Rafe laughed out loud at her accent.
“Me mum always said idle hands are the work o’ the devil,” Daphne continued.
“How are you so easily able to speak in that accent?” Rafe asked softly.
“I’m not certain. Somehow I’ve always been good at voices,” she replied in her normal tone. “I used to have Julian and Donald in stitches by imitating Father’s voice. We have a stable boy at our country estate who speaks this way. I spent a bit of time talking to him. He’s a nice boy. His mother died when he was just a lad. I taught him how to read.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes on her. “You did?”
Daphne scrubbed the brush against the floor with all the strength in her right arm. “Yes. I was speaking to him one day and he said he didn’t know how. I asked him if he wanted to learn. After that I’d go to the stables every afternoon for an hour or two and teach him in between his chores.”
“The stable master didn’t mind?”
“Mr. Griggs? Oh, no. He didn’t mind at all. He said the boy would be much better off in life if he knew how to read.”
“That was kind of him.” Rafe paused. “And of you.”
“It wasn’t kind. I’d do that for anyone who wanted to know how to read. Why should I know and he not know simply because he wasn’t born to privilege the way I was? Reading is one of life’s greatest pleasures. After I taught him, I asked Donald if the boy could come in and borrow books from the library from time to time. Of course Donald agreed.”
Rafe shook his head. “I didn’t think blue bloods had it in them.”
Daphne stopped scrubbing and looked up at him with one hand on her hip. “Not all of us are pompous fools, you know?”
“Like Fitzroyal?”
Daphne finished scrubbing the floor, splashed water across it, sat up, and peeled off her gloves. “Fitzroyal is a pompous fool.”
“Were you disappointed that the engagement didn’t happen?” Rafe’s question was low, soft.
Daphne shrugged. “Mother and Aunt Willie like to remind me that there are plenty of eligible gentlemen to be had. Besides, I’ve already chosen the next man on my list. Cass helped me.”
“Ah, yes. Your list. And I suppose the ton is full of worthy gentlemen.”
Daphne tossed the brush into the bucket. Still sitting on the floor, she turned to look at Rafe and tucked her knees up to her chest. “You don’t like my class very much, do you?”
Rafe walked over to the bunk and sat on its edge. “Honestly, I haven’t seen much to like.”
Daphne wrapped her arms around her knees. “You like Derek and Julian.”
Rafe nodded. “Claringdon was born the son of soldier like I was. He was only awarded his dukedom after his bravery in battle. And Swifdon, he may have been born to privilege, but he’s a soldier through and through. And he wasn’t meant to inherit until…” Rafe glanced away, biting his lip.
“Donald died,” she finished.
“Yes.” Rafe nodded.
Daphne tapped her boots against the wooden planks of the floor. “So that’s it? No one is worthy of your respect unless they are soldiers and don’t belong to the aristocracy.”
“No. That’s not true. Not at all.”
Daphne narrowed her eyes on him. “Name one person you respect who isn’t a soldier and who is part of the aristocracy?”
“You.”
Daphne blinked. Her hands dropped to the floor. “You respect me?”
“Of course I do.”
Her brow furrowed. “How? Why?”
“You’re here, aren’t you? Putting yourself in danger for the Crown, for your brother. You didn’t have to do this, Daphne. You still don’t have to.”
“It surprises you to see someone of my class being brave, being noble?”
“I think your family is special.”
“What about Lucy? What about Garrett?”
Rafe smiled. “Lucy is one of a kind. Anyone who meets her knows that. And Upton is going to be an earl only because his cousin died. It’s not the same thing.”
Daphne groaned and shook her head. She pushed at the bucket with the tip of her boot. “Talking to you is impossible.”
“Then let’s not talk. Let’s do something else.”
Daphne turned to look at him and swallowed. A thrill shot down her spine but she concentrated on keeping her face blank. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Rafe stood up and walked over to the desk where he opened the drawer and rifled inside. “Would you like to play cards?”
