“Why,” she asked, “would I paint you?”
“Well”—Val set the package next to her—nearly in her paints—and whirled across the study, no doubt to rearrange her books—“I am acquitted quite a beauty.”
“Can gentlemen be beauties?” she asked, eyeing the package suspiciously.
“In my case, yes,” he said with a conceit so complete it was actually rather endearing.
“Then perhaps I ought to paint you.” Eve sat back and examined her art. Very nice and at a good point at which to halt. Val was too volatile for her peace of mind while painting. She wiped her brush clean. “Of course, you’d have to sit still for me.”
Val made a rude noise. “Sitting for a portrait is so tiresome. Do you know I had my portrait painted this last winter and I swear the man gave me a double chin.”
“That’s because you didn’t sit still,” she said tartly. She uncovered the package to find a white dove blinking back at her from inside a wooden cage. “What is this?”
“A dove,” came his voice from the far side of the room. It sounded muffled. “Have you already impaired your eyesight squinting? I found it at the market on the way over and made my chairmen stop just so I could buy it for you.”
Eve frowned at the dove and then at him. “What am I going to do with a dove?”
Val straightened across the room. Several of her books were scattered haphazardly about his feet. “Coo at it? Feed it? Sing to it? I don’t know. What does one usually do with a caged dove?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
He shrugged and began stacking her books into an unsteady tower. “If you don’t like it, you could always give it to your cook to make into pie.”
Eve shook her head wearily. “I can’t eat a tame dove.”
“Why not?” Val looked honestly confused. “I’m sure it tastes just like pigeon and I do like a pigeon pie.”
“Because…” Fortunately Eve was saved from having to try to explain to Val the wrongness of killing a bird meant as a pet by the maid’s coming into the room. She bore a huge tray of tea and what looked like orange-iced fairy cakes.
Tess, her cook, knew Val’s favorites.
She nodded for the maid to set the tea on the low table in front of her blue-gray settee, then rose and crossed to the settee. “Come sit and have some tea.”
He alighted on the armchair opposite her and then frowned. “That settee is fading. Let me buy you another.”
“No,” Eve said composedly, but quite firmly. One did have to be firm with Val or one found oneself aswamp in unwanted—and often bizarre—gifts.
He flung out his arms petulantly. “Fine. Keep that ugly thing.”
She eyed him as she passed his teacup to him. “You’re in a mood.”
He suddenly gave her one of his real smiles—wide and boyish, dimples on both cheeks, and enough to make any heart, particularly hers, squeeze. “Have I blanketed you in my ill humor, my darling Eve? Forgive me, please.”
She took a sip of her tea. “I will if you tell me what’s bothering you.”
He twirled his sword stick at the side of the chair. “All my mechanisms and workings ought to be bearing lovely ripe fruit right now, and yet they aren’t.”
“Sometimes I think it’s best for you when not everything goes your way,” she said lightly.
“Do you?” His look was dark. “But sweetling, that merely makes me cross. And you know how I am when I’m cross.”
She looked away, repressing a shiver though the room was warm. The fact was that Val played a dandy and a fool when the mood took him, but the people who dismissed him because of his manners did so at their own peril.
And to their regret.
“Is this about the favor I did for you?” she asked carefully.
“It might be.” He sat up suddenly and helped himself to a fairy cake. “There are workings within workings, cog upon cog, wheel within wheel. Someday, dear Eve, I shall rule this city, nay, this very isle, and mark me, no one will ever be the wiser.”
So saying, he popped the cake in his mouth and smiled.
And while it might be easy to look at Val with orange icing smeared at the corner of his lips and think he was merely painting castles in the air, Eve knew better. She’d seen the full will of the Duke of Montgomery.
Seen it and nearly not survived.
Chapter Eight
The land Corineus and the sea horse traveled was lovely and fine, but it was near deserted and this was the reason why: three giants ravaged that land, stealing cattle, destroying dwellings, and slaughtering any who resisted them. Their names were Gog, Mag, and Agog.…
—From The Kelpie
Phoebe padded lightly through the hallways of Wakefield House very early the next morning. She could hear a maid sweeping out the fireplace in the sitting room as she passed, but other than that she was quite alone.
Which was how she wanted it.
Maximus kept her ringed round with guards during the day. She couldn’t move a step without their constant presence and she just wanted a moment alone.
Alone to be as free as she once had been.
Her longing to be unrestrained had cost her Trevillion. She paused at the thought. Should she find a way to accept her restraints—her cage—now that she was completely blind? Perhaps she was being a fool, refusing to accept that being blind meant she simply couldn’t go out as she used to do.
But she had accepted most of the reality of her lack of sight. She knew that she relied upon others to choose the color of her clothes, to help her navigate new rooms and situations, to tell her where her food lay so she wouldn’t stick her fingers straight into the gravy. She could no longer read a book by herself. Couldn’t see the actors on the stage at the theater or a painting others thought beautiful.
She’d never see Trevillion smile at her.
Did she really have to give up going out as well?
Wasn’t freedom a universal desire? Something every human being longed for no matter their circumstances?
