Chapter Twelve
That night, for the first time since he’d planned to seduce his wife into giving their marriage a chance, Sylvester decided to sleep alone. Pushing away from the connected door, he made his way over to his bed and lowered himself, lying back and staring at the canopy overhead. He could not identify the why of it, but he was unable to open that door and sleep with his countess tonight. He was too on edge. He would probably damn the consequences, mercilessly seduce her to his bed, and slake the tempest rising inside him within her body. It had taken a couple hours to settle, for he had written a detailed account of what transpired tonight, which he would see delivered to the proper authorities. Redgrave was a coward and would perhaps flee to the continent, but Sylvester was taking no chances.
Daphne had retired to her room as soon as they had reached home, and he had made no effort to delay her. He would ensure Redgrave was arrested for the attempted murder of a peer if he remained in England. Sylvester had taken a bath and washed the blood from his skin that had soaked through his trousers. Then he’d rubbed liniment on his scraped and bruised knuckles. The fight had been quick and vicious, and at odd times he would feel a surge of fright in his heart when he thought of how close Daphne came to harm.
She mattered more than he thought possible, certainly more than his own life, for he had been willing to die defending his countess. The awareness felt like a revelation.
And she was possibly in love with another man. Everything inside of him rejected the notion, but it was feasible. She had pled for Redgrave’s life, and she had conversations with the viscount about the blackmail letters that Sylvester had spent months searching for after her father died. Redgrave believed they were in his countess’s possession…unless Sylvester was to trust her word that she did not have them.
He gritted his teeth, disturbed with how easy the doubts were once again stirred in his heart. He shook off the uncomfortable vulnerability, then stilled as the connecting door opened and the faint scent of jasmine reached him. Soft footfalls padded on the carpet, and then the bed dipped slightly. His countess curled into his side, breathed a heavy sigh of contentment, and fell into slumber.
Sylvester felt an unfamiliar softening inside him. He gently reached for her, ignoring her irritated murmur, and pulled her across his chest, wanting the comforting weight of her atop him. Her head lay against his chest, her hair a cloud of silver silk in the darkness.
“You are unable to sleep,” she murmured sleepily. “What can I do?”
“Are you willing to open your legs and let me ride you?”
She gasped. “No.”
“Then go to sleep.”
He could feel the beat of her heart against his chest…and her suddenly hardened nipples stabbed him through her nightgown. Her hesitation despite her arousal spoke volumes. Something dark and possessive stirred inside of him, and he badly wanted to grab her hip, drag her up the length of his body, and punish her with kisses and more.
“Are you in love with Redgrave?”
She jolted and tried to move, but Sylvester’s hand tightened across her shoulders. “No, I am not, and I never was. I fell in love with you that day by the river, and despite your stupidity, no one has ever replaced you in my heart.”
A surge of longing that went much deeper than carnal desire went through him. Warmth filled the iciness that had been encasing his insides. Perhaps he had gone a little mad, but words of love from her felt as necessary as breathing, and the significance of that realization was shocking.
“Go to sleep, my husband,” she murmured.
The tension inside of him eased, his heart calmed, and he allowed his eyes to drift closed and the calm of sleep to take him away.
…
The following afternoon Sylvester arrived at Northbrook Park in Hampstead for a visit with his family. There was a burgeoning need inside him to see that Hetty was happy. That Redgrave had been searching for the missing letters did not sit well with him, and dark memories had been stirred to the forefront of his thoughts. Last night he had dreamed of finding his sister bleeding from her wrists and the desolation that had surrounded her.
Instead of taking the carriage, he had ridden Orion, a very graceful and powerful stallion he had purchased at Tattersalls only the previous week. He vaulted from his horse and handed him over to the stable boy with an order he should be given a lengthy rubdown and extra oats, and then made his way to the front door. It opened as he approached, and the butler, Mr. Winter, executed a smart bow.
“Welcome home, your lordship. Her ladyship and Lady Hartington are in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Winters,” Sylvester replied, relinquishing his coat and hat.
