The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Unsurprised, the plump cook returned her smile wanly, gesturing for the kitchen maids to continue their pre-dawn preparations. “I’m glad you’re up and about early, Miss Daphne. I need to speak with you.”

“Oh, can’t it wait?” Daphne appealed, glancing about at the array of fruits and biscuits being readied for the morning meal. “I have very little time before Father returns from London. I’d like to gather up whatever food you’ve saved for me and ride to the village and back before he arrives.”

“Unfortunately, no, it can’t wait.” Uncomfortably, Mrs. Frame wiped her hands on t

he front of her starched apron.

This time her unhappy tone penetrated Daphne’s absorbed train of thought. “What is it, Mrs. Frame? Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid it is.” The older woman led Daphne into a corner where they could remain unheard. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but it can’t be avoided any longer.”

“Goodness! What is it?”

Mrs. Frame inhaled sharply, as if to steel herself. “It’s the marquis. He’s threatened to discharge me.”

“What?” Daphne turned sheet-white.

“ ’Twas the night before you left for Gantry. He came to the kitchen in a rage, sought me out to condemn me for wasting food. He was very specific in his accusation, and his ultimatum. Unless I do a better, more frugal job of rationing the meals, he’ll hire another cook and cast me into the street.” Mrs. Frame’s eyes grew damp. “I’m sorry, Miss Daphne. But I need my job.”

“Oh, God.” Daphne seized the cook’s trembling hands. “This is all my fault. I asked you to set aside portions of our food so I could take them to the vicar.”

“I know. And I didn’t say a word to your Father, I swear it. But I just can’t do it anymore, Miss Daphne. I spent the last few days trying to think of another way to help you, but I—”

“No.” Daphne interrupted. “Don’t even consider trying to outwit Father. ’Tis impossible. He’ll deduce what you’re up to and vent his fury full force. I couldn’t live with that. Please, Mrs. Frame, don’t endanger your job.” Or yourself, she added silently.

“I’m so sorry, my lady.” The cook wrung her hands. “How are you going to help those poor children now?”

“I’ll find another way.” Impulsively, Daphne hugged her. “I’m glad you came to me. I don’t know what I’d do if we lost you. Now don’t you worry. I’ll think of something.”

Back in the privacy of her room, Daphne perched dejectedly on the edge of the bed, wishing she felt as confident as she’d sounded. Without her weekly donations of food, what could she offer the children? How would they get enough to eat? Who would aid the vicar in his mission to care for them?

Pierce would.

Immediately, Daphne squelched that notion. Oh, she knew without a doubt Pierce would help her if she asked. She also knew, however, that she had no right to ask. She wasn’t his wife—at least not yet.

No, for the time being she was on her own.

Unless…

Torn by indecision, Daphne contemplated her last resort, her mother.

Like Pierce, Elizabeth would not hesitate to offer whatever aid she could. But at what cost? Daphne shuddered to think what her father would do if he discovered his wife had crossed that long-established forbidden line.

If he discovered.

Daphne bolted to her feet. Her father was still in London. Perhaps if she acted quickly she could elicit her mother’s help. Together, they could make a difference without the marquis ever finding out.

Bursting into the hallway, Daphne sprinted down the hall to her mother’s room.

“Yes?” the marchioness’s sleepy voice greeted her knock.

“Mother?” Daphne eased the door open. “I apologize for awakening you before dawn. But I must speak with you.”

Elizabeth sat up, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Daphne crossed the room, lit the nightstand lamp, and sat down beside her mother. “But I need your help.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth gave her a quizzical look. Rarely did Daphne seek her out to share confidences, and certainly never before daylight was upon them. “What is it, dear?”