Maximus might’ve kept her caged these past several years, but she found that she chafed against her restraints now more than ever before. Perhaps it was because she’d grown into womanhood during that time.
Perhaps it was simply that she’d had enough.
Phoebe shook her head and continued down the hallway. She bumped into a table—had it been moved?—caught herself, and continued toward the back door. Opening it, she could hear the birds greeting the day loudly. The air was brisk and still cool from the night before, and when she reached the grass, it was quite soaked with the morning dew.
Phoebe inhaled happily. It’d been days since she’d made a pilgrimage to the stables in the mews. She couldn’t ride the horses anymore, but something about a stable—the shuffling of hooves on hay, a quiet whicker or stamp, the smell of horse and manure—made her quite content.
Trevillion, of course, hadn’t liked the thought of her venturing out alone—even to as mundane a place as the Wakefield stables. He’d insisted on accompanying her, which at the beginning of their relationship she’d resented quite vigorously.
Lately, however…
Phoebe sighed as she drifted through her flower garden, trailing her hand over wet blooms, showering herself with dewdrops. In the morning air the roses’ perfume was sweet and new. Recently she’d quite welcomed Trevillion’s presence. He’d seemed to enjoy the horses as much as she. Without him it was a little lonely: she missed his company.
Actually, she missed him, plain and simple. Who would’ve thought? When he’d first entered her life, she’d thought him so stern, so correct, and so very immovable when it came to her safety. Well, he still was all of those things, truth be told. But back then she’d thought she would go mad with him constantly in her presence.
Now she just wished she could have him with her again.
She shook the thought aside as she came out the other side of the garden. There was a gravel path here that led to the far wall and the ga
te to the mews. The bolt on the back gate was a trifle rusty and she struggled with it before it abruptly slid open in her hands. Relieved, she pushed the gate open and stepped into the mews.
And was immediately grabbed by rough hands.
TREVILLION HAD JUST taken a bite of some rather lumpy porridge, courtesy of his landlady, when someone started pounding wildly on his door.
He stood and picked up one of his pistols from the mantel before opening the door.
Reed stood without, his eyes wide, sweat on his brow. “Lady Phoebe!”
Trevillion clenched his jaw, tamping down instinctive rage and worry. He turned back into the room to begin strapping his belts to his chest. “Report, Reed.”
“Sir.” The commanding tone seemed to calm the footman. He gulped and then said, “Lady Phoebe is missing, Cap’n. The back gate to the mews was standing open early this morning and she was seen being bundled into a carriage.”
Trevillion swore, low and vile. “She liked to visit the stables of a morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Reed replied. “The duke reckons she must’ve gone out and someone took her.”
“Understood.” Trevillion shoved both pistols in their holsters and motioned to Reed to accompany him as he left his rooms. “What’s being done?”
They clattered down the stairs, Reed talking as they ran. “The duke has called all the staff, stableboys included, to question them.”
“Does he know you came for me?” Trevillion asked as they made the street. Two horses waited there, most likely from Wakefield’s stables.
“No, sir.”
Trevillion looked at the young footman. He could lose his job over this. “Good man.”
He gave his cane to Reed and mounted one of the horses, then held out his hand for the cane. Reed was about to mount his own horse when a thought struck Trevillion.
He turned to the footman. “Do you remember Alf from St Giles?”
“Indeed I do, sir,” was Reed’s reply.
Trevillion nodded. “Can you find her and fetch her back to Wakefield House?”
“I can try,” Reed said. “I’ve an idea where I might inquire after her.”
“Good. Tell her it’s about the matter I discussed the other night with her. And Reed?”
“Sir?”
“Tell her I need everything she knows now.”
“Yes, sir.” Reed mounted his horse and turned its head toward St Giles.
Trevillion nudged his own horse in the opposite direction.
It was early yet—not quite eight of the clock—but the London streets were crowded. Still he was able to maintain a trot most of the way to Wakefield House and made good time.
Trevillion dismounted, limped up the front steps, and knocked on the front door.
Panders opened it, took one very worried look at Trevillion, and said, “This way, sir.”
The butler led him back to the duke’s study and a scene of chaos.
Wakefield paced before the fire, looking for all the world like a tiger about to charge the bars of its cage. Craven sat at the desk, writing furiously. The duchess was seated by the fireplace, watching her husband with deep concern in her eyes, and in the middle of the carpet stood three weeping maids.
Her Grace looked up at his entrance and stood. “Captain Trevillion, thank God.” She crossed to him and took his hand between her two soft ones. “You must help him. He’s nearly out of his mind.”
Trevillion’s mouth set firmly. It was bad if the duchess was turning to others to calm the duke. “I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”
She squeezed his hand. “If the kidnappers forced Phoebe into marriage I don’t know what he’ll do. She’s his sister and he loves her dearly. They could hold her happiness, her safety over his head. Make him change his votes in Parliament.” She met his eyes, her own wide and fearful. “Captain Trevillion, you can’t comprehend what power these men hold while they have Phoebe.”
Trevillion swallowed hard at the thought of Phoebe forced into marriage, forced to—
For a moment he closed his eyes to steady himself. Then he opened them and looked at the duchess. “Let me speak to the duke.”
