Seduction Becomes Her (13 page)

Daphne started, and her fork clattered on her plate. Returning quickly to the table, she shot an admonishing glance at her sister. “I’m sure that Mr. Weston is not at all interested in how we amuse ourselves,” she said sharply, reseating herself.

“You’re wrong there,” Charles said, glad that the subject was now out in the open and that Miss Ketty could relax and not fear exposure. “I am
most
interested.” Smiling guilelessly, he added, “Do you know, I don’t believe that I’ve had the pleasure of ever meeting a witch.”

“Why don’t you join us tomorrow? It should be a great romp,” said Adrian, deftly jerking his legs aside under the table to avoid the kick he knew Daphne had aimed at him.

“Thank you. I believe I shall,” Charles said. “What time shall I be here?”

“The meeting is not here at the house,” Daphne said from between gritted teeth. “We are going to Mrs. Darby’s house, just outside of Penzance. It is a very small house, and when I made the arrangements, it was understood that I would be her only guest. I do not think that she is going to appreciate having a whole horde descend upon her without warning.”

“Then warn her,” Charles retorted. “Better yet, send her a note, telling her of the change in plans, and have her come to Beaumont Place. No reason for us to trek to Penzance when there is plenty of room here.”

Daphne took a deep breath, thinking Mr. Weston was the most infuriating man she had ever met. And she was to marry him! “There are reasons,” she began reasonably, “why meeting Mrs. Darby at her home would be best.”

Leaning forward, April said in a confiding tone, “The witch is our Goodson’s sister.”

Charles’s brow rose. “Indeed. All the more reason for her to come here.” He smiled lazily at Daphne. “She can have a nice, cozy visit with her brother before she sees us.” He looked puzzled. “Er, did someone tell me
why
we are meeting with a witch in the first place?”

“She is to tell us tales and legends about Beaumont Place and our ancestors,” offered April brightly. “Daffy said Vicar Henley’s papers are too stuffy and that Mrs. Darby’s tales will be more vivid.”

“I thoroughly disapprove of the entire affair,” said Miss Ketty firmly. “Consorting with witches! It is not at all proper.”

“Oh, I quite agree with you,” replied Charles sunnily, ingratiating himself further into Miss Ketty’s good graces. He smiled at her, one adult to another. “But what are we to do? Miss Daphne has made up her mind, and Sir Adrian and Miss April are looking forward to it. Surely, we should not disappoint them? By having Mrs. Darby here at Beaumont Place, we can keep an eye on things and see that nothing untoward occurs. I think it should be quite safe.”

“Goodson does not approve of his sister,” Daphne said dryly. “He will not like it when he learns that she is to be here.”

“Then we shall just have to let him know that his sister is coming to call tomorrow and allow him to get used to the idea, won’t we?” said Charles sweetly.

He watched interestedly as Daphne’s fingers tightened dangerously around her cup of coffee.

It was a near thing, but Daphne did not, as she longed to do, hurl her cup at Mr. Weston’s head. Instead, she smiled just as sweetly at him and said, “What an excellent idea! And since you are so very busy rearranging everyone’s plans, you shall have the pleasure of informing Goodson of the treat in store for him tomorrow.”

Rising to her feet, she said, “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go and write a note to Mrs. Darby telling her of the change of plans.”

Daphne sailed from the room, leaving Charles to stare after her in comical dismay. “You know, right up until the last minute, I thought I had her neatly boxed in,” he observed to no one in particular.

Adrian guffawed. “Think Daffy won that round.”

Charles grinned. “Yes, I’ll concede that.” Glancing around the table at the others he asked, “Is Goodson likely to cut up rough about his sister’s visit?”

“Goodson is too well-trained to be anything but the exemplary butler that he is,” said Miss Ketty. “While I am sure that he will not be happy about it, I am equally sure that he will act and do everything that is proper.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Charles muttered, standing up. He took his leave of April and Miss Ketty, and then looking at Adrian, he said, “You’d better come with me. He’s your servant, after all.”

Adrian threw down his napkin and standing up, said, “That may be, but you’re the one who is to tell him.” He grinned. “Daffy said so.”

“I had not noticed it before, but you are remarkably like your elder sister,” Charles complained as the two men left the room.

