by Reid, Stacy
They strolled in silence, and the edge of suspension Daphne felt hung on had her hands trembling. They came upon a hidden alcove with a small stone bench. She sat, and he lowered himself beside her.
“I believe there may be another solution to your quandary.” Redgrave glanced over his shoulder, before leaning in close. “Do you still have the letters?”
Her mind blanked for precious seconds. “What letters?”
He shot her a chiding look. “Come, my lady, the letters your father left in your care, the ones that gave you all the power you needed over Carrington.”
The moon dipped, and for a moment something sinister glowed in his eyes.
“I have no notion of what you speak.”
“Your brother discreetly mentioned the viscount had given you the means to bring your earl to heel.”
Blast Henry. How dare he speak of private family matters! Her heart jerked to hear of her father’s deplorable actions spoken of so lightly. The day after her marriage Daphne had confronted her father and had been met with a cold wall of silence. His lack of denial had wounded her deeply, and he had never divulged what information he had used to net her the title of countess. “You speak nonsense. I have no such letters.”
Frustration flashed across his features before he buried it under charming affability. Wariness shifted through her. What is going on? “Why would you be interested in letters that have the power to ruin Carrington?” Not that she believed such a thing remotely possible.
“My dear Daphne, I only thought to help you. With such a bargaining chip, you could prevent the earl from divorcing you.”
“I want him to procure a divorce.”
He smiled insincerely. “The privilege you have as countess is unmatched. The scandal of a divorce would see you never welcomed into society’s fold again. I offer you another solution to scandal and ruin, my darling. You could use the information your father left to keep your earl in check. Just imagine having such power. You could do anything you desire without fear—take a lover, gamble as much as you want, host scandalous parties. Just think of the freedom not to be burdened with disgrace.”
She canted her head to consider the dear friend who had been pursuing her for almost a year to be his lover. For the first time, she realized his attentions ran ominously deeper than his declared affections. “Do you know the content of these mysterious letters, Lord Redgrave?”
“No,” he growled. “Your father’s journal did not say. Only that he would make provisions to leave them with you.”
Her mouth went dry. “Where is this journal?”
“Your brother has it.”
And somehow the man before her, now revealed to be a possible snake, had charmed the information from her too trusting brother. An ache settled in her heart. Oh, Papa. “My father died suddenly. He gave me no letters.” And even if she had possessed any such damning letters, she would not give them to her brother or anyone else.
She stood. “I’m tired, Lord Redgrave, I bid you good evening. I will not betray the confidence you shared with me tonight.”
He jumped to his feet, reached for her hands, and pressed a kiss to the glove’s surface. “I had hoped you would be less faithful to him when I revealed his true heart.”
Daphne withdrew her hand from his eager clasp. “Did you?”
Without waiting for a reply, she walked away, eager to be home. If she could call the elegantly appointed townhouse in Grosvenor Square her home. It did not echo with laughter and love, only angry words and her bitter sobs. She hurried up the terraced steps and entered the ballroom once more. She did not linger, bidding Lady Cantrell adieu and calling for her carriage. There was a desperate ache inside her to ensconce herself in the library with a glass of sherry and think about all she had learned tonight.
She wanted a divorce.
There was the greatest possibility her husband wanted one, too.
Perhaps there was no need to start a scandal like the ton had never seen to push him toward a separation.
And most distressingly, the piercing pain that had lodged in her heart like the wickedest of barbs needed to be examined. She hungered to be free, so why did it hurt so badly?
Chapter Three
Sylvester Wentworth, the Earl of Carrington, entered his residence with stealth, like a man who had become used to hidden danger from any quarter. His butler, Knobbs, took his coat and hat with stoic aplomb, displaying no reaction to the fact that his master’s white cravat had drops of blood that gleamed a vivid red.
Sylvester strolled down the hallway to the library, a pair of footsteps beside him.
“My lord,” said Victor Drummond, a hesitancy in his speech Sylvester was not used to seeing in his most trusted man of affairs.
They entered the library, where a fire burned low in the grate and an oil lamp was lit. He was grateful the townhouse echoed with emptiness. There was no one to explain his state of dishevelment to, especially not his wife. Not that she would care whether he escaped an assassin’s blade once more. Though there was the strong possibility the two misguided fools who had attacked him in St. James’s Square as he left White’s were simply footpads.
Since the ending of the wars, the state of the realm had remained unstable. The people of England were becoming more desperate. The streets were littered with more whores, beggars, and thieves, the wretchedness of their desperation sometimes suffocating. The men could have been poor beggars, looking for an easy coin, and had not been sent to kill him because his cry against slavery was resounding with more force. But Sylvester had never been the sort of man to believe in coincidence. That naïveté had been bled from his heart years ago.
How would his countess react to his returned presence? He had been away from London for the past six months, the last several weeks having been spent on a voyage aboard the Maiden Anne from Jamaica to England’s shores. He’d hurried home to speak with his countess as soon as possible. He was determined to look past the deceptive woman whose subversive tactics saw them wed and attempt to find the sweet girl he had pulled from the river.
