by Darcy Burke
Daphne’s eyes narrowed as she considered her options. “Esther, stop.”
Her lady’s maid froze in place. “I oughtn’t to hang your gowns?”
“The large items, yes.” Daphne glanced about the room. “The smaller things—stockings and underskirts—let’s use them to wrap up these artifacts.”
“I’m to put Miss Ross’s antiquities in… your underthings?” Esther repeated doubtfully.
“That’s the only way they won’t break when we store them all in my trunks.”
Esther’s eyes widened. “The other trunk isn’t empty. It’s got all your papers.”
“Precisely.” Daphne gave a brisk nod. “Documents out, antiquities in. I won’t be able to cover the walls, but at least I’ll have my most important items at hand.”
Who needed excess underskirts anyway? Other than taking occasional meals with Katherine, Daphne intended to spend every other waking moment making good use of that escritoire. She’d already given her most important contacts her new direction, and wouldn’t be surprised if post started arriving for her nom de plumes first thing in the morning.
Until then, there was plenty to do. She’d already lost nearly a full day to travel. She couldn’t afford to waste another moment.
People needed her. The weavers’ situation was deteriorating rapidly and the revolutionary Davy lamp was causing miners more harm than good. A Luddite disturbance had taken away the livelihoods of dozens of families. The collapse of a cave in South Tyneside had left desperate wives without their husbands.
She picked up her reading spectacles. Correspondence was not a chore. These were families. Fathers, mothers, children. People who had no one else. People who were grateful for the aid and sympathy of a little-known country miss named Daphne.
Er, perhaps better known as Mr. Caldwell. Or Mr. Baker. And Mr. Smith.
An hour later, when a knock sounded upon the door, she jerked her gaze up from the pile of letters on her lap with a frown. She’d assumed Katherine would be unlikely to intrude once she’d shown Daphne the guest chambers, but perhaps something had come up with Mrs. Havens and Katherine needed Daphne’s help. If so, Katherine was about to find out how literally Daphne had taken her suggestion to make herself at home.
With a sheepish glance at the twine-bound stacks of papers where the antiquities used to rest, Daphne swallowed her guilt and opened the door.
A footman stood in the corridor.
Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Yes?”
“Forgive me for bothering you, ma’am. There is a gentleman here to see you. Miss Ross is talking to him in the parlor.”
She blinked. A gentleman? Yes, she’d forwarded her temporary direction to several key parties, but they all knew her under one of her false names. The only person besides Katherine with any inkling Daphne might be in town was… Bartholomew?
She accepted the card from the footman. Major Bartholomew Blackpool was embossed in gold script. She pressed the card to her rapidly beating heart. He was here. How? Why?
Warmth infused her. She hadn’t expected to see him again. He’d done his part. Above and beyond. It hadn’t occurred to her to send him Katherine’s direction or to beg him to come visit. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might wish to.
She stared at the card again. Despite the interruption, she couldn’t hold back a rush of pleasure. For the first time, part of her wished she hadn’t committed herself to aiding so many families, so that this sort of unexpected visit wouldn’t have to feel like an interruption.
Was he just stopping by to see if she was settled? To make certain the accommodations were comfortable and her hostess far more considerate than her guardian? Daphne’s heart warmed at the idea of Bartholomew checking after her the same way Daphne checked after her destitute families. She did so because she cared.
Of course, it was foolish to assume—or even hope—that Bartholomew could come to truly care about her, after all this time. Yet she was possessed of a very foolish heart indeed, for she could not help but hope that might be the case. To hope he had missed her, as she had missed him.
Breathless, Daphne handed the calling card to her maid and followed the footman down the stairs.
Bartholomew was speaking to Katherine in the parlor, his body angled away from the open door. Daphne’s heart fluttered at the sight. He’d been sharply dressed when he’d called upon her in Maidstone, but in black breeches, a frothy white cravat, and a crisp black greatcoat, he was positively resplendent.
