“There was a box,” Olden had said. “Partially exploded, though not entirely. And along the perimeter of Halford House, another box was discovered. There is lignin dynamite within.”
Lignin dynamite was uniquely American.
A calling card, of sorts.
American, just like Johanna Beaumont, the mistress of Drummond McKenna. Felix’s hands closed into impotent fists as the carriage swayed through London. How had he allowed himself to believe her story of moving on to the Continent, of never returning to New York City? How had he let her cast her spell upon him, until he could think of nothing more than her talents as an actress, her gentle beauty, her sad past? How had he believed they had bonded?
Christ, how stupid was he? How naïve?
She was an actress, and a bloody talented one at that. Everything she had told him had probably been a lie, one cleverly planned to manipulate him. And oh, how she had succeeded. Even after he had witnessed her meeting with a man at the Royal Aquarium, he had somehow allowed his desire for her to convince him she was not as guilty as she seemed. That her refusal of his five thousand pounds in exchange for bedding her had meant she possessed a modicum of integrity and honor.
In truth, all it likely meant was that she was loyal to her protector. He could see it all so clearly now, and it left him sickened. The gratitude he had felt for Johanna’s steadfast presence at his side the night before had vanished, and in its place seethed a horrible fury. Good God, if she dared to harm Verity, he would murder her with his own bare hands.
Yes, it made horrible, disgusting sense, the more he thought upon it all. Johanna—if that was her true name—had known he would be away from his home. Perhaps the business with the strange man at the aquarium earlier had been a part of it. A means of arranging the entire affair.
Bombs had been laid at his home.
Where his innocent daughter lived, where she slept.
And now, he had left Verity with her. With the last woman he ought to have trusted, it would seem.
How had he been so blinded by desire? By his own sense of self-importance? By God, he had almost lost Verity. The only part of Hattie he had left. And Good Christ, had he actually been so blinded in his relief last night at finding his daughter safe that he had actually told Johanna Hattie would have been appreciative of her?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, his self-hatred greater than it had ever been.
What would his wife say if she could see him now, chasing after a woman who was involved with one of the most dangerous criminals of the age? He had kissed her yesterday. He had almost made love to her on a piano bench.
What a stupid bastard he was.
The carriage came to a halt after what seemed like a century. He did not bother to wait for the door to open. He threw it open himself and leapt to the street. Anger and bile rising in his throat in equal measures, he stalked up the front walk and threw open the door.
His butler was there in a trice, looking alarmed.
“Where the devil is my daughter?” he demanded.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, “Mademoiselle Beaumont and Lady Verity are in the salon, I believe. Is something amiss?”
Everything was amiss. He was amiss. The terror and panic from last night were fresh once more, clamoring up his throat.
But he could not give voice to the roiling emotions warring within him. Christ, he was not certain he could speak past the relief washing over him. The servants knew where his daughter was. No further harm had come to her. He would whisk her away from Mademoiselle Beaumont forthwith.
“Thank you,” he told the domestic, already stalking toward the salon. “Nothing is amiss. That will be all.”
As he neared the door, which was partially ajar, the sound of music hit him. It was Johanna’s melodious voice, singing, the piano accompanying her. But the song was…
Quite unrecognizable.
He stopped.
“I once stepped in a puddle and found myself in a muddle,” Johanna sang.
“I went to see the fishes and made a lot of wishes,” came Verity’s voice next, singing as well.
“Excellent rhyme,” Johanna commended, the strains of a simple ditty still pounding out on the piano. “Oh, I have one! I stopped to read a book but scarcely gave it a look when in came a grumpy ogre who took it away.”
Verity giggled.
His chest tightened, his heart seizing. Dear God, when had he last heard his daughter laugh? Had he ever? He suddenly could not recall. But that sound, that sweet, haunting sound, was the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
He hesitated to interrupt, lingering there in the hall. Eavesdropping, as it were, upon his daughter and a woman he could not dare to trust. A woman who had him more confused than he had ever been. Because what manner of woman would arrange for bombs to be laid outside an innocent child’s home and then sing silly rhymes with her the very next morning?
Bloody hell.
“I walked beneath a ladder, and felt quite a splatter,” Verity sang, “from a finch flying overhead.”
Johanna laughed delightedly. “How grotesque, my lady. I do like the way you think. Now I shall have to match… I danced with a man from St. Eyre who passed an odorous cloud on the stair.”
At that, both Johanna and Verity collapsed into giggles.
“A cloud!” Verity said, giggling wildly. “A cloud of pure rot!”
He could not tarry another moment more in the hall, listening. He coerced his legs to move across the threshold, forced his arm to open the door. And there they sat, his daughter and Johanna, one golden head and one set of ebony curls, bent together, their faces wreathed in smiles.
The moment Verity spotted him, she sobered, rising from the piano bench. She dipped into a curtsy. “Papa.”
Johanna stood as well, a charming flush in her cheeks as she also dipped in deference. “Your Grace. Do forgive us our silliness. I hope you did not overhear. We were inventing some new songs.”
“Rhyming songs,” his daughter added, smiling once more. “Mademoiselle Beaumont is lovely, Papa! We have been having such fun all morning.”
