It would be the first time she had ever seen him as he really was. He hoped she’d like what she saw.
“Damn it, man,” he muttered. “You have a job to do. Stop trying to convince Miss Phoebe Duvall you’re a real man and get on with your mission.”
Because if he met with failure, he and Aurora would lose their birth-right all over again.
So, failure wasn’t an option.
Chapter 11
Such a pity Mr Goodrich wasn’t in the marriage mart. Despite his eccentricity, deceitfulness and ludicrous sense of fashion, he was exciting. Mysterious too, and possessor of the most kissable mouth.
This meeting was probably another of his little games, and Phoebe ought not to go. Her employer would not approve of her attending trysts on his estate with one of his neighbours, and she couldn’t afford to lose Addyman’s good opinion. Or this advantageous position. All the same, as dusk approached, she excused herself to her aunt, explaining she wanted to locate a nightingale she’d heard, and went out.
The yew walk was a gloomy place, the densely packed yew needles obscuring the light, creating a scented shade and a spot much cooler than the rest of the garden. She was halfway down when suddenly a man emerged from the trees just ahead and strode down the grassy path to meet her. She gulped at the sight of him and missed a step.
This was not the Mr Goodrich she knew. This was a totally different incarnation, a man with a determinedly masculine gait, wavy wheat-gold hair, and a ruggedly handsome face, with a square jaw and cleft chin.
She stopped in her tracks, trying not to gape at this splendid new version of Goodrich. Nothing about him was artificial—you couldn’t fake those broad shoulders, the beautifully-sculpted collar bones revealed by his casually-loosened shirt, the firm column of his neck.
She swallowed again, then lurched forward to greet him, grinning—she was sure—in a most unladylike manner.
“Miss Phoebe Duvall. Thank you for meeting me.”
He bowed—a brief, smart gesture, totally unlike the Mr Goodrich she knew, and he kept his distance, not even taking her hand. She could find no words, struggling as she was to conceal her astonishment.
“We can’t risk meeting for long.” He was matter-of-fact, almost brusque. “Do you know why tonight’s event was cancelled?”
“Apparently not. I thought Addyman had been called away on urgent business, but he obviously hasn’t. I suppose you can’t reconvene a charity ball when you’ve just sent out messages to cancel it.”
He looked at her intently, as if trying to read her mind. She gazed up into his blue eyes, temporarily lost, still nonplussed by his transformation.
“Had the provisions been purchased for this banquet?”
Concentrate, Phoebe, concentrate. “Indeed.” She took several deep breaths. Even though his purpose was interrogation, having him this close, having his undivided attention, was a drug to her senses. “The last ones I ordered arrived two days ago.”
He tilted his head. “So, what has become of them?”
She forced her mind back to their visit to the pantry earlier. The larders hadn’t looked as full as they should have done. Was she mistaken, or had some of the food gone missing?
“I don’t know.”
“Did you send anything back to the suppliers?”
“Not I. The housekeeper may have done. Although, of course, some of the supplies may have already been cooked into pies, and the meats jellied. I just don’t know where those dishes have been put.” Why was he asking questions about such mundane things?
Taking her arm, he steered her to a gap in the yew hedge where a stone seat was visible in the shadows. “We’ll be less obvious here.” He brushed the seat clear of yew needles, invited her to sit, then took his place next to her. The bench was so short their thighs were almost touching. She rather wished they would—she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and smell his exotic soap or pomade. Up close, the man was intoxicating.
“Did you see any of those poachers you were told about?”
Her mouth had gone dry. “We heard them,” she managed. “I couldn’t work out what they were saying though.”
“Might that be because they were speaking in French?”
She thrust back and stared at him. How could he possibly know that? “We did wonder if they might have been.”
His expression was grave. “As you have several times had the chance to expose my falsehoods, and haven’t done so, I hope I may trust you with some extremely sensitive information.”
It was high time he told her what was going on and stopped cross-examining her in so detached a fashion—as if they were complete strangers.
“Addyman’s so-called poachers were very likely escapees from a camp for French prisoners-of-war, many interned after Trafalgar. The supplies you bought may always have been intended for them, with the proposed banquet just a front, an excuse for purchasing additional provisions. Now, whether or not I’m right, you must promise to say nothing to anyone about my suspicions.”
She was too shocked to speak. French prisoners? Fed and protected by her new employer? She put her head in her hands, pressing her fingers into her cheeks, struggling to come to terms with what he’d said. If Goodrich was correct, she must get herself and her aunt away from this traitor immediately—they couldn’t possibly be safe on an estate swarming with desperate Frenchmen.
But if she left, what hope did she have of being wed within two months?
Goodrich’s hand was on her shoulder, warm, comforting. “Phoebe? I’m sorry. I know this must be a great blow. Now you know why I wanted you to have my handkerchief for a distress signal. You’re surrounded by danger and deceit, and must leave at the earliest opportunity.”
She couldn’t leave yet. The banquet had been postponed, not cancelled. What if she insisted on it taking place soon? Then she’d still have a chance to meet the local eligible bachelors.
“I can’t leave.”
