Read Online Dark Season by Joanna Lowell - Free Book Online Page B

excuses.”
    “
That’s
not dramatic,” murmured Daphne. Then she colored slightly. “I don’t mean to be cutting,” she said. “I hope you don’t feel you have to make grand declarations on account of a missed engagement.” She paused, a shadow flitting across her eyes. “It so happens I dined alone that night. Ben didn’t turn up, either.”
    “What was his polite excuse?” Isidore spoke lightly, but he didn’t take his eyes from her face.
    She frowned. Then, all at once, she leapt up, widened her eyes, and spread her arms, imitating her husband. “By God, Daph, I plumb forgot!”
    This excellent bit of mimicry elicited another laugh. She had looked and sounded for all the world like Bennington. The man was a study in innocence. Daphne dimpled for him and sat back down.
    “He didn’t remember we’d asked you over until the sixth rubber of whist. I hated to admit you’d never come. It would have been lovely to play you each for a guilty party vis-à-vis the other, but I was afraid you’d compare notes at the club and the truth would out. Then I’d be scourged as a manipulative minx.”
    “You
are
a manipulative mix,” said Isidore. “I adore you for it. Bennington does too if he has half a brain in his head.”
    The arrival of the tea tray prevented Daphne from having to answer. But the tension in her rosy mouth did not escape Isidore’s notice.
    “How do you take your tea?” she asked.
    “Black, no sugar.” He took the cup and saucer, balancing both on his knee.
    “I haven’t seen Ben at the club. Haven’t laid eyes on him in weeks. Where is he now?”
    Daphne stirred sugar into her tea. “Debating the franchise, I imagine.” Then, as though clarification might be necessary, she added: “The Liberals want to extend the vote.”
    “I may be known chiefly as an indolent rake who abandoned his mother country to live in a tent with desert nomads, but I do pick up
The Times
on occasion, if only to swat flies.” Isidore leaned back in his chair and gazed at the medallion in the plasterwork ceiling. “I fancied Bennington as a backwoods peer. Showing up to the opening of Parliament so everyone could get a look at his pretty face then running for his life if anyone so much as mentioned the word ‘bill’ in his hearing.”
    “Did you?” Daphne’s voice sounded brittle. Isidore turned his eyes back on her. She was still stirring her tea as though she’d forgotten what her hand was doing. The sight disturbed him. She noticed his close regard and smiled, laying her spoon on the tray.
    “I don’t blame you for thinking that,” she said. “Ben was as frivolous as the rest of you. I won’t deny it.”
    “The rest of us?” Isidore clapped a hand on his heart as though wounded.
    “But you couldn’t be more wrong,” continued Daphne. “You haven’t been around much in the past five years. Ben is very involved in politics. He has grown serious.”
    “He was always serious,” said Isidore. “About his hair oil and how he knotted his cravat. Just as I was always serious about getting to the bottom of a gin bottle and betting every shilling my father ever gave me at long odds. I don’t think frivolity is an apt charge, Daph. We were misapplying our talents, perhaps, but we were doing so with a great deal of focus and determination.”
    “My husband’s focus has changed. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Daphne took a delicate sip of tea. “A piece of walnut cake? Lemon tart? The lemon tart is divine. We have a new cook who has a gift for pastry. How is your cook working out? It’s so terribly hard to find a good one.”
    Isidore followed her gaze to the assorted cakes and sweets arrayed on the table.
    “I was teasing,” he said. “Don’t punish me by playing the perfect hostess. You know I think the world of Ben.”
    Daphne ignored him, cutting a healthy portion of lemon tart. He put his tea on the table and accepted the plate.
    “Delicious.” He pronounced after the