“Fun,” he repeated grimly. He was reasonably certain the child before him had been consumed with levity over a ditty about a fart, of all things.
How was he to deal with such a conundrum? It seemed altogether impossible, the situation untenable.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Johanna added, her flush deepening. “I hope I did not teach Lady Verity anything too terribly untoward. I have found lightheartedness in the heaviest moments can sometimes help to ease one through them.”
He allowed his gaze to linger upon her, and he was torn between the urge to kiss her and the urge to shake her and demand the truth from her beautiful lips. His paternal rage had dimmed as he had stood in the hall, listening to their silly songs. Listening to his daughter giggle.
What a priceless sound, his daughter’s happiness.
If this woman could make Verity laugh again, part of him did not give a damn if she was colluding with every Fenian in the world, as long as she would promise to keep his daughter safe. But that was foolish thinking and selfish, too. Entirely unworthy of a man who had been entrusted with the safety of the nation.
“Lightheartedness,” he began, only to be interrupted by another peal of Verity’s laughter.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyebrows raising to comical effect.
Johanna placed a protective arm around her shoulders and drew Verity nearer, into the billowing silk of her skirts. “Silliness,” she said again. “We meant no harm, Your Grace.”
Good God, she was comforting his daughter, much as she had in the carriage the night before, when Verity had been safely bundled between them. What was he to say to this? What could he say? Something inside him was shifting. Breaking open. He was an egg, raw, which had just been cracked.
“I know I should not have been so unladylike, Papa,” Verity added, her tone contrite even as the mirth dancing in her eye
s suggested she was not entirely sorry.
It occurred to him that he had spoken a grand sum of two words since interrupting their lively ditty. He was about to ask his daughter to go see Simmonds, his standard means of dismissing her, when he realized he could not do so. Simmonds was seeking other employment without a reference.
His daughter had survived the fire unscathed, no thanks to her, and he would be damned before he would give the woman a recommendation. Verity had confided in him that she had arisen in the commotion, to find her governess already gone. The woman had never bothered to fetch her, but had simply fled, fearing only for her own safety.
But he could not dwell upon the horrid events of the previous night for too long, or risk bringing on one of his fits once more.
Felix cleared his throat. “Verity, perhaps you might return to your chamber for a nap.”
“Where is Simmonds?” his daughter asked, instead of obeying him.
“Simmonds is no longer your governess,” he bit out, trying to stifle his ill will toward the woman and failing miserably.
If anything had happened to Verity…
If the smoke had reached her chamber…
He shuddered, for he could not entertain any more such thoughts.
“I never did like her,” his daughter said, looking rather smug. “Does this mean I do not have to read, Papa?”
“Of course you must read,” interjected Johanna before he could offer a single word. “Reading is a great gift. One that takes your mind on journeys you could never otherwise embark upon.”
Her words were true, and yet Felix could not help but to be irritated at the encroachment. And what was he to do about her? Here was a woman he did not dare believe to be what she presented herself as, a great actress, and yet every part of her—every look, word, and deed—made him want her more. Even as his rational mind knew how skillful she was at applying her trade, he could not make the rest of him discount what he had just overheard.
What he now saw.
She was still rubbing his daughter’s slim shoulder, almost absentmindedly. It was the first time he had ever seen another female showing her tenderness, and the sight hit him in the gut. So, too, the manner in which his daughter responded, like a kitten looking to receive affection.
“Do you like to read, Mademoiselle Beaumont?” Verity was asking now, gazing adoringly up at the woman who so consternated him.
“Of course I do,” said Johanna, giving his daughter a radiant smile. “I must do so, for I am an actress. I need to read scripts in order to be able to portray a character. Being able to read is very important for every lady, you will find.”
“It is?” asked his daughter, her tone skeptical.
Felix could say nothing. All he could do was watch the scene unfold, in such stark opposition to the meeting he had so recently had with his daughter, during which she had challenged him on the same matter.
“Of course it is,” Johanna assured her. “Reading is how you learn, and when you are learned, no one may look down his nose at you, my lady. You will command the respect of everyone in your presence.”
“But I have not entirely understood it,” Verity admitted, with eyes only for Johanna. “Simmonds would grow tired of my confusion and bark at me. Sometimes, she slapped my hands and made me stand in the corner.”
The devil she had.
Felix strode forward, almost as if Simmonds were standing before him. Which she decidedly was not. Still, he glowered down at his daughter.
“Simmonds did what?” he demanded, for the woman had been imbued with no such power from him.
He would never have countenanced allowing his daughter to stand in a corner, or to be slapped. But then, a rising tide of shame walloped him, for he realized he had never truly bothered himself to ask or to investigate the manner in which Simmonds was instructing his daughter. He had simply been existing. He had been happy to have aid. Pleased his daughter seemed well enough.
Verity flinched at the tone of his voice, clutching at Johanna’s skirts and somehow burrowing into them until there was scarcely anything left of her. A pale face, glossy curls, and bright eyes were all that remained.
He forced himself to gentle his tone, for his anger was not directed at his daughter, but rather at the woman he had already sacked. He would sack her all over again if he could. “Why did you not tell me, poppet?”
