I sympathise with every broken window, vase, and shredded nerve, I assure you. Have you found slugs in your slippers yet? That one will stay with me till the day I die.
―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu, from Mrs Ruth Anderson.
21st March 1827, Montagu House, St James’s, London.
Phoebe concentrated on piling cherry jam onto a scone. Mama had not yet come down for breakfast, but her father was here, and his piercing gaze had settled on her. She could feel it boring into her brain and did not dare look up and meet it.
“Bee,” he said, his tone soft and enquiring. “You’d really do better to confess. You’ve been sat upon thorns these past few days. Who exactly is it you keep expecting to arrive?”
Phoebe swallowed, knowing she was doomed.
“No one,” she said, striving for innocence.
Her papa sighed, quite obviously disbelieving her. Her stomach squirmed and she put the scone down with regret, knowing it would stick in her throat.
“Bee,” he said again, a little sterner now. “I can’t abide lies, you know that.”
Guilt made her stomach squirm harder and she knew she couldn’t evade him now he was on the scent. He need only ask her outright what she’d done, and she would be forced to tell him. An evasion was one thing, but she’d not lie, and he knew it. Better to confess all, as he’d suggested, than make him ask her. She had jumped every time someone had knocked at the door, expecting Max to come and reveal all, but the days had passed and Max had not come.
Why?
Phoebe took a deep breath, her heart thudding in her chest, as she forced herself to meet her father’s eyes.
“You’ll be cross,” she said wretchedly.
“How cross?”
Phoebe swallowed.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“I see.”
“I’m fine.” Phoebe forced a bright smile, hoping that fact would ease the tension in the room. “There was no harm done, and no one saw me. Well, no one who would say anything.” She considered Baron Alvanly for a moment. “I think.”
Her father waited, staring at her, his silver eyes unnerving as she felt he could see just what she was thinking. Phoebe clutched the chair, willing herself to be brave and not run from the room.
“Perhaps we should wait for Mama—”
“Phoebe!”
Oh. Her full name. That wasn’t good.
“I w-went to see O’Sullivan fight Evans at Moulsey Hurst.”
There. She’d confessed.
Phoebe watched him, but his face was a blank. No reaction.
Oh, dear.
“And?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Drat it. How did he always know there was an and?
“And… it was all fine. I saw the fight, but… but I didn’t much like it, so I left before the end. It was obvious Evans would lose, you see. So I was on my way back to hire a hackney, and a man tried to rob me, but I had my pistol and stopped him, and then Max came, and he told the man to go before I shot him, and then he saw me to his carriage and… and that’s all.”
There was the kind of silence that made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her father said nothing. He was still for a long moment, during which Phoebe held her breath.
Very carefully, with precise movements, he refolded his napkin and set it back on the table, then he got to his feet.
“Tell your mother I am going to Angelo’s. I will speak to you this evening about… about your latest adventure. Good day, Bee. Do try not to shoot anyone whilst I am gone.” He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Lud.
Phoebe let out a breath and spared a thought for whatever poor devil volunteered to fight her papa at Angelo’s this morning. He’d likely be dissected into tiny pieces as her father vented his feelings. Now she knew how Damocles had felt, with that wretched sword suspended overhead by a horsehair. Only, she knew the hair would break this evening when she had to face him again. Gloomily, she decided there was only one thing to do. She would go to Hatchard’s and see if she could find a book to take her mind off her fate. With a despondent sigh, she pushed her unfinished breakfast aside and went in search of her maid.
***
Max watched, uncertain whether to be amused or alarmed as the marquess dispatched his fifth opponent in as many minutes. The man’s foil skittered across the floor, sliding to a halt on the other side of the large room, where Lucian had sent it sailing. Although he’d finished for the morning, Max had heard the murmurs of appreciation from the audience that had gathered, and joined them to watch. Lucian hadn’t even broken a sweat. He seemed irritated that no one had skill enough to give him the bout for which he was so clearly desperate.
“Next,” he called, stalking to the end of the room and turning to see who dared try their luck. No one volunteered.
Lucian huffed with annoyance, and then his gaze settled on Max. Max had been friends with Lucian for some time, but it did not mean he could be on the receiving end of that icy glare and not quail a little. Something told him that Phoebe’s recent adventure was no longer a secret.
“Max,” Lucian said, a tight smile at his lips. “Do you have something you wish to tell me?”
Max pondered this. “I have nothing I wish to tell you, Lucian, but I suspect you already know that I could give you information you might want.”
Lucian jerked his head, indicating that they go outside to the courtyard. Max followed him, relieved when Lucian set the foil aside before leaving the room.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, the moment the doors closed.
Max hesitated. “There was no harm done, and… and I did not want her to see me as a man who would run and tell tales to her father. I hoped she might tell you herself.”
Lucian snorted. “She did, but only after I pressed her. So, that’s why she’s been leaping from her skin every time the front door opened. She’s been expecting you to come and tell all.”
“I imagine so,” Max agreed, rather aggrieved that Phoebe should see him in such a light.
He watched the marquess pace, his fists clenching and unclenching before he turned back to Max.
“Was it you she was meeting there?”
