Page 45 of The Villain
“Which was why your cousin chaperoned her for her first Season,” she supplied.
“Her cousin … he was a relative of Edith,” he amended. “But yes, that is why. He could hardly be bothered with her, so he sent her off to London in the company of her cousin and his wife, who would sponsor her coming out and see to it she made a good match.”
“Then, she met Bertram.”
“Aye, little dove,” he replied, inclining his head at her. “Then, she met Bertram.”
She lowered her gaze to the rug, her shoulders sagging as she recalled an evening soirée, watching Bertram bow over the girl’s hand and brush a kiss across the knuckles. Bertram dancing with her twice in one night. Bertram leading her toward the terrace for air, not returning with Lady Olivia for near an hour. Bertram leaning a bit too close as he whispered in her ear.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Daphne held on tight, feeling as if she might fall apart. The evidence had been in front of her the entire time, and she’d never realized it, never understood what Bertram had been up to. Or, perhaps a part of her had realized? Could she be as fragile as Adam had claimed, looking away so she did not have to acknowledge the truth?
“I saw them together,” she admitted. “Bertram and Olivia. But, I never knew …”
“No one did,” Adam said when she trailed off.
She glanced up at him, wondering if that could be pity she detected in his tone. Pity for her. As if he felt sorry for her, knowing she had been misled for so long, going about ignorant to the truth.
“Your brother is very good at what he does,” he added with a sneer, all the compassion melting from his tone. “How do you think he’s gone this long without being outed?”
Thinking over the things he had revealed to her just now, she understood where he was leading her. “My father. There is no way Bertram could have ruined so many without an angry papa or two turning up on our doorstep. I can only assume my father did what was necessary to bury the secrets and avoid scandal.”
Adam grunted in response, his expression hardening. Her eyes widened in realization, her stomach lurching as the various threads he had fed her began to intertwine, creating a tapestry of deceit and pain that clearly displayed her brother’s guilt.
“He turned her away,” she whispered, bringing a hand up to her roiling stomach. “When she came to him to tell him what Bertram had done … my father turned her away.”
His jaw ticked with fury barely held in check, his voice coming out strained and clipped when he answered her. “Does that shock you?”
Thinking of her father—of the staunch viscount with the white hair and haughty demeanor—she shook her head. It would have felt like betrayal ten days ago … when she’d thought him above reproach. Perhaps a bit snobby, but not a malicious person. Now, she was beginning to realize nothing was what she’d thought.
“No, actually,” she replied. “He was not a cruel man, not to me, but he was a bit … cold. Much like your father, I suppose. He never took much of an interest in me, though he was quite invested in Bertram’s future. He would become the viscount someday, and the Fairchild bloodline is an old one.”
“One of the bluest in all of England,” he agreed. “Which was why Fairchild did not wish to sully it by marrying his precious heir off to a Scottish chit whose mother had come from new money.”
Reaching up to press her fingers against her throbbing temples, she shook her head. “If I had known—”
She quickly clamped her lips together, recalling his words that morning as he’d dumped her into her bed. He did not want her apologies or platitudes. Yet, she could not help but think of what she might have done if she’d known about Olivia. Take Bertram to task, and demand he do the right thing. Yet, what would it have accomplished? Lady Olivia had simply been one in a string of conquests, all of whom Bertram had cast aside.
“When did you find out?” she asked, remembering he’d been on the Continent, and Maeve’s claim that he blamed himself.
Perhaps much of his anger lay with himself for being in another country while his little sister was being preyed upon by her brother.
“Not until it was too late,” he declared, before turning to leave the room.
Despite the sense of self-preservation telling her not to follow, her feet moved of their own accord, and she chased him out into the corridor, watching as his long legs carried him toward the stairs.
“Adam,” she called out, halting him in his tracks.
Why did she call out to him? What did she want?
To console him? To seek comfort from the man who had been tormenting her from the moment she’d first laid eyes upon him?
He paused at the top of the stairs, his shoulders tensing as his hands clenched into fists. However, he did not turn back to gaze at her when he responded.
“Where was your father during all of this?”
Adam scowled. “Dying. Some disease of the heart, the physicians said. The Callahan misfortune claimed him, as he always knew it would.”
Silence passed between them for another long moment, during which Daphne fiddled with the lace edging her gown.
