Lessons in Enchantment

by Patricia Rice

  “Is there anything that might be considered proof?” Drew asked skeptically.

  Lady Gertrude handed him a sheaf of papers. “This is the translation with the private parts deleted, the ones that would only cause her husband greater grief. She is protecting him, even in death.”

  Drew looked at Phoebe. She squeezed his hand and nodded. So she knew what Leticia concealed—it must be a woman’s thing. And now that he had a woman of his own that he wanted very much to shelter, he had a flash of understanding—Letitia may have been with child when she died. That’s the only thing that would drive Simon even madder with grief.

  In shared sorrow, he squeezed Phoebe’s hand back. Papers in hand, they departed soon after.

  “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered, holding his arm. She checked the sky and added, “Raven is circling.”

  He glanced up but couldn’t tell one bird from another. Still, Drew helped her into the carriage, climbed in, and urged the horses into a trot. “He’s not close enough?”

  “Not yet. I’m sorry. It could be nothing. And if there is no one home, then it may not matter at all. I never said that my gift is useful to others.” She crossed her hands in her lap.

  Drew covered them with his and squeezed. “Since I’d rather not have anyone burning down my house, we’ll head there instead of the registrar’s.”

  She squeezed his hand, then sank into silence, presumably communing with her creatures.

  With any other woman, he would have laughed at the conceit of believing she connected with animal minds. With Phoebe. . . anything seemed possible. A woman with an open mind, who enjoyed a good round of bedding, was worth any number of women who could sit demurely through a social occasion. He felt as if a heavy weight had been removed from his shoulders, and he was free at last.

  “Wolf isn’t happy with some strangers in the mews. Raven is seeing. . . men in suits on your doorstep. Were you expecting company?”

  “No. We were waiting until we heard that the children and your mother are safely in Yorkshire before inviting trouble. It’s broad daylight. Perhaps they’re neighbors.” Although his closest neighbor had some questionable companions these days.

  He steered the carriage into the mews but didn’t see any strangers. Henry ran out as usual to take the reins, Wolf trotting at his side. Did that mean Phoebe wasn’t reading the dog’s mind? Drew shoved aside niggling doubt, climbed down and held his hand up to assist her. The dog came over for a head rub, then turned in the direction of the far end of the mews and growled.

  “Whoever was here left when we drove up,” Phoebe whispered, pulling nervously at the gloves she’d donned once they’d crossed the bridge into this part of town.

  She’d asked him to believe her. He wished he could read minds so he’d know from what direction to expect trouble. “And the men in suits?” Drew took her arm, wondering if he ought to send her elsewhere.

  “The mice show they’re inside with Mr. Simon. Kitty left with the children, and Piney is asleep. I have no other useful spies.”

  Drew thought this might be one of the more nonsensical conversations he’d ever indulged in, but he opened the back door with caution and attempted to keep Phoebe behind him. “The mice?”

  “Are hiding mostly.” Amusement tinged her voice. “Perhaps we should acquire a parrot.”

  That we gave him hope. “Would you care to go upstairs and primp while I see who is waiting?” He exchanged his coat for one hanging beside the door. The attic floor had not been clean.

  Phoebe hesitated, glancing down at her old gown. He’d wrinkled it in his enthusiasm, and spiderwebs clung to the wool. And he’d stupidly thought once that he wanted a lady who wore crushable silks and untouchable underpinnings!

  “I doubt the new dress has arrived. Just give me a moment to tuck my hair up.” She removed her hat and swiftly pulled at pins and tresses, putting them back together again using the aid of a mirror in the dark hallway.

  Drew admired the skill of this swift rearrangement, but he preferred her tumbled curls. He brushed off the back of her skirt, removing dust as best as he could. Once Phoebe stepped away from the mirror, he used the glass to straighten his cravat but the linen was hopelessly wrinkled. His attire would start matching Phoebe’s at this rate. Remarkably, he didn’t care, even if the Queen herself waited for them. He buttoned his coat, then offered his arm. “Shall we meet our visitors?”

  “Our,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Yours, more likely.”

  “Any visitor of mine is also yours. Remember, we are married in all but one way.” He could be stubborn when needed.

