by Jayne Davis
“Yes, thank you for coming.”
The admiral stood and took his leave.
Alex could understand Marstone taking an interest in Phoebe, although he did not like it. The earl had always selected his agents based on their aptitude, ignoring rank, wealth, and gender. He could see why Marstone wanted to know how Phoebe had behaved on the frigate. What he didn’t understand was why he’d been summoned to listen while the admiral was describing the visit. He set his glass on a side table and stood, avoiding clenching his fists only with an effort. It would not do to let his feelings show.
“What do you want with Miss Deane?” he asked.
Marstone leaned back in his chair. “Nothing,” he said. “Not at present.”
“Nor in the future,” Alex stated. “Hasn’t she been put in enough danger?”
“I will not force her to do anything.” Marstone took a sip of his brandy. “I do not blackmail people. What is your interest in Miss Deane?”
He was not going to explain that. “A natural concern for the safety of anyone who gets involved in your… your plots.”
“I’m sure Miss Deane can make her own decisions.” Marstone stood, putting his own glass down. “It’s time you and Kellet finished your notes. There’s more work to be done over the next couple of days. I’ll see you about that in the morning.”
Alex went back to the library and the papers he had been working on with Kellet. He hadn’t planned on staying in London, but perhaps he should. He didn’t think Marstone would deliberately put Phoebe in danger, but he had to be certain.
Chapter 40
The day after the visit to HMS Antelope, Phoebe entered the library with some trepidation. Her uncle had been out when they returned from seeing the frigate, so she hadn’t yet had a chance to find out what—or who—the marquess had wanted.
“Good morning, Phoebe,” the comte said. “I’m not sure if you will think I have good or bad news for you.”
“Lord Harlford?” At least he was getting straight to the point.
“Indeed. Do sit down.”
Phoebe sat, trying not to clench her hands.
“As I suspected, he came to ask me about you. He said he wished to court you, with a view to asking for your hand if you continue to deal well together. I gave him my permission, Phoebe—”
How could he not?
“—but that does not mean I expect you to accept him if he does offer.”
“Thank you, sir.” Phoebe’s hands released some of their tension. Not an immediate proposal, then, but she would still have to make a difficult decision fairly soon.
If only Alex had called again, or even made some arrangement for them to meet. She might have been able to work out whether he felt anything more than friendship for her.
“Phoebe…”
She brought her attention back to her uncle. “Sir?”
“This will not be a secret if Harlford does propose, but until then it might be better not to mention his visit. Luckily your aunt and Hélène were not at home when he called.”
“I will say nothing, sir.” Good lord, imagine the uproar if her aunt found out. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Quite so,” the comte said. “Now, before we start on our historical discussion, I wanted to ask you about the Vicomte de Brevare. He also called yesterday.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked after Hélène and your aunt, paying his respects.”
“Has he been away from London? It’s nearly a month since we returned.” She and Alex had speculated that Brevare would return to France to look for his family, but it would be useful to have that confirmed.
“He didn’t say.” The comte looked her in the eye. “He seemed surprised when I thanked him for helping to bring my wife, daughter, and niece home safely.” He tilted his head slightly, clearly waiting for a comment from her.
“Surprised that you thanked him?” She didn’t want to have to give further details of her subterfuge if she could avoid it.
“No.” Her uncle shook his head. “After graciously accepting my thanks, as if he’d been the only one responsible for helping you, he expressed surprise that I mentioned you as my niece.”
“He thought I was a maid,” she explained.
The comte raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t correct this misapprehension?”
“No, sir.”
“This is connected with that business of Marstone’s, I suppose,” he said in resignation. “Never mind. Now, how is your reading coming along? What shall we discuss this morning?”
An hour later, Phoebe went to her room—the day was fine and she felt like taking her sketchbook into the gardens in the square. A parcel wrapped in brown paper lay on top of the chest.
There was no name or direction on it, and it was heavy. Intrigued, she pulled the string undone. Inside the wrapping paper was a rectangular leather case. Lifting the lid, she saw two pistols, each sitting in its own compartment. The handles were of polished wood, with only a little ornamental engraving on the metal barrels.
Her heart racing, she looked through the box for a note or letter—she could think of only one person who might send her pistols. A sheaf of paper was tucked into a slot in the back of the case; amongst instructions for loading and cleaning the pistols she found a note written in Alex’s hand.
I hope you never need these, but they are of no use kept unloaded in their case. In an emergency there is rarely time to reload, so make each shot count. Remember that a pistol will not fire instantly, so hold it steady while you pull the trigger.
AW
She stared at the note, her conflicting feelings seeming to freeze her brain. He’d thought about her enough to make her a gift, but the note was impersonal. The action was that of a friend, no more.
Unwilling to admit what that could imply, she took one of the pistols out of the case, holding it as if about to fire. It was much smaller than the pistol that she’d almost used in France.
