There were rocks in the shallows. Boulders that could, and did, split a head open.
The coffee turned bitter in her mouth, and she nearly spit it out.
“I’m sorry. You saw it, then,” he said.
“Yes. I ran for help.” She struggled to form the words. Talking about this was not something she did. Not ever. “Vicar Arcott and his son, John, came. The vicar knew about my runaway attempt. This grand charade was all his idea, actually—to swap clothes with my brother. He falsified the death record, and we buried Adam under my headstone.”
“Thus avoiding marriage to an old lecher.”
She managed a nod. Some said the truth would set you free. Feeling free would be a lovely change from this iron-heavy grief. “I took his place at school. Became my brother in every way I could.”
Cal slowly chewed a bite of sausage. “And now Milton wants Adam dead before he inherits.”
She shoved her plate aside, all appetite gone. “Vicar Arcott mentioned that Milton has made some poor business decisions recently. I think he needs money. Which makes sense if our theory about the insurance policy is correct.”
“So darling Uncle Milton gets your inheritance and the insurance money when you die. I’d really love to punch him in the throat.”
She giggled at the very Cal-like threat, then clapped a hand over her mouth. For an instant they shared a look that had nothing to do with the conversation, and everything to do with that surprisingly girlish noise.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in a familiar grin. “You laugh, but I would. I could take him.”
Phee leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. This teasing was familiar territory, easing light into the darkness that had crept in during their conversation. Tilting her head, she squinted. “I don’t know. He would probably fight dirty.”
Cal wiped his mouth with a serviette and rose from his seat. “I still say I could take him.” He paused next to her chair and propped his rather spectacular behind on the polished table beside her elbow. Crossing his arms in a mirror of her posture, he studied her. “You’re rather incredible, do you know that? Keeping a secret of this magnitude for this long is impressive. And the solutions you devised are rather clever as well.”
Her blush burned her skin as it crept from her chest to her face. The curse of being a redhead. “You mean my pizzle pocket.”
“Your—” He couldn’t finish the words before dissolving into laughter. Finally, he wheezed, “Is that what you call it?”
Straightening, Phee asked rather indignantly, “How else am I supposed to piss standing up?”
Cal covered his face with his hands as a snort escaped. After a moment, he smoothed his hair off his face and threaded his fingers together behind his head, still chuckling. Goodness, he was made entirely of long lines and trim muscles. Kingston hadn’t confined Cal’s hair to an orderly queue this morning. Probably because it was still damp from bathing. She liked it this way—loose and a bit wild, hanging past his shoulders. The strands caught the light streaming through the window, giving him a glow she should be used to by now. But no, there was still a funny flip in her stomach at the sight he made.
The spicy scent of him teased her nose, and a craving for gingerbread hit her with a fierceness that made her mouth water.
“I still can’t believe you call it a pizzle pocket. But I’m glad I found it that night. Even if it has made you distracting as hell.” His grin flashed, then faded, as if he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. “It made me pay attention to all the things I missed before now.”
Phee fidgeted in her seat under the frank appraisal, rolling a fork between her fingers to watch the tines flash in the morning sun streaming through the window. “People see what you tell them to see.”
“Yes, they do. I’m sorry I didn’t see you earlier, Phee.”
Hearing her name on his lips brought her head up. Like it had last night, the world around them narrowed to only the two of them. The sound of his breath, slow and measured, filled the space between them.
One would think his eyes, being such a dark brown, would be just that—brown. But there were flecks of gold and green in there too. Like the rest of him, unable to be simple or monochromatic. There were always more layers to Cal. More color. More insight. More intelligence behind the humor.
It was hard not to fall face-first into the temptation he offered. Friendship, trust, the promise of kisses. An ally. Heady stuff. “I have a hard time believing everything you said last night. Fully, I mean,” she said.