“No! God, no,” Max replied at once, alarmed. “Christ, you know me better than that, I hope.”
Lucian let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I do, of course, only… only that wretched girl will kill me. My heart cannot stand the kind of explosions she sets off wherever her feet touch the ground. It’s my own fault. I know it is. I’ve given her too much freedom, made her too brave, too bloody fearless….”
Max reached out and laid a hand on Lucian’s arm.
“She’s marvellous,” he said softly. “Good lord, if only you could have seen her. There I was running hell for leather, expecting to rescue a damsel in distress, and the poor blighter who’d tried to rob her was stammering his apologies and looking down the barrel of a pistol.”
Lucian groaned. “Dear God.”
“She’s not some foolish green girl who went wandering about London like it was her own back garden. She knew it was dangerous, and she was prepared for it, and yes, of course she ought not have been there. Believe me, I was hard pressed not to shake her for giving me such a fright, but it would have done no good. She’ll not change, and it would have only made her dislike me even more.”
“I thank God you were there.”
“So do I,” Max replied. His heart still trembled whenever he thought about it. “Though she would have managed if I had not been, I’m sure. Though I think she was a little pleased to see me for once,” he added ruefully.
“So she ought to have been.” Lucian’s voice was angry now. “And if she was not meeting you, who the devil was it? Who encouraged her? For reckless she may be, but she’d not have gone to such a place entirely alone.”
>
Max hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Lucian narrowed his eyes at him. “But you suspect.”
“No, truly. I have no proof, no reason to suppose,” Max protested.
“But you do suspect,” Lucian repeated, his tone brooking no argument.
Max sighed, knowing he would not escape an interrogation.
“Baron Alvanly.”
He was unsurprised at the litany of curses that fell from the marquess’ lips.
“I’m afraid I was idiotic enough to warn her off the fellow,” he admitted, wincing as Lucian glared at him in outrage. He held out his hands in a sign of defeat. “I know. I know it was beyond foolish, but… but it was a reaction and I didn’t think.”
“Alvanly,” Lucian replied, his tone enough to make Max’s hair stand on end. “I see.”
There was a tense silence and then Lucian let out a breath, returning his attention to Max.
“If I were foolish enough to warn her off as you have done, the results would be inevitable. I do not think her a fool, after all. She must know the man is in the market for a rich wife and that he would be a disastrous husband. I have taught her well enough to be aware of the tricks men use to snare themselves a wife through scandal, so I must trust she can see past his pretty face and beneath the veneer of charm he wears so well. We both must.”
Max nodded, not liking it, but aware that Lucian knew Phoebe better than anyone. If he trusted her judgement, then Max must too.
“But that does not mean that we do not watch her, and Alvanly. Can I rely on you to keep an eye on her?”
Max opened his mouth to protest. He had decided to leave London, to leave behind his foolish desire for Phoebe and go home, where he need not bump into her at every other social event. He was tired of longing for what he could not have, tired of being the man she believed would always put an end to whatever fun she was having.
“I know what I ask,” Lucian said, and Max hated the sympathy in his eyes. “But I do ask it. My wife….”
He hesitated, and for a moment Max saw fear in the man’s eyes.
“She’s rather tired of late. I don’t wish for her to overtax herself. If she is no better in a few days, we will return to Dern. I would have her see a physician in London, but she won’t hear of it. The stubborn creature. She’s certain she is just a little overtired. The season—not to mention Phoebe—has been rather energetic.”
Max’s heart sank, yet at the same time he was a hopeless enough case to be relieved, relieved to have a reason to stay close to her. God, he was pathetic.
“I do hope Lady Montagu recovers soon, and yes, of course I shall look out for Phoebe.”
Lucian let out a breath. “I confess that is a weight off my mind.”
Max believed him. Now he saw the strain around Lucian’s eyes and realised how desperately worried he was about his wife. It was no secret the man was still head over ears in love with her. Despite women setting their caps at him at every turn, angling to be the marquess’ mistress, no one had ever drawn his eye from his wife. Those who did not take a gentle hint risked one of his infamous set downs, yet some still dared it.
Noting Max’s scrutiny, Lucian frowned. “Please, say nothing to Phoebe. Matilda does not wish to spoil her season by worrying her unduly when there is likely no need.”
“Not a word, I promise you.”
Lucian nodded before returning a considering glance. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested—”
“Oh no.” Max shook his head and backed off. “I watched you pick those last two poor devils to pieces. I’ve had my exercise for the morning, and have no desire for an exercise in humiliation as well, I thank you.”
There was a frustrated sigh. “You’ll be at the Countess March’s ball tomorrow night?”
“I will.”
“Very well. I believe Lady Helena and Gabriel are escorting Phoebe.”
“I’ll look out for her. You’ve my word.”
Lucian nodded and patted Max’s shoulder, a rare gesture of friendship that spoke of his gratitude, before heading back inside.
***
Phoebe dawdled on the way back home. She’d whiled away two hours at Hatchard’s, but she could not live in the shop the entire day, certainly not all night. No matter how tempting avoiding her father’s inevitable scolding was.
