Daphne shuddered at the thought of how close she’d come to rape and death. Thank God Viktor had brought Rafe here.
“What will happen to them?” she asked, while Rafe removed his coat and covered her shaking limbs.
“They’ll both be tried for murder and espionage. And I’ve got the letters that will lead me to the men who hired them in France.”
Daphne pressed a hand to her belly. “That’s wonderful, Rafe. It’s just what you wanted. Now we can go to France and find the other men and—”
Rafe’s face turned to a mask of stone. “Wearen’t going anywhere, Daphne.”
“But you’ll need me. I speak Russian. You said yourself that Gabriel often speaks it to keep you from knowing what he’s saying. I can help you.”
Rafe shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. I’ve already put your life in danger twice. I won’t risk it again. I’m taking theTrue Loveand the crew and sailing for France without you.”
Anger bubbled in Daphne’s chest but she knew Rafe’s mind was made up. He refused to admit he needed her. He refused to admit he needed anyone. There was no arguing with him at a time like this. This was it. He was going to leave her. It was over. She should have known it would end like this.
Rafe held out a hand. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Back in Julian’s town house in Mayfair, Daphne sat on her bed turning the tiny replica of theTrue Loveover and over in her hands. She traced the little mast with her fingertip, remembering how many knives she’d thrown near that towering piece of wood. She sighed. She’d been home for three days and it was raining, again.
She’d already told Delilah all the details she could in exchange for the girl’s silence. She’d even included the harrowing bit. She hadn’t told herallof the details, of course. She’d left out the part about Rafe nearly making love to her. It had been a feat, coming up with a believable story to tell Mother about why she had a large bruise across her cheek, but somehow she’d managed to convince her that she’d tripped down the stairs at Lucy Hunt’s country house and Lucy—that dear—had made a show of profusely apologizing for the clumsiness of her servants who had obviously polished the wood on the stairs with far too much aplomb.
Julian, however, had taken a bit of convincing. The moment he’d seen the bluish-black bruise, he’d been prepared to storm from the house to kill someone. It had taken both Daphne and Cass a considerable amount of time to convince him to sit down and breathe. Of course, Daphne hadn’t told him the truth of exactly how she’d got the bruise. No need to worry her brother further. The damage was already done. But she knew Julian suspected it had been more than an accident, as she’d informed him. Thankfully, once he realized she had no intention of telling him, he’d stopped asking questions. Apparently, a reputation for stubbornness was good for something.
Daphne stared out of the window into the dripping rain. The afternoon was so dull. Delilah had gone to take a nap. Mother had offered to play cards with her but Daphne had politely refused.
She wanted to practice throwing her knife. She found herself repeatedly touching her ankle to see if the knife was in her boot. She wasn’t wearing a boot and she certainly wasn’t carrying a knife. Not to mention her mother might have an apoplectic fit if she saw her daughter out in the gardens hurling knives at trees.
Daphne glanced down at her embroidered white day gown. Such a far cry from the shirt, breeches, and stockings she’d been wearing while pretending to be a cabin boy. She plucked at the top of her head where a useless ribbon sat holding up her bun. She missed her cap. She rubbed her silk stocking against her bedspread. Silk was certainly more luxurious than the wool stockings she’d worn as Grey. So why did she miss those, too?
Here she was. Back in her proper house, in her proper clothes, with her proper life. And it was all just too… boring. Why had she never noticed how exceedingly dull it was to live in a town house before? She meandered over to her writing desk and picked up her copy ofThe Adventures of Miss Calliope Cauldwell.She smiled to herself. Perhaps someday she would write a similar tale. If only Rafe had allowed her to go to France with him, the stubborn rogue.
A soft knock on the bedchamber door pulled Daphne from her thoughts. “Who is it?”
“It’s Cass, dear,” came her sister-in-law’s sweet voice.
“And Lucy,” added the duchess’s bright one.
Daphne laid the book back down, swiveled, rushed over to the door, and opened it. “Come in. Come in.” She ushered the two ladies into the room. They made their way over to the windows and sat in the two chairs that rested there.
“We came to check on you, dear,” Cass explained, once she was settled. “How are you?”
Daphne resumed her seat on the bed and clutched the tiny ship in her fist. She sighed. “I’m… fine.”
Lucy scrunched up her nose. “You don’t sound fine.”
Daphne put the back of her hand to her head as if checking for fever. “I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do,” Lucy replied with a knowing smile and a twinkle in her two-different-colored eyes.
“You do? What is it?” Daphne sat forward on the bed and blinked expectantly at Lucy.
Lucy splayed her hands wide. “You’re in love, dear. You’re exhibiting the classic symptoms. Restlessness, fatigue, boredom. And I’d wager you’ve not spent so much as a moment without Captain Cavendish in your thoughts since you’ve got home, have you?”
Daphne’s cheeks heated. She moved her hand down to press on one of them. How had Lucy known? She glanced at the replica. Suddenly, she had the desire to hide it. “Well, I—”
“And that little ship in your hand speaks volumes,” Lucy added with another nod.
