Maitland had begun to worry that they’d traveled to Bexhill for nothing when Daphne hit on the idea to look for things associated with his aunt. His praise for her idea had not been empty flattery.
She was clever, and if he’d been forced to perform this hunt on his own, he likely would have given up in frustration long ago.
And there was no denying that it was quite pleasant to spend so much time in the company of a beautiful lady who looked at him when she thought he couldn’t see her as if he were some sort of Adonis. He’d been admired by women before, and was under no illusions about the fact that he was handsome, but there was something particularly gratifying to know that Daphne—who was the most intelligent woman he’d ever known, aside from his late aunt—thought him attractive.
Kneeling there beside her, it was difficult to keep his mind on the matter at hand, especially when he could feel the warmth of her while the lemon verbena on her skin seduced his senses. Forcing himself to focus, he watched as she broke the seal and read aloud the message on the folded page.
Huzzah for you
You’ve found this clue
And deserve your due reward.
So leave these cattle,
It’s off to Battle
And Themis’ shining sword.
Secreted there
You’ll find a pair
Who’ll my next note reveal.
Forget thee not
This puzzled knot
Romance’s treasure doth conceal.
“I never knew my aunt had such a knack for penning such awful verse,” Maitland said when Daphne finished. “I mean, sincerely, this is terrible.”
“I should imagine it’s difficult to write lines that rhyme as well as convey the message she wished to hide there,” Daphne said, with what sounded like a bit of defensiveness for his aunt.
“Aside from congratulating us for finding this clue,” he said taking the page from her to read it again, “what is this message she’s trying to convey to us?”
Daphne examined the words, her head close to his as she read.
“Well, discounting the congratulatory note,” she said, pointing to the words, “the first part is this bit about ‘Battle’ and ‘Themis’ shining sword.’”
“‘Battle’ is capitalized,” Dalton said, “so perhaps she’s referring not to an actual battle, but the town of Battle, since it’s so near to Beauchamp House.”
“I agree,” Daphne said. “She showed in her note to me that capitalization denotes something she wishes to call attention to, and in this case I cannot think of an anagram of Battle that would make any sense. And then moving on to Themis’ shining sword, I’m afraid I’ll need to ask Ivy. It looks like a classical reference, but my knowledge in that area is sadly lacking.”
“Huzzah, indeed,” Dalton said with a grin. “Finally, an area in which I know something that you do not!”
Daphne rolled her eyes, but he chose not to notice. “Themis,” he explained to her with what he considered to be great dignity, “was a Hellenic goddess, who was said to represent the divine rightness of law.”
He grinned at her. “I knew those years at Oxford would be useful to me one day.”
“Congratulations,” Daphne said, shaking her head at his foolishness. “You must be so proud.”
He made a show of preening for a moment before she turned the subject back to the matter at hand. “So your aunt must in these two lines be telling us that we should go to Battle to see someone related to justice. A solicitor? A barrister? Perhaps some other sort of legal person?”
“If I recall correctly,” he said, serious once more. “Aunt employed the services of a solicitor in Battle. I can’t remember the man’s name, but I feel sure Greaves will know.”
“But she says ‘a pair,’” Daphne reminded him. “Could she have used a pair of solicitors? Or perhaps she means we should see more than one person there?”
“I’m afraid my powers of recall do not extend that far,” he said with a frown. “We’ll ask Greaves, and then perhaps if he has nothing to add, we can simply travel to Battle and see what we find there.”
She nodded, looking down at the page again. As if the answer would materialize there.
Unable to resist, Maitland moved closer, taking the opportunity to rest his chin on her shoulder to look down at the note with her. It had been damned difficult to keep his hands to himself the whole afternoon. Especially given the way Daphne had of looking at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
“And what of ‘Romance’s treasure’?” he asked, feeling a tremor run through her at his voice in her ear.
“As in the letter she wrote to me on my inheritance,” she said, her voice betraying with a slight tremor that she was not as unaffected by his closeness as she seemed, “R-r-romance is an anagram of Cameron.”
As she spoke, he turned and took the lobe of her ear between his teeth. Rather than tell him to keep away, as he half-feared she would, Daphne instead let out a little exhale of want, and turned her head so that he could have more access to her neck.