“Oh, do come along, miss,” her maid, Rachel, urged her. “It’s like walking with a snail on a lead.”
Rachel was a no-nonsense, sensible girl, one who was unimpressed with intrigues and could not be bribed to send notes to lovers and the like. Not that Phoebe had ever wanted her to, but she might one day, and Rachel was not the girl to do it. Her mother had been canny in selecting her. She was kind and efficient, but could not be wheedled into mischief. Sadly.
“I’m coming,” Phoebe replied, not moving any faster as Rachel huffed and carried on. The maid hurried across Ryder Street, moving quickly to dodge a smart curricle. Phoebe let her go, in no way eager to be home. Glancing down Ryder Street, her attention was taken by the sight of a man hammering on the door of the first of a length of narrow town houses. Elegant, but a touch shabby, it rose three storeys high and the black paint on the front door was peeling. Clearly frustrated, the man yelled up at the window above, apparently to no avail as no one answered him. With a final bellow of frustration, the fellow hit the door and turned, revealing that it was Baron Alvanly who was in such a fit of passion. Intrigued, Phoebe glanced ahead to see Rachel already disappearing into the crowd. Too curious to let the thing pass as she ought, Phoebe lifted her skirts free of the muck littering the road and crossed, just meeting with Baron Alvanly as he walked away from the door.
“Is something the matter?”
“Miss Barrington,” the fellow said, his mouth creasing into a wide smile. “The matter? Oh, yes. Fool that I am, I have locked myself out and my idiot friend can apparently sleep through Armageddon, for I cannot wake him. I fear I must resign myself to a day of traipsing the streets until he is free of Morpheus’ embrace. Still,” he added, brightening considerably. “It seems I might have a companion for my lonely hours.”
“Oh, no,” Phoebe said at once, aware that she was in enough trouble already. “I was on my way home. My maid is just ahead of me, she’ll notice I’m gone in a moment.”
“Well, at least let me escort you. St James’s, isn’t it? Then I might enjoy your company for a few moments.”
Oh, drat it. Would she ever learn not to stick her nose in where she shouldn’t? Curiosity really was best left to cats. Her father was bound to be home by now and if he saw her with Alvanly… oh, no.
“I can get you inside,” she said, suddenly eager to be free of him.
Alvanly laughed. “How? It’s locked. Are you a magician?”
Phoebe returned an uncertain smile, wishing she had a better idea. “Something of the sort. Turn your back, please, so no one can see me.”
Alvanly gave her a curious glance but did as she asked. Phoebe moved to the door, extricated a set of special picks that Jack had given her to practise with as a girl and crouched down. It was a simple lock and well-oiled, and it was child’s play as she kept the tension on the barrel and flicked each pin in turn. There was a decisive click, and Phoebe stood, tucking the tools back in her reticule. She glanced up then, meeting Alvanly’s eyes. He was staring at her with astonishment.
“I think I’m in love,” he murmured.
“Don’t be so silly,” she said, annoyed with him. He’d not once asked how she had managed to get home from the fight, or asked if she was all right. Max would have…. Phoebe frowned, returning her attention to the baron. “Anyway, you can go inside now. Good day to you.”
“No, wait. Miss Barrington.”
He reached out, taking hold of her arm as she tried to move past him. She had little choice as his hand was firm about her forearm.
“You are the most astonishing creature I’ve ever met. Will you be at the March’s ball tomorrow?”
&nb
sp; “I will. If you will be so good as to let go of my arm, that is,” she added tartly.
He did, though the look in his eyes remained a little daunting. “Then you must save me a dance. Good day, Miss Barrington.”
Phoebe nodded and hurried away.
Chapter 5
Dearest Harriet,
Larkin has bid me ask if Cassius would like to come and stay for the weekend. His sister is driving him to distraction, and he feels the need for reinforcements, the poor dear. It’s true that dear Grace is a bit of a handful already. She will insist on being Napoleon whenever they play at war, and she refuses to lose as she ought. Solo has suggested she play Wellington instead, but she’s a contrary little madam. It puts poor Larkin in such a temper and then they really do fight. I can’t think where she gets it from. I was never so bold.
―Excerpt of a letter to The Right Hon’ble Harriet Cadogan, Countess of St Clair, from The Right Hon’ble Lady Jemima Rothborn.
21st March 1827.
Lucian sighed at the sight of Phoebe sitting in the chair by the fire, hands clasped demurely in her lap. She looked incredibly young and quite wretched after his scolding. He’d hated doing it, and had never been terribly good at reprimanding her for her dreadful behaviour. This latest jaunt was enough to make his heart turn over in his chest as he considered all that might have happened to her, though, and he could not let it go. The poor girl had tried her best to make the evening last as long as possible, playing games with Philip and Thomas well past their bedtime in order to avoid the inevitable.
She had borne it though, and he knew she truly was sorry. He also knew it would not stop her from doing it again. Phoebe had a reckless streak a mile wide, a desire for adventure and excitement, and she did not always stop and think twice before she went off in pursuit of it. At least she had taken precautions. That was reassuring and showed him she was not blind to the dangers of the world. But then she never had been.
To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Page 5