She waved a hand in the air. “No need, thank you!”
She was down the grand staircase in a trice, and then she was hurrying through the hall, her fingers trailing along the wall as her guide.
Maximus’s door was closed, which meant he didn’t want to be disturbed, but hang that. Phoebe burst in. “Captain Trevillion, I really don’t think—”
“He’s not here, Phoebe.”
She frowned, feeling quite put out. She hadn’t talked with Maximus since her grand tantrum the night before and she really should be mending fences—or at least not tearing more down—but now was not the time. “Well, where is he, then?”
“I suspect in his rooms.”
“Why—?”
“Phoebe.”
He rarely used the ducal voice on her, but when he did, she had a tendency to shut her mouth.
Not today. “It’s my fault, you know. I badgered and badgered him until he took me to Harte’s Folly, and I still don’t think it was that bad an idea. I mean, who would’ve thought? Not me in any case. But that’s beside the point. Maximus, you can’t censure Captain Trevillion. He’s my guard, not my jailer. It’s quite unfair to give him a job he simply can’t do because I won’t let him.”
She paused to take a breath and her brother spoke very rapidly—a skill he’d no doubt honed in Parliament. “Captain Trevillion’s ability to do his job is no longer a matter of concern.”
And she nearly strangled on the breath she was taking. “Maximus! You didn’t. Hire him back this instant or I’ll go to Artemis and I really don’t think you’d like that.”
Which was rather an ambitious threat, as Artemis, as a rule, either took her husband’s side or remained neutral, but in this case Phoebe felt she had a cause her sister-in-law would back.
“It’s out of my hands,” Maximus said. “I didn’t let Captain Trevillion go. He resigned without any prompting from me.”
Resigned.
She felt her heart plummet to her very toes. No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be so noble and stupid. Not because of her insistence that she visit a destroyed pleasure garden, of all things.
Phoebe whirled to the door, stepping out and closing it behind her while her brother was still saying something to her.
She hadn’t the time to argue with Maximus. Not now.
“Panders!” she called as she hurried to the front of the house. “Panders, I rather need your help after all.”
“My lady?” Panders, as always, popped up just when someone in the household wanted him.
“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind.” Phoebe inhaled, steadying her voice. “I need a footman to show me to Captain Trevillion’s room.”
And this was where Panders showed himself to be the best butler in London. He made no comment or demur to her wanting to go to the room of a bachelor—quite improper; he simply snapped his fingers and called, “Green.”
Five minutes later Phoebe was knocking on Captain Trevillion’s door, which as it happened was almost at the back of the house, near, but not quite in, the servants’ quarters.
“Come,” he called.
“You may go, Green,” Phoebe said, and opened the door.
“My lady. Of course,” Trevillion said, and while before he would’ve been exasperated, now he seemed merely… tense.
“You don’t sound entirely pleased to see me, Captain,” she said lightly, trying to hide the twinge of hurt. Damn it, this was all her fault.
“Perhaps I’m not,” he responded. “Where’s MacLeish?”
“MacLeish?” She shook her head in confusion. “Home, I would think by now, although I certainly didn’t inquire about his further plans for the day. For all I know he’s taking a trip to Inverness.”
“My lady,” he said in that chiding tone that oddly she’d come to rather enjoy.
“It’s common courtesy to offer a lady a seat,” she informed him.
He sighed and she heard something being moved. “Here. All I have is a straight-backed chair.”
“That will do,” she said as she sat, arranging her skirts and taking the time it provided her to marshal her argument. “Now then, you simply cannot leave my brother’s service.”
“My decision is already made, my lady,” he said. “I’m packing now.”
She’d been afraid of that. She straightened, licking her lips. “James, I won’t have it. You must go down to Maximus and explain that this morning’s events caused a fever in your brain making you do quite unwise things.”
“No.”
