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Horatia smirked at him but didn’t say anything else.
Exasperation simmered inside Dominic’s veins. “I like red,” he conceded at last. “And she stood out in the crowd. That’s all there is to it.”
His sister inclined her head. “If you say so. But just know I’m always here if you do need my opinion about this redheaded bluestocking or anyone at all.”
Conversation turned to a race meet that Horatia was keen on attending, and after Dominic finished his cognac, he repaired to the library to collect Celeste.
It appeared Miss Sharp had nodded off in a window seat. Celeste who sat by the fire, dark head bent, was apparently engrossed inPride and Prejudice.
Dominic smiled as he approached. He was pleased Miss Jones’s recommendation was proving to be popular. “Celeste…”
She jumped and squeaked and dropped her book. And a piece of paper slid out from between the pages as it hit the floor. “Oh, you startled me,” she said, and then her cheeks immediately turned bright pink when her gaze fell to the rug. “Oh…”
Celeste’s guilty expression made Dominic swoop down to retrieve the book and the paper before she could.
Suspicion prickling beneath his skin, he examined the sheet in his hands. It was a handwritten note. And then anger thundered in his veins as he took in the words.
My darling, beautiful Celeste,it began.I count the hours, nay the minutes and seconds until I can see you again…He could barely bring himself to read the remainder of the note that was full of vulgar suggestions and highly impassioned praise for his daughter’s “attributes,” but he did. The ridiculously florid passages seemed to float in a red haze.
It was signed with the single initial,T.
Somehow tamping down his roiling emotions and the urge to rip the paper to shreds and cast the pieces into the fire, Dominic said softly and very carefully, “What is this? Who is this ‘T’?”
Celeste’s countenance was now as pale as the snow-white lace at her throat and the love letter he held up for her to see. She swallowed. Licked her lips. “I… It’s…”
Miss Sharp, who’d been startled awake by all of the commotion, drifted closer. Her eyes were huge in her ashen face as she took in her charge’s reaction. “You must answer your father, my lady.”
“Do you know who ‘T’ is, Miss Sharp?” Dominic demanded, his voice harsh with barely restrained ire. “Because he’s penning highly inappropriate, illicit love notes to my fifteen-year-old daughter!”
The governess’s throat worked in a nervous swallow. “I…I’m sorry. I have no idea, Your Grace,” she whispered. “But I will endeavor—”
Dominic held up a hand. “Enough. We’re leaving,” he snapped. Fury and frustration made him uncharacteristically impatient. “Celeste. You and I are going to have a talk when we get home. Between now and then, I expect you to recall ‘T’s name. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Papa.” Tears shimmered like moonlight in her silver-gray eyes as she rose shakily to her feet, but Dominic wouldnotfeel guilty about making his daughter cry. He was protecting her, God damn it.
If this ‘T’ had laid one filthy finger on her, taken any sort of liberty with the Duke of Dartmoor’s daughter, the dog would be mincemeat.
***
A fraught hour and a river of tears later, Dominic was no closer to learning the identity of ‘T,’ and he was so damned furious, he could smash something.
When she wasn’t sobbing incoherently, Celeste had remained steadfastly tight lipped about the identity of her paramour or where she’d met him or how long their “affair” had been going on. Or how far things had progressed. Miss Sharp had been tearful yet stoic; but in the end, she hadn’t added anything useful to the discussion. No doubt the governess feared she’d lose her position because she hadn’t been watching Celeste as closely as she ought to. Celeste’s maid, Yvette, hadn’t been able to provide any useful intelligence either. Neither had Morton or the housekeeper. There was one footman on staff at Dartmoor House by the name of Tod, but by all accounts, the young man could barely sign his own name, let alone pen a letter.
Even though he’d already had far too much to drink, Dominic retreated to his beloved library and poured himself a sizable dram of whisky. He needed something damnably strong to quell the fire blazing through his bloodstream. He was a bundle of thwarted energy. A barely contained firestorm about to rage. A volcano about to erupt. A grenade about to explode.
Yes, he needed an outlet, a way to vent steam, and right at this moment, it seemed that alcohol was the only thing that would do.
He was on his second dram when something on the edge of his desk’s leather blotter caught his eye. An unopened envelope that bore his name in a flowing script that he didn’t recognize. Putting down his whisky, Dominic reached for it and then sliced the flap open with his silver-bladed letter opener.
And then he smiled.
Your Grace,
If you had time to meet with me at Delaney’s Antiquarian Bookshop tomorrow at four o’clock sharp, I would be most grateful. I have a proposition for you.
I’ll be waiting by the Gothic novels.
A.J.
First thing in the morning, Dominic would ask Morton to clear his late-afternoon schedule. This was one appointment he did not want to miss.
