Andrea Kane (19 page)

Daphne hesitated. “No. Pierce was illegitimate. He grew up in a workhouse, then made his own way in the world.”

“He sounds like a remarkable man. But I’m a bit confused, Snowdrop. If your Pierce has now ascertained he’s a member of the peerage, your father’s objections should be silenced.”

“Not in this case. Do you recall my mentioning my belief that Pierce has some kind of hold over Father?” She waited for the vicar’s nod, cautioning herself not to reveal too much. She’d promised Pierce not to divulge the far-reaching history he had with her father, and she would honor that pledge. “Well, apparently, Pierce’s exalted position has increased Father’s fear, and thereby his enmity, immeasurably. I saw the hatred and dread on his face when he heard Pierce’s announcement.”

“Daphne,” the vicar said with a frown, “if what you suspect is true, is it possible the duke’s interest in you is somehow linked to the cause of your Father’s hostility?”

“No,” she returned with an adamant shake of her head. “Although I must admit I asked Pierce that question directly. But I needn’t have. I already knew my answer. What’s between us is very real, an entity unto itself.”

Gently, the vicar lifted Daphne’s chin. “Are you falling in love with him, child?”

Daphne’s answer struck her in a joyous flash of insight. “I don’t think Pierce would have it any other way.” She smiled, dazed and jubilant all at once. “Yes, Vicar, I’m falling in love with him.”

“And he?”

“He’s asked me to marry him.”

“Marriage!” Chambers came to his feet in a rush. “Isn’t that a rather drastic step? After all, you’ve known this man a very short time.”

“I know he cares for me, and he wants to take me away from Tragmore—from Father,” Daphne explained carefully, wishing she could blurt out everything, equally determined not to. She would protect Pierce as she had vowed, to him, and to herself. “That’s what I meant when I said your concern was unnecessary. If Pierce has his way, I’ll be safe—with him.”

“I see.” The vicar gazed thoughtfully down at her. “Is your decision made then?”

Silence.

“Snowdrop.” He drew her to her feet. “If you’re certain of your feelings, and the duke’s, then what is distressing you? Are you worried about Harwick’s censure?”

Tears filled Daphne’s eyes. “No. God forgive me, but I don’t care what Father thinks of Pierce. I don’t even care if he condemns the marriage and me. Lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time. No, Vicar, it’s something else, something that’s rather difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

She nodded, dashing the tears from her cheeks. “Pierce’s life is a complex lock that has been secured for thirty years. My heart tells me I must be patient, for Pierce alone possesses the lock’s key, a key he will hand me when he’s ready, and not before. I understand that, and I accept it. You would, too, if you knew him. He has the most astonishing degree of discipline and self-control I’ve ever seen. I feel it every time we’re together. It’s as if he gives himself up in small, measured doses, while at the same time rendering me completely helpless and emotionally exposed.”

“To me, it sounds as if he’s erected walls to avoid being hurt. Given his painful childhood, that’s not surprising.”

“No. It isn’t. But tell me, Vicar, what am I to think when, out of nowhere, this rigidly disciplined and controlled man blurts out something as significant as a marriage proposal?” Daphne shook her head. “The contradiction is staggering.
Too
staggering.”

“I understand your bafflement,” Chambers concurred. “My next question is, did you express your concern to the duke?”

Again, Daphne nodded. “He insists the proposal was not impulsive, but long thought out.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

“No. Yes. Somewhat.” Daphne made a choked sound. “I do believe he wishes to wed me. I just have the nagging feeling there’s more to his reasoning than he’s admitted.” Pleadingly, she searched the vicar’s face. “Help me. You always do.”

Her friend’s smile was tinged with regret. “Your belief in me far exceeds my abilities, Snowdrop. There are some answers we must seek within ourselves.”

“But I can’t.”

“Can’t you? Look inside your heart, Daphne. Haven’t you already found what you’re seeking?”

Her lips trembled as she absorbed the clergyman’s words. “Yes,” she whispered at last.

“Good.” He removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes to dislodge whatever unseen particles were causing them to tear. “It appears your future has been chosen by the one whose rightful job it is to do so. You.” He shoved the spectacles back into place. “However, I do request the opportunity to meet this lucky gentleman on whom you’ve bestowed your heart.”