How would she respond when she heard the news that he desired a change in the state of their marriage, possibly a chance at less indifferent relations? His countess would possibly plunge a knife into his heart. He could not hope she would understand the need that had burned through him for more after a dagger had pierced his lungs while on the island. Death had beckoned to him for weeks, but he had fought and had rallied.
It had shocked him to awaken with a new purpose that he could not see removed from his heart. There was more to living than his honor and his work. His self-imposed loneliness hadn’t bought him much contentment with life. He could have children and some semblance of happiness instead of the cold exile of emotional detachment to which he had subjected his heart. He had always considered the responsibility of fathering children simply a duty to his title and he had delayed for far too long.
His man cleared his throat, and Sylvester frowned. “What is it?” he asked, shrugging from his jacket and waistcoat. One of the bounders had stabbed him in the left upper shoulder. The knife hadn’t sunk deep, but the sting suggested he had to investigate the wound. The knife had most likely been filthy and possibly crusted with another’s blood. He’d already fought death these last months, it would not do to meet that specter again because of an infection.
“I have the report on Redgrave,” Victor said.
Ah, Redgrave, a cold bastard who was rumored to treat the men, women, and children on his plantation in Barbados with inhumane cruelty. Sylvester had been after him for a while now, spearheading a thorough investigation into the man’s affairs. Exposing and ruining those masters who had no respect for human life was just one aspect of eradicating the barbaric practice of slavery.
“Leave it on the desk.” He shrugged from his shirt and shot a glance at his friend. “Is there a reason you could not wait to deliver this report?”
Victor looked away from him before meeting Sylvester�
�s gaze with a steady stare.
“There is a rumor that the viscount has a mistress. Very discreetly,” he added quickly. “And I had to dig deep to uncover the affair.”
“How does the viscount having a soiled dove aid our cause?” He wetted his handkerchief with a generous splash of brandy and pressed it against his shoulder, biting back a curse at the wicked sting.
“I…” Victor cleared his throat. “I followed the viscount tonight to see if he met with any of his contacts. I saw him with her and they were quite intimate.”
He arched a brow.
“It was at Lady Cantrell’s ball, my lord.”
Where was he going with this? “And?”
Victor visibly braced himself. “The lady I spied him with…was your countess.”
Sylvester stilled as shock arrowed through his gut. The denial that rose inside was swift and brutal, yet he presented no outward reaction. A thick, heavy silence blanketed the library. As if he’d heard an unspoken command, Victor handed him the report, a line of regret heavy on his face.
Sylvester did not open the pages. “Are you certain?”
“The countess is not a woman that could be easily mistaken. Her beauty…it is uncommon. Her silver blonde hair is unique within society.”
How curious to imagine that the frightened kitten, who had fainted the day after their wedding, was now bold enough to trample on his family’s honor. The icy rage that filled him unnerved him with its intensity. “How intimate?” It gutted him to ask, but he had to know.
Victor’s jaw clenched. “She was closely embraced in his arms. They were kissing, then he led her to a dark alcove, and I could not follow for it would have revealed me, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “I must say, my lord, Lady Carrington was only in the alcove for a few minutes at best, and when she reappeared she was very composed…and not disheveled.”
As if that would mitigate the sheer affront of her actions.
The front door opening sounded, and his wife’s sweet, deceptive voice filtered down the hallway and through the doors. Immediately Victor melted into the dark, slipping through a window and out into the back gardens. His man of affairs had a real flair for theatrics. Though Sylvester appreciated his caution. His countess may have spied Victor at the ball. They badly needed to find out who Redgrave’s contacts were and how was he able to continue to obtain slaves for his plantations in the West Indies when the practice had been outlawed in England. A ledger procured had shown the man kept adding women and men to his fields yearly.
How in God’s name had his wife become entangled with the viscount?
Sylvester lowered himself onto the edge of his desk and flipped open the folder. He skimmed the information. Redgrave had been suspected of having a mistress now for almost a year. A cold knot formed in Sylvester’s gut. How dare Daphne act with such indiscretion and wanton display of impropriety. The very idea of the viscount touching, kissing, and pleasuring his wife had violence singing through his blood.
Needing to cool his anger, he rose and went to the windows, resting his forehead against the cold glass. It did nothing to relieve him from the image of his wife in another man’s arms. Perhaps he should have tried harder over the years to make her his wife in truth and bury the pain of the past. The surety of his conviction that his wife could not be trusted or forgiven for her part in his sister’s pain had decided much of his interaction with her over the years. Had he pushed her to infidelity or would she have eventually succumbed to the lure of a lover as many in the ton did? An unpleasant ache darted through Sylvester, for he had no notion of his countess’s true character, and he could only place the blame at his unforgiving heart.
The haunting memory of failing his sister rose, swift and brutal, and he had to suppress the vision of the pain in her eyes when he had confronted Hetty. He had moved too slow in courting Daphne for Lord Blagrove, so the wretched man had sent Hetty a threatening note, promising to reveal all the sordid details of her past. How unforgivably stupid he had been, for he had almost lost his cherished sister. He would never forget his mother’s screams or how she had pummeled his chest and roared her anguish. To escape the shame of her decisions, and the knowledge that the threat of discovery hovered like a sharpened blade, Hetty had thought to take her life. The dark memories snapped through him, once again burning rage through his soul for Daphne and her father.
