“Does she create this stir wherever she goes?” Kline asked, giving Max a faintly pitying expression.
“Yes.”
“That’s it,” Kline said with a heavy sigh. “The next time, I’m marrying a comfortable, quiet and plain girl. The kind who likes books and staying at home, and can’t abide fashion and parties. I’ve had far too much excitement for one lifetime. Not that I believe Lady Ellisborough to be the least bit like the late, unlamented Lady Kline,” he said hastily, looking appalled lest Max should take offence. “It’s just that when even the sweetest natured women look like that, they attract trouble through no fault of their own. Men act like imbeciles once they get within a mile of them. It’s like… like….”
“Like wondering when and where the next bomb will go off,” Max supplied helpfully.
“Quite.” Kline regarded him with a thoughtful frown. “You rather like things exploding, though, don’t you?”
Max could not help but laugh. “I’m beginning to believe I do.”
Kline grinned at him. “You know, you look rather worn out, old man.”
Max declined to comment, having spent a restless night in a chair, far too aware of his fiancée tucked up warm in the spacious bed not ten feet away from him.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Phoebe said, as they got to their feet. “Have I missed breakfast?”
“Of course not,” Max said, tucking her arm through his. “As if I would let you go hungry.”
Phoebe chuckled.
“It would be a bad idea if we’re to share a carriage,” she said with a smile before whispering loudly to Viscount Kline. “I’m dreadful when I’m hungry.”
“Appalling,” Max agreed affably, pulling out a chair for her. “What did you do that took you so long?” he asked in an undertone.
“I shan’t tell you,” she murmured with a little sniff. “But I can tell you I found more ribbons, and these ones are pink.”
Max groaned.
***
10th April 1827. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
Lucian stared out of the window of the library, his stomach tied in knots. Pippin had hurried Matilda away the moment they’d arrived, and he’d been unable to draw a breath ever since. It would be all right, he told himself. He was worrying over nothing. Pippin would see to it, whatever it was. Still, his chest was tight with fear, his heart thudding. Outside, he could see Philip and Thomas walking with their tutor. Mr Evans believed fresh air good for the mind and spirit, and often took them walking while they spoke of that morning’s lessons. Philip was listening with a serious frown of concentration, whilst Thomas lagged behind, brandishing a stick like a sword and attacking trees and the occasional rose bush as he went. Lucian felt his heart contract at the idea of having to tell them their adored mama was sick.
No.
No, no, no.
“Please God,” he said aloud. “I know I’m unlikely to be one of your favourite people but, please, don’t take her from me. I can do better. I will do better. Only let her be well. Please.”
A knock at the door had him almost leaping from his skin and he ran to yank it open, giving Denton such a start that the poor man took a step back in alarm.
“Mrs Appleton says you may go up now, my lord,” Denton said, his eyes full of sympathy and concern, for he must know why they had returned.
Lucian nodded but found he couldn’t move, his hand still clutching the doorknob. He drew in a deep breath. “Did… did Pippin say…?”
“No, my lord.”
Lucian swallowed.
“Lady Montagu is waiting for you,” Denton said softly.
That, if nothing else, got him moving. Whatever it was, Matilda likely knew already, and he would not be such a coward as to allow her to face it alone. Feeling like a man climbing the steps at Tyburn, he forced himself up the stairs and went to Matilda’s room, knocking softly.
“Come in,” Pippin said.
Lucian hesitated, trying his hardest to bury his fear so that Matilda would know she could rely on him, that whatever they faced, they would face it together. He opened the door and stepped inside. His heart plummeted as he saw Matilda curled up on the bed sobbing. Lucian ran to her, pulling her into his arms.
“My love, my love,” he said, desperate to make it right, to fight whatever it was she faced for her. “Whatever it is, we will make it right, we’ll find a cure. We can go abroad. I read about a doctor in France who is doing the most wonderful things and—”
“Oh, good Lord, I could knock your heads together!” Pippin cried, interrupting him.
