by Jayne Davis
“I don’t remember a note—” She broke off, remembering the scene in the inn parlour. “Mrs Robins tried to give him something, I think, but he was too busy giving orders about the coach. Did it matter?”
“As it happened, not really, but he wasn’t to know that.”
Phoebe could see that Alex wasn’t pleased. She poured the tea into mugs, handing one to him.
“I’ll take this up with me,” he said, standing.
“Alex, thank you.” Phoebe said. “I don’t know what… I mean…”
“No,” he said, with a shake of his head. “It was a joint effort—I wouldn’t have found you in time if you hadn’t managed to delay the coach and get Mrs Robins to send a message.”
He looked into her eyes for a few moments, and Phoebe thought… hoped… he was going to kiss her again. But he didn’t. He kissed her hand instead, releasing it with a gentle squeeze that left her wanting more.
“Sleep well,” he said. He held the door open for her, letting her precede him up the stairs.
Damn the man. Why does he have to be so honourable?
Phoebe’s head still ached in the morning, but not enough to keep her in bed. The comte and Lord Marstone were already in the breakfast room when she entered, both still in mud-splashed riding dress.
“Phoebe!” Her uncle came towards her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking her over carefully with a worried frown. “The butler told us you had both been returned to us as soon as we arrived. You are well? The message we received was rather alarming. Georges?”
“We are both well, uncle.”
“And Joseph?”
“I believe he is merely delayed for some reason.”
“That’s good.” His face lightened a little. “What happened?”
“Calvac,” Lord Marstone broke in. “Can I suggest that you let Miss Deane have some breakfast?”
“Quoi? Oh, yes. Please sit, Phoebe. Coffee?” The comte signalled to a waiting footman and Phoebe was presented with coffee and toast.
“I understand that Westbrook and Carterton are being woken,” the earl went on. “Much as it pains me to wait, it might be best if we keep our questions until everyone is present. It will save Phoebe having to repeat herself.”
“Yes, quite right.”
Bella and Lord Carterton came in soon afterwards, with Lord Harlford. Alex followed behind, not as pale as he’d been last night, but still looking tired and strained. Phoebe’s heart warmed on seeing him, but she looked away, not wanting to give away her feelings to the rest of the company. Lord Carterton looked equally tired. Lord Harlford was almost glaring at Alex, but Alex either hadn’t noticed or was managing to ignore him.
Bella sat down next to Phoebe and examined her face. “Nick told me you were well,” she said. “I can’t say that you look it.”
“My head aches,” Phoebe admitted. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why is Lord Harlford here?”
“He didn’t say,” Bella replied. “I assume the counter story spread by Lady Jesson and Lady Lyndenham’s maids reached him somehow. I’ve more to tell you, but this isn’t the place.”
Phoebe nodded, and returned her attention to her toast.
When breakfast had been cleared and the door closed behind the last footman, the comte addressed Alex. “My thanks, Westbrook, for returning my son and niece. And to Harlford and Carterton for assisting.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Alex said.
“What exactly happened, Westbrook?” Lord Harlford asked. “How did Miss Deane come to be at that dilapidated inn on her own?”
He could have asked her, Phoebe thought, wondering if it was only her headache making her feel irritable.
“The details are a matter of national security,” Lord Marstone said, before Alex could reply. “The fewer people who know about it, the better.” He glanced at Bella as he spoke.
She stood. “I’ll leave you to it then, Will,” she said. “Nick? Harlford?”
Lord Carterton joined her, but the marquess did not move. The earl raised an eyebrow, but it seemed the marquess was not to be cowed as lesser mortals might be.
“I’m sorry, Harlford, but this is confidential business,” Marstone said. “I wish to speak privately to Westbrook and Miss Deane.”
The two men’s gazes locked, Marstone’s calm, Harlford’s displaying rising anger.
“Oh, very well,” the marquess said finally. He stood and followed Lord Carterton out of the room.
“Marstone,” the comte said, when the others had left the room. “National security or not, I require an explanation for the kidnapping of my son and my niece.”
“Westbrook hasn’t told me yet, Calvac,” Lord Marstone said. “Whatever he says, it must go no further than this room.”
“Naturally,” the comte said stiffly.
“Perhaps Miss Deane should begin?”
Alex watched Phoebe’s face with concern as she spoke—she did look pale. Had Bella summoned a doctor? As she told of the two men in the coach his hands clenched into fists and he wished he’d done worse to them than leave them tied to a tree for hours. From the frown gathering on the comte’s face, her uncle’s feelings were similar.
“Westbrook?” Marstone prompted, when Phoebe had finished.
He kept it brief. Marstone listened with his usual concentration, then sat in silence, seemingly deep in thought.
“Westbrook, Miss Deane, you both did very well,” Marstone said at last. “Westbrook, you and I will return to London, and we will ask Carterton to have Brevare escorted to Marstone House when Deane brings him here.”
“Brevare has been communicating with your daughter, my lord,” Alex said to the comte. Bella could tell him later about the attempted entrapment, but the man did need to be warned about keeping Brevare away from Hélène, if Marstone did not have him arrested for kidnapping.