He made his way down the hallway to the drawing room, where he knocked once before entering. His mother had busied herself redecorating, which told him of her state of boredom. The drawing room, which had been decorated with puce wallpaper at his last visit, had been redone with pale green and heavy golden drapes. Even the furniture seemed new—well, he was more certain of the pale yellow sofa on which she sat, for he had never seen it before.
“Mother,” he said as he advanced to the middle of the room.
“Sylvester,” she gasped, lowering her knitting needles, which she had been clacking with admirable skill. “I’ve had no word that you were coming down to Northbrook Park.”
“I knew I would arrive before the post,” he replied, bending to press a kiss to her cheek.
His mother beamed her pleasure. At forty-eight, his mother retained traces of her graceful beauty that had ensnared his father. There was only the lightest gray that touched her temples and a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. He turned to his sister and opened his arms wide. With a grin, Hetty stood and bustled over to him. She attempted to hug him, laughing when her high, rounded stomach kept them from fully embracing.
“How I’ve missed you, Sylvester. I’m glad you’ll be home for the birth,” she said fondly, patting her stomach. His sister glowed with contentment.
“I am, too, Hetty. And how is Hartington?”
“I thought you would have seen him in town,” she said, moving to sit once more on the sofa.
His mother rang for tea, and he lowered himself in the wingback chair closest to Hetty. “I thought he would have been here.”
“He has ordered a new baby cradle to be made in London and insisted on collecting it himself.” Vibrant green eyes so much like his own settled on him. “He’ll be down by next week. He is eager to be here to welcome his heir.”
A harrumph came from his mother. “Or a daughter,” she said tartly.
His sister laughed. “We will be overjoyed with either, but, Mother, you know how important an heir is.”
As if by some unspoken agreement, they both directed their regard to him.
Sylvester arched a brow. “I sense I am not about to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in peace.”
“Your twenty-ninth birthday approaches,” Hetty said, pursing her lips, favoring him with a thoughtful frown. “All Wentworth men for the last several generations have had their heirs and a spare or two by seven and twenty. Mother and I feel we have been remiss in our duty.”
Amusement rushed through him. “Have you now?”
Mrs. Charing, their stalwart housekeeper, bustled in with tea and cakes. After setting the tea service onto the walnut table, she hurried away and closed the door. His mother then gracefully added the leaves and cubes of sugar to the cups and poured the steaming water.
She handed him a cup.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She smiled in reply and then did the same for Hetty and herself.
“I heard the most alarming and egregious tidbit I meant to ask you about, Sylvester,” his mother said, delicately sipping her tea. She peered at him with an intense motherly love that had never failed to warm him.
“And what is that?”
“It is said that you acted quite improperly with your countess at Lady Blanchette’s ball a few weeks ago. You know we get the news here a bit late, but I, of course, could hardly credit the rumor.”
“Let me assure you, madam, you heard incorrectly.”
Her shoulders relaxed marginally, and Hetty shot her an I-told-you-so-Mamma look.
“Then—”
“There is nothing I do with my wife that is egregious or improper.”
Hetty’s lips curved into a conspiratorial smile, then she winked. “Do not overlook that he carried her to the dance floor, Mamma. And don’t forget the kiss, an entire page in the scandal sheet was dedicated to that bit.”
His mother gasped. “Surely you must see such behavior is unbecoming of a man of your stature,” she said, undaunted. “To kiss your lady publicly! Outrageous.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, mildly amused. “What I do with my countess is not anyone’s business, and that includes you, Mother.” Then he smiled to soften the harsh sting of his reprimand.
“Uncle Syl!” The delighted cry had him pushing to his feet and facing the door. His niece, Alexandria, stood with her hand clutched dramatically to her chest, a wide grin on her lips, and eyes as green as his beaming with joy.
“I fear my time with you ladies is over until dinner. I must confer with my leading lady.”
She chortled and barreled into the room. He swung her into his arms, enfolding her into a hug.
“You made it in time for my birthday,” she whispered.
“I did.” She would turn seven next month, and the joyful creature before him had almost been lost to an indifferent family and education. Sylvester had collected her in Cornwall only a week after he had learned of her existence, but it had taken months before Hetty garnered the courage to collect her bastard daughter. His love and admiration for his sister had only grown deeper, for she had done it even knowing how cruelly the ton would, in turn, treat her, and she had risked losing the man she loved. Hartington, however, had been undeterred in his love and had claimed Alexandria as his daughter, and most of society was none the wiser about her true parentage. Sylvester had done everything in his power to hide the trail his sister had left behind and protect their family from scrutiny.