“Simmonds told me I mustn’t,” his daughter admitted, her green eyes—his sole contribution to her features, it would seem—wide and swimming with tears.
Something akin to a fist connecting with his gut hit him. Protectiveness toward his daughter. Despair he had let her down. Anger toward Simmonds. A renewed sense of helplessness. Confusion about the woman who was, even now, comforting his daughter in a way he could not.
The panic was pushing forward, dark and murky and terrifying.
His heart was beginning to pound.
But he could not—must not—allow himself to succumb.
Felix sank to his knees, meeting his daughter eye to eye. She looked like Hattie more than ever, a reminder of all he had lost. A reminder of what he must protect, unflinchingly and always.
“You must tell me if someone is unkind to you,” he told her softly. “From this moment forward, you will not listen to your governess first, but to me. If anyone raises a hand to you, I must know. If anyone is cruel to you, I will be the one to cut her down. Do you understand, poppet?”
She nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Come now, Verity.” He opened his arms to her, hoping she would embrace him. The gesture was rusty with disuse, and he knew he must practice it more often. That he must hug his daughter as often as he had the chance.
When had he become so buried in his work that he had forgotten to hold his beloved daughter in his arms? He hated himself for it.
Verity at last ceased clinging to Johanna’s skirts and launched herself at him. Her little arms entwined around his neck, and she pressed her cheek to his. Her hair smelled of roses, and he supposed Johanna must have used her shampoo and soap upon Verity last night in the bath. There was no trace of smoke. No lingering remembrance of the hell they had been through together the evening before.
Except for the fresh scars upon his heart.
“Do you promise Simmonds is never coming back, Papa?” Verity asked, still clinging tightly to him.
“Yes,” he managed past a sudden thickness in his throat. “I promise.
He was keenly aware of Johanna’s gaze upon him. Aware too of the prick of tears in his eyes. The rushing tide of emotion that threatened to carry him away, much like the waters of a ravaging flood. What he read in her countenance almost knocked him on his arse.
There was a sheen in her blue gaze, a melancholy twist to her smile. He wondered if she was thinking of her own daughter, remembering her. But there was also something else present. Something he could only describe in one fashion: tenderness. Such tenderness, the magnitude of which he had not seen directed toward himself in as long as he could recall. That he had not seen directed toward Verity in what seemed an aeon. Not since…
Hattie.
His wife’s name and her memory were like a needle jabbing unexpectedly into his flesh. A visceral reproach. He must not allow Johanna Beaumont to further distort his feelings. To creep beneath his armor. To tear down all his defenses. He reminded himself that the tenderness she exhibited now emerged from a woman who had carefully honed her craft.
Except, it did not feel feigned as his gaze meshed with hers. It felt heart-stoppingly real. Good God, what was the matter with him? Why was he so weak when it came to this woman he dared not trust? This woman who had shared her body with his enemy?
It made no sense, and he needed to get to the bottom of the matter.
He cleared his throat once more. “Verity, darling, run along to the chamber you were given last night. You may play with your doll until I come and find you.”
He kissed the sweet-scented crown of her head, reluctant t
o open his arms and let her go. He could feel her heart beating fast against his chest. She was so precious to him. So very beloved, small and fragile in his arms.
But he let her go, because he knew he must. He needed to address matters with Johanna. Needed to see if he could sift through what she had told him and what he had witnessed, what he knew of her, and separate the chaff from the wheat, the lies from the truth.
In short, he needed to discover whether or not she was a dangerous, deceptive viper or she was the victim of one.
Johanna watched Felix’s daughter skipping from the salon in an exuberant burst of girlish spirits.
“Do walk like the lady you are, Verity,” he reminded her sternly.
“Yes, Papa,” his daughter called, curtsying once more, before she was gone.
The moment the door closed upon her, the atmosphere in the room changed. When he turned back to Johanna, Felix’s demeanor had settled into a rigid mask. Even his green eyes, ordinarily so vibrant and warm, were cold and hard. She wondered where he had gone so early this morning, and whether that trip was the reason for his coolness.
Something had made him unhappy. His guard, which had dropped during Verity’s revelations about her governess, was firmly in place. The love he plainly had for his daughter had melted her heart. His affection had vibrated in his voice, had been raw and real in his expression. He had appeared, in the moment when he had taken Verity into his arms, more man than duke.
But every part of him as he faced her now was the regal duke once more.
“I should be leaving,” she said, reminded she did not belong here. “I hope you do not mind that I waited until you returned. Lady Verity did not want to be alone, and it did not feel right to leave her in the care of the servants.”
His jaw clenched. “Thank you for remaining here with her. For entertaining her.”
Still, he was so cool. His tone frosty.
She felt uncertain. Perhaps the childishness of her song had displeased him.
“I am sorry for the song,” she said, clasping her hands before her to keep them from twisting in the skirts of her gown. It was the same one she had worn yesterday, and she was keenly aware of how she must appear, wearing the previous night’s rumpled gown. Her hem had been sodden and muddied, and she had done her best to clean it by hand before draping it on a chair before the fire in her chamber to dry.
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