Lucian looked around, confused. How could Pippin speak so callously when Matilda was in such distress? Except now he looked down to find his wife was indeed sobbing, but she was laughing too, her slim frame shaking with mirth.
“Oh, Lucian,” she said, reaching out to touch his face. “Oh, my poor darling. I’m so sorry to have frightened you so.”
“You’re… You’re not sick,” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.
Matilda shook her head. “No, love. Not sick.”
“And you,” Pippin tutted at Matilda, shaking her head sadly. “With two babies birthed and not knowing you was carrying again. I do despair.”
“But Pippin, even you said I couldn’t have another,” Matilda objected.
“I said no such thing, my lady,” Pippin retorted, folding her arm. “I said your chances were very slim but, if you drank that tea I made for you three times a day and were patient, you might be surprised, and so you are.”
Lucian looked between them, still unable to breathe. “A child?”
Matilda looked up at him and gave him a watery smile. “Yes, Lucian, isn’t it wonderful?”
He couldn’t speak, too many emotions battering his poor heart at once. He could only pull Matilda into his arms and hold on tight, burying his face in her hair and concentrating on breathing in and out. When he had composed himself enough to speak, he turned back to Pippin.
“And everything…?”
“Just as it ought to be, don’t you fret,” Pippin said kindly.
“But isn’t she a little—”
“Lucian Barrington, if the next word out of your mouth is old, I shall strike you,” Matilda said indignantly.
Lucian snapped his mouth shut and sent Pippin a pleading expression. The woman cleared her throat, her mouth twitching a little. “Your lady is fit and strong, and in excellent health, my lord. It’s certainly not unusual, and there is no need to fret unduly. I’ll take good care of her, and if she does as she’s told and rests, like her body is telling her to, she’ll be fine.”
“She will,” Lucian said forcefully, giving Matilda a warning look.
“Oh, Lord, Pippin. Now I will not be able to lift a finger for months,” Matilda said, regarding him with misgiving.
“No,” he agreed, fighting the desire to insist she not leave her bedroom again until the child was safely delivered. “You certainly will not, and I shall tell your sons to treat you more gently too.”
“Oh, Lucian,” she protested, but he only shook his head and she sighed. “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly. “If it will stop you worrying so.”
“Nothing will stop me worrying,” he said tightly, still thrumming with tension that he did not expect to leave him until the child was born, and both the babe and its mother were safe and well.
“Pippin thinks it’s a girl,” Matilda said, squeezing his hand tightly. “She says that’s why I feel different. Not so sick as with the boys. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Lucian nodded. He couldn’t speak. He had been so fiercely proud of his sons, and his wife for having provided the heirs he’d needed, but though he knew he was asking too much when he had been so blessed with Phoebe, he had longed for a little daughter. A girl with cornflower blue eyes, the image of her beautiful mother.
“Well then, away with you, my lord, and let your wife have a little rest after all the upset,” Pippin said, gesturing for him to leave. “She’s worn out by it, and if I know anyth
ing you’ve worried yourself to a thread too. You’ve lost weight, by my reckoning. So, let’s leave her in peace for a nice nap, and I’ll have Cook bring you tea and biscuits. Not that they’re as good as mine, for all I’ve told her time and again to add more ginger.”
“No one makes them like you, Pippin,” he said, giving the old woman a fond look before turning back to Matilda. “Rest then, my love, and I shall see you later.”
Matilda nodded, smiling at him with such adoration that he could not resist stealing a kiss.
“Not too much later,” she whispered as he pulled back, and he chuckled and kissed her nose.
“No. Certainly not.”
Reluctantly, he left the bed, pausing to stare at his beautiful wife and thank God for allowing him yet another blessing in his life. I will do better, he promised silently, and left the room.
***
“This is excellent,” Viscount Kline mused, taking another appreciative sip of the wine.
