“Yes, sir,” the gadlings replied in concert.
“Wait a minute.” Dalton adjusted Richard’s neck cloth. “Who taught you to tie a cravat?”
“I did.” With a mighty scowl, Robert folded his arms. “And I think it looks fine.”
“Well that explains it.” Never had he dealt with such unruly delinquents. Dalton gave his attention to the elder sibling and a butchered mathematical. “Yours is not much of an improvement on his.”
“What do you care?” As he reworked the yard-length of linen, Dalton met Robert’s harsh stare. “And what are your intentions, in regard to Daphne?”
“This is neither the time nor the locale to discuss such matters, and button your coat.” And Dalton had no idea how to answer the question, as he had not pondered his fledgling feelings for the governor’s daughter. “You will do. Now march, and smile for your sister.”
After a lengthy tour of duty at the entrance, welcoming what he presumed was the entire Portsea population, the orchestra, if he could call it that, as it was comprised of an awkward assemblage of resident musicians—again a generous description, struck the signature, if less than graceful, notes of a waltz. And given their brief rehearsal, he could only hope they maintained a consistent rhythm. As prearranged, he claimed his hostess for the evening, to commence the gala.
“Shall we show your neighbors how it is done?” Just the simple practice of anchoring his arm about her waist had Dalton pondering how any man had resisted Daphne, as she manifested a potent combination of innocence mixed with unassuming strength, which could drive a sane man mad as a March hare from an overwhelming desire to possess her.
“I do so wish to make a good impression.” With a glowing expression, she rested her palm on his shoulder, and they clasped hands. “But I am nervous, as I have never danced with anyone but my father.”
“Then you may rely on me, as I am an expert.” For a scarce second, he doubted her inexperience. Then again, Miss Daphne had spent her entire life, thus far, on an island. “Stay close, my dear.”
In that instant, Dalton steered the impeccable backwater lady in what he hoped was the most refined ride of her existence. Around and around, they twirled in each other’s embrace, moving as one entity, until he could no longer discern where he ended and she began. Soon they slipped the bonds of the mortal coil and whirled beyond the crowded confines of the palatial ballroom, soaring ever higher. Swathed in an imaginary indigo blanket filled with twinkling stars, and aware of nothing save the constant beat of his heart, he luxuriated in her ocean blue gaze.
And then a pebble struck him in the cheek.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced to his left and discovered her brother Richard, standing at the edge of the dance floor, grinning as he tucked a slingshot into his coat.
“Is something wrong?” Daphne traced circles on the back of his neck. “Did I trounce your toes?”
“No.” For several seconds, he studied her plump and rosy lips. “Promise me something.”
“Anything, Sir Dalton.” All manner of naughty requests echoed in his ears, given her generous offer.
“While I understand you must entertain your guests, I would have you save your waltzes for me, alone.” The simple request would raise many eyebrows in London, but they swayed not within the ton’s confines, so he would make his own rules. “Will you do that, for me?”
“It would be my honor, Sir Dalton. As nothing would please me more.” Her charming confession, bereft of artifice, warmed him to his toes. “And I have a surprise for you.”
“Then we are of similar disposition, because I have news to impart.” The orchestra segued into another waltz, and he veered to the right, to evade a prospective interloper, as he refused to relinquish his bounty. “I am to depart for Portsmouth.”
“What?” Her smile faded, and her chin quivered. “When?”
“Tomorrow, I am afraid.” That afternoon, he had pondered her reaction to his revelation, and she had not disappointed him. “I received my orders this morning, and I am to remove the Siren to the naval docks, for additional repairs.”
“So soon?” She bit her bottom lip. “When shall I see you again, or do you depart for London, thereafter?”
“Once I secure my ship, I plan to return to your fair isle, but I may be recalled to Greenwich, without warning.” And now he had to divulge the harsh truth and pray she would not sever all ties with him. “Daphne, given my service to the Crown, I cannot, in good conscience, abandon Portsea into your hands, as we are at war, and the situation is dangerous. In light of the raid on the Siren, however unexceptionable, I must notify the King of your father’s absence, and I am honor-bound to report the theft of the brooch to the constable.”