He was also holding her fur-lined winter spencer.
As soon as he caught sight of her, his smile widened and he held her coat open for her. “Put this on. We’re going to be late. My carriage is out front.”
She slipped her arms into the sleeves without thinking, then paused. “Wait. Where are we going?”
He shivered with mock horror. “To a musicale. My heartfelt apologies.”
“A what?” She blinked up at him in confusion. “Why?”
He handed her an invitation. It failed to clear up the mystery.
She stared at the crinkled parchment. “This says, ‘Grenville Musicale: Captain Xavier Grey.’ Your name isn’t even on it.”
“I burnt mine.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Where is your chaperone?”
“I don’t have a chaperone.” She bit her lip, conflicted. She’d dreamed of seeing him again. But her first duty was to the desperate women and children counting on Daphne’s support. They needed her. “I don’t need a duenna, I’m afraid. I cannot go anywhere.”
Katherine chose that moment to interrupt. “Of course you can. You shall borrow my chaperone. Aunt Havens adores musicales.”
Bartholomew inclined his head. “Wonderful. Thank you. Please ensure Mrs. Havens is properly bundled against the weather.” He turned back to Daphne and frowned. “Where is your bonnet? Have you no muff for your fingers?”
Her head spun at the idea of being swept away. By Bartholomew. His demeanor implied that musicales were the seventh level of hell, but Daphne had never been to one and wouldn’t know.
She’d always assumed society musicales were just another venue for the idle rich to applaud themselves for having nothing better to do than spend thousands of pounds to show off their children playing a Stradivarius. She’d never imagined being invited to one.
Much less escorted thither on the arm of a man who could melt her insides with little more than the press of his wide, firm lips against her gloved fingers. Of course she wished to join him.
If only she could.
Life was about choices. She’d already lost so much time. She would not compound that folly with choosing to attend a musicale over choosing to save lives. She was simply not a woman who could pursue pleasure for pleasure’s sake. No matter how tempting the offer.
Daphne swallowed her disappointment. “I apologize. I cannot go. I’ve too much work to do, and—”
“You can and you will, if you’ve any care for your freedom.” Bartholomew pressed her hands, his tone urgent. “Your guardian thinks he’s being quizzed. He put a wedding announcement in the newspapers.”
Daphne’s stomach dropped. “He put a what?”
Bartholomew’s low voice was full of portent. “He’s trying to ensure we dance to his strings. We have to make him think his plan is working. How much longer until your birthday?”
“Three weeks,” she stammered, her mind dizzy. What if they didn’t make it? What if her guardian forced her into marriage after all? Or locked her in a sanitarium?
Bartholomew’s mouth tightened. “We can put him off until then. Provided we give every impression of a happy couple fully intending to comply with his wishes.”
She nodded jerkily. He was right. They couldn’t risk her guardian making good on his threats. If she thought Mayfair was ill-suited for charity work, Bedlam would be far less pleasant. They had to ease Captain Steele’s mind before he took matters into his own hands.
She looped her hand about Bartholomew’s arm
and forced a smile. “A musicale sounds brilliant. I cannot wait for the wedding.”
Katherine’s mouth fell open. “You two are getting married?”
“Yes,” Bartholomew said firmly. “Unless we should unexpectedly suffer a shocking breakup just prior to the as-yet-unplanned ceremony. Which would be extremely unlikely because we are completely in love. Isn’t that so, Daphne… poppet… dear?”
Daphne Poppet Dear was singularly unimpressed by her new appellation, but terrified at the specter of her plan to escape her guardian’s schemes unraveling so quickly. What had made him doubt her? How was she meant to act like a young lady in love?
Her heart raced in panic. It wasn’t going to work. She had no invitations. The one Bartholomew possessed didn’t even have his name on it. What if they were denied entry? What if they failed to prove to anyone, least of all her guardian, that their betrothal was in truth? What if it was already too late?