What else was in there? A stoppered flask must be for powder; the weight of it told her it was full. Another packet held a dozen balls and some leather patches, and there were a few strangely shaped tools and some spare flints.
She had thought the business with Lord Marstone was over—what did Alex know that she didn’t? Was this gift linked to Brevare’s return?
Lord Harlford would not be arriving for several hours, so she had time to familiarise herself with the pistols. Sketching could wait. She unfolded the instructions and read them carefully, then went to lock her door. She would tell Ellie she had them, as the maid was likely to come across them anyway, but it wouldn’t do for anyone else in the house to see her trying to load them. Perhaps she could persuade Joe to take her somewhere quiet where she could practise firing them.
Handling the weapons felt like a link with Alex, but it was unwise to dwell on that. Time would tell, but despite her happiness in his company two days ago, and her impression that the feeling had been mutual, there was something very final about that impersonal note.
Phoebe hid the case of pistols at the back of a drawer when the time came for her drive with Lord Harlford. One would just fit in her pocket, but she could not imagine needing a pistol when with the marquess. The morning’s drizzle had stopped and patches of blue sky were showing between the clouds.
In spite of the pleasant weather, the hollow feeling caused by Alex’s note persisted. She hoped the marquess would not declare his intentions today—she needed more time to accept that a life with Alex might no longer be a possibility.
It’s only two days since you saw him, she told herself, and he’s likely to be occupied with Marstone’s business. As Ellie dressed her hair, she determined to put such thoughts out of her mind and enjoy the afternoon.
Ellie laid out her pelisse and gloves, then cleared her throat. “May I be excused, miss? The young master wants someone to fetch ’is cricket balls.”
“Yes, of course.”
She was ready early so, rather than wait
ing in the parlour or library, she followed Ellie out into the square. Smiling, she recalled her first encounter with the marquess here—for someone who’d been so stiff and formal, he hadn’t protested at nearly being hit with a cricket ball. She lifted her face up to the sun, enjoying its warmth on her skin.
Lord Harlford was on time, as usual, and bowed over her hand as he greeted her, then helped her into the carriage. As before, Phoebe sat in silence as he manoeuvred his greys through the busy streets, but this time the silence felt awkward.
“I accompanied my cousin—Georges, that is—to see HMS Antelope yesterday,” she said, wanting to ensure the conversation kept to impersonal topics. “It was most interesting to see the kind of ship my brother has been serving on.”
He looked surprised, but she was pleased that he made no comment about such a visit being unsuitable for women. They conversed readily enough, Phoebe drawing on things Joe had said as well as her own observations. As they turned in through the park gate, the marquess slowed to respond to greetings from acquaintances but didn’t stop to talk. He pulled up when they were on a quieter part of the carriage drive, and turned to face Phoebe.
“Miss Deane, you said on our first drive together that you would like to drive my greys.” Phoebe looked up at him, eyes widening in surprise, but he went on before she could speak. “It is relatively quiet now. Would you care to take the ribbons for a turn around the park?”
Was he really offering his greys?
“Miss Deane?”
“I… yes, thank you.” She glanced at his face, still hesitant. “Are you sure, my lord?”
“You seemed to be handling the ribbons competently when I saw you here a few days ago.”
Phoebe smiled, more pleased with that compliment from him than any she’d received about her appearance. She would take it much more slowly today—being given the chance to drive such a pair was honour enough.
Another carriage passed them as Lord Harlford handed over the reins. Phoebe, concentrating on grasping the reins properly, noticed only that it slowed down momentarily before the man in it flicked his whip to speed the horses up again.
“Some people cannot make up their minds,” Lord Harlford muttered, looking after the carriage.
The greys were responsive to the slightest pull on the reins and moved with graceful ease. Phoebe kept them to a gentle trot, easing the pace well before they came up to other vehicles or corners, very conscious of the extra height of this vehicle. She tooled the pair around a complete circuit of the park before slowing to a stop. No-one in passing carriages addressed Lord Harlford, allowing her to concentrate on her driving.
“Thank you, my lord, they are truly a splendid pair.” She’d love to see how fast they could go, but even if he allowed her to, Hyde Park in the afternoon was not the place to test them.
His smile answered her own as he took the reins. If he felt relief at getting his team through the experience unharmed, he didn’t show it. “Would you like to drive them again? I could call in a few days’ time.”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” And now she had some time to consider what she should say if he did ask her to marry him.
He turned the horses towards the park gates, slowing once more when Lord Tresham greeted him.
“Afternoon, Harlford. Miss Deane.”
Lord Tresham did not return her smile. Although one of Hélène’s admirers, he’d always been friendly towards her, albeit in a quiet way. Was something wrong?
“Can’t stop, Harlford,” Lord Tresham said. “Just wondered if you would be looking in at Brooks’ later?”
“I was intending to, yes.”
Tresham nodded briefly, then rode off without another word. Phoebe and the marquess looked after him, then at each other.
