The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) (4 page)

“Yes, thank you.” With a shy smile, she shrugged from the garment. “Something smells delicious.”

“Are you hungry?” As he deposited the coat over the back of a daybed, he noted the outdated style and the threadbare edges of the cuffs. Upon closer inspection, he noticed her frock represented not the current fashion, and it looked a tad small, which emphasized her thin frame and piqued his already over-stimulated curiosity, where the woman was concerned. According to several townsfolk, the missing governor had amassed quite a bit of debt with various vendors, which might explain her humble clothes. “May I pour you some wine?”

“I am famished, and, yes, please do so.” When she neared the fantasy he had created just for her, her mouth fell agape, and she caressed a rosebud. “Are you celebrating something of importance, of which you neglected to apprise me?”

“Why do you ask?” Given most ladies rewarded his efforts with a kiss, which often led to more enticing scenarios, her surprise had him wondering if he had miscalculated. “And is our first dinner date not something to mark with a suitable ceremony?”

“Our first?” She blinked. “You wish to see me again, before this evening has commenced?”

“Of many, I hope.” He could not help but chuckle at her expression of utter astonishment. During Dalton’s brief investigation of her history, the locals imparted one exceptional statement with frequency. With an unblemished reputation, and a well-established penchant for benevolent enterprises, Daphne Harcourt manifested the backbone of the family and, indeed, her father’s office. No matter the situation, she could always be counted on to provide assistance, which was why most citizens sought her advice over the governor’s. It was that fact, alone, that had swayed him and set his course of action in an altogether different direction. “And why would I not favor your company? Do you think yourself unattractive?”

“I am unsure how to answer your query.” Daphne shrugged, and he realized, in that instant, she spoke the truth. Had he thought her fascinating? In light of her incredible beauty, which grew in epic proportions when contrasted by her staunch modesty, the woman was an enigma and far more arresting than any polished courtesan or uninspiring debutante. “And I have never studied myself in such detail, nor could I ever be considered an impartial critic, so I should refrain from a pointless self-assessment.”

“Spoken like a formidable paragon and an angel of mercy.” He held her chair, and she sat. “I might think you too good to be true.”

“But I told you yesterday that I am no angel.” She draped her lap with her napkin.

“That is not what the widow Cartwright says, or Mr. Holmes, who sang your praises for the better part of an hour.” After situating a covered dish before her, he lifted the lid. Then he claimed his plate and assumed his place. “They are grateful for the ham, cheese, potatoes, and bread.”

“Are you making a survey of me?” Fear invested her blue eyes, her face paled, and he cursed himself for frightening her, as that was not his aim. “It is no crime to feed those who cannot fend for themselves.”

“In that, we are in agreement, as yours was an admirable gesture, my dear.” And he had no doubt the food she shared constituted a portion of the pilfered contents from his stores. What he could not reconcile was the theft of the brooch by one of her brothers, whose existence he uncovered from the innkeeper. “I commend your sense of compassion and would make a contribution to your charity, if you tell me what you require.”

“Do you mean that?” With a tear-filled gaze and guileless desperation, Daphne humbled him, and he suspected she could be counted among the starving members of her community. “You would assist my cause?”

“Yes.” As Dalton cut his steak, he monitored her progress, and he needed no further proof of her condition, as she devoured her meal, while humming her appreciation of the fare. “If you would accompany me to the market, tomorrow afternoon, we might fill your pantry.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. I will compose a list, when I return home.” Then she stared at the carrots he had not consumed. “Are you going to eat those?”

“No.” He shook his head.

“May I?” For the umpteenth time, she stunned him, as most young women ate less than that essential to sustain a bird, when in the company of gentlemen, but she dined with unabashed gusto. Then and there, he vowed Daphne would never again suffer an empty belly.

“Be my guest.” He scooted his plate toward the center of the table. “But I would caution you to save room for the final course, as I selected a delicious assortment from the bakery.”

“You did?” A host of emotions invested her countenance, as she bounced with unmasked joy, and Dalton found her alluring beyond words. “I can’t remember the last time I partook of dessert.”

