He shook his head slowly. “The danger is grave,” he repeated, bowing to her. “Be wary of those closest to you, and take care of yourself.”
She watched him turn to leave, clutching her hand to her madly thumping heart. Just before he reached the door, he turned back to her, a brief ghost of a smile flitting over his lips. “If it had been within my power, I would have kept him from hurting you,” he said in an odd tone. “Know that. Goodbye, Daisy Vanreid.”
As quickly as he’d re-emerged in her life, Padraig McGuire was gone, the paneled door clicking closed at his back. She stared at the space where he’d been, knowing somehow that this was the last call he would make upon her.
“Daisy Trent,” she corrected, not that it mattered.
25th May, 1881
Dear Sir,
As we prepare to enter the third month of your absence, I write you with unexpected news. I am expecting your child. Though you’ve amply demonstrated your lack of sentiment for myself, I cannot help but hope you may be somewhat less reticent in regards to an innocent.
In other matters, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve recently replaced all the carpets with a fine Axminster at 8 shillings a yard. Redecorating the old nursery will prove even more costly, I fear.
Sincerely,
Duchess of Trent
“Surely even you can concede she’s become a liability now, Trent.”
Scowling, Sebastian looked up from the Home Office report the Duke of Carlisle had offered up for his perusal. Following the blast at the police station, Carlisle had joined Sebastian and Griffin in Liverpool. They’d arrested three Fenians responsible for the dynamite operation on Castle Street, but there were literally hundreds more suspects and clues to pursue. The last fortnight had been a blur of running more leads to ground.
But now, a different sort of blur descended upon Sebastian. Words rattled about in his mind, attempting to form into coherent thoughts. The anger crashing through him wouldn’t allow a complete sentence to form. The words, separately, meant little.
Trousers.That explained the fortune she’d spent at an establishment owned by a Madame Blanc.Wild parties.And that absolutely explained the thousands of pounds in expenditures he’d noticed disappearing from his accounts. He read on.Scandal. Artists and playwrights. The Earl of Bolton.
Trousers.Goddamn it.The Earl of bloody Bolton?
The image of Bolton touching Daisy—of taking her in his arms and kissing her soft pink lips, of hearing her satisfied sighs and stripping away her layers and losing himself in her delectable body—made him want to smash his fist through the table. Through a wall. Through the Earl of Bolton’s fucking face.
What had she said that first night at the Beresford ball?
Thank you for your unnecessary concern, Your Grace, but foxes don’t frighten me. They never have.
The devil. If she had allowed Bolton to touch so much as her hand, he’d… What would he do? Hadn’t he left her behind without a word? He’d been gone nearly three months, a far longer span of time than the fortnight he’d known her. His fault. He had pushed her away. He had chosen duty over her.
But if the contents of the report were to be believed, she was faithless. A soul-crushing ire seared through him at the thought. She could have waited for him to return. By God, she’d claimed to love him.Lies, whispered a voice inside his mind.She lied to you. What other lies did she tell?
He tamped down the bile. Forced himself to calm. Took a breath. Two.
There. He felt nothing. Thank Christ Carlisle had chosen to deliver this report in private while Griffin was out reconnoitering with some men from the Home Office. And then, he felt something again. Sudden and explosive, directly in the vicinity of his chest.
“The Earl of Bolton? Tell me, Carlisle. Is she fucking the Earl of Bolton?” He hadn’t meant to snarl out those particular questions to the brick wall of a man staring him down. But they’d emerged, raw and visceral, from somewhere deep within him.
“Likely bewitched Bolton the same way she’s bewitched you,” Carlisle said, his tone sour. “Does she have a magical cunny?”
Sebastian clenched his fists. He would not strike the leader of the League. He would not. “Go to hell.”
Carlisle raised a brow. “Perhaps we ought to ask Bolton.”
Sebastian launched himself from his chair so forcefully that it toppled over behind him. He was going to beat Carlisle to a pulp. “Fuck you, Carlisle.”
“I once thought you unshakeable.” Carlisle whistled, cocking his head to consider him as though viewing him for the first time. “The man who survived a fire and an assassin’s blade brought low by a conniving bit of American skirts. But do read on, Trent. It would appear there’s someone else who may have enjoyed her ample charms as well.”
Damn Carlisle. He was like a lion pawing at a mouse, and Sebastian couldn’t shake the feeling that part of the man enjoyed this. Enjoyed tormenting him. His body teemed with fury and the need to smash something or someone. Belatedly, his training returned to him. He forced the tight muscles of his body to relax, his face to become expressionless. If Carlisle meant to provoke him into doing something stupid, he wouldn’t facilitate the bastard.
Sebastian caught the report back up and hurriedly scoured the contents, returning to the last three paragraphs he’d missed. The blood turned to ice in his veins.
