Page 62 of Barbarous

“Yes, that was not long before his accident. He delivered a paper during that visit.”

Sir Marcus smiled. “I was there to listen—absolutely brilliant, as usual. In any case, I’d committed to dinner at Davenport House but was called away at the last minute. Before I left, Thomas came to see me and gave me a letter.” A flush crept up his neck. “He told me the contents of the letter, just in case you should ever need a witness.” He laughed suddenly. “I’m not the best choice, you must be thinking. Especially as I could have given Thomas a good eight years!”

So the man was even older than he looked—which was saying something. Daphne swallowed a guilty pang about seeing him in this arctic, cavernous room and not offering him tea.

“When I read in the papers that Lord Ramsay had returned, I decided now was an excellent time to give you this. I have not been in the best of health and I felt I should pass it to you.” He struggled to stand up and hand her the packet and Daphne quickly rose and went to him, earning a grateful smile as he sank back into his seat. “Much obliged to you, my lady. You are as kind as you are beautiful.” A devilish twinkle sparkled in his cloudy green eyes as he surveyed her with the practiced look of a very old rake.

Daphne couldn’t help smiling: here was Hugh in another forty years.

“I will remain here while you read it, in case you have any questions.”

“You are very kind. I shall order some tea.”

“I would greatly appreciate it. At my age tea is one of the few pleasures I am still able to enjoy,” he added wickedly.

They made small talk while the kitchen sent up a tray. After she’d settled her guest with a cup of tea and a large plate of biscuits, Daphne opened the packet. There were two envelopes. She opened the one entitled To Whom It May Concern first.

I, Thomas Redvers, am writing this letter and swear to the validity of its contents before erstwhile magistrate, Sir Marcus Lawry.

Knowing the malicious lengths to which Malcolm Hastings has gone in the past, I am compelled to leave this sworn document as proof against any claims he might make against my wife, Lady Daphne Davenport, or my sons. He has formerly, in order to blackmail money from my wife, threatened to make public spurious claims of patrimony of my two sons, Lucien and Richard Redvers. I, Thomas Lucien Edward Redvers, Earl of Davenport, do swear these children are the issue of my body.

Sworn, et cetera,

Thomas Redvers, Earl of Davenport

Daphne put the letter down and looked up.

The old man was waiting, his expression serious. “Read the second letter, my lady, and then we can talk.”

Dearest Daphne:

I am writing this letter because I believe Malcolm might one day threaten you and our sons, not to mention the Redverses’ family honor. If I am correct, the accompanying letter will at least prove I was aware of his spurious claims. If I am wrong, there is no harm done. Sir Marcus is my closest friend—other than you—and he has made arrangements with his solicitor to deliver a copy to you in the event of his death.

There is something else I must confess. My nephew, Hugh Redvers, is alive and operates as the privateer One-Eyed Standish.

Daphne looked up. “He knew about Lord Ramsay.”

Lawry nodded. “Yes. For the first few years it was just a suspicion. But then a friend of his—an admiral who’d come across Hugh in person—confirmed his suspicions.”

Daphne’s eyes blurred and she ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut until she was sure no tears would fall. She opened them a moment later and forced herself to continue.

I am sorry I could not bring myself to confide in you. I’ll admit it was partly due to shame; shame that I had so alienated the affections of my favorite nephew and heir that he would rather I believe him dead than come home.

I also worried you would not accept the protection of marriage if you thought you were depriving Hugh of his inheritance. And, knowing you, you would have followed your conscience, no matter the consequences.

A drop of water hit the page and a folded white handkerchief appeared above the letter.

Daphne took it without looking up. “Thank you.”

I could not have that, Daphne. You must believe me when I tell you that Hugh never wanted this life for himself. I knew he would not come back. That left my nephew John, and . . . well, I could not allow that to happen. Not only for you, but for the hundreds of people who rely on me. I have never regretted my decision to marry you. Nor do I regret my two fine sons.

The letter accompanying this, and the word of Sir Marcus, should eliminate any claim Hastings might make. The scandal he could create, however, is another matter and there is no notary or judge who can purge the thoughts from people’s minds once the seed has been planted. If Hastings ever makes demands, you should approach William Standish for help. He knows how to reach Hugh. If you ever need an ally against Hastings, I believe you could find no better man than my nephew. I hope I am wrong in my suspicions and I regret I cannot always be here to protect you.

My love to you, my adopted daughter.

Thomas

She folded the paper, smoothing out the wrinkles before looking up.