Patrica Rice (5 page)

He halted on me terrace and gazed down into her bewildered, pained expression. He had not meant to be so abrupt as to cause her consternation. Damn Evan into eternity, but he did make things difficult.

“I am not offended, Miss Templeton. It is a subject I still find difficult to discuss. Perhaps, one day .. .” Gordon’s voice trailed off as he stared down into the lovely mist of her eyes. A man could lose himself easily in those eyes, and his thought halted, only half-formed.

Slightly giddy from the intensity she sensed in his voice and gaze and from the flood of relief that he did not reject her, Daphne touched his glove. “You will find I am quite easy to speak to. Come, let us go in, my lord. Your guests will wonder at your neglect.”

She had much to think about when she went home that night. Lady Agatha’s chatter about Lord Griffin’s flattering attention verified what she had felt herself—he did seem to single her out above the other ladies present.

After all these years she was unwilling to allow herself to believe someone would be interested in her as herself. She thought there very well might be a different explanation, and that the local Robin Hood might somehow be involved.

That was a dismaying thought, for she found the viscount to be a charming and attractive man, much more so than any of the other gentlemen of her acquaintance.

Why was it that she could not be allowed a small flirtation as other ladies did? Just a flirtation, something to soothe her confidence before she made him aware of her background. He would lose all interest then, she knew, but it would be pleasant to have a beau just for a little while.

Only it was too difficult to believe that he would seek her out just for herself. She had too much experience at being ignored to believe she had the kind of beauty or charm to attract wealthy, titled gentlemen. And there was something decidedly odd going on around here. She sensed it. She just could not put her finger on it.

Why would Lord Griffin not talk about his brother? He had talked willingly enough of his father, but he had closed up abruptly when she mentioned his brother. How was it that Lady Agatha had said Evan Griffin had died? She hadn’t. She hadn’t mentioned how his father died, either. She really could place no consequence on that. Yet the coincidence of their voices . . .

The viscount had warned her away from riding alone. The man in the woods had warned her away from his hiding place. What were they trying to keep from her? It would be much wiser to puzzle that out than to think of the viscount’s haunting sadness and the way he held her hand.

Next morning. Daphne set about to discover a few facts. It couldn’t be too difficult. Judging by her conversation with the highwayman, everyone knew everyone else’s business around here. She had only to ask the right people.

She found Lady Agatha taking tea on the terrace. The day promised to be another warm one, but the sun had not quite reached this part of the house yet, and it was pleasantly cool. Garbed in a white muslin morning dress with short puffed sleeves and eyelet at the hem, Daphne considered fetching her shawl but settled for moving her chair toward the sun. It seemed a shame to wrap in wool on a day like this.

“Good morning, my dear. Lovely day, isn’t it? I take it you are not riding today.” Lady Agatha set aside the letter she was writing to look up expectantly at her niece.

In that flimsy gown with only a bit of ribbon to frame her face, Daphne really was quite fetching, and Agatha nodded approval. This business about her mother’s death and fears for her state of mind and health was a lot of taradiddle. The girl had good sense, good looks, and a plump pocket; no gentleman in his right mind could ignore that combination.

Her mother’s relatives had to be all about in their heads to discourage her. Agatha wagered the cousins looked like mudhens and the aunts had mush for brains. She really should have stepped in sooner, but the young so seldom appreciated the isolation of the country. It was much better that she had waited until the young viscount was in residence.

Daphne poured a cup of tea and added a piece of sugar. “I thought I would try walking into the village today if you would spare a maid to accompany me. Tillie is unfamiliar with the roads, and I am not yet ready to attempt strange places alone.”

“Of course, take Marie. You must think of her as your own. She is useless to me. I have too little hair anymore to bother over and can arrange it just as easily, if not better, than she can. But she does very well for you, I see. You are quite in looks this morning. If you intend going into the village looking like that, it might serve you better if I sent a groom and a footman with you.”

Daphne looked down at her outmoded gown in bewilderment. “But what is wrong with how I look? I realize the simpler styles are now out of favor in London, but I thought surely here ...”

