The Last Duke

  Would he ever come to her again?

  That possibility made her heart pound frantically. He’d seemed to like her, even seemed pleased by her cooperation. His eyes—the only unconcealed part of him—had spoken volumes, as had his carefully disguised rasp. And, at that moment, she would have gone anywhere, dared anything he asked of her.

  If only he’d asked.

  “This is an outrage! Find that bandit, whoever the hell he is, and do away with him.”

  Daphne cringed, pressing her palms over her ears to block out her father’s shouts. She’d have to go down and face him sometime, but right now she couldn’t bear it. Nor could she be a convincing enough liar, not only to act shocked and outraged, but to feign ignorance of the theft. It was easier to plead upset and remain in her room.

  Her mind resumed its wild racing.

  She could almost see the rejoicing that was doubtless taking place in the Leicester workhouse right now. Exactly where had the bandit left his tin cup? Who had discovered it? How much money had it contained? When would the details reach Tragmore so she might privately celebrate the bandit’s success? And, when the news did arrive, how on earth would she manage to repress her joy and convincingly console her father?

  What would he do to her if her efforts failed? What if he suspected the way she felt, or worse, what she’d done?

  A knock interrupted Daphne’s shuddering thought.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in, dear?” Daphne’s mother opened the door and tentatively poked her head in.

  “Of course, Mama.” Drawing her knees up, Daphne patted the bed. “I thought you were with Father.”

  “No, your father is in his study with the magistrate.”

  “The magistrate!” Daphne paled. “I thought only the constable was here.”

  Her mother sighed, closing the door and crossing the room to sit beside her. “Harwick wasn’t satisfied with the constable’s efforts to recover our property. He demanded to see the magistrate. Unfortunately, I don’t think we know any more now than we did then.” Lowering her eyes, she fidgeted with the bedcovers.

  “Mama.” Daphne leaned forward, touching her mother’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  Nodding, Elizabeth squeezed Daphne’s fingers. “Your father’s anger appears to be directed only at the bandit and at those who cannot unearth him—at least for the moment.”

  Silence hung heavily between them.

  “You’re not fretting over your jewels, are you?” Daphne asked, knowing the answer but anxious to divert her mother’s line of thought.

  A sad smile touched Elizabeth’s lips. “Hardly. You know how little rings and brooches mean to me. The workhouses need food more than I need adornments. Although God help me if Harwick were to hear me say that.”

  “He won’t. But think, Mama. Think how many people our gems are going to help.” Daphne’s eyes glowed. “I only wish I’d had more to give him. As it is, I had naught but my pearls and my cameo, so—”

  “Give him?” Elizabeth cut in.

  Daphne’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Daphne.” Her mother’s expression had turned incredulous. “Did you see the bandit last night?”

  Feeling like a fly caught in a web, Daphne sought escape and found none. “Yes, I saw him,” she admitted reluctantly. “I gave him whatever aid I could. Then I sent him away so he wouldn’t be caught.”

  “Dear Lord.” Elizabeth’s thin hands were shaking. “If Harwick had an inkling—even the slightest hint—Daphne, have you any idea what he’d—”

  “Yes.” Daphne raised her chin proudly. “But it was worth the risk. I’d do it again.”

  For a fleeting instant, a hundred questions danced in Elizabeth’s eyes, and Daphne had a glimpse of the sparkling young woman who was no longer. Then, just as quickly, shutters of fear descended, blanketing the curiosity with years of instilled submission. “I don’t want to hear any more.” Nervously, Elizabeth glanced at the closed door. “Let’s pretend we never had this conversation.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Daphne, please.” The terrified plea lay naked in Elizabeth’s eyes, tearing at Daphne’s heart.

  “Of course, Mama. As you wish.”

  “As it must be,” Elizabeth murmured. She rose to her feet, pausing almost against her will. “You’re dreadfully pale. Some fresh air would do you a world of good. A walk perhaps? To the village?”