He would have liked to shout with triumph but settled for smiling to himself as he did as she had indicated she would like, and kissed the spot behind her ear and then worked his way down toward the hollow of her collarbone.
Still, trying to keep them somewhat on topic, she continued, “And … t-treasure, is self-explanatory, I sh-should think.”
“You’re a treasure, Lady Daphne Forsyth,” he whispered as she gave up any attempt at ignoring him and slid up a hand to run her fingers through his hair.
He’d just moved to fit himself against her arched back, and taken her breast—still covered by the layers of clothing she wore—in his hand, when the sound of loud footsteps coming up the stairs startled them both.
When Mrs. Miller stepped into the room, there were three feet between them as they each made themself busy putting various items from Renfrew’s lifetime of hoarding back into the crates and trunks from whence they came.
“I thought I should check in on the both of you,” the lady of the house said cheerfully, clearly unaware of the scene of incipient debauchery she’d just interrupted. “It’s been quiet, but I supposed if you found something you’d have come down by now.”
“In fact, Mrs. Miller,” said Maitland, closing the trunk he’d just pretended to work in, “we just moments ago found the letter we were looking for.”
Daphne remained silent as she placed the books given as Christmas gifts to the steward back into the crate.
“I had my doubts, your grace,” Mrs. Miller said with a shake of her head. “But I might have known that between you, you’d find something. I don’t suppose you could let me see it?” Curiosity shone in her eyes, and he wondered if she knew more about their reasons for coming here than she revealed.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mrs. Miller,” Daphne said, rising from the floor and shaking out her skirts as she stood. “The letter involves a matter of the highest important to the government.”
At the mention of the government, the farmer’s wife’s eyes widened. “Oh, I had no idea! To think that my father had something like that for all these years.”
Not wanting the woman to be fearful, Maitland assured her, “It isn’t as dangerous as it sounds, dear lady. Though more than that I cannot say. And I would please ask that you keep this information to yourself. It is not something that we wish to be known abroad at this time.” He flashed her his most winning smile, the one he used to inveigle biscuits from the cook at Beauchamp House.
“Oh yes, of course, your grace.” Mrs. Miller blushed at his attention. “I will tell no one. Except my husband if that’s all right. We don’t keep secrets.”
“Of course, of course,” Maitland said, taking Daphne’s arm as she moved to stand next to him. “An admirable habit, ma’am. Your husband is a lucky man.”
He heard Daphne give a slight snort next to him, but when he looked over, she seemed serene enough.
“We really cannot thank you enough, Mrs. Miller,” she said with what he saw was genuine effort on her part to make their gratitude known.
“Lady Celeste was good to my father, Lady Daphne,” said the other woman. “I know he’d want me to show the same kindness to her nephew and her…” she seemed to search for a term to describe Daphne’s relationship to Lady Celeste, and settled on “friend.”
The note tucked into the pocket of the duke’s coat, they followed their hostess back downstairs. And with a promise to come back at a later time in hopes that Mr. Renfrew would be well enough to receive them, they made their way back to the waiting curricle and were soon back on the road east.
* * *
They were nearly a third of the way back to Little Seaford by Daphne’s calculation when she noticed the dark clouds gathering.
Most of that time had been spent attempting to decipher the meaning of that interlude in the Miller attic. And the rest of the time was taken up by self-recrimination at how quickly she’d become distracted from their reasons for traveling to Bexhill in the first place—namely to search for the cipher and Sommersby’s killer. Surely someone as intelligent as she could manage to keep on task without turning into a blushing ninny.
If she felt every shift of his body on the curricle seat, and if the pleasant sandalwood and male scent of him distracted her from the task at hand, well, she would simply have to be stronger. And mindful of the purpose for this drive, she determined to keep her hands to herself throughout the rest of it.
A jolt of the carriage as it crossed a depression in the road, however, brought her attention to more immediate concerns. A glance at the sky ahead of them made her inhale sharply and in turn to process.
It was, in fact, growing quite dark with clouds.
“Dalton,” she said, trying not to sound managing. He was after all, a very good driver and had seen them quite safely over the journey thus far. “Have you noticed that there appears to be a storm on the horizon?”
Her companion gave a slight snort of laughter. “Yes, Daphne dear, I see it.”
