Seduction Becomes Her (19 page)

Daphne met his hard gaze head on. She resented his words, resented his coming power over them, but she knew he was being fairer than most men might have been. Still, it rankled, and her chin lifted. “Very well. Thank you for your candor.”

Charles smiled at her. “Candor? My dear, if you knew me better, you’d know that I was being most delicate.”

Long after Charles departed for Lanyon Hall, Daphne considered his words. She suspected that beneath that charming demeanor lurked unyielding steel, and she wondered uneasily how far the steel went…and how often he displayed the ruthless implacability she sensed within him. Was he hiding his true nature? Lulling her into a false feeling of security?

She wrinkled her nose. No. Charles Weston would do no lulling. He might have chosen his words with care this afternoon, but he had not tried to wrap them in clean linen. It was clear she was marrying a man used to getting his own way and intent on continuing to get his own way, but—and it was this but that soothed some of the fear in her heart—he would be fair in his dealings with them. She could ask no more of him.

It wasn’t until she had bid her siblings good night and retired to her rooms that evening that she thought about the other part of the conversation with Charles. Once she had dismissed her maid, before she climbed into bed, she walked over to the big armoire and looked at it. She could see no sign of the doorway that Charles told her lay behind its bulk. Shrugging, she walked back to her bed and snuggled under the covers.

Only when she blew out the candle and the darkness swooped down on her did she remember something else. Charles had said that this room had once been part of the original suite of rooms used by the masters of Beaumont Place. Her breath caught, and she sat bolt upright in bed. Good God! She was sleeping in wicked Sir Wesley’s bedroom!

S
leep did not come to Daphne that night. With thoughts of Sir Wesley crowding out common sense she hastily lit a huge candelabrum and kept it handy. Crawling back into bed, she lay stiffly, her gaze on the shadows created by the candlelight that danced around the room, fearful images vaulting through her mind. Heart banging painfully in her chest, she watched all through the very long night for that frightful amorphous form she’d seen in the blue salon to leap out at her from the darkness beyond the candlelight. She would have almost welcomed the sight of the wispy female apparition—that, at least, would have driven Sir Wesley from her mind.

She managed to get through the night, and by morning, she could chide herself for being foolish, but she could not pretend that she would ever be entirely easy in this room again. It was too tainted by the knowledge that Sir Wesley had once roamed through it for her peace of mind. Though she knew it was silly, as she dressed, she kept glancing over her shoulder, worried that she might actually see something forming in the dust motes that drifted in the sunlight that filled the room. Dressed and ready to face the day, she wandered around the room as if seeing it for the first time, wondering what it had looked like in Sir Wesley’s time, wondering what ugly deeds may have been plotted or even carried out here at his behest.

Her first instinct was to change her bedroom, but she hesitated. For months, she had slept here without complaint. Refusing to use the room now was sure to cause gossip in the household. There was another reason to remain here—only yesterday, Charles had inspected the rooms that adjoined this one and had declared that they were suitable. While she’d been dressing, she’d heard movement next door and guessed that the servants were already hard at work readying the rooms for their use. She made a face at herself. Unless she wanted more gossip, she was just going to have to endure sleeping here and pray that Sir Wesley didn’t decide to pay her a visit…or any other ghost.

Some judicious questioning over the next several days revealed that she was, indeed, sleeping in Sir Wesley’s former bedroom, his own bed, in fact. Daphne felt ill at that unwelcome bit of news. Mrs. Hutton hurriedly assured her that the feather mattress and the bed hangings were of a more recent date. Only the bed and the big armoire dated from Sir Wesley’s time. Daphne wasn’t comforted. Just the idea that Sir Wesley, that
thing
from the blue salon, had once slept in the
same
bed left her feeling chilled and uneasy.

No one knew the fortitude it took for her to return to her room each night, the room that was now forever labeled Sir Wesley’s in her mind. She kept a candle lit but slept poorly, jerking upright at the slightest sound, be it the pop of the fire or the rattle of the windows on a windy night. But as the nights passed, her fears lessened, and by the time a fortnight had passed, she could sleep almost undisturbed through the night.

Work on the rooms she would share with Charles moved forward. There was a constant bustle next door as drapes were taken down and aired, dust covers were removed to reveal the bronze and green damask fabric on the handsome mahogany and satinwood pieces, and the fireplace grate was cleaned and readied. The windows and mirrors gleamed, the floors and furniture shone with polish, and the scent of apple cider vinegar and beeswax lingered in the air. Moving the armoire completed the work, and once the huge piece was muscled away, Daphne stared at the previously hidden doorway. It gave her a curious feeling to think that Charles would soon be able to walk through that doorway at will, into her room, into her bed….

