Once She Was Tempted (30 page)

“Of course. You must know your visits are the high point of their week.”

Daphne doubted that. In fact, she was almost certain that Caro had mentioned tea cakes were the high point of their week. However, second place to tea cakes was not a bad place to be.

The moment she and Rose walked into the courtyard, a ring of ragamuffins surrounded them.

“Will you braid my hair?”

“I tore the sash on my best dress.”

“Watch me do a cartwheel!”

Daphne sighed. Here, at least, she was needed. Between Rose and her, they were able to handle most of the girls’ pleas for attention. Eventually, they dispersed and returned to games of hopscotch and blind man’s bluff. Only Caro remained on the bench beside Daphne, keeping her company as she mended the sash one of the girls had brought her.

“How is your knee?” Daphne asked.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s fine.” Caro idly swung her legs, scissors-style, her toes dangling inches above the ground.

“Have you been getting on well with the other girls?”

She bobbed her head quickly and gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look. Daphne chuckled to herself. Caro leaned forward and addressed Rose. “You have the same color hair as me.”

“I believe you’re quite right, Miss Caroline. Except yours has more fire, like a beautiful sunset.”

Pleased with the compliment, Caro smoothed a short lock behind her ear. To Daphne she said, “Where is your other friend? Lord Fox-something?”

Daphne attempted a serene smile. “Lord Foxburn. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“He was here a few days ago. I saw him in Mrs. Middleton’s office.”

“Is that so?”

“He didn’t stay long, though. And he didn’t visit with me.” She pouted prettily. “He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

Daphne put a finger beneath Caro’s pointy chin and looked into her pale blue eyes. “You are not the sort of person one could easily forget.”

Caro’s wistful smile said she didn’t quite believe it. “I think he brought the books.”

Daphne’s heart squeezed in her chest. Ben cared. “What a kind thing to do.”

“I suppose. But visits are better than books.” She leaned her head against Daphne’s shoulder, and Daphne hugged her tightly.

Visits
were
better than books, she thought.

But books were a start.

B
en hadn’t been to White’s since returning home from the war. In fact, the last time he’d been there, Robert had been with him. They’d toasted the Thoroughbred that Robert purchased at Tattersall’s, and Ben ribbed him, saying he paid twice as much as he should have. Robert had just laughed and said life was too short to quibble over a couple thousand pounds.

Too short, indeed.

In any case, he’d been the one who forced Ben to venture out of his dark study and rub shoulders with their peers.

Though Ben had little desire to discuss politics, the weather, or anything else, he’d come to White’s this evening with a purpose.

The club looked the same as it had seven months ago. Ben steered away from the side of the room he and Robert used to prefer, opting for a comfortable leather chair near a window. He greeted the gentleman nearby, ordered
a drink, picked up a paper, and pretended to read while he listened to snippets of conversations around him.

There was talk of wagers, women, and whiskey, but nothing about the portrait. He supposed he should be relieved that it wasn’t the topic on everyone’s lips, but how could he help Daphne if he didn’t know where Hallows was or what he planned to do?

“Evening, Foxburn.” Ben turned toward the commanding voice.

“Huntford. Care to join me?” He waved his glass at the empty wingback chair beside him. Daphne’s brother-in-law wore a black jacket and black trousers—formidable, as always. He wasn’t scowling, however, which Ben took to be an excellent sign.

The duke signaled to a waiter as he smoothly lowered himself into the chair. Ben noted the effortless way he moved and tried to squash the envy he felt. He wasn’t entirely successful, so he tossed back the rest of his drink.

“A pleasant surprise, seeing you here,” Huntford said.

“Yes, well, I do venture out on occasion, although I’m never sure why. I trust the duchess is well?”

The corners of Huntford’s mouth lifted and the harsh lines of his face softened. “She is much improved. So much so that she insists she is able to resume her normal activities. My wife can be… stubborn.”

Ben nodded, intimately familiar with that particular family trait.

“My sisters tell me that Biltmore’s house party was an unqualified success.”

Ben resisted the urge to shrug. “I’m glad Lady Olivia and Lady Rose enjoyed themselves.”

“I’ve noticed, however, that Anabelle’s sister, Miss
Honeycote, seems uncharacteristically despondent since her return from Biltmore Manor.”