They had arrived at Abbeville in good time and ordered a light meal to fortify themselves against the challenge ahead. Kline, in pursuit of his wife, who was not a wife, and Phoebe and Max in search of Baron Alvanly.
“It is good,” Max agreed, regarding Kline. “Do you know much about wine?”
Kline returned a rather crooked smile. “More than I ought, I fear. The truth is, I’m here on a business trip, though I’d be grateful if you’d keep that to yourselves. Can’t have the ton know I’ve been reduced to working for a living, can we?”
“What kind of business?” Phoebe asked with interest.
Kline held the glass up to the light, admiring the colour of the wine as he tilted it back and forth. “I’m working for Gabriel Knight. He’s making a killing importing wine, but with all his other interests he does not have time enough to spend as long as is required seeking out new suppliers. We got to talking about the subject one evening and he was, er… impressed by the depth of my knowledge.”
He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. They all knew he’d had a reputation for hard drinking and gambling, and many other vices. Anything that had kept him away from Lady Kline.
“I needed to refill my coffers quite desperately, though, and this seemed like a pleasant way to do it.”
Max looked at him, a considering gaze. “It does, indeed. I have been thinking of restocking the cellars at Ellisborough. May I put you on the case?”
“You certainly may,” Kline replied with a pleased smile. “Knight will be thrilled that I’ve landed him such a customer.”
“Excellent,” Max said with a satisfied nod. “Well, then, Phoebe. If you are ready?”
Phoebe nodded and Kline rose as she did, holding out his hand to her. He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently.
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ellisborough,” he said. “And if your carriage and driver fail to appear, do come and find me. I should be charmed to continue the journey to Paris in your company.”
Max made a sound which might have been taken as thanks, but Kline would well know was more like Not if I can help it.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Phoebe said. “It’s been so nice spending time with you. I do hope we see you again soon, and good luck with finding Lady Kline.”
The viscount laughed. “Ah, yes, my fictitious wife. I cannot wait to make her acquaintance.”
Max guided Phoebe out of the hotel and paused on the steps outside as he noticed her frown.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing,” Phoebe said, shaking her head. “It’s silly, really. Only every time he talks of his fictitious wife, I feel a pang of conscience. That’s what I am, after all.”
Max covered the hand that rested on his arm. “Not for much longer, love.”
“No.” She sighed. “Once we have this dratted painting back, we can go home.”
“We could go home anyway,” Max suggested, too eager to marry her and begin their lives together to care overmuch for someone else’s stolen painting. Mrs Manning could well afford to lose a dozen such paintings, after all.
“Max!” Phoebe said, wide-eyed with shock. “And let him get away with it? I think not.”
Max frowned, wondering what exactly Phoebe was hoping to accomplish.
“What do you mean? Even if we find him, I can only try to take the painting back, and I doubt he’ll give it up willingly. You’re not expecting me to haul him back to England in chains, I hope?”
He experienced a tremor of alarm at the flash of annoyance in her eyes.
“Of course not. And I don’t want him locked up or anything of the sort. I do understand he’s desperate, but it’s his own fault for being such a profligate spendthrift, and he can’t just go around stealing things. More than that, he duped me, Max, and I’m still vexed to death over it.” She gave him a measuring look which made the tremor feel akin to an earthquake. “And what do you mean, I can only try to take it back? We are in this together, Max. I will help you get the painting back.”
“Oh, no.”
A wave of fear rolled over him as he considered Phoebe being in the same room as the villain who had tied her up and left her bound and helpless. His protective instincts rushed to the fore, too forcefully for him to listen to the warning voice that suggested he ought to step with care, ought to consider to whom he was speaking.
“You may help me find the devil, but that is all. Once I know where he is, I shall go and deal with him myself, and you will wait for me to return.”
