Dangerous in Diamonds - Madeline Hunter [110]
“That be the truth of it, for certain.” She bent and picked some sage from the herb row. “I’ll leave you to those letters. I’ve still to get the chamber ready for those two who came this morning.”
Daphne sat on a small bench to the side of the kitchen garden and turned her attention to the mail.
One letter arrested her attention. It bore Castleford’s seal. She had received no letter since she came down two weeks ago. Afterwards had happened faster, and with more finality, than she had expected.
She tore it open and knew at once from the penmanship that the duke had not written this. He had a new secretary, it appeared. A Mr. Austry introduced himself and wrote in Castleford’s stead to invite her to a dinner party His Grace was giving this Friday, in honor of the Marquess of Wittonbury. His Grace would send his coach for her on Thursday, and she would be his guest until Monday.
Once more, the duke had scrawled a short postscript in his own hand. You must come. I insist on it. If you do not, I will come down there, as I warned I would.
She laughed at the arrogance of those lines. Yet it touched her that he had bothered to write anything at all, let alone reveal his continued interest so clearly. A happy glow entered her heart.
The other letters came from her friends. They reported on their efforts on behalf of the little quest that she had confided in them. Audrianna also mentioned the dinner party Castleford would host and asked if she would be staying at Park Lane in order to attend.
Daphne carried the letters into the house, to the writing table in the library. She wrote to Verity first, asking her to put into effect some very special plans that they had discussed. Then she wrote to explain those plans to Celia and Audrianna.
Finally she responded to Castleford’s invitation. She was grateful for His Grace’s condescension and kind thoughtfulness, she explained to Mr. Austry. She would expect the duke’s coach at midday on Thursday next.
“They are up to something. Our wives, that is,” Hawkeswell said. He sat on a chair in Castleford’s bedchamber, more into his cups than was normal these days.
All the friends visiting this afternoon had left true sobriety behind. The empty wine bottles formed a line on the writing table where the manuscript waited for its final chapter.
“Hawkeswell is known to raise suspicions without cause,” Summerhays said. “This time he is correct. Something is afoot.”
“We can only hope that we never learn what it is,” Albrighton said. “In the meantime, I am taking advantage of Celia’s efforts to distract me from noticing. I have only to mention all those letters going back and forth among them for her to drag me to bed.”
A loud crash all but obliterated his last words. Castleford looked in the direction of the sound. The two men working near the fireplace froze and glanced over cautiously.
Speaking of beds . . .
“You did say all of it, sir. We’ve no choice but to break this piece down to do it.”
“I am not complaining. Get on with it.”
The men continued their labor. Hawkeswell gazed over and poured more wine into his glass.
“I still do not know why you must do this,” he said.
“It is just a bed, Hawkeswell. I have bought a new one. Just as big. Much nicer and more fashionable in style too.”
“It is not just any bed, and you know it.”
No, it wasn’t. It was the bed Daphne did not want to get into.
“This is symbolic, I assume,” Albrighton said. “A rite of passage requires such rituals.”
“For a man who rarely speaks plainly, sometimes you manage to baldly say what is better left unsaid, Albrighton,” Castleford said.
“My apologies. I just assumed we all knew why—”
“Yes, damn it, we all know why,” Hawkeswell snapped.
“See?” Castleford said, pointing to Hawkeswell. “He sees