They had stolen too much from his sister.
For years, every time he had looked upon his wife, an image of his sister, bloody and broken, crowded his thoughts. The helpless feelings would once more wash his senses—the rage, the regret—and he would retreat from her and the emotions and direct his energies onto matters he could control.
The door opened, and her delicate jasmine fragrance reached him before he saw her. He shifted slightly so he would not miss her. Then she appeared in the library, closing the door behind her, and her fragile beauty rocked him, as it had always done. Sylvester’s breath faltered completely at the stunning sight of his countess. A mass of white-blonde hair was piled atop her head in a glorious array of curls. Her daring red gown was scandalous with its far too revealing décolletage. Her breasts were plumped delightfully, and a snarl of fury almost escaped him. Her nearness ruffled his demeanor. She’d always had that power, and he had resented her for so long because of her allure. It had been unpalatable craving to kiss and touch a woman who had only wanted him for his wealth and title.
He was aware his countess was held to be a great beauty and a sought-after hostess. How many gentlemen had tasted her passions? For years, he had denied himself the temptation of her charms, and now she had granted the privilege to another when she had no right to do so. He held back a ragged sigh. There was a hollowness inside that wouldn’t abate. Had he waited too long to mend the breach with his countess? The question set his teeth on edge, for he did not relish the notion he had once again failed, whether it be from sheer stupidity or stubbornness.
Nor could he ignore the pain that lingered behind the sting of betrayal. The emotion felt unusual, foreign, and it shook him to the core.
…
A soft sigh slipped from Daphne as she eased the silver dancing slippers off her feet. Her stocking-clad feet sank into the plush carpet as she made her way over to the side mantel that held several decanters of spirits. She needed to fortify her courage for the letter she would pen to her husband tonight. A discussion must be had, where she would lay her cards on the table and pray she had a winning hand.
There wasn’t a whisper of sound in the library, but something alerted Daphne that she wasn’t alone. An undeniable foreboding filled her body. Containing her gasp of alarm, she whirled around. There was a dark shadow, the clear outline of a man, leaning along the wall overlooking the gardens bathed in moonlight.
Wariness rolled down her spine in a chilly wave, and Daphne’s heart leaped to her throat.
Sylvester.
What was he doing here? Even the servants seemed to be more loyal to her husband. Why hadn’t Knobbs mentioned his lord had returned?
Hoping Sylvester did not see her, or perhaps that he would not care to speak with her, she inched toward the door. Daphne did not want a confrontation tonight. She needed to don her armor, to be unflappable and firm when he turned those piercing green eyes on her, eyes that had always seemed as if they could see all the secret yearnings in her soul.
“Stay.”
He arrested her retreat with that taut command. Taking a deep breath, which sounded too loud in the silence of the room, she spun on her heels, nervous tension biting her. “You are home,” she said softly, though she wanted to blurt a thousand questions.
Why was he here now? Where had he been? Did he truly have a mistress?
“Have you been in town long?” she finally said.
“A couple of weeks. I stopped off at the manor, but I wished to attend the lords.”
She had been trying to enjoy the season alone, as she had done for the past few years. Of course he ha
d returned to England and had not seen fit to inform her. Outside of the little charade needed to maintain the air of a civil marriage, her earl ignored her presence in his life with icy indifference. A bug squashed under his feet received more attention than she did. “Where have you been staying?”
His lips curved into a slight smile, but somehow, she did not believe her husband to be amused. “My place of abode is irrelevant. You know of my aversion to scandal, Countess,” he said with lethal softness.
As Lady Carrington, you will always conduct yourself with good sense and temperance, and it would be ill judged if you were to bring scandal to the Carrington title. Other than that, I have no expectations of you, and my lady…it would do you well to avoid my presence.
His expectation of her conduct was one of the things she had considered from every possible angle if she had to be the one to push him away from their marriage. The scandal of her actions would be explosive, horrendous. And when he eventually repudiated her, she would have to leave the country for years until the furor was over, and even then, the stain of being a divorced woman would linger.
It was such a terrible price to pay, but she could no longer endure her empty marriage. Everything was such a frightful gamble. With his distaste of any scandal touching his family he might not elect to divorce her, no matter how scandalous she became. She tried not to think of the other avenues open to a man of his power, especially committing her without consequences. Worries like that would only dampen her determination.
“Yes, I am aware.” A foreboding silence fell upon the room. To dispel her discomfort she asked, “Is all well with your mother and sister? I’ve meant to make a call upon them.” But Daphne had been reluctant, since they had made no efforts over the years to be good-natured. They treated her with a similar distance and veiled contempt to that which he displayed. And she had too much pride to fall at their feet and beg forgiveness for her father’s actions. It hardly mattered that it wasn’t until her wedding night that she found out the length her papa had traversed to secure an unmatched future for his daughter. She had been judged just as guilty, perhaps even more so.
