Relief flooded her even as she snapped, “Well, I can’t tell if you don’t move and I can’t smell you.”
“Smell me like you do the Thames?” She felt Trevillion’s big hands about her waist, competent and gentle as he lifted her from the saddle. “On the whole, I’d prefer not to stink of fish in order for you to identify me.”
“Obviously perfume would be more the thing.”
“I find the thought of being drenched in patchouli equally distasteful, my lady.”
“Not patchouli. It’d have to be something more masculine,” she replied, her thoughts diverted to scents and the possibilities as he set her on the ground. “Perhaps quite dark.”
“If you say so, my lady.” His voice held polite doubt.
Trevillion wrapped his left arm about her shoulders. Probably he had one of his awful big guns in his right hand. She felt him lurch just a little as he stepped forward and realized suddenly that he must’ve lost his cane. Dash it! He shouldn’t be walking without it. She knew his leg pained him awfully.
“Phoebe!” Oh, dear, that was Cousin Bathilda Picklewood’s voice. “Whatever’s happened?”
There was a shrill bark and then the patter of paws before Phoebe felt Mignon, Cousin Bathilda’s darling little spaniel, jump at her skirts.
Cousin Bathilda’s “Mignon, down!” clashed with Trevillion’s deeper tone saying, “If you’ll just let me bring her inside, ma’am.”
And then they were climbing the front steps to Wakefield House.
“I’m quite all right,” Phoebe said, because she didn’t want Cousin Bathilda worrying unnecessarily. “But Captain Trevillion’s lost his stick and I really think he ought to have another.”
“What—?”
“Sir.” That was Reed again.
“Reed,” Trevillion snapped, completely ignoring both Phoebe and Cousin Bathilda. Men. “I want you and Hathaway to accompany Lady Phoebe to her rooms and stay with her there until I order otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Phoebe said as they made the threshold and for some reason Mignon began yapping excitedly, “I hardly need two—”
“My lady—” Trevillion started ponderously. Oh, she knew that tone of voice.
“I don’t understand,” Cousin Bathilda began.
And then a baritone voice cut across the commotion, sending an absolute thrill of dread down her spine.
“What the hell is going on?” asked her brother, Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield.
TALL AND LEAN with a long, lined face, the Duke of Wakefield carried his rank as another man might carry a sword—no matter how ceremonial it looked, the blade was sharp and deadly when put to use.
Trevillion bowed to his employer. “Lady Phoebe is unhurt, Your Grace, but I have matters to report.”
Wakefield arched a dark eyebrow beneath his white wig.
Trevillion held the other man’s gaze. Wakefield might have been a duke but Trevillion was more than used to staring down irate superior officers. Meanwhile his lower right leg shot daggers of pain up to his hip and he prayed that it wouldn’t choose now of all occasions to give out on him.
The front hallway had grown quiet the moment the duke had entered. Even Miss Picklewood’s lapdog had stopped barking.
Lady Phoebe shifted under his arm, her petite body warm beside his, before sighing heavily into the silence. “Nothing happened, Maximus. Really, there’s no need—”
“Phoebe.” Wakefield’s voice halted her attempted deflection.
Trevillion’s arm tightened about her small shoulders for just a moment before he let it drop. “Go with Miss Picklewood, my lady.”
If his voice had been capable of being gentle he might’ve made it so now. Her light-brown hair was coming down around her slender shoulders, her round cheeks pink from the wind of their ride, her mouth a reddened rosebud. She looked young and a little lost, though she stood in her own ancestral home. He wanted rather badly to go to her and take her into his arms again. To offer comfort where it was neither needed nor wanted. Something in his chest ached—just once, briefly—before he shoved it down and covered it with all the reasons his instinctive reactions were impossible—and foolish to boot.
Instead he turned to the footmen. “Reed.”
Reed had formerly been a soldier under his command. He was tall and on the thin side, his narrow chest not quite filling out his livery. His hands and feet were too large for his frame, his knees and elbows knobby and awkward. But his eyes were sharp in his unhandsome face. Reed nodded, having received and understood the command without needing further instruction. He jerked his chin at Hathaway, a young stripling of only nineteen summers, and both men fell into step behind the ladies as Miss Picklewood guided Lady Phoebe away.
