Just like now.
Lord Chemsford was going to kick her out.
She’d be left to scramble for work. She might even have to leave Marlborough to find it.
She would never see Benedict again.
Kit wouldn’t know where to find her when she returned from her wedding trip.
Jess would leave, and Sarah and Reuben and Eugenia would end up in the poorhouse.
The tears came faster, pooling against her fingers and running down them to drip onto the floor.
Something soft fluttered against her cheek.
Daphne slowly lifted her head enough to see what it was, only to find a snow-white handkerchief dangling in front of her. It was held in masculine fingers attached to a silent and serious-looking marquis.
She turned her hand over and accepted the cloth. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He nodded his acknowledgment but said nothing as she dabbed at her eyes to dry them. There would be a bit of red around the edges, but if she didn’t scrub at her face, that should be the only evidence. The trick to crying silently was to let the tears flow freely. Usually once a tear or two escaped the urge to cry faded, but as long as she didn’t try to stop it she could usually avoid the unpleasantness of sniffles and hiccups.
Face dry, she crumpled the fabric in her fist and prepared to face her fate.
Then she promptly smacked her head against the window frame as she tried to sit up. Her instinctive jerk sent her tumbling from her precarious perch onto the floor below. While she should probably be thankful she’d tumbled into the room instead of out into the hedges, the embarrassment of showing the marquis a great deal more leg than she already had sent the redness she’d been trying to avoid surging across her face. Jess could cook dinner on Daphne’s cheeks.
She pushed her way to her feet and shoved her chin into the air, trying to claim any possible remnants of her dignity.
Lord Chemsford wasn’t looking at her, though. He was staring out her recently vacated window, giving her time to right herself after her spill.
That was rather nice of him, actually. All things considered, it was more than she had expected.
“I’m presentable now.” At least, her skirts were in order. Her face still flamed, and her voice sounded as if someone had shoved wool down her throat, but neither of those were going away any time soon.
He turned toward her, the stern, chiseled lines of his face betraying nothing of what he was thinking but all of the power he was accustomed to wielding. “Would you care to explain now?”
Oh, this man. Was it any wonder she’d woven dreams around him? How many other men of his station would even wait to hear a servant’s story before dismissing them?
Daphne had never been much of a liar, so her choices right now were to either stay silent or spill the truth. Neither was going to make her look very good.
But one would at least make her look strong.
She cleared her throat. “I know—that is, I knew—one of your guests, and I’m afraid I wasn’t quite ready for him to see me.”
Perhaps she wasn’t quite as ready to be honest as she’d thought.
“Which guest?”
“Mr. Blakemoor,” she whispered.
How it hurt to call him that. He’d been Papa to her while growing up. It’d been just the two of them. “A pair of aces against the world,” he’d said. Until she wasn’t an ace anymore.
“How do you know him?”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, unwilling to watch what little respect Lord Chemsford had for her die. “He’s my father.”
Chapter eighteen
So many thoughts crashed into William’s brain that focusing on any one observation was a struggle.
Mrs. Brightmoor had been born a Blakemoor and she was willing to jump out of a window to escape seeing her own father.
Even putting that single truth at the front of his mind didn’t make everything make sense. How did the daughter of a gentleman end up a housekeeper in the middle of the woods?
She was very young to be a widow, but then again, if she’d been working here as long as Mr. Banfield had said, she hadn’t been married.
So Brightmoor was a false name. And not a very good one at that.
He ran a hand along his chin as he watched her. Dark lashes lowered over brown eyes until her gaze was glued to the floor.
Once again, gaining a few answers inspired a number of new questions. The man currently settling in to one of William’s guest rooms wasn’t the highest class of citizen, but he was more than respectable. He socialized, owned property, and was well liked. While William hadn’t been circulating amongst the London clubs and drawing rooms, he hadn’t been a complete hermit. Businessmen occasionally indulged in as much gossip as the dandies did, and there’d never been a whisper of scandal about Blakemoor.
How did he have his daughter hidden away as a servant?
Why did he have his daughter hidden away as a servant?
Or did he?
“Is he aware of your current employment?” William asked and then felt like a fool. Of course he wasn’t aware. If he was, she wouldn’t have been climbing through a window.
But his housekeeper merely shook her head and frowned, pulling her brows together until a groove formed between them, making her nose and mouth look like something of an arrow. “He isn’t even aware I live in Wiltshire.”
“Where does he think you live?”
A brief shudder of her shoulders preceded the clearing of emotion from her face. He hadn’t thought her capable of such a thing. She was always so . . . alive. Everything played across the plane of her face, making it easy to know when he’d perturbed her or worried her. Or, as was more often the case, when she was trying to think of a plan to get him to do something.
But now there was nothing. It was blank.
He rolled his shoulders to adjust the fit of his coat. The blankness was so far removed from what he’d come to expect that it disturbed him.
Her voice was toneless as well. “I don’t think he much cares.”