“But what if you located it?” An underlying flinch betrayed her discomfit. “Why can you not leave us as you found us? I would consider it a personal favor.”
“Because my allegiance is to His Majesty.” How he hated to discompose her. “But you must not misconstrue my action as an attack on you and your family, as I seek to protect you.”
“By usurping my father’s position?” With a half-sob, she squeezed his fingers. “I beg you, do not place us in peril, as you know not the whole situation.”
“Would you care to share the circumstances with me?” Just then, he realized the music had ended, and he escorted her to the long dining table, where Mrs. Jones had arranged the refreshments, which Dalton had purchased for the event. “I would very much like to help—”
“Miss Daphne, we are ready.” The widow Cartwright clutched his arm. “And Sir Dalton, we have a special seat, just for you.”
“By all means, lead the way, Mrs. Cartwright.” As Daphne disappeared into the throng, Dalton weaved between the revelers, until the crowd parted, just in front of the orchestra, where a chair had been situated. “I gather this is for me?”
“Indeed, Sir Dalton.” The grey-haired widow chuckled. “Miss Daphne has practiced for days, in order to serenade you.”
As she settled before the assemblage of musicians, Daphne hugged a lute. For a few seconds, she plucked the strings, and then she glanced at the guests.
“My dear friends of Portsea, I cannot thank you, enough, for your hard work in preparation for our impromptu ball. But I would like to dedicate my performance to the person responsible for this wonderful fête, as it has been far too long since Courtenay Hall hosted a party.” And then she fixed her gaze on him. “Sir Dalton Randolph, tonight, I play and sing for you.”
What followed her elementary proclamation was the most precious experience of his life. As his lady strummed an exquisite melody, with the expertise of a professional, and intoned the lyrics of love, as a nightingale, in what he suspected was a local folk ballad, he dreamed of her naked, sitting at the foot of his bed, in a private production. He pictured her in the ballroom at Randolph House, entertaining his family and friends. At last, he envisioned her in the drawing room of his Mayfair home, diverting their visitors, while he stood as a proud husband.
That singular thought brought him alert, in a flash.
Perched upright, he focused on Miss Daphne and tried to convince himself she was not so spectacular, as he had believed. He had created her. He had idealized her. He had turned her into a damsel in distress and posited himself as her knight rescuer, in some frivolous romantic notion he neither coveted nor possessed the ability to fulfill, and he cursed himself a fool.
The night’s mission charged the fore, and he rolled his shoulders. When Daphne ceased her spontaneous rendering, he stood and clapped, and the gathered citizens lauded her talents with boisterous hoots and hollers. The orchestra screeched the initial hints of a quadrille, and the butcher claimed Daphne as his partner, which provided Dalton the perfect opportunity to instigate his search of the house.
In mere minutes, he spied Hicks poised at the side entry, Mrs. Jones refilled a platter with slices of boiled chicken, Robert groused as the innkeeper’s daughter dragged him into the mix, and Richard ha
d scrambled beneath a table and taken aim at another unsuspecting partygoer. So Dalton retreated, slow and steady, to avoid rousing suspicion, until he backed into the main hall.
With nary a witness about, he strode to the drawing room, tossing his familiar lucky coin to ease the tension investing his frame, flung open the doors, and was shocked to discover—nothing. To his inexplicable confusion, the chamber sat empty, bereft of a single stick of furniture or a rug. So he reversed course, scanned the immediate vicinity, and skipped up the grand staircase. On the landing, he snatched a taper from a candelabrum and reconnoitered the second floor, which exhibited decrepit conditions similar to the ground level.
After a quick inspection of the master suites, which appeared to have been vacant for a length of time and further stimulated his curiosity, he learned most apartments mirrored the drawing room’s condition. Only three other quarters sported accouterments indicative of the occupant, and Daphne’s accommodation rendered him bewildered, as it seemed more accustomed to a young girl of eight or nine, given the profuse pink décor, not a woman of three and twenty.