The fingers on her shoulder tightened. “Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He exhaled heavily. “Then I’ll convince you. Are you aware of your father having a secret place to keep his documents? A locked drawer, for example, or a hidden safe?”
There was the portable writing box. Goodrich had already shown an interest in that.
“What has my father got to do with anything?”
She saw frustration in his blue eyes, mingled with uncertainty. He was struggling with some inner dilemma—what was he unwilling to tell her?
“If I were to say your father’s missions to France were more of the espionage kind than the diplomatic sort, would you believe me? It’s a lot to take in, I know.”
She winced and shook her head, unable to believe her ears. “Espionage? You mean spying, coded messages, that kind of thing?”
“I do, indeed. Have you seen anything like that? Codes, cyphers, even letters that look so mundane you can scarce believe anyone bothered to write them. But they could contain hidden information, knowledge vital to the war against Napoleon. I fear his interest in your father’s affairs was the reason Addyman was so quick to settle on you as his hostess. Whether he always planned to attach you in this way I don’t know—he may only have found out about your father after he saw your name on the application, and decided to investigate you. Then he needed to know what your father knew—taking control of your life was a step towards that end.”
“Papa, a spy? Mr Addyman, a traitor?” Her breath came in panicky gasps. The intense Adonis at her side had just undermined all her certainties. It was too much to take in. Her new life, a conspiracy? Her past life—a lie?
She sat up and stared at Goodrich. “Why should I trust you rather than Mr Addyman? He’s kept his word thus far and behaved like a gentleman. I don’t even know who you really are.”
He gave her a disarming grin. “If it helps, my full name is Robert Goodrich-Bligh. And I truly am a perfumier. But a perfumier turned watchdog.”
&nb
sp; She pressed a hand over her thundering heart as her eyes scanned his face. Just because he’d given her what he claimed to be his full name didn’t mean she could trust him. Could she trust anyone?
He held her gaze, his expression guileless, tinged with pity. Surely no one this goldenly handsome could have the black heart of a traitor? She had to make a decision.
“There’s Papa’s writing box. It’s full of odd papers. I thought they were just word puzzles, but—”
He was instantly alert, his fingers biting into her shoulder. “Do you have it with you? I mean, here, at Donhead?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Good. Keep it well hidden. Don’t let Addyman get his hands on the contents, whatever happens.”
The fact Goodrich didn’t ask for the box for himself was a huge relief. There was no coercion or threat in his demeanour, just earnestness.
Taking hold of her other shoulder, he turned her to face him. “You should leave as soon as you can. Take the box and the documents with you, just in case there’s something of vital importance in there. I’ll deal with Addyman.”
His urgency dismayed her. “I’ve told you. I can’t leave.”
He cupped her chin with one hand. His pale eyes bored into hers, but she pressed her lips together.
“Still can’t tell me why?”
“No”. She shook her head.
“Then I must warn you to be very, very careful. Much of what I’ve said is supposition, but those puzzles you found do suggest I’m correct about your papa—I hope to receive confirmation soon from my sources. Now, I’m duty-bound to move against Addyman as soon as I know what he’s planning, and I don’t want you or your aunt to get caught in the crossfire.”
“How soon do you mean to act?” She didn’t like the sound of crossfire. Not just for her own sake, but for his. Suddenly the effete, vain Mr Goodrich had become a man of great courage and selflessness.
He grasped her hand. “Does it matter?”
“Yes. I need time.”
“But you won’t tell me why. I wish you’d let me help you out of whatever trouble you’re in. I surmise there’s more at stake here than your new post.”
“Could you grant us a stay of execution? Two months would be ideal.” She watched his face, but his expression was grim.
“I can’t predict how things will go, my sweet. If I knew when the next movement of prisoners was to be, I could organise troops in advance. We have to catch everyone involved, you understand. No loose ends.”
“Yes, but—” She couldn’t give up on her scheme yet, not if there were any hope of salvaging it. Perhaps she could help both her country and herself. “Might we make an agreement?”
“I’m listening.” He’d started stroking his thumb across the back of her hand. It was distracting, but it felt so good, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
“If I promise to keep my ear to the ground and let you know when the next movement of prisoners is likely to be, will you grant me the time to reorganise and hold the charity banquet? Unless the next shipment of men is imminent.”
“Any delay could throw my whole enterprise in jeopardy. And I won’t have you putting yourself in harm’s way—this is no game.”
“I won’t do anything dangerous. What if, as soon as I find out when the Frenchmen are to be smuggled through, my aunt and I come to you, and bring Papa’s box? Then we’ll be safe at your house—High Gates isn’t it? —while you get your men together to capture the prisoners as soon as they arrive.”
It was, to her mind, a brilliant idea. She gazed up at him with all the entreaty she could muster, short of batting her eyelashes. He must agree—the charity ball had to go ahead.
“I don’t like it. But there again, if you and your aunt were to leave suddenly, it might arouse Addyman’s suspicions, which would put everyone in danger.” He ran a hand through his hair and gazed past her. “I’ll have a word with Guido—he’s my assistant—and perhaps we can formulate a plan for your early departure that mitigates the risk. We’ll have to see—”
He paused, and his focus returned to Phoebe. His voice took on a different tone as he said, “It’s hard to deny you anything when you look at me like that, Miss Phoebe Duvall.”
