Duke with Benefits Page 12

  “Before I came to Beauchamp House,” Daphne admitted, “I thought I knew everything. Or at least, the most important things.”

  “Like what?”

  Despite her nascent trust in him, she felt naked, but pressed on.

  “Mostly information about mathematics and such,” she said finally. “Monsieur Fourier’s theory of infinite sums, for example. Wherein periodic functions can be expressed as the sum of an infinite series of sines and cosines. I was able to meet him when he came to England. Did you know? My tutor, Mr. Sommersby, had a colleague who knew him from somewhere and he arranged an introduction for me. A brilliant man. Truly.”

  “I shall have to take your word for it,” Dalton said wryly. “I don’t think I understand most of what you just said. Except for the bit about the introduction and this Fourier chap being brilliant. I’d guess, however, that you could give him a bit of competition.”

  Daphne laughed. “Hardly. I am gifted, but I’m hardly the equal of one of the best mathematicians of our time.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said skeptically. “But if you will insist upon it, I must stand down since I know almost nothing about the subject.”

  They drove on in companionable silence for a few minutes more before they reached the road leading through the village of Little Seaford. Daphne wondered why he had chosen this route, since there seemed to be more traffic, which made for more difficult driving.

  Not that Dalton seemed to notice as he skillfully steered the grays around the various obstacles along the way—an apple cart here, a wagon there, pausing so that its driver could ensure the security of its load.

  As they moved farther into the center of town, the curricle slowed near the entrance of the Pig & Whistle, finally coming to a stop just behind a waiting carriage.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Daphne asked. She’d thought they’d drive through to Bexhill without stopping. “Is there something amiss with the horses?”

  She knew from experience in town that horses could cause all sorts of delays in travel. They seemed always to be throwing a shoe, or coming up lame. Really, it was a most inefficient means of travel, though she could think of no better with the exception of walking on one’s own. Which carried its own drawbacks.

  Handing the reins to a waiting ostler, Dalton leapt down and moved around to offer her his hand. She turned, and before she could speak, his strong hands were around her waist, and he lifted her easily from the seat and set her firmly on the ground. They stood front to front for a moment, and Daphne dared a peek up into his blue eyes. What she saw there made her look away again.

  It was really quite illuminating to know how many occasions for improper thoughts there were in seemingly mundane acts.

  “I thought we’d pay a call on Mr. Foster,” he said, turning away at last, and offering her his arm.

  Remembering how overset Foster had been yesterday, Daphne blinked. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? He is very unhappy with us, though I suppose in his position, I would also have been angry. It must have been quite distressing to not know where his traveling companion had gone.”

  “Hopefully the chap is in a better mood today,” Dalton said as the door of the inn swung open and they stepped into the darkened interior.

  Chapter 9

  He should have told her before they departed Beauchamp House that he wished to visit Sommersby’s traveling companion, Maitland thought as he escorted Daphne into the inn. But it hadn’t occurred to him until they were on the outskirts of the village and she mentioned her list.

  Only Daphne would keep a list of the things she didn’t know.

  And one thing no one knew was who had killed Sommersby. The man who’d traveled to the coast with him must certainly know something about the matter.

  They didn’t have to wait long for the innkeeper, Mr. Allenby, to approach.

  When one was a duke, it was always thus.

  In his younger days, he would have thought glumly about his childhood dream of the anonymity of the stables and cursed his fate. As an adult, however, he saw and appreciated the privileges of his position, knowing that too much complaint spit in the face of the everyday difficulties people without his blessings had to endure. “Your grace,” Allenby said with the broad smile of a man who wanted coin, “what a delight to see you. Please tell me at once how I may serve you. A private dining room, perhaps? A cup of tea for Lady Daphne?”

  The man’s speculative glance at Daphne told Dalton he was already wondering who he could tell about their presence here together.

  “Though a pint would be appreciated, Allenby,” Maitland said somewhat impatiently, “I’m afraid we are not here to partake of your excellent service. We’d like to speak to one of your guests. A Mr. Foster?”

