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CHAPTER EIGHT

Daphne had avoided joining the company for breakfast, though she could not avoid the scavenger hunt. This was the last informal entertainment of the gathering, the day was fine, and nobody would believe she had a megrim or turned ankle.

She took a tray in her room—even merry widows caught out in their frolics must eat—and alternately fretted and fumed.

Why had Offenbach been lurking in the corridor before anybody else was awake? Had he been able to identify the earl as Daphne’s escort? What gossip would ensue, or could Offenbach’s silence be bought with a reciprocal offer of discretion? Mrs. Ingersoll was married, after all.

Such thoughts were distasteful, and fueled the ire that simmered along with Daphne’s worry. Why, when she’d for once allowed herself some pleasure, must Offenbach slither into her garden, turning what should have been a lovely interlude into something tawdry and regrettable?

“Except I don’t regret a moment of it,” she informed her reflection in the cheval mirror. She was the same Lady Cargill she’ d been yesterday, and yet, she was a different Daphne. She’d known pleasure and intimacy and the ease of being lovers with Montmarche.

“Offenbach shall not tarnish that gift, no matter what tattle he threatens to whisper into Terrence’s ear.”

She grabbed a parasol, stuffed a pair of crocheted gloves in her skirt pocket, and headed for the door.

“Mama.” Phoebe stood in the corridor, Charles at her elbow. “We were concerned when you didn’t come down to breakfast.”

Charles bowed. “You are in good looks today, Mother.”

Charles was in good looks too. A fortnight of fresh air and socializing had brightened his smile, and even Phoebe looked happy.

If Offenbach thinks he can imperil my children’s happiness, I will make him regret the very notion.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Daphne said. “And we have treasure to hunt. Has Lady Cassandra passed out the lists?”

“Lord Montmarche will hand them around on the back terrace shortly,” Phoebe said, linking arms with Daphne and starting for the stairs. “He and her ladyship are to referee, because it wouldn’t be fair for them to participate. They know the house and grounds too well.”

Daphne had also hidden in her room because she had not wanted to face Montmarche with others about.

For as long as possible, she wanted to put off acknowledging that the role of lover was a brief aberration for them both.

This morning they were host and guest, earl and viscountess, and those roles must be resumed.

Though he had promised her further discussion, likely an awkward acknowledgement of theoretical consequences. Conception was unlikely, given the precautions Montmarche had taken, and Daphne’s increasingly unreliable menses.

And no, that evidence of aging biology did not make her sad. It made her relieved.

“I have enjoyed myself more at this gathering than I’d thought possible,” Phoebe said. “The weather has cooperated of course, but the company has also been congenial.”

Charles propped a hip on the bannister and slid down to the landing. “I’ve had a pleasant time as well, but could have wished for a different roommate. Offenbach came and went at all hours and was forever attempting to lead me astray.”

“You don’t lead astray very well,” Daphne said, resisting the urge to fuss at his hair. “Typical Cargill.”

Though she had allowed herself to become intimate with Montmarche, and she did not regret that departure from strict propriety at all.

“I do hope I’m on Mr. Tremont’s team,” Phoebe said. “He’s sensible. He’ll have a plan for how we find all the items.”

“He’s not bad-looking either,” Charles said, smiling a little-brother-knows-all smile. “And a fine fellow too.”

“You, on the other hand,” Phoebe said, pausing on the last stair, “are entirely awful. I hope your team loses badly.”

They smiled at each other, when a year ago, they might have stuck out their tongues.

“My team will win,” Daphne said, “because it’s my team.”

They emerged onto the back terrace, where most of the guests were already assembled. Many of the men were in riding attire after a morning hack, while the ladies had donned walking dresses. The mood was cheerful and chattery.

Montmarche stood near the balustrade. He too was in riding attire, his hair a trifle windblown, his hands bare. Mrs. Ingersoll flanked him on one side, Mrs. Cavanaugh on the other. He had not spotted Daphne, and that was fortunate, for she needed a moment to gather her fortitude.

Montmarche was attractive, he was good company, and he was everything Daphne could wish for in a lover. How did he feel about her? As Mrs. Ingersoll went into peals of grating laughter, Daphne resolved to at least have that discussion with Montmarche.

She could not risk scandal, but for Lysander, she could risk her dignity.

“That laughter will haunt me,” Phoebe muttered. “I don’t think she can help herself. ”

“Then she oughtn’t to laugh at all,” Charles replied. “Not gentlemanly of me, I know.”

