The Last Duke (Thornton 1)
“Of course not!” Tragmore spat out. “Where would I come to meet such a person?”
“Then how do you know she caused her own illness?”
He gaped in stupefied silence.
“In any case,” Daphne continued, “she needs medicine. And rest. Then she’d be quite fit. With a bath and a mended gown, she’d actually be lovely.”
The marquis sucked in his breath, coughing violently as the foul air permeated his lungs. Daphne’s observation, her untenable feelings of compassion, were a disturbing echo of the past.
Rage pumped through his veins.
“Your mother once spoke as you do,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “Had I permitted it, she would have squandered my fortune aiding vermin such as these.” He glared down at Daphne, fire blazing in his eyes. “I revised her opinions in whatever manner I deemed necessary. Do I make myself clear, Daphne?”
“Yes, Papa.” Daphne’s lips trembled. Lowering her lashes, she fixed her frightened gaze on the toes of her slippers.
Tragmore stifled a curse. He’d brought the little chit here for a purpose, and he intended to make certain that purpose was realized.
Mentally, he counted to ten.
“Perhaps I’ve chosen poor examples, things beyond your comprehension,” he reasoned aloud, trying a new tactic. “After all, you are a child. Very well, then. A child is what you will see.”
So saying, he steered Daphne forward, down the hall and beyond, until he reached the rear door of the workhouse. Flinging it open, he gestured toward the garden. “Look.”
Five or more scruffy urchins milled about, a few tugging idly at the weeds, others cupping their hands beneath the spout of the water pump, peeking furtively about as they drank.
Daphne opened her mouth to comment on how bedraggled the children looked, how torn was their clothing, then thought better of it and snapped her mouth shut. She was in the process of devising what she hoped her father would consider an appropriate response when one of the children, a little girl of about the same age as she, glanced up from the weeds.
Her gaze locked with Daphne’s.
The bleak pain reflected in the child’s eyes caused a tight knot of sorrow to form in Daphne’s chest, driving home an ugliness until now vast but intangible.
Unable to bear it, Daphne looked away.
“Appalled, are you?” the marquis asked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “You have reason to be. Rather than tend the garden and pump the water as they’ve been assigned, these unwanted bastards are frolicking about, taking in the sun. They should be beaten until fear impels them to work. And, should that prove unsuccessful, they should be thrown into the streets to starve, thus ridding England of their poisonous influence.” Staring at his daughter’s averted head, Tragmore demanded, “Now do you see, Daphne?”
“Yes, Papa. Now I see.”
“Good. In that case, we can thankfully take ou
r leave. This place sickens me.”
Guiding her back through the hallway, the marquis tripped over an object in his path. Stifling an oath, he kicked it aside.
“It’s a doll, Papa!” Daphne exclaimed, stooping to retrieve the toy. Wiping soot from its cheek, she held it out in delight. “Why, she looks just like Juliet, the doll Mama gave me for Christmas!”
“Are you mad? Don’t touch that…thing!” Tragmore ordered. “Lord alone knows what disease it carries!” Lunging forward, he struck the doll and sent it crashing to the floor, where it lay in a tattered heap, its torn dress tangled about its disheveled mane of hair.
“No, Papa! Don’t!” Daphne begged. “She’s too beautiful to be diseased!”
“She mine!” a trembling voice rang out from the rear. In a flash, the little girl dashed through to the hallway, snatching her precious treasure from the floor. Terrified, she stared at the well-dressed strangers, quivering as she faced them. “She’s mine! Ye can’t ’ave ’er!”
“Nor do we want her, you odious, impudent creature!” Tragmore spat. He drew back his hand, glowering as he poised to strike the white-faced child. “Do you see, Daphne? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. These people are animals; loathsome parasites. You must harden yourself to the truth and act accordingly.”
“I will. Oh, Papa, please don’t hit her,” Daphne whispered pleadingly. “What point is there? I’ve learned all you wanted me to. Please. Can’t we just go?”
Her words struck their mark.
With a shudder of revulsion, Tragmore turned on his heel. “Very well. Come.” Striding to the door, he prepared to depart.