Lady Caire had been watching the entire scene without comment. Now she spoke. “Butterman, I expect we’re in the downstairs sitting room?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Butterman replied, taking her gloves and hat. “Your footmen may make themselves at home in our kitchens.”
Jean-Marie glanced at Eve and, at her nod, followed the footmen back into the house, still holding the wriggling dog.
The entryway opened into a hall, painted a soothing cream color. At the far end, the hall widened and a huge staircase could be seen, but she and Lady Caire walked only to the first door on the right. This was the sitting room, and it was already crowded with the members of the Ladies’ Syndicate. A fireplace was at one end, empty now, with several settees and cushioned chairs gathered around. A low table sat in the middle of everything, crowded with tea things, while a half dozen or more little girls solemnly offered the seated ladies refreshments under the watchful eye of a blond maidservant.
“My lady, how lovely to see you.” A slim woman with gorgeous red hair stood and exchanged polite cheek kisses with Lady Caire.
The older woman turned back and Eve was relieved to see that Lady Caire now smiled. “Hero, may I introduce Miss Eve Dinwoody? Miss Dinwoody, this is Lady Hero Reading.”
“An honor, my lady.” Eve sank into a deep curtsy as Lady Hero murmured a greeting.
She mentally went through her files and found Reading, Lady Hero: eldest sister of the Duke of Wakefield; wife of Lord Griffin Reading. Lady Hero had, along with Lady Caire, founded the Ladies’ Syndicate. An important woman to know.
But then so were all the other members.
Eve braced herself as Lady Caire led her deeper into the room, intent on introducing her to everyone. That was why she was here, after all, to mingle with these ladies and meet one very specific person. That Eve rather disliked large gatherings and found herself a bit awkward when meeting strangers was beside the point.
She would do her duty.
So she smiled as Lady Caire ushered her over to a woman standing by the fireplace and introduced Eve to her daughter-in-law, Temperance Huntington, Baroness Caire. The younger Lady Caire was a lovely dark-haired lady with brown eyes so light they were nearly golden. It was hard to tell—and Eve would never ask, naturally—but Lady Caire appeared to be expecting.
Next to her was Isabel Makepeace who, along with her husband, Winter Makepeace, managed the home. Eve knew from her mental files that Mrs. Makepeace, unlike her husband, had come from the upper tiers of society. Despite her lowly status overseeing an orphanage, Mrs. Makepeace was in an exquisitely cut yellow-and-scarlet-striped robe à la française. Both ladies nodded courteously at Eve, though she noted the spark of curiosity in their eyes—the elder Lady Caire had given no explanation for her acquaintance with Eve.
The Duchess of Wakefield stood to be introduced and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dinwoody.”
Eve rose from her curtsy. At first glance the duchess was a plain woman, but her gray eyes were very fine—not to mention quite perceptive. Eve made sure to hold her gaze as she murmured her greeting.
“I’m afraid you’ll be unable to meet Her Grace, the Duchess of Scarborough, as I believe she’s traveling the Continent with her husband,” Lady Caire said as she led Eve over to the last settee. “Italy, you know.”
Eve didn’t know—she’d never been to Italy or traveled merely for pleasure—but she nodded as if she did. Then she was being introduced to a dark, exotic beauty: Miss Hippolyta Royle, rumored to be the wealthiest heiress in England now that the former Lady Penelope Chadwicke had wed the Duke of Scarborough. Miss Royle stood and curtsied, though her companion on the settee did not.
“And this is Lady Phoebe Batten, sister to Lady Hero, whom you’ve already met, and, of course, the Duke of Wakefield,” Lady Caire murmured.
Eve felt her heart jolt.
“So lovely to meet you,” Lady Phoebe said, turning toward Eve. She was a pretty, petite woman, her face glowing with good humor. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t rise. I’m liable to trip in a room I’m not familiar with, I’m afraid.”
“Please, my lady,” Eve replied. “Don’t bother on my account. If—”
But her words were drowned by a commotion at the door. A lady breezed in wearing a lovely peach-colored frock, her curling hair coming down quite becomingly from her coiffure, and holding a baby in her arms.
