“Spying obviously,” he ground out. “Listening at the window, no doubt.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” she lied.
“Of course, you didn’t. And I can truly summon thedead.” He pulled her into the house, into the parlor, and flung her into a wingback chair.
Daisy sprang back to her feet and judged the distance to the doorway. Since he was blocking her path, she knew she couldn’t make it before he was on her again. Could she survive the glass if she threw herself through the window? Would the draperies offer protection from the sharp shards?
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked lightly as though amused by her.
“You’ll have to kill her,” Mrs. Mallard said with the ease of one sayingyou’ll need to butter your bread.
“No, I don’t think I will. You’re not going to do anything foolish now, are you, Daisy?”
“Nothing foolish, but neither will I stand back and watch an innocent man be accused of your crime.” She was being reckless, should pretend to be frightened. Should promise anything to be set free, but she decided too much was at risk for him to negotiate with her. He knew it as well as she did. They’d not reached an impasse, because he held all the power, but she still had gumption and grit on her side. “You’ll not prevent me from telling Inspector Swindler what I know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Daisy. You’re not going to do anything that will see me arrested. You’re not going to betray your father.”
Chapter 22
Lethargically, Bishop stretched before reaching for the woman who’d come to mean so much to him, a woman who occupied his thoughts as though nothing else in the world mattered. His hand found no hip to curl over, his fingers no warm soft skin to lure him closer. He was greeted only with cool linen.
Opening his eyes fully, he sat bolt upright and stared at the tangled emptiness, the hollow in the pillow that confirmed she had indeed recently occupied that space. Quickly he glanced around. Clothing was no longer scattered haphazardly over the floor. His was folded neatly and resting on a chair. Hers was nowhere to be seen.
“Marguerite!” he called out, already knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, and he’d hear no response from her. He scrambled out of the bed and stormed to the bathing room. The door was ajar, no light within. Still, he pushed it open wider to chase back the shadows and stepped inside, but she wasn’t there. Why the devil had she left him?
Perhaps she’d been unable to sleep and had gone to the library for a book, to the kitchen for a morsel to eat, to his exercise room to lift a few weights. Disappointment ratcheted through him because she hadn’t invited him along. He’d have been happy to read to her, to place nibbles between her lips, to glide his hands over her arms as they strained—
Intending to go in search of her, because surely she’d not left the residence completely, he pivoted quickly and nearly lost his balance when he abruptly changed direction because his gaze had skimmed over the credenza where he’d set the stethoscope so he wouldn’t forget to return it to its owner. An instrument that was no longer there.
He raced over to the window and looked out on the drive. The carriage was gone.
He cursed thoroughly and soundly as he hastened over to the wall and yanked on the bellpull a good half dozen times. He’d have tugged on it a half dozen more if he hadn’t dislodged it from its mooring so it fell to the floor, useless. Which was how he felt. Useless. She was so damned independent, so damned determined to prove she didn’t need him—
He wasn’t going to find her in the residence. She’d left. And she’d left without him.
Because she didn’t need him, but he damn well needed her. And while he wanted to trust her, he feared she was off doing something reckless with that bloody stethoscope. As a matter of fact, he’d wager his entire fortune that she was.
He snatched up his clothes and had them donned by the time the knock sounded. “Come.”
Wearing a nightcap and his dressing gown haphazardly secured to reveal his nightshirt, hairy calves, and slippered feet, Perkins stepped in, somewhat bleary-eyed. “Sir?”
“I don’t suppose you saw Miss Townsend leave.”
“No, sir. I wasn’t aware she was even here.”
“Right. Wake a footman and meet me in the library. I have a message I want delivered straightaway to Scotland Yard.”
“Yes, sir.”
His butler disappeared. Dropping into the chair, Bishop pulled on his stockings and his boots. He’d have to go in search of a hansom. This time of night, how long would it take him to locate one? He might end up running the entire way to his destination.
Then he was rushing down the stairs as though his life depended on it. Not his, but hers. However, they’d inexplicably become entwined, one and the same. Because without her, how could any joy remain in his world?
Her father. Her father.Those two little words were like ice picks jabbing over and over into her mind, her memories, her very heart.
With the braided tasseled ropes used to hold back the draperies, the beastly man had bound her to the wooden arms and legs of a chair with a stuffed, brocaded seat and back. Had she wanted to be there, she might have found the furniture comfortable. She didn’t.
It was his eyes, she realized now, the shape of his eyes and the mirth residing in them that had seemed so familiar. Whether in person or in a photograph, his carefree attitude showed through. How had she not recognized her own father? Perhaps because she’d not been searching for him, hadn’t expected him, because they’d told her that he was dead. Because she’d visitedhis resting place and the first words she’d ever learned to read were those inscribed on his and her mother’s headstones. She’d traced her fingers over the carved letters, memorized the outline of them.
