Damn Mr Hawke.
She was of a mind to challenge him herself.
A duel would be another foolish notion. She didn’t know the first thing about loading a pistol, let alone firing one with any accuracy.
But there were other ways to make a man bleed.
Not with a blade.
Knowledge was the only weapon she needed. The kind that could ruin a man’s name with a whisper, turn a rumour into a scandal, a secret into currency. If Mr Hawke thought he’d seen the last of her, he’d underestimated her badly.
She drew a breath, plucked the note from her bodice, and read Mr Hawke’s parting gift.
Angel,
The secret’s out. Let them whisper. You always did look good in a storm. Smile like you know something they don’t. You will soon enough.
Find Lady Soanes. She knows how to win at this game and finish it. She’ll see that you’re armed.
Hawke
P.S. I’ll miss those sweet lips and that clever tongue.
She studied his confident penmanship. What sort of man ruined a woman and then wrote hera note? Perhaps one with a conscience. Or one who knew Lord Templeton would read the missive and wished to convince the ton they were lovers.
Well. If he wanted her to seek out Lady Soanes,that’s what she’d do. A woman like that didn’t survive without influence. Daphne didn’t want sanctuary. She wanted training and help to overcome the obstacles. Who better to provide it than a woman who’d turned scandal to her advantage?
As soon as her father left the house to visit Mr Irving, and Aunt Augusta fell asleep in a fireside chair, Daphne dragged her packed valise from the blanket box and slipped out through the servants’ door, taking a hunk of bread and a square of cheese with her.
The walk to Wimpole Street took five minutes, though her heart thumped in time with every step. Would Lady Soanes receive her or turn her away like a common beggar?
As legend had it, the diamond of her Season was once found locked in an orangery with a wicked cad. The scandal should have ruined her. Instead, it forged her into something far more dangerous. Judging by the grandeur of Soanes House, infamy suited her well.
Daphne lifted the lion-head knocker, polished to a mirror sheen, and made her presence known. The young butler answered promptly, a frown flickering beneath his reserve as his gaze dropped to her valise.
“If you’ve come from the Registry, miss, Sir Gascon Phillips lives next door. He holds interviews between ten and noon.”
That he’d mistaken her for a servant did not bode well.She pressed the note into his hand. “Please give this to Lady Soanes. I shall await her reply.”
“Lady Soanes is indisposed.” His tone was polite but noncommittal as he returned the note. “You may try again tomorrow. After her afternoon calls at three.”
She might be halfway to Bengal by then.
Daphne stepped closer. She was not averse to barging past him. “I must leave London tonight. I’m sure Lady Soanes will appreciate the urgency of a woman down on her luck.” She offered the note again. “Mr Hawke advised I call, and gave me this missive two hours ago.”
Before the butler could respond, a feminine voice floated down the stairwell. “Did he now? It’s just like him to catch a lady unawares.”
A truer word had never been spoken.
A figure appeared on the landing, wrapped in a robe of midnight blue trimmed with white fur, her auburn hair coiled loosely, as if she’d only just risen from bed.
Lady Soanes descended with the confidence of a woman who’d fought the patriarchy and won. “Allow her in, Braisby. One never ignores a summons from Hawke.”
Braisby took her coat without comment, though his brows lifted at the worn hem and the heavy valise.
The drawing room was all pale blue silk and gold damask, with marble-topped tables and gilt-framed portraits. Every polished surface spoke of wealth and security, things she could only hope to possess.
Lady Soanes poured two glasses of sherry, then crossed the room and handed one to Daphne, but not before giving her figure a brief appraisal.
