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He wanted to get the ugly part of the conversation over. He did want to know who had fathered the child in his house and not just because the man had knifed him. He was curious to find out if one could gut a worm.
Before, he’d not truly blamed the man. Warrington understood, in some deep recess of himself, the man’s betrayal. The need for a woman’s body could be overpowering. But time had cured that empathy. Now the cur was going to pay.
Warrington filled them in on the details of his journey. By the time the conversation lulled, Ludgate had a jug-bitten look in his eyes and Daphne’s face kept pinching when she looked at her husband.
Warrington could feel bile in his mouth, knowing he’d soon be able to say the name of his wife’s lover. He no longer cared if the man were a footman, a cit or a king. Death treated all men the same.
He tapped his forefinger a slow heartbeat on to the base of the goblet while Ludgate rambled about some tailor’s choice of a button. The man had never been so eternally boring before and he refused to meet Warrington’s eyes.
Ludgate knew... Ludgate knew who Cassandra’s lover was. Of course he would have to know. She carried on her liaisons under his roof. Warrington’s gaze locked on Ludgate’s face and anger slammed Warrington’s body. Ludgate. Could it have been him? But, no, Warrington had seen the man who attacked him. And one thing he knew, knew positively—he would have recognised his brother-in-law. And the man who ambushed him didn’t limp or speak the same as Ludgate.
Warrington sipped his brandy, and just wondered if—if perhaps Ludgate could have had something to do with the stabbing. But he wasn’t murderous—he practically swooned if his tea was too hot and couldn’t even reprimand his horse or command his servants.
When Warrington rose to lift the decanter to refill Daphne’s glass, her eyes darted to her husband. Her words were slow. ‘Maybe we should—’
‘Nonsense.’ Warrington wasn’t letting them leave. Let his foxed friend ramble all he wanted. Warrington would garble and warble along with him, right up until the moment Daphne conversed on one particular subject.
Warrington poured the wine for Daphne and more brandy for her husband. ‘Please stay longer, Daphne. It’s so rare I have guests.’
Ludgate talked on, the liquid in his glass sloshing as he mumbled and sipped. He’d discussed the construction of the frame over the mantel and the way the wood had been carved, and now he compared that to the pictures in his house.
Warrington watched Ludgate’s brandy nearly spill. Who else would think of the skill to make a picture frame? Apparently Daphne had heard her husband expound on artistry many times. Her stare was fixed on the wall and she looked to be asleep with her eyes open, entranced in her own recollections.
Warrington didn’t for one blink think Ludgate could not know about Cassandra’s loose corset ties. Ludgate’s valet probably knew about the playthings. The sisters talked. Servants talked. Even the wind carried tales when two people whispered and breezes blew their words into another’s ears. Secrets didn’t go to the grave. They couldn’t lie still.
Warrington asked Daphne about her dog, a little hairy creature smaller than a man’s boot. She placed great store in the dog and War kept the conversation going while he eased his way to the pull. When the servant peered in, Warrington pointed to the near-empty wine glasses and the woman left immediately.
When she returned, she brought a decanter, filled, and sat it beside the first. Warrington gave a firm shake of his head and indicated for the maid to put the liquid near his brother-in-law. It didn’t take long for Ludgate to put his glass down, prop the crutch at his side and cross his arms. His head bobbed a bit to the side and his half-closed eyes fixed on the tooth decoration. Then Warrington saw the lowered jaw and heard the heavy breathing. Ludgate slept.
Daphne followed Warrington’s gaze. ‘He’s going to be aching tomorrow if his head hurts as I think it will.’ She sighed, looking at Warrington. ‘But he’ll get over it. He always does. I suppose we should leave.’
‘Daphne, I have something important we must talk about.’ He tapped the edge of his glass. Her eyes narrowed.
‘We must go.’ She stood, reaching to wake Ludgate.
‘No, Daphne.’ He stopped her movement with his words. ‘This is vital. I need you to tell me about Cassandra.’
The emotions behind her eyes blazed, but he couldn’t decipher them.
‘I’m sure your memories are as strong as mine,’ she said. ‘I read her letters again from time to time and I miss her so. Really, I can’t talk about her. Makes me too sad.’ She stood.