“Oh, would you?” Daphne’s whole face lit up. “Your blessing would mean so much to me.” Impulsively, she hugged him. “Thank you, Vicar. Pierce will be returning to Tragmore tomorrow for my answer. I’ll arrange a meeting then.”

“Does the duke realize how badly Harwick is going to take the news of your betrothal? How violent your father can get?”

“Yes, I believe he does.”

The vicar inclined his head quizzically. “You never did specify the basis for their hatred. How did your father’s and the duke’s paths first cross?”

“Pierce refuses to discuss it,” Daphne replied candidly, grateful that the vicar had asked
how
and not
when.
“So I’m not certain precisely what is between them. But I suspect it involves Father’s monetary assets.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because there is little ammunition one could use against my father. He fears nothing save financial and social embarrassment. And I do have cause to believe he is worried over a lack of funds.”

Her friend’s brows rose. “Harwick? In financial difficulty?”

Daphne nodded. “Evidently, that’s the reason he raced off to London directly after returning from Gantry. He wanted to secure the insurance money on our stolen jewels as quickly as possible.”

“Possessions mean a great deal to your father, Snowdrop. Just because he wants to regain what he considers rightfully his doesn’t mean he’s in a precarious monetary position.”

“True. And that act alone wouldn’t give me pause. But his behavior on our journey to Gantry was most unusual. Rather than being tyrannical, he was nervous and distracted, muttering that I should marry a wealthy nobleman who could remove the noose that is hanging about his neck.”

“And you think your duke might be that noose?”

“Or involved in whatever has created that noose. Yes, I believe it’s possible. But that’s only speculation on my part. I’ve pressed Pierce but, thus far, he has evaded the subject entirely.”

“Hmm. Well, I must say, I’m looking forward to meeting this enigmatic champion of yours.”

The vicar’s particular choice of words made Daphne smile. “Yes, Vicar, I, too, look forward to your meeting my enigmatic champion.”

Pierce was feeling anything but a champion.

Tossing down his second cup of black coffee, he ignored the sun’s early morning rays, instead pacing the length of his bedchamber and wondering for the hundredth time since midnight, when he’d abandoned all attempts at sleep, why the hell he hadn’t carried Daphne off when he’d had the chance. Instead, he’d gambled stupidly, giving her two days to think, hoping that her heart would subsequently convince her to accept his proposal.

And, in the process, leaving her in her fathers domain.

The risk suddenly seemed too precarious, more so as his confidence in Hollingsby began to falter. What if he’d overestimated the solicitor’s potential? What if Hollingsby were unable, or unwilling, to keep Tragmore in London?

Pierce slammed his cup onto the night stand, raked his fingers through his hair.

Hollingsby’s answering missive, delivered late last night, had done nothing to appease his worry. Oh, the older man had accepted the unexpected challenge he’d been handed, agreed to do his best to keep Tragmore occupied for a day or two. But, in closing, he warned Pierce that Tragmore was not stupid nor easily manipulated, and he, therefore, could make no promises.

Damn.

Dropping into a chair, Pierce stared, unseeing, at the bedchamber window, illuminated now by a full patch of morning sunlight. With great effort, he tamped down his emotions, forcing himself to think rationally.

In truth, Hollingsby’s abilities were, in this case, not pivotal. Even if the solicitor were an unconvincing accomplice, Tragmore was in no hurry to return home, not with the knowledge that Pierce’s visit was imminent, his determination to collect his debt unyielding. No, the marquis would stay away as long as possible—at least until mid-day tomorrow, in the hopes of dodging his nemesis. But he wouldn’t succeed. For Pierce would be lying in wait, savoring his own impending announcement.

After which, Daphne would be his.

Pierce’s conscience reared its head, reminding him that Daphne knew but a portion of the truth. Granted, it was the most significant part, the part that involved the feelings unfurling between them. But that didn’t change the fact that she deserved to know everything, including the terms of Markham’s will.

But the risk of driving her away had silenced him. Her trust in him was new, fragile. He’d finally convinced her she played no part in his battle with Tragmore. The last thing he wanted was to reignite her self-doubt by implying she was a mere vessel for his requisite heir. Were that to happen, he’d lose her—spirit, faith and hand. As it was, he could only pray that her feelings for him outweighed her fear and her commitment to her father.