The newcomer exclaimed rather breathlessly, “Oh, dear. I’m sorry I’m late.”
The Duchess of Wakefield made a sound very close to a squeal. “Is that baby Sophia, Megs?”
Megs—Lady Margaret St. John, Eve’s mental file informed her—blushed a becoming pink. “Yes. I hope no one minds that I brought her?”
Judging by the rush to surround Lady Margaret and her daughter, no one minded at all. In fact, everyone crowded round the duo save Eve and Lady Phoebe.
Eve turned back to the younger woman and said quietly, “Would you mind if I sat next to you? I’m afraid I really oughtn’t have worn these heels today.”
“Oh no, please.” Lady Phoebe patted the place beside her, vacated by Miss Royle.
From across the room Lady Caire glanced over quickly, her eyes narrowed.
Eve ignored the look. “Thank you,” she murmured as she sat. “Vanity shall be my downfall. I bought these shoes to wear to the theater last week.”
Lady Phoebe turned fully toward her. “Which one?”
“Hamlet at the Royal.” Eve shook her head. “Played by a much-too-old actor—he had a bit of a paunch—although he did have a lovely booming voice.”
“The voice is all I care about,” Lady Phoebe said on a sigh. “Though I prefer a nuanced voice rather than a simply loud one.”
“Naturally,” Eve replied. “Have you heard Mr. Horatio Pimsley perform?”
“Oh yes!” Lady Phoebe said, beaming. “He was a lovely Macbeth—or at least his voice was. I don’t much like tragedies usually, but I could sit and listen to his voice all night.”
Eve bit her lip, truly enjoying the discussion, but she was here with a purpose. “I wonder if you might be interested, my lady—”
Several of the ladies around the new mother laughed, interrupting her.
Lady Phoebe tilted her head toward Eve. “You can tell me: what does baby Sophia look like?”
“It’s hard to tell from here,” Eve replied, looking over at the baby. “She’s quite crowded around. But I do see a bit of fuzz peeking out of the swaddling. She seems to have light-brown hair.” She glanced at her companion. “Rather like yours, my lady.”
“Does she?” Lady Phoebe’s hand rose to her hair as if she could feel the color. “I’d almost forgotten.”
The new mother approached with the other ladies. “Would you like to hold her, Phoebe?”
Lady Phoebe’s face lit up. “Oh, might I? But do sit on the other side of me, Megs. I should hate to drop her.”
“You won’t,” Lady Margaret said firmly. She sat on the other side of Phoebe and carefully laid the sleeping infant in Lady Phoebe’s arms.
“She looks so solemn,” Lady Hero whispered.
“Doesn’t she?” Lady Margaret examined her offspring as if she were a strange insect found under a leaf. “She frowns just like Godric, I’m afraid. In another couple of years I’ll be facing two disapproving looks across the breakfast table.”
“How is he?” the younger Lady Caire asked.
“Utterly besotted by his offspring,” Lady Margaret replied. “I caught him pacing the corridor the other night, Sophia in one arm, a book in his other hand. He was reading to her. In Greek. The worst part is that she seemed quite enthralled.”
“I can see why.” Phoebe brought the baby close to her face, closing her eyes and laying her nose gently against Sophia’s cheek. “She’s perfect.”
Eve swallowed as she watched the other woman.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Lady Margaret said suddenly. “No, don’t get up”—this as Eve hastily be
gan to rise—“I’m Margaret St. John.”
“My fault,” Lady Caire said, her smile fading. “This is Eve Dinwoody. She’d like to join the Syndicate.”
“In that case I suppose we’d best get started,” Lady Margaret murmured. “Come to me, baby.” And she picked up Sophia and cradled her in her arms.
One of the little girls, a redhead with a quite amazing smattering of freckles across her nose, brought around a plate of what looked like rather lopsided buttered bread as the other ladies began to settle.
“Thank you…?” Lady Phoebe said to the girl as she took a piece of bread.