Panic was beginning to beat against her chest. “Yes, James! I won’t let you go just because I was stubborn and spoiled and made you take me to Harte’s Folly. I’m sorry, don’t you see? I’m truly sorry and I shan’t do it again.”
“This wasn’t your fault. You have every right to wish to go places,” he said gently—which only made her more worried. He was being much too kind and his next words confirmed her fears. “It’s mine for not telling you no.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she burst out. “Just tell Maximus you’ve changed your mind and that you intend to stay. Please.”
“My lady.” He was suddenly closer, the scent of bergamot and sandalwood drifting over her. “You may own dogs and horses and pretty dresses but you don’t own me. I’m a free man who does as he wills. And right now my will is to leave this place.”
She stood and reached out, her hand smashing against his coat. She felt up with her fingers, over the empty straps of his holsters, over buttons and the linen of his cravat.
He captured her hands before she could reach skin.
She leaned close nevertheless, her face only inches from his. “I need you, James.”
“You can’t,” he whispered. “I’m old and scarred and lame. I failed you this morning. I can’t—”
“You didn’t,” she said fiercely. “You’ve never failed me, not once.”
“I have. I have failed you.” His words were so vehement, so agonized, that she was struck dumb. “Don’t you understand? They would’ve had you had not MacLeish been there. They would’ve carried you away to God knows where, done whatever—” He seemed to choke for a moment, his hands squeezing hers so hard they hurt and she could only hang on, listening to the terrible sound of his voice. “God, Phoebe. They could’ve raped you, could’ve killed you, and I would not have been able to stop them.”
“Yes, you could’ve,” she said, desperate. “You would have stopped them had Mr. MacLeish not been there.”
“No, I wouldn’t have,” he replied, his words more terrible because of the very softness with which he said them. “If my pride hadn’t kept me by your side for so long I would’ve left long ago. I talked your brother into letting me stay as your bodyguard and my hubris nearly made me lose you. This is all my fault. I’ve destroyed lives before with my failure. I will not do it to you. I don’t belong here. I have to go.”
No. Nononono.
She didn’t know whose destroyed lives he was talking about, but it didn’t matter now. She couldn’t let him go. She lunged forward, her nose hitting his cravat, pulling her hands desperately out of his hold, grabbing his coat, his ear, anything that was him. She knew how clumsy and awkward and blind she must be, but she didn’t care right now. Somehow her mouth found his jaw and she inhaled sandalwood.
“Phe—”
She smashed her mouth to his, cutting off her name. It wasn’t a sweet kiss by any means—she’d never kissed a man. But it was strange and wonderful anyway. She felt a bloom within her chest, a wild, pounding well of hope and joy, feeling his lips against hers. Breathing in sandalwood and bergamot, gunpowder and James.
James. James. James.
He groaned and for a second she felt triumph.
And then he took her hands in his and detached them from his person. He pushed her back, bundled her up, and half-carried, half-frog-marched her to the door and out into the hallway.
The door slammed behind her.
She heard the l
ock click into place quite distinctly.
Chapter Seven
Now ’tis well known that all things iron are as poison to the faery folk. Once bridled by iron, the sea horse could neither change back into a maiden nor escape.
Corineus scrambled onto the creature’s back and, taking hold of the iron chain, rode her into that unknown land.…
—From The Kelpie
That evening Trevillion let his bag fall to the floor and looked around his tiny rented room. There was a narrow bed, a washstand, a crooked chair, and the fireplace. Over the fireplace someone had hung a small round mirror, flyspecked and dim. Not luxurious accommodations by any means, but clean at least. He had a small sum saved up—more than enough to live on for several weeks before seeking another job.
In that time he intended to find and eliminate Phoebe’s kidnappers.
Wakefield had put five armed footmen to guard her, but while the kidnapper was still out there, she wasn’t safe. And he wouldn’t leave London until she was.
He stood for a moment, remembering those fleeting seconds in his rooms at Wakefield House. She’d been so urgent—so innocently passionate—that he’d had to put a door between them to forestall his own urges.