***
Phoebe stared at Max, hurt and dismayed by his words. This was supposed to be a shared adventure, at least she had taken it as such. Though the dare he had taken may have spurred him on, she knew that Max had come on this journey to protect her, and she appreciated his instincts. He was a sincerely good man, but she had also believed that he’d trusted her, that he’d realised she was not a fool, even if she had allowed Alvanly to treat her as one. To discover now that he meant to force her to stay behind whilst he faced the baron and retrieved the painting alone….
Oh, no.
She considered what her life would be like, if Max insisted she must stay at home instead of doing what she thought to be right, and her heart ached. If that was what he expected of her, he was doomed to disappointment. She would be a constant source of irritation, and he would soon regret their marriage. Phoebe knew too well she had been a spoiled and indulged child and given a great deal of freedom. She knew too that she must grow up and take more responsibility for her actions. That she was headstrong and impulsive was something she accepted, and she fully intended to be better, not be so reckless, but she was not so unaware of her own nature to believe it could be curbed entirely. The idea that Max might expect her to behave as most other men seemed to want their wives to act was crushing. She had been quite determined not to embarrass or upset him, but to be put aside… to be told to stay at home like a good girl while he sorted things out….
Oh, Max.
She saw Max brace himself, no doubt awaiting her indignant riposte to his words, but Phoebe could only feel sorrow and said nothing. Last night, when they had kissed, it had felt so right… so perfect and wonderful, and she had been filled with joy to have discovered what it was that her parents had found in each other. She had finally understood all those secretive, longing looks, and the little touches that passed between them when they believed they were unobserved. Yet now, her certainty wavered, and all her doubts returned at once.
“Phoebe, love, please, don’t look so disappointed. Surely you did not expect to challenge Alvanly to a duel or steal the painting from him at gunpoint?”
“Of course not! I’m not a silly child, Max,” Phoebe retorted, swallowing down the hurt of his words.
“I never said you were,” Max returned, sounding somewhat impatient. “But what kind of husband should I be to allow you to confront a man who tricked you into a crime and then left you gagged and bound? Please, love. Let me deal with it and see what can be done, and then I shall t
ake you to Paris and we’ll have a splendid time. What do you say?”
Phoebe took a deep breath and forced a smile. She did not want to argue with him, not here in the street, at least.
“That sounds lovely,” she said, though there was no enthusiasm in the words.
It did sound lovely, only now she felt that Max would be there—not as her friend, her lover, sharing in the excitement and adventure with her—but as her chaperone, ensuring she did not come to harm. Her Papa had always protected her and made her feel safe, yet he had trusted her, too. He had listened to her and included her in his plans, and had even taken her advice.
“Now, then,” Max said, “I think perhaps we should discover where the diligence sets down its passengers. If Alvanly is keeping a low profile, he may well have travelled that way. Maybe someone will remember him.”
Phoebe nodded, only half attending. “Yes, though he used his real name back in Boulogne and, if he did use the diligence, he might have remained aboard and gone directly to Paris. It travels through the night, you know.”
“True, but we must start somewhere. Unless you have a better suggestion?”
Max looked at her gravely and she knew he was trying to make amends, aware of her having grown quiet, but she was too distracted to think of a better alternative, even if there was one. Her happiness had been diminished, and she could not decide if it was her own fault for having unrealistic expectations of him, or his for having too little faith in her.
Perhaps they were both to blame.
Either way, she was unsurprised when he found the busy coaching inn where the diligence stopped and sat her in a quiet corner whilst he went to make enquiries. Too low in spirits to protest, she sat meekly without a murmur of complaint and wondered what on earth she ought to do.
Phoebe was sunk so deep in her own thoughts she did not at first attend when she heard a vibrant burst of feminine laughter, and only when a flash of vivid pink silk caught her eye did she look up. A stunning woman dressed with as much flamboyant style as Phoebe herself, and with a ravishing tumble of red curls, was walking out of the courtyard with a stream of young men trailing behind her. They carried an assortment of trunks and hat boxes between them, struggling under the bulk and the weight of the contents.
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