  Slowly, Daphne raised her head, meeting her mothers gaze. “The village?”

  “Yes. I think a brisk stroll would put some color back in your cheeks. I would suggest taking Emily along, but the magistrate does need to question all the servants. So, given the circumstances, you’d best go alone. Is that all right, dear?”

  A grateful smile touched Daphne’s lips. “Yes, Mama, that’s fine.”

  “Good. Then I’ll leave you to dress. I’d best see if your father needs me.” Elizabeth bent to kiss Daphne’s forehead. “Send my warmest regards to the vicar,” she added in a breath of a whisper, “and tell him our stableboys will be requiring new boots this winter. They should be arriving at about the same time as the shipment of wool.”

  Daphne’s whole face lit up. “Oh, Mama.”

  With an adamant shake of her head, Elizabeth silenced Daphne by pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Have a lovely walk, darling.” She straightened. “I shan’t expect you home for several hours.”

  “God bless you, Mama,” Daphne said softly to her mother’s retreating back.

  Elizabeth paused, her head bowed. “May He protect us all.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Daphne was dressed and ready in a quarter hour.

  Running a comb through her hair, she rehearsed what she would say if she encountered her father on the way out, although most likely her mother had already paved the way.

  A walk. About the grounds. Through the thick woods surrounding Tragmore.

  That could take hours.

  Descending to the first level, Daphne walked gingerly by her father’s study and straight into the oncoming inferno that was her father.

  “That arrogant bastard! I refuse to allow him to provoke me again!” Harwick exploded, waving a sheet of paper in the air. “I’m going to bring him down if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Daphne’s first thought was that her father had unearthed the bandit, and stark fear for her hero’s safety eclipsed the customary dread her father’s outbursts evoked.

  “Father?” she blurted out. “What’s happened? Have you discovered something about the robbery?”

  “What?” Harwick blinked, focusing on Daphne as if he were seeing her for the first time. A vein throbbed in his temple. “No. As if last night’s theft weren’t enough, I’m being forced to meet with the lowlife I’m compelled to do business with, and at my own home, no less.”

  “Oh.” Daphne was totally at sea, and terrified to question her father further. Convinced that his current rampage wasn’t connected with the bandit, common sense re-surfaced, urging her to flee before the marquis turned his anger on her.

  Slowly, she inched toward the door.

  Harwick whirled about, shaking his fist in Daphne’s direction. “He’s insisting on a meeting now. Today. At Tragmore.”

  Daphne’s terrified gaze was riveted to her father’s tightly clenched fist. Frantically, she sought the words to appease him. “Today? But surely if you told him about last night’s theft—”

  “It would change nothing. That gutter rat cares for nothing but his own pocket.”

  The irony of her father’s scathing description struck Daphne even through her fear. Greed was something Harwick knew much about, and usually admired. Evidently not in this case. “Who are you speaking of, Father? Who is this dreadful man?”

  “That bloody Pierce Thornton, that’s who.”

  “Pierce Thornton?” Daphne blinked in amazement. “The gentleman I met at Newmarket?”

  “He’s no gentleman, daughter. He’s a parasite, a pr
edatory bloodsucker who drains men of their dignity and their money.”

  “But I thought you were business associates?”

  “I don’t willingly associate with worthless, nameless gamblers.”

  “I don’t understand.” Daphne’s head was reeling.

  “Nor do you need to,” the marquis roared, advancing toward her. “Why are you wandering about the manor? Your mother said you were out walking.”

  All the color drained from Daphne’s face and, inadvertently, she backed away. “I am—I mean, I’m about to. I’m leaving now.”

  “Then go!”

  “Yes, Father. Forgive me for disturbing you.” Spinning about, she bolted out the door and through the woods.

  She didn’t stop until the manor was swallowed up by the towering oaks that surrounded it. Then, she slowed, dragging air into her lungs, trying to still her trembling.

  Lord, how she loathed this feeling of helplessness. Perhaps if she were more like her mother, accepting, malleable, her plight would be bearable.

