Page 66 of Guilty Pleasures

The baron glanced at Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh. He frowned, as if annoyed at this abrupt change in the conversation to uncomfortable questions, but he answered her. “My daughter was very young, only seventeen. I did not approve of the match, for the obvious difference in their station made it clear to me that such a marriage would be unsuitable. When they eloped, I chose to avoid the inevitable scandal, and told people I had sent Jane to relatives living in Italy because she wanted to study art.”

Daphne listened, gratified that he was finally admitting the truth about her parents, but he was doing so as if reciting a prepared speech, and there was a hint of resentment beneath the rehearsed words. “I deemed it for the best.”

Daphne folded her arms, giving him a hard stare. “Did you?”

The baron shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the cool contempt in her question, but Daphne was unmoved by his discomfiture. “Why did you then compound your wrong by refusing to acknowledge me? I know my father was an orphan with no family or connections, but he was a brilliant man, a good man, and your daughter loved him. He was a knight. You knew they had married. You knew that I was your granddaughter, yet you refused to acknowledge me. Are you ashamed of me that you have treated me thus?”

The baron was frowning at this rapid stream of words, looking displeased that such an attack was to be part of their first conversation together. But he did not speak in a tone that conveyed that displeasure. Instead, he forced away his frown and spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “Daphne, it is not at all what you think.”

“Is it not?”

“No, no.” He gave another uncomfortable glance at Sir Edward and Lady Fitzhugh, but they remained silent and gave him no help. Lady Fitzhugh was embroidering, and Sir Edward stood idly stirring the fire with a poker. Neither seemed to notice the awkward silence in the room. Even the baron’s slight cough did not cause either of them to look up.

With clear reluctance, he returned his attention to Daphne, who was staring at him in stony silence. “Your father was in Durham, near my estates at Cramond, only a short distance away. He was giving a lecture on Roman antiquities to the Historical Society. My daughter chose to attend. They began meeting secretly, and a week later, they came to me and announced they intended to marry. Needless to say, I disapproved.”

“Did you disown her?”

He denied it at once. “No, no. I was furious, for several reasons. Your father was an orphan of no family or connections whatsoever. He was nearly twenty years older than my Jane, and he scarcely had the money to support a wife and children. If they had intended to live with me, I could perhaps have been persuaded to forgive the match, but he intended to cart your mother off to some godforsaken place in the Mediterranean. Also, I did not believe any marriage of lasting happiness could be based on a week’s affection. My daughter and I quarreled. She and your father eloped that night, and a few days later, they were on a ship out of Edinburgh, bound for Naples. I never saw my daughter again. My wife is gone, and I have no other children. Can you understand my feelings of betrayal and bitterness?”

“You say you did not disown her, but you did. You disowned her in your heart, and never answered any of her letters to you. Nor did you answer mine.”

He winced at her blunt way of putting it. “I hope you can understand.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair, still feeling no compunction to see his point of view. “No, I do not understand your actions at all, sir. Not only did you wrong your daughter, you have wronged hers as well. I wrote to you, and received a response from an attorney representing your interests. Shall I tell you what he said?”

He tried to respond, but she did not allow him that opportunity. “I was told in very explicit terms that I could not possibly be your granddaughter,” she continued, “and that any attempt of mine to gain either money or connection to you would be futile. My father had just died. I was in the middle of the Moroccan desert, with no money, no family at hand to help me. I wrote to you from Tangier, and waited six months for your response to my letter, spending what little money I had, barely able to sustain myself. All the antiquities Papa had discovered at Volubilis had already been sold to the Duke of Tremore or to the museum in Rome, and most of the money from Papa’s share had been spent for expenses.”

She could hear her own voice becoming quavery and much too emotional, but she did not care. She wanted him to know just how devastating a wound his neglect had inflicted on her. “I was forced to sell Papa’s books and equipment in order to eat and have a roof over my head, but I waited, hoping that as my grandfather, you would help me. You did not. You abandoned me, leaving me alone, with no money, no protection, and no means. It was only because the Duke of Tremore had hired my father and had sent billets of passage for us that I was able to journey to England. I went to Hampshire, and worked for the duke to support myself. You asked me if I understand why you did what you did. My answer is no. I do not understand, and I find it impossible to forgive—”

“You give your opinions far too decidedly for one so young!” he interrupted, his voice rising in anger. “I have come in good faith to right the wrong done you.”

“Only because you believe I am about to marry a duke. There is no engagement. So you see—”

“Perhaps,” Sir Edward’s voice entered the conversation for the first time, interrupting what she had been about to say, “this matter needs to be discussed and settled between us, Lord Durand, for women, you must agree, are emotional creatures, and do not allow rational thinking to enter their speech at times.”

Daphne made a sound of outrage, but Lady Fitzhugh put a hand on her arm, and when she turned to look at the other woman, Lady Fitzhugh mouthed the word, “Wait.”

“Perhaps you are right, Sir Edward,” Durand said.

“Capital! Shall we go into my study?” He gestured to the door of the drawing room, and the two men departed together, leaving the two women alone.

Daphne jumped to her feet the moment they were gone and began to pace the room. “This is so humiliating! I know perfectly well it is only his desire for a connection to the duke that has impelled the baron to come forward and claim me as his granddaughter now. Horrid man! And how dare the duke go to Durand and speak of this? He knows I will not marry him, for my refusal was most emphatic.”

“Daphne, sit down.”

She looked over at Lady Fitzhugh, who was looking back at her with such a grave countenance that she returned to her chair at once and sat down.

“The duke did offer for you, then?”

“Yes.” Afraid that Lady Fitzhugh was about to tell her to be sensible, she went on, “Please do not offer me counsel on the wisdom of my refusal. I—”

“No, no, Daphne, I would not be so indelicate as to inquire about your answer or your reasons. I respect your reticence in the matter and your choice. I only asked if he had offered because if he has, I would like to offer you a bit of advice, if I may.”

Daphne looked at her with interest and a hint of dismay. She had a high regard for Lady Fitzhugh, and did not want to hear the other woman tell her she was being foolish to refuse a duke. “Advice?”

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and was silent for a moment, then she said, “But first, let me say that I have come to have a great deal of affection for you, my dear. You have been such excellent company for my daughters, for you are older than they, and therefore possess a good deal more sense because of it and are a steadying influence on them. But I am older still than you, and the wiser for my advantage in years, I hope. Please allow me to offer you my counsel, with the understanding that it is heartfelt and solely out of concern for you.”

“Of course, you may offer me your counsel and advice. You have been so kind to me. You have taken me into your home, befriended me, and—” Her voice broke, and she waited a moment before going on. “Lady Fitzhugh, I am so grateful. You have treated me almost as a member of your family, and words cannot express—”

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