Dangerous in Diamonds - Madeline Hunter [37]
Daphne set aside the letter she had received from Katherine, in which Katherine described how everything at The Rarest Blooms progressed. Katherine gave repeated reassurance that Daphne’s presence had thus far not been missed. Her pride in managing everything on her own could be sensed through her words.
Daphne rather wished Katherine were not proving so competent. She should not go home until all was settled with Castleford, she knew, but if she had no choice, due to some disaster . . .
Her reaction was cowardly and uncalled-for. All she had to do was wait him out and make sure he never touched or kissed her again. He would lose interest quickly and most likely give her the property outright just to be rid of her.
She penned a quick response to Katherine, one full of praise. After she sealed that letter, she dipped her pen again and faced a blank sheet of paper.
It was time to write to her friend Margaret. Not only did she owe Margaret a letter, she also wanted to learn how things really fared in the north, where Margaret lived.
The reports read in London made the situation sound very dangerous, and she needed to know if the danger only existed in big towns like Manchester or elsewhere as well. Certain lords with property up there seemed to believe that rebellion might break out and that bloody unrest would spread like a fire. She prayed that they exaggerated. It would be good to get a sensible woman’s view of the common people’s mood, however.
Margaret would answer honestly, because she was an old friend. Older than Verity or Celia. She had never lived at The Rarest Blooms or taken refuge with Daphne, however. Rather, the opposite had happened. For a while, before Daphne obtained aid from Becksbridge and established her household near Cumberworth, Margaret had been the one to offer help and sanctuary in her small home outside of Manchester.
Daphne wrote the letter easily until she had almost finished it. The impulse to write in the first place had not entirely been due to the unrest up north. Now that she tried to form the words to pose her questions on another matter, her confidence faltered.
What would Margaret think, to open a letter and read such queries? She might be insulted or even afraid. Daphne realized that she, who lived by a rule that said one did not pry, was about to pry disgracefully into a good woman’s privacy.
A letter would never do. If she wanted to ask such things, if she wanted Margaret to confide, she would have to do it face-to-face.
She put her other questions aside. Instead she penned a few final sentences that expressed a desire to visit. It was perhaps time, she wrote, to talk honestly about the past.
Castleford thumped the lion’s head door knocker on a house near Bedford Square. While he waited for a response, he looked up and down the street to see what attention he might be garnering.
The last time he had come here, some months ago, he had been in his state coach. A mistake, that. He had drawn a crowd within minutes. Today he had more sensibly ridden his horse and had escaped attention.
The door opened and a handsome, buxom, red-haired woman faced him. She took his card and gave him a hard, stony gaze before standing aside to let him enter. He looked hard at her as he did so.
She appeared familiar to him. Damned if he knew why. First Sykes this morning, and now this servant. It was annoying to have faces poke at your mind like this.
She led him to a front sitting room. His continued scrutiny of her seemed to annoy her. She left in a manner almost rude.
Soon boot steps sounded on nearby floorboards. Jonathan Albrighton entered, dressed informally, his angular face wearing the vaguest of smiles and his dark eyes showing their inscrutable depths.
“Castleford,” he said in greeting. “What a stunning surprise.”
“I was in the City, and thought I would call as I passed by on my way home.” He made a show of glancing around with appreciation. It was a modest home, of the sort