Sylvester set Alexandria down.
“Will you take tea with me, Uncle Syl?”
“It would be my honor. Perhaps after we take a turn by the lake?”
She nodded happily and slipped her tiny hand into his, waved distractedly to his mother and sister, and tugged him away. He barely inclined his head in their general direction before he allowed her to lead him away. There was something soothing about being home, about being with his family, if only for a few hours.
“Sylvester.”
He paused and shifted to see his sister ambling toward them.
“Will you be joining us, Mamma?”
“I thought the walk would be good for us,” she replied with a smile.
She looped her hand through his as they exited through a side door and onto a garden path. His niece skipped ahead, at times pausing to lift her face to the sunshine. Her gold spun hair glinted, and he found himself absently wondering what a daughter with Daphne would look like. Or a son. He smiled as Alexandria bent to smell the flowers along the path, her joy at the moment beautiful to observe, for he knew she walked these paths often. “She is happy.”
His sister’s fingers dug into his arm briefly before she relaxed her grip. “Yes,” Hetty replied softly. “Do you know, on the best of days, I am still haunted by the knowledge I almost lost her. If not for you, I…” She took a deep breath. “She is happy, we are happy, but you are not.”
“I assure you I am content.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You seem different,” Hetty said softly.
He shot her a startled glance. “I do?”
“Yes, and I do believe it has something to do with your countess. I’m very glad the piece printed in the scandal sheet is true. You appeared empty for so long, which was quite puzzling since you had a wife whom you clearly desperately desired.”
Sylvester made no reply, hardly knowing what to say. He had been careful to keep the state of his marriage private from his family, never revealing the cause of the distance between himself and Daphne. When his mother wanted to invite her to Northbrook Park, he had been firm in his refusal. When his family had their yearly garden party, his wife had not attended, and when his mother hosted balls it was rare for Daphne to make an appearance by his side, and he had never given them an explanation. Yet through it all, his sister had observed he had a wife he desperately desired.
He thought of his sister’s mettle, the core of steel that she had found to shape her into the lady she was today. “I was blackmailed into marrying her.” The words sounded strange, for he had never told a soul before. Not even the man he considered his closest friend, the Marquess of Belmont. For years, Sylvester had been unsure if he protected his pride, or if he protected Daphne from their resentment, until he had simply stopped giving a damn.
Hetty faltered, forcing him to halt. Wide, horrified eyes peered up at him. “Upon my word, Sylvester, surely you cannot be serious. By whom?”
He tugged at one of her curls gently. “That was years ago, and the reason behind the blackmail is irrelevant.”
Knowledge and distress gleamed in her eyes. “It was because of me, wasn’t it? It was truly her. I suspected when you got married so soon during that horrid time. The note—”
He placed a finger to her lips, never wanting her to say those words aloud. Even now he hated recalling to her mind the dark place she had traveled because of fear, and all she had almost lost.
The world will know of your bastard daughter and your affair with Lord Danbridge unless your brother comes to heel.
There had been no signature, just the cold, vile threat. “I know what the note said.”
“When you married so suddenly it was to spare me pain. Oh, Sylvester, I have been so selfish. I have never considered the sacrifice you made to make my scandal disappear. I thought…I thought you’d paid an exorbitant sum for it to disappear when nothing happened.” A frown marred her brow. “There had always been an odd sort of tension between us and your countess, but Mamma and I were so caught up with keeping Alexandria away from the vile speculation of society we made little effort to call upon her more often. We have been selfish.”
And the fierce pride of his countess would have had her remain aloof. Sweet Christ, how silly they all had been. “I reviled her for the actions of another, for I thought she was party to the blackmail. In my unguarded moments, I may have shown that I wanted her, but I kept myself from her for six years. She is not of a mind to forgive me, and I find I want to know the woman who is my wife if she will give me a chance.”
