CHAPTER THREE
ou’ve a visitor, m’lady.”
Glancing up from the book she had been trying to read all afternoon, Daphne found her butler hovering in the doorway of her preferred drawing room. Facing the street, the airy space had been decorated in shades of white and silver, lending it an ethereal effect. Despite the book in her lap—a worn copy of Northanger Abbey, one of her favorites—she had been hard-pressed to think of anything except Adam. He invaded her every thought, his phantom presence in London hanging over her head like a storm cloud.
At the news of a visitor, she sat up straight, her stockinged feet slipping off the side of the sofa to touch the carpet.
“A visitor?” she parroted, her voice coming out on a rough squeak.
The butler inclined his head in answer, then entered the room, extending a plain, white calling card to her on a silver platter. She took it up and studied the name etched on it in a swirling scrawl.
Miss Winifred Bellingham.
Shock rippled through her as she read the name a second time. She had tried to call upon Miss Bellingham not long after her arrival in London, but had been informed that the young woman was not ‘at home.’ Due to the disdainful way the butler had looked at her and the frigid tone with which he had delivered the news, she’d understood. Winifred would not see her. And why should she? To invite a Fairchild into her home would invite speculation, and Daphne could understand why the girl wished to distance herself from the now ruined family. After all, it would not do to remind the public that she had come quite close to being a Fairchild herself.
Clearing her throat, she slipped her feet back into her slippers. “Please show her in, Rowney … and do send for a pot of tea and light refreshments, please.”
“Right away,” he replied before turning to leave the room.
Daphne put her book aside, using the calling card to mark her place. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt and tried to resist the urge to pace like a caged animal. While the distraction from thoughts of Adam was a welcome one, she still had no notion what she would say to Winifred. She did not know the young lady well … had only met her a few times before her short, ill-fated engagement to Bertram. Truly, she was not entirely sure why she’d wanted to speak with the woman … not when Bertram himself had admitted to being a rapist. She clenched her teeth at the memory of his callous dismissal … his referring to what he’d done to Olivia as a mere indiscretion.
“Miss Winifred Bellingham,” Rowney announced from the doorway.
He stepped aside to reveal a lovely, petite creature with rich brown hair and warm brown eyes. Upon first meeting her, Daphne had seen Winifred as the perfect wife for her brother—kind, biddable, intelligent. Now, viewing her through the eyes of a woman who had become wiser in the ways of the world, she recognized what Bertram had seen in her. Easy prey … someone he could manipulate and lie to.
“Lady Daphne,” she said with a swift curtsy as Rowney quit the room. “How do you do?”
Forcing a smile, Daphne gestured toward the twin armchairs facing her sofa. “I am well, thank you. Please, do come in and sit.”
Winifred sank onto the loveseat, lowering her hat and reticule onto the cushion beside her before demurely folding her hands in her lap. Clearing her throat, Daphne engaged her in small talk while impatiently waiting for Rowney to return with the tea. She would not risk having him walk in on them during such a delicate conversation. Her guest answered her questions about her health and the health of her family, then they traded pleasantries on the fair weather. The butler came and left, and they suffered through another few minutes of inane prattle while Daphne poured tea and offered Winifred cakes and biscuits.
The girl accepted a biscuit, which she did not touch, though she did sip at the tea for a moment before launching into the true reason for her visit.
“When my father first informed me that you had come to call upon me and been turned away, I must admit I was glad,” she began, setting her cup into its saucer with a soft clink. “You must understand, to be forced to call off my engagement to Bertram amid all the rumors and talk of your family’s situation … well, it has been quite embarrassing, as I am certain you understand.”
“Yes, I most certainly can,” she offered.
But she would not apologize … something else she had learned to stop doing during her time at Dunnottar. What use was it for her to express regret for something she had not done? An apology would be useless, and she doubted it would make either of them feel any better.
“But then, word spread of your … your own recent … indiscretion,” Winifred stammered, her face coloring as she lowered her gaze. “I realized that it was him.”
