Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(75)

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Padraig’s tone was mocking, but he stopped where he was, the boldly patterned replacement carpet she’d chosen between them. “Are you happy then? As a duchess? Is it the life you wanted?”

Her own husband had abandoned her as if she were of no greater import than the newspaper he’d discarded the day before. And she had given her heart to him, or at least to the man she’d imagined him to be. For the real Sebastian was an enigma to her. A mystery she could not seem to solve. Of course this was not the life she wanted, spending each day in frivolous amusements, working with Georgiana to cause as much gossip as possible in the hopes she might get the answers she so desperately sought.

Where are you, Sebastian? she wondered silently. And, more importantly, who are you?

She forced a smile to her lips. “This is the life I’ve been given. I am… content. But that is enough idle chatter, Mr. McGuire. You said you had news of my sister that required an audience. I don’t wish to hear anything you say if it doesn’t concern her. May I remind you that your other visits have been fruitless? That each time you claim to have information regarding her whereabouts, they lead to dead-ends?”

Padraig’s mouth flattened into a harsh line. “You loathe me.”

Did she? Once, perhaps, she had, but time, distance, and knowledge could heal any wound. Now, she looked upon him and felt nothing. He was not the man she’d believed him to be, and she was no longer the girl he’d once known. “You are my father’s emissary. My distaste for you stems from that fact alone.”

“I’ve told you I’m not here at his behest.” Padraig’s gaze searched hers as a frown furrowed his brow. “He doesn’t know I’ve been speaking with you, though I’ve made no secret of it. I don’t answer to Vanreid.”

She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t wish to discuss her father with him. Her every tie to him except her sister had been severed, and she intended to keep it that way forever. “Have you news of Bridget or not?”

“Yes.”

His single-word response did little to quell the apprehension unfurling within her. “And? Where is she? What has happened?”

Padraig strode toward her, closing the distance. Hugo growled again, making him stop short of reaching her. “She’s no longer in London. Her precise location is unknown, but I fear she’s in danger.”

Danger. The apprehension iced into fear. Her hands clenched in her skirts. “What sort of danger?”

“Bombs, Daisy,” he said simply.

And she didn’t bother to correct his familiar address this time, for her inundated mind was too busy attempting to make sense of what he’d just told her. “Bombs.”

“Dynamite, to be specific.” His expression tightened. “The danger is grave.”

Good, sweet heavens. The papers had been abuzz with talk of the explosion in Liverpool and talk of Fenian uprisings. Daisy had never imagined such evils had anything to do with her sister’s disappearance. “Do you mean to say she’s involved with the Fenians?”

Padraig inclined his head. “I cannot say. All I will say is you should trust no one, including me.”

He caught her hand then, and Hugo gave a small yip of protest as he raised it to his lips for a kiss. Daisy snatched her hand from his grasp, staring at him, questions and dread rushing through her like flood waters. “Why are you telling me this? Padraig, are you connected to this? Is that why you’ve come calling using the name John Greaves instead of your own?”

He shook his head slowly. “The danger is grave,” he repeated, bowing to her. “Be wary of those closest to you, and take care of yourself.”

She watched him turn to leave, clutching her hand to her madly thumping heart. Just before he reached the door, he turned back to her, a brief ghost of a smile flitting over his lips. “If it had been within my power, I would have kept him from hurting you,” he said in an odd tone. “Know that. Goodbye, Daisy Vanreid.”

As quickly as he’d re-emerged in her life, Padraig McGuire was gone, the paneled door clicking closed at his back. She stared at the space where he’d been, knowing somehow that this was the last call he would make upon her.

“Daisy Trent,” she corrected, not that it mattered.





25th May, 1881





Dear Sir,

As we prepare to enter the third month of your absence, I write you with unexpected news. I am expecting your child. Though you’ve amply demonstrated your lack of sentiment for myself, I cannot help but hope you may be somewhat less reticent in regards to an innocent.

In other matters, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve recently replaced all the carpets with a fine Axminster at 8 shillings a yard. Redecorating the old nursery will prove even more costly, I fear.

Sincerely,

Duchess of Trent





“Surely even you can concede she’s become a liability now, Trent.”

Scowling, Sebastian looked up from the Home Office report the Duke of Carlisle had offered up for his perusal. Following the blast at the police station, Carlisle had joined Sebastian and Griffin in Liverpool. They’d arrested three Fenians responsible for the dynamite operation on Castle Street, but there were literally hundreds more suspects and clues to pursue. The last fortnight had been a blur of running more leads to ground.