No. Captain Steele had to believe she and Bartholomew intended to wed. Daphne’s future depended on it.
She spun toward Katherine. “You have to join us.”
Katherine recoiled in horror. “What? Why?”
“Bartholomew’s invitation says ‘Captain Grey.’” Daphne reminded her. “We are not invited. But you’re a cousin to the Duke of Lambley. No one would dare cut you. Or, by extension, us. Please, Katherine. We need your help.”
“But I hate musicales.” Katherine reached for a silver platter on the mantle. “Here, I’ll give you my invitation. I’ll write your name on top.”
Daphne stilled her arm. “You can’t just write extra names in the margin. They’ll think we pickpocketed both of you. Over a musicale.”
“You could be famous in a completely different way,” Katherine agreed in delight. “A couple in love… and unafraid of the law. Two lovers joining forces against Society in the mad, mad search for musical entertainment. There’s no captain too menacing, no duke’s cousin too hoydenish, whom they wouldn’t assault in their own front parlors to steal invitations to a good—”
“Katherine.” Daphne valiantly refrained from doing bodily harm. “Get your spencer. Then get in the carriage.”
“You could try to be romantic about it,” Katherine grumbled in good humor. She motioned for a footman to fetch her things. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were betrothed. I’m invited to the wedding, aren’t I?”
THIRTEEN
By the time they reached the Grenville estate, Daphne’s nerves were frayed beyond all hope.
Everything she’d worked for, everything she hoped for, hinged upon her deceptively simple plan not falling completely apart. Step one: Trump unwanted betrothal with false betrothal. Step two: Break fake betrothal as soon as her inheritance materialized. Step three: Be financially independent and free from male guardianship for the rest of her life.
She smoothed her gown with trembling fingers and stepped out of the carriage. If they didn’t sell step one well enough, she wouldn’t even make it to step two.
Katherine, for her part, was brilliant from the moment they knocked upon the door. The Grenville butler did not even blink to see the ebullient Miss Ross flanked by unexpected guests.
As Katherine dragged them through the entryway, she murmured into several key ears that it would make her quite happy indeed if her dear friend Miss Vaughan and her fiancé Major Blackpool would trouble themselves to be seen more in Society.
Although none of them had seen Daphne before in their lives, all of Katherine’s acquaintances professed to be delighted to include the happy couple in any upcoming events. Such was the power of being first cousin to a duke. Daphne expected to have a half-dozen invitations by morning, all from Katherine’s good-humored intervention.
The surprising part was that it might not have been necessary.
From the moment they entered the main salon, Bartholomew was surrounded by well-wishers jostling to be the first to greet him.
“Blackpool!” crowed a tall, well-dressed gentleman. “Jolly good to see you back in society!”
“And with your cravat as exquisite as ever,” said another. “Never say that valet of yours has spent the last year perfecting his art, just so you could show us all up. How do you do it?”
The waves of eager faces were overwhelming. The noise, deafening. In no time at all, the musical entertainment was an hour delayed, simply because there was no end to the number of people who preferred to have a word with Major Blackpool rather than sit down for the performance.
“Major Blackpool, Major Blackpool,” cooed a handful of debutantes, each elbowing the others out of the way to preen at Bartholomew. “Now that you’re attending events again, shall I save a spot for you on my dance card at the next ball?”
Daphne’s teeth clenched as she forced herself to look away from their rouged lips and fluttering lashes. ’Twas everything she had always imagined Bartholomew’s life to be like. Rakish. Sparkling. Larger than life. Constantly surrounded by adoring eyes. She swallowed her jealousy. It wasn’t as though she wished she were in the limelight. She was needed in her office, not onstage. Her best work was accomplished anonymously.
Yet, what must it be like to have so many friends? To have so many people interested in what one had to say?
Bartholomew pulled her closer, as if sensing her discomfort. Or her jealousy.