She felt her face warm at the endearment.
“But what are we to do about it? I do not mind getting wet, of course. But we are in an open carriage. Even animals know to come in from the rain.”
There, those were reasonable-enough questions. She had not lost all her wits because of a kiss. Or two.
“If it looks as if it will overtake us,” he said mildly, “then we will stop in the next village. There is a perfectly respectable inn there where we can wait it out. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to get back on the road once it’s passed.”
As if he could read her thoughts, he added, “I do have a plan. I won’t let you come to harm, you know.”
Her stomach gave a little flip at that simple reassurance. Was it possible to trust that someone else would see to her comfort? It was both enticing and a bit terrifying to let him make the decisions.
Of course, there were any number of things that were entirely out of her hands. She was a lady, after all, and thus subject to the rule of her father in one way or other from her infancy. But her maneuver in which she forced him to allow her a tutor had proven to Lord Forsyth that she was no longer going to blindly follow him. So had the incident with Sommersby. After that it had become important that she be the one to make the decisions about her day-to-day life.
Could she trust Dalton to ensure her safety now? He had given her no reason to doubt him thus far. But her experience with men told her that they were sometimes inconsistent. Trust was such a leap, and she wasn’t sure she could make the leap yet.
At least not with her heart.
With the curricle, and her safety from the storm, however, she was willing to take the risk.
The rain began just as they arrived in the stable yard of The Bo Peep.
An odd name for a coaching house, but at this moment Daphne only cared that they had tea and a warm blanket on hand. The wind had picked up on the road, and combined with the rain and the chill of early summer, she was shivering in her wet clothes.
Tossing the reins to a stable hand, with orders to give the horses extra oats and a good rubdown, Dalton leapt down and was at Daphne’s side before she could manage the step. His mouth a solid line of concern, Dalton reached up for her and when he felt her chill, he cursed, then shrugged out of his greatcoat and placed it around her. She would have argued, but there was something about his manner that kept her silent.
Inside the inn, even their bedraggled state was not enough to disguise the fact that a very important personage had arrived. No sooner had they stepped inside, than the proprietor was before them.
“Milord, milady,” the little man said with an unctuous manner, “welcome to The Bo Peep. How may we serve you?”
“A private parlor, a pot of tea, and perhaps a room where the lady may repair to dry her clothes,” Dalton said without his usual sangfroid.
The innkeeper, however, seemed used to dealing with high-handed aristocrats. “I’m afraid we are filled almost to the rafters, milord. A local family is having a wedding, and we’ve got quite a few guests here.”
Dalton frowned. “What do you have available, then?”
“Only one bedchamber, milord,” said the man, “and it is not the sort of room I would normally offer to someone like yourself. But I’m afraid it’s all we have.”
Just then raucous laughter erupted from the taproom behind him. Clearly the wedding party was spending the storm enjoying whatever spirits the establishment had on hand.
As if to emphasize their situation, a crack of thunder sounded outside.
Without looking to Daphne for assent, Dalton nodded. “Very well, we’ll take it. But I do wish for tea and some food to be brought up as soon as possible.”
With a nod, the man led them toward the stairs, where they passed several gentlemen coming down.
One in particular seemed to pause as he saw Dalton.
“I say, is that you, Maitland? What on earth are you doing in this hellhole?”
The innkeeper seemed to stiffen at the description, but did not object, clearly having learned to let his guests have their way.
Rather than greet his friend with his customary warmth, however, Dalton paused long enough for Daphne to see him close his eyes in frustration. Then almost as if it hadn’t crossed his visage at all, it was gone and replaced with a friendly grin. “Pinky,” he said, nodding to the fellow before indicating to his companions that they should proceed.
But Pinky was not to be ignored. “I should have known I’d see you here, though. Your aunt’s place is just over near Hastings, isn’t it?” He gave a quick but speculative scan of Daphne. “I might have guessed you’d find the best bit of fluff around. Always did have a good eye, eh?”
Daphne’s eyes widened at the insult. She had been subjected to those sorts of glances before, of course, but had never been spoken of so blatantly. And certainly never mistaken for a lightskirt. She opened her mouth to give this Pinky a set down, but was forestalled by Dalton.
