The baron winked at her. "Not many other young ladies would be so brave as to keep a duke dangling, but he seems fond enough of you that he is resigned to it. However, I must invoke a word of caution, my dear. Do not push him too far. He is a duke, after all."

Daphne had a feeling she was going to be hearing that phrase quite often. "I am not marrying him," she said. "Pray do not speak of an engagement that does not exist."

"This desire for secrecy on your part seems a pointless business, for the duke made it clear to me that he would make no secret of his suit. You are my granddaughter, and as an honorable gentleman, I have an obligation to you. I am impelled to provide you with some counsel on this courtship, though of course, I already gave the duke my permission and my blessing."

She was getting very tired of honorable gentlemen. "I do not wish to be your obligation, sir."

Before he could reply, she rushed on to the only subject she wished to discuss. "Why did you hush up my mother's elopement to my father, and how did you keep it a secret?"

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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 G.o.dforsaken 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 pa.s.sage 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-"

"Hush, now." She patted Daphne's hand. "Do call me Elinor, my dear. As for the other, well, I have come to regard you as a member of my family." She gave a wry smile. "Although you may not like me after you hear what I have to say."

Daphne steeled herself for the inevitable. "You are going to tell me I should be wise to marry the duke."

"No, no, you are a grown woman, and you know your own heart and mind. Besides, being a d.u.c.h.ess would be an enormous responsibility, and I can understand your reluctance to take on such a role. I am not certain I would wish it even for my own daughters. No, my counsel to you concerns the baron."

"The baron?"

"Yes. Daphne, as much as I regard you as a member of my family, that does not alter the truth that the baron is your true relation. He is your grandfather. I appreciate your pride, for I possess a great deal of that quality myself, and I would feel just as indignant as you at his motives. No doubt it is the duke's interest in you that has compelled the baron to come forward after such shameful neglect. No doubt he values the possible connection that could come from an alliance with Tremore. No doubt he fears the censure that society will surely lay upon him for his refusal to support you and thereby force you to seek employment to support yourself. It is unconscionable, and his connection to Tremore would blunt his disgrace. Despite all his motives, I must advise you to allow him to do the right thing and allow him the pretense of being the benevolent grandfather, at least for the present."

Daphne started to speak, but Lady Fitzhugh laid a hand on her arm, and she fell silent.

"For your sake, Daphne," Lady Fitzhugh went on, "I must be so bold as to speak with you as if you were my own daughter. You are such a sensible woman in most respects, but in this matter, dear, you are allowing your pride to alter your judgment. If you are adamant about refusing the duke, he will eventually be made to accept that. If you allow Durand to acknowledge you now, he cannot take it back, even if your marriage to the duke does not come off. You will be given his support and protection, and you need not fear for your future ever again.

"From our conversation with him before you arrived, I came to the conclusion that though he is not a man of vast wealth, he does have a substantial and secure income from his estates, and would be able to support you quite adequately. My dear, you know from bitter experience how hard life can be. Do not allow pride to prevent you from having the security and connections your grandfather's position can provide. The duke, no doubt for your sake, has given the baron a chance to right his wrong to you. Allow Durand to save face and do so."

Daphne drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "You are right. He has repeatedly refused to acknowledge me, and when he came today, I was so outraged by his blatant and transparent attempt to curry favor with Anthony, that I blinded myself to the sensible course. To refute his acknowledgment would be folly."

"Anthony?" Lady Fitzhugh repeated the name, her voice so reflective and thoughtful that Daphne blushed. But Lady Fitzhugh was a tactful woman. "Perhaps a cup of tea would do both of us a bit of good," she murmured.

But the tea had barely been brought before the gentlemen returned to the drawing room. She and Lady Fitzhugh both rose to their feet, and Sir Edward came over to Daphne. Giving her a kindly pat on the shoulder, he said, "The baron has conferred upon me his acknowledgment of you as his legitimate granddaughter. Your future is secure, my dear."

Daphne turned to the baron, taking Lady Fitzhugh's advice and allowing him to save face. "Thank you," she said politely. "You are very kind."

"We have also made all the arrangements regarding your situation," Sir Edward went on. "Lord Durand has agreed to allow you to remain with us, for he appreciates that Anne and Elizabeth are your friends, and he agrees with me that Lady Fitzhugh is an excellent chaperone for you. He is providing you with a pocket allowance of ten pounds per week, and you may use his name at all the shops for anything you might need."

"That is most generous of you, Lord Durand," Lady Fitzhugh added. "Whether she is to marry a duke or not, a young lady needs much in the way of clothes and other fashionable things. Daphne is a wonderful friend to my own daughters, and we are delighted to have her remain here. I shall see that she avails herself of your generosity wisely."