“I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said to the coquettish young ladies, then winked at the gentlemen. “My only foot, that is.” He turned to Daphne and smiled as if she had been sent down from the heavens. “May I present Miss Daphne Vaughan, who has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife. She was dear to me when we were children playing on the hills of Kent and she is even more precious to me today. I am a man in love.”
Daphne’s breath caught. She had to grip his arm a little tighter to keep from swaying, and she knew it was utter poppycock. Yet she couldn’t help but glance up at him from beneath her eyelashes and wonder how it would feel if he truly were a besotted swain.
Her cheeks flushed. Even thought he was acting a role, ’twas intoxicating to have a man who could choose anyone be focused on her. It was like sunlight to her soul. Rain to a flower. She had been starved for affection for so very long that even the pretense of it was heady and addictive.
If only it were as real as it looked.
A few of the debutantes stared daggers at Daphne. The others ignored her completely, as if the fight had only just begun. They made shameless calf eyes at Bartholomew whilst licking their lips and tugging coyly at their ringlets.
Daphne despised them all. Their lack of morals, their lack of sense. Why was it that this sort of woman could be confident in her ability to attract attention, whereas Daphne could dedicate her entire life to improving the world about them, and still not even earn a second glance?
She was irrelevant. An afterthought. No matter how hard she tried to be the best possible person she could be, ’twas never enough. She wasn’t good enough to keep her father’s attention, pretty enough to catch a gentleman’s eye, intriguing enough to command anyone’s attention.
Bartholomew would have forgotten her altogether, had circumstances not thrown them together. Even here, at his side, with her fingers curved about his elbow, the aristocrats and debutantes had dismissed Daphne without so much as a second glance. Even Bartholomew had been caught up in a conversation with several gentlemen on the merits and pitfalls of fox hunting.
Her throat tightened. What had she expected? All her life, she’d wanted to be noticed. To be loved. To be worthy of love. She had done everything she could to be an angel on earth and all it had earned her was a lifetime of loneliness. She’d had to learn to be strong. To define her own self-worth, rather than wait for someone else’s approval.
As she gazed at the crowd, part of her wished she could be the sort of giggly, simpering debutante who never sat out a single dance. But it was too late for that. She hadn’t been raised to giggle or simper. Now that she’d
opened her eyes and her heart to the plight of the nation’s poor, she could no more turn her back on them than she could have turned her back on her own father.
She rolled back her shoulders. As much as she might fantasize about being a giddy, feather-headed girl whose life revolved about little more than fashion and merrymaking, she had committed herself to a greater cause. A worthy cause. She might not interest others, but she would lose respect for herself if she gave society events more importance than human charity.
Even if it meant losing Bartholomew to one of these girls.
“You rogue,” pouted one of the debutantes, edging closer to Bartholomew. “How cruel of you to tease us with your presence after all this time, when you’re already taken.”
An older gentleman raised an eyebrow at Daphne. “I imagine Major Blackpool considers himself quite fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Bartholomew turned to Daphne, eyes solemn. “I used to think the luckiest moment of my life was when I made it off the battlefield alive.” He lifted her gloved fingers in his hands. “I now know it was the day I met you.”
Her stomach dropped and her throat went dry. She stared back at him, speechless. He was everything she’d never dared to dream of.
His warm gaze never left hers as he pressed a kiss to her trembling fingers. She cursed the foolish weakness in her knees. The temptation to throw herself into his arms and beg for the betrothal to be real. For him to look at her and mean his incredibly romantic words.
When he turned away, she pressed her kissed fingers to her chest. Close to her heart.
“I don’t know,” laughed a freckled gentleman. “I’d still say the battlefield was your luckiest day. Let you come home to the lass, did it not?”
“What precisely happened? Carlisle wouldn’t say a word,” put in another. “Rescued two out of three of you, and you’d think it was just another promenade in the park. Did you see Boney?”