Slowly, as if approaching an animal who would shy, he brought a finger to her bottom lip as he had the night before, barely grazing her skin. “Your secret is safe. I won’t tell anyone else. But I don’t know how I’ve spent two years looking at these extravagant lips of yours without wanting to kiss them.”
If he were a spider, this would be his web, and she would be caught. Nervous, Phee licked her lips and accidentally caught the tip of his finger with her tongue. His breath stopped altogether, and the blacks of his eyes flared. Cal held her gaze as he spread the moisture over her bottom lip, then brought that same finger to his mouth. Phee forgot to breathe as he sucked the very tip of his finger, then straightened.
His voice rumbled, rough and uneven. “I need to make a few calls. Promise me you won’t run away today. Please?”
A jumble of desire and confusion stole her ability to speak, so she nodded, then stared at his back as he left the room.
He’d called her Phee.
* * *
There was no way he could ride in this condition. A cockstand and a saddle seemed like an unwise combination. Cal managed to make it out of the breakfast room before he drew a full breath.
Holy hell, if this was what having Ophelia—Phee—under his roof would be like, he’d strain a groin muscle within a week. Leaning against the wall, Cal folded his hands in front of the bulge in his breeches and closed his eyes.
Think of Prinny naked on a frigid day. His stomach gave a roll. Count kittens. Something. He imagined a basket with a lid, and fluffy kittens climbing out of the basket one by one. Twitching whiskers, baring wicked-sharp claws, and swishing puffy tails.
It took seven kittens for his breeches problem to sort itself.
It said something about the current condition of his life that finding out one of his best friends was actually a woman wasn’t the most complicated situation on his plate today. Miss Violet Cuthbert must be dealt with, and frankly, he dreaded addressing that whole mess. Given this newfound—he glanced at his deflating placket—attraction to the friend formerly known as Adam, entering into any kind of agreement with Miss Cuthbert was out of the question. And the sooner he informed Miss Cuthbert of that, the better.
There must be a way to work around his father; he just needed to find it. Cal ran a hand through his hair. Hell and blast, he hadn’t secured it off his face yet. Patting his pockets, he finally found a slip of ribbon and tied his hair at the nape. There. Presentable enough to break an engagement he’d never agreed to in the first place.
* * *
The baron and his daughter lived in a newer townhome in Portman Square. A perfectly respectable address, with a grim-faced butler and slightly worn-looking maids that scurried out of his way as he entered the drawing room.
The room’s décor reflected the height of the Egyptian craze from a few years earlier, complete with strange animal-print patterns and a sarcophagus in the corner. Bringing a sarcophagus into style was something he’d never understood. It would be like drinking tea and eating biscuits off the top of Granddad’s tomb. Why anyone thought that was a good idea was beyond him. Maybe it made him a snob, but there was such a thing as trying too hard to be fashionable.
Miss Cuthbert appeared at odds with her environment. She sat on a settee covered in faux—God, he hoped it was faux—zebra print with legs painted to look like gilded paws. Why not hooves? She seemed like your average debutante, like any other you’d see in Almack’s on a Wednesday nigh
t. Blond ringlets, a sheer fichu to lend modesty to her day gown—because a true lady allowed the good bits out only after dark.
Phee didn’t seem to have much in the way of those bits, and it was hard to not compare the two women. Miss Cuthbert rose when he entered, and blushed prettily when he bowed over her hand—those well-covered but still obvious bits on display when she dipped her curtsy.
Ophelia had never curtsied that he’d seen, and she said words like cock and laughed without restraint. Miss Cuthbert, for all her English-rose charms, held no interest for him.
“Would you care for some tea, milord? I saw clouds in the distance and fear it may rain. I always find a warm beverage staves off the incoming damp.”
No, Miss Cuthbert would probably die before saying cock or whittling a wooden penis for herself. In fact, she’d probably marry exactly whom her father told her to. Unlike Phee, who’d upended her life in her fight for some semblance of freedom.