Lady Phoebe was muttering about overbearing gentlemen as she left, and Trevillion had to bite back a smile.
“Captain.” The duke’s voice chased any desire to smile from Trevillion’s mind. Wakefield tilted his head toward the back of the house, where his study lay, before pivoting in that direction.
Trevillion followed.
Wakefield House was one of the largest private residences in London and the corridor they now traversed was long. Trevillion’s leg grew progressively worse as they passed elegant statuary, the door to the Little Library, and a sitting room before arriving at the duke’s study. The room wasn’t big, but it was well appointed in dark wood and had a plush, jewel-colored carpet.
Wakefield closed the door before rounding the enormous carved desk and seating himself.
Normally Trevillion would stand before His Grace, but it was simply impossible today, rank be damned. He dropped rather clumsily into one of the chairs before the desk just as the study door opened again to reveal Craven.
The manservant was built a bit like a walking scarecrow: tall, thin, and of ambiguous age—he could have been anywhere from his thirtieth year to his sixtieth. He was nominally the duke’s valet, but very shortly after entering Wakefield’s employ Trevillion had realized the man was much more than that.
“Your Grace,” Craven said.
Wakefield nodded at the man. “Lady Phoebe.”
“I see.” The manservant closed the door behind him and came to stand at the side of the desk.
Both men looked at Trevillion.
“Four men on Bond Street,” Trevillion reported.
Craven’s eyebrows arched nearly to his hairline.
Wakefield swore under his breath. “Bond Street?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I shot two of them, procured a horse, and spirited Lady Phoebe away from the danger.”
“Did they say anything?” The duke frowned.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Anything to identify them?”
Trevillion thought a moment, replaying the events of the afternoon in his mind to make sure he hadn’t missed any detail. “No, Your Grace.”
“Damnation.”
Craven cleared his throat very quietly. “Maywood?”
Wakefield scowled. “Surely not. The man would have to be mad.”
The valet coughed. “His lordship has been uncommonly persistent in wanting to buy your land in Lancashire, Your Grace. We received another letter with quite uncivil language just yesterday.”
“The fool thinks I don’t know that it has coal seams.” Wakefield looked disgusted. “Why the man is so barmy over coal, I haven’t the foggiest.”
“I understand that he thinks it can be used to fuel large mechanical machines.” Craven studied the ceiling.
For a moment Wakefield looked distracted. “Truly?”
“Who is Maywood?” Trevillion asked.
Wakefield turned to him. “Viscount Maywood. A neighbor of mine in Lancashire and a bit of a crackpot. A few years ago he was going on about turnips, of all things.”
“Crackpot or no, he was heard to make threats against your person, Your Grace,” Craven gently reminded.
“Me. Threats against me, not
my sister,” Wakefield replied.
Trevillion kneaded his right thigh, trying to think. “How would hurting your sister help him with his coal scheme?”
Wakefield waved an impatient hand. “It wouldn’t.”
“Hurting Lady Phoebe wouldn’t, Your Grace,” Craven said softly, “but if he were to kidnap her and hold her until you agreed to sell the land… or worse, force her to marry his son…”
“Maywood’s heir is married already,” Wakefield growled.
Craven shook his head. “The boy’s marriage was to a lady of the Catholic persuasion and, as I understand it, not recognized by the Church of England. Thus Maywood has declared his son’s nuptials invalid.”
Trevillion’s lips tightened at the idea of anyone’s forcing Phoebe into a loveless marriage—let alone a bigamous loveless marriage. “Is Maywood mad enough to try such a thing, Your Grace?”
Wakefield leaned back in his chair and stared fixedly at the papers on his desk, deep in thought.
Abruptly he brought his fist down on the tabletop with a bang, making everything rattle. “Yes. Yes, Maywood might be that insane—and stupid. Damn it, Craven, I won’t have Phoebe’s life put in danger because of me.”