“I shall remember that, for future reference.” When he retrieved a platter of sweets and displayed the tempting variety, her eyes grew wide with unconcealed excitement, and a strange sensation filled his chest. “Have I made you happy?”

“Will you think me a simpleton if I admit as much?” How he adored her bashful grin.

“Not at all.” As he served her a generous sampling, he leaned near. “As I find you inexpressibly captivating.”

The poor thing choked violently on her wine, and he recalled his agenda for the night.

“Let me assure you that I am quite boring, sir.” With recovered grace and ease, she dabbed the corners of her mouth. “There is little excitement in Portsea, and I daresay our provincial society would disappoint one acquainted with the cosmopolitan ballrooms of the
ton
.”

“Present company excepted.” It was past due to initiate the interrogation. “So tell me of your younger brothers, and are they in residence?”

Stopping mid-chew, she swallowed hard. “How did you learn of my brothers?”

“As I said, from your neighbors.” He poured two brandies and passed her a glass of liquid courage. “Although they hold a rather vacillating opinion of—how did the butcher put it, oh, yes, ‘the two devil-spawn rapscallions.’”

“I resent that mischaracterization, as Robert and Richard are nothing more than young boys, struggling to find their identity.” With high dudgeon, she folded her arms. “Despite the brevity of our association, I am sure you engaged in your fair share of harmless mischief, at their age. And they are accused of everything, even when they are innocent.”

“And a great deal of not so harmless mayhem, most of which I blamed on my elder sibling, Dirk, so you have me there.” In order to impress upon her the gravity of the theft of the brooch, Dalton had brought the accompanying journal, which he hoped would foster sympathy for his plight. “I thought you might enjoy reading a bit of lore, regarding my missing family heirloom, as it possesses mystical powers and a vaunted past.”

“I beg your pardon.” She snapped to attention. “Mystical powers?”

“Indeed.” He nodded and handed her the leather-bound diary. “Read the opening inscription.”

“All right.” Daphne flipped to the first page. “The parchment has yellowed, with age, and the ink has faded. ‘Ye lady what dons this brooch of ethereal sight, shall enjoy unfettered dreams of her one true knight.’ How remarkable.”

“The entries describe what the brooch revealed to my ancestors, over the years.” While she perused the old tome, he availed himself of the opportunity to make an unfettered examination of her profile, which he found inexpressibly striking. “The most recent notation records a relationship between two people very near and dear to my heart.”

“Oh?” Ignoring the fact that he had moved his chair to sit beside her, she turned to the last item. “You know Lady Amanda Gascoigne-Lake?”

“She has persisted as Lady Amanda Douglas these twenty-eight years, and she and Admiral Douglas have two daughters, both wed and equally content.” He pointed to the conditions for inheritance of the unique piece of jewelry. “As Lady Amanda’s sister has no daughters, she intended to pass the brooch to Lady Cara, and that was my task, after I rendezvoused with George, Lady Olivia’s son, off the coast of Belgium.”

“And is she still happy with her match?” A hint of sadness marred her delicate features. “As feelings change, over time, and some men seek satisfaction elsewhere.”

“What a curious thing to say.” He frowned. “Let me alleviate any concerns, in that respect, as I am happy to report the Admiral and his lady remain very much in love.”

“So some vows do last forever.” It was a statement, not a question. For a while, Daphne bowed her head and sat in silence. When she lifted her chin and met his gaze, he caught his breath. “You will have your brooch, Sir Dalton. I would stake my life on it.”

#

Gasping for air, Daphne shot upright in bed. It took her a few seconds to realize she resided in her bedchamber, safe and sound, after a glorious dinner, which resembled something more akin to the realm of fantasy, with Sir Dalton, the previous evening. Then she peered at the brooch that she had pinned to her cotton nightgown.

No, she had no right to make use of the curious artifact, as it was not hers to covet. Yet the lore, so carefully detailed by her dashing companion, had struck a chord and fostered hope, as she had scarcely known in recent weeks, so she had employed it in a last ditch effort to identify a solution to her current problem.

