He sipped some more and she did, too. Her because her head told her to bolt now that they had reached an accord, but her heart wanted her to stay. To soak up every moment of these last hours before they had to say goodbye. Giles seemed in no hurry to leave, either, and settled back cradling his glass while looking into the fire lost in thought. After an age he sighed.
“They shape us, don’t they? Fathers? Even when we wish they didn’t.”
“They do indeed.” Alfred Merriwell had certainly shaped the woman she was now. “Mine would betray you as soon as look at you if he benefited in some way.”
Diana sipped more brandy to take away the sudden bitter taste of all those countless disappointments and betrayals—but always one in particular. The fateful occasion when he had offered her to a creditor for the night as payment for a gambling debt.
She still recoiled at the memory of that brute pressing his foul lips against hers in that alleyway as his fists pinned her wrists to the wall. A dark alleyway her father had duped her into entering. He had denied it afterward, of course, acting all incensed and suitably relieved that she had escaped, but it had been the final nail in his coffin. And perhaps the final nail in hers, too. She had certainly never been quite the same afterward. Any residual naïveté died that night in that alleyway, and a very different woman had stalked out of it.
One who no longer took a person’s word for granted and never trusted anything. Yet one who grabbed hold of the reins of her own destiny with both hands that same night. Who charted her own course and did everything possible to make sure she was never at anyone else’s mercy again.
Bile burned in her throat at that unwanted memory, but she masked it with a matter-of-fact shrug in case the canny Giles saw her discomfort and asked what was wrong.
“Is that why you are so hell-bent on hunting out the truth and holding the villains accountable?”
“Probably… I suppose I know what it is to feel powerless and voiceless and at the mercy of others.” Why did she keep trusting him with the truth? “But I also know those things can change in an instant if you know how to fight your enemy.” With that brute in the alleyway, only some quick thinking and a well-placed knee had given her the briefest opportunity of escape. “If you are brave enough to wield it, the truth is always the most powerful weapon against evil.”
With Alfred Merriwell, that truth had been his own duplicity. His lies, which had freed her wrists from his shackles. An irony she had always thought fitting.
Even at seventeen, Diana had realized that if he would betray his own flesh and blood without blinking an eye, he wouldn’t think twice about doing it to anyone else. Once she started digging around that suspicion, she discovered that he had not only betrayed someone else but also snitched on some real villains—and to Bow Street, no less—for the reward. The cardinal sin as far as his criminal associates were concerned and one that would end with his garroted body washing up on the banks of the Thames if it were ever disclosed.
She had enjoyed spelling it all out to him behind her sisters’ backs.
Enjoyed watching the fear in his eyes as the tables turned and he realized that her threat to expose him if he ever risked one of his daughters again was as real as that foul brute in the alleyway. Within days he had abandoned them all and she had rejoiced in that, too, proud it had been her foot that kicked him out the door even though it had plunged the Merriwell sisters into worse poverty as a result. Even with that, she had never regretted her decision. Dirt-poor and vulnerable was infinitely better than being dirt-poor, vulnerable, and at the mercy of him.
“You wield that sword well.” He smiled for the first time. “And to think we all underestimated you as a mere gossip columnist.”
“I am that, too, but for different reasons. Society gossip amuses me and entertains the masses. What I put in that column is always harmless. A bit of light titillation. Others might print different, but I prefer to avoid the malicious in favor of the ludicrous. I never want to hurt good people.” She slanted him a begrudging glance. “Blue-blooded or otherwise. I prefer to store up all my self-righteous indignation for the ones who really deserve it.”
“Like your canal swindler rather than Dahlia Regis.” Giles regarded her as if he were seeing her in a whole new light. “How the devil did you find that dreadful story?”
“Much the same way as I find all of them. I keep my eye on the news and an ear to the ground. Because I am suspicious by nature and always think the worst of someone first with no benefit of the doubt whatsoever.” He smiled. “And I have a vivid, cynical imagination, refuse to believe in coincidences, and have the memory of an elephant. If something sparks a question in my mind, I’ll dig until I find the answer. More often than not, once the answer has been found, there really is nothing else of interest there—but sometimes you kick a hornet’s nest. With the canal company it was overhearing a snippet at a ball a few months ago. Just one gentleman waxing lyrical to another about his lucrative new investment and the enormous dividends he had been promised, which sounded too good to be true. So I did some digging on the company and its owner and suddenly there were hornets everywhere.”
For some reason, she told him everything about that investigation from start to finish. What she had found, how she had found it, the peers involved, even the damsel in distress who had ultimately created the sense of urgency to uncover all the truth so swiftly. By the time she finished, they had both drained their glasses.
“A Hunter of Truth and a fearless Kicker of Hornets.” The soothing effect of the cognac had lowered his voice to a deep, silky rumble, his eyes sleepy and his body relaxed. “Do I need to worry about all the rattling Sinclair skeletons making an appearance in your column?”
“Of course not. I would never write a story that close to home. Besides, the Sentinel isn’t interested in the past. Why wouldhewastehisvaluable time on old news when the present is more damning?”
“Care to make a bet on that?”
“Apart from Gervais the dastardly kidnapper, what other scandalous rattling skeletons are there in the Sinclair cupboard?” Her tongue tripped over “rattling” and “skeletons,” and she realized that the enormous glass of cognac Dalton had poured had gone straight to her head. Somewhere during their conversation, she had scooted closer and was now propped against the cushion so close to him she could smell his subtle cologne. So close she should probably move, but didn’t. Sitting here, chatting amiably to him was currently the only thing she wanted to do.
“Too many to count.” As he said it, he winced slightly, his fingers tightening around his glass as he stared into it rather than look at her. He frowned and attempted a smile, which did not banish the flash of panic in his eyes. “Dalton was right—this stuff is smooth. A bit too smooth and definitely too potent. My head is spinning.” He glanced at the clock as he deposited his glass on the side table. “It’s late and you have to leave at the crack of dawn.”
“And you are doing your utmost to avoid my question all of a sudden.” She nudged him playfully—perhaps flirtatiously. The brandy lowering her usual inhibitions as well as her guard. Enough to make Diana forget that she was still a forger’s daughter from the crowded streets of dingy Clerkenwell, and he was a duke who owned all the infinite hills outside.
“I have just bared my soul to you, Giles, and confessed my darkest secret. Don’t you think you owe me the same courtesy? I leave tomorrow and I won’t see you for months.” Of their own accord, her fingers traced his sleeve until she noticed him watching their path and let them fall away. “Fair’s fair. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth and all that. Therefore, surely it is also one deep, dark secret for another? If only for insurance purposes, I should be granted one rattle of those intriguing skeletons.” Was she flirting? It felt like she was. She had grabbed his arm again to anchor him in place.
“I am not sure I want anyone to kick that hornet’s nest. Especially not the Sentinel.”
Something about his posture suddenly cut through the brandy to raise all her journalistic hackles. “Is your secret that bad?”
He nodded.
“And you don’t trust me not to keep it when I have proved to you already that I can?” She pursed her lips as if annoyed. “I am offended.” Which was rich when she was predisposed not to trust anyone beyond her two sisters, and even then she still held back. Her role at the newspaper was a case in point, as was what had happened in the alley and after. Neither of them knew how she had ruthlessly purged their father from their lives. Nobody did.
“Don’t be. I don’t trust anyone not to keep it. The risk is too great.” His lazy, wry smile was tinged with sadness, and something about his expression set loud, clanging alarm bells ringing.