“Let’s find our teams,” Daphne said. “And prepare for guile and experience to once more triumph over youth and ignorance.”

The children moved away, while Daphne looked for a place to be inconspicuous. Why had she not sketched Montmarche while she’d had the chance? She took a seat at an empty table beneath a balcony, the better to study her subject.

He’d moved on to a knot of men, Mr. Tremont and Mr. Prescott among them. The younger fellows showed Montmarche deference, in their posture, in their willingness to yield him the floor.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Daphne had been so absorbed memorizing the contour of Montmarche’s shoulders that Mr. Offenbach’s greeting startled her.

“Sir. Good morning.” Go away and stay away.

“You need not worry that I’ll be indiscreet,” he said. “Far from it. What’s life without an occasional diversion?”

“Mr. Offenbach, I don’t know what you saw, or what you thought you saw, but this topic does not interest me.” She could not cause a scene, and Offenbach likely knew that.

“I thought Mrs. Cavanaugh had got her hooks into Montmarche,” Offenbach went on as if Daphne hadn’t spoken.

“Lord knows the lady hasn’t the time of day for the likes of me.

I’m dirt beneath her shoe. But all along you were having your wicked way with the very proper earl. Enterprising of you, I say.”

“The less you say, the better. Mrs. Ingersoll has had an exceedingly agreeable time at this gathering, largely thanks to you.”

Offenbach’s smile was unnervingly friendly.

“I have nothing to gain by attempting to ruin you, my lady. Not one thing. If I were to make accusations, my word would be worthless compared to the standing of mine host. Montmarche would skewer me with a rusty pike before all of polite society. You’re safe, while I must contend with creditors of a most unsympathetic nature. ”

Daphne did not trust Offenbach any farther than she could toss her parasol, but he seemed to be in earnest.

“Do you harbor a tendresse for Mrs. Cavanaugh?” she asked. “You have a very odd way of showing it, Mr. Offenbach.”

“She can’t ignore me when I’m being outrageous,” he said, rising. “But no. I know better than to pine for what I do not deserve. I’ll wish you good morning, my lady, and good hunting.”

The phrase jarred, though Daphne had used it herself. She declined to offer Offenbach her hand, and was still sitting alone under the balcony five minutes later when Rehobeth Ingersoll settled into the seat beside her.

“Montmarche isn’t on a team,” Mrs. Ingersoll said. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Because as owner of the property, he’d have an advantage in any game that depended on searching the premises.”

“Or he’s made other plans for the morning. I’m to give you this.” She passed Daphne a folded piece of paper. “And you must not worry, my lady. I enjoy my little peccadilloes, but I can keep my mouth shut.”

The note was sealed with the Montmarche crest, and Lysander had been standing with Mrs. Ingersoll not ten minutes ago.

“I suspect you’ll want to read that somewhere very private,” Mrs. Ingersoll said. “House parties can be so amusing, can’t they?”

She patted Daphne’s arm and wafted away, yoo-hooing to Mr. Tremont and Mr. Gavineau.

Daphne opened the note, holding it out of sight below the table.

My dove,

Meet me in the maze and we’ll lose ourselves in passion. Until we can scale the heights of pleasure, I remain…

Ever thin e

My dove? Lysander had not once, in an entire night of lovemaking, used an endearment with Daphne.

Not my dove, not precious, not darling, not anything more personal than my dear .

Moreover, the maze was forbidden to guests, and if two rational adults sought to lose themselves in passion, Marche Hall boasted an embarrassment of bedrooms, linen closets, sitting rooms, and deserted stairways that offered better accommodations.

“Mama,” Phoebe called from across the terrace. “The teams are forming. Come draw a number.”

Daphne waved and smiled, but she did not leave her seat. Montmarche would never have sealed a note with his crest if he sought to be discreet. Two people Daphne did not trust had told her not to worry, and then she’d been given a note that made no sense.

She was worried.

Daphne hadn’t come down to breakfast, and now she lurked beneath a balcony, refusing to greet her host. A younger man, a man with less experience of the world, might have worried.

Lysander was admittedly concerned . Any conscientious host should take note of a guest reluctant to join the day’s diversion, but the truth was, this guest had become his lover, and he hoped very much she wasn’t regretting her generosity.

First Offenbach and then Mrs. Ingersoll had briefly joined Daphne, and when Cassandra would have entangled Lysander in a discussion of silk versus lace parasols, he excused himself.