“Oh.” Daphne swallowed. “Cards.”
“Yes, how about vingt-et-un?”
“Perfect.” She gave him a shaky smile. “That’s Delilah’s favorite.”
“Delilah plays cards?”
“Only when she can sneak away from her governess, which is essentially always. She should be the spy in the family. The girl is a master at evading capture.”
Rafe laughed. “Yes, I witnessed that particular skill of hers myself.”
He made his way back over to the bunk and plopped down on it, then he patted the space across from him. “It’s tight quarters but there are few other places to sit.”
Daphne looked down at the wet floor. She tossed a towel over it and scrubbed so it wouldn’t stay wet and warp. She supposed she was responsible for the tight quarters. She could sit in the bunk with him. They were already far beyond inappropriate, they might as well play cards in a bunk. She stood and dusted off her backside with both hands. Then she climbed up onto the bunk next to him, allowing her booted feet to dangle off the front.
Daphne watched with wide eyes as the cards sprang to life in Rafe’s hands. He shuffled them, snapped them, and began to deal two at a time.
“Let’s make this more interesting, shall we?” he said.
Daphne wiggled backward on the bunk so that her back rested against the wall. “What do you suggest?”
“Whoever wins each hand gets to ask the other a question. And get an honest answer.”
“We’re not allowed to fib? How disappointing.” Daphne smiled at him.
He returned her smile with a knee-weakening grin. “Well?”
Daphne tapped a finger against her cheek as if she were thinking about it but there was little to consider. “Very well. I have nothing to hide. You’re the one who should be worried. You’re a spy with, I’m certain, a great many secrets.”
His grin widened. “Yes, but I’m quite good at vingt-et-un.”
Daphne shook her head at him. “And modest, too, I see.”
The first round was over quickly and Daphne lost soundly. “Very well. Ask your question.”
“You never answered me earlier. Were you disappointed about Lord Fitzwell leaving?”
Daphne pressed her cap to her head and scrubbed her hand over her face. She had to answer honestly. She’d promised. She thought for several seconds. “No,” she finally said softly. “It would be a lie to say I was. I think I was more disappointed by the idea of losing an engagement than the reality of actually losing Lord Fitzwell.”
“I have to say that I think you were magnificent when you were telling him how judgmental he was.”
“Well, he was.”
“True, though I must admit I found your diatribe a bit ironic given how judgmental you’ve been about me.”
Daphne’s gaze snapped to his face. “When have I been judgmental about you?”
“Not believing me about the blond who just happened to crawl in my bed.”
Daphne sucked in her breath, prepared to unleash a steady stream of rebuttals at his head.
“Or whenever I’ve had a drink, for example,” he continued, without letting her speak.
That stopped her. “Why do you drink so often?”
“Ah, ah, ah. You didn’t win the hand. No questions for you.”
He dealt again and won again. Daphne sighed. “What’s your next question?”
“Delilah told me she had a trick up her sleeve.”
�
�She did, did she?” Daphne scowled at the thought of her cousin’s orchestrations the night of the ball.
“Yes. Was she responsible for Lord Fitzwell coming out into the gardens?”
Daphne eyed Rafe carefully. “Very astute of you, Captain. Yes. That little urchin admitted it to me the next day. She sent him out there. It seems she was never a proponent of my marrying Lord Fitzwell.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” Rafe replied.
Daphne laughed. “I daresay she’s the most opinionated twelve-year-old in the kingdom.”
Rafe shuffled the cards again. “I must agree with you there. I’d learned as much only having spent a brief time in her company.”
Rafe dealt again and won again.
Another sigh from Daphne. “You are good at this,” she admitted.
“I’ve had far too much practice,” Rafe replied. “In fact, I need to think of a question.”
He tugged at his lips and Daphne tried to ignore the memory of kissing those same lips. She looked up at the ceiling, over at the door, anywhere to keep her eyes from his handsome face.