  Allenby’s enthusiasm dimmed a bit at the demurral, but he didn’t say as much. “Of course, of course, your grace. A bad business with his friend Sommersby.” He turned to Daphne. “I hope you ladies were not too overset by the discovery, my lady. It must have been most distressing.”

  “As it was the first time I’d seen a dead body, sir,” she said with her usual forthrightness, “it was indeed most disturbing. I do not recommend it.”

  The innkeeper’s mouth dropped open. Maitland didn’t know what he’d been expecting from her, but clearly Daphne’s plain speaking hadn’t been within his imaginings.

  “Mr. Foster?” He prodded.

  Allenby blinked. Then, regaining his powers of speech, he bounced back. “Yes, of course, your grace. Mr. Foster is in a private dining room just now, enjoying a late breakfast.” In a lower voice, he confided, “He did not wish to be pestered with the questions of the curious masses.”

  Maitland wondered if the man included himself in that description.

  “I’ll just take you there, shall I?” Allenby asked, ushering them to a door just off the taproom.

  As they walked, Maitland could feel the curious eyes of the patrons on them.

  Allenby’s brisk knock on the dining-room door was followed by an invitation to enter, and Maitland waved Daphne inside then shut the door behind them, shutting out the innkeeper.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Ian Foster, rising from the table where he seemed to be partaking of a rabbit stew. “Your grace, I really must object to this intrusion.”

  “My apologies, Foster,” the duke said easily, pulling out a chair for Daphne, who, looking unusually cowed by the man’s outburst, sat. “Of course, you remember Lady Daphne Forsyth.”

  “Of course I remember her,” Foster said with contempt, remaining on his feet despite the fact that the lady in the room was now seated. “She’s the one who got my friend killed.”

  Despite her obvious discomfort, Daphne did not let that pass. “I did nothing of the sort. Sommersby had no right to break into Beauchamp House. And he certainly didn’t learn of the Cameron Cipher’s connection to the library there from me. I told no one of it. For all I know, you followed him there and stabbed him yourself, sir.”

  Though Foster scowled, he didn’t repeat his accusation. Which told Dalton that he likely knew his allegations were without merit and had only lashed out because he was angry over his friend’s death. It was, however, interesting that he also didn’t refute the charge that he himself might be responsible.

  Deciding to see how Foster would react to a second accusation, Maitland asked, “Did you kill your friend, Foster? It isn’t uncommon for co-conspirators to fall out. Did he go to Beauchamp House without telling you of his plan to break in? Perhaps plan to take the cipher out from under your nose?”

  “This is absurd,” Foster said, collapsing into his chair, and shoving aside the plate of stew, clearly no longer hungry. “I cannot believe I’m embroiled in this mess.”

  “I’d have expected you would feel more sympathy for poor Sommersby,” Maitland said mildly.

  At that, Foster gave a harsh laugh. “Poor Sommersby. Hah. He got what he deserved.”

  Maitland stared. A
glance at Daphne showed she seemed just as astonished.

  Had the man just confessed to murdering Nigel Sommersby?

  Carefully, so as not to alert the man to what he may have just said, Maitland said easily, “That’s an odd thing to say about your friend, sir.”

  Sighing, Foster sat back in his chair and shook his head. The shadows beneath his eyes were prominent in his pale face. He looked as if he’d aged ten years since they’d first met him.

  “He wasn’t my friend, your grace,” he said bitterly. “I could barely stand the fellow if you wish to know the truth. But I had a job to do, and so I accompanied him here. Much to the detriment of my own career.”

  Daphne shot a questioning look at Maitland, but he had just as little explanation for Foster’s confession as she did.

  “What career is that, sir?” he asked Foster when the other man didn’t continue.

  Foster, who looked as if he would like to be anywhere but in his current position, said in a weary tone, “I am not an old school friend of Nigel Sommersby’s. And I have no personal interest in finding the Cameron Cipher. In fact, I wish I’d never heard of the thing.”