  The fact was, Daphne was neither accepting nor malleable. She tolerated her incessant, oppressive fear because her choices were nil. But somewhere inside her a voice cried out that living conditions such as hers were unjust, cruel, unfair. That the same crushing tyranny perpetuating the English workhouses pervaded Tragmore as well, and always had, spawned by the blatant prejudice and hostility of its master.

  The sight of the vicar chatting with a messenger in the church garden made Daphne’s sagging spirits lift instantly.

  “Vicar!” She waved, picking up her pace until she was half running toward him.

  Chambers turned, his face breaking into a broad smile. “Daphne! What a delightful surprise.” He pressed a few shillings into the message boy’s hand as he unfolded the note he’d just been given. “Thank you for your trouble, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Clutching the coins, the boy dashed off, mounted his horse, and was gone.

  “Who was that?” Daphne asked, breathlessly reaching the vicar’s side.

  “Hmmm?” Her friend was already immersed in his reading.

  “That messenger. What news did he deliver?”

  Quirking a brow, the vicar replied, “Evidently, you know the answer to that better than I.”

  “ ’Tis about last night’s robbery, isn’t it?” Daphne gripped his forearm. “Isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Oh, tell me, Vicar. How much did he leave them?”

  A dry chuckle. “You are a constant source of amazement to me, Snowdrop. No fear, no disquiet, only your usual loving curiosity. One would never suspect it was your home the bandit had invaded.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand pounds.”

  Daphne gasped. “The jewelry and silver he took weren’t worth half that amount.”

  “Nevertheless, that is the sum the headmaster discovered in the tin cup on his desk. Oddly, though, there was also a written threat.”

  “A threat? What kind of threat?”

  The vicar glanced down, rereading the note. “According to the headmaster, the bandit demanded the money be used for the benefit of the workhouse or he’d return to ensure that it was.”

  “What a heroic gesture!” Daphne’s eyes sparkled. “And perfectly understandable, given the large sum involved. Vicar—” Anxiety clouded Daphne’s face. “Are you well acquainted with the Leicester headmaster? He isn’t the type to squander funds, is he?”

  “Certainly not. He’s a decent, honorable—” Abruptly, the vicar broke off. “If you already knew where the funds went, why are you questioning me?”

  “I knew where they went, yes. But that’s all I know. No details have reached Tragmore yet.”

  “If no details have reached Tragmore, how did you know the bandit donated your family’s funds to the Leicester workhouse?”

  Daphne met her friend’s puzzled gaze. “Because he promised me he would.”

  Mr. Chambers’s eyes widened with disbelief. “He? The bandit?”

  “Yes.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “I think we’d best go inside the church and talk.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Seated in a pew beside her friend, Daphne poured out the whole story, leaving out only her very private, very unsettling physical reaction to the apparition who’d stood in her bedchamber the night before, stirring her in ways she didn’t fully understand, but very much wanted to.

  “Daphne.” Chambers leaned forward. “You’re telling me you helped the man rob your house, and that you yourself placed the tin cup containing the ruby on Harwick’s pillow?”

  “I couldn’t risk Father discovering the bandit in his bedchamber. You of all people understand that. Father would not only have turned him over to the authorities, but beaten him senseless as well. Please Vicar,” Daphne’s gaze was pleading, “don’t condemn me for doing what I must.”

  “I’m not condemning you, Snowdrop.” The vicar took her hands in his. “But do you understand the risk you took? Had your father awakened, that fierce beating would have been yours.”

  “I would have withstood it. I’ve withstood others.”

  Lines of pain tightened the vicars mouth. “How well I know that.” A pause. “Your mother—is she all right?”

  “Yes. Father is so obsessed with apprehending the bandit, he has little time to vent his rage on others.” Daphne’s expression grew thoughtful. “With the exception of Pierce Thornton.”

