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“And then there was the time he was faced with an enemy cannon, and he simply disregarded it and rode his horse straight at it!”
“No!” gasped the table of diners.
“Yes, indeed.” Musgrave tossed Daniel a sly glance. “That was how things went, was it not?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, eyeing his friend narrowly. Although perhaps the termfriendwas not justified right now.
“You were there too?” Mrs. Cleever asked.
He was going to have to admit it. He glanced at Mr. Cleever, seated at the other end of the table, who studied him with a frown. Yes, it was time. He hated how such an admission would impact upon the Stapletons, but this farce had gone on long enough. “I was, yes.”
Musgrave threw back another glass of wine. “He was there each time Captain Balfour was.”
“Indeed?” Lady Bellingham said. “Why did we not know this?”
“Forgive me, ma’am,” Daniel said, “but—”
“Cap’n Balfour was there each time because … because …”
Daniel frowned at Musgrave, but he seemed not to pay heed, lifting his refilled glass.
“Because Captain Balfourishe.”
The words lingered in the air, directing each face to look at Daniel.
Wonderful. This was not how he wished to speak. But his lie needed confession, needed forgiveness, it weighed so heavily on his heart. He swallowed. Cleared his throat. And finally declared, “It is true, I am Captain Balfour.”
“Captain Balfour’s steward,” Lady Bellingham said, with a frown.
“No. I am Captain Daniel Balfour.”
She blinked. “Mister, er, Daniel?”
“Mr. Daniel Balfour, if you prefer not to use my military title.”
“But … but you do not look like he!”
He raised a brow. “How is he supposed to look?”
As she sputtered and grew pink, he realized the sheer ridiculousness of referring to himself in such a way.
“He cannot help his appearance, ma’am,” Musgrave said, as if he was trying to be helpful.
She shook her head, wide eyes fixed on him. “But you said—Miss Stapleton said that you are, that you were—”
“I am Rebecca Mannering’s uncle. Clara was my sister. I am very sorry for my deception, but I wished to visit my niece without the fuss and bustle we were subject to in London.”
Lady Bellingham gaped at him. “You mean all this time Theodosia Stapleton knew you were Captain Balfour?”
“Well, perhaps not right at the first second.”
This was met with a round of gasps and mutters that made his heart sore for poor Theo.
“You, sir, are hardly a gentleman,” Frederick muttered.
“And Miss Stapleton is hardly a lady,” murmured Mrs. Cleever, her eyes like a cat’s. Any moment he expected her to slash her clawlike hands.
“This is most untoward.” The squire frowned.