Her pulse leapt, even though she hadn’t even said his name. Yet, there could be no denying who he must be.
“Hartmoor,” Daphne said aloud, cursing that her voice sounded so breathless when she said his name.
Winifred nodded. “It was he who came to me, you see … he who revealed the truth about Lord Fairchild to me.”
Daphne noted the way she referred to Bertram, formally instead of using his Christian name. She had clearly moved on from their short-lived courtship and engagement.
“When was this?” she pressed. “What exactly did he say to you?”
“It was not long after your uncle’s unfortunate passing,” Winifred replied. “He approached me at a soirée and signed my dance card … for a waltz. He terrified me out of my wits, if I may be honest, and I wondered what a man such as he might want with a girl like me. We had never been formally introduced before that night, and what I knew of him did not suggest he sought a wife. Besides, I had already accepted Bertram’s suit and the banns had already been called once. Yet, I had no choice but to accept, and while we danced, he warned me that to marry Bertram would be a grave mistake. When I became angry and asked him what business he had saying such things to me, he asked me why I thought a man like your brother had courted so many women without offering them marriage … why so many of the ladies he’d danced attention upon in the past few years had gone on to become spinsters, or make less than advantageous marriages.”
Daphne sat her tea aside, no longer able to stomach another sip or bite of food. She had lost many a night’s sleep wondering about her brother’s victims, and how his brand of evil had destroyed the futures they might otherwise have had if not for him.
“He challenged me to seek one of them out,” Winifred continued. “To find the truth for myself. He said … he told me I would thank him someday.”
Raising her eyebrows when the other woman fell silent, Daphne leaned forward in her chair. “And then?”
“And then, the dance was over, and I never saw him again beyond that night,” Winifred replied. “I did, however, seek out Lady Cassandra Lane.”
Daphne winced, remembering that Lady Cassandra had been on the list of women she’d made at Dunnottar—a list of women she could remember her brother being seen with.
“She told me a most horrifying story about letting Bertram coerce her into slipping out of a ball and into a private drawing room,” Winifred whispered, still avoiding Daphne’s gaze. “He took certain … liberties with her. When she tried to cry off, he pressed the issue … until she began to fight. But, she was not strong enough, and he overpowered her.”
Winifred finally looked up, staring into Daphne’s eyes with a sigh.
“I could not, in good conscience, marry such a man,” she stated. “Even if he had never done to me what he had done to Lady Cassandra. She hinted that there were others, and I … I just felt so dreadful. How could I have let myself think I loved such a man, when I hardly knew him, or what he could be capable of?”
“I understand entirely,” Daphne agreed. “I came to learn I did not know him very well, either.”
“I know,” Winifred replied. “You see, I have always wondered what Hartmoor stood to gain by coming to me—what his motive might have been. And then, the rumors of your affair began making the rounds, and it became clear to me. Lady Olivia has not been spotted in London in years … not since she was seen being courted by your brother during her first Season.”
Daphne’s mouth fell open, shock rippling through her. It should not surprise her that the lady was so astute. Bertram had never known what a prize he’d almost had in Winifred.
“Yes, that is right,” she hedged, torn between wanting to be honest and needing to keep the secrets of the Callahan family.
No matter what Adam had done to her, Olivia and Serena deserved protection.
“I realized that you were just as much a victim of Bertram as the rest of us,” Winifred said with a sad smile. “You were hurt by his actions, just as Olivia was … just like Cassandra.”
Daphne shook her head, but did not reply. It was not her place to tell Winifred just how thoroughly Bertram had ruined Olivia. What he had taken from her, and what her father and uncle had done to help keep it quiet, had led to a madness that seemed incurable.
“So, I came to apologize for refusing to see you,” Winifred said when Daphne remained silent. “And to offer my aid, should you need it.”
Daphne forced a smile. “Oh, that will not be necessary. I am fine, truly. But I do thank you for coming. It relieves me to know that Bertram never harmed you. I hope you will be able to move forward with your life now.”
