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“Good. Then I’ll leave you to dress. I’d best see if your father needs me.” Elizabeth bent to kiss Daphne’s forehead. “Send my warmest regards to the vicar,” she added in a breath of a whisper, “and tell him our stableboys will be requiring new boots this winter. They should be arriving at about the same time as the shipment of wool.”
Daphne’s whole face lit up. “Oh, Mama.”
With an adamant shake of her head, Elizabeth silenced Daphne by pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Have a lovely walk, darling.” She straightened. “I shan’t expect you home for several hours.”
“God bless you, Mama,” Daphne said softly to her mother’s retreating back.
Elizabeth paused, her head bowed. “May He protect us all.”
The door closed behind her.
Daphne was dressed and ready in a quarter hour.
Running a comb through her hair, she rehearsed what she would say if she encountered her father on the way out, although most likely her mother had already paved the way.
A walk. About the grounds. Through the thick woods surrounding Tragmore.
That could take hours.
Descending to the first level, Daphne walked gingerly by her father’s study and straight into the oncoming inferno that was her father.
“That arrogant bastard! I refuse to allow him to provoke me again!” Harwick exploded, waving a sheet of paper in the air. “I’m going to bring him down if it’s the last thing I do.”
Daphne’s first thought was that her father had unearthed the bandit, and stark fear for her hero’s safety eclipsed the customary dread her father’s outbursts evoked.
“Father?” she blurted out. “What’s happened? Have you discovered something about the robbery?”
“What?” Harwick blinked, focusing on Daphne as if he were seeing her for the first time. A vein throbbed in his temple. “No. As if last night’s theft weren’t enough, I’m being forced to meet with the lowlife I’m compelled to do business with, and at my own home, no less.”
“Oh.” Daphne was totally at sea, and terrified to question her father further. Convinced that his current rampage wasn’t connected with the bandit, common sense re-surfaced, urging her to flee before the marquis turned his anger on her.
Slowly, she inched toward the door.
Harwick whirled about, shaking his fist in Daphne’s direction. “He’s insisting on a meeting now. Today. At Tragmore.”
Daphne’s terrified gaze was riveted to her father’s tightly clenched fist. Frantically, she sought the words to appease him. “Today? But surely if you told him about last night’s theft—”
“It would change nothing. That gutter rat cares for nothing but his own pocket.”
The irony of her father’s scathing description struck Daphne even through her fear. Greed was something Harwick knew much about, and usually admired. Evidently not in this case. “Who are you speaking of, Father? Who is this dreadful man?”
“That bloody Pierce Thornton, that’s who.”
“Pierce Thornton?” Daphne blinked in amazement. “The gentleman I met at Newmarket?”
“He’s no gentleman, daughter. He’s a parasite, a pr
edatory bloodsucker who drains men of their dignity and their money.”
“But I thought you were business associates?”
“I don’t willingly associate with worthless, nameless gamblers.”
“I don’t understand.” Daphne’s head was reeling.
“Nor do you need to,” the marquis roared, advancing toward her. “Why are you wandering about the manor? Your mother said you were out walking.”
All the color drained from Daphne’s face and, inadvertently, she backed away. “I am—I mean, I’m about to. I’m leaving now.”
