Her aunt reached across the table and patted her hand. “All that business at Shadowmere was so long ago. I’d almost forgotten until Mr Hawke stormed into the ballroom to wreak havoc.”
She blinked quickly. “Is it hot in here? I fear I’ve come over quite faint.”
“It is rather warm, but then I’m in black crepe.”
“Forgive me. I don’t feel at all well. And I barely slept a wink last night.”
That was true.
Her aunt gripped the saucer and gave it a delicate shake. “Have another sip of tea, dear. I find it soothes the spirit. Fresh air will help.”
Daphne pressed her fingers to her forehead, as though it pained her. She needed a second to think.
The only way to know her aunt’s motive for slipping her laudanum was to play the fool and go along with the plan.
Was she supposed to wake in bed at home, wrists shackled to the bedposts? Or on a ship bound for India?
There was only one way to know.
“Yes, a brief walk outside might help.” She rose as if dazed. “Wait for the coffee. I shan’t be long.”
“Nonsense. I’m coming with you.” Aunt Augusta was on her feet, wrapping an arm around Daphne’s shoulders. “You’ve caught something at that dreadful house, I expect. The things that go on there defy belief.”
“Men do like their secrets,” she said, allowing Augusta to steer her through the coffeehouse and into the small cobbled yard at the back.
“None more so than Dominic Hawke,” her aunt snapped.
“I was referring to the thing Mr Hawke said about you and Uncle Samuel.” She felt her aunt’s arm tighten against her shoulder.
“What thing? Since when did the man indulge in idle gossip?”
Daphne didn’t answer. She let her head fall against her aunt’s shoulder.
“You need a doctor.” Augusta opened the gate and peered along the alley behind. “Like your mother, you’ve a weak constitution.”
They hurried along the narrow passage, avoiding barrels and sidestepping a dead cat half-hidden in a drift of coal ash.
Daphne didn’t recognise the carriage parked in New Street, or the jarvey perched atop the box, his tricorn pulled low.
“Father sold the carriage,” she muttered.
“It’s the hired vehicle I’ve yet to return.”
Another lie. The interior was polished to a high sheen and smelled of new leather, not spilt gin and stale sweat.
Her aunt bundled her onto a padded seat and told the jarvey to hurry, but gave no direction.
Daphne gripped her reticule as the vehicle lurched forward. Beneath the velvet lining lay the pocket pistol Mrs Flavell had given her. The blade was already in her stocking.
Her aunt sat beside her, arm firm around her shoulders. “Do you remember the thing Mr Hawke told you? Think, dear.”
She rubbed her eyes and mumbled the words. “Mr Hawke. I’m in love with Mr Hawke.” It felt good to say it aloud. Even slurred, it was the truest thing she’d said all afternoon. “Lord Templeton told him about Uncle Samuel’s visit to Shadowmere.”
“Yes, to act as mediator. We’ve established that.”
Daphne rocked in her seat. What harm would it do to make a wild accusation? “And that Uncle may have fathered Mrs Hawke’s child himself.”
Perhaps she was over-performing.