Winifred smiled. “Oh, but I have. I’ve met someone … well, he isn’t the son of an earl or anything so important. But he is a barrister, and he seems to care for me a great deal. I expect a proposal sooner rather than later.”
Daphne’s smile became genuine. “Then I am glad for you.”
“Oh, and I also wished to give you this,” the other woman said as she stood, reaching into her reticule.
She produced a sealed envelope—an invitation, Daphne realized, as it was placed into her hand. Peeling it open, she found the details of a musicale to be hosted at the Bellingham residence that evening.
“You are kind,” she replied, glancing up from the card. “But, I couldn’t possibly. The gossip.”
“Oh, pish posh!” Winifred objected. “My parents and I do not care for gossip, and I certainly do not intend to treat you like a leper due to circumstances that were outside your control. The rest of those sanctimonious fools might blame you, but they do not understand.”
Rising as well, she tucked the invitation back into its envelope. “I would be a distraction … it would ruin the evening.”
“It might make it a bit livelier,” Winifred teased. “Do consider it, at least. You cannot hide from the world forever, Lady Daphne.”
“Please, just call me Daphne,” she insisted. “And I will consider attending.”
“Very well, then you shall call me Winnie,” Winifred replied with a decisive nod. “And I hope to see you this evening. Do not worry over what anyone might say. I shall stick by your side as much as I am able. And my brother would be an ally of ours, as well, I think. We will not allow anyone to treat you badly.”
The other woman’s kindness lifted her spirits, chasing away a bit of the worry that had been gnawing at her insides from the moment she’d discovered Adam’s whereabouts. Perhaps an evening out would be a pleasant diversion.
“Thank you, Winnie,” she said. “I am grateful for you.”
Reaching out to take her hand, Winifred gave it a squeeze, then released it, turning to take up her hat.
“Until this evening,” she called out, before breezing from the room.
Daphne sank back onto her place on the sofa, the invitation still held in one hand. Meeting with Winifred had only affirmed that she’d made the right decision in choosing to believe Adam’s story over her brother’s insistence that nothing was what she’d thought. It made her feel better about the decision to keep every penny of the money Adam had given her for herself.
They did not deserve salvation, and she refused to pull them out of the hole of poverty they’d buried themselves in.
Rising from the sofa, she set out for her chambers, already mulling over what ensemble she would wear for the musicale.
That evening, Daphne arrived at the Bellingham residence promptly at eight. Shunning the practice of arriving fashionably late, she hoped to avoid being gawked at by the entire assembly. She was greeted by Winifred, who stood in the vestibule wearing a pale yellow silk evening gown and white gloves. At her side, a tall, slender man with her coloring and features smiled down at her, his expression open and friendly.
“I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you’ve come,” Winifred said, looping an arm through Daphne’s and pulling her forward to meet the man. “This is my brother, Mr. George Bellingham. George, this is Lady Daphne Fairchild.”
“It is an honor,” George said, bowing to her as if she were a lady and not a whore.
She had not expected such deference, despite being entitled to it as an earl’s daughter.
“The honor is mine.”
As a footman came forward to accept Daphne’s shawl, a woman she recognized as Mrs. Bellingham appeared on the staircase, swiftly descending from the upper floor. She was lovely in demure dove grey silk, but her expression conveyed a sense of panic.
“Mother, whatever is the matter?” Winifred asked. “This is Lady Daphne, by the way.”
Lady Bellingham gave her a tight smile. “Hello, dear. Do forgive me, but I am in the middle of a crisis. One of the musicians I had hired for the evening has just sent word that she cannot come … a cough or some such thing.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Daphne replied, for lack of anything better to say.
“Which musician?” George asked, his face a mask of bland, polite interest.
Something told Daphne he did not care one way or the other. A young, unattached gentleman like him would probably much rather spend his evening at a club or even the theater.
“The harpist,” the mother replied with a sigh. “You know, the one who played at the Mallory soirée last fall.”
“Ah, what a shame,” Winifred lamented. “She was quite wonderful. Oh, but Lady Daphne is a harpist, are you not?”
