Daphne clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.

Violet yanked on her arm. “I highly suggest you don't laugh.”

Daphne pinched her lips together in an effort to comply, but it was difficult. “You're laughing,” she pointed out.

“I'm not,” Violet lied. Her entire neck was quivering with the exertion required to keep her laughter inside. “And besides, I'm a mother. They wouldn't dare do anything to me.”

Anthony and Simon came stalking out of the water, dripping and glaring at each other.

Gregory crawled the rest of the way up the gangplank and disappeared over the edge.

“Maybe you should intercede,” Violet suggested.

“Me?” Daphne squeaked.

“It looks as if they might come to blows.”

“But why? It was all Gregory's fault.”

“Of course,” Violet said impatiently, “but they're men, and they're both furious and embarrassed, and they can't very well take it out on a boy of twelve.”

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Sure enough, Anthony was muttering, “I could have taken care of him,” just as Simon growled, “If you hadn't surprised him…”

Violet rolled her eyes, and said to Daphne, “Any man, you'll soon learn, has an insurmountable need to blame someone else when he is made to look a fool.”

Daphne rushed forward, fully intending to attempt to reason with the two men, but one close look at their faces told her that nothing she could possibly say could imbue them with as much intelligence and sensibility as a woman would have in such a situation, so she simply pasted on a bright smile, grabbed Simon's arm, and said, “Escort me up?”

Simon glared at Anthony.

Anthony glared at Simon.

Daphne yanked.

“This isn't over, Hastings,” Anthony hissed.

“Far from it,” Simon hissed back.

Daphne realized that they were simply looking for an excuse to come to blows. She yanked harder, prepared to dislocate Simon's shoulder if need be.

After one last burning glare, he acquiesced and followed her up into the boat.

It was a very long trip home.

Later that night, as Daphne prepared for bed, she found herself oddly restless. Sleep, she could already tell, would prove impossible, so she pulled on a robe and wandered downstairs in search of warm milk and some company. With so many siblings, she thought wryly, surely someone had to be up and about.

On her way to the kitchen, however, she heard rustlings in Anthony's study, so she poked her head in. Her eldest brother was hunched over his desk, ink spots on his fingers from the correspondence he was answering. It was uncommon to find him here so late into the evening. He'd preferred to keep his study at Bridgerton House even after he'd moved into his bachelor's lodgings, but he usually took care of his business matters during the day.

“Don't you have a secretary to do that?” Daphne asked with a smile.

Anthony looked up. “Damned fool got married and moved to Bristol,” he muttered.

“Ah.” She walked into the room and perched on a chair opposite the desk. “That would explain your presence here in the wee hours of the morning.”

Anthony glanced up at the clock. “Midnight is hardly wee. And besides, it took me all afternoon just to get the Thames out of my hair.”

Daphne tried not to smile.

“But you're right,” Anthony said with a sigh, setting down his quill. “It's late, and there's nothing here that won't keep until the morning.” He leaned back and stretched out his neck. “What are you doing up and about?”

“Couldn't sleep,” Daphne explained with a shrug. “I came downstairs for some hot milk and heard you cursing.”

Anthony let out a grunt. “It's this bloody quill. I swear I—” He smiled sheepishly. “I suppose ‘I swear’ pretty much takes care of it, eh?”

Daphne smiled in return. Her brothers had never minded their language around her. “So you'll be heading home soon, then?”

He nodded. “Although that warm milk you mentioned sounds rather nice. Why don't you ring for it?”

Daphne stood. “I've a better idea. Why don't we get it ourselves? We're not complete idiots. We should be able to warm some milk. And besides, the servants are probably in bed.”

Anthony followed her out the door. “Very well, but you shall have to do all the work. I haven't the faintest idea how to boil milk.”

“I don't think one is supposed to let it boil,” Daphne said with a frown. She rounded the last corner on the way to the kitchen and pushed open the door. The room was dark, save for moonlight glowing through the windows. “Find a lamp while I find some milk,” she said to Anthony. Her face took on a slight smirk. “You can light a lamp, can't you?”

“Oh, I believe I can manage that,” he said good-naturedly.

Daphne smiled to herself as she fumbled about in the dark, pulling a small pot from the hanging rack above her. She and Anthony usually had an easy, joking relationship, and it was nice to see him back to his normal self again. He'd been in such a beastly mood for the past week, with most of his sour temper directed squarely at her.

And Simon, of course, but Simon was rarely present to receive Anthony's scowls.

A light flickered to life behind her, and Daphne turned to see Anthony smiling triumphantly. “Have you found the milk,” he asked, “or must I venture out in search of a cow?”

She laughed and help up a bottle. “Found it!” She wandered over to the enclosed range, a rather modern-looking contraption that Cook had purchased earlier in the year. “Do you know how to work this?” she asked.




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