Which hadn’t been innocent at all.
A knock sounded at his door.
He flung it open to reveal a slim youth. Trevillion glanced up and down the hall and motioned the boy—or rather the girl disguised as a boy—in. He locked the door and then turned to examine his visitor.
He hadn’t seen Alf in over a year, but in that time she hadn’t changed much at all. Too short for a boy her age, Alf was all elbows and knees in a dingy brown too-large coat and rusted black waistcoat. Her brown hair was halfheartedly tied back with a bit of string, but most fell around her oval face. The disguise was quite good, actually. It wasn’t until Trevillion’s third sight of Alf, deep in the stews of St Giles, that he’d guessed her sex. He’d never mentioned the discovery to her. There was no need—Alf obviously felt more comfortable with the world thinking her a boy, and most would never see past her outer appearance.
A good thing, too. A young girl on her own in St Giles was prey to many. She was better off in her male clothes. Trevillion just hoped she could keep up the disguise as she aged and came into a more womanly figure.
At the moment Alf was busy exploring Trevillion’s room, delicate fingers tracing over the empty mantelpiece. “Got word you was wantin’ to talk to me, Cap’n.” She glanced up at him through her fringe of limp hair.
“Yes.” Trevillion sat on the bed and motioned to the lone chair. “I want you to look into a matter for me.”
Alf didn’t bother to sit down. “That’ll cost you, it will.”
Trevillion arched a brow. “I didn’t think your services would be free.”
“An’ they ain’t.” Alf crossed her arms over her skinny chest and rocked back on her heels. “Best information gatherer in London, I am.”
Trevillion pursed his lips at this bit of bravado, but made no comment. “I want to know who’s trying to kidnap Lady Phoebe.”
“Arr,” Alf said meditatively, looking at the ceiling. “That’ll be a bit of work, that.” And she named a quite outrageous sum of money.
Trevillion shook his head and countered by plucking his purse from his coat pocket and shaking out six silver coins. “I’ll give you as much again when you’ve brought back my information.”
“Done.” Quick as a wink Alf had snatched the coins from his hand and pocketed them. “You’ll ’ear from me when I gots news.”
With that Alf slipped out the door and was gone.
Trevillion sat a moment longer, then shook himself. First things first. He loaded his pistols and holstered them across his chest. Then he went out.
London was a different city after dark. Lanterns hung from the better houses, reflecting off wet cobblestones and lighting his way. Fiddle and pipe music sounded from a nearby tavern and as he passed, a trio of drunkards staggered out, nearly falling into the street in their merriment.
Trevillion kept to the shadows as much as possible. He didn’t doubt he could defend himself—he was armed, after all—but an altercation would be an inconvenience.
Fifteen minutes later he came upon a rather better type of boardinghouse than the one he’d taken a room in. MacLeish might not be an aristocrat, but he was patently in more favorable financial circumstances than Trevillion. But then an architect—a man who’d had a university education—was a large step up from a former soldier.
Trevillion was about to approach the front door when a familiar figure came out.
The Duke of Montgomery wore saffron yellow this evening, his suit shimmering in the pale light of a crescent moon.
He turned on the step and spoke to MacLeish, who was hovering in the doorway. “See that you do, Malcolm darling, or you know what will happen, I think, yes?”
MacLeish’s fair face was flooded a deep red, visible even in the uncertain light of a lantern by the door. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Lovely,” the duke drawled, placing a silver lace-trimmed tricorne on his head. “I do so like it when we’re all in accord.”
With that he set off, swinging an ebony stick as he walked.
Trevillion’s eyebrows rose. Odd for an aristocrat to be on foot so late at night. But that did make it easier on him. He hurried after the duke, limping rapidly for another block before Montgomery suddenly turned, drawing a sword from his stick. The duke smiled, showing teeth as he held his sword in an indolent hand. A single gold ring glinted on his forefinger, nearly lost in the silver lace falling from his wrist. “You might as well show yourself, whoever you are.”