“Here’s one,” he finally said. “Who is the next lucky gentleman on the list?”
Daphne furrowed her brow. “You mean the next one I chose? With Cass?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It does to me, your husband.”
Daphne’s gaze snapped to his face. She took a deep breath. “I know you tried to help me, Rafe. I’ve had time to think about it since that night and I remember you tried to get me to stop talking, to salvage the engagement with Lord Fitzwell.”
Rafe glanced down at the cards that he’d gathered back into his hands. “I thought it was what you wanted.”
“I was a fool that night. But losing Lord Fitzwell. Well, it obviously wasn’t meant to be.”
For some reason, Rafe didn’t press her for the name of the next man on her list. She may have decided. But it didn’t feel right, either. She’d worry about that after she returned home. Instead, Rafe shuffled the cards soundly again and dealt them. This time he lost.
“Ah, seems my luck is running out,” he said. “What is your question?”
“Will you teach me how to be a spy?”
“What? Why?”
“You yourself just finished telling me how brave I am and how you respect me. I could be risking my life on this mission. I think I deserve to be trained in order to protect myself if I have to.”
Rafe was silent for a moment as if he were considering her words. “You’re right,” he said quietly.
Daphne’s eyes widened. “You’re going to teach me?”
“Yes. There’s no reason not to. First lesson, hand signals.”
Daphne sat up straight and watched him intently. Rafe rubbed the side of his nose. “This means I understand.”
Daphne rubbed her nose, too.
“You’ve got it,” he said.
Next he wiped his brow.
“What does that mean?” Daphne asked.
“It means watch your back.”
Twenty minutes later, Daphne felt as if she had a good understanding of a dozen different signals. She’d done them all more than once and practiced to remember each clearly. “Thank you,” she said softly to Rafe. “For teaching me.”
“Thank you for coming with me,” he replied. He shook his head and the casual devil-may-care Rafe was back. “Shall we play one more hand?” he offered, shuffling the cards again.
“Why not?”
Rafe dealt and Daphne won for a second time. She inhaled deeply and met his gaze. She knew exactly what she would ask him. “Why do you drink so much, Rafe?”
Rafe blinked as if surprised by the question. “I haven’t had a drink since we came on this ship. I didn’t touch my ale yesterday. Nor the drink your brother offered me the night we left his house.”
Daphne searched his face. “That didn’t answer my question. I’ve seen you go to the clubs with Derek. Always with a brandy glass in your hand when you visit Julian. I know you’ve been drinking too much for too long.”
“I’m not certain I know the answer to your question,” he admitted with a shaky laugh.
“I do,” Daphne said solemnly.
He rubbed a hand through his hair. “I wish you’d tell me, then.”
“You’re trying to forget about Donald’s death.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Daphne slept fitfully again. This time she dreamt of a blond woman in Rafe’s bed. She hadn’t imagined it back then. She’d seen it with her own two eyes. They’d been staying at an inn near the docks. They’d left the ship the final night thinking it was unsafe to be there. They’d got two rooms but they’d been adjoining so Rafe could keep an eye on Daphne and keep her safe. He barricaded her door to the corridor with a large armoire and helped her move it the next morning when she’d told him she wanted to go downstairs in search of some tea. Rafe had asked if she’d like him to fetch it for her, but she’d insisted on doing it herself.
When she’d come back upstairs, she’d brought him a cup, too. She’d pushed open the door to his room and there she was. The blond. Lying in his bed. Naked but for a sheet pulled up under her arms. Lavish and gorgeous and hair spilling around her shoulders. Heart pounding, Daphne had immediately dropped both teacups and turned and fled. She ran back down the stairs, and encountered Rafe coming up. Apparently, he’d gone downstairs to check on her.