Agatha laughed, her proud gray head tilting backward to regard her niece with fondness. “Child, there is not an ounce of conceit in you. Your new French fashions have not reached this rural outpost, if the whispers when you entered the room last night did not tell you. No one here will know the gown is outmoded. They will see only your bare throat and short hem and how very dashing you look and every female tongue will flap and every male one will pant. Do you not have a suitable walking gown that trails in the dust and covers you all over?”

Daphne drew her brows down in a pucker. “But that would be so very warm and it is such a lovely day. I shall carry a shawl and a parasol and gloves and surely look all that is proper. I did not think I must be on display every minute.”

“
Oh
,
but you are more so here than in town, my dear.” Her aunt laughed. “But if you do not mind the biddies clacking, I do not. Wear what is comfortable to you. Do you have some errand in the village?”

“I hoped I might see Miss Dalrymple. She mentioned a riding party but I never learned the details.”

“I should avoid her mother, then, were I you. She is a monster of propriety, though it is said dear Jane was born but eight months after the wedding.”

It was Daphne’s turn to laugh at the thought of the plump and toplofty lady dallying before the wedding. The wry twist to her aunt’s noble lips encouraged further confidences. If she went to a bad place for gossiping, it might as well be for gossip worth having.

“You mentioned the other day that Lord Griffin had a brother who died not long ago. He seemed reluctant to speak of it last night. Did I do wrong to mention it? Shall I hold my tongue in the future?”

Lady Agatha looked thoughtful as she refilled her cup. “There is nothing for him to be ashamed of. It was an accident, pure and simple. The boy had bought out of the cavalry after his father’s death and was returning home as I heard it. He apparently rode too hard for too long in his haste to be home.”

She sat back in her chair to recite the tale. “As best as anyone could tell, his horse stumbled on a bad plank at the bridge and he fell in the river and drowned. They recovered the horse, but they never found Evan, just his coat and such where he must have struggled to swim. The river is quite high in spring, and I understand the current is strong.

“It was a great tragedy. Lord Griffin was so grief-stricken that he refused to have more than a private funeral. It was said he did not leave his room for days. Perhaps he still has not learned to bury his grief. I would leave it up to him to mention the subject the next time.”

Oh, yes, she most certainly would, Daphne vowed grimly as she contemplated the impact of this story. Perhaps she was jumping to hasty conclusions. She really had no right to be so suspicious. Lord Griffin had never done anything to her to excite such cruel thoughts. But their local Robin Hood had.

Casually, she probed further. “You said he was a younger brother, but he could not have been too young to be in the cavalry. Were they much alike, then?”

Lady Agatha finally sent her niece a sharp glance. “What is all this interest in a dead man? Evan Griffin was only a few minutes younger than Gordon, and yes, they were much alike. They were identical twins.”

Daphne set her cup down and stared blankly at the rolling front lawn. Twins. Of course. How very stupid of her.

Chapter Four

The maid Marie was a silly widgeon, but as Aunt Agatha had said, she had a decided talent for arranging hair. Pity that she had no talent for intelligent discourse. The walk into the village was long and dusty and even the marvelous scenery could not distract from her prattle. The slight ache in Daphne’s knee was a minor inconvenience in comparison.

Perhaps she ought to learn to drive a curricle. How difficult would it be to guide a pair of horses down this open country lane? It was not as if it were crowded with vehicles. Large ruts like the one she skirted now might be a problem, but if she drove slowly, she could not do much damage even if she hit it. She must learn to go about on her own.

She forced the memory of her mother’s wildly careening vehicle out of her mind. She had to go on with her life.

The thought of driving her own vehicle buoyed Daphne for the last leg of the journey. She would have to buy it with her own funds. She felt quite certain Aunt Agatha did not have so frivolous a means of transportation as a curricle.

Where did one go about purchasing carriages? Perhaps she should write to London, but the image of the horror on her relative’s faces at the mention of her driving instantly quelled that notion. Perhaps Lord Griffin might help her.