“Hannah, ma’am.” The girl tried to curtsy while still balancing the plate and Eve hastily put out a hand to steady it.
Lady Phoebe looked startled. “Not Mary Something?”
“I already had a name, ma’am, when I comed here.”
“And a lovely one, too,” Lady Phoebe said stoutly. “This bread is delicious, Hannah.”
The little girl blushed and grinned at Lady Phoebe, and Eve felt a pang. The younger woman was so nice. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to—
Lady Phoebe turned to her, still smiling from her interaction with the little girl. “You see, all of the girls at the home have the first name Mary, and all of the boys Joseph, unless of course they’re old enough to already have a name, like Hannah. Quite confusing, even adding a different last name. I don’t know who came up with the idea—”
“Winter,” the younger Lady Caire and Mrs. Makepeace said in unison.
“He thought it was more tidy,” Lady Caire continued on her own.
Mrs. Makepeace merely snorted.
Lady Phoebe smiled and turned back to Eve. “You began to say something, Miss Dinwoody, just before Sophia was brought over?”
“Yes, my lady.” Eve took a deep breath. “It’s just that I’m having a sort of gathering of those interested in the theater tomorrow afternoon. Just a few people to discuss the latest plays and actors. I’d be most honored if you would attend.”
“I’d be delighted.” Lady Phoebe smiled and popped the last bite of bread and butter in her mouth.
“My friends,” Lady Caire said, standing. “We have several orders of business to attend to…”
Eve kept her eyes on her sponsor, but she listened with only half an ear.
For better or worse, she’d already gotten what she’d come for.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Trevillion scanned a letter once more, a corner of his mouth curving up at the childish hand, before folding it carefully. He stood from the one armchair in his rooms at Wakefield House and walked to the chest of drawers on the far wall. In the top drawer was a fat bundle of letters and he slipped the new one in with the rest before closing the drawer.
He glanced at his clock. Almost time to escort Lady Phoebe to her afternoon event.
He checked his pistols, picked up his stick, and made his way downstairs. This time last year he’d commanded dozens of men—men who’d followed him without complaint or second thought. All of them might not have liked him, but they all respected him—that he’d made certain of. It’d been a good life. A life he’d been more than content with.
Now he commanded two footmen and a society lady.
Trevillion snorted softly to himself as he stepped onto the ground floor. His current position might not be terribly glorious, but he intended to carry it out to the best of his ability.
And that meant keeping Lady Phoebe safe.
Five minutes later Trevillion stood on the front step of Wakefield House and surveyed the street. The sky was spitting drops of rain, which made it easier: few people lingered outside. Two chairmen trotted by, their buckled shoes splashing through the puddles, their burden bouncing on the poles between them. The gentleman inside the convenience was quite dry, but scowled nonetheless as he went by. Wakefield House sat on a quiet square. Across the way Trevillion could see a peddler of some kind slouching in a doorway. But as he watched, the man was rousted from his shelter by a footman belonging to the house.
Trevillion grunted and pivoted carefully back to the doorway to find the Duchess of Wakefield watching him. Beside her was the elderly white lapdog she’d brought with her on her marriage. The animal’s name was Bon Bon, if he recollected correctly.
“Ma’am.” He bowed.
“Whatever are you doing standing in the rain, Captain Trevillion?” Her Grace inquired as her pet ventured out onto the steps. Bon Bon eyed the dripping sky, sneezed, and hastily trotted back inside.
“Simply watching, Your Grace.”
“Watching?” She glanced over his shoulder and her brows knit as she looked back at him. “You’re looking for kidnappers, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s my job to be alert to any danger to Lady Phoebe.”
“The duke told me that the kidnapper was dead,” she said bluntly. “Do you have reason to think otherwise?”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I am… cautious in regard to her ladyship’s safety.”
The duchess was a perceptive woman. “Have you told him that you still think there may be danger to Phoebe?”
“I meet with His Grace nearly every night to discuss my job.”
“And?”
He met her gaze squarely. “His Grace is aware of my concern, but does not share it in this particular instance.”