In haste, he returned to the foyer and traveled the side hall, which led to the study. Ensconced in the man’s domain, he rifled through the large oak desk and uncovered an appointment book. Based on the information therein, he discerned the governor had not held a meeting, of any sort, in more than a couple of months. Just as Dalton had opened an account ledger, voices snared his attention. After replacing the items, he closed the drawer and sheltered behind the thick velvet drapery, just as the door creaked.
“Mr. Allen, why have you come here, tonight, of all nights?” In a high-pitched tone, Daphne heralded her distress. “I thought we had an agreement.”
“Seeing as how you have the money to throw this big festivity, I figured you could spare me a few extra pounds this month.” The blackguard snickered, and Dalton eased back the heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of his lady’s tormentor. “And just look at your fancy garb and baubles. Perhaps you have played me false.”
“I have done no such thing,” she exclaimed. “It is common knowledge Sir Dalton Randolph, of London, funded the gala. The dress was a gift, and the pearls were my mother’s.”
“No doubt a rich man’s whore can afford all manner of luxuries, and he will not miss a few trinkets.” The oily bastard sneered. “Or should I apprise the good citizens of Portsea of the governor’s debts and true character?”
“How dare you, as I am no man’s whore.” She thrust her chin, in her usual frank bravado, but Dalton could smell her fear. “And I gave you half my father’s stipend at the first of the month, as arranged. If it interests you, I will sell the gown and give you the proceeds.”
“And the jewels.” The villain approached Daphne, and Dalton almost revealed his presence, but he summoned patience, knowing he could intervene on her behalf, if necessary. “Which I will take—now.”
“Get away from my sister.” The impetuous Robert charged the field. “If you touch her, I will raise the alarm, and all of Portsea will answer the call.”
“And maybe I will tell them of your beloved sire’s gambling habit.” The sullen Mr. Allen flexed his fists. “I own the governor’s markers, and I must be paid, else I will shame your family and foreclose on Courtenay Hall.”
“Wait.” After a pregnant pause, Daphne sighed and removed the necklace and earrings. “Here, you may take them as additional payment toward the final sum.”
“Daphne, no.” Robert came to a halt at her side. “We have sacrificed enough to this mongrel.”
“But we must settle papa’s financial obligations.” She leveled a stony gaze on the enemy, and Dalton vowed to aid her, however he could. Had he thought her strong? She was formidable. “Until such time, we will surrender what we must. However, Mr. Allen, if you disparage my father’s name, in any way, in violation of our terms, I will consider the matter closed and report your nefarious enterprises to the constable. Do we understand each other?”
“My lady.” The scoundrel sketched a mock bow and exited the study.
“What are you doing, Daphne?” Robert raked a hand through his hair and paced. “Why will you not sell Courtenay Hall, and let us leave this place and start anew, somewhere else?”
“Because this is our home, our legacy.” With her palms pressed to the blotter, she leaned over the desk. “Mama is buried on this land, along with our ancestors. Would you abandon all that we are, out of convenience?”
“Yet we risk losing everything, if we stay the course.” The lad faced his sister. “What of Sir Dalton? Perhaps we could appeal to him—”
“No.” She shook her head, and Dalton could only speculate in regard to her refusal. “He departs Portsea, tomorrow. And I would not drag him into this mess.”
“But he might help us.” The elder brother stiffened his spine. “He seems very fond of you, and I know you are fond of him.”
“It does not signify.” Daphne glanced toward the window, and Dalton feared, for an instant, she spied him. “Go back to the party, and I shall follow, soon after.”
Without a word of protest, Robert abided her request. Alone, as far as she knew, his lady walked to the window, where he hid. Had she glanced to her right, she would have discovered him, but she gave her attention to the world beyond the glass. Then she broke.
“How much more must I withstand?” As she wept, she stared toward the heavens. “Papa, what have you done to us?”
As he observed her anguish, a cold and dull ache pervaded his chest. Each successive mournful sob struck a vicious blow to his heart and mind, and he longed to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. And just when he could tolerate no more, she wiped her eyes, turned on a heel, and strolled from the room.
Shaken to his core, he had no idea what to make of recent developments. Yet a few things were certain. Daphne attempted to conceal her father’s gambling problem and cover his markers with a local ruffian. Courtenay Hall was in a state of utter disrepair, and her family, entrenched in poverty, bordered on starvation. But one question remained unanswered. Where was Governor Harcourt?