“I’ll take you home, Miss Deane,” the marquess said, puzzlement clear on his face. “The world seems somewhat out of sorts today.”
They said little on the way back, and as Lord Harlford didn’t like to keep his horses standing he didn’t accompany Phoebe in for refreshments. He bowed over her hand again as they parted, repeating his promise to call again soon.
Cookson took Phoebe’s pelisse and bonnet, and informed her that the rest of the family were out. She decided to read in the library, but once there, she stood by the window gazing out over the square.
How the marquess had changed from the man she’d first met: a man who didn’t even see her when Hélène was present. Conversation with him was still often stilted, but he was definitely unbending. And today he’d trusted her with his greys—was that significant?
She had enjoyed her afternoon, but she hadn’t felt the same thrill at handling the horses as she had when driving with Alex, the sense of shared enjoyment, or the feeling of closeness.
If Lord Harlford did offer for her, a marriage based on mutual respect and possibly friendship would work. But she had hoped for a loving marriage, like her parents had enjoyed. She could ask him for some time to think about it, and if Alex didn’t call again, she would ask Bella where he was.
Hearing her aunt’s voice, she wondered if she could cry off tonight’s rout. An evening making polite conversation in a crowded and stuffy room did not hold much appeal at the best of times, even less so while her thoughts were on her future.
Chapter 41
Alex leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. He’d spent most of the day cooped up in Kellet’s office, going over the lists of contacts and discussing possibilities. Some of the people on the list might not be willing to help now that France was at war with Britain, and he’d been trying to recall their different motivations. The fact that his mind kept veering to an image of Phoebe had been no help at all.
“These lists are being kept here?” Alex asked, tapping his finger on the pile of notes.
“Yes. Lord Marstone has moved all the details of his own recruits here. Even if we find our traitor, I think he will not entrust such information to anyone outside his immediate control again.”
Alex nodded—he’d expected no less, but still felt some degree of personal responsibility for the people he’d recruited. Unfortunately, that might include Phoebe. He could not shake off the feeling that Marstone had plans to use her in some way.
“Do you want to come out for an ale?” he asked, standing. The prospect of spending the evening alone in his lodgings was not attractive. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on a book, that was certain.
“Why not?”
Alex leaned on the wall in an upper room of the Queen’s Head tavern, holding a half-empty mug of ale. A group of businessmen and drunken society men were gathered around a table, rolling dice in a loud game of hazard. He’d wandered in here with Kellet, curious what the noise was about, and they’d stayed to watch for a while. Large sums of money appeared to be changing hands, mainly being lost by the young sprigs of fashion, who were decidedly under the influence.
“Another?” Kellet asked, indicating Alex’s mug.
“Why not? I’ll get them.” He stepped out onto the landing in search of a waiter. He had to go to the floor below, where he gave his order. Before he could return to the gaming room, he met Kellet coming down the stairs, his jaw set and brows creased.
“What…? Is something wrong?”
Kellet took his arm and turned him, pulling him down the flight of stairs. “Wait for me outside, will you?” he said. “I’ll be five or ten minutes.”
“What’s going on, Kellet?”
“Tell you later. Just go.”
“It’s raining,” Alex protested.
“Wait in the taproom, then,” Kellet said.
“Oh, very well.” Alex shook off the hand on his arm, and watched as Kellet hurried back up the stairs. The taproom was crowded, but he elbowed his way in. The waiter found him there and handed over two mugs of ale with a scowl at the bother he’d been put to.
Kellet was only ten minutes. He took both mugs from Alex and put them down on a nearby table. “Come outside.”
“Me?”
“You and Miss Deane.”
“What exactly was said?” Alex asked, feeling his heart accelerating. He’d been half expecting something like this since Phoebe had told him that Brevare was back in Town.
Kellet shook his head. “You can imagine. Behaviour unbecoming to a young lady, shall we say?”
“Who was it? I’ll deal with—”
“No, you’ll only draw more attention to the matter.” Kellet’s hand clutched his arm, and Alex drew a deep breath, his muscles rigid as he fought the need to answer the stories with his fists. Kellet was right, of course. And he’d been right to get Alex out of the room before he heard what they were saying for himself. His anger was likely to have overridden his judgement.
“Go home,” Kellet said. “I’ll find a few other places to listen, and come and tell you.”
His hands still clenched into fists, Alex made himself do as Kellet recommended.
An hour later, Alex refilled his cup from the jug of coffee keeping warm by the fire, and poured one for Kellet. He doubted he could do anything tonight, but however attractive the idea of getting blind drunk was, it would not help anything.
“Well?”
“Same rumours in some other places, but only in taverns near the gentlemen’s clubs,” Kellet said, without preamble. Like himself, Kellet did not have the entrée to the higher class establishments. “Basically, you took advantage of Miss Deane—or she volunteered herself—in return for getting them all out of France.”