Felix strode forward, almost as if Simmonds were standing before him. Which she decidedly was not. Still, he glowered down at his daughter.
“Simmonds did what?” he demanded, for the woman had been imbued with no such power from him.
He would never have countenanced allowing his daughter to stand in a corner, or to be slapped. But then, a rising tide of shame walloped him, for he realized he had never truly bothered himself to ask or to investigate the manner in which Simmonds was instructing his daughter. He had simply been existing. He had been happy to have aid. Pleased his daughter seemed well enough.
Verity flinched at the tone of his voice, clutching at Johanna’s skirts and somehow burrowing into them until there was scarcely anything left of her. A pale face, glossy curls, and bright eyes were all that remained.
He forced himself to gentle his tone, for his anger was not directed at his daughter, but rather at the woman he had already sacked. He would sack her all over again if he could. “Why did you not tell me, poppet?”
“Simmonds told me I mustn’t,” his daughter admitted, her green eyes—his sole contribution to her features, it would seem—wide and swimming with tears.
Something akin to a fist connecting with his gut hit him. Protectiveness toward his daughter. Despair he had let her down. Anger toward Simmonds. A renewed sense of helplessness. Confusion about the woman who was, even now, comforting his daughter in a way he could not.
The panic was pushing forward, dark and murky and terrifying.
His heart was beginning to pound.
But he could not—must not—allow himself to succumb.
Felix sank to his knees, meeting his daughter eye to eye. She looked like Hattie more than ever, a reminder of all he had lost. A reminder of what he must protect, unflinchingly and always.
“You must tell me if someone is unkind to you,” he told her softly. “From this moment forward, you will not listen to your governess first, but to me. If anyone raises a hand to you, I must know. If anyone is cruel to you, I will be the one to cut her down. Do you understand, poppet?”
She nodded. “Yes, Papa.”
“Come now, Verity.” He opened his arms to her, hoping she would embrace him. The gesture was rusty with disuse, and he knew he must practice it more often. That he must hug his daughter as often as he had the chance.
When had he become so buried in his work that he had forgotten to hold his beloved daughter in his arms? He hated himself for it.
Verity at last ceased clinging to Johanna’s skirts and launched herself at him. Her little arms entwined around his neck, and she pressed her cheek to his. Her hair smelled of roses, and he supposed Johanna must have used her shampoo and soap upon Verity last night in the bath. There was no trace of smoke. No lingering remembrance of the hell they had been through together the evening before.
Except for the fresh scars upon his heart.
“Do you promise Simmonds is never coming back, Papa?” Verity asked, still clinging tightly to him.
“Yes,” he managed past a sudden thickness in his throat. “I promise.
He was keenly aware of Johanna’s gaze upon him. Aware too of the prick of tears in his eyes. The rushing tide of emotion that threatened to carry him away, much like the waters of a ravaging flood. What he read in her countenance almost knocked him on his arse.
There was a sheen in her blue gaze, a melancholy twist to her smile. He wondered if she was thinking of her own daughter, remembering her. But there was also something else present. Something he could only describe in one fashion: tenderness. Such tenderness, the magnitude of which he had not seen directed toward himself in as long as he could recall. That he had not seen directed toward Verity in what seemed an aeon. Not since…
Hattie.
His wife’s name and her memory were like a needle jabbing unexpectedly into his flesh. A visceral reproach. He must not allow Johanna Beaumont to further distort his feelings. To creep beneath his armor. To tear down all his defenses. He reminded himself that the tenderness she exhibited now emerged from a woman who had carefully honed her craft.
Except, it did not feel feigned as his gaze meshed with hers. It felt heart-stoppingly real.Good God, what was the matter with him? Why was he so weak when it came to this woman he dared not trust? This woman who had shared her body with his enemy?
It made no sense, and he needed to get to the bottom of the matter.
He cleared his throat once more. “Verity, darling, run along to the chamber you were given last night. You may play with your doll until I come and find you.”
He kissed the sweet-scented crown of her head, reluctant to open his arms and let her go. He could feel her heart beating fast against his chest. She was so precious to him. So very beloved, small and fragile in his arms.
But he let her go, because he knew he must. He needed to address matters with Johanna. Needed to see if he could sift through what she had told him and what he had witnessed, what he knew of her, and separate the chaff from the wheat, the lies from the truth.
In short, he needed to discover whether or not she was a dangerous, deceptive viper or she was the victim of one.
Johanna watched Felix’sdaughter skipping from the salon in an exuberant burst of girlish spirits.
