“Thank God. Still, you’ve lost a great deal of blood.” Schooling her features, Daphne continued to wash the wound, determined to conceal her distress.
Her hands shook as she rinsed out the cloth, watched the basin water turn a sickly shade of red.
“Daphne,” Pierce stayed her with his other hand, “I’m fine. Just weak.”
“I’ll bind the area,” she said in a quavery voice, rising to walk to his double chest. “It will help stop the bleeding.” She took out several clean handkerchiefs and returned to the bed. Carefully, she wrapped the injured shoulder, putting as much pressure on it as she dared without causing Pierce undue pain.
Her own head spinning, Daphne fought for composure, crossing the room to pour Pierce a brandy. “This will help the pain,” she whispered.
Gratefully, Pierce tossed off the drink, relieved as the spirits did their work, dulling the agony to a dull, tolerable throb.
“Is it easing?” Daphne asked, stroking Pierce’s jaw with cold, shaking fingers.
He nodded, turning his lips into her palm. “I’ve survived worse.” His glazed stare fell on his discarded coat. “Thompson. He’s expecting me in London.”
“Thompson?” A pucker formed between Daphne’s brows. “Mr. Thompson? The jeweler?”
Pierce gave her a slight smile. “Um-hum. The one who bought your brooch for so unexpectedly high a price.”
“How did you know—?” Daphne broke off, realization dawning on her face. “You were there.”
“Not only there, but the proud owner of that hideous pin.” A chuckle, despite his muddled senses. “You were remarkable for a novice.”
“Thompson.” Daphne was thinking aloud. “He’s your contact, isn’t he? The one who buys the jewels you take.”
“Passionate, beautiful, and clever.”
“That’s how you knew I donated the money to the school.” Rapidly, the pieces fell into place. “You followed me from Mr. Thompson’s shop. How could you be certain I’d choose his store in which to peddle Mama’s brooch?”
“I couldn’t.” Pierce caressed her fingertips. “ ’Twas not even a gamble, but a lucky twist of fate.”
“When is Mr. Thompson expecting you?”
“Before dawn.”
“And which workhouse had you planned to visit?”
Silence.
“Pierce, tell me.”
“The Faithful Heart,” was the reluctant reply.
“In the East End. I know the place.” Daphne inhaled sharply. “I’ll wash and change clothes. Then, I’ll take our booty, plus a bit extra, ride to London and perform both errands. I’ll be back by midday.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll tell the staff you took ill and need complete privacy and bed rest. That way you won’t be disturbed during my absence. Have I omitted anything?”
“Yes.” Pierce struggled to a sitting position. “I have no intention of allowing you to go.”
Daphne bent forward, brushing Pierce’s lips in the softest of kisses, thanking God for sparing him. “My heroic husband.” She withdrew Pierce’s blade from his pocket, raising her skirts and tucking the knife safely beneath her concealing petticoats. “I’m afraid you haven’t a choice.”
Pierce was up, pacing unsteadily, when Daphne entered his bedchamber just after noon.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, closing the door behind her. “Your wound—”
“Is fine,” he retorted, making his way toward her. “I changed the bandage an hour ago. The bleeding has stopped. I’ll mend. What am I doing? Worrying about you.” Fiercely, he wrapped his good arm about her and drew her against him. “You’ve been gone forever. Thank God you’re safe.”
Daphne wound her arms about his waist. “This from the man who doesn’t believe in prayers?” she murmured, laying her cheek against his chest.
“Did Thompson try anything unethical? Did he cheat you? Doubt you? Hurt you in any way?”
“No. Actually, he was quite amused by the whole situation.” Daphne extracted the blade, handing it to Pierce with an impish grin. “However, he did offer me a job.”
“Very humorous. What about the workhouse? Did you have any trouble?”
“No, no, and no.” Tentatively, Daphne touched Pierce’s bandages. “Tell me you’re all right.”
“Now I am.” He buried his lips in her hair. “Christ, I was frantic.”