The comte sighed. “It seems that Sussex isn’t far enough from London to avoid trouble.”
“I have an estate in Scotland that you are welcome to use for as long as you wish, Calvac,” Marstone said. “My man Kellet can make the arrangements.”
Alex watched Phoebe as the comte thanked Marstone for his offer, relieved to see that she didn’t seem particularly distressed by her cousin’s betrayal. She rubbed her head again, her eyes closing in a long blink. Alex stood and rounded the table, annoyed with himself, and with Marstone, for keeping her here when she should be resting.
“Phoebe, you look like you should be back in bed.”
She looked up at him, her face pale. “Yes, sorry. I feel rather… lightheaded. Dizzy.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He held her chair as she stood. “I’ll get Bella to send for the doctor.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the door with her. “I don’t know when I’ll… this business of Marstone’s…” He was babbling. “We need to find the people Hilvern was working with, or blackmailing, as soon as possible.”
“Be careful,” she said, putting one hand on his arm.
“I will,” he said, knowing it was most likely a lie.
She smiled, and he stood watching as she climbed the stairs.
“Westbrook?”
Marstone still sat at the table, drinking coffee.
“We’re for London?” Alex asked. Whether he should return here afterwards was a question for later.
“The sooner the better.” Marstone stood, some sympathy in his gaze. “I’ll borrow Carterton’s carriage. You can get some sleep on the way.”
* * *
“Phoebe?”
Phoebe opened her eyes to see Bella sitting on the end of her bed, the room filled with light.
“I thought you might like some tea.” Bella gestured to the table by the window, set with tea and a plate of sandwiches. “Doctor Morrison will be here to see you in an hour.”
“Oh.” She sat up cautiously and took a deep breath. “How long was I asleep?”
“Several hours.”
&nb
sp; It wouldn’t do to sleep all day—she’d spend the night awake if she did. She stood, cautious in case the dizziness returned but, although she felt rather wobbly, her head was feeling much better. She smoothed her gown and tidied her hair as best she could, then sat at the table with Bella.
“Your brother is back. He wants to see you, if you’re feeling up to it, before he goes back to London with Brevare. Marstone and Westbrook went back—”
“He’s gone already?” A silly comment—she’d known he had to go, and the matter was urgent.
“Marstone said he needed him to help sort out unfinished business. You did mean Alex?”
Phoebe nodded, not yet awake enough to decide whether she wanted other people to know of her feelings.
“I thought so,” said Bella with satisfaction. “He sent his… best wishes. He’s not the only one absent, though. You may be pleased to learn that your aunt and cousin—Hélène, that is—have both decided they are feeling unwell and will spend the day resting in their rooms.”
“They are ill?” Phoebe asked, concerned. She didn’t like her aunt, but she didn’t wish her ill.
“Embarrassed, more likely,” Bella said with a laugh. “Madame, in particular. I wish you’d been there yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“When Hélène and Alex were walking in the garden, she encouraged us all to admire the view of the south lawn from the parlour window—wanting us as witnesses to Alex and Hélène spending far too long alone together in the summerhouse. That was until it became apparent that Alex wasn’t going to go in and compromise the little widgeon, at which point she tried to distract our attention.”
“So she could say she’d seen them?” Phoebe didn’t find that surprising.
“Yes. Then Harlford arrived, and she seems to have decided that an actual marquess was a better proposition than the heir to an earl, and she started talking about how Alex had compromised you after all—”
“Leaving Harlford for Hélène?”
Bella nodded. “Maria gave her a copy of a peerage and told her to look up Marstone’s entry.”
“No Westbrook mentioned there?” Phoebe felt a bit guilty at the amusement she felt. “And there’s a significant difference between ‘eldest son’ and ‘heir’?”
“Exactly. Oh, you should have seen her face when she worked it out, and realised what a laughing stock she’d be if it ever got out that she’d attempted to entrap Marstone’s natural son.”
Rather than laugh, Phoebe was surprised to find herself actually feeling a little sorry for her aunt.
“Now, Phoebe, don’t think ill of me for enjoying her confusion. My father was a tyrant—worse than your aunt, because he had all the power. It still encourages me to see people like that bested. And it was necessary—now Maria Jesson has something to hold over her, to make her stick to the story we agreed a few days ago. I don’t think you’ll have to put up with her for much longer.”
“Oh?”
“You are welcome to stay with me for as long as you wish—here, and when we return to London. That’s one possibility. The other is Harlford. He is still here, and wants to speak to you as well.”
Phoebe sighed. “He did help last night. I suppose I should see him.”
“I suspect you are about to get a proposal of marriage.” Bella raised an eyebrow at Phoebe’s grimace. “You’re going to say no?”
Phoebe rubbed her face, then nodded. She hadn’t thought about it recently, but there was no question of accepting. Not after that… not now.
“Harlford is the catch of the season,” Bella went on. “Why are you going to turn him down?”
Phoebe regarded her warily. “Does it matter?”
“I’m interested!” One corner of her mouth turned up. “I suppose saying that I’m prying would be more accurate.”