  “Explain yourself, sir,” Daphne said, any guilt she’d felt over the loss of his supposed friend now gone. “If you have no interest in the cipher then why did you come here with Nigel Sommersby? And why did he introduce you as his friend if you were not.”

  Sensing that this would not be the brief encounter he’d hoped it would be, Maitland took the chair on Daphne’s other side and watched as Foster sat thinking. Whether to get his story straight or to recall the details, it was impossible to tell.

  Finally, Foster leaned back and admitted, “I’m here because my superiors ordered me to be here. I work for a government…” he searched for the right word, finally settling on, “entity, that would like to find the Cameron Cipher and the gold it leads to so that it doesn’t get into the wrong hands.”

  The duke’s brows rose. “Home Office?” he guessed. “I should think they would dislike the idea of all that gold funding another rebellion. Though the Jacobites seem an unlikely possibility in this day and age.”

  Foster indicated that Maitland was right about the government connection with a slight inclination of his head. “I’d rather not say whom they wish to keep from acquiring the gold, but let us just agree that it would be a very bad thing if these people had that sort of largesse at their disposal.”

  “But how did you end up with Sommersby?” Daphne asked, clearly more interested in the man’s connection to her former friend than in who might misuse the Cameron gold. “Surely he didn’t agree to take you along if he knew you were working to take the treasure as soon as he found it?”

  “That was little more than a few words in the ears of the right people,” Foster admitted. “Sommersby wasn’t particularly discreet about his plans to search for the cipher. And when I showed up on the scene with an introduction from one of his actual old school friends, and told him I’d heard the cipher was hidden in the library of Beauchamp House here on the coast, he invited me along.”

  Daphne stared. “You’re the one who told him the cipher was hidden at Beauchamp House? But how did you know?”

  Foster’s eyes turned opaque. “That information is off limits, I’m afraid, Lady Daphne.” He didn’t sound particularly apologetic to Maitland’s ear, no matter what he actually said.

  “I’m guessing it was either someone who worked in government who was close to Aunt Celeste,” the duke said to Daphne, though he didn’t take his eyes off Foster, whom he trusted even less now that he knew his occupation. “Or, it was someone who’d already tracked down the cipher to Beauchamp House and offered the information to Foster’s superiors. For a price.”

  Lady Daphne shook her head in amazement. “For a supposedly secret cipher, it seems as if a great many people knew it was hidden in Beauchamp House. I wonder why they didn’t simply break in before Sommersby did and take it themselves.”

  “It’s a bit more difficult than you realize, Lady Daphne,” Foster said snidely, “to infiltrate a private residence. Much less the private residence of the well-placed daughter of a duke who is more than usually cautious about the security of her home.”

  That hadn’t stopped the person who killed Lady Celeste, Maitland thought bitterly. But then that had been poison, which was admittedly easier to slip into the house without anyone noticing than a large man with a gun would be.

  “But Sommersby managed it,” Daphne returned, undeterred by Foster’s attitude. “I’ll bet that didn’t sit well with you at all, having a civilian succeed where you had not.”

  “Of course, it didn’t,” Foster snapped. “Because it allowed someone else to take the cipher, and it got that fool Sommersby killed to boot.”

  “Interesting you should place the two in that particular order,” Maitland said thoughtfully.

  Scowling, Foster said, “I will not lie and say that the disappearance of the cipher isn’t the more pressing issue to me. I didn’t wish Sommersby dead, but his loss is not nearly as dangerous for the well-being of the nation as that of the cipher. If the person who’s taken it manages to find the gold and deliver it into the coffers of England’s enemies, then we are in serious trouble. I won’t apologize for seeing the big picture.”

  “I wonder, however,” Maitland said, leaning forward a little, “if it’s not something less patriotic that makes you take this loss so hard. I can’t imagine the upper echelons at the Home Office are very happy with you just now.”

  At the other man’s flinch, he knew he’d hit his mark.