Captured by his gaze, her lips parted, but before she could utter a response, his mouth was on hers. Flames of desire leapt to instant life in her belly as her he held her, just for a moment, against that magnificent body. Then he broke the kiss, stood up and strode away, leaving her limp and breathless on the garden seat.
She scrubbed her hand over her moistened lips. Now she knew what it felt like to want a man, to crave his kiss, his attention, the touch of his body. Damn Robert Goodrich-Bligh! He had too much power over her. And if he didn’t adhere to her request, he had the potential to ruin everything.
Chapter 12
The following day, Phoebe hurried across to the main house so she could examine the stores more closely.
With a sinking stomach, she was inclined to think Goodrich was right. The shelves looked remarkably empty, considering how much food she’d ordered. By her reckoning, there were eight penny loaves, several pounds of hard Somerset cheese, and four full legs of ham missing, as well as numerous smaller items.
Fear shot down her spine. Not because her plan to marry quickly was in danger, but because Addyman might actually be a traitor. Such men were dangerous and unpredictable. How was she to defend herself and her fragile aunt if matters came to a head?
As soon as she got back to the Dower House, she delved into the window seat downstairs where she’d hidden the box. Safe, thank heaven! Certain Molly was happily occupied in the kitchen preparing luncheon, she took the box out and rifled through its contents.
She sorted all the letters into one pile to read later and tucked them back in the box. The puzzles—as she’d originally thought them—were laid on top.
Was this all? Could there be a hidden drawer she’d not yet found, containing the key to the codes? If only she knew how these things worked.
A shadow engulfed her heart. Up until now, she’d hoped Papa might still be alive, just ill or unable to get word to them some reason. But if what Goodrich had told her was correct, the truth was much harder to cope with. Papa had been involved in perilous missions. He was, in all likelihood, dead.
Another shadow fell across her, this time a real one. Glancing up, she realised with a start someone was watching her from the other side of the window.
Addyman.
Despite the painful lurch of panic, she wasn’t going to hide everything guiltily—she’d brazen it out. With a smile, she stood, nodded in the direction of the front door, and went through to let him in.
“Miss Phoebe.” He removed his hat and saluted her with it. “Are you alone?”
An odd beginning for a conversation. “No, my aunt is in the kitchen.”
“Good.” He walked through to the kitchen, greeted Aunt Molly, and said, “Miss Phoebe and I have some business to discuss. We’ll use the sitting room. It won’t take long, but I’d appreciate it if you were not to disturb us.”
Phoebe repressed a shiver. She was about to be closeted with Addyman. Would Molly be able to help if things became…unpleasant?
His gaze strayed across the open box, but he made no comment. Seating himself close to the window, he waved Phoebe into a chair by the door. Excellent—she wasn’t trapped. However, with his back to the window, she couldn’t read his expression. Had he done that deliberately?
“You were reading some letters when I came by. Your own, I take it?”
She must do nothing to antagonise or alert him. She’d stick as close to the truth as she dared. “I have a copy of my father’s will in that box.”
“I see.” He sounded disinterested. “And the letters?”
“Inconsequential things from what I can tell. Estate affairs and what have you. Now, I assume you’ve come to talk about rearranging the charity banquet.”
He steepled his fin
gers. “Not exactly. Cook tells me you’ve been examining the stores.”
Curse it. She thought no one had noticed. “I understood that was part of my job, to look after supplies for your charity galas. I wondered what had happened to all my purchases after you cancelled the event.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Given away to the local poorhouse.”
Really? “Well. Hmm. I’m glad they went to a good cause. But I confess myself surprised you didn’t tell me. I could have made sure they were distributed to the foundlings rather. Perhaps next time, you will allow me to assist with such things.”
“Your job, Miss Phoebe Duvall, is to do what I tell you.”
She stiffened. He’d never before spoken to her so abruptly. The old Phoebe would have snapped that it was evident they didn’t think alike, and resigned her post immediately. The new, needing-to-be-married-in-two-months Phoebe realised she needed to be conciliatory.
“Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. The supplies are yours to do with as you wish.”
“Precisely. Now, perhaps you’d be prepared to tell me what is between you and Mr Goodrich.”
Her skin prickled. Had they been seen together? “If I understand your meaning correctly, I can say there is nothing between us. I don’t even recall the manner of our first meeting.”
Addyman leaned closer. Even in the shadow, she could see his raised eyebrows. “How could anyone not recall their first sight of that ridiculous coxcomb?”
She forced a laugh. “I know. He is, isn’t he? But I seem to attract them for some reason, and number many among my friends.”
“Mr Goodrich told me your connection was something to do with cloth.”
Oh, Lord! What had Goodrich said about their connection? He should have told her, so their stories agreed. Had he told Addyman about the ink?
She swallowed a sigh. If she didn’t know what lie to tell, it was better to use something close to the truth and hope Goodrich had done the same.
“I spoiled a gown while I was out, and he advised me on where to purchase some similar cloth. I had no expectation of him bringing it himself, nor do I know how he traced me here.”
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