had, barely able to sustain myself. All the antiquities Papa had discovered at Volubilis had already been sold to the Duke of Tremore or to the museum in Rome, and most of the money from Papa's share had been spent for expenses.”

She could hear her own voice becoming quavery and much too emotional, but she did not care. She wanted him to know just how devastating a wound his neglect had inflicted on her. “I was forced to sell Papa's books and equipment in order to eat and have a roof over my head, but I waited, hoping that as my grandfather, you would help me. You did not. You abandoned me, leaving me alone, with no money, no protection, and no means. It was only
because the Duke of Tremore had hired my father and had sent billets of passage for us that I was able to journey to England. I went to Hampshire, and worked for the duke to support myself. You asked me if I understand why you did what you did. My answer is no. I do not understand, and I find it impossible to forgive—”

“You give your opinions far too decidedly for one so young!” he interrupted, his voice rising in anger. “I have come in good faith to right the wrong done you.”

“Only because you believe I am about to marry a duke. There is no engagement. So you see—”

“Perhaps,” Sir Edward's voice entered the conversation for the first time, interrupting what she had been about to say, “this matter needs to be discussed and settled between us, Lord Durand, for women, you must agree, are emotional creatures, and do not allow rational thinking to enter their speech at times.”

Daphne made a sound of outrage, but Lady Fitzhugh put a hand on her arm, and when she turned to look at the other woman, Lady Fitzhugh mouthed the word, “Wait.”

“Perhaps you are right, Sir Edward,” Durand said.

“Capital! Shall we go into my study?” He gestured to the door of the drawing room, and the two men departed together, leaving the two women alone.

Daphne jumped to her feet the moment they
were gone and began to pace the room. “This is so humiliating! I know perfectly well it is only his desire for a connection to the duke that has impelled the baron to come forward and claim me as his granddaughter now. Horrid man! And how dare the duke go to Durand and speak of this? He knows I will not marry him, for my refusal was most emphatic.”

“Daphne, sit down.”

She looked over at Lady Fitzhugh, who was looking back at her with such a grave countenance that she returned to her chair at once and sat down.

“The duke did offer for you, then?”

“Yes.” Afraid that Lady Fitzhugh was about to tell her to be sensible, she went on, “Please do not offer me counsel on the wisdom of my refusal. I—”

“No, no, Daphne, I would not be so indelicate as to inquire about your answer or your reasons. I respect your reticence in the matter and your choice. I only asked if he had offered because if he has, I would like to offer you a bit of advice, if I may.”

Daphne looked at her with interest and a hint of dismay. She had a high regard for Lady Fitzhugh, and did not want to hear the other woman tell her she was being foolish to refuse a duke. “Advice?”

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and was silent for a moment, then she said, “But first, let me say that I have come to have a great deal of affection for you, my dear. You have been such excellent company for my daughters, for you are older than they, and therefore possess a good
deal more sense because of it and are a steadying influence on them. But I am older still than you, and the wiser for my advantage in years, I hope. Please allow me to offer you my counsel, with the understanding that it is heartfelt and solely out of concern for you.”

“Of course, you may offer me your counsel and advice. You have been so kind to me. You have taken me into your home, befriended me, and—” Her voice broke, and she waited a moment before going on. “Lady Fitzhugh, I am so grateful. You have treated me almost as a member of your family, and words cannot express—”

“Hush, now.” She patted Daphne's hand. “Do call me Elinor, my dear. As for the other, well, I have come to regard you as a member of my family.” She gave a wry smile. “Although you may not like me after you hear what I have to say.”

Daphne steeled herself for the inevitable. “You are going to tell me I should be wise to marry the duke.”