“And you always did have a way of mistaking matters, Pinky, old thing,” he said in a drawl that sounded as foreign on him as a French accent would have done. “May I introduce my bride? Darling this is Lord Pinkerton. We were at school together.”
It was difficult to say who was more shocked by this pronouncement, Daphne or the gaping Pinky. The innkeeper looked surprised as well, but kept his mouth shut.
One glance at Dalton showed his eyes boring into hers, heavy with a message she was quite able to read.
“A pleasure,” she said, extending her hand toward Pinky, who bowed low over it.
“The pleasure is mine, your grace,” the fop said with a grin. He seemed not to be in the least embarrassed by his earlier assumption about her. “Leave it to Maitland to find such a diamond.”
“I’m sure you’ll understand if we get upstairs now, Pinky,” Dalton said before Daphne could speak. “We were caught in the storm, and I do not wish her to catch a chill.”
Not waiting for his friend to respond, Dalton indicated to the innkeeper that he should proceed, and they hurried after him.
Once they reached the door to what was, indeed, a most unimpressive chamber, the innkeeper looked abashed. “Your grace,” he said, as if seeing just how bare the little room was, “I can ask one of the other guests to exchange rooms with you. I feel sure once they learn who it is that wishes to use the chamber…”
“This is adequate, Mr.…”
“Woodley, your grace. George Woodley, at your service.” He bowed.
“A pleasure, Mr. Woodley.” Dalton’s easy manner seemed to have returned with their removal from the crowded taproom. “I should like some hot water brought up for my wife, as well as the tea and food. And if you have any clothes that she might change into, that would be appreciated. We were caught unawares in the storm and had not planned to stay over.”
With a promise that he would find something, Woodley left them then, closing the door behind him.
Daphne, who had moved to stand before the fire as soon as they walked in, turned to see Dalton watching her.
His hair was almost brown thanks to the rain, though wisps of gold stood up in places. And his mouth was tight as he watched her.
“You have a remarkable habit of making pronouncements about our relationship, your grace,” she said with some asperity. “I have found myself betrothed, then married to you in the space of a few days. Both times without my recollection of ever having consented to the match.”
“Pinky is one of the worst gossips in the ton,” he said, stepping forward to take her hands in his. Feeling their coldness, he gave a curse and began rubbing them between his own ungloved hands. “I might have attempted to pass you off as my mistress, but the likelihood of him remembering your face if you were to meet later is strong. He never forgets a face, and worse, he never passes up the opportunity to spread tales.”
“Surely he is just as likely to realize once some time has passed that there has been no announcement in the papers.” Daphne tried to keep her mind on the matter at hand but she was very cold. And his hands were quite warm.
He was silent for a spell, and was saved from reply by the arrival of both a maid and a footman, bringing clothes, a pot of tea, and hot water.
Once they were gone, Dalton turned back to Daphne, his eyes never once wavering from her face. “There will be an announcement in the papers, Daphne. There’s no help for it. We might have broken things off in front of your father without any sort of ramifications. But I’m afraid that this is one action that cannot be undone.”
“But surely, we can simply tell Pinky what happened,” she said, knowing as she said it that it was futile. She’d recognized Pinky from some card party or other in London. He was one of those men who traded on gossip for his own amusement as well as in exchange for invitations. There was no way he’d agree to keep quiet about finding the Duke of Maitland in such a compromising position.
“That wouldn’t stop him from spreading gossip about it.” Dalton sighed, and pulled her against him. “Your reputation would be in shreds.”
As would his. Even so, marriage was not what she had foreseen for herself.
“I do not care overmuch for my reputation,” she said softly. “I could withstand it.”
But even as she said the words she doubted them. She thought of the women she’d seen in town. Who were spoken of in hushed tones, and dared not show their faces in public lest they set off a flurry of whispers. It wasn’t as if she cared for the social rounds. But she’d always taken pride in the fact that despite her father’s insistence she use her skills at the gaming tables, her personal reputation was flawless. She might be the daughter of a scoundrel, but she herself had escaped being marked with the same brand. Was she willing to sacrifice herself just to keep from marrying a man who had thus far proved to be the most trustworthy she’d ever met?
“But I won’t let you,” he said kissing her forehead. “There’s nothing for it, Daphne. We must marry.”