At the mention of Daphne, Ben’s stomach clenched, but he kept his tone light. “You don’t say?”

Huntford glared for several seconds, and Ben glared back.

“Miss Honeycote and her mother, as you may know, have been staying with us. Daphne is not her usual, cheerful self. Anabelle is concerned. And when my wife is concerned, so am I.”

Ben chose his next words carefully. “Miss Honeycote’s sunny disposition will return. She is much like her sister, in that her strong personality cannot be suppressed for long.” He hoped to God it was true. She deserved to be happy.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the cause of this sudden change, would you?”

“I am no expert on women, Huntford.” Truer words were never spoken.

The duke inclined his head, suggesting he, too, found women to be one of the universe’s great mysteries. His drink arrived and Ben ordered another.

Ben was searching for a way to broach the topic of the portrait, just in case Huntford had heard anything about it, when the duke sighed. “I just spoke to Lord Foley. He’s hosting a ball in a fortnight.”

Ben craned his neck in search of the waiter. “Balls hold little interest for me. Dancing’s not exactly my strong suit.”

Huntford arched a brow. “This ball promises to be… interesting.”

Highly doubtful. Where in God’s name was his drink? “How so?”

“There’s a chap who owes Foley a decent amount of blunt. He doesn’t have the coin to pay him back, but he claims to have a valuable painting.”

The hair on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end; his heart pounded. “What does that have to do with the ball?” He had a good idea of the answer but prayed he was wrong.

“Foley’s debtor says the painting is a portrait of ‘a proper young miss in a highly improper pose.’ He wants Foley to auction it off at the ball and claims it will bring an excellent price—more than enough to cover the debt.”

“Who is the woman?”

“It’s meant to be a secret. Even Foley doesn’t know. He’s going to unveil the thing at his bloody ball. He’s always had a dramatic streak,” the duke said with blatant distaste.

“And he has no qualms about publicly humiliating a young woman or ruining her reputation?”

The duke eyed him suspiciously. “What’s this, Foxburn? I would never have taken you for a defender of reputations.”

“It just doesn’t seem sporting.”

“Agreed. However, any well-bred lady who poses for a lewd painting is beyond foolish. She had to have known the risk.”

She’s your sister-in-law, and she had her reasons
, Ben wanted to yell. But any sort of rebuttal would be giving too much away. The waiter hurried over and flourished a tray with Ben’s drink in the center. Thank God. “I assume there is plenty of speculation as to the identity of the woman?”

“Wagers are being placed as we speak. Everyone is guessing the name of the English Beauty. Smithson had
the gall to write Anabelle’s name in the book. I had a word with him.”

“A word? Is that what we’re calling threat of death these days?”

Huntford grinned. “Suffice it to say that rumor has been squashed. I suspect other names will be bandied about for the next two weeks… until the truth is revealed.”

A chill ran the length of Ben’s spine. Two weeks to come up with a plan that would prevent Daphne’s ruin. With forced casualness, he shrugged. “Sounds like the Foley ball is not to be missed.”

The duke raised his glass. “To the English Beauty—whoever she is—for inspiring Foxburn to attend a ball.”

Ben drank to that. There wasn’t much in this world that he wouldn’t do for his English Beauty.

Olivia pulled the brim of her bonnet forward. “I should have brought my parasol. A mere minute in the sun is all it takes to bring out my spots. I do hope they have the trim I’m looking for. It must be just the right color—green, to match James’s eyes.”

Daphne laughed. “I’m sure they’ll have something equally soulful.” They’d almost reached the shop when she stopped to check that she hadn’t forgotten the list of items Anabelle had asked her to purchase. She peered into
her reticule, relieved to see the list there. She secured the drawstring and looked up—to find Miss Starling directly in front of her. The young blonde’s mother was just behind her, clucking her tongue and muttering about the potential dangers of failing to look where one is walking.

“Forgive me,” Daphne said. “I’m afraid I was a bit distracted. Good afternoon, Miss Starling, Mrs. Starling.” She hadn’t seen Miss Starling since the Seaton musicale and wished the respite from her company could have lasted another month. Or year.

Olivia greeted the women as well. “What a striking hat, Miss Starling.”