Hetty’s eyes softened. “I gather she is unwilling?”
“Very.”
“It is not like you to be deterred.”
“I am not.”
Hetty laughed. “Then I wish you all the good luck. Your wife never struck me as the biddable type. In fact, the few occasions I have met her I had cause to admire her. I thought her daring and original, and it was a pity we were not great friends. I’ve always wanted a sister. I daresay it is time for you to win over your countess.”
…
A ball was to be held.
A heady feeling of fear and anticipation scythed through Daphne, for she’d never hosted a ball as the Countess of Carrington. Once she had decided she would host one this season, Daphne had thrown herself into organizing what had already been dubbed the most anticipated ball of the season with Georgiana’s help. In a little over a week, dozens of invitations had been sent out, and the scandal sheet had thought her ball, which was to be held in three weeks’ time, a most noteworthy event.
She’d been quite aware that by that time their eight-week arrangement would be over, and something new would be beckoning on the horizon, and for the first time in a long time she felt uncertain of what she truly wanted.
Her husband had seemed a bit bemused by the frantic level of activity at their townhouse. She did not like to dwell on the fact that there seemed to be some distance in his eyes whenever they spoke or dined together. She had concluded it must be the letters, and it hurt somewhere deep inside, a place that she had thought numb, that he would believe she had them.
Redgrave and her brother believed she had the awful information her father used to blackmail Sylvester, and they wanted it. She would blister Henry’s ears when she saw him. How dare he conspire against her husband? But then, why wouldn’t he? How often had she lamented to her dear brother about how wretched her marriage had been?
Hence, almost two weeks after the botched kidnapping, Daphne traveled to Hampstead to visit her childhood home. Jenkins, Seaview Manor’s butler, who had been with her family since she was a child, took her pelisse and bonnet. His kind eyes smiled before his lips did, and it felt wholly natural when he enfolded her in a hug.
“Pardon the impertinence, your ladyship,” he said gruffly, releasing her. “It is a right pleasure to see you.”
It struck Daphne that she hadn’t been back to the manor since her marriage. She’d visited her brother at his townhouse in Mayfair, but she hadn’t returned here, where all the memories lingered, the good and the bad. “I’m quite happy to return to Seaview Manor for a brief spell, Jenkins. Is my brother at home? I haven’t sent word I was coming down.”
Instead, she’d had Letty order the carriage to be ready and had departed without informing her husband. He had been knee-deep in papers with his secretary and man of affairs for several hours and would hardly miss her presence.
“His lordship is in his study. Mrs. Blake was about to send in a tray. Shall I inform her to send two?”
“That would be lovely, Jenkins, but let me see if I can coax him out for luncheon.”
She advanced to the study. Daphne hadn’t seen her brother much in town this season and the few letters she had sent him had been unanswered. Arriving at the study, she knocked, then opened the door when he bid her entry.
“Daphne!” He surged from his chair, appearing pleasantly shocked. “You should have told me you were coming. I’d have had your room prepared.”
He made his way over and hugged her briefly before leading her to a sofa covered in yellow damask silk. It had been a favorite of their mother’s, and a sweet piercing emotion clogged her throat as the memory of being curled into her mother’s side as she read their favorite stories.
Henry lowered himself beside her. It was then she observed how tired he seemed, and quite a bit out of sorts. His dark blond hair was unkempt, and there were lines of strain around his mouth, and eyes so very much like hers appeared worried. He’d always considered himself a man of fashion and elegance, and this level of dishabille was disconcerting. “Are you well, Henry? You seem out of sorts.”
“I am not feeling quite myself at the moment.”
Alarm slithered though her. “Are you ill?”
Henry’s mouth was a flat, hard line. “No…no, nothing of the kind.”
A profound sense of relief swept through her. “Does it have anything to do with why you haven’t replied to my letters?”
Henry had the grace to flush. “I’ve meant to pen my replies, but I’ve been busy.” He leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
A shiver of foreboding went through her. “Does it have to do with Viscount Redgrave?”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation, and the housekeeper bustled in a set of tea, cakes, and sandwiches, then discreetly left.
“Tea?” she asked, lifting the teapot and a cup.
“No,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.
