He had asked her about the circumstances of her confession to the Runner when she came to his office with her newest book. Her reasons made sense when one considered her concern for her friends. Sitting next to her at his desk as they went over her manuscript was torture of a different sort. Because of the constant flow of his printing crew and the ever-present Ox, she and Daedalus had had to behave strictly as publisher and author. Now that he considered those hours, he found himself smiling. She stood up to him, argued with him, and only acquiesced to changes in her work if they made sense to her. Cordelia wanted her stories to be perfect in every way. However, she also wanted those stories to be hers. He had learned a great deal about her as a writer and a woman in those hours. She was beginning to haunt his dreams not only as a teacher and bed partner, but as a companion with whom he might be as honest and as much himself as he had ever dared to be. What that meant, he had yet to—
“She’s a handsome woman, is she not Whitcombe?”
Shite!Daedalus looked over his shoulder to find his brother-in-law, the Earl of Breadmore, and two of Cordelia’s brothers riding up the lane just past Rotten Row to join him. He glanced back at where his niece and Cordelia had stopped their horses to chat only to find they had ridden on and been met by Viscount Ravenwood, of all people. His fucking worst nightmare was now complete.
“Lady Alice is always in good looks,” he managed to say as he turned his horse around to face his brother-in-law and the other two men.
Breadmore snorted derisively. “Alice? You cannot be serious. I was speaking of Miss Perriton. Your sister is quite the loveliest creature I have beheld in years, gentlemen.”
“You’re anarse, Breadmore,” Daedalus said as he removed his hat and dusted it against his leg. “An utterarse.”
“Your sister did not think me so, God rest her soul.” Breadmore’s amiable smile and easy manner belied the flat empty surface of his dark hate-filled eyes.
“You might be surprised,” Daedalus replied. Cordelia’s brothers mumbled something about seeing someone they knew and rode out of earshot. Both wisdom and discretion ran in the family, apparently. “She is not for you, Breadmore. No matter what her brothers might have told you, Miss Perriton is not in the market for a husband, or so I have been told.” He wanted to kick himself. He’d spoken out of turn. Then again, the earl was not the cleverest of men. Perhaps he would not draw conclusions. Especially as Daedalus’s animosity toward him had been in clear evidence since Diana’s death if not before.
“Surprised? Where you are concerned?” Breadmore flicked a disdainful hand at him. “All of your secrets are on display in that hovel you call a bookshop.” He gazed across the park where Cordelia’s brothers had joined their sister and Lady Alice and a decidedly nervous looking Viscount Ravenwood. “As for the lady’s secrets, I look forward to discovering them for myself. No matter what she may have told you her parents are eager for her to marry. Her charity work with whores and the other vermin of Seven Dials worries them. Of course, now that herfriendskeep disappearing perhaps the right man can persuade her to give all that nonsense up. She will make an excellent countess with a bit of instruction, that it.”
“The same instruction you and your mother gave my sister.” Daedalus burned down to his very bones. He needed to end this conversation, ignore Breadmore and trust that Cordelia would put the arrogant bastard in his place.
“The lady’s mother has produced three healthy sons, always a good thing in a bloodline. And from what I understand from Lord Ravenwood, Miss Perriton will need no instruction in matters of the flesh. In fact, it will be my pleasure to tame her enthusiasm for bedsport into something more seemly and—”
Whoosh! Thud!
For a moment Daedalus considered he had gone deaf. The noises of the park at this hour—the crunch of carriage wheels, the high-pitched voices of dowagers gossiping, the wind in the leaves, horses nickering, greetings being called, all had ceased. For a few slow beats of his heart he did not even hear Breadmore spluttering on the ground where Daedalus had dragged him from his horse and dropped him. His own horse shifted beneath him, and the din rushed around him like an undammed river.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Breadmore shouted as he scrambled to his feet and retrieved his somewhat squashed hat. “I’ll have you up on charges you filthy reprobate.”
“Bollocks, Breadmore.” Daedalus looked down at his brother-in-law, covered in the dirt of the riding path. “I am heir to the fucking Duke of Chelmsford. A position which is normally as useful to me as all the flaccid pillocks in the House of Lords, but which I will use against you at every opportunity. You cannot touch me, and I suggest you afford Miss Perriton the same courtesy if you wish to remain in good health.” He flexed his gloved hand, the one with which he'd hauled Breadmore from his horse as if he weighed no more than a loaf of bread.
“As if she would ever think of a man like you, a man who sells disgusting books and consorts with lowest scum in London?” Breadmore scrambled back onto his horse. “She will be mine, Whitcombe. I have the means to ruin her and her charity work will be the least of her concerns should she refuse me.”
Daedalus brought his horse alongside his brother-in-law’s so tightly the man’s leg was trapped. He reached across to tighten the earl’s neckcloth in his fist. “Consorting with scum,” he said softly, his face mere inches from Breadmore’s now white as chalk. “Allows me access to those who will make you disappear for but a few pennies.” He leaned in closer still. Breadmore’s eyes widened as several inarticulate noises escaped his throat. “I know how my sister died, you whoreson. Dare to harm Miss Perriton or any other woman ever again, and all of London will know.” He released the earl’s neckcloth with such force the man nearly fell from his horse. Again. The man snatched his horse’s head toward the nearest park gate and fled.
Shite! Shite, shite, shite!
He’d given away too much. Breadmore could be in no doubt of Daedalus’s affection for Cordelia. Ironic, as Daedalus had only discovered the extent of that affection himself. The idea of her married to Breadmore, even touched by Breadmore, had blazed a single word across his brain, red with rage.
Mine!
He could just imagine her thoughts on that particular sentiment. He guided his horse around to go in search of her and Alice and found himself blocked by Lady Camilla’s barouche.
“I’m quite certain I am mistaken,” Lady Camilla said as Daedalus bent from his horse to bow over her offered hand. “But did I see you drag the Earl of Breadmore from his horse and drop him to the ground like a sack of oats?”
“You are never mistaken, Lady Camilla,” he replied. “The earl insulted a lady of my acquaintance, and I lost my temper on him. I would apologize, but I cannot lie to so respected a lady as yourself.”
He was so intent on searching the park for Cordelia and Alice he nearly missed the knowing looks exchanged by Atherton, Honoria, and Lady Camilla. Before he’d met his dark-haired authoress he’d never had difficulty hiding his feelings. He played the studious bookseller to the hilt, because for the most part that was who he was. She’d freed something in him, and he had not decided if he liked the freedom or not.
“I do not mean to be rude, but have you seen Miss Perriton and Lady Alice? I came to the park with them.” He rose in the stirrups and concentrated on the horses and riders along Rotten Row.
“Lady Alice was conversing with Viscount Ravenwood. Unfortunately when Cordelia’s brothers arrived the viscount remembered urgent business elsewhere,” Honoria said.
“I’ll wager he did.” Daedalus could not help but grin.
“Yes, well after he left, Miss Perriton’s footman arrived with what I took to be an urgent message,” Atherton said. “She arranged for her brothers to escort Lady Alice home and rode off on what she termed apersonalmatter. Seemed quite upset in point of fact. Whitcombe, wait. Where are you going? Whitcombe!”
Daedalus spurred his horse into a gallop, dodging shouting riders and carriage drivers all the way to the Cumberland Gate. He did hesitate but headed in the direction of Gracechurch Street. Every fiber of his being said something had to be terribly wrong.
* * *
