She looked guilty.
Ashcroft didn’t understand. Mysteries piled on mysteries, and every time he thought he’d solved one puzzle, a hundred more sprang up in its place. Unraveling Diana’s secrets was like trying to kill the damned Hydra.
Her hands curled in her skirts, and her tiny pants of distress punctuated the discussion. “It’s not what you think.”
Her father scowled at her. “No more lies. You’ve told me enough to last a lifetime. I’m ashamed of you, Diana. Ashamed.”
“I can tell you…”
“I don’t want to know. Come home now and leave whatever sins you’ve committed behind. You have work to do in Marsham.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said in the most subdued voice Ashcroft had ever heard her use.
Yes, Papa?
What the hell was this? Was she really submitting to her parent’s will and returning to the country? What about him? Ashcroft shifted, every sinew resisting what she said.
At her ready obedience, her father’s voice lost its edge. “George is outside. We can be home and safe tonight. Laura will…” He stopped abruptly and turned in an odd, unfocused way in Ashcroft’s direction. “Who’s there?”
Diana’s horrified gaze bored into Ashcroft, silently begging him to be still. “N…nobody, Papa,” she said shakily.
What was the woman wittering about? Ashcroft stood next to her, large as life. Unless she meant her denial as an insult. His belly knotted in angry dismay.
“Heaven forgive your deceit, girl,” the old man said with returning anger. For the first time, he stared right at Ashcroft.
Diana’s father’s face was alight with angry curiosity. His eyes were blank and milky.
The old man was blind.
When Ashcroft turned up at her house, Diana’s tower of lies had tottered. Now with her father’s arrival, it collapsed into rubble.
A ghostly cracking filled the air around her. The sound of her entire world crumbling to dust.
Or perhaps it was just the sound of her heart breaking.
“Who’s there?” her father said in a sharper voice, banging his stick on the floor. “Make yourself known.”
“My name is Tarquin Vale.” Ashcroft stepped forward.
His beautiful baritone was neutral, and Diana couldn’t read his expression. By now he must know she’d lied to him from the start. He’d guess she was involved in some conspiracy with Burnley. He must loathe her for the deceit she practiced, even if he didn’t yet know how that deceit revolved around him.
Her heart thundered out an anguished protest. She wanted to beg him not to hate her although she knew it was far too late to redeem herself in his eyes. Far too late to save him from devastation.
“Vale?” her father asked in astonishment and with audible displeasure. He reached out as if to test for the reality of this man. Her father would assume Ashcroft was her lover. His eyes might fail, but his brain was frighteningly acute.
Her voice was unsteady. “Papa, this is the Earl of Ashcroft. Lord Ashcroft, may I present my father, John Dean of Marsham in Surrey?”
“Your servant.” Her father’s face set with disapproval, and his tone made it clear he considered himself anything but subservient. “I’ve heard of you, sir.”
Diana fought back the urge to defend her paramour to her father. What was the use? After today, her father would never believe a word she said.
“Mr. Dean. I called on Miss Smith and Mrs. Carrick to discuss antiquities. I was introduced to the ladies at the British Museum, and we discovered a mutual interest in Egypt,” Ashcroft said smoothly. An urbane shell had descended on that handsome face, and try as she might, she couldn’t penetrate it.
Not even the stupidest clodpole in the kingdom would believe that story. Why did Ashcroft try to shield her? He should be furiously angry.
“Lord Ashcroft is just leaving,” she interjected quickly.
Ashcroft leaned back against the flimsy desk and folded his arms. He surveyed her with raised eyebrows and a mouth that twisted in sardonic amusement. The stance was heartbreakingly familiar. It generally indicated he’d made his mind up about something and had no intention of budging but didn’t plan to make an issue of it. No, he just meant to sail through, his will prevailing.