True to the cryptic proclamation, she had experienced a very intense, rather odd dream of which she could make no sense. Ensconced in a warm, comforting glow, the heat of which had suffused her from top to toe, a single image played in her brain, again and again, of a unique gold coin tossing about, as though suspended. There had been no hint or suggestion of the owner of what appeared to be an ancient Roman monetary piece, given the writing and the female profile etched on one side. But what she could neither comprehend nor explain was the opposite end.

Although her mother had died when Daphne was ten and nine, never had they engaged in any discussion of marital relations, so what little knowledge she possessed had been gleaned from observing farm animals. The particular act, a crude and bawdy depiction, involved a man and a woman and reminded her of two cats that were quite fond of each other. Just revisiting the reverie brought the burn of a blush to her cheeks.

After wrenching aside the blankets, she dropped her legs over the edge of the mattress and stood. Stretching long, she yawned and then smiled, as she gazed at the crystal vase filled with two-dozen red roses, which Dalton had insisted she accept, as a personal gift. While polite decorum frowned upon such exchanges of familiarity, given their brief acquaintance, she could not resist the temptation he presented. And that was why she also had permitted her host to request the waiter pack the remaining dinner and dessert portions, so her brothers might enjoy the fare.

At the windows overlooking the rose garden, she drew back the threadbare drapes and basked in the shimmering sunlight. As she assessed her private quarters, which remained bedecked in girlish pink hues, because her family lacked the funds to redecorate, and had seen far better days, Daphne fixed her attention on the cedar chest that had belonged to her grandmother. Like Dalton’s brooch, the old trunk was a treasured heirloom. But times were desperate, and despite the enthralling sea captain’s generous overture, she may still be forced to sell her beloved keepsake to save her family.

For the moment, she could relax, so she strolled to the armoire and fanned through a selection of modest, worn day dresses that had been altered on two separate occasions to accommodate her changing body. As was the case with everything else, she had no money to replace her outdated wardrobe. Never before had she spared much thought for her attire, but Dalton sported only the best fashions, so she wished to make a good impression on her escort. In short, she wanted to look pretty for him—as she had for no one else. A knock at the door intruded on her deliberation.

“Come.” She drew forth a pale blue sprig muslin gown with a lace collar and frowned, when she noted the tattered cuffs.

“Good morning, Miss Daphne.” Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, strolled into the room. “The boys inhaled the steak and eggs, as did Hicks, but I saved you a portion. Shall I help you prepare for your appointment?”

“Yes, please, as I wish to dazzle Sir Dalton.” Daphne sat at her vanity. “And did you eat your share of the feast?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Jones smiled. “The filet was delicious, and it was kind of you to think of us, though I am not surprised, as you have possessed a generous nature since you were born. But Hicks thought you might go to your grave before accepting charity from a stranger.”

“As much as I regret it, our circumstances are desperate, so I will not allow pride to condemn this household and our most vulnerable neighbors to hunger.” Coiffed and garbed as close to perfection as she could muster, she stood and smoothed her skirts. “Now, I should breakfast prior to our newfound benefactor’s arrival.”

En route to the dining room, she scrutinized her childhood home and rued its clean but shabby décor, ragged carpets, peeling paint, chipped plaster, and faded wall coverings. In well-established tradition, the Harcourt men had governed Portsea Island for more than a hundred years, and the residence, built in the seventeenth century in the Baroque style and handed down through several generations, had marked their success, for visitors far and wide. Because her father had long nursed a penchant for expensive brandy, imported cigars, gambling, and bad luck, the once splendorous Courtenay Hall had foundered, in a slow and painful demise. Yet she vowed to restore the house and its property to its former glory.

At the table, she savored the weak tea, which she had stolen from Dalton’s ship. While she preferred a stronger brew, she could enjoy the simple drink, which had become an indulgence, for several weeks, if she used less leaves in the pot. And although she was quite famished, nerves had rendered her belly unstable, and Daphne could not clean her plate, to her dismay.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Daphne.” Hicks loomed in the doorway. “Sir Dalton Randolph is just arrived and awaits your presence, in the foyer.”