The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“No, I wouldn’t say they were friends.” Daphne chewed her lip thoughtfully. “According to Father, they’re business associates.”

“You sound dubious.”

“It’s silly, I suppose.” Daphne shrugged. “I have no reason to doubt Father’s explanation. It’s just that he and Mr. Thornton seem so mismatched—in age, in background, in manner.”

“In other words, this Mr. Thornton is young, unpretentious, and lacking in social position.”

Daphne smiled at the vicar’s accurate insight. “He’s about thirty, I should say. Definitely untitled. My guess is, unpampered as well. While he’s obviously well-to-do, he has a hard edge that leads me to believe his wealth is not inherited but earned, probably through a keen set of wits.”

“You’re right. He doesn’t sound like someone your father would choose to associate with. However, lack of breeding might dim in comparison with shrewd business acumen.”

“Perhaps.” Daphne hesitated, her brows drawn together in a frown. “There’s something more, though—something odd. Father acts so skittish around Pierce Thornton, uncharacteristically off balance and accommodating. I have the strangest feeling that Mr. Thornton has some kind of hold over him. It’s nothing I can prove—just an instinct.” Another faint smile. “According to Mr. Thornton I should look away from those who would thwart me and trust my instincts.”

“Ah, a good man.” The vicar’s relief was evident. “He was giving you spiritual advice.”

“No, actually he was giving me gambling advice. I was placing my wager in the first race.”

“Oh.” The vicar removed his spectacles and began to vigorously clean them with his handkerchief. “It sounds to me as if excitement over our forthcoming visit to the school was not alone in distracting you from yesterday’s races.”

“And what does that mean?”

“This Mr. Thornton appears to have made a strong impression on you.”

“Yes, he did. Not because of his gambling, if that’s what’s concerning you,” Daphne assured him with a twinkle. “But because he’s such an interesting embodiment of contradictions—composed and sure of himself, yet intuitive and compassionate. You must admit that is a rare combination, least of all in a gambler.”

The vicar shoved his spectacles back on his nose, his penetrating blue eyes searching Daphne’s face. “How did you learn so much about the man in one meeting?”

“If you watched the way he assessed the horses, realizing his goals time after time without batting an eyelash nor expecting anything short of total victory, you’d understand what I mean by the composure.”

“And the insight? The compassion?”

An uncomfortable pause. Then, “Father chastised me in public. Mr. Thornton must have sensed my embarrassment. He very intentionally extricated me from what might have been an ugly episode.”

“You’re right. That is both insightful and kind.” Chambers did not belabor the point, knowing how painful Daphne found her father’s bouts of cruelty. Besides, in light of Daphne’s revelation, another, far more interesting, avenue required his attention, and he intended to pursue it, as subtly as possible. Concentrating on the task of adjusting his sleeves, he asked, “What does this Pierce Thornton look like?”

Daphne twisted a lock of hair about her finger, visualizing the man who’d preoccupied her thoughts since yesterday’s races. “He’s tall and dark haired, very impervious looking, almost as if he wants to warn you that he’ll extend himself just so far and no one had better trespass beyond that point. He’s definitely not what you’d call classically handsome. His features are hard, severe, even a trifle forbidding. I sense he’s struggled somehow, and I detect the same in his eyes, which are the darkest green I’ve ever seen, almost like a forest at midnight. Still, beneath that fierceness…”

“Lies the heart of a saint, no doubt,” the vicar chuckled. “Is there no one you cannot find good in, Snowdrop?”

The engrossing memory of Pierce Thornton vanished, instantly eclipsed by the ugly answer to the vicar’s question.

“Daphne, have you been providing charity to those worthless urchins again?”

“No, Father.”

“Then why did Lord Weberling spy you in the yard of the parish church, with that bloody clergyman?”

“The vicar is my friend, Father. I was only—”

“I’d best not discover you’ve disobeyed my orders, Daughter. For if I should learn you’ve given a single shilling of my money to street scum, your punishment will exceed severe. Do you understand what I’m saying, Daphne?”

“Yes, Father, but I—”

“Perhaps you need a small taste of what I mean. Perhaps then you’ll think twice before squandering your time—and my funds—on the vicar’s futile causes.”

Even now Daphne flinched, feeling the sting of her father’s blows as sharply as she had the week before.

Was there anyone she couldn’t find good in?