She looked away, biting her lip. “She hates it, you know. Phoebe, I mean, and this”—she waved a hand at the pistols strapped to his chest—“well, of course you know. You’re not an insensitive man.”
Trevillion waited, a little startled that she thought him sensitive. Of course he knew of Lady Phoebe’s unhappiness with being guarded—with him. She’d made it more than plain right from the start of his employ that she hated the constraints her brother had laid upon her life. But he wouldn’t let her displeasure deter him from his duty to protect her.
Let her hate him if she must, as long as she was safe.
She sighed. “If I push the point with Maximus, he might constrict her movements even more, and I don’t know—I truly don’t know—what she’d do then. She hides it well, but she’s unhappy. I don’t want to make her more so.”
“Your Grace,” Trevillion said quietly. “While I am with her I will make sure nothing happens to her ladyship.”
Something cleared in the duchess’s face. “Of course you will, Captain Trevillion.”
“Artemis?” Lady Phoebe was descending the stairs inside the house.
“Yes.” The duchess quickly crossed to her. “I was just speaking with Captain Trevillion.”
Lady Phoebe took Her Grace’s hand as she made the hallway. “Already here, Captain?”
He nodded, though she could not see. “You said you wanted to leave at two of the clock.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’re always so punctual. I’m not entirely sure it’s a virtue.”
“I assure you, my lady, it is in a guard,” Trevillion replied.
“Humph.” Lady Phoebe turned to her sister-in-law and spread her arms. “What do you think of my new gown?”
The gown in question was green-blue with a yellow underskirt, and brought out the red tones in Lady Phoebe’s brown hair. If the question had been aimed at him, Trevillion would’ve replied that she was beautiful. She was always beautiful—no matter her attire.
But the question hadn’t been asked of him.
He glanced away as the carriage drew up before the steps.
Behind him Her Grace was murmuring appreciatively over the dress.
“Your carriage is here, my lady,” Trevillion said, stepping forward to take Lady Phoebe’s hand and place it on his arm.
“Where are you off to?” the duchess asked.
“Miss Dinwoody invited me to discuss theater with a select few of her friends,” Lady Phoebe replied.
Her Grace’s eyebrows winged up her forehead. “Miss Dinwoody from the Ladies’ Syndicate yesterday?”
“Yes.” Lady Phoebe smiled at her sister-i
n-law, her gaze off by several inches. “She seems a little reserved, but I quite liked her.”
“As did I,” the duchess said slowly.
“Artemis?”
Her Grace shook her head. “It’s just… I thought it a bit odd that Lady Caire never mentioned who Miss Dinwoody’s people are.”
“I noticed that as well,” Lady Phoebe said. “But then I realized how much we judge another person by their antecedents.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s better not to know from whence she came?”
Trevillion felt a stirring of unease. “How else to judge a person, then, my lady?”
She turned her face toward him, her lovely hazel eyes unfocused. “Perhaps simply on the person themselves? Who they are? What they do?”
She was so very young and sheltered. “Who a person is and what they do is often a product of their background and family, my lady.”
“Indeed,” she murmured. “Which is why I’m so interested in your own mysterious background and family, Captain Trevillion.” He frowned, but before he could reply she nodded in the direction of the duchess. “If you’ll excuse us, Artemis, I don’t want to be late.”
“Of course,” that lady said. “Have a good time, dear.”
Trevillion half bowed to the duchess before guiding Lady Phoebe down the front steps. “I had not thought to ask, but as the duchess seemed surprised at your outing, perhaps I should,” he growled. “You did seek permission from your brother for this afternoon, did you not, my lady?”
Lady Phoebe entered the carriage and settled herself. She waited for him to climb in and knock on the top of the carriage to signal their readiness to the coachman before answering. “I told Maximus that I intended to visit a friend this afternoon.”
The carriage lurched forward. “You didn’t tell him the name of your friend?”
She pursed her lips. “He didn’t ask—he was rather busy with some legal documents at the time.”
“My lady—”
“Do you know how old I am, Captain?”
He frowned, then bit out, “One and twenty.”
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