Page 18 of The Dove
“Bertram, wait.”
He paused, turning back to her with a hopeful expression. It gave her great pleasure to rob him of it immediately by blurting out the question that had been on the tip of her tongue from the moment she’d discovered the truth about him.
“Why did you do it? Olivia, Cassandra … the rest. Why?”
Furrowing his brow, he shook his head, his eyes darting as if he searched for the answer himself. As if unable to explain his despicable behavior, even to his own self.
“Those women were teases,” he said after a moment. “A man can only take so much before he grows weary of such games. If they didn’t want it, perhaps they ought to have kept their skirts down and their bodices up in my presence.”
She gasped, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she shook her head, unable to believe what she had just heard. Of course, she should have expected such an answer … but truly, no response at all would have been better than that one.
“You are vile,” she spat, venom lacing her tone as the warm tears fell, splashing her face and neck. “And I amgladthat we are ruined, that I was able to take part in ruining us. You deserve far worse for the things you have done.”
Her words hardly seemed to faze him, and he simply reached up to adjust the lapels of his coat before turning to leave, throwing his last words over his shoulder.
“If you think he is any better, you are sorely mistaken and in for a rude awakening.”
Turning back to the window, she watched as he appeared on the sidewalk, perching his hat upon his head before setting off down the lane.
Using both hands to mop the tears from her face, she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She refused to shed another tear for him. He was not the man she’d thought he was, and never had been. Bertram himself had proven that just now, giving her what she’d needed to let go of her last shred of affection for him. Even the boy who had once nursed her through a near-fatal fever was dead to her.
Turning her attention back out to the street, she noticed the figure of Niall again—this time, moving off in the direction Bertram had just taken. She was certain it was him, recognizing the way he held his shoulders and the swagger in his walk—with a slight limp, as if he’d sustained an injury to one of his legs but knew how to compensate.
Upon first spotting him, she had assumed that he’d been watching her, but seeing him go after Bertram eased her mind. Perhaps she had been wrong, had misconstrued Adam’s intention. He was here for her brother, to finish things once and for all. It had nothing at all to do with her.
But then, Adam’s ominous words came back to her yet again.
I came for you, little dove.
She shuddered, despite the warmth of the fire in the nearby hearth, and wrapped her arms around herself.
Of course, this had something to do with her. It hadeverythingto do with her.
Adam would be astute enough to realize that his being anywhere near her would ruffle Bertram’s feathers. Estranged or not, she was a member of the Fairchild family, and his making a spectacle of her made one of her brother and father by proxy. The gossips were undoubtedly already in a frenzy trying to determine what his motives might be and if they had anything to do with her. The moment she was seen with him in public, word would spread like wildfire.
It would be like rubbing salt in an open wound, and Adam was sure to see this. Once again, she would become a weapon, a tool in his hand, just as she’d been before.
“No,” she whispered, turning away from the window and striding for the door.
Last time, she had unwittingly fallen into his trap, seeking redemption for her family and being manipulated into becoming their destruction. This time would be different. She would not allow herself to be used.
Heading up the stairs, she decided that some time out of the house would do her some good. Her chances of avoiding Adam were nonexistent, as Niall’s presence out on the street proved he knew where she lived. She would simply make sure to be on her guard, to be prepared for him to accost her as he had last night.
This time, she would not run.
Daphne’s afternoon passed with a surprising tranquility. After a brisk walk, she had indulged in an ice from Gunter’s before turning back to go home. She had taken her time, enjoying the fair weather and hoping it would extend through the week. She’d grown weary of the damp and cold. Her mood had lifted, as it seemed she would make it home without being accosted. With no sign of her brother or her tormentor in sight, she practically skipped up the front steps, already looking forward to the pot of chocolate and warm fire she’d decided would be just the thing.
The moment she stepped inside, her heart plummeted into her belly, and a cold frisson of dread raced down her spine. It was as if the very air around her cried out that something was not as it should be. There was something amiss in her home, this haven she had carved out in the world for herself. Handing her redingote off to a footman with shaking hands, she gazed about for the source.
But, she already knew what it was, had already detected the faint notes of a certain scent lingering in the vestibule.
Cedar. Cigar smoke. Some aftershave she could only describe as smelling quite masculine.
Adam.
Rowney’s approach confirmed it. The man was in a state, his brow broken out in a sweat, his face flushed, his lips inched into a thin line.
“My lady, there is agentlemanawaiting an audience with you in the drawing room,” the butler declared. “He came with no calling card, but declared himself the Earl of Hartmoor and demanded to be allowed to wait for you to return home. I was not certain how you might wish me to proceed, so I allowed it.”