Daphne woke in a cold sweat. She’d had that dream before, relived that moment time and time again. But it always had the same ending. The rest of it was a lot of denials and confusion. The blond was soon gone but it was too late. Daphne had been mortally wounded. Her and Rafe’s marriage hadn’t been consummated, that was true, but the least he could do was not flaunt his doxies under her nose until the mission was over and their annulment secured. Was that too much to ask? Apparently. And yes, there’d been a small, stupid part of her that had hoped, wished even, that their marriage would be real after all. That Rafe might actually fall in love with her. That small, stupid part of her died the moment she saw the blond. Actually it had begun to die the moment he’d said he thought of her as a sister and refused to kiss her two days earlier. Clearly, he had no sisterly feelings toward the blond.
But the worst part, the very worst, was that after he’d spent the better part of an hour denying that he even knew who the blond was, he proceeded to ruin all of his carefully worded denials. “I don’t know why you’re so angry, Daphne. It’s not as if we could ever be together. What does it matter who I have in my bed?”
That had been that. The mission had ended soon after. That afternoon Rafe had got the names of the men he was searching for in France and he took Daphne back to Mayfair that same day. Mother had been beside herself with worry. Apparently, she’d been writing to her daughter at Aunt Willie’s with no response and had even written to Julian in the war, telling him she feared Daphne had run off. Daphne had hugged her mother fiercely, telling her how sorry she was to have caused her such worry. But that night, back in her own bed with unbound breasts, and large fluffy, soft down pillows, she’d cried herself to sleep. “What does it matter who I have in my bed?” he’d said to her. And with that, she’d known all of it had been nothing more than work to him. Any tenderness or emotions she’d thought had developed between them had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. She was angry with him, yes. But she was mostly angry with herself for being so gullible. How could an army captain remain married to the daughter of an earl? Why, it was unheard of. Of course Rafe had agreed to the marriage because Donald had insisted. There was no other reason.
Daphne had waited a year to let her heart mend a bit, before she’d decided to stop moping and write a list. Get on with it. Find a proper husband. One who was suitable, from the right kind of family, one who didn’t have a penchant for keeping blonds in his bed. She’d thought Lord Fitzwell fit the bill. She’d been mistaken there, too.
She
glanced over to where Rafe swung peacefully in the hammock, fast asleep. She pressed her head against her pillow. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was completing this mission and keeping Rafe at arm’s length for the duration. She owed it to Donald. Rafe needed her for her language skills and keen hearing. She’d decided that she needed him for something else. And she’d ask him for it, in the morning.
* * *
“I want you to teach me how to throw a knife,” Daphne announced the next morning after breakfast. The rest of the crew had been up with the sun scurrying around the decks as usual. Whether the men knew much about ships or not, they certainly made an impressive show of it for the sake of their mission. Daphne often watched them in awe. Stringing sails, scrubbing decks, picking oakum. They made it all look extremely convincing.
Rafe looked twice at Daphne. “A what?”
“A knife. I saw you throw one once, last spring. When that boy had stolen your purse and ran away. You pinned his shirt to the wall from thirty paces. I want you to teach me how to do that.”
Rafe rubbed his hand across his chin. “It takes a great deal of practice, you know. You shouldn’t expect to be that good at it right off.”
Daphne swallowed a bite of her biscuit. She did indeed have tea and milk to go with it this morning, courtesy of Cook. “I’m certain. It’s like reading. You can’t expect to read the Iliad while you’re still in leading strings but you get better. I want to learn the fundamentals of throwing a knife. I’ll get better at it on my own.”
“You’ve read the Iliad?”
“Of course,” she replied.
Rafe whistled. “Fancy that, Grey.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Will you teach me to throw a knife or not?”
Rafe cupped his chin in his hand and considered her. “It might be useful for you to know how to do it. You may as well learn how to defend yourself.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Of course I hope you never have an occasion to throw one at me.”
She smirked at him. “What if I promise not to if you teach me?”
“I have your word?” he asked with a grin.
The Irresistible Rogue Page 15
