Page 73 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

She did not want to look at him, so she just nodded, saying carefully, “I daresay Papa will have a conniption fit and I shall be utterly sunk beneath contempt for breaking my word of honor to him, but under the circumstances I could see nothing else to be done. Penthorpe loves Susan, not me. I’ve known that for some time, of course, but since my father was determined that I should wed him, and since Susan is married to Geoffrey—What if he does not get a divorce, sir?

Even with that paper he signed, I cannot be sure in my own mind that he will do as he promised. ”

“No, I am very sure he will not,” Gideon admitted, “but that signed declaration will be enough to make certain she can get a divorce in Scotland, where just the fact of having been forced to accept Lady Catherine’s presence in her house will be grounds enough for her suit.

Anglesey’s seduction of Lady Charlotte Wellesley was enough to gain one for his wife, after all. ”

“Will the divorce be dreadfully expensive?”

“Not nearly as expensive as an English one would be.”

“Aunt Ophelia will frank her, I’m sure.”

“That is not necessary, you know.”

She smiled at him. “You mean that Penthorpe will bear the expense. I do know he would be happy to do so, but I think Susan would prefer to manage that herself and not hang on his sleeve.”

“You would feel better under similar circumstances, my sweet, but I am not at all convinced that your sister’s sentiments resemble yours at all, let alone to that degree. She is a much more dependent sort of woman, you know.”

She sighed. “That’s true, sir, but indeed, I cannot think she would want Penthorpe to frank her divorce from Seacourt.”

“You may be right.” He fell silent, and she could think of nothing to say to him.

She was free of Penthorpe, but she still feared she did not know her own mind, and she certainly did not know his, for she had expected him to declare himself the moment he knew she was free, and it seemed he had no intention of doing so.

After nearly a quarter hour of silence, she remembered that he still did not know she had discovered the origin of the feud.

She said, “I found your grandmama’s novel most interesting, sir.

“Yes, you recommended that I read it, as I recall. In the letter you sent when you returned it to me,” he added when she looked bewildered. “Had you forgotten?”

“Good gracious, I suppose I did say that in that letter, but since I also wrote about going to find Charley and Melissa, I had completely forgotten. But you truly ought to read it, sir.”

“Why? As I recall the matter, Lady Ophelia said it was dreadful—kittenish and cute. Not my style of thing at all.”

“But you ought to read it,” she insisted.

He turned suddenly and smiled at her. “Why? You can tell me about it. I am sure that would be much more entertaining.”

“It might be entertaining, but I would find it difficult, sir, for in point of fact, in that novel lies the answer we have been searching for, the key to the Tarrant-Deverill feud.”

“The feud doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, squinting his eyes against the setting sun. “I hope Lady Catherine is able to reach St. Ives before darkness falls.”

Daintry did not care if Lady Catherine ever got to St. Ives.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” she demanded. “We have been searching for the answer for months and since it was all your grandmother’s fault, my father won’t do a thing to end it, which means your father must do so, but I daresay he will not—” She broke off, realizing he was smiling at her again.

“What is the matter with you, Deverill? Did you even hear a word I said?”

“Every single one,” he said, “and there is nothing the matter with me. Nothing at all.” He began to whistle softly.

She stared, wondering what ailed the man, but he continued to squint into the sunset, and to whistle.

She remembered his reputation, that he was a recognized flirt, and wondered if all the time she had thought he was falling in love, he had merely been toying with her, believing there was no danger of her taking him at his word since she was betrothed to another man.

But that could not be, for when he had thought Penthorpe dead, he had said quite clearly that he intended to marry her, and his affections had seemed well engaged before they had gone to London.

Until Penthorpe reappeared, only the feud had stood in his way, but then he had backed off. Had he lost interest since then?

She had not precisely encouraged him, ever, to believe his suit would prosper, and she had certainly never told him that she loved him.

In fact, she had insisted that she was not really interested in marrying anyone and that, were it not for her father’s demands, she would prefer to remain single.

Maybe he thought that was why she had cried off today.

She wished he would stop whistling and talk to her.

As the thought flitted through her mind, she had a sudden mental image of Davina, and said tartly, “Do stop that awful whistling, and talk to me!”

“Certainly,” he said. “What does your father think about the troubles at the Mulberry mine? Has he suggestions to make about what we should do with the miners who are out of work?”

It was not at all what she wanted to talk about, but since she could scarcely demand to know if he still wanted to marry her, she was obliged to accept a subject of his choosing.

That one occupied them until the cavalcade came to the toll road leading to St. Ives, where they parted from Lady Catherine.

Not until they rode on again did it occur to Daintry that Gideon had asked for her opinion as well as for her father’s on a number of issues, and that he had listened respectfully to what she said.

She remembered, too, that he had not scolded her for going alone to find Charley and Melissa but had seemed to assume that she had reason for doing so.

Surely no other man would have done that.

They went on talking, but her thoughts continued to divert her attention until finally, after she had twice asked him to repeat himself, he said, “My sweet life, this is the outside of enough. I seem to recall being informed that men do not listen, that they constantly ask women to repeat themselves, but in fact I find that is not the case at all. Pay attention.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said contritely. “My mind seems to insist upon woolgathering, which is dreadfully rude, I know, but indeed, I cannot seem to help it.”