“I understand. I’d feel precisely the same way.”
A heavy silence hung between them.
“Pierce, you were almost killed.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, reliving the moment when he’d believed himself caught, when all he could think of was losing Daphne.
When, for the first time in thirty years, his life mattered more than his cause.
And when he’d suddenly, vividly, known what he stood to lose.
“I heard that gunshot,” Daphne was saying in a strangled tone. “I saw you struck, and all I could think of was—” She broke off, fought to regain her composure. “No. I won’t do this.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I need you, Pierce. But I also love you. I can’t—won’t ask you to relinquish your quest. I understand the bond you share with the children. Lord knows, I care for their happiness as much as you do. So whatever decision you make, I’ll respect, and leave it to God to bring you home safely to me.” She stepped back, took Pierce’s hand in hers. “Here,” she said in an aching whisper.
Pierce opened his eyes in time to see his wife press a large sapphire into his palm.
“You didn’t specify which stone you wanted me to save,” she managed. “So I had Mr. Thompson pry this from the chest. I hope you approve of my choice.”
A wave of emotion engulfed Pierce’s heart. For a long moment he stared down at the glistening gem, awed by his wife’s selflessness, more awed by the realization that the decision he’d so vehemently sought had, in the end, found him.
“A most impressive gem,” he replied, his voice oddly choked. “We’ll put it in the drawer with my cravats as a covert symbol of our one unforgettable crime together.” His thumb stroked tears from her cheeks. “It’s time,” he pronounced soberly. “As of now the Tin Cup Bandit will restrict himself solely to the second half of his ritual.
“Once a month I’ll leave a tin cup of money in a workhouse of my choosing. And if I’m caught, well, I’ll merely attribute my odd brand of generosity to all the inspiring articles I’ve read on the Tin Cup Bandit. The retired Tin Cup Bandit. The difference, however, will be that, unlike my predecessor, my actions will be totally legal. And I can’t be shot or hung for donating my own funds, now can I?”
Wordlessly, Daphne smiled through her tears.
“Am I to assume you approve of my plan?” Seeing the question in his wife’s eyes, Pierce shook his head. “I’m not doing this for you, Snow flame.” He tossed the sapphire to the bed, extending his now empty hand to her, offering her their future. “I’m doing this for me.”
“No, Pierce,” Daphne demurred softly, drawing his palm close, placing it against her abdomen to share her newly discovered miracle. “You’re doing this for our child.”
20
“WHAT INFORMATION HAVE YOU brought me, Larson?”
Tragmore perched on the edge of his desk, his eyes narrowed expectantly on the investigator.
“Very little, sir. The marchioness keeps mostly to herself. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I see no evidence of improper behavior, and certainly no indication that your wife is being unfaithful.”
“Does that mean no guests have visited Rutland?”
“Other than your clergyman, no.”
“Chambers?” Tragmore sat up straighten “He called on Elizabeth again? Was he alone?”
“Yes sir, just as he was on the two previous occasions.” Larson glanced at his notes and shrugged. “He arrived shortly before four in the afternoon, evidently for tea. The butler ushered him into the drawing room, the maid put the flowers in a vase, and—”
“Flowers?” Tragmore jumped on
that revelation. “The vicar brought flowers?”
Larson started, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of Tragmore’s tone. “A mere formality, my lord,” he hastened to assure him. “Nothing more lavish than any casual caller would offer.”
“Nothing lavish. Were they yellow, perchance?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, they were.”
“Yellow roses,” Tragmore muttered, bitterness and satisfaction lacing his tone. “How charming.”
“My lord, if you’re suggesting that anything indiscreet transpired between the marchioness and the vicar, I must assure you—”
“I don’t pay you to assure me, Larson,” Tragmore snapped. “Nor do I pay you for your interpretations of my wife’s behavior. To refresh your memory, I pay you to uncover information and to relay it. Bear that in mind.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“The roses. You saw the vicar present them to the marchioness?”
