The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

awaited her punishment.

So did Daphne, hovering, unseen, in a small alcove down the hall, holding her breath for the castigation she anticipated.

It was far worse than she feared.

“Pack your things at once. I want you off my estate this instant.”

The girl’s head came up. “Off the estate? But, my lady—”

“Not another word. My mind is made up.” The viscountess stepped distastefully around the servant and the glittering puddle at her feet. “I’m going to summon a footman so he can arrange to have this mess cleaned up. By the time I return, I expect you to be gone.”

Daphne could see the girl’s fingers nervously rubbing the folds of her gown.

“What about my wages, ma’am?” She seemed to drag the question from some reluctant place deep inside her.

“Your wages?” The viscountess drew herself up. “Not only will I not pay you, I have half a mind to strike you. You’re fortunate that I’m a lady and therefore will restrain myself.”

“I worked a full week, Lady Benchley.”

Courageously, the maid maintained her stance, but her voice quavered, and Daphne ached for her humiliation.

“The meals you were fed were lavish compensation for your pathetic attempts at work. Now be gone before I have you thrown from my home.” Sweeping up her skirts, Lady Benchley marched off.

For a long moment the girl did nothing, merely stood, unmoving, where she was. She was too far off for Daphne to discern her expression, but her trembling shoulders left little doubt she was crying.

An instant later she recovered, dashing tears from her cheeks as she walked toward the servants’ quarters.

Without hesitation, Daphne went after her, propelled by a myriad of emotions too vast to contain.

Halfway down the corridor, the girl turned, disappearing into one of the tiny bedchambers.

Unthinking, Daphne followed. “Are you all right?” she blurted.

The maid spun to face her, her eyes wide with shock. “Who are you?”

Daphne didn’t answer. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare, a chill encasing her heart as she confronted the agonizing specter of her past. Those eyes—dark, fathomless, intense. They had haunted her for twelve years, their hollow futility tearing at her heart.

“Who are you?” the girl repeated, backing away.

Her throat tight with remembered pain, Daphne tried to find the words to say and the voice with which to say them. Perhaps she would have succeeded, had her gaze not chosen that moment to fall upon the unadorned nightstand beside the girl’s bed.

After which all attempts at speech were forgotten.

There, its unblinking stare as vivid as it had been twelve years past, was the tattered, indelible memory of Daphne’s childhood.

The doll from the House of Perpetual Hope.

18

“MA’AM, PLEASE. WHO ARE you? Why are you here?”

Daphne heard the question through a paralyzed haze. Forcing herself to respond, she dragged her mind back from the fateful day that had forever changed her life.

“My name is Daphne Thornton.” Her voice sounded odd, strained to her own ears. “I—” She wet her lips. “I saw the disgraceful way Lady Benchley treated you. Forgive me, but I had to make certain you were all right.”

The girl lowered her lashes, turning away to begin gathering her belongings. “I’m accustomed to such treatment. It’s only that I need this job badly, now that—” Her mouth snapped shut. “ ’Twas very kind of you to check on me, ma’am. But I assure you, I’m fine.” She folded two worn frocks, then collected her brush and comb. “I’d best take my leave.”

“Where will you go?”