Daphne’s face warmed when all their eyes landed upon her.
“Erm … not professionally,” she joked.
“Oh, do not be modest,” Winifred insisted. “I can remember attending a dinner at … at Fairchild House.”
Silence fell in their midst as she paused and cringed, as if unable to believe she’d brought up her former connection to the Fairchild family.
Clearing her throat, Winifred pressed on. “At any rate, I remember retiring to a drawing room after dinner and you entertaining us with such beautiful music. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone play as well as you.”
“Now, Winnie, we could not possibly impose upon Lady Daphne that way,” Mrs. Bellingham insisted. “She came to listen to music, not play it.”
“Oh, but I do not mind,” Daphne blurted.
She found that she truly meant it. It would be nice to play again, as she had not touched a harp since her time at Dunnottar; had not realized how much she’d missed it until just now. As well, it would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, instead of worrying over the sorts of cutting remarks she might be forced to endure, or even receiving the cut direct in front of a room full of people. Performing would put a bit of a veil up between herself and the other guests.
The more she thought on the idea, the more she wanted to do it.
“Please, allow me to help,” she added. “I understand how horrible a missing performer can be for a musicale … especially one as anticipated as the harpist you had hired. I might not be her, but I can certainly serve as a passable replacement.”
“A kind offer,” George chimed in. “Mother, perhaps you ought to take her up on it.”
Mrs. Bellingham bit her lower lip, then glanced toward the front door. Someone had just knocked, and the butler now moved forward to open it and admit more guests. Time was running short for her to think of any other solution.
“Very well,” she relented. “Thank you, dear. I can compensate you—”
“There is no need,” she interjected. “I am happy to do it just for fun.”
And to make amends, in whatever way she could, for the things her brother had done. She could not erase Bertram’s perfidy … but she could play the harp at this musicale. She could do something nice for this family.
“Come along, then,” Mrs. Bellingham urged, placing a hand between Daphne’s shoulders and steering her toward the stairs. “Winnie and George, greet our guests and ensure they are escorted to the correct drawing room.”
“Of course, Mother,” her son replied.
Winifred had already crossed the vestibule to greet the first influx of guests. Daphne allowed Mrs. Bellingham to guide her up the stairs, not bothering to glance back to get a glimpse of whomever had just been escorted into the house. It did not matter who attended the musicale. Thanks to this fortuitous twist of fate, she would hardly have to interact with them.
“I want you to know that Winifred is quite insistent upon standing by you,” the woman said as they reached the upper level of the house.
“I am grateful,” she replied, for lack of anything better to say. “She is a wonderful person.”
“She is … and perhaps a bit naive,” Mrs. Bellingham replied, opening the door to a drawing room and leading the way inside. “While I do worry what her reputation might suffer, I also realize how fickle the ton can be. I also understand things happen that … well, that aren’t any of my bloody business.”
Daphne’s lips twitched as she tried to keep a straight face. “I see.”
Turning to face her, the woman sighed. “I like to judge people on their character, my lady, and from what I know of you, you seem to be a good sort. If Winnie thinks so, then I have no reason to disagree.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Thank you for rescuing us this evening,” Mrs. Bellingham countered. “You may search this box to select whatever compositions strike your fancy. In a quarter of an hour, a footman will come to fetch you and bring you to the smaller drawing room adjoining the one we will use this evening. He will offer you refreshment and ensure you have everything you need before your turn to perform.”
“I will be ready,” Daphne assured her.
Seeming satisfied with that, Mrs. Bellingham swept from the room and closed the door behind herself.
Approaching the box resting on a side table near a high-backed armchair, she found a substantial collection of sheet music. Taking the chair, she set about rifling through it, grateful for the time to herself while the other guests filed in and filled the drawing room. She had been uncertain about attending the event, but had thought of Winifred’s words.
You cannot hide forever.
She had been right, and the time had come for Daphne to truly start enjoying her newfound freedom. Tonight, she would play for an audience—something she had secretly always wished to do. And she would enjoy it, without giving a single thought to a certain earl.