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Authors: Erica Ridley
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urgency.
In the event that her time became severely limited due to some mishap or another, she could devote what little she had to whichever cause was the most important at that moment.
She rose from her escritoire only when her maid entered the chamber with buckets of steaming water and all but forced Daphne to ready herself to face the day.
Esther refused to even consider allowing her mistress to don yet another gray and black ensemble, and fairly crowed with glee when she managed to talk Daphne into pale blue instead. A few ringlets later, Daphne was pronounced fit for joining the others at breakfast.
If they were still at the table. A glance at the clock indicated the hour was later than she realized. An unsurprising circumstance that transpired more often than not these days. Sometimes, she worked straight through lunch and only recognized the grumble of her stomach when she was too lightheaded to hold her pen properly.
Rather like now.
She slipped from her chamber and headed toward the dining room. The low rumble of conversation indicated the men had not yet quit the table. Her footsteps slowed.
What if Cousin Steele had already promised her to someone other than Bartholomew? Her hunger pangs vanished. She would not be able to eat until she was confident she would not wake up to find herself the new Mrs. Whitfield or Mrs. Fairfax in a few weeks’ time.
She paused to listen just out of sight from the open doorway.
“—wonder when the weather will be warm enough to take a dip in the river. I do miss swimming.”
Daphne’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That voice belonged to Mr. Whitfield, and the subject was certainly safe enough.
“I wager it won’t be properly warm until May or June, but why wait? They say the Russians go straight from the sauna to the snow. What’s a cold river compared to snow?”
And that was Mr. Fairfax. Always primed to race pell-mell into one reckless scrape or another. Daphne narrowed her eyes. When he was younger, Bartholomew used to do the same. It was no surprise at all when he ran off to join the army. She half expected him to disappear again the next time adventure knocked.
“What’s a cold river?” came Mr. Whitfield’s incredulous voice. “It’s ague, is what it is, and I’ve a match next week. Got to be in top form if I’m to best Quinton. Ever spar with that one, Blackpool?”
“My brother did,” came Bartholomew’s low, smooth voice.
“Your brother! Win or lose?”
“You have to ask?”
Mr. Whitfield’s warm chuckle drifted out into the corridor. “I should say not. One glance tells me you’re in better form than anyone at Jackson’s, so I can quite imagine the damage a brother of yours might have done.”
As could Daphne. Bartholomew and Edmund had been more than twins. Their own parents had difficulty telling their lads apart. Perhaps it was for that very reason that the brothers became so competitive, each of them fighting to be stronger, faster, distinguishable from the other. She sighed. That struggle was finally over.
Daphne lay the back of her head against the wallpaper and closed her eyes. Poor Tolly. He’d never intended to win like this.
A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Her eyes flew open. She immediately closed them again. And pretended she was invisible. Perhaps if she didn’t acknowledge her guardian had just caught her eavesdropping on guests in her own dining room, she could melt through the wainscoting and disappear.
“Not in the mood for kippers, are we?” Captain Steele didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice. “Table too crowded for you, love?”
Chapter Nine
Breakfast had been excruciating. Bartholomew struggled to keep his mask in place.
He’d managed to exchange a few light words about his brother without his face or voice betraying just how completely his world had shattered when he’d lost his twin, but the memories were flooding back and it was becoming hard to breathe.
He pushed to
In the event that her time became severely limited due to some mishap or another, she could devote what little she had to whichever cause was the most important at that moment.
She rose from her escritoire only when her maid entered the chamber with buckets of steaming water and all but forced Daphne to ready herself to face the day.
Esther refused to even consider allowing her mistress to don yet another gray and black ensemble, and fairly crowed with glee when she managed to talk Daphne into pale blue instead. A few ringlets later, Daphne was pronounced fit for joining the others at breakfast.
If they were still at the table. A glance at the clock indicated the hour was later than she realized. An unsurprising circumstance that transpired more often than not these days. Sometimes, she worked straight through lunch and only recognized the grumble of her stomach when she was too lightheaded to hold her pen properly.
Rather like now.
She slipped from her chamber and headed toward the dining room. The low rumble of conversation indicated the men had not yet quit the table. Her footsteps slowed.
What if Cousin Steele had already promised her to someone other than Bartholomew? Her hunger pangs vanished. She would not be able to eat until she was confident she would not wake up to find herself the new Mrs. Whitfield or Mrs. Fairfax in a few weeks’ time.
She paused to listen just out of sight from the open doorway.
“—wonder when the weather will be warm enough to take a dip in the river. I do miss swimming.”
Daphne’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That voice belonged to Mr. Whitfield, and the subject was certainly safe enough.
“I wager it won’t be properly warm until May or June, but why wait? They say the Russians go straight from the sauna to the snow. What’s a cold river compared to snow?”
And that was Mr. Fairfax. Always primed to race pell-mell into one reckless scrape or another. Daphne narrowed her eyes. When he was younger, Bartholomew used to do the same. It was no surprise at all when he ran off to join the army. She half expected him to disappear again the next time adventure knocked.
“What’s a cold river?” came Mr. Whitfield’s incredulous voice. “It’s ague, is what it is, and I’ve a match next week. Got to be in top form if I’m to best Quinton. Ever spar with that one, Blackpool?”
“My brother did,” came Bartholomew’s low, smooth voice.
“Your brother! Win or lose?”
“You have to ask?”
Mr. Whitfield’s warm chuckle drifted out into the corridor. “I should say not. One glance tells me you’re in better form than anyone at Jackson’s, so I can quite imagine the damage a brother of yours might have done.”
As could Daphne. Bartholomew and Edmund had been more than twins. Their own parents had difficulty telling their lads apart. Perhaps it was for that very reason that the brothers became so competitive, each of them fighting to be stronger, faster, distinguishable from the other. She sighed. That struggle was finally over.
Daphne lay the back of her head against the wallpaper and closed her eyes. Poor Tolly. He’d never intended to win like this.
A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Her eyes flew open. She immediately closed them again. And pretended she was invisible. Perhaps if she didn’t acknowledge her guardian had just caught her eavesdropping on guests in her own dining room, she could melt through the wainscoting and disappear.
“Not in the mood for kippers, are we?” Captain Steele didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice. “Table too crowded for you, love?”
Chapter Nine
Breakfast had been excruciating. Bartholomew struggled to keep his mask in place.
He’d managed to exchange a few light words about his brother without his face or voice betraying just how completely his world had shattered when he’d lost his twin, but the memories were flooding back and it was becoming hard to breathe.
He pushed to
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