  She glared at him but wrapped her fingers around his arm. So, she wasn’t on the same page as he was yet, but he’d bring her there. Confidently, he led her down the hall.

  Male voices emerged from the front parlor. Drew recognized Dalrymple’s, and his gut clenched. But Simon spoke next, and he didn’t seem agitated.

  “Last chance for you to escape,” Drew warned as they reached the stairs that divided the house.

  “No, I am curious. And I definitely think we need a parrot.” Her gloved hand clasped around his arm, Phoebe strode into the parlor at his side—as if they were truly a couple in the eyes of the world.

  Drew nodded at Dalrymple as they entered. The older man glared in disapproval, probably of Phoebe and Drew’s dishevelment. Responsible businessmen did not look as if they’d been rolling in the gutter. Dismissing his neighbor, Drew studied the other well-dressed businessmen. Simon offered a frozen smile of welcome. Drew’s gut did not unclench. He recognized their guests.

  Simon performed perfunctory introductions. “Lady Phoebe, this is Lord John, Sir Charles, and Mr. Wilson. I believe everyone knows my cousin, Andrew Blair.”

  Phoebe offered her hand. Standing, the strangers bowed politely over it.

  Dalrymple scowled. “If you’ll excuse us, my lady, we need to borrow Blair for this discussion.”

  She began removing her new gloves, one finger at a time in a tantalizing strip tease that had Drew salivating. “I shall order tea, gentlemen. We are expecting my uncle, the Earl of Drumsmoore, momentarily, so I’ll have them send up the crumpets as well.”

  Even if Drew hadn’t known her uncle’s reclusiveness, he’d know Phoebe was lying by her prim hauteur— the disguise with which she met his world. In rags and dust but bearing the air of a countess, she tugged the cord to call Abby, then settled into a wing chair as if she owned the place.

  Drew didn’t know whether to hug her or strangle her.

  Phoebe wasn’t entirely certain why she was being deliberately provocative. Drew had business callers. Her place was to order refreshment and retire out of sight. Well, factually speaking, her place was in the nursery. But even if she really were Andrew’s wife, she’d have to leave the men to business.

  But Lord John matched one of the names in Letitia’s journal.

  The men sat down after she did, although Andrew lingered behind her chair, assessing the situation. Abby entered with the tea tray. Even the servants were better behaved than Phoebe.

  “Sir Charles is offering to purchase my mine,” Simon offered as Phoebe poured tea. “Wilson is the banker I use at home. He verifies Sir Charles has the funds.”

  “Very convenient,” Andrew said smoothly, taking the cup she handed him. “The earl warned us about selling to the Association.” He squeezed her shoulder in warning.

  “The Association is a myth,” Dalrymple said with a derisive gesture. “Drumsmoore is feeding you nonsense if that’s what he told you.”

  “My uncle is not inclined to telling tall tales,” Phoebe said, smiling over her cup and recalling Dahlia’s warnings of Dalrymple’s secret meetings. Another person from Letitia’s code fell in place. “And where is Mr. Glengarry today? Did he not introduce you to these fine gentlemen?”

  Andrew squeezed her shoulder again, but provocation came so easily. . .

  Two of the new gentlemen shifted uneasily. They seemed like ni
ce men. Sir Charles was portly, his stomach straining at his respectable gray waistcoat. Mr. Wilson, the banker, was younger and ungainly tall, with spectacles, and seemed very earnest.

  Lord John appeared to be a wealthy man in his forties, with a weathered, healthy look that spoke of time outdoors.

  “We are here at the behest of Glengarry, yes,” Sir Charles admitted. “He is acting for a few other businessmen who prefer not to be known. They have all assured me that the mine is active, and that Mr. Blair is no longer interested in exploiting his assets.”

  Phoebe sipped her tea, leaving that topic for the men. Her attention was diverted to the mews, where Wolf was growling at the returning strangers.

  Drew excused himself to fetch some papers in his office. She took that opportunity to follow him out.

  “They may have thugs in the mews,” she whispered. “Where is Hugh?”

