Page 70 of The Villain
“Lady Daphne!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide as he took her in from head to toe.
She realized she must look quite inappropriate—showing up in the dark of night without an escort. Her ensemble did not even include a proper hat.
Nevertheless, she did not have the patience to explain her sudden appearance, nor did she feel the need to give an accounting to a man who worked for her father.
“Are you going to let me in?” she blustered, raising her chin imperiously.
The servant blinked, seeming to shake off the shock that had settled over him. Moving away from the opening, he pulled the door open wider.
“Of course … do forgive me. Come right in.”
She swept into a small vestibule that opened into a set of two rooms with large doorways that allowed her to see straight into the back of the flat. This room she stood in must be the main parlor, with what appeared to be a study beyond it. A corridor curved left and right, leading deeper into the flat—toward bedchambers, she assumed.
A flurry of movement caught her eye, and she turned just as Bertram descended upon her with open arms.
“Daff!” he exclaimed. “By Jove, it is good to see you.”
She held her hands up to ward him off, backpedaling before he could wrap her in his embrace. Just the thought of him touching her made her skin crawl, the black stains of his sins sure to rub off on her.
His face fell as he regarded her, seeming hurt by her rebuff. He looked like hell—the auburn of his hair having lost his luster while dark circles had begun to form beneath his eyes. His skin was sallow and pale, though a flush to his cheeks told her he must be in his cups.
“It would seem you do not return the sentiment,” he muttered, scraping his fingers through his locks, tousling them even more.
“Where is Father?” she snapped, gazing about the little parlor. It held none of the furnishings from Fairchild House, which led her to believe they, too, had been sold off.
“Right here, dearest.”
She glanced up to find him coming toward her from an open door to the left—the kitchen, she realized. A woman bustled about inside, who Daphne recognized as a maid from Fairchild House. Perhaps she acted as their housekeeper.
So, they were not completely destitute, after all. Obviously, her father had managed to secure the funds to retain a two-person household staff.
He paused before her with a tray held in one hand, his whitened hair standing on end. Lord Gilliam Fairchild looked older than she remembered, his cheeks drooping and his face etched with deep lines.
“Bertram and I were just about to sit down for dinner,” he said, giving her a smile.
It seemed almost tentative … shy. As if he were afraid of her.
“I am certain Cora made enough. Would you like some?”
Clearing her throat, she lowered her gaze. Knowing what he had done, she could hardly stand to look at him. And she certainly could not stomach a single bite of food with the way her stomach roiled and pitched.
“No, thank you,” she replied as politely as she was able.
She was a perfect little dove, just like Adam had said—remembering to smile prettily and mind her manners, even when in the company of a rapist and the scoundrel who had helped cover his tracks.
“It is good to see you,” her father remarked, setting the tray upon a low table resting before a floral damask sofa. “You look … well.”
Her jaw tightened as she turned to face him. He settled onto the sofa while Bertram shuffled forward and took a nearby armchair, pulling up close to the table.
“Did you expect otherwise?” she snapped.
Bertram scowled, slumping in his chair. “Pheasantagain?”
Her father narrowed his eyes at his son. “It is cheap, and one of few meals Cora knows how to prepare. You may eat it or go hungry.”
Ignoring him, Bertram turned his gaze to her. “I know you might be angry with us, Daff. But we could not have come for you … not unless we wanted him to hurt you.”
She laughed, the sound rough and humorless. “And what makes you think he did not?”