After she prepared a cup for herself, she sipped the refreshing brew, peering at him over the rim. “What is wrong, Henry? I do hope you know you can confide in me.”
“What do you know of the viscount?”
She angled her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Enough to know that man is not your friend.”
His mouth tightened in annoyance. “I…I’ve made some ill investments and engaged in a spot of gaming to recoup my losses. It did not pan out.”
“My goodness! How much did you lose?”
The fear in his gaze made her mouth go dry.
“Everything.”
Shock stabbed through her, and she froze for precious seconds. “You’ve gambled away the family’s fortune?”
He tugged at his cravat. “My fortune.”
“All thirty thousand pounds Papa left you?”
Henry sagged weakly against the arm of his chair. “All of it,” he said, his voice tortured.
She could hardly credit it. “Dear God. What are we to do?”
“We? You’re the Countess of Carrington, and your husband is indecently rich. You are not in dire straits.”
She shot him a reproving glance, and he flushed.
“I will speak with Sylvester—”
“Don’t bother.”
“Henry, he is—”
“I already sent him a letter. He didn’t even reply.”
“It is unlikely he would be so discourteous.” Though she knew her earl had no love for her father, surely his disdain did not extend to her brother. “Did you ask for a loan, or insight into an investment? What did your letter say, and why didn’t you write to me first?”
Henry observed her as if she were a fascinating creature. “I sent him a note demanding twenty thousand pounds in exchange for my silence in his scandal.”
She dropped the teacup onto the carpet, hardly caring if a stain was made. “You jest,” she said.
“I was desperate,” he said tightly, “and I knew a scandal of the worst sort exists. It says so in Father’s journal.”
“You sent a blackmail note to my husband?”
He made no reply, nor did he have the grace to appear repentant.
Fury lit in her veins. “I am ashamed to call you my brother.”
His eyes widened in shock. “Daphne, surely you must see—”
She surged to her feet. “You feckless wastrel! What I see is how cavalier you were with the inheritance Father gave you, and instead of finding the honorable solution you decided to do something as vile as blackmail my husband. Father gave me ten thousand pounds that my husband was never interested in touching. In fact, our marriage agreement said that money is mine. I’ve managed to triple it with sound investments, and you have whored and gambled yours away. Did you think I did not hear the rumors declaring you a libertine?”
Her brother stood and dealt her a pitying glance. “And how did you believe Papa made his wealth? Land and property? Rents from our tenants?”
He made his way to the desk flushed against the wall near the sole window in the study, opened the top drawer, and withdrew a leather-bound book. “This is how Papa gave you your inheritance.”
“What do you mean?”
He handed her the book. “This is father’s legacy, Daph.”
She took it, peeled back the cover, and skimmed the pages. It only took her a few seconds to comprehend the truth he had written. Her father had founded his wealth on people’s sordid secrets. He blackmailed them with the information, and those families that had been desperate to keep the vicious claws of the ton from their family had paid—an obscene amount, too.
“He left you those letters, Daphne. It says so in his journal. Where are they?”
“Do you think I am a part of this?” she demanded, outraged. “This is beyond despicable.”
“This is why you are now a countess and so well sought after by the polite world.”
She recoiled, staring at him in ill-concealed shock. “I was never a party to father’s vile schemes.”
Her brother scoffed. “Yet you complained to me that your husband had shamed and abandoned you when you full well knew that father had blackmailed him into marrying you? You dared to be angry when his disgust for father extended to you. What had you expected? Declarations of love?”
Something in her expression betrayed her, for Henry’s eyes widened with incredulity. “You expected Carrington to love you…or even pretend to love you after what Father did?”
Daphne steeled her spine, burying the pain and the doubts his words elicited. “When did you send your demands to my husband?”
Henry grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair.
“When?”
“A week ago,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “He hasn’t responded, so I can only deduce he knows I am not in possession of the letters. I need them, Daphne, they are my salvation.”
She stared at him, trying to find the sweet boy she had run across the glen and swam in the lake with. Their relationship had not been the same since he went away to Eton, which she had allowed as normal between brothers and sisters. Henry had always been so good-natured and kind, and she had never thought him inclined toward cruelty or disreputableness. “I do not have the letters, and even if I did, I would never give them to you or Redgrave.”