“No, Your Grace,” the valet agreed. “Shall I look into the matter?”
“Do. I want definite answers before I move on the man,” Wakefield said.
Trevillion shifted uneasily. “We should investigate other suspects in the meantime. The man behind the kidnapping attempt might not be Maywood at all.”
“You’re right. Craven, we’ll want a general investigation as well.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Wakefield’s gaze suddenly lifted, pinning Trevillion. “Thank you, Trevillion, for saving my sister today.”
Trevillion inclined his head. “It’s my job, Your Grace.”
“Yes.” The duke’s gaze was pointed. “Can you continue to protect her with that leg?”
Trevillion stiffened. He had his own doubts, but he wasn’t going to air them here. Simply put, no one else was good enough to guard Lady Phoebe. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You’re sure.”
Trevillion looked the other man in the eye. He’d commanded men for nearly twelve years in His Majesty’s dragoons. Trevillion didn’t back down from anyone. “If ever I feel that I cannot do my duty, I’ll resign before you need ask me to, Your Grace. You have my word on it.”
Wakefield inclined his head. “Very well.”
“With your permission, I should like to assign Reed and Hathaway permanently to guard her ladyship until such time as we have eliminated the present danger.”
“A sound plan.” Wakefield rose just as a knock came at the door. “Come.”
The door opened to reveal Powers, Lady Phoebe’s lady’s maid. The petite maidservant styled her black hair in an intricate coiffure and wore an embroidered yellow gown a royal princess wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen in.
The woman curtsied at once and spoke in a carefully cultured voice with just a trace of what had once been an Irish accent. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but her ladyship wished for Captain Trevillion to have this.”
She held out a walking stick.
Trevillion felt heat climb his neck, but stood carefully, his hand on the back of his chair. It cost him—by God, it cost him—but he asked in a level voice, “If you might bring it to me, Miss Powers.”
She hurried over and gave him the stick.
He thanked her and made himself look at his employer. “If that is all, Your Grace?”
“It is.” Thank God Wakefield wasn’t a man inclined to pity. There was no trace of sympathy in his eyes. “Guard my sister, Captain.”
Trevillion raised his chin and spoke from his heart. “With my life.”
And then he turned and limped from the room.
Chapter Two
One day the king sent for his sons and said, “It is time I give you your inheritances.”
To his eldest son he gave a gleaming chain of gold. To his second son he gave a thick chain of silver. But when the king turned to Corineus all he had was a thin chain of iron. He placed this about his youngest son’s neck and said, “Though it be but of iron, I give this to you as a token of my faith in you. Go forth and make your fortune.”…
—From The Kelpie
“Darling, I simply can’t believe it,” Lady Hero Reading exclaimed early the next afternoon. “An attempted kidnapping in broad daylight and in Bond Street of all places. Who would do such a thing?”
Phoebe smiled a little wanly at her elder sister’s words. “I don’t know, but Maximus wouldn’t even let me go out today—to your house. You’d think he’d consider his own sister’s home safe.”
“He’s worried about you, dear,” came the slightly huskier voice of their sister-in-law, Artemis. All three of them had been forced to take their weekly tea at Wakefield House since Phoebe had been effectively confined to the town house.
Phoebe snorted. “He’s using the attempted attack to do what he’s always wanted to: imprison me utterly.”
“Oh, Phoebe,” Hero said quietly, her voice soft. “That’s not Maximus’s true intent.”
She and Hero shared a velvet settee in the Achilles Salon, so called because the ceiling was painted with a depiction of the centaurs educating a youthful Achilles. As a little girl Phoebe had been rather frightened of the mythical creatures. Their expressions had been so stern. Now… well, now she wasn’t entirely certain she could remember their expressions.
How depressing.
Phoebe turned her face toward her sister and caught the comforting scent of violets. “You know Maximus has been growing ever more overbearing since I broke my arm.”
That had happened four years earlier, when Phoebe could still see somewhat. She’d missed a step in a shop and fallen headlong, breaking her arm badly enough that it had needed setting.
“He wishes to protect you,” Cousin Bathilda said bracingly.
