Page 4 of The Dove
She went about her walk unbothered, reaching her destination with hunger gnawing at her belly and thirst drying her mouth. Thankfully, she had just arrived at one of her favorite haunts—a coffeehouse that sold some of the best confections she’d ever tasted. Pushing open the door, she removed her hat and gazed about the large, open main room of the shop. Long, narrow tables lined the space, with rows of wrought iron, cushioned chairs running along each side. Mismatched wall sconces and pieces of obscure art covered the walls while two large windows allowed in the light of the morning.
Mrs. Russel, the rail-thin, wizened old woman who ran the establishment along with her husband, Mr. Russel, scurried about the room, seeing to the needs of her guests. The tables had not grown overcrowded, but Daphne spotted several patrons she recognized. Like her, they frequented this coffeehouse often, as much a part of the decor as the dusty light fixtures and peeling wallpaper.
“Come on in, m’lady, and have a seat,” Mrs. Russel called out as she sat a basket of scones between two young gents who looked as inebriated as those she’d seen staggering about outside. “I’ll have your usual to you in a bit.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Russel,” she insisted, giving the old woman a smile.
Mrs. Russel had taken a liking to Daphne from the first time she’d come into this establishment. If she did not visit at least once every week, she was sure to receive a tongue lashing from the proprietress when next she appeared.
“Good morning, Lady Daphne,” one of the young blades called out, his words slurred.
She recognized him and smiled, giving him a little wave. “Good morning, Mr. Kent. I trust you enjoyed your evening.”
The man and his companion chuckled, and Mr. Kent raised his freshly topped-off cup of coffee. “I’ll need a bit more than this to sober up, that is for certain.”
“I wish you luck with it,” she teased, taking a seat near the hearth in the corner of the room and settling there.
She found an array of wrinkled but neatly folded papers—both ones containing the news and others holding the latest gossip. Reaching for the first one her eye fell upon, she laid it open on the table in front of her. Before she could begin reading, someone else was greeting her from across the room.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Lady Daphne,” he called out, his round cheeks ruddy and flushed with glee.
His wispy white hair was, as always, in disarray, though it only added to his charm. Shabby clothing, charcoal and paint-stained fingertips, watery, unfocused eyes. The markings of an artist … a man she knew only as Theo. He would not stand for her to address him formally.
“Good morning, Theo,” she said, smiling at him as he sank down onto the chair beside her. “You look happier than I think I’ve ever seen you.”
“That’s because I’ve finished me painting,” he said, puffing out his chest and beaming proudly. “Worked into the early hours to see it done, but she’s a masterpiece worthy o’ the Royal Gallery.”
“Oh, pipe down, you old fool,” Mrs. Russel grumbled as she bustled toward their table, laying down a tray laden with all the things she knew Daphne liked best. “Lady Daphne isn’t interested in those atrocious paintings you call art.”
Daphne giggled, lacing her steaming cup of coffee with a few lumps of sugar and a dollop of milk.
“Quiet, you old shrew!” Theo countered, scowling at Mrs. Russel while pilfering a biscuit from the basket resting before Daphne. “You wouldn’t know art if it bit you on the arse … and I doubt anything’s bitten you in your shriveled-up arse in half a century!”
She rapped his knuckles, and he winced, but took the biscuit in two bites, glaring at her as he chewed.
“Now, now, children,” Daphne teased between sips of coffee. “Play nicely.”
“I’ll play nice when this old bag of bones finally starts paying for his coffee and biscuits,” Mrs. Russel groused—even though everyone knew she allowed Theo to have his breakfast on the house when he was between paintings. The man often went months without selling a single piece, leaving him in dire straits.
“Help yourself, Theo,” she told him as Mrs. Russel rushed off to tend another patron. “I could hardly stomach it all.”
Theo thanked her and helped himself to another biscuit while she selected a scone for herself. After drizzling it with cream, she took a bite and groaned, the buttery, flaky confection melting on her tongue. Mrs. Russel would be as wealthy as a queen if only more people in London knew she made the best scone in all of England.
While Theo rambled on about his newest painting, Daphne gave him one ear while opening the paper laid before her. Even though she was no longer a part of the Londonton,she often found herself indulging in the gossip rags. It brought her an odd sort of satisfaction to be able to read about the latest scandals while detached from it all. A bit of a guilty pleasure—something she often indulged in along with Mrs. Russel’s decadent scones.
She had drunk half her coffee and began nibbling on a second scone when a certain name upon the paper caught her eye. Sucking in a sharp breath, she nearly inhaled a mouthful, coughing and sputtering as she attempted to catch her breath. Her eyes watered, and her chest burned as she choked on a lump consisting of both pastry and disbelief.
“I say, Lady Daphne, are you all right?”
Taking a sip of coffee and then clearing her throat, she could not find the words to answer him … not when her gaze fell back to that name, standing out among the other words on the paper. For a long while, it was all she could decipher, the other letters swimming about on the page, only a fraction of them remaining clear and still.
Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor.
Shaking her head to clear it, she blinked, certain she must be seeing things. Yet, the words remained, the other letters surrounding it coming back into sharp focus. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she set it aside, reading over the short report of Adam’s return to London after several months away. The writer noted that the earl rarely visited London and never stayed for long, preferring to reside primarily in Scotland. She scowled as the writer speculated over his reasons for the sudden appearance—whether he might leave with a wife, or if he had simply come for a change of scenery.
Her mouth went dry, and the shaking of her hands became so violent, she had to clasp them in her lap to still them. Her blood grew hot, the high neckline of her gown suddenly constricting … until she felt as if she would hardly be able to draw breath.
“My lady? Are you all right?”