It
was
remarkable. The white plumes protruding from the top were so long they brushed the awning above the storefront. Each time she turned her neck to the left, her mother received a mouthful of feathers. But while the hat was a touch ridiculous, Daphne had to admit that Miss Starling looked stunningly beautiful. Every tendril of her golden hair seemed as though it had been trained to curl and cascade perfectly. Her gown clung to her svelte figure without appearing indecent in the least. And while Daphne’s day gown was perfectly appropriate for an afternoon shopping trip, she suddenly felt frumpy.

“Imagine,” Miss Starling declared, “I was just telling Lord Foxburn that we hadn’t seen Lady Olivia, her sister, or Miss Honeycote in an age. And here you are.”

“Here we are,” Olivia repeated dully.

Daphne glanced down the street. Ben was nearby? She wanted to ask Miss Starling where she’d seen him and how he looked and whether his leg seemed to be bothering him. Instead, she pointed to the shop window and inanely said, “We were just going to get a few supplies.”

“Yes,” Olivia chimed in. “The right shade of trim can make all the difference in a ball gown.”

“Your sister-in-law would know,” Miss Starling said snidely. She never could pass up an opportunity to remind others that Anabelle had been her seamstress. The fact that Anabelle was now a duchess was a mite difficult for Miss Starling to swallow. Daphne let her comment pass, hoping to end the encounter as soon as possible. But Miss Starling seemed equally intent on prolonging it. “There are a good number of balls in the next fortnight. Why, four at least! Although none is as anticipated as Lord Foley’s. I assume you received an invitation?”

Daphne had not been paying much attention to invitations since her return to London; she shrugged and looked to Olivia.

“Oh, indeed. We shall be there.” She elbowed Daphne in the ribs. “Shan’t we, Daphne?”

“I suppose.”

“Trust me,” Miss Starling said, smiling like she had a secret. “You don’t want to miss it.”

“We don’t?” Olivia cried. “Of course we don’t. But
why
don’t we?”

Miss Starling sighed as though Olivia sorely tested her patience.

Mrs. Starling pushed past her daughter, her very large bosom leading the way like the prow of a ship. “Because some silly chit was foolish enough to pose for a vulgar painting,” she announced shrilly. “And on the night of the Foley ball she shall be exposed for all the
ton
to see!”

Daphne’s face grew hot and her palms clammy. She swayed slightly, but Olivia righted her without seeming to notice her distress.

“It shall, no doubt, result in a huge scandal,” Miss Starling said with obvious glee. She narrowed her eyes at Daphne. “I should think that you would be pleased, Miss Honeycote, that for once you and your sister are not the objects of censure, unless… you
are
.”

“What?” Olivia cried. “I am appalled that you would insinuate such a thing. What a ridiculous notion!”

“Is it?” Miss Starling curled a blond ringlet around her finger.

Olivia was indignant. “Imagine how foolish and remorseful you shall feel at Lord Foley’s ball when the truth is revealed.” She linked arms with Daphne. “We shall be there, of course, so that you may issue your apology.”

Miss Starling merely smirked, revealing a perfect dimple.

“Gads!” Mrs. Starling bustled down the sidewalk. “Come along, darling. We don’t have time for this nonsense. It’s nearly teatime and we still need to stop in the dress shop.”

The beautiful young woman cast a smug look over her shoulder as she trailed after her mother. “Until the Foley ball, ladies.”

Olivia waited until Miss Starling was out of earshot. “Oh, she is horrid, is she not? I cannot believe that I used to admire her. I actually considered her a friend!” Olivia tossed her head in the same affected way Miss Starling had. “ ‘Until the Foley ball, ladies.’ Her snide manner makes me want to pluck each pretty curl right off her head.”

“Olivia!” Daphne chided. But her heart wasn’t really in it.

“You are quite right. We mustn’t let her spoil our outing. Let’s go into the shop and see what treasures we may find.”

Daphne peered through the large plate-glass window of the milliner’s and frowned. Almost every square foot of the shop floor seemed to be stuffed with hats, aprons, hosiery, jewelry, slippers, and more. Customers crowded around the main counter, clamoring for assistance. “Would you mind if I waited out here for a few minutes?” Olivia furrowed her brow, and Daphne rushed to explain. “It looks busy inside and I’m enjoying the fresh air. I’ll join you shortly, once the crowd thins.”