"Thank you." The baron turned to her with a little cough. "Daphne, I can only hope that once you have thought over the circ.u.mstances of your situation, your heart will soften toward me."

He bowed, she curtsied, and he departed.

The moment Mary had closed the door behind him downstairs, Anne and Elizabeth came racing up to the drawing room. "Well?" they demanded in unison.

"The baron is Daphne's grandfather," Sir Edward informed them.

They both gave cries of astonishment and turned to Daphne. "But why did you not tell us? Why were you having to earn your living for the duke if you are a gentleman's daughter?"

"The baron had not acknowledged me," Daphne said, still feeling a hint of bitterness as she remembered those frightening days in Tangier. "Now he has."

"Durand is allowing her to remain with us," Sir Edward told his daughters, "and he has provided her with an allowance, which I am sure the pair of you will be happy to help her spend as quickly as possible."

"Oh, yes, we shall!" Elizabeth said, laughing. "Lovely new gowns, bonnets, and all the other finery a young lady being courted by a duke will need. First a duke comes to call, then a baron. I am certain that by the end of the week at least one earl and a pair of viscounts shall visit us."

Daphne made a wry face. "It is only because he believes I am to marry the duke that the baron is being so generous. Now that my future is settled, I believe I shall go out and spend a bit of the baron's money this very day. May Elizabeth and Anne accompany me?" she asked Lady Fitzhugh.

"Of course, my dear," the older woman answered. "But where are you going?"

"DeCharteres*. I must send a reply to the duke for his gift of yesterday."

Anne and Elizabeth gave exclamations of delight at the idea of going with her to the florist and seeing for themselves what flowers she would use in her response, but Lady Fitzhugh's raised brows were her only indication of surprise. "Replying to his message in kind is a very sweet and gracious thing to do, my dear."

"Once he sees it, Elinor, I doubt he will agree with you."

Chapter 23.

Anthony's London home in Grosvenor Square displayed none of the awe-inspiring opulence of his ducal estate. This home was one in which he spent a great deal of time, and it reflected his personal tastes to a much greater degree than any of his country houses. The chimney pieces were of a pale travertine marble, and the soft, thick carpets were of subtle colors and simple designs. It was described by some who dined there as a disappointment, intimate rather than imposing. To Anthony's mind, that was a compliment.

One of his soft, thick, subtly colored carpets was receiving some significant wear three evenings after his call upon Daphne in Russell Square. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace of his study, growing more impatient by the hour.

When he had called at the Fitzhugh house, there had been no doubt in his mind Daphne would answer him. A game of flower language-a language in which she had once expressed such delighted interest- would surely intrigue her, and he had not yet seen her back away from a challenge. She enjoyed a game as much as he.

The first day after his call in Russell Square, he had gone about his usual business, certain his reply would be waiting for him by the end of the day, but there was no word from her.

By the end of the second day, he had still not received an answer, and he became a bit worried that this time, she would not accept his challenge.

By nine o'clock on the evening of the third day, both his confidence and his worry had been replaced by a deeper, darker feeling of uncertainty. It was still a new emotion to him, and one of which he was not particularly fond.

Now, he paced back and forth in front of the fire, hoping that her answer was not to provide him with no answer at all, and he began to think out his next move. Somehow, he had to convince her that marrying him was the only acceptable course. He had hoped the idea of a game and his claim of victory would challenge her to respond, but if not, he would have to think up something else. He was certainly not going to give up.

The door to his study opened, and Anthony stopped pacing the floor as Quimby, his London butler, paused in the doorway.

"Dylan Moore is here, your grace," Quimby informed him. The butler then stepped aside so that the composer might enter the room. Dylan was one of the few people who did not have to wait for ducal permission to pay a call. He was welcome anytime.

"Tremore, I must beg you to come out with me," he said without preliminaries. "I have had enough of petulant divas for one day."

"Problems with the new opera?" Anthony guessed, but his mind was elsewhere. He bitterly regretted his careless words to Viola all those months ago. He needed to convince Daphne that those remarks did not reflect the way he saw her now. Now, he saw that woman in the rain. He saw those gorgeous lavender eyes behind those gold-rimmed spectacles. He saw a round, adorably solemn face, a face that strove so hard to conceal from everyone what she truly felt, until it suddenly lit up with laughter or anger-though that anger was usually directed at him. He saw her in that G.o.dawful ap.r.o.n, looking at an erotic fresco and then at him in the most maddening, innocently seductive way.

"Not problems with the opera, dear fellow, but with the diva," Dylan was correcting him. "Elena Triandos is an excellent soprano, but she is Greek, and Greek divas are particularly maddening. When I remember it was I who insisted upon having her in the leading role, I..."