She nodded and drew him farther into the room. “Maximus.”
The duke stopped his pacing and whirled. “Trevillion.”
“Your Grace.” Trevillion made an abbreviated bow. “What happened?”
“Damnable incompetence is what,” the duke snarled, low and furious, and the maids sent up a fresh wail as they cowered from his wrath.
Craven looked up and motioned Trevillion forward. He bent lower to hear the valet over the noise.
“At six of the clock His Grace was woken by Bobby, a stable lad of some thirteen years, who said he witnessed Lady Phoebe being shoved into a carriage at the end of the mews. She had a hood over her head and was making no sound.”
“Where is Bobby now?” Trevillion asked.
“In the kitchen being revived by Cook, no doubt,” Craven said drily. He glanced at his employer. “I believe we extracted all the information possible from the lad.”
“What else?” This was too little to go on. A carriage without any sort of description? “Did he say how many men he saw?”
“Anywhere from three to a dozen, I’m afraid.” Craven sighed. “I understand from the stable master that the lad is a genius with the horses but otherwise is somewhat mentally deficient.”
“What else has been done?”
“All those employed in the stable were questioned.” Craven spread his hands. “No one else saw or heard anything.”
“The investigations you started after the last attempt?”
Wakefield slammed his fist down on the desk, making the things on top shake. “Nothing. We haven’t even been able to locate the man with the scar.”
“The investigation has been exceedingly slow.” Craven cleared his throat. “It has been most unfortunate.”
Damned right it was unfortunate. “And now?”
“His Grace has commenced questioning the indoor staff.” Craven nodded at the three weeping maids. “That is where you find us.”
Trevillion turned to examine the maids. Two—a gray-haired woman and a tiny little redhead—were obviously housemaids. The third was Powers, Phoebe’s lady’s maid. All three women held handkerchiefs to their faces as they wept. All three looked both grief-stricken and terrified.
Except Powers’s eyes weren’t red.
Rage, fire-hot and cleansing, rushed through Trevillion’s soul.
“You,” he growled, making everyone in the room stop and turn to look at him. “You. Come with me.”
PHOEBE CAUTIOUSLY LIFTED her head and listened. They’d taken off her hood—and really, why bother hooding a blind woman?—when they’d left her, but her hands were still bound in front of her. She sat on a wooden chair with arms in what she assumed was an empty room.
“Hello?”
Her voice came back to her in a way that she could think of only as contained. A small room, then. Without, she could hear the voices of her kidnappers. She’d counted four in the carriage: one very young, one with an Irish accent, and two Londoners, one with a slight lisp. At least one other to drive the carriage. So a minimum of five men.
Why had they kidnapped her? She realized now that this question was rather belated—Trevillion’s defection had been a distraction. Three times they’d tried to kidnap her, which seemed very persistent if nothing else. Maximus had told her curtly and without explanation that poor mad Lord Maywood was no longer suspected of the first attempt.
Phoebe raised her hands to scratch her nose as she contemplated her situation. Obviously they knew who she was, so perhaps they hoped to hold her for ransom? The carriage hadn’t traveled very far, so she thought they were still in London. By the stench of sewage and rot when she’d been pulled out of the carriage and escorted into the building she now sat in, she thought not a very nice part of London.
She sighed.
Being kidnapped, after the f
irst few minutes of absolute terror, was really rather boring. She tried her teeth against the rope binding her wrists, but after a couple of minutes decided she would wear her teeth down to nubs before either untying the knots or chewing through the rather disgusting rope.
Loud laughter came from the outer room. At least her kidnappers were enjoying themselves.
Gingerly she rose, inching first one foot and then the other forward to test for obstacles on the floor. She reached the wall by the simple expedient of knocking her elbow against it.
“Ow,” she whispered to herself, holding her breath in case the small noise had alerted her kidnappers.
They didn’t seem to have noticed, however, and she began making her way along the wall, searching for the door.
She reached it in a few seconds more and applied her ear to the wood, listening.
The words were sporadic.
“—comin’ ’ere. Don’t understand at all,” growled one of the Londoners.
“He’ll come soon enough now and then we’ll be paid the rest,” said the Irishman clearly enough.
“But…” The boy’s voice was so low it was nearly impossible to make out.
“Because he’s bringing th’ vicar, that’s why,” the Irishman replied, and Phoebe’s heart plummeted.
If Maximus didn’t find and rescue her very soon she might very well be married by the time he got to her.
“TELL ME WHAT you know,” Trevillion said, his voice low, flat, and grim, “and you might not be hanged for your crime.”
“I… I never did anything,” Powers sputtered, cringing back in the chair she sat in.
They were in a little-used sitting room at the back of the house, just the two of them, and though Trevillion had never struck a woman in his life, he was tempted now.
The lady’s maid knew something and the thought of her blustering while Phoebe was in danger—while she might even now be enduring the worst sort of assault against a woman—
He slammed his hands down on the chair’s arms, leaning into Powers’s face. “Mistake me not. If your mistress is in any way harmed, I shall make it my life’s mission to destroy yours.”
Dearest Rogue Page 12