  “Pierce Thornton? The gentleman you met at Newmarket? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not certain I do either. But, if you recall, I told you that Father’s behavior around Mr. Thornton was odd, that I sensed Mr. Thornton has some kind of hold over him.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, as I was leaving the manor today, Father was raving about a meeting Mr. Thornton had demanded. A meeting to take place today. At Tragmore.”

  “In light of the robbery it does seem odd that Harwick would agree to such a meeting,” the vicar admitted. “Still…”

  “That’s just it. Father obviously didn’t want to agree to the meeting. I think he was just afraid to refuse Mr. Thornton. He referred to Mr. Thornton in a most scathing manner, and implied that he loathed doing any business with him at all.”

  “Then why does he continue to do so?”

  “Coercion, evidently. Mr. Thornton’s.”

  “Harwick said that?”

  “He implied it, yes.”

  Chambers was quiet for a long moment. “An untitled, uncelebrated colleague whom your father dislikes and distrusts, yet continues to do business with. A man you clearly found likable and trustworthy.”

  “Not only likable and trustworthy, but compassionate. I shan’t forget the way he rescued me from Father’s biting tongue.” Daphne shook her head emphatically. “It makes no sense. Father describes Mr. Thornton as greedy and selfish. The man I met at Newmarket was anything but. Still, even if my assessments were wrong, greed and selfishness are qualities Father generally applauds in his colleagues. Why not now?”

  “I don’t know, Snowdrop. Does it matter?” A faraway look came into Daphne’s eyes. “Yes, Vicar, it matters. My instincts tell me it matters a lot.”

  5

  THE FRONT DOOR AT Tragmore—an interesting alternative to the parlor window.

  Pierce stifled a sardonic grin, glancing about Tragmore’s polished hallway—the same hallway he’d crept through mere hours before, valuables tucked in his coat.

  “The marquis will see you in his study,” announced the poker-faced butler.

  “Will he? Very gracious of him,” Pierce replied, the essence of polished congeniality. “Lead the way.”

  Moments later, he was ushered into a dimly lit, unoccupied room and abruptly left to his own devices.

  I’m being shown my place, Pierce determined with wry amusement. Not only am I an undesirable, I’m an unwanted undesirable.

  So be it.

  Ponde
ring that thought, he helped himself to a brandy, chose his chair, and waited.

  “All right, Thornton, I’m here.” Tragmore strode into the study three quarters of an hour later. “I’m also harried and busy.” He broke off, gaping. “What is the meaning of this?” he exploded, when he’d found his voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hmm?” Pierce lowered the newspaper he’d been reading, peering at the marquis over his long legs, which were propped on the desk and casually crossed at the ankles. “Oh, hello Tragmore. Your timing is perfect. I’ve just finished my brandy. Would you pour me another?” He extended his empty glass.

  “Why are you drinking my brandy? Sitting in my chair? At my desk. With your bloody feet up, no less.” The marquis advanced furiously toward Pierce.

  Like a tiger whose claim had been challenged, Pierce shot to his feet, his eyes blazing with rage. “Your desk? Your chair? Your brandy? Listen to me, Tragmore, and listen well. Nothing in this house is yours. I own it all: your possessions, your businesses, you. But for my good nature, you’d be living in the gutter, the very place you accuse me of coming from. Bear that in mind and don’t antagonize me further. Should you or your servants—” a lethal pause, “my servants—ever treat me in so shabby a manner again, I might be forced to lose my temper. And my compassion. Is that clear?”

  Throughout Pierce’s tirade, Tragmore’s color had gone from pink to red to green. Now, he merely nodded, gritting his teeth as he snatched Pierce’s empty glass and crossed the room to refill it. “You’ve made your point, Thornton.” He thrust the drink at his adversary, obviously struggling to check his escalating anger. “You’ll have to excuse my ill humor. I’m out of sorts today. During the night I was robbed by that contemptible Tin Cup Bandit.”

  “Were you?” Pierce’s brows rose. “How intriguing. What did he take?”