  “I’m guessing you spent years of your life fighting the French, old man,” he continued in a companionable tone that he could see Foster hated. “Then, once the war was over you came home and began working in a less-overt capacity. All those years of service, effectively erased by the rash actions of a man you didn’t give a damn about. That must really infuriate you.”

  “If you’re asking me again if I killed Sommersby,” Foster said sourly, “the answer is still no. I might have disliked the man, and his childish wishes to find the gold at the end of some ridiculous mystery trail may have driven me almost mad, but I didn’t want him dead. And I certainly would never have allowed the cipher to fall into enemy hands.”

  “But perhaps you didn’t,” Daphne said, looking at Foster like he was some curious specimen she’d found in a museum. “Perhaps you have the cipher. That would surely be a way of keeping it out of the hands of these dangerous people you seem to fear so much.”

  Before Foster could retort, Maitland spoke up. “An admirable theory, Daphne, but if that were the case, then I think Mr. Foster would be long gone. I believe he’s here because he suspects the thief is still in the area. Isn’t that right, Foster?”

  The agent for the crown didn’t respond either way. But his silence was an answer in itself.

  Seeing that there was little more to be learned from the man, Maitland rose. “Daphne, we should take our leave now. Mr. Foster very likely has a great deal of … searching to do.”

  With a last look at the spy, Daphne turned and took the duke’s proffered arm. They were almost to the door when she turned and asked, “Why did you dislike him so much?”

  “Because he was a braggart and a bore,” Foster said coldly.

  When she didn’t turn and leave, he sighed. “Because he actually thought he would find that hidden cache of gold. After almost a century of searching by dozens and dozens of treasure hunters, Sommersby thought that he would be the one to finally do it when no one else could. It was ridiculous.”

  Maitland thought that said more about Foster’s cynicism than it did about Sommersby’s optimism.

  “I mean to find it, Mr. Foster,” Daphne said, her chin raised in defiance. “It’s not ridiculous to have confidence. What is ridiculous is to despise someone for having it. If your reach extends your grasp at least some of the time, then what harm is there in having hopes all of the time?”


  Turning back to Maitland, she said, “I am ready to leave now.”

  Without turning back to see Foster’s reaction to her declaration, Dalton led her away.

  * * *

  They were more than halfway to their destination before Daphne spoke of Foster’s admission again. As if by mutual consent, they’d talked of everything from Dalton’s childhood home to the weather, each of them avoiding the scene in the Pig & Whistle. But after she’d had time to think the confrontation over, Daphne was ready to discuss it.

  “I should have known he wasn’t Sommersby’s true friend,” she said, one hand on her hat to keep it from flying off in the increasingly turbulent wind. “I should have guessed, and then perhaps none of this would have happened.”

  “I do not know how,” he said, glancing at her with a furrow between his brows. “You hadn’t seen the man since you were a girl. A fellow can befriend any number of people over the course of several years.”

  She made a noise of dismissal.

  “The fact remains that I let Foster fool me, just as he tricked Sommersby,” she said mulishly. “I should at the very least have questioned him further about his interest in the cipher—what his own feelings were about the prospect of finding such a famous treasure. Given how little he seemed to care about the romance of it in our recent discussion, it’s very likely I would have sussed out the truth with only a few pointed queries.”

  “If you are determined to find yourself at fault,” Dalton said with a shake of his head, “then you may as well blame yourself for not knowing someone would shoot Sommersby that night. After all, the all-knowing Lady Daphne Forsyth must have been able to predict such an event, otherwise she is merely an ordinary person.”

  “You may poke fun,” she said stiffly, feeling strangely vulnerable, “but I am not ordinary. And if I cannot understand the motives of ordinary people, then what good is my extraordinary talent? It isn’t as if an encyclopedic knowledge of mathematics has contributed to the betterment of the world.”

  “Daphne,” he said softly, “there is no reason you should have guessed what would happen. Especially not when your abilities in one area have clearly caused a deficit in another.”