  “He may have left to find a constable when this crew showed up. We have. . . constructed. . . documents showing the two mine owners Simon suspects—not the gentlemen in the parlor—have been illegally digging into the mines of others.” He waved a sheaf of papers. “We were hoping to draw them out, but not until we had authorities on hand.”

  He glanced worriedly at the locked and latched back door. “Go upstairs and find Simon’s claymore. Leave it in the umbrella stand by the back door, if you will, please. Is your new footman still about?”

  “In the kitchen. I hired a lad from my old neighborhood. He’s a little too good with his fists and needed to be away from the streets. I hate to send him into the fray here.” She frowned, not wanting to attack strangers before they knew if they were dangerous.

  “Just have him up here so he can fetch help if needed. I need to return to the parlor. We can hope Hugh will be back soon.” He kissed her cheek. “Sit on the roof where they won’t find you,” he suggested.

  Phoebe smiled at the suggestion and senselessly thrilled at the proprietary kiss. “Most excellent idea, sir.” She kissed him back, then darted for the stairs before he could reach for her.

  Like a general who observes from the best vantage point, she would use the roof to direct her troops. She hoped Drew had understood that when he sent her up there.

  Phoebe found the claymore, left it in the stand by the back door as promised, and ran down to the kitchens to warn the servants that danger might be imminent. She stationed Dougie, their new footman, in Andrew’s workshop where he could hear and not be seen. She picked up a few tools to use as weapons for herself, then climbed up to the roof.

  She really should have set up a signal with Henry in the stable, using Wolf as her communication channel. She made her way over to the rear of the roof and gazed over the edge. Henry held a growling Wolf by the collar with one hand and a pitchfork in the other. Good boy, she thought to herself, meaning both boy and dog. Wolf tossed his head in acknowledgement of her approval. Henry glanced up, and Phoebe waved her hammer at him. She couldn’t tell from this distance if she’d reassured him, but he held his post.

  She couldn’t see the strangers from this vantage point. Wolf’s sense of smell indicated they weren’t close. Cautiously, she worked her way around the roof’s edge, debating whether she could leap from the parapet here to the one on Mr. Dalrymple’s house. It would be awkward in skirts, but doable if necessary, she concluded. The front of the house revealed a pair of horses tied to the post but no sign of Hugh or policemen.

  She mentally reached out to the pigeons on the chimney and the ones on the front fence.

  Alarmingly, the ones on the chimney were following human movement on Dalrymple’s roof.

  Twenty-nine

  Drew only half-listened to the intense argument between his cousin and Simon’s Association neighbors. He had the nagging feeling that the meeting was contrived for a purpose he couldn’t discern. If the villains still thought the children were in the nursery—

  Wolf howled in a spine-tingling, eerie pitch that had Drew out of his chair before he gave it any thought. Oblivious to the dog’s warning, Simon scowled when Drew headed for the door. His cousin continued his war of words, waving the typewritten papers they’d drawn up the previous evening.

  Drew noticed nothing unusual in the corridor. Phoebe should be standing guard on the roof. Perhaps she’d seen something and had the dog howl the warning. The weasel scampered down the stairs and toward the back door, confirming his fear.

  He was actually treating her weird ability as if it were a normal, scientific reality!

  Grateful he didn’t have to worry about Phoebe running about, trying to hide the weans, he pulled out his sgian dubh and eased open the back door. Had they left it unlatched earlier? Possibly, since he’d assumed the enemy was inside.

  The stableboy practically fell into him. Henry gestured frantically at the roof, keeping his hold on Wolf, who was struggling to be free. The weasel scampered up the vines on the back of the house.

  Drew gazed upward and nearly expired of fright.

  Hanging backward, half off the parapet, Phoebe struggled with a well-dressed gentleman who held a cane to her neck. Her raven flew overhead, shrieking and attacking the man’s top hat. Phoebe seemed to be beating her assailant about the shoulders with a. . . hammer? But she was so slender and the brute was so large. . .

  Strangling on a furious, unvoiced, battle cry, Drew thought quickly. Their enemies wanted the journal and the children. Phoebe had said there were two strangers. One of them could already be inside, ready to take over if Simon didn’t give in. Returning inside might be a trap. They wouldn’t be expecting attack from the outside. . . or below.