Daphne’s commitment to Tragmore.

That spawned an interesting line of thought which diverted Pierce from his musings.

Daphne had been decidedly curious over the details of her father’s monetary recovery from the burglary. Not surprising. Given Daphne’s fine instincts, Pierce assumed she’d arrived at the accurate conclusion that Tragmore was undergoing financial hardship. Moreover, it was likely she’d further deduced that Pierce was somehow connected to those difficulties. What she didn’t know, but was doubtless racking her brain to discern, was his motive.

He wondered if she would understand if he told her, if he delved into the heinous history he shared with the marquis. Were she anyone but Daphne, he wouldn’t even consider doing so. But his spirited snow flame, with her generous heart and limitless compassion—perhaps she could fathom the helpless degradation he’d endured, the hatred that burned within him.

But the man he planned to destroy was her father.

Would that same compassion cause her to sympathize with the marquis? Would dutiful feelings for her father intercede on his behalf?

Based upon past actions, the answer was no. After all, hadn’t she helped Pierce rob her house? Hadn’t she protected him from Tragmore’s wrath?

No. She hadn’t. The man she’d aided was the Tin Cup Bandit.

Irrational jealousy surged through Pierce, and he clenched his fists to stem its flow. This was insanity. The man he resented didn’t exist, was but a fictitious hero Pierce himself had created.

That reality did nothing to appease him. For the first time Pierce found himself wishing his disguise weren’t quite so flawless, that he hadn’t been hooded, masked, swathed in black from head to toe when Daphne had awakened. He wished the hushed darkness of night hadn’t cast her bedchamber in shadows, that he’d employed more than the light of a single taper to illuminate himself. Perhaps if he’d touched her, held her, spoken to her in his own voice rather than a practiced rasp, she would have known.

Known? Pierce drew himself up short. Known what? An undisclosed truth he’d sworn never to reveal? A truth that would jeopardize everything he stood for, not to mention endangering the person who discovered it?

Christ, he really was losing his mind. If Daphne were infatuated with the bandit, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it—yet. Once she was his wife, once he had her in his bed—Pierce swallowed, feeling everything inside him go hard with desire. Once that happened, he’d make her forget all about her bloody champion of the poor.

Reflexively, Pierce stood, crossing the room to open his desk drawer. Reaching beneath the hidden panel, he extracted the small, perfect pearl he had pried from Daphne’s necklace—his souvenir from the Tragmore burglary, and his intended token for the next.

It began, that familiar restlessness churning inside him, this time magnified threefold by the emotional turmoil over Daphne. Whip taut with tension, Pierce rolled the pearl between his fingers, watching it catch the morning light in an incandescent glow. There was only one remedy for his fervor: to channel his energy into something useful, something to keep his mind off Daphne until he could go to Tragmore and claim her.

A burglary. The ideal distraction.

Now the question was who.

A slow smile curved Pierce’s lips as he contemplated the gem in his hand, recalled the vast assortment of jewelry he’d spied on every noblewoman attending the Gantry ball. Doubtless the jewels they wore were only a small sample of what remained behind in their respective manors. He distinctly remembered Hollingsby telling him that the party at Gantry’s would drag on for days, despite the fact that Tragmore’s foul humor had evidently compelled him to depart early. But the rest of the
ton
would be carrying on with the festivities. Leaving their homes blissfully short of occupants—And providing endless possibilities for the Tin Cup Bandit.

T
HE EARL OF SELBERT’S
Mansfield estate was every bit as lavish as his countess’s dazzling jewels had suggested.

The bandit smiled, a self-satisfied smile, surveying the library’s costly sculpture and paintings by the light of his single taper. It had been worth the long ride from Markham, as well as the special provisions he’d been forced to make deferring his visit to Thompson’s store until tomorrow.

Under normal circumstances, an all-night journey wouldn’t trouble him in the least. His customary procedure right after each theft was to hasten to Thompson’s shop at Covent Garden, make his exchange, then, just before dawn, leave his tin cup in the night’s chosen workhouse and travel home in the morning.