Dylan's voice faded into the distance as Anthony turned on his heel and paced back across the hearthrug, chewing on one thumbnail, thinking.

Daphne needed courting, and more than flowers seemed to be required. She had never been given an opportunity to enjoy the luxuries of life, and G.o.d knew she needed a few. The way her father had dragged her all around the East in the sands and dust, isolating her from any sort of good society, was appalling. Daphne deserved more pleasures than the few scented soaps, the box of chocolates, and one pink silk dress she had bought for herself. She deserved all the luxuries life had to offer, and he could provide them. By G.o.d, he would shower her with them. If only she would give him some sort of reply.

What if she sends me some polite, indifferent little note that refuses my suit? That might be worse than no reply at all.

He could feel doubt etching itself into his soul with every minute that pa.s.sed without an answer from her. What if nothing he said or did was enough? He shook his head. No, he would not accept that. He would not believe it. He just had to hit upon the right thing to offer, the right words to say. He would not give up.

"What has you pacing back and forth with such feverish rapidity?" Dylan asked, watching him. "Political difficulties in the House of Lords? Problems with your museum? If so, they must be great indeed, for I have never seen you looking so worried as this."

Anthony cast his friend an abstracted glance as he paced, but he did not reply. If only he could get her alone. That might do the trick. He had already made his own feelings clear during his visit with Durand, and though he suspected Daphne would be quite put out about it, he had been impelled to do it. He knew that if society did not see her as one of their own and accept her, she would be the victim of even more vicious slanders. He could not keep his courtship of her a secret, no matter how discreet the Fitzhugh family chose to be. Anthony could just imagine the society papers tearing her to shreds for being some opportunistic gold digger attempting to ensnare a duke. Since everyone would soon believe they were engaged, it might be possible to get her alone. If he could just kiss her, touch her, tell her how beautiful she really was, inside as well as out- "d.a.m.n and blast, Tremore, if you take one more turn across that rug without telling me what the trouble is, I shall throttle you!"

Anthony did not have a chance to reply, for at that moment, Stephens, one of his footmen, appeared in the doorway carrying a wooden crate in his hands. "From DeCharteres, your grace," the footman informed him. "Mr. Quimby knew you had been asking about any deliveries from there, so he told me to bring it up to you straightaway."

A wave of relief washed over Anthony, a relief so strong and so profound, that he had to close his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath at his own regained hope. About d.a.m.ned time.

He opened his eyes and gestured the servant into the room. The footman placed the wooden crate upon his desk and departed as Anthony walked around the desk to have a look. It did not matter what she had sent him. The fact that she had sent him anything from the florist gave him hope.

"DeCharteres?" Dylan moved to stand opposite him at the desk, interested, but eyeing the crate with doubt. "Is London's finest florist now delivering eggs to the n.o.bility? Or is there perhaps some delicacy such as papaya plants for your famous conservatory hidden amid all this straw?"

Anthony was too preoccupied with pulling handfuls of that straw out of the crate to reply. He desperately wanted to see what she had sent. He lifted a potted plant from its tissue-paper wrappings, a pathetic-looking thing to be sure, its succulent leaves wrinkled and blackened. The plain clay pot in which it was contained was ice cold in his hands. Anthony burst out laughing.

His friend glanced at the plant and raised an eyebrow. "What the devil is it?"

"A gift from a young lady," he answered, still chuckling. An ice plant. No note was included, but none was needed. Trust Daphne to come up with something succinct, clever, and straight to the point.

"It is dead." Dylan pointed out the obvious as he touched one of its blackened leaves. "It is also frozen solid." He gave Anthony a curious look. "This is a gift from a young lady, and you find it amusing?"

"I do indeed," Anthony replied, grinning as he carried the plant across the room to the fireplace. He set the ugly, dead thing in a prominent place on the mantel. "More important than that, I find it encouraging."

He glanced over his shoulder at his friend, and added, "Since you are already dressed for an evening about town and begging me to distract you from maddening divas, you may come along with me."

"Certainly, but where are we going?"

"The Haydon a.s.sembly Rooms."

It was Dylan's turn to laugh. "You are joking. The Haydon Rooms are a bit mundane for you, do you not think? The room will be filled with respectable country girls come to town to snare the sons of squires. What sensible man wants to meet respectable marriage-minded girls?"

Anthony turned around to face his friend. "We are going to see my d.u.c.h.ess."

"Lady Sarah would never set one silk-slippered foot inside the Haydon a.s.sembly Rooms. She would rather drink henbane. Nor can I believe she would send you a dead plant-" He broke off, and his eyes narrowed as he studied his friend. "You have changed your mind. You have chosen someone else. Pray, tell me it is so."

"It is indeed so."