  Which meant. . . he watched the weasel scampering up the vines. Drew almost lost his nerve. He’d rather fight an army than do what needed to be done. But that was Phoebe up there. He needed to reach her now, without risking being outnumbered.

  He quietly commanded his one soldier, a stableboy. “If you can, have the new footman send Simon up through the attic. You go with them. All hands on the roof, understood?”

  Henry nodded, his eyes wide with terror, and ran into the house with Wolf at his side. Drew hoped he didn’t send the lad into danger.

  He needed the element of surprise.

  He needed to fly.

  His mind frantically tossed up suggestions of how the hell he would accomplish flying—but the weasel has already showed him the way.

  While mentally creating one increasingly inventive flying machine after another, Drew instinctively sought purchase in vines and trellis and downspout as if they were the rigging on the ship he never wanted to sail again.

  He’d half scaled the wall when the voice in the back of his head sang Don’t look down.

  He swallowed hard and started up the second story. The vines at this level weren’t as thick as the ropy trunks on the ground. He hauled himself higher. Don’t look down.

  At the attic level, the vines ripped off the wall under his grip, nearly flinging him backward. Extreme vertigo struck. The weasel chittered scolding, from the parapet, urging him on. Desperately fighting dizziness, Drew dug his fingers into a brick, propped a boot on a narrow windowsill, and sought other purchases.

  A few yards and a universe out of reach, Phoebe choked on screams, driving him to foaming insanity. He didn’t dare glance in her direction. Her life depended on him concentrating on the next toehold for his boot, the next grip for his hand. He prayed she couldn’t see him, because that meant he still had the element of surprise.

  Don’t look down. . .

  Drew sent up prayers to a god he’d long abandoned. He made promises to the heavens. He wept and cursed and clung on for dear life—because Phoebe was his life. That bastard held his entire world in his hands. If Drew couldn’t save Phoebe, he had no reason for existence.

  He had a glimpse into the bloody black void Simon’s soul had become after the devastating loss of his beloved wife. At least Simon had had a few good years. . .

  The vines were no more than loose tendrils by the time Dr
ew reached the attic story. His head spun. He couldn’t find a grip at the top of the wall to pull over the parapet. If he’d had a damned normal roof—Phoebe wouldn’t be out here. He had to look down, find a better foothold. . . The alley below whirled. His sweaty hands slipped and all it would take was one loose brick. . .

  A slender vine blew past his nose, of no use as support. He needed a hand hold, anything. Despair filled him.

  The tendril blew harder, smacking his cheek. Annoyed, he brushed it aside, and discovered a hole in the mortar just large enough for his fingers. Without the vine, he had no other support, but if he could hold on long enough. . .

  He gripped the brick, found a foothold, and put all his strength into surging upward to grab the parapet’s edge. A loose stone crumbled beneath his feet.

  Phoebe screamed louder, as much furious as terrified. Her attacker roared a curse.

  Drew threw his leg over the edge and prayed the decorative wall held his weight. As he tumbled over and onto the slates, he could swear he felt a tug on his coat yanking him to safety, but he was on his feet before he could consider invisible hands. The weasel chittered approval and scampered off.

  He finally dared look past the chimney, to where a top-coated gentleman strained to push his struggling victim over the edge. The weasel ran up the villain’s trouser, but the madman didn’t notice.

  Kicking and screaming, Phoebe had apparently lost her hammer. Instead, she gripped her attacker’s coat sleeves, seemingly attempting to pull the scoundrel over the edge with her. Righting himself, Drew stifled his cry of horror at the scene.

  The weasel bit at the scoundrel’s cravat. Phoebe’s new boots connected with a shin. The bastard released one end of the cane, making a fist to hit her.

  On his feet now, Drew lunged. Using his body as a bludgeon, he bashed Phoebe’s assailant aside, yanking her back to the roof in the same motion. His goddess slid safely to the slates. With both hands free and red rage filling his head, Drew swung at the fiend stumbling to catch his balance. Instead of putting up his fists, or even his cane, the dastard ran for the attic door.