“Yes, the account of what happened to Daphne D’Angelo is heartbreaking.” Her comment would stir Dante’s demons, but she had to press her uncle harder. “The fact her son was made an orphan because of my father’s misdeeds makes it even more harrowing. Perhaps I should seek him out, see if—”
“No! No. There’s no need for reparation.” He sounded a little breathless now. “The boy is the grandson of an earl and has lived a privileged life. Besides, they were likely killed by someone in her family.”
Her family!
Why would he think Daphne might have been killed by her kin?
Dante jerked in the chair behind her.
“As chance would have it, the gentleman I work for is acquainted with Daphne D’Angelo’s son. By all accounts, the earl despised his daughter for marrying her Italian lover. But I cannot believe a peer would hire someone to murder his daughter.”
John Sands slapped his hand on the table in a fit of temper. All conversation in the room died. He turned to the men gathered at the oak counter and laughed.
“What does a man have to do to order a drink?” he joked.
After some jostling behind the counter, a serving wench appeared and hurried to their table. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Sands, but you were chatting away to Miss Sands, and I didn’t want to disturb the reunion.”
The wench glanced at Dante D’Angelo as if he were a meringue trifle in Gunter’s window and she’d pay a month’s wages for one lick. The action caught John Sands’ attention. He craned his neck and stared at the back of Dante’s head.
“I’ll have another fruit punch,” Beatrice said to distract her uncle.
“And I’ll have a mug of ale, Daisy. Leave them on the table as we’re stepping outside for a breath of air.”
“Yes, Mr Sands.”
As soon as the wench was out of earshot, her uncle leant forward and whispered, “I’ll not discuss it here. Come outside for a moment.”
Every muscle in her body tensed.
She’d be a fool to accept. Was it a ploy to persuade her to leave with him or a means of divulging a secret? But she was not alone tonight and would not have to fight this fiend if he overstepped the mark.
Beatrice stood, her chair hitting the toprail of Dante’s chair. “Forgive me, sir,” she said, swinging around to meet his gaze.
Looking into his dark eyes settled her racing pulse. Seeing him brought a sense of calm, a peace she had never known. The words she’d spoken to him that night in Howland Street entered her mind.
I’m not frightened when I’m with you, Dante.
She meant every word.
“There’s no need to apologise,” Dante said, then mouthed, “I won’t let him hurt you.”
John Sands stood, too, and snatched his crop from the table. He opened the front door, waited for Beatrice to gather her cloak around her shoulders and squeeze past him before following her outside.
The wind whipped strands of hair from her chignon. The biting chill nipped her cheeks, an attack she hoped wasn’t a prelude to something more destructive. Worried he might lead her into the shadowy recesses of the garden, she hurried ahead, staying close to the red brick wall before stopping beneath the boughs of an old yew tree.
“What is it you couldn’t tell me inside?”
He turned his back to the inn and faced her, his broad frame blocking her line of vision. “You’ve been busy concocting stories while you’ve been away. But no good will come from prying into the lives of powerful men. That’s what I told your father and look how he suffered.”
“If you’re referring to the Earl of Deighton, he’s dead.”
“The son inherited, did he not?”
Beatrice jerked back in horror. “Are you saying Daphne D’Angelo’s brother had something to do with her death?”
“Leave the matter alone, love.” He gripped her upper arm, his fingers sinking into her flesh. “Come home with me where I can keep you safe. The house is so cold, so lonely, so quiet without my little Bea busying about the place.”
Beatrice tried to shrug out of his grasp, but his hand clamped around her arm like a vice.