But her reputation was of paramount importance because how could she build her business if she was written about in scandal sheets? She needed to be trustworthy. How could anyone trust her when they would soon read about her father’s actions?
“You are not him,” Bishop said, his voice low as iffearing she might shatter into a thousand shards that could never be reassembled. He brushed his lips over her forehead. “Nor are you a reflection of him.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“You are who you have always been. His evil intentions didn’t shape you.”
“I don’t know how much you deciphered from the night, but the plan all along was to kill Mr. Mallard and make it appear that you’d done it,” she said quietly.
“So I gathered. Do you happen to know if Mallardeverstruck his wife?”
She wanted to spare him the truth, but she was feeling untethered because others had wanted to do the same for her. “He didn’t. My father hit her, hoping you’d confront Mallard, make a scene, so you’d be suspected of doing him in.”
“Christ.” His arms tightened around her, his fingers trailing circles over her back in a soothing motion. “I delivered a blow to a man who didn’t deserve it. I have no way to make amends.”
She heard the genuine remorse reflected in his voice, remorse her father would never experience. “Perhaps you shouldn’t feel that you need to save everyone. That’s an awful burden to carry.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t feel that you always need to go it alone.”
“You paid me for my services. I was merely delivering what was owed. It’s my business, Bishop. I can’t have you traipsing after me when I may have to encounter situations you might not like.”
His fingers went still, his hold loosened. He didn’t like what she’d said. She was rather certain of it. He was gracious enough not to point out that, while shehad told him on numerous occasions she was not in need of saving, tonight, in fact, she had been.
When she’d first seen him, she’d known a moment of exquisite joy and horrifying fear. If he’d been killed, she’d have never forgiven herself, never recovered. What she felt for him was overwhelming and terrifying. Had her mother felt this way toward her father? As a result, had she neglected to recognize his flaws?
Would a time come when Daisy would lose herself in Bishop? When she would do anything to please him, even give up who she was? Would it happen slowly over time or all at once?
Was she destined to repeat her mother’s fate?
Chapter 24
The Earl of Bellingham wishes an audience at 2 this afternoon at Bellingham House. A carriage will be sent for you at half one.
The missive arrived a mere two days after Daisy’s encounter with her aunt. Last night, she’d again slept in Bishop’s arms, but during the daylight hours, she returned to her office building and flat. She had yet to display in the window herOpen for Businesssign or draw back the draperies. Melancholy preferred the gloom, and she was too wrecked and raw to do much of anything except curl up with a book. She’d gone withJane Eyrebecause it suited her mood. Reading a detective novel would have reminded her too much of her aunt and stirred up too many pleasant memories. She would eventually forgive Aunt Charlotte, she knew that. She was already edging toward exoneration but needed a little more time to come to terms with the notion that what she’d believed for twenty years had all been a falsehood. While she understood the reasons behind the lie that wasn’t exactly a lie, the deceit still hurt.
However, one didn’t dismiss the summons of an earl, even if he was one’s uncle.
Thusly at precisely two o’clock that afternoon, his butler escorted her into Bellingham’s grand library that carried the scent of books lovingly read. From behind his desk, he came to his feet, his posture reminding her of a ship mast: tall and stately and confident of its purpose and its ability to see it through. With a small smile that hinted he was truly glad to welcome her. “Ah, Marguerite, I’m so thankful you were able to make time for me in your schedule. It’s a lovely day. Walk with me in the garden.”
He didn’t hug her or take her hand. He’d never been as demonstrative with his affections as her aunt. Daisy had always thought that the three older brothers had handed their effusive and expressive tendencies over to their sister, because she possessed a warmer and more welcoming air than they did.
Her uncle had a large, magnificent garden, but it didn’t begin to compare with Bishop’s. Here everything was trimmed, contained, and lined up like soldiers preparing to march into battle. Blossoms displayed various shades of a single color: red. There were more blades of grass than blooms. Whereas Bishop’s garden heralded every color imaginable with riotous blossoms, wild and untamed, and yet the arrangement was majestic, a tribute to the wonder of nature.
“I recently had a visit from Scotland Yard in the wee hours. It’s my understanding you were instrumental in their apprehension of a murderer,” her uncle finally said quietly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the bees buzzing around. “A murderer who happens to be my youngest brother.”
The reason they’d come to him, no doubt. It wouldn’tdo for a lord to learn such information from reading theTimes. “I suppose you’re going to chastise me for not telling you myself.”
“No chastisement. I merely wanted to ensure you had recovered from the ordeal.”
Physically perhaps, but mentally she still seemed to be a bit of a mess, because his concern, while flatly expressed with only a hint of true worry, managed to make her eyes sting. “It was all a bit unnerving, but I’m coping.”
“As I would expect a Townsend to do. Still, it had to be difficult. I made no secret of not being in favor of you taking on this occupation, but it appears you’re quite good at it.”
“Is that a compliment?”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” He shifted his gaze to her. “I know I’m not the most effusive of creatures so when I offer praise, you may rest assured it is not false flattery.”
“I like the challenge of what I do. The dull moments are few.” Usually she enjoyed the unexpected aspects of being an inquiry agent—although her father’s revelations may have dimmed her enthusiasm for surprising results.