He sounded amused, and even with the foppish manner in which he held that sword, Trevillion had an idea the duke knew how to use it.
“Your Grace.” Trevillion stepped from the shadows, letting the light from a nearby lantern reveal his face.
“Ah, Captain Trevillion, I should’ve realized ’twas you from the sound of your cane.” The duke didn’t lower his sword. “Well met on this dark and dreary night, but pray tell: why are you following me?”
Trevillion examined his face. He knew the duke only slightly—but in that slight acquaintance he’d found him mercurial. The Duke of Montgomery was a beautiful man with nearly feminine features—a narrow nose, high cheekbones, and a voluptuous mouth. He stood slightly shorter than Trevillion and wore his curling golden-blond hair unpowdered and clubbed back. He looked like a frivolous dandy, but Trevillion didn’t make the mistake of venturing within striking distance of that sword.
Only a few months ago he’d seen the duke shoot a man without remorse.
“I’d like to know what business you have with MacLeish,” Trevillion said.
“Indeed?” The duke arched an eyebrow. “And what business is it of yours what business I have with young Malcolm?”
Trevillion didn’t bother replying, simply waiting.
“Oh, and I suppose you’ll follow me about London like some dire omen until I tell you something. How very tedious.” Montgomery sighed impatiently. “He’s my protégé, if you must know, although I can’t understand why you’d care, frankly.”
Trevillion ignored the verbal trimmings. “A protégé that you threaten.”
Montgomery waved his sword lazily. “Some people work better with threats, I find. Gives them a certain incentive, shall we say.”
Trevillion took a step closer. “You have something on the boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy. Must be five and twenty at the very least, quite old enough to get himself into a man’s trouble.” Montgomery smiled to himself. “A certain type of man, anyway.”
Trevillion drew his pistol and Montgomery stilled, watching him. “You’ll not threaten MacLeish anymore, Your Grace. Is that clear?”
“Clear like the murky waters of the Thames.” Montgomery tilted his head, his blue eyes sparkling in the lantern’s light. “Now why, I wonder, do you take any interest at all in bo
nny Malcolm MacLeish? Is it his fair skin? That gorgeous head of auburn locks?”
Trevillion’s pistol didn’t waver. “Is that what you want from him?”
“Not at all.” A sly smile still played about Montgomery’s lips. “Our association isn’t as personal as all that, I’m afraid.”
“Then why keep him under your thumb, Your Grace?” Trevillion asked, truly curious. “What do you want with him?”
“The world and all its secrets,” Montgomery promptly shot back.
“What in hell does that mean?”
The duke shrugged elegant shoulders. “You shouldn’t ask if you can’t comprehend the answers.”
“Perhaps I’d understand better if you stopped talking in riddles.” Trevillion took a menacing step closer.
The duke’s gaze darted away even as he threw up his hands, a wide grin on his mobile lips. “Stand down, Captain. I say, stand down! Let us part friends this night. You have my word as a gentleman that I’ll not bother the Scotsman anymore henceforth.”
Trevillion’s eyes narrowed. The duke had capitulated too quickly for his surrender to be real. Whatever his reason for using MacLeish, he obviously wasn’t about to give up the man.
Interesting.
But if Montgomery was determined not to tell him the truth, there wasn’t much Trevillion could do. Despite his threats, it wouldn’t be very wise to shoot a duke in the streets.
“Very well.” Trevillion lowered his pistol.
“And shall we shake on it?” Montgomery held out his hand, draped in that silver lace.
Trevillion looked at the man’s face and a shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t trust the duke an inch—the man was far too pleased with himself.
And far too interested in playing games.
“I have your word, Your Grace. That’s more than enough for me.”
“Very well.” Montgomery tipped his ridiculous hat. “Good evening to you, Captain.” Dropping into a Scots accent, he continued, “And may ye be delivered from ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties this night.”
Dearest Rogue Page 10