Lady Sanders waved a hand at Miss Harland. “And is seducing my niece just another one of your rented entertainments? Or do you plan to offer her to your friends when you tire of her?”
The vein in his temple pulsed. His vision narrowed on the matron with a serpent’s tongue. Slowly, he withdrew his watch. “You have two minutes to say what you came for before I toss you out.”
Lady Sanders’ mouth opened and closed like a startled fish. “I—I came to take my niece home. Away from this perfidious den.”
“Home?” Miss Harland stepped forward, one hand settling on her hip. “Or straight to the docks and a ship bound for Bengal?”
The matron’s cheeks flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The best I can offer is a townhouse in Bermondsey. You will have to lower your sights. A solicitor or a banker perhaps. But we’ll find you a respectable suitor.”
Miss Harland was undeterred. “My place is at Shadowmere now. In whatever capacity that may be. Mr Hawke might be so eager to keep me, he’ll propose.”
Maybe in some other life. One where he wasn’t jaded andhalf the ton wasn’t out for his blood. Sooner or later, he’d fall short. And she deserved better.
“Propose? Mr Hawke?” Lady Sanders sneered. “They’ll have you in Bedlam, girl, with such crazed notions.”
Even Beattie couldn’t stomach the absurdity. He coughed, nearly choking on his own spittle.
“Was there anything else, Lady Sanders?” Dominic nodded towards the hall. “Unless you’d care to stay for the Masque. I’m sure we could paint you as Pomona and pin a few leaves over what’s left of your modesty.”
The old vulture stiffened under her mourning bonnet, lips pinched. “Filthy swine. My niece will come to her senses soon enough.” Her hand swept the room and stalled, as though she’d expected tawdry excess and found refinement instead. “She was made for better things than … this.”
Better? Four months crammed aboard a rat-infested steamship, bound for Bengal? Playing broodmare to a red-faced merchant eager for heirs and a pliant young wife?
“What’s better than freedom?” He was on a similar journey himself—to shed his father’s shackles, to seek retribution so those closest to him might finally rest in peace. “Perhaps you should focus on finding out who killed your brother. Name a suspect, and I’ll investigate.”
“Sergeant Carter is more than capable,” she countered. “I expect he’ll want to know what happened to Daphne.”
He didn’t take kindly to veiled threats. “By all means, tell him. Your next move will determine whether you’re sincere or just another greedy wretch with a despicable plan.”
He’d stake a fortune on the latter.
Had anyone in Miss Harland’s life not sought to profit from her? No wonder she hadn’t wept for her father. No wonder she wasn’t scrambling to start afresh with that cold-blooded relic of an aunt.
“I think that concludes our business.” He flicked a hand towards the door. “No need to finish your tea. Beattie will see you out.”
Lady Sanders drew back as though struck. “Daphne, will you stand there and allow him to speak to me in this vile manner?”
“After your cutting remarks, Mr Hawke is well within his rights.”
Lady Sanders snatched up her reticule. “I expected better of my brother’s daughter.” She drew herself up. “When you decide to behave sensibly, my door remains open.”
It was hardly surprising he felt the urge to shield her from these fiends. And he was beginning to forget that it was vengeance, not devotion, that had brought him here.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest. He was losing sight of the plan. Forgetting the woman and child whose pain had set him on this path.
He didn’t care who had killed Harland.
This was never about his own suffering.
It was never meant to be about her.
It was about making someone answer.
Happiness had never been the prize.
Daphne Harland was not meant for a man like him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