His mind wandered back to his house. What was Phee up to? Had she gone to the library to find work to do? After all, she’d promised not to run. And decade-long masquerade aside, Cal trusted her to keep her word.
“Tea?” Miss Cuthbert asked again, pulling him from his thoughts.
“No thank you, Miss Cuthbert. I don’t plan to stay long. And frankly, I abhor tea. Terribly un-British of me, I know.”
“What prompts your visit today, milord?”
Jumping right into it, then. “Are you aware of the bet our fathers made?”
For the first time since he arrived, he detected a crack in her polish. She twisted her lips and inhaled with a rather dramatic flare of the nostrils. “Yes. I’m aware.”
“Miss Cuthbert, I’ll be blunt. I’m not going to marry you, and frankly, I think my father is grossly irresponsible for making such a wager in the first place.”
She sagged like a rag doll. “Oh, thank God.” Pretense and social niceties disappeared. “So what do we do? Our fathers are set on this plan of theirs, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve refused entry to Eastly for the last week and ignored his messages, but he has trouble hearing the word no. Avoiding him until he goes away has never been an effective long-term plan.”
She rose to pace the length of the room, which left him standing until she chose to sit again. Occasionally holding his gaze with a direct stare, she apparently expected him to think of something brilliant to save them from marriage to one another. Shifting from one foot to the other, he placed his hands behind his back as she paced.
“What do you think will pacify the baron? If we can make him happy, we might find a solution.”
“He wants me married. I love my father, but he’s a bit of a social climber. He wants a title for me. Securing an earl was quite the feat, and he’s been crowing about it for days. Already calls me Countess in private, if you can believe it.”
Not if Cal had anything to say about it. “And what do you want?”
She paused and stared blankly for a moment. “No one has ever asked me that. It sounds silly, and it might be a schoolgirl fantasy, but I want to feel that instant spark when I meet my husband. No offense intended, but I don’t feel that spark of interest for you.” She looked him up and down, then shrugged one shoulder. “In the end, I’ll do my duty. I know not to push Father too far. You’re handsome, so things could be worse. But if I chose for myself? I want starlight and poetry, and a fever in my veins.”
God help him. A week ago, he’d have said that sounded like a condition best treated by a medical professional. But when a simple breakfast with a friend gave him a cockstand, it would be hypocritical to scoff at her rhapsodizing. “You want a love match.”
“Not that it matters. I know my role. I’ll marry whom my father dictates. You’re in a position to change Father’s mind, not I.”
What a muddle. Two grown adults pacifying two muleheaded old men, with the livelihood of everyone who depended on him on the line. “If we can find you a husband—a titled husband you care for—will that satisfy the baron? If we meet Rosehurst’s end goal and I have a hand in it, would he accept that, do you think?”
She flounced onto the zebra sofa, her gown settling around her once more in a flutter of muslin. “I think so. I’ll give you all the credit in the role of matchmaker. But whoever he is, he has to be titled to satisfy Father.”
“And recite poetry,” he teased with a smile, taking a seat.
With a hesitant nod, she agreed. “It would be better if he wrote his own verse, but I’ll accept a man who quotes Byron. You don’t quote Byron, do you?”
“Not a word. Sorry.” He wasn’t sorry.
The most efficient way to matchmake would be to gather several potential suitors in one place. Miss Cuthbert must have been making the rounds of Season events, but if she hadn’t felt that spark with anyone, she might need extended exposure to form an attachment. A house party, perhaps? The idea caused the familiar stir of excitement he felt when he found the solution to a problem.
A house party meant Phee would be out of Town and far from her murderous uncle, which would mean everyone could breathe easier. It would also get Emma away from Roxbury for a few weeks, since the rat clearly wasn’t honoring their agreement. Perhaps Emma would find a match for herself while he found an appropriate husband for his not-exactly fiancée.
Rising once more, this time with an exit in mind, he made a bow and said, “I’ll be in touch within a couple days. But I’m thinking a house party full of eligible bachelors might be in order.”