Faced with the news that Mrs. Darby was coming to call on Daphne tomorrow afternoon, Goodson was not pleased. Watching his increasingly rigid expression, Charles felt for him. It couldn’t be pleasant for a man of his position and standing in the household to discover that his new employers knew his relationship to the local witch or that she was coming to call upon them tomorrow.

Flanked by Adrian, when Charles had finished his explanation, Goodson bowed stiffly. “As you wish, sirs,” he said with frigid politeness. “I shall see that all is in readiness for Mrs. Darby’s visit.”

“It ain’t so bad,” Sir Adrian consoled his butler, “having a witch in the family. By Jupiter, there are times I’d rather have a witch for a sister than April, I can tell you! Be a lot more lively.”

There was the faintest twitch to Goodson’s mouth. “Thank you, Sir Adrian. I’ll try to take your words to heart.”

“That’s the dandy!”

Having settled events to his liking, Charles was relatively pleased with himself when he finally rode away from Beaumont Place. He’d have liked a private moment with Daphne, but then remembering what happened the last two times he’d been alone with her, he decided regretfully that perhaps it was best that she had remained locked in her rooms. No doubt wishing me to the very devil, he thought with a grin as he kicked his horse into a gallop.

Since he had no definite plans for the day, rather than returning to Lanyon Hall, he turned his horse in the direction of Penzance. His visit with the Beaumonts had been an amusing diversion, but it was time to turn his thoughts to Raoul. Mr. Vinton had struck him as a discreet, respectable, reliable fellow. A local man, too, just the sort who could discover the information he needed without raising questions.

His estimation of Mr. Vinton proved to be correct. Arriving unannounced at the solicitor’s place of business, Charles was immediately shown into Mr. Vinton’s office.

Smiling, Mr. Vinton rose from behind his desk and extending his hand, said warmly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Weston. I did not expect to see you again so soon. Is there a problem with the settlements?”

Charles assured him that his purpose for calling upon him was for an entirely different matter. Polite but curious, Mr. Vinton indicated a seat by the fire, and once they were seated, Mr. Vinton said, “How may I help you?”

“I wish you to make discreet inquiries for me about properties with some very specific requirements that have been leased or sold during the past, oh, say, three years,” Charles said. “I do not want anyone to know that you are making the inquiries for me.” Charles leaned forward and staring intently at Mr. Vinton, added, “Our connection must remain secret. No one, and I repeat, no one is to know.”

Mr. Vinton looked disturbed. “I must ask, sir, if this has anything to do with the Beaumont family? If it does, I must refuse to act in your behalf.”

Charles shook his head. “This has nothing to do with them. It is a private matter of my own.”

Mr. Vinton studied him for a long moment. “Very well,” Mr. Vinton said eventually. “I will do it, sir. But I warn you, if I discover that you have misled me about the involvement of the Beaumonts, I shall immediately inform Sir Adrian and remove myself from your employ.”

Charles rose to his feet, preparing to leave. “I would not, believe me, have it any other way.”

On Friday, as he drove his curricle toward Beaumont Place and the meeting with the local witch, Charles thought that the weather was appropriate for just such an encounter. Black-bottomed clouds scudded across a sullen dark sky, and the scent of rain was carried on the breeze that blew in from the sea. Charles suspected that before nightfall, a storm would make landfall. Anticipating nasty weather, he had packed accordingly.

Driving up to the front of the house, he was met by Adrian, who came down the broad steps to meet him. Spying the valise at Charles’s feet in the curricle, Adrian exclaimed, “Oh, good, you’re staying the night, then? I meant to suggest it yesterday.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Goodson, who stood in the doorway. “Mr. Weston will be staying the night. See that rooms are prepared for him and that his valise is unpacked by one of the footmen.” He frowned. “Might want to assign one of them to act as his valet.”

Goodson bowed. “It shall be done, Sir Adrian.”

Charles tossed the reins to the waiting groom and jumped down from the curricle. Shortly, with Adrian at his side, he entered the small blue salon that the family favored for themselves. Daphne was seated on one of the sofas; a small woman with large dark eyes sat beside her, the bronze gown, nearly a decade out of fashion, identifying her as the witch. Miss Ketty, her face set in disapproving lines, the inevitable bag of tatting in her lap, sat nearby in a channel-backed chair. April occupied a matching chair next to Miss Ketty, a small mahogany table between them.

