“Enough to know we’re in a lot of trouble.”
“‘We,’ Dalton?”
“Duke or bastard, I’ll not desert you.” His butler searched his face then sighed. “I take it you knew about the harlot before that devil told you?”
Giles nodded. “I found out when the duchess died. It certainly explained why she never liked me.”
“And your real mother?”
“Is a mystery, Dalton. I’ve been hunting through all the duke’s papers for weeks trying to find her, and there isn’t a trace.”
“Well, clearly there is, and dear old Uncle Gervais knows it.”
“It would appear he does and, pardon my pun, Dalton, but if he can prove it, I won’t have a leg to stand on. Legally, Harpenden is his.”
“Then we’d best make sure he can’t prove it, hadn’t we?”
“I am not going to ask anyone to help me break the law, Dalton—even someone as disreputable as you.”
“Well, if you want my opinion on the law…”
“I’m almost sure I don’t, Dalton.”
“There’s only one kind of justice—what’s right and what’s wrong. While you’ve only ever tried to do right by the good folks on your estate for the decade I’ve known you, he’s as malevolent a wrong ’un as any I’ve ever met and I wouldn’t trust him with my name let alone your dukedom.”
“I’m actually rather touched, Dalton.” And he was. Giles was certainly overwhelmed enough that a few tears pricked his eyes. Of course, they might well be grief at losing Harpenden before he had fixed it. Or self-pity because he was destined for Newgate.
“I’ll cancel my plans with my ladylove and we’ll set to work straightaway. And if I could be so bold as to offer another opinion, Your Grace…”
“As if I could stop you.”
“If I heard the son correctly, and we need to find your mother with all haste before your uncle does, we’re going to need the services of the Sentinel. For nobody is better at digging up dirt and stopping wrong ’uns doing wrong and seeking proper justice for the wronged than Miss Diana Merriwell.”
Chapter Eighteen
As Diana returned from her walk, Payne staggered past laden with greenery, closely followed by Olivia clutching a reel of scarlet ribbon and a pair of scissors. At least she assumed the bush with legs was Payne.
“What on earth is going on?”
“The house needs to look more festive.” The older woman smiled too sweetly as she bustled past. “It feels like Christmas in some rooms and not in others.” Then she directed Payne. “We shall do the music room next. Then Hugh’s study.”
“Will Hugh be working in his study on Christmas Day?” Her question fell on deaf ears, so she huffed instead. “I thought working today was frowned upon.” She had certainly had to lie after breakfast to escape for long enough to write the exclusive truth of why Lord Stifford had been jilted—or would be sometime in the next half an hour. Thank goodness she had found a hackney, and the story she had written while shivering on a bench in the middle of Hyde Park, as the maid she had been forced to take fed the ducks, was now winging its way to Fleet Street. Hopefully with the same haste Lady Pamela and her lieutenant were racing to Gretna.
Vee emerged from the drawing room, clutching a book to her chest and grinning. “Olivia wants to ensure no stone is left unturned.” She pointed to the ceiling in the hallway, which was now festooned with hanging bunches of mistletoe everywhere. “It is bad lucknotto kiss under mistletoe, so she is keen that you and Giles are presented with plenty of opportunities to succumb. Especially after last night…”
“Last night?” Diana swallowed as she tried to appear confused.
“Olivia is convinced she saw you sneaking back into the party from the terrace, closely followed by Giles. He apparently looked very pleased with himself.”
“Doesn’t he always?” Convinced she could lie about it without spontaneously combusting in a blush, Diana decided to brazen it out. “But then again Lady Bulphan’s carol concert and the musical Nativity were atrocious, and he does find humor in the most bizarre things.”
“Then you do not deny the pair of you shared a moment on the terrace?” Vee’s eyes widened in a knowing fashion.
“We shared a hello on the terrace. Aquickhello as I recall.”
Which was sort of true. The actual greeting had been quick. The mortification of what happened after had lasted an eternity. To her horror, it hadn’t ended in the garden, either, as Lady Sewell’s lusty but fake Russian count had sat in the vacant chair beside Diana for the musical massacre of the Nativity.
Giles, the wretch, had enjoyed her discomfort immensely from his seat three chairs away and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, he had laughed so much he had barely been upright by the time the three wise men sung about their offerings to the baby Lord Jesus.Thankfully, after an out-of-tune Balthasar sang the immortal lineAllow me to dispense some frankincense, neither was Hugh, and she was supremely grateful for Lady Bulphan’s dreadful lyrics for hiding the true source of Giles’s amusement and her embarrassment from everyone else.
