She’d fallen for those charms once upon a time.
Strange where life had led them, their diverging paths bringing them to this moment. Now, when she looked upon him, she saw a stranger. What a naïve girl she’d been to think she’d been prepared for marriage to him. She knew now that the girlish fancy she’d felt had been predicated by the burning desire to escape her father more than any other emotion.
And some two years later, here she stood, an abandoned duchess in a foreign land, no happier as the Duchess of Trent than she would’ve been as Mrs. Padraig McGuire. Two years, and she’d learned nothing about entrusting her heart to the care of men. How sobering.
“Why have you come, Mr. McGuire?” she asked into the silence that had fallen between them.
She stood by the window in the small salon where she received callers, a sliver of sun warming her face. The chamber was filled with flowers, a testament to the last month’s efforts. Her arrangement with Georgiana was proceeding with success. Together, they had managed to set thetonon its ear with all manner of gossip in the hopes that they would cause enough furor to bring their husbands home and get the answers they so badly deserved.
Hugo sat at her feet, guarding her as was his wont. The boisterous pup had proved far more devoted to her than any person had ever been.
Padraig took a step closer to her, and Hugo growled.
“Bloody hell, Daisy. Must you have that mutt present?” He cast a jaundiced eye toward her beloved companion.
Her chin rose. “Yes, I must, and you’re far too familiar, Mr. McGuire. You may address me as ‘Your Grace’ or you may leave.”
Another step brought him nearer, and for a moment she wondered if she should fear him. After all, he ran her father’s businesses. She should not have received him again today, his fourth visit in the last fortnight since his abrupt reappearance in her life. And especially not since he was using a false name for reasons he refused to divulge. Indeed, she would not have had he not dangled the one lure before her that she couldn’t resist.
Bridget.
Her sister had abruptly quit her position with Madame Villiers, and she had disappeared. Daisy had not heard from her, and she was dreadfully worried. Madame had no notion of where she’d gone or why, leaving Daisy adrift.
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Padraig’s tone was mocking, but he stopped where he was, the boldly patterned replacement carpet she’d chosen between them. “Are you happy then? As a duchess? Is it the life you wanted?”
Her own husband had abandoned her as if she were of no greater import than the newspaper he’d discarded the day before. And she had given her heart to him, or at least to the man she’d imagined him to be. For the real Sebastian was an enigma to her. A mystery she could not seem to solve. Of course this was not the life she wanted, spending each day in frivolous amusements, working with Georgiana to cause as much gossip as possible in the hopes she might get the answers she so desperately sought.
Where are you, Sebastian?she wondered silently.And, more importantly, who are you?
She forced a smile to her lips. “This is the life I’ve been given. I am… content. But that is enough idle chatter, Mr. McGuire. You said you had news of my sister that required an audience. I don’t wish to hear anything you say if it doesn’t concern her. May I remind you that your other visits have been fruitless? That each time you claim to have information regarding her whereabouts, they lead to dead-ends?”
Padraig’s mouth flattened into a harsh line. “You loathe me.”
Did she? Once, perhaps, she had, but time, distance, and knowledge could heal any wound. Now, she looked upon him and felt nothing. He was not the man she’d believed him to be, and she was no longer the girl he’d once known. “You are my father’s emissary. My distaste for you stems from that fact alone.”
“I’ve told you I’m not here at his behest.” Padraig’s gaze searched hers as a frown furrowed his brow. “He doesn’t know I’ve been speaking with you, though I’ve made no secret of it. I don’t answer to Vanreid.”
She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t wish to discuss her father with him. Her every tie to him except her sister had been severed, and she intended to keep it that way forever. “Have you news of Bridget or not?”
“Yes.”
His single-word response did little to quell the apprehension unfurling within her. “And? Where is she? What has happened?”
Padraig strode toward her, closing the distance. Hugo growled again, making him stop short of reaching her. “She’s no longer in London. Her precise location is unknown, but I fear she’s in danger.”
Danger. The apprehension iced into fear. Her hands clenched in her skirts. “What sort of danger?”
“Bombs, Daisy,” he said simply.
And she didn’t bother to correct his familiar address this time, for her inundated mind was too busy attempting to make sense of what he’d just told her. “Bombs.”
“Dynamite, to be specific.” His expression tightened. “The danger is grave.”
Good, sweet heavens. The papers had been abuzz with talk of the explosion in Liverpool and talk of Fenian uprisings. Daisy had never imagined such evils had anything to do with her sister’s disappearance. “Do you mean to say she’s involved with the Fenians?”
Padraig inclined his head. “I cannot say. All I will say is you should trust no one, including me.”
He caught her hand then, and Hugo gave a small yip of protest as he raised it to his lips for a kiss. Daisy snatched her hand from his grasp, staring at him, questions and dread rushing through her like flood waters. “Why are you telling me this? Padraig, are you connected to this? Is that why you’ve come calling using the name John Greaves instead of your own?”