Perhaps her face wasn’t devoid of emotion. Perhaps blank was simply what pain looked like.
There was information he needed to know, questions he should ask. But the only fragment he could form into a complete thought was that she wasn’t who he thought her to be. Everyone in his life had always been and done exactly what he expected.
Until he’d moved here.
What was he going to do? He had guests upstairs who he couldn’t exactly kick out. Even if he didn’t need their factory knowledge and expertise, he couldn’t send them on their way without a good reason.
He also couldn’t have a housekeeper climbing out windows or trying to blend into the wallpaper.
But now, even more than before, he couldn’t find it in him to lay down an ultimatum and kick her out either. Until this moment she’d been a curiosity and a bit of a trial. He’d spent a great deal of time dissecting her movements, but he’d never delved into her motivations. He’d never asked himself why.
He’d never truly considered her a person. She’d simply been his housekeeper.
Now she was standing before him with the posture of a lady, despite gripping his handkerchief with all the strength she could muster. Had she always stood with perfect posture and straight shoulders? Had he simply not noticed because he thought her born and raised without the benefit of proper polite instruction?
If he’d barely been able to come to terms with what to do with her before, what was going to happen now that she had wriggled her way out of the box he’d put her in? Granted, it was a box she’d never fit in perfectly, but now he didn’t know what to think of her. She was his housekeeper but also a socially acceptable companion. Did he need a chaperon?
The mystery that was his housekeeper grew until he didn’t even know where to start unraveling it.
She jabbed the crumpled handkerchief at her eyes one more time and took a deep breath that hissed a bit as it passed through h
er teeth. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to go now.”
He wanted to say yes—he should say yes—but everything in him rebelled at the idea. If she’d had nowhere to go as a country maid, how much fewer were her options as a gentleman’s daughter if she’d ended up here in the first place?
“I hardly think that necessary,” he replied.
“You . . . you don’t?”
“No.” Peace flooded him as soon as he confirmed she could stay. “Between Morris and, er, Cook, and the other maid, we should be able to manage anything public. You can still perform your other duties, I assume, as long as you don’t encounter your father?”
This was ludicrous, despite the calm within him that assured him it was the right thing to do. If his father could see him from beyond the grave he’d be yelling about how William was besmirching the title and family by going out of his way for a mere servant. The late marquis would have dismissed the entire household before allowing one of them to alter his path. William had handled most of the decisions in his adult life by asking himself what his father would do and then choosing the opposite. It had done him well so far.
Which meant this was possibly an excellent idea.
“You would do that for me?” Her voice was small and her face was no longer blank. It seemed to shine from within.
He frowned. “No. I’m doing it for me. If I dismiss you I’ll have to give Morris a dustrag.” While he trusted he was making the correct choice, he still didn’t trust her, and the hope and gratefulness shining from her face made him uncomfortable. “I have one condition, though.”
Her returning nod was quick and the hair that had been knocked askew by her tumble from the window bobbed around her head. “Absolutely.”
William pressed his lips together. He was finished with stumbling across surprises, having to guess what was going to happen next in his own home. “When I ask questions, you will answer them. No distractions, no half-truths, no lies.”
She bit her lip but nodded again. Since she’d proven to be a rather obvious liar, he had to assume she meant to honor this agreement.
He folded his hands at the small of his back and stood up straight, trying to treat this as he would any other sort of business interview, even though the questions were going to be extremely personal.
“Why doesn’t your father know where you live?” On this he hoped—no, expected—there to be a reasonable explanation. After all, William’s father hadn’t known where he’d lived and that separation had been by William’s choice, for the sake of his sanity. He’d had the means to provide a life for himself away from his father, though.
It would appear that Daphne did not.
“I . . .” She paused and straightened her already perfect posture to match his. “I left London many years ago.”
“How many?” Bosh! This was going to be like pulling teeth.
“Fourteen.”
“But you couldn’t have been more than a child then.”
She winced. “I was eighteen.”
He did a bit of quick arithmetic. Then did it again. She couldn’t possibly be two-and-thirty. At that age, she could indeed have been married and widowed before coming to work here. But then, she’d said she’d raised Benedict. How did he . . . Oh.
“Brightmoor is a false name,” she continued. “It’s not a very good one, I’ll admit, but it was all I could think of when you showed up at the door.”
William nodded, though he was barely listening now that he had a new angle to scrutinize.
For days, he’d been thinking about Benedict, considering ways he could rectify his cousin’s abandonment. Not once, he was ashamed to admit, had he considered the fact that Maxwell also would have abandoned the boy’s mother. He had to have. He’d married Miss Charlotte Rhinehold fourteen years ago, and the woman certainly hadn’t been with child at the time. In fact, it had taken them three years to have a daughter.
But William was right about this. It was the only thing that made sense. The timing, the protectiveness, the desire to hide, the loss of family connections, the genteel manners that were more than he’d expected but never completely formed enough to make him reconsider her background.
He was right. He had to be. But he needed her to confirm it.