She sat across from Phoebe and Hero, next to Artemis. Phoebe could hear the asthmatic breathing of Mignon on her lap. Cousin Bathilda had been like a mother to both Phoebe and Hero since the death of both their parents. They’d died many years ago at the hands of a footpad in St Giles when Phoebe had been only a baby. At the same time, though, Cousin Bathilda generally sided with Maximus as the patriarch—fratriarch?—of the family. She’d gone against his rule once or twice, but it was rare.
And Cousin Bathilda had never stopped Maximus imposing his overheavy brand of protection on Phoebe.
Phoebe absently stroked the velvet of the settee, feeling the soft nap one way, the slightly rougher texture the other. “I know he cares for me. I know he worries for me. But in doing so, he’s constrained me utterly. Even before this attack Maximus didn’t let me go to parties or fairs or anywhere he deemed dangerous. I’m afraid after this that he’ll pack me in cotton wool and set me at the back of a cupboard for safekeeping. I… I just don’t know if I can live like this.”
Her words weren’t adequate for the rising panic at the thought of being constrained even more.
Warm fingers covered her own, stilling them. “I know, darling,” Hero said. “You’ve been very good following his direction.”
“Let me speak to him,” Artemis said. “In the past he’s been quite adamant about your safety, but perhaps if I can impress upon him how restricted you feel, he’ll let up a bit.”
“If nothing else, he could remove my constant shadow,” Phoebe muttered.
“That is entirely unlikely,” Cousin Bathilda said. “And besides, Captain Trevillion isn’t here now, is he?”
“Only because I’m within Wakefield House.” Phoebe blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he lurks behind the door when I’m at tea. And you see Hathaway and Reed?”
“Yes—?” The confused question came from Hero.
“They’re still standing by the back window, aren’t they?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She might not have
heard the footmen move in several minutes, but she just knew they were staring at her. “Maximus added them to my guard.”
There was a silence that felt rather uncomfortable to her before Artemis said, “Phoebe…” and then almost immediately interrupted herself. “No, darling, not the teacup. ’Tisn’t for babies, I’m afraid.”
This last was directed at Hero’s eldest child, William, an adorable two-and-a-half-year-old who, by the sound of the sudden ear-splitting shriek, had really wanted that teacup.
“Oh, William,” Hero muttered, exasperated, as a whimper heralded the awakening of her second son on her lap. “Now he’s woken Sebastian.”
“I’m so sorry, my lady.” Smart, William’s nursemaid, must’ve come over to collect her charge.
“Not your fault, Smart,” Hero said. “The tea things are terribly tempting.”
“May I?” Phoebe held out her hands to Hero.
“Thank you, dear,” Hero said. “Careful now, he’s a bit drooly, I’m afraid.”
“All the best babies are,” Phoebe assured her as she felt the wriggly weight of her nephew on her lap. Immediately she closed her arms over the baby protectively. Sebastian was only three months old and couldn’t quite sit up. She grasped him by his pudgy middle and held him upright, smelling the sweet scent of milk on his skin. “Never mind your mama, Seb, sweetie. I simply adore drooling males.”
She was rewarded for her nonsense by a burbling coo and the sudden introduction of tiny fingers into her mouth.
“You did ask for him,” her sister reminded her.
“Shall I take Master William out, my lady?” the soft voice of William’s nursemaid murmured.
“Now, William, would you like to go with Smart and explore the garden?” Hero asked briskly. “Here, take a sugar biscuit with you. Thank you, Smart.”
The door opened and closed.
“I like that gel,” Cousin Bathilda observed as Phoebe gently mouthed Sebastian’s little fingers. “Seems competent, but kind with our Sweet William. Where did you find her?”
“Mm,” Hero agreed. “I like Smart as well. So much better than the first nursemaid we had. She was a rather silly girl. Would you believe that Smart was recommended by Lady Margaret’s former housekeeper? Such a terrifyingly competent young woman—the housekeeper, that is, not Megs—but she gave notice and left Megs quite suddenly. Found a better place, I expect.”
Dearest Rogue Page 2