The walk was much longer than she had anticipated, and they arrived hot and dusty in the little stone village. The foxglove and campion in the hedgerows had been lovely to look on, but these old stone buildings built on the road with only a fringe of flowers for yard fascinated Daphne. She wondered how many generations of families had lived behind those ageless walls.

Such stability amazed her after the frantic pace of London. A lazy cat sunned itself on a spotless doorstep. A sturdy matron stepped from the greengrocer’s with her shopping basket and strode briskly toward the butcher’s. Two children rolled and giggled in the dust, their homespun breeches coated with dirt. The tranquility soothed her mind.

To the right a two-story inn sat slightly apart from the connected houses of the village. Paned windows of a century ago glistened in the sunlight, and a picket fence concealed a riot of color beyond the gate. Daphne lifted her skirt from the dusty street and hurried to investigate the garden in the inn’s side yard.

The alley on one side of the inn led back to a stable, but on this side some industrious person had mixed a kitchen garden with a love of flowers. Admiring the colors, Daphne looked around and seeing no one to object, she slipped the latch from the gate, and strolled onto the stone path, leaving her maid flirting with a stable lad. Perhaps this pleasant garden might only be for patrons, but surely the owner could not mind an admirer when there was obviously no crowd of patrons to fill it, and she badly needed to sit down and rest her leg.

June was always her favorite month. Finding a stone bench. Daphne perched upon it and gazed around admiringly. Rambling roses spilled up the stone side of the inn and across the stable in back. Larkspur bounced and danced in the wind, and the last of the rhododendrons filled a far corner by the fence. Daisies and poppies brightened the rows of vegetables, and the effect was so cheerful. Daphne just sat among the dancing blooms and admired.

It was a minute or two before she noticed the voices coming from an open window at the back of the inn. She really would never have noticed them at all had there not been a familiar cadence to one that caught her ear.

She hesitated, wondering if she ought to slip out of the garden and be on her way, but the idea of a known criminal taking his ease in such a pleasant village, endangering the inhabitants, roused angry instincts and dispelled any need to rest.

He had no right to be here, none at all. She had stayed away from his turf, now he must learn his place. Perhaps she ought to find a constable or soldier, but not knowing of a certainty the connection between viscount and Robin Hood, she hesitated at going thus far
.
Perhaps if she accused him of her suspicions he would see the error of his ways and depart. Then Lord Griffin could relax and be happy again.

Summoning her small courage, Daphne lifted a gloved hand to her face and made a small moan. She had seen enough vaporish ladies in London to mock their actions now.

Marie instantly hurried to her side, and Daphne rose and rested her hand on the maid’s shoulder. “I feel frightfully warm. Is there a place inside I might sit a spell?”

“Oh, yes, mum. It is a most respectable place.
My mum once worked here. Let me see you inside.”

Daphne allowed herself to be guided through the small side entrance nearest at hand. The shadowed coolness of the white-washed interior was refreshing, but she wouldn’t let the maid know that. She settled on a rough wooden bench just inside the door, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall. “Some water, Marie, please. I feel quite faint.”

She ought really to despise herself for such dramatics, but she could not let the poor maid come face-to-face with the notorious criminal. She had done it herself twice now and come away unscathed, but she was certainly trying her luck with a third time.

It made no matter. Now that she was here, he would have to change his vagrant ways. It was unfair to the kind Lord Griffin to be saddled with this Robin Hood’s treacherous antics.

As soon as the maid disappeared around the corner, Daphne leapt to her feet and followed the low murmur of voices. The room she wanted was right beside the door they had entered.

Her hand hit upon it almost before she gave it consideration. Without a second thought to what she might find behind it, she shoved open the door. She had enough sense of self-preservation to know the gentleman thief would not harm a lady. She needed no other weapon but her womanhood.

The two men inside jumped to their feet as she barged in. The taller, broad-shouldered one in shirt sleeves and slouch hat immediately relaxed his stance at recognizing her. The slim young man in livery remained at stiff attention, however, as Daphne’s gaze swept over him. She did not need to recognize the servant’s face. The discreet gray and black of the viscount’s household told all.