The descent on Beaumont Place by friends and neighbors curious about what had transpired in the blue salon never materialized, and Daphne was devoutly grateful. She discovered that as soon as it was learned that Anne Darby had been present, all the gossip was simply brushed aside as some very clever theatrics by the local witch.

The wedding was little more than ten days away. Notes of congratulations and presents were pouring in, and the household was in a tizzy preparing for all the guests that would soon be descending upon Beaumont Place. The doors of musty rooms that had not seen the light of day in decades were thrown wide and thoroughly aired and cleaned; Cook demanded more staff and seemed to Daphne determined to concoct meals that would please the palate of a king. There were trips to the dressmaker in Penzance for the ladies of the house, even Miss Kettle breaking down and agreeing to a new gown in puce silk for the wedding.

Though a visit with Anne Darby was high on her list of things to do, there was simply no time. She had managed, however, a word with Vicar Henley during the small dinner party he and his wife hosted for her and Charles a few days later. Seeking a private moment with the vicar, she mentioned Sir Wesley’s name, and the vicar had sent her a soothing smile. “My dear,” he said, “never worry that some of that old villain’s blood runs in your veins. Perish the thought! He may have had a hand in doing away with his nephew, but no one was ever able to prove it.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “From the surviving letters of that time, it was certainly suspected that he killed John—or had him killed. The point for you to remember is that Sir Wesley died without issue.” He looked solemn. “It was an ugly time with ugly doings, and I must say, from my research, that it is fortunate for your family that Sir Wesley was not able to get his hands on his nephew’s wife and child. I shudder to think what might have happened to them. The moment Anne-Marie’s parents heard of John’s arrest by his uncle, they swooped down and carried their daughter away to the safety of their own home, well out of Sir Wesley’s grasp. It was at her parent’s home in Suffolk that Anne-Marie gave birth to John’s son, Jonathan. Only after Sir Wesley died did John’s widow and his son return to take their rightful position at Beaumont Place.” He patted her shoulder and smiled. “You are descended from Sir Jonathan, and from everything I’ve read, he was an ancestor to be proud of. Put any thoughts of Sir Wesley out of your mind.”

Daphne would have asked more, but the squire’s wife wandered up just then, and the moment was lost. The vicar’s words relieved her, and she was perfectly happy to put Sir Wesley out of her mind…provided he did not insist upon popping out of the fireplace at will.

From that moment on, there was never another chance for further investigation into Sir Wesley’s dastardly doings, and that suited Daphne just fine—she was far too busy to brood over some long dead distant relative—and thank God for that! Someone, it seemed, always needed her decision or advice, and there were social engagements galore. The coming wedding was the most prominent affair in the area in years, the circumstances surrounding the engagement adding a surprising cachet, and local hostesses competed vigorously for the attendance of the betrothed couple. There were breakfasts, dinner parties, and soirees, one enterprising matron even arranging a horseback ride to Land’s End for an alfresco meal served above the crashing surf on the rocks below.

Charles was busy with his own pursuits, and beyond a few short visits to Beaumont Place, he and Daphne only met these days at the various social functions that they attended. Sometimes, he would escort her to the event; other times, as in tonight’s outing, they would arrive separately, Daphne traveling with Adrian and April, Charles riding over from Lanyon Hall. This evening’s affair had been a small, informal soiree held by the squire and his wife, the fourth such function this week, and as he helped her into Sir Adrian’s carriage, Charles murmured, “I never realized how fatiguing being engaged could be.” He smiled down at her. “Will you be happy to put this all behind you?”

She smiled back at him, amazed at how swiftly he had become such an integral part of her life. “Indeed, it does seem that we are far more giddy here in the country than even in London.”

His lips quirked. “It’s amazing what a hint of scandal can do for one’s popularity.”

Her smile fled. “Do you mind it terribly?” she asked.

“Mind?” He shook his head. “If I did, my dear, I wouldn’t be here. I never do things that I do not want to.”

A little shiver ran down her spine when she realized that he meant every word. She had only seen his charming side so far, but now and then, she glimpsed the steel beneath the velvet, the glacier behind the warmth, and she knew a little spurt of unease. He was no longer a complete stranger, but she could not pretend that he was not still an unknown quantity to her or one that did not cause her anxious moments.

Adrian and April, having lingered talking to some of the younger guests, joined them, and in the flurry of good-byes, there was no opportunity for further private conversation. With Adrian and April settled inside the Beaumont coach, Charles, who had ridden over with the viscount, gave Daphne a careless wave and rejoined Trevillyan for the ride back to Lanyon Hall.