“What thoughts can be so fascinating that they overcome your ability to pay heed to my words of infinite wisdom?”

“Do you still want to marry me?” The words were out before she knew she was going to say them, and hearing their echo in her mind, she forced herself to face straight ahead, though she could feel fiery heat in her cheeks and it was difficult not to turn away from him. Then she heard him chuckle.

“That is certainly a matter for conjecture,” he said, “but we are not going to discuss the matter just yet.”

She glared at him furiously, not certain if she ought to be humiliated, enraged, or simply relieved.

At all events, she said not one more word to him even when he began to whistle again, and when the gates of Tuscombe Park loomed ahead in the dusk, she greeted the sight with relief, forgetting that more obstacles lay ahead.

She was reminded of them the moment they entered the hall, for St. Merryn was there, talking with Charles and Davina, and he greeted their arrival with relief but no visible delight.

“Upon my word, what the devil is going on? Did you find Charley? Oh, there you are, child! Well, here is your papa and your mama at their wits’ end from fretting about you.”

Davina held out her arms, and Charley ran into them.

St. Merryn turned back to the others. “Good God, it’s Deverill,” he exclaimed when Gideon entered behind Susan, Penthorpe, and Melissa. “I suppose, because my wife’s fool aunt invited you into my house in London—which she’d no business to do—you expect now to have the run of the place here.”

“No, sir, I do not, but we have urgent matters to discuss, and this is not the place to discuss them. I suggest that we retire at once to your library.”

St. Merryn glared at him, but the sight of one of the footmen descending the stairs to lend assistance with Susan’s and Melissa’s bags was enough to make him nod in agreement.

“I have to go with Melissa,” Charley informed her parents as she attempted to free herself from Davina’s embrace.

“Oh, no, you do not,” Charles informed her sternly.

“You, my girl, are coming straightaway upstairs with me to explain just what you meant by leaving the house today. And your explanation had better be very good, because you have worried your mama, and that I will not tolerate, as you will very soon discover.”

Susan said anxiously, “Don’t scold her, Charles, for indeed, I stand very much in her debt, but Charley dear, you need not come with us.

Instead, I should like you to take Melissa up with you.

We must talk with Grandpapa and you children have already seen and heard a great deal too much today.

I will explain everything later, Charles, if you will do this for me now. ”

Charles exchanged a look with his wife, then said, “Of course, we will take them up. Charley, what can you have said to your aunt to make her think you would not be living in Plymouth with us? That much I will have explained to me if nothing else.”

“Oh, Papa, I did think that, only Aunt Daintry told me I was mistaken, and indeed, I am very sorry if you both were worried.” She was still earnestly explaining when Gideon shut the book-room door, cutting off all sound from the hall.

St. Merryn, moving to his desk, said curtly, “Now, perhaps someone will explain this farrago to me. Susan, if you have run away from your husband again, let me tell you—”

“Excuse me for interrupting you, sir,” Gideon said calmly, “but before you say something you might regret, perhaps I ought to explain that Seacourt has agreed to a divorce.”

“A divorce! We have never had a divorce in this family, and by God, we are not going to have one now. Susan, go and get your daughter at once. I’ll take you back myself.”

Penthorpe stepped forward then and said, “No, sir, you will not. It has been made plain to us today that Geoffrey Seacourt is responsible for an attack on Lady Ophelia’s carriage that was intended to end in her death.

It is our opinion that he wanted her dead so that he could claim his wife’s inheritance before Lady Ophelia had opportunity to alter her will.

We have it on good authority, too, that he also wanted Lady Daintry dead.

If those events had come to pass, Susan’s own life would not have been worth a sou, for he coveted her money and nothing more.

And I’ll tell you something else, too,” he added grimly.

“We are not going to wait for him to seek that divorce. Susan is going to petition in her own behalf at the Commissary Court in Edinburgh, and since she would be wise to leave first thing in the morning, she had better have something to eat now and get some sleep.”

St. Merryn stared at him. “What is this? You, sir, are betrothed to my younger daughter, but that does not give—”

“No, he isn’t, Papa,” Daintry said. “We have agreed that we would not suit each other.”

“By heaven, I told you I won’t stomach that sort of thing again!” He glared at her. “I put my foot down!”

She said quietly, “You must, sir, for I will not marry him.”

“Well, if you think that I’ll bear the expense of another London Season for a witless chit who don’t show the least gratitude for anything that’s done for her, you had better think again.

Whistling Penthorpe down the wind, when it was as good as settled!

Upon my word, I don’t know what to say to you. ”

Gideon chuckled. “You might wish her happy, sir, for she is going to be a marchioness one day.”

“What’s that? Nonsense, I won’t have that either! Daintry, tell the man. By God, I’d rather see you remain single! An excellent notion, after all. By God, it is!”

“Yes, it is,” Daintry said indignantly, furious that Gideon could declare himself so carelessly after refusing to discuss the matter with her before. He must, she thought, have windmills in his head if he still believed he could order things as he chose.