Larson nodded. “I did. I was, as always, concealed in the hedges just outside the drawing-room window. I don’t dare move about during daylight hours. The duke has numerous guards stalking the grounds.”
Impatiently, Tragmore waved away Larson’s meandering explanation. “What happened after Chambers gave Elizabeth the flowers?”
“She gestured for him to take a seat, which he did. He stayed only long enough to drink one cup of tea, then took his leave.”
“Did he sit beside Elizabeth?”
“No, my lord.” Larson rustled the paper in his hand. “As I’ve indicated in my report, the vicar sat in an arm chair, the marchioness on a settee. They made not the slightest attempt at physical contact. They simply chatted.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Not through the closed window, no. But judging from their serene expressions, I would suggest the vicar was offering counsel to Lady Tragmore. A qualified opinion, my lord. Not an interpretation,” Larson added.
Tragmore leaned forward, gripping his knees. “I want you to think very carefully, Larson. Were any of the servants present during the vicar’s stay?”
Larson shifted his substantial weight. “If you’ll forgive my impertinence, sir, I’m quite good at what I do, which is the reason you hired me. I needn’t think carefully to recall what transpired. It’s all recorded on paper.” Again, he indicated his written sheet. “To answer your question, the only person other than the butler who entered the drawing room during the vicar’s visit was the maid who brought them refreshments.”
“And did she remain throughout his stay?”
“No. She served them tea and scones, then took her leave.”
“Then they were alone. Excellent.” Tragmore came to his feet with a flourish. “ ’Tis just the additional proof I require.” He shoved some bills in Larson’s hand. “Another fortnight should be enough time to fulfill my purpose.”
“Does that mean you want me to continue surveying the estate, my lord?”
“It does indeed. And pay special attention to the vicar’s comings and goings, innocent though they may seem.”
“Very well. It’s your money, sir.”
“Yes.” Tragmore’s eyes glinted. “It is, isn’t it?”
With a puzzled shrug, Larson stuffed the bills in his pocket. “Shall I report to you next week at the same time?”
“Definitely.”
“Very well. Good day, Lord Tragmore.”
“Very good day, Larson.”
Tragmore waited only until the investigator had gone before he crossed the room, poured himself a congratulatory drink. Things were proceeding even better than he’d hoped. Oh, he’d known it was only a matter of time before the sentimental dolt began calling on Elizabeth, presumably to see to her well being. But flowers? Yellow roses, no less, even after all these years. And unchaperoned visits? The witless clergyman was making his own job laughably easy.
Lifting his glass, Tragmore smiled malevolently. A fortnight longer, he thought, tossing off the brandy. And then all he cared about would be his: vengeance, money—
A hesitant knock interrupted his celebration.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Forgive me, my lord,” the butler murmured, “but your solicitor is here to see you. He apologizes for not having an appointment, but—”
“Hollingsby?” Tragmore’s face lit up. “Perfect timing. Send him right in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The butler disappeared, only to usher the solicitor directly into the study. “Mr. Hollingsby, sir.”
“Hollingsby, what a splendid coincidence. I was just thinking of you,” Tragmore began.
The solicitor didn’t return his smile. “As I told your butler, I apologize for arriving without an appointment. However, I did need to see you on several important matters. Being in the vicinity, I took the liberty of dropping in unannounced.”
Hollingsby’s stiff demeanor did not go unnoticed. Quizzically, Tragmore inclined his head. “Very well. May I offer you something?”
“Thank you, no. This is not a social call.” Purposefully, Hollingsby remained standing, extracting two formal-looking papers from his portfolio and handing the first to Tragmore. “This document is your official notification that I will no longer be representing your interests.”
Tragmore’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“To be blunt, Tragmore, those who engage my services pay their bills. I shudder to think how much you owe me. However, rest assured, I plan to determine the full amount of your debt. And once I have, I’ll do whatever is necessary to recoup my losses.”