With a pert smile, she offered her hand for a kiss, and he played the part.
Her hand smelled of rose water, which made his nose itch. Sandalwood might have ruined rose water for him forever.
A sneeze escaped as soon as the Cuthberts’ butler closed the door behind him. Maybe it was the rose water. Then again, it could have been dust from the sarcophagus in the corner. Was the décor more en vogue if the dead guy was still inside? Had he just sneezed dead-man dust?
He didn’t want to know.
Chapter Twelve
Charles, the footman, accompanied Phee to visit her old employer, the secondhand-clothes seller. As they rode through the streets in a hired hack, she flinched at every unexpected noise. By the time they arrived at the clothing stall, her hands were clammy and sweat pooled along her spine. She glanced at Charles. “I’m jumping at shadows. This entire business is unnerving. Thank you for being here.”
“Anyone would be nervous, Mr. Hardwick. There’s no harm in being careful,” he said.
She forced herself to leave the hack and pretend that she wasn’t as twitchy as a horse ready to bolt. Straightening her shoulders, Phee surveyed the crowded street to get her bearings. Milton had made her cower in the past. Giving him that power in the present was unconscionable. It wouldn’t help anyone if she took unneeded risks, though, so Charles monitored the entrance to the stall while she made her purchases.
The stall provided enough of the wardrobe basics to get her through. Even though she knew she’d gotten a fair price, her gut twisted as each coin left her palm. There were a few lovely pieces in the bundle under her arm. If nothing else, the alterations would keep her occupied.
Back in her room, Jenny the maid cleaned out the grate in the fireplace, sweeping the ashes into a bucket. “Good morning, Mr. Hardwick. I’ll finish in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Lady Emma didn’t want to be disturbed, but perhaps she will let me in once I’m done here.”
Glancing at the clock on the mantel, Phee frowned at the late hour. “When does Lady Emma usually rise for the day?”
“Oh, she’s been up. Ate breakfast and so on, but she’s resting now. Her maid asked that no one disturb the poor thing,” Jenny chattered. “We’re worried about her downstairs. She’s been spending more days than usual in her room with headaches. The rigorous schedule of a Season might be too much for her delicate constitution.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Being an employee in the house meant the servant
s spoke freely in front of her. At times like this, it meant Phee heard information Cal might not. A warning instinct buzzed at her nape. Since when did Emma have a delicate constitution? Clearly, Cal wasn’t aware of these headaches, otherwise he’d be hovering over his sister and not flirting with Phee in the breakfast room.
After setting the bundle of clothing on the bench at the foot of her bed, Phee left the room. A simple inquiry to another maid in the hall led her to the correct door. Emma’s lady’s maid answered her knock.
Phee donned an innocent smile. “I’ve been asked to fetch gloves for Lady Emma.”
If Emma was within, Phee would claim she’d misunderstood her task, then bid the maid good day. But within moments, she stood in the hallway, holding a pair of kidskin gloves trimmed with a row of fine silver and mother-of-pearl buttons.
Emma wasn’t inside the room. She’d sneaked out, lied to the staff, and left her maid at home to cover for her. No doubt this wasn’t the first time either, if the servants had noticed a pattern. Slapping the gloves against her thigh, Phee returned to her room. She tossed the gloves on a small table by the door, then opened the curtains to let the light in.
Emma’s determined focus on misbehavior would worry anyone. Why wouldn’t the girl see sense? Everyone knew Roxbury’s reputation. Cal was throwing everything he had toward ensuring the success of his sister’s debut. A million girls in this country would kill to have the opportunities Emma took for granted. That silly chit threw it all away.
But then, Cal might have stumbled upon this information himself if not for Phee’s circumstances distracting him. Lord, what a muddle.
Pulling the first waistcoat from the bundle of clothes, she sank into the chair, opened the sewing kit, and got to work while her brain spun.
The changes of the last few days were happening so fast, it made her feel as if she were continually catching her breath.
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