Dangerous in Diamonds - Madeline Hunter [89]
He draped his arm around Daphne and held her while the coach rolled through the twilight. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she did not speak much. Normally the lack of small talk would be a relief. This evening it left him thinking about matters he would prefer to avoid.
Resenting the inclination even as he succumbed to it, he lined up the truths he knew for certain.
At least one of the properties Becksbridge had left him did not house an old mistress of the dead duke. A woman who had been raped by Latham lived there. There could be no denying it had been rape either, since he himself had stumbled upon the scene and pulled Latham off the girl. The brutality he had seen and Latham’s sneering indifference about it later had marked the end of their long friendship.
Somehow Becksbridge had learned of that crime and bought the girl off with that home.
Since Mrs. Rolland—he doubted there had ever been a Mr. Rolland—had not been a mistress, it stood to reason that perhaps none of the four properties were used by old mistresses.
Without thinking about it, more on instinct, he pressed his lips to Daphne’s crown and kissed her silken fair hair. He closed his eyes and tried to contain the anger swelling in him. It wanted to become a murderous rage. He hoped he was wrong about her, but he did not think he was.
He had assumed the scoundrel preyed on servants, like too many men of his station. But of course it had been helplessness that provoked the worst in Latham, not rank or blood or family background.
If you ever have the chance, kill him, Tristan.
The coach noticeably slowed. Daphne startled, as if that woke her from a sleep. She straightened and found her reticule. She did not look at him while the inn’s servants opened the door and handed her out.
The inn’s yard seemed oddly empty, considering night was falling. Those who felt the need to escape the day’s great events had already done so, and it appeared few people felt the need to travel this evening and would wait for another, better day.
The air smelled of autumn’s approach. Not an unpleasant scent, it carried a peculiar freshness, considering it spoke of decay.
Daphne waited for him, to enter the inn. She appeared totally composed but perhaps showed a bit of awkwardness. She expected him to drag her upstairs immediately and finally have her, of course. It might be a mercy to do so. She might even be counting on that, since it would delay the conversation that had been waiting since he walked into Margaret’s home.
“After hours in that cottage and carriage, the air is refreshing,” he said. “Let us take a turn around the property. The coachman will procure us chambers and have your baggage taken up.”
She raised her eyebrows but fell into step with him. “I did not realize you so enjoyed fresh air. I thought you could go days without leaving your house.”
“Only when I was keeping very busy with whores, would I go for days without leaving.” He smiled ruefully. “It was very bad of our mutual friends to tell you about that, if they did.”
“Perhaps my sisters were warning me, for the day you and I finally met.”
“Quite likely they were. Oh, speaking of whores . . .” He reached into his coat and withdrew four thin letters. He handed them to her. “As promised. You must never tell anyone I went to such lengths for you. It would destroy all that I have worked so hard to build.”
She looked down at the letters and laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I am remembering something Verity said, about woe unto the person who captures your curiosity. I fear all the woe has been yours this time.”
More woe had been his than he needed, that was certain.
She slid the letters into her reticule. They entered a little field beside the inn, where wildflowers grew in abundance. A few sheep grazed on a hill a few hundred yards away.
“You were never old Becksbridge’s mistress, were you?”
She did not miss a step. Her composure did not crack. Yet he sensed a tension enter her, then leave like a deep sigh. “I never said I was.”
“You never said you