Introductions were made, and Charles revised his thoughts about Anne Darby. He’d ridden to Beaumont Place, not worried exactly, but concerned that inviting a witch into the house might not have been wise. It has seemed, at the time, the easiest way of controlling the situation, but beyond the fact that Anne Darby was reputed to be a practitioner of the black arts and Goodson’s sister, a sister whose profession Goodson deplored, he knew nothing about her. For all he knew, Anne Darby could be a cunning fraud, eager to pick Daphne’s pocket, or worse, someone who could present a real danger to Daphne and the family. His mouth tightened.
His
family, he’d reminded himself, surprised how protective he felt about the entire Beaumont clan. And so he’d come prepared for trouble, braced even to face Daphne’s wrath and turf out her guest if he caught the slightest hint that Anne Darby was not a harmless diversion.

He’d had no clear picture in his mind of what a witch should look like, but this little woman with the serene features and neatly arranged hair, wearing, no doubt, her best gown made him think of a governess rather than a witch. There was amusement and intelligence in the big, dark eyes that met his, and he sensed that there was no malice in her. Which is as well for both of us, he decided wryly. Anne Darby avoided an ignoble exit from the house, and he avoided being in Daphne’s bad graces.

There was a tap on the door, and Goodson, followed by a footman, came into the room, both men bearing silver trays filled with refreshments. Observing as the butler went about his duties, Charles wondered at his feelings at having to serve his sister, a sister he disapproved of. What was going on behind those composed features? It was hard to tell, Goodson’s face revealing none of the emotions that might be roiling in his breast. Having seen to the needs of the occupants of the room, Goodson bowed and departed, nary by word, expression, or gesture giving any indication that Mrs. Darby was anything other than a guest of his employers.

Charles took a sip from his tankard of warm punch that Goodson had prepared for the gentlemen, the ladies being served tea or coffee, and waited for the entertainment to begin.

Adrian, after taking a big gulp of his punch, eyed Daphne warily and announced defiantly, “I invited Mr. Weston to stay the night, Daphne. The weather is going to be filthy. Better he stay here tonight. Goodson is seeing to his rooms and sending up one of the footmen to act as his valet.”

“That’s very nice, dear,” she said tranquilly, causing both Adrian and Charles to stare hard at her. She bit back a smile, realizing that she had confounded them. Both men had obviously expected a fight, and her easy acceptance of the situation took the wind right out of their sails. And they’d be shocked, she thought ruefully, to learn that her capitulation had nothing to do with trying to outwit them—she’d already decided that coming to daggers drawing with her brother and her fiancé accomplished little. This was, after all, Adrian’s home, and he had a right to invite whoever he wished to stay. As for Mr. Weston…

She studied Charles from beneath her lashes, feeling, as always—when she wasn’t furious with him, she reminded herself—a flutter in the region of her heart. He was very handsome as he lounged near the fireplace, drinking his punch, laughing at something Adrian said. The dark blue jacket fit his broad shoulders and strong arms to perfection, the buckskin breeches clung to his muscular thighs, and Daphne flushed, remembering the feel of that powerful body crushed against hers, the taste of him on her tongue. He had only to smile at her or fix those cool green eyes on her face for butterflies to dance in her stomach and her knees to melt, and when he touched her, as he had done in Mr. Vinton’s office…. She swallowed, remembering the liquid heat that had flooded her, the emotions that had risen up inside of her. When he touched her as he had then, she rather thought she went a little mad, the urge to offer herself, to allow him to do with her as he willed, almost overpowering. But it had been he, she reminded herself, her eyes on his long mouth, who had ended their passionate embrace, not she. What was she to make of that? That he found her wanting? Or wanton? She scowled, neither notion pleasing her.

It was the gentle clearing of Mrs. Darby’s throat as she sat beside her on the couch that brought Daphne’s attention to the matter at hand.

When Daphne glanced at her, Mrs. Darby asked quietly, “Shall I begin?”

Daphne looked at the expectant faces of her siblings and nodded. “Yes, of course. Please do.”

Mrs. Darby smiled at her. “I believe I shall begin with the legend of Black Beaumont.”

“Black
Beaumont, eh? He must have been a wicked fellow,” remarked Adrian.