Moving swift and sure, Dalton made for the door and set the oak panel ajar. The hall was empty, so he slipped into the passageway and headed straight for the ballroom. Just as he rejoined the gala, a commotion at the side entry lured the crowd, so no one noticed his abrupt reappearance, and a rush of whispers echoed in the cavernous chamber. Then the revelers parted to reveal a familiar face, and he smiled and nodded a greeting.
Hicks stood tall and proud, and his chest expanded, as he inhaled. “Citizens of Portsea Island, it is my honor to announce his lordship, Dirk Randolph, Viscount Wainsbrough.”
#
The moon cast a silvery glow on the water, which sparkled as a sea of diamonds, as Daphne pushed the small rowboat from the shore. Trepidation danced a jig down her spine, as never had she ventured beyond the coastline on her own, but she had to return the brooch before Dalton moved the Siren to Portsmouth, and she refused to implicate her brothers, so she swallowed her apprehension.
She had thought to present the family jewel to its owner, after the celebration, but the arrival of his brother, a viscount, no less, had forestalled her plans. It was past due to face facts. Regardless of her hopes and dreams, she had to accept that Sir Dalton, a member of the peerage, was far above her station and not an option. For the past month, she had lived a fantasy, conjuring various happily-ever-after scenarios, involving the amber-eyed Londoner.
As she rowed toward the majestic ship, which listed gently to and fro with the tide, she scanned the deck for any sign of a watch. Although the dashing naval captain had explained the majority of the tars had journeyed via stage to Greenwich, a skeleton crew would sail the vessel to the navy docks.
To her good fortune, the Siren’s jollyboats bobbed in a queue just off the mainsail hull. After securing her modest rowboat, she grasped the ship’s line and shimmied to the larboard rail. When she gained the deck, she trembled violently, t
hough she knew not why. Hugging herself, she glanced left and then right and discerned no one lurked about the waist.
For a few minutes, Daphne reconsidered her strategy. Perhaps she should have listened to Robert and confessed everything to Sir Dalton. But his unequivocal intent to apprise the constable of the theft had destroyed her fledgling trust in the gorgeous sea captain. She would grieve his departure, but now was not the time for tears, so she would cry tomorrow.
The dark stern companionway encompassed her in palpable fear, as she tiptoed into the bowels of the impressive Siren. The vacant galley had her breathing a sigh of relief, so she continued into the commissioned officer quarters. In the wardroom, she toyed with the brooch, tucked safe and secure in the pocket of her breeches, as she sidled toward the captain’s cabin.
At the large portal, she placed her hand on the knob, which was cool against her damp palm, and then she paused. Sir Dalton had assured her he would remain at the inn, with his brother, so what had she to worry?
As she inched into the masculine domain, a hint of cigar smoke mixed with a spicy fragrance she could not quite identify. The large chamber, illuminated by the pale blue glow from moonlight filtering through the stern windows, boasted lush furnishings unlike anything she had expected.
A massive desk occupied the premier position along the back wall, and an equally impressive bunk sported the softest sheets, a mountain of fluffy pillows, and a sapphire damask counterpane. A small side room revealed a washstand and a wardrobe, and she stopped to caress a fine lawn shirt.
“Oh, Dalton.” To her frustration, tears beckoned. “How I wish the brooch had revealed something—anything of you, as my one true knight. Alas, it is not to be, so I must bid you farewell, yet I would never let go of you, were it my choice.”
Wrenching herself to reality, Daphne returned to the desk, given that was where Richard had stolen the artifact. But how should she stage the item, so Dalton would find it before notifying the constable? When she opened the top drawer, she discovered a unique gold seal, fashioned in a wind-star design, engraved with the Latin phrase Nulli Secundus, and featuring a grand jewel at the center. Next she located a leather-bound log, and she flipped through the pages, smiling as she recognized his dramatic script. Maps and charts had been tossed inside the compartment, in a haphazard fashion, so she considered it the logical place to restore the heirloom.
The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 7