Phoebe couldn’t help a snort of laughter escaping.
“We would not suit,” she said. That wasn’t quite true—she had been increasingly enjoying his company over their last few outings, but friendship was not enough.
“I think you would, in time. He’s intelligent, means well, and you couldn’t do better for rank, money, or looks.”
“I know,” Phoebe admitted. “I did wonder if I was being foolish. But those aren’t the most important things to me.”
“And you care more for someone else. Love someone else, even?”
Of course Bella knows.
“Will Alex come back?” Phoebe asked.
“Not of his own volition, I think. Or at least, not yet.”
“Why not?” she asked, even though she suspected she knew the answer.
“In his own words, young ladies of the ton do not marry bastards, even the bastards of earls.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Are all men such fools?” This one was a fool that she loved, though. She would just have to convince him that she cared nothing for what the ton thought.
“Most of them are, in one way or another,” Bella said. “Some more than others. He’ll come round to the idea that you don’t care about his birth or the effect it might have on you, but it may take some time. However, my brother may take a hand.”
“Lord Marstone? Why?”
“I don’t know what he will do, but I suspect he would like to see you and Alex together.”
Phoebe’s doubt must have been evident in her face.
“Partly to make the pair of you happy,” Bella said. “He may also see some advantage to himself in the match. He can be a master manipulator at times, but he does mean well. I think you don’t need to worry about chasing Alex down.”
“You make me sound like Hélène, or my aunt.”
“No, no.” Bella said, “not the same at all. Now, shall I tell your brother he can come in?”
Chapter 53
Phoebe drew her pelisse about her tightly. The air still had a nip to it, but this seat in the corner of the formal garden was sheltered from the breeze. Turning her face up to the warmth of the afternoon sun, seeing its glow through her eyelids, she breathed the scent of damp earth as the sound of birds twittering filled her ears.
Joe hadn’t stayed with her long—he’d wanted to check for himself that she was well before taking Brevare back to London. The doctor’s visit, too, had been brief; his verdict was that no permanent damage had been done but she should rest for a few days and send for him if she felt dizzy again.
She’d go up to the nursery later, to see how Georges was getting on, but Alice would be looking after him well. For now, she was enjoying the fresh air—and the peace that came from the knowledge that her aunt and Hélène were still keeping to their rooms.
The world went dark. She opened her eyes to see Lord Harlford standing in front of her, blocking the sunlight.
“May we talk, Miss Deane?” he asked, stepping to one side. With his back to the sun, she couldn’t make out his expression.
She had to have this conversation at some point, so it may as well be now. And it would be less awkward out here than closeted in a private parlour.
“Shall we walk, my lord?” She stood as she spoke, and took the arm he offered.
“Are you well, Miss Deane, after your ordeal yesterday?”
“Yes, thank you. A little tired, still, but that will pass.”
“Good.”
They walked on a few paces, then he stopped and turned to face her, his gaze fixed on her eyes.
“Miss Deane, I have come to admire you greatly over the last few weeks, and enjoyed our time spent together. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”
Although Bella had suggested that Lord Harlford was going propose, Phoebe hadn’t expected him to come out with it so quickly. But she knew what she had to say.
“Thank you for your kind offer, sir. I am truly honoured, but we would not suit.”
A small crease formed between his brows. “I think we would suit very well, Miss Deane. You are intelligent, and capable of conversing on matters beyond gowns and balls. Would
you not enjoy the benefits that would come from being my marchioness?”
Phoebe looked up at him, her head tilted to one side. “You wish me to wed you for your rank and wealth? My lord, there are any number of women who would marry you for those reasons.”
“They would bore me to tears within a se’nnight.”
She looked away, not wanting him to see her expression. It was not terribly flattering to be admired only because she could make sensible conversation. However, she was glad his affections were not truly engaged—she did enjoy his company, and would have regretted hurting his feelings.
He offered his arm again, and they walked on. She thought that was the end of it, but he stopped again when they came to an ornamental fountain.
“Miss Deane, as my wife, you would want for nothing. I would look after you, not expose you to the perils that have come your way through your association with Westbrook. You will not be put in such danger again, or expected to take such risks.”
He was in earnest, offering what he thought she wanted. There was no point arguing, but she had to convince him that she was not going to change her mind.
“I would wish to marry for love, my lord. I hold you in great esteem, but I do not love you, and you have said nothing about loving me. I realise that such sentiments are not common in people of your station, but I do not need to be ruled by those conventions.”
“Affection can develop, can it not?” he asked, the crease forming between his brows again.
“It can, sir. But my affections are already engaged elsewhere.”
“I see.”
She turned, and started to walk back to the house. After a few steps, he caught up and walked beside her, the silence between them tense.
“It is Westbrook, I suppose?” he said, when they were half-way back.
He was looking straight ahead, his posture rather stiff. Was he offended?
“Does it matter who it is?” she asked.
He glanced down at her with a wry smile. “It should not, Miss Deane. I’m afraid that my male pride is suffering from having been of so little practical use when you were abducted, that is all.”