“Benedict,” he said softly. “You ran because of Benedict.”
The sudden loss of color in her face was almost enough to verify his guess.
“How did you . . .” She swallowed convulsively, her eyes wide in her round face.
“The timing fits, as does the situation.” There had to be more to the story, though. Benedict wasn’t the only child working under his roof. What about his maids? Was his cook a lady of good breeding who’d run into precarious circumstances, too? If so, which one was hers? Were any of the others Daphne’s as well?
Normally William loved questions. He could lose himself to books and research for days on end until he found the answers he sought without having to subject himself to more human contact than necessary.
But unless Daphne kept a very detailed diary she’d be willing to hand over, these answers weren’t going to be found in a book.
He’d been right not to dismiss her a few days ago, and he could thank the Lord he’d listened when instinct told him not to. His family had done this to her—had sent her here. He’d never be able to ask her to leave.
“I need to know everything. Now.” His voice was a bit gruffer than he’d intended it to be.
Her chin lifted. “You’re not entitled to anything.”
“Mrs. Bright—I say, what is your name? Is it still Miss Blakemoor?”
“I just told you it was. But I’d rather you call me Daphne or continue to use Mrs. Brightmoor.”
One side of his mouth slid up in a smile despite his current irritation. “You’re right. That’s not a very good fake name.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at thinking on my feet in the moment. The decision to use a false name was made rather quickly.”
“It was a wise decision.” She looked surprised by his praise, but at least it brought a bit of color back into her face. “Very well, then, Daphne.” Her name felt strange in his mouth. Never before had he called a woman by her given name. “There are a great many things that don’t add up about you, but one thing is now clear: My cousin wronged you. I have an obligation as a gentleman and the head of the Oswald family to rectify that.”
“Fourteen years is a long time.” Her voice was a bit stronger, a little steadier than it had been before. “It’s impossible to know where my life would have gone if we’d never . . . if I’d never met him.” She folded her hands primly in front of her once more. “It is, as they say, ‘a day after the fair.’ There’s nothing you can do now. If you help Benedict, maybe sponsor a shop for him after his apprenticeship is complete, that will be enough. That will be more than enough.”
“Spoken like a mother,” William said softly, clenching his hands together to resist the urge to reach out and offer her some form of comfort. “I assume he doesn’t know.”
“No. I beg of you, don’t tell him. Whatever you ask, I’ll do, I’ll even leave, just . . . don’t let him know I’ve lied to him all these years.”
“Why?” William wasn’t in the habit of holding people to foolish emotional pleas—most likely because he wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of them—but in this case, he wanted to press whatever advantage he had. She might never be this vulnerable again. “Why would you let him think he wasn’t wanted?”
She was quiet for a few moments, and he expected her to quiver and cry her way through whatever answer finally emerged, but she didn’t. She spoke confidently when she said, “Because if he knew, then when the time and opportunity came for him to make his own life, he’d have refused to leave me behind.”
William rather thought the boy loved her enough not to leave her anyway, but he didn’t have time to delve into the topic now. “Very well. We’ll say nothing for now. As soon as my guests are
gone, though, I want the story. All of it. Nothing left out, nothing skipped over. Then I will decide what to do.”
How was William possibly going to behave normally for the next two days?
He had no intention of entertaining the gentlemen, but having children serve their dinner at the ornate, ostentatious table and the decided lack of any mention of a housekeeper or butler made the entire interaction a bit strange. He sat at the table now, trying to pretend there was nothing odd about a young girl in a clean but rather worn-out dress delivering a bowl of soup to the table.
The surface she set it upon gleamed, and William had to admit that Daphne had been holding up her end of the bargain. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the house seemed even cleaner than it had been before.
Mr. Blakemoor and Mr. Gherkins sat in their respective places in the spired, throne-like chairs, polite smiles on their faces. They probably thought the table as hideous as he did, but they’d never say anything. Despite the fact that he’d invited them here and they held the knowledge he desired, all of the people in the room were aware of who actually held the power.
It would be a lie for William to say he didn’t like being in the position of power, but mostly because it did the work of keeping people at arm’s length for him. Right then he wished the barrier were a little thinner. He wanted to know more about Mr. Blakemoor personally, not just his wild success with manufactories.
Perhaps he could narrow the divide just a bit.
“Do take care when rising from the table,” he said with a crooked grin. “The gargoyles have been known to bite.”
“What?” Mr. Blakemoor looked down at one of the potentially offending creatures. “Oh, yes. Of course. Do they, er, bite you often?”
William nodded as he tucked into the food. “The monstrosity came with the house, I’m afraid. I haven’t yet had a chance to commission a new one.”
“Thomas Sheraton’s latest catalog has some fine pieces, all free of gargoyles.” Mr. Blakemoor grinned as he ate.
“I considered that,” William said, “but I’ve decided to commission a piece from one of the local cabinetmakers. He has a promising young apprentice. I’m considering investing in the lad’s career.”
A Return of Devotion Page 17
