She’d never been a natural actress.
Still, it hit the mark.
“That’s preposterous. Your uncle acted on your father’s behalf. He was too weak to confront the problem.” She muttered under her breath. “Your father was barely sober after your mother died.”
Yes, Daphne recalled her aunt and uncle living with them for a time. Her father had been short-tempered, snapping at her over small things. She had assumed it was grief. The hostility had never quite left him. He’d been happy for her to live in Bengal.
“I know nothing more than that.” She let her head tipback against the seat. “Mr Hawke mentioned giving the information to Sergeant Carter.”
“Sergeant Carter.” Her aunt reached for the overhead strap. “Why trouble him over the actions of a Jezebel?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d used the term. Every mistress her uncle kept was given the same moniker.
A realisation settled over her, cold as dread.
One she prayed was wrong.
“Uncle Samuel gave Mrs Hawke a loan to clear the debts.” She let herself slip on the seat as the carriage turned a corner. “He did the same for Father many times. Mother saved sovereigns in an old Earl Grey tin.”
She’d once caught her mother hiding it in the cupboard.
Mrs Flavell had included the same tin in the valise she’d given Daphne. And the other items. A wool shawl—her mother always covered herself when Uncle Samuel visited. The Oriental wrapper. Her uncle had been raised in Canton.
“Your uncle was a generous man. He helped those in difficulty, nothing more. Don’t twist it into something sordid.”
“Mother was with child and it wasn’t Father’s.”
Her aunt’s derisive snort echoed in the carriage. “This family has been plagued by Jezebels. Judging by your recent behaviour, it’s in the blood. I’ve spent a lifetime paying for others’ misdeeds.”
Only then did Daphne catch the stench of the river. The thud of hammers, the shouts of men. It took a moment to realise they were entering the docks.
She knew where her aunt was taking her. Not home to a warm supper and a comfortable bed, but away from here. Far enough that her uncle’s secret would remain buried.
Augusta would collect her reward, and wouldn’t have to suffer the shame of living in Bermondsey.
She remained silent as the carriage turned into Burr Street. The Red Lion Brewhouse loomed on the left, its chimney breathing sour malt into the early evening air. Beyond, the six-storey warehouses rose like brick-built cliffs, not merely blocking the light but choking the last of the day.
The carriage slowed before the last of them.
Mr Irving would be waiting inside with a roll of folded banknotes, perhaps an old chest of jewels, a fitting prize for a scheming devil.
All Daphne had to decide was whether to draw her pistol and waste her only shot on her aunt.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Irving had properties all over London: a townhouse in Mayfair, a counting house in the West End, a percussion cap workshop in Aldgate, a proof house in Bermondsey where they tested munitions.
They had searched six buildings in their hunt for the missing clerk. Four more remained, all near the docks.
Dominic drew his watch from his pocket and checked the time, though his thoughts were in a coffeehouse in Bishopsgate, not outside the Waterman’s Arms, where Montfort was certain Irving kept a room.
“Remind me never to fall in love.” Stanton rolled his neck as they prepared to enter the dockside tavern. “You can barely string two words together, and that watch hasn’t left your hand.”
“You forgot the part where he was mumbling to himself and clutching his heart.” Montfort tucked the list into his coat pocket. “Frankly, it was embarrassing.”
“One more word and I’ll remind you why men cross the street to avoid me. Something is wrong.” The unease had been building this last hour. “I should have met with her auntmyself, refused to take no for an answer. I don’t trust the old crone.”
“Isn’t your need for dominance the reason Miss Harland left Shadowmere?” Montfort asked.
