“I sent Swindler a message before coming after you, in case help was needed.” Two constables edged past them, and Bishop called out, “She’s on the far side of the parlor.”
His gaze swung back to her. “I could have killed him,” he said, his voice taut and seething.
Himneeded no moniker, no identifier. But she had to give him one anyway. “He’s my father.”
Bishop’s brows jumped together so quickly, so hard that she thought she might have heard the impact. “What the bloody hell? I thought he died.”
“Yes, so did I. I need to visit my aunt. Now. Immediately.”
“It can wait until morning, surely.” Taking her arm, he pressed a kiss to the skin at her wrist that had been rubbed raw as she’d fought to free herself of the bindings.
“No, no it can’t.” She felt vulnerable and betrayed by someone else she loved and trusted. Was her heart as bad a judge of character as her mother’s? Was no one in her life completely honest with her? “But first a word with Swindler.”
He gave a nod before stepping to the side, but his arm stayed around her as they walked over to the inspector, who was asking questions of her father, questions he was stubbornly refusing to answer.
Swindler turned his uncompromising attention to her. “Miss Townsend, you seem to have had an eventful night.”
“Indeed, Inspector, but it bore fruit.” She told him everything she’d overheard and all she’d been told. She didn’t stop when her father ranted and raved, called her vile names, and threw profanity at her. The moment she felt Bishop loosening his hold on her, she knew he was on the verge of taking whatever means necessary to quieten Lionel Townsend. She took Bishop’s hand, keeping him in place, not willing to risk him doing something that might land him in a cell beside the man her mother had loved.
When her father was dragged away, she should have felt something—anything. She remembered howshe’d sobbed when her aunt had told her that he was gone. Her dear papa, who would toss her in the air and always catch her. She had trusted him. Loved him. Missed him.
Now she hoped only to never set eyes upon him again.
It was well over an hour later, and she was weary beyond belief when Bishop’s coachman brought his carriage to a halt in front of her aunt’s residence.
“Shall I accompany you inside?” Bishop asked.
She didn’t particularly want to be separated from him. Much to her surprise, she’d been nestled against his side during the journey, as though he couldn’t bear the thought of not touching her. She’d expected him to be cross with her for leaving him in his bed, but it seemed he was presently too relieved that she still drew breath to confront her about her daring and inconsideration. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to speak with her alone. However, if you wouldn’t mind, would you wait?”
“Of course.”
The door opened, and she suspected he’d told the footman to give them a few minutes before seeing to their alighting from the carriage. As though he’d anticipated that she’d need a little time to settle herself before making her way into the residence that had served as her home for the majority of her life. She placed her hand in the waiting footman’s and he helped her climb down. She looked back at Bishop.
“I’ll be right here when you’re ready to leave,” he said, “or should you need me at any time beforehand, for any reason.”
With a nod, she left him there, walked up the steps, unlocked the door, and entered. The foyer had always had the most wonderful echo. As a child, she’d often stood at its center and shouted up. She did so now, but not with the joy of her youth. Instead with the rage and disappointment of betrayal. “Auntie Charlotte!”
She called out three times before her aunt was scurrying down the stairs, lamp in hand to guide her way, her nightcap and dressing gown askew, her long plait draped over one shoulder tapping against her bosom, a bosom that had absorbed a good many of Daisy’s childish tears.
“My dear girl, what is amiss? Oh, you look dreadful. Is it that rakehell Blackwood, did he—”
“No, we caught Mallard’s murderer tonight.”
Her aunt skidded to a stop and gently touched her arm. “Did he harm you?”
He’d very nearly destroyed her.If you wish to lay the cause of your mother’s death at someone’s feet, perhaps you should lay it at your own.
She’d struggled to regain her composure, her purpose, and to ensure that justice prevailed. She’d focused on Bishop and her need to do everything possible so he didn’t pay for her father’s sins. It was that which had finally brought her out of the pit of despair into which her father had so callously tossed her. “Why did you tell me my father was dead?”
Aunt Charlotte looked as though all the blood had been drained from her. “Why would you ask such a question, as though...” Her voice trailed off like she hadn’t the strength to form further words.
“As though I know he isn’t dead, but am aware that he is very much alive?”
Fury flashed. In all her years, Daisy could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her aunt angry. “He called upon you, the scapegrace. Where? At your place of business? Bellingham will have something to say about this.”
Her aunt was seething, and Daisy feared more was involved than a secret exposed. “He didn’t come to me. As a matter of fact, fate had me calling upon him.”
“Come into the parlor as I need some sherry.” Aunt Charlotte didn’t wait for a response but was marching briskly into the other room as though salvation waited within. Daisy followed.
