“He gave Mr Hawke a letter Mother sent him, asking to borrow a considerable sum.” The lie came before she couldthink, though her head felt a little muddled. “It’s in my valise. Did you know she was being blackmailed by a scoundrel?”
Her aunt shrank back on the bench. Something in her eyes said she did know, but she was quick to deny it.
“It’s not true. We would have known.”
“It’s in the letter. That’s why I asked you to meet.” She lifted her cup to her lips, but something sharp and unfamiliar beneath the bergamot made her pause. She only pretended to drink.
“It must be a forgery.”
“Why would Mother lie?”
“Foolish girl,” she sneered. “Mr Hawke is lying. He killed your father and is concocting an elaborate story to hide the deed. I suspect the tale about his own mother is untrue.”
What a strange thing to say.
“You know the story about his mother is true. Uncle Samuel acted as mediator. He went to Shadowmere to resolve the question of who fathered Mrs Hawke’s child.”
Her aunt stopped breathing for a moment.
She held a distant stare, the colour draining from her face.
What was so shocking about Daphne’s uncle visiting Shadowmere?
It sounded like a rather honourable thing to do.
Suspicion stirred. She thought of her uncle’s secret family in Norfolk. The children he’d sired while married to her aunt. A will that failed to name his wife.
She shook her head, though it felt as heavy as lead.
Her gaze dropped to her half-empty teacup.
Her aunt hadn’t drunk a drop.
Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest.
“You don’t look well, Aunt.” Daphne slid out from the bench, though her steps wavered, and she gripped the table for support. “I’ll ask for a pot of fresh tea. Yours is cold.”
Before she could object, Daphne crossed to the counter.
The waiter told her to take a seat and he’d be with her shortly, but it wasn’t tea she wanted.
“I need you to do something for me.” He must have thought she’d been secretly swigging brandy. Some syllables sounded slurred. “My coachman, Jones, is parked outside the modiste’s. If I’m taken ill and helped out by my aunt, you must alert him at once.”
His brow creased. She likely looked fit for Bedlam.
“Please.”
He gave a curt nod and continued pouring wine into a carafe.
She returned to the booth, glad of a seat.
“I’ve ordered you a pot of coffee instead.” Daphne drew her teacup closer. “I don’t mind drinking cold tea.”
Cold tea laced with laudanum, no doubt.
What devilry had the woman planned?
She would soon find out.
