Dangerous in Diamonds - Madeline Hunter [117]
But not the rest. Not once he learned the money went to the remnants of Bonaparte’s followers.
“Latham counted on your ignoring that too, because of her?” Daphne asked.
“He hoped for it, I think. I would be bound to him forever, then, wouldn’t I? If he knew what she was up to, which I suspected he did. I learned I was right.”
“He could also take comfort in knowing you were no better than he. I think he badly wants to believe that.”
“Perhaps so.”
She kissed his chest and moved her arms to embrace him. This tale had deepened the mood between them, but sadness drenched their intimacy now.
“Did you love her?” She hoped not. That would make this story more tragic.
“She fascinated me, but I was not in love. I thought it would be easier since I was not. It wasn’t.”
“Do you regret it?”
He did not answer. She let it pass. She knew better than to pry into a person’s heart and cursed herself for having done so without thinking.
“There are some things you do because they must be done, because the other choice makes you a coward,” he finally said.
He had not said he did not regret it. Perhaps he did sometimes, when he allowed himself to think about it at all. Like now.
She understood his long anger with Latham better. It saddened her that it would never go away. He would never find Latham boring or be indifferent to that man’s presence in his world.
He was right, though. Some things had to be done, or one was a coward. It was probably natural to hate the person who forces the choice on you, especially if he waits and watches for you to be less than you should be.
She moved up and kissed him, so that maybe thoughts of that night would leave his mind. She used what skill she had to distract him. After a while she succeeded, and it seemed to her that he was grateful that she made the effort.
Chapter Twenty-five
Daphne left the house the next afternoon to visit with her friends before going back to The Rarest Blooms. Castleford decided to pass the time while she was gone scribbling on his manuscript. Since it was almost completed, he also turned his mind to which printer to use.
He was drawing up a little list of printing houses that might be sympathetic to the subject matter when Albrighton’s card was brought up. Not expecting the distraction but happy to have it, he told the footman to bring Albrighton to his dressing room.
They managed to fill an hour with political talk before the conversation ebbed. Albrighton just sat there in silence after that. Castleford wondered if the man scoured his brain for small talk that did not sound too slight.
“Are you looking to fill the time until your wife is finished with that little party the women are all enjoying, Albrighton? There are taverns and coffee shops for that purpose, but you are welcome to read a book here.”
Albrighton smiled in his vague way. “Actually, I am trying to decide where the boundaries of friendship begin and end.”
“That is an odd thing to contemplate. If it is my friendship you speak of, why not let me decide?”
Albrighton regarded him. “You are known to meddle in friends’ lives most freely.”
“Only for their own good.”
“Only to satisfy your curiosity, you mean.”
“Are you still piqued about that? It all worked out well enough. You should be grateful, not dragging it up again.”
“And if it had not worked out well enough? Should a friend be glad for the truth, even if it is unpleasant?”
“Philosophy does not become you. You are getting irritating now. What is this about?”
“Hawkeswell was correct. Our wives are up to something.” He looked over. “I think that which is afoot is afoot right now.”
Hawkeswell’s suspicions had carried little weight. Even Summerhays might have read more into the most innocent correspondence. Albrighton, on the other hand, was a trained investigator. If he thought something was afoot, it probably was.
“You appear concerned. Is it dangerous?”
“No, I do not think so. Not immediately so, at least.”
“That is hardly reassuring. Perhaps you should