The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Yes, I believe he does.”

The vicar inclined his head quizzically. “You never did specify the basis for their hatred. How did your father’s and the duke’s paths first cross?”

“Pierce refuses to discuss it,” Daphne replied candidly, grateful that the vicar had asked how and not when. “So I’m not certain precisely what is between them. But I suspect it involves Father’s monetary assets.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because there is little ammunition one could use against my father. He fears nothing save financial and social embarrassment. And I do have cause to believe he is worried over a lack of funds.”

Her friend’s brows rose. “Harwick? In financial difficulty?”

Daphne nodded. “Evidently, that’s the reason he raced off to London directly after returning from Gantry. He wanted to secure the insurance money on our stolen jewels as quickly as possible.”

“Possessions mean a great deal to your father, Snowdrop. Just because he wants to regain what he considers rightfully his doesn’t mean he’s in a precarious monetary position.”

“True. And that act alone wouldn’t give me pause. But his behavior on our journey to Gantry was most unusual. Rather than being tyrannical, he was nervous and distracted, muttering that I should marry a wealthy nobleman who could remove the noose that is hanging about his neck.”

“And you think your duke might be that noose?”

“Or involved in whatever has created that noose. Yes, I believe it’s possible. But that’s only speculation on my part. I’ve pressed Pierce but, thus far, he has evaded the subject entirely.”

“Hmm. Well, I must say, I’m looking forward to meeting this enigmatic champion of yours.”

The vicar’s particular choice of words made Daphne smile. “Yes, Vicar, I, too, look forward to your meeting my enigmatic champion.”

Pierce was feeling anything but a champion.

Tossing down his second cup of black coffee, he ignored the sun’s early morning rays, instead pacing the length of his bedchamber and wondering for the hundredth time since midnight, when he’d abandoned all attempts at sleep, why the hell he hadn’t carried Daphne off when he’d had the chance. Instead, he’d gambled stupidly, giving her two days to think, hoping that her heart would subsequently convince her to accept his proposal.

And, in the process, leaving her in her fathers domain.

The risk suddenly seemed too precarious, more so as his confidence in Hollingsby began to falter. What if he’d overestimated the solicitor’s potential? What if Hollingsby were unable, or unwilling, to keep Tragmore in London?

Pierce slammed his cup onto the night stand, raked his fingers through his hair.

Hollingsby’s answering missive, delivered late last night, had done nothing to appease his worry. Oh, the older man had accepted the unexpected challenge he’d been handed, agreed to do his best to keep Tragmore occupied for a day or two. But, in closing, he warned Pierce that Tragmore was not stupid nor easily manipulated, and he, therefore, could make no promises.

Damn.

Dropping into a chair, Pierce stared, unseeing, at the bedchamber window, illuminated now by a full

patch of morning sunlight. With great effort, he tamped down his emotions, forcing himself to think rationally.

In truth, Hollingsby’s abilities were, in this case, not pivotal. Even if the solicitor were an unconvincing accomplice, Tragmore was in no hurry to return home, not with the knowledge that Pierce’s visit was imminent, his determination to collect his debt unyielding. No, the marquis would stay away as long as possible—at least until mid-day tomorrow, in the hopes of dodging his nemesis. But he wouldn’t succeed. For Pierce would be lying in wait, savoring his own impending announcement.

After which, Daphne would be his.

Pierce’s conscience reared its head, reminding him that Daphne knew but a portion of the truth. Granted, it was the most significant part, the part that involved the feelings unfurling between them. But that didn’t change the fact that she deserved to know everything, including the terms of Markham’s will.

But the risk of driving her away had silenced him. Her trust in him was new, fragile. He’d finally convinced her she played no part in his battle with Tragmore. The last thing he wanted was to reignite her self-doubt by implying she was a mere vessel for his requisite heir. Were that to happen, he’d lose her—spirit, faith and hand. As it was, he could only pray that her feelings for him outweighed her fear and her commitment to her father.

Daphne’s commitment to Tragmore.

That spawned an interesting line of thought which diverted Pierce from his musings.

Daphne had been decidedly curious over the details of her father’s monetary recovery from the burglary. Not surprising. Given Daphne’s fine instincts, Pierce assumed she’d arrived at the accurate conclusion that Tragmore was undergoing financial hardship. Moreover, it was likely she’d further deduced that Pierce was somehow connected to those difficulties. What she didn’t know, but was doubtless racking her brain to discern, was his motive.

He wondered if she would understand if he told her, if he delved into the heinous history he shared with the marquis. Were she anyone but Daphne, he wouldn’t even consider doing so. But his spirited snow flame, with her generous heart and limitless compassion—perhaps she could fathom the helpless degradation he’d endured, the hatred that burned within him.