“Mrs Foster recalled something that happened years ago. My uncle acted as mediator. He took the physician’s report to Shadowmere to prove the accident had left my fatherincapable. That only left Lord Templeton. No other names were mentioned.”
He swore under his breath. “That bastard.”
He stopped dancing, though he held her tight.
Unsure what he might do, she reminded him of one important fact. “Without proof, it’s hearsay. Perhaps if you told me how she died, we might make a case against him.”
The answer did not come easily.
“Poison,” he said at last. “No one else knows but the physician who attended her. A good man who’s no longer with us.”
It wasn’t the shock that made her heart stumble, but the water gathering along his lower lashes. Whatever they were to one another now, he trusted her with the truth.
“I can see why you stormed into the ballroom bent on vengeance.” Why he had not given the daughter of his enemy a second thought. “I’ll visit my aunt tomorrow. She will corroborate the story.”
He cleared his throat. “You’ll not go alone.”
“If you appear beside me, she’ll say nothing at all. I’ll suggest we meet at a coffeehouse.” If she went home, her aunt would insist she live under her roof, not Charlotte’s.
“I’ll sit where she can’t see me.”
“Dominic, everyone notices you.”
“Then take Charlotte.”
She touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
He studied her for a moment, as though deciding whether to argue further. Perhaps he didn’t wish to overstep after his careless mention of marriage.
“Very well. I’ve business of my own tomorrow.”
“Business?” She had no right to ask.
“I’m meeting friends. We’ve compiled a list of properties owned by Irving. We mean to find the missing clerk.”
“Will you send word if you do?”
“I’ll be in town for a few days. May I call on you at Charlotte’s?” He paused before saying, “I need to know if your aunt confirms Mrs Foster’s story.”
“Of course.”
He held her gaze a second longer, as though reluctant to let the moment end. Slowly, his hand slipped from her waist.
The absence left her feeling as hollow as a drum.
She drew a breath. “Is our dance at an end, Mr Hawke?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You know it’s not.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dominic stood in Daphne’s dark bedchamber, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft flutter of her lips. She slept on her side, knees drawn to her chest, clutching the black silk square embroidered with his monogram.
His grandmother’s pink teacup sat on the nightstand beside a wilting white rose in a small vase.
She’d been crying. Because of him.
Charlotte had said as much when she tried to prevent him from entering and he’d tussled with her strapping butler. But something fierce in his chest stopped him from returning to the hotel.