“This is an outrage!” Tragmore sputtered. “We’ve done business together for years.”
“Yes. Uncompensated business. I’m no longer willing to endure your unfulfilled promises of payment.”
“You’re making a grave mistake, Hollingsby. In less than a month, I expect to—”
“Don’t humiliate either of us by boasting of some fictitious fortune you’re about to attain,” Hollingsby interrupted quietly. “My decision is made.”
“Fine.” Tragmore’s lips thinned as he savored the victory that would soon be his. “You’re the fool, not I. And when the very real fortune of which I speak is mine, I shall engage a shrewder and more influential solicitor to manage my funds.” He laughed, a caustic sound of gloating triumph. “Yes, I believe I shall begin searching for the ideal candidate posthaste.”
Hollingsby shrugged. “That, of course, is your right.” He extended the second formally prepared paper to Tragmore. “There’s a second reason I can no longer represent you, which this document will clarify.”
“What is it?” Tragmore snatched the page.
“It’s a statement of intent. I thought it only ethical to advise you that I’m representing your wife’s interests now.”
“My wife’s—” Tragmore stared blankly at the paper, hot color suffusing his face.
“The marchioness intends to sever your marriage. I’ve engaged a barrister.”
“Elizabeth is trying to secure a divorce?”
“She is.”
“On what grounds?”
“Extreme cruelty.”
Tragmore sank slowly into a chair, still gaping at the document in his hands. “Does she understand the ramifications? To her? To Daphne? Elizabeth will be shunned and Daphne will be bastardized.”
“Not if we’re granted a parliamentary divorce.”
The marquis gave a humorless laugh. “A parliamentary divorce? You’re more of a fool than I imagined, Hollingsby. Elizabeth is a woman. She and I are estranged. She is, therefore, without money or credibility, both of which are needed in vast amounts to pursue something as unlikely as a legal divorce.”
“And both of which are possessed in vast amounts by the Duke of Markham.”
A chilling silence.
“Markham? That lowlife, contemptible—”
“The very same.” A corner of Hollingsby’s mouth lifted. “My association with him, judging from your reaction, re
presents another conflict of interests.”
“Do you realize who he is? What he is?”
“You must know that I do. I was, after all, the one who notified him of his newly acquired title. I represented his late father for decades.”
“And you’ll trust his word over mine? A workhouse bastard?”
Hollingsby’s gaze was icy. “There are all different types of bastards, Tragmore. I’ll take a scrupulous one like Thornton any day. Moreover,” a biting smile, “he pays his bills. Good day.”
Tragmore stared vacantly after Hollingsby’s retreating form, blood pounding through his temples. His numbed gaze lowered to the pages he held—Thornton’s ultimate degradation.
With a muttered oath, he crumpled the documents into tight fists of fury, hatred for Thornton coursing through his veins.
The bastard had pushed him to the limit; stripped him of his money, his family, and now his dignity.
But it wasn’t over. Far from it.
Let Hollingsby do as he would. Let him and the street scum he worked for think they’d won.
He knew better.
Backed into a corner, he knew there was but one way out. One way to flourish and punish all at once.
Unclenching his fists, Tragmore smoothed out the rumpled papers. Then, with deliberate precision, he tore them once, twice, and crossed his study to toss the shreds into the fire.
“Daphne, don’t!”
Pierce took the room in five long strides, catching his wife’s waist and hoisting her off the chair where she’d stood on tiptoes, reaching for the window. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, setting her feet on the floor.
With a start of surprise, Daphne regained her balance, her dismayed gaze darting at once to Pierce’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be lifting me. Your shoulder—”
“Is healed, and has been for a week. Now answer my question. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m adjusting the curtains.” Tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear, Daphne gazed about Markham’s new, neatly arranged classroom with utter satisfaction. “Once the slates and chalk arrive today, our schoolroom will be ready for use.” Quizzically, she regarded Pierce’s furious scowl. “Why are you angry?”