“Do you know the pain Carrington has caused our family?” Henry tapped the journal with a fingertip. “It is all here. He blackballed our father. Pushed him from investments and even got White’s to revoke his membership, all within weeks of his marriage to you. He promised Papa he would institutionalize you if Papa revealed any of his secrets. He was clearly the cause of Papa’s heart failing. And you would defend Carrington? He does not deserve your consideration or loyalty. You have no notion of the pain he administered to our family.”
She closed her eyes briefly before meeting her brother’s gaze. “Have you not considered it was deserved?” She had never imagined before that her husband could have been justified in his pain and anger. “Have you not considered that Papa must have done something so horrible that Sylvester was pushed to ignore his honor and seek revenge?”
Henry flinched, and his jaw slackened. “Daphne, please—”
“No.” She moved over to the fire and dropped the journal into the cackling flames.
“What are you doing?” He rushed forward and attempted to use the poker iron to remove the journal, but the flames were already licking greedily at the pages. Without waiting for a response, she walked from the study and called for her carriage.
The journey back to town would be long and arduous, and they would have to stay overnight at an inn, but Daphne did not mind. Henry had sorely disappointed her, and it pained her to realize he did not condemn their father’s dishonorable conduct.
Had her husband gotten Henry’s ridiculous letters? Why hadn’t he said anything?
When Daphne arrived home the following day, she promptly took a bath and then burrowed under the covers despite it being barely noon. Though her carriage made the journey in relative ease, Daphne was exhausted from the constant travel and took to her bed to rest, but her churning thoughts would not allow her to slumber.
If her father had intended for her to have those letters, where were they? His heart failure had been so unexpected, only a few weeks after her marriage to Sylvester. They’d had a terrible row when she had discovered the blackmail, and he had been so insistent he had done it to secure her future. How she had cried that he had ruined her love and happiness, and he had only looked at her without remorse. Their few conversations after had been stilted and filled with tension.
Not once had he mentioned that he had left her those dreadful letters as leverage. There had been no special request in his will, only bequeathing her a portion and her mother’s escritoire.
Mother’s writing desk…
Her heart seemed to drop away. Invigorated, she pushed from the bed and hurried downstairs to the drawing room. The small desk that her mother had favored sat under a window facing the gardens. Daphne rushed over to it, pulling out the drawers and feeling for the hidden panel she knew existed. She had seen her mother on more than one occasion place special remembrances in it. It took her several minutes before she could pry open the fake bottom lining the drawer.
The breath whooshed from her lungs. A packet of letters bounded by a black ribbon rested there. She took them with fingers that trembled and counted eleven letters detailing the scheme of his terrible blackmail. How had he lived with himself?
Daphne closed her eyes, pained, when she spied the one belonging to Lady Henrietta.
Inside was the damming truth that had led her husband to ruin her father with such systematic ruthlessness and to treat her with such awful indifference.
Her throat went tight with sorrow. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and she hid the packet in the folds of her gown. The housekeeper entered.
“A note for you, my lady,” she said, handing Daphne the letter, then departing.
Meet me in Hyde Park along the Serpentine within the hour,
Georgiana.
Daphne set the note down on the writing desk and rang the bell pull.
The light footsteps of a maid pattered across the Aubusson rug.
“Inform Letty I’ll be riding, and I’ll be wearing the light green riding habit.”
“Yes, your ladyship,” she said with a bob and hurried away.
Daphne pressed a hand to her stomach, hating the disquiet twisting through her gut. She glanced down at the letters, tempted to read them, but in truth, she could not. Most of the families she knew, and she did not want to know their secrets. How relieved they must have been when her father died, and how kind of them to not treat her with contempt. Well, not all. Now she understood Lady Dawkins’s and Mrs. Marbury’s polite distance.
Carefully returning the letters to her pocket, she made her way from the drawing room and up to her chambers. She had to speak with her husband; however, she would first meet with Georgiana. Daphne was a bit grateful for the reprieve of dealing with the fact that her brother had tried to blackmail her husband, and that he had kept it from her. Why?