As far as Charles was concerned, the wedding could not take place soon enough. Not only did he go around in an embarrassing randy state, his nights disturbed by the most explicitly erotic dreams imaginable, but he would also be quite happy to see the last of Lanyon Hall and his host. The viscount was likable enough, not a bad companion, although his bitterness at having lost Sir Huxley’s fortune still ate at him, and Charles had grown weary of veiled references to the unfairness of Fate and undeserving cubs who had the devil’s own luck. Certainly, the viscount drank too much, being in Charles’s opinion, far too fond of the bottle and the gaming table. He did not
dis
like the viscount—Trevillyan was no worse than any one of a dozen young bucks he could name, and he supposed that in Raoul’s circle, Trevillyan would have been considered a fine fellow.

Riding toward Lanyon Hall that night, Charles considered the course of his life had he decided not to pay Trevillyan a visit. He smiled wryly in the darkness. He owed the man a debt of gratitude that he could never repay, and an unpleasant chill slid down his back when he considered that if he had not come to visit, he would never have met Daphne. Never mind that Trevillyan discreetly deplored the coming union or was convinced that Charles would come to regret his gallantry. It was a fact: had he not come to visit and had Daphne not catapulted into his life, he would have resumed his reckless, lonely existence, never knowing or guessing at the depth of passion and joy that now consumed him.

Just thinking of returning to Stonegate without Daphne at his side filled him with dread. Dear, darling Daphne, he realized humbly, and Charles was seldom humble, had saved him from a cold, empty fate, and for the first time, he understood what Nell’s entrance in Julian’s life had meant to him.

Just as Wyndham Manor was no longer the lonely, austere place it had been before Julian had married Nell, so would Stonegate change under Daphne’s hand. Like a vibrant spring breeze, her presence would drive out all the old, ugly memories, and Stonegate would once again become the warm, welcoming home he remembered from his childhood. Before my mother died and Father brought home Sofia, he thought tightly. But he would not let the past intrude, would not allow himself to be lost in the black thoughts that so often bedeviled him, and again he thanked God for Daphne’s presence in his life. He smiled. Even if she came with a brother and sister and a few ghosts. Adrian and April presented no problems for him—he was very fond of the pair of them and delighted in their youthful exuberance—but the ghosts….

Charles was relieved that the problem of the ghosts appeared to have abated. Which was just as well, he decided, considering the demands and constraints on their time. He had hoped that he and Daphne would have had a chance to discover more about Sir Wesley and the little crying ghost in the intervening days, but events had conspired against them. Though they spoke privately about the unresolved situation, since the ghosts seemed to have become silent for the time being, they were willing to let sleeping dogs lie. Soon enough, he would be living at Beaumont Place, and then he and Daphne would be able to focus on the various manifestations that seemed to haunt the house. A slow grin crossed his face. And he would be able to make love to his wife any time he felt like it, and Sir Wesley be damned! Eager for his wedding day, for what the future might hold and happy for the first time in a long time, Charles kicked his horse into a gallop, wishing that Daphne waited for him at Lanyon Hall.

Arriving at Lanyon Hall, Eames informed Charles that a note had been delivered for him while he had been gone. Handing him the envelope, Eames said, “You were not gone five minutes when it arrived, sir. I did not think it urgent, so I did not send it by one of our servants to Squire Henley’s. I hope I did right?”

“Of course you did,” broke in Trevillyan, his slurred words revealing that he was well on his way to being foxed. “If it had been important, Weston would have told you to be on the lookout for it.” Dismissing his butler, Trevillyan glanced at Charles. “Would you care to join me in another tipple before bed?”

Politely declining the offer, aware that Trevillyan had again imbibed more than enough for one evening, Charles bid his host good night and walked up the stairs to his rooms. Since he’d given his valet the evening off, Charles swiftly stripped off his clothes and hauled on a dark green velvet robe. Pouring himself a snifter of brandy, he seated himself on the sofa and picked up the letter.

Determined to put the lingering question of Raoul’s death to rest and to discover what he could about the murdered women before his wedding, Charles had been relentless in his search for answers. Unwilling to wait for Vinton’s report, he had spent the intervening time sleuthing on his own. He had been spending afternoons and evenings not given to the social demands to visiting pubs, inns, and downright dens of iniquity in the area, probing carefully and
very
cautiously about any strangers, any newcomers, anything odd in the neighborhood. It didn’t help that he was a stranger himself, but it was amazing what a sober man could learn from fellows who had enjoyed one round of ale or gin too many, and Charles had amiably bought many a round to loosen tongues that otherwise might not have wagged. But there was a danger in that, too—twice, he’d barely escaped unscathed from some equally sober gentlemen who had realized that the roughly dressed man sitting in the shadows was also rather openhanded with his blunt and had sought to relieve him of his purse. They had not succeeded and had limped away with a healthy respect for the quiet stranger.