Addyman sniffed, then said, “I have no interest in Goodrich. I am far more fascinated by you. Especially since I have learned something intriguing about your father.” He tipped his head in the direction of the box on the window seat. “Do you know the truth about him yourself, I wonder?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Papa disappeared during a diplomatic mission to France. As he’s been missing three years, we’re assuming the worst. I find it hurtful you should bring up the matter in so callous a fashion.”
“I’m not being callous, Phoebe, as you’re about to discover. What would you say if I told you he was alive and well and that I knew exactly where to find him? I could even restore him to you, should certain… um… criteria be met.”
She stared at the shadowy figure against the brightly-lit window. How could she see if he was telling the truth? It was too much to hope.
“Papa’s alive? Then I’m truly blessed. I can’t wait to tell Molly.” Her voice shook.
He raised a finger. “Not yet. Your father was taken for a spy in France. He has been forced to endure much. What you will find less palatable is the fact that, when taken, he became a double agent, turning traitor to the Crown and the British government, and sending back disinformation to our forces.”
“No. Papa would never—”
He raised a hand to silence her. “Who knows what a man may turn to under duress? But I don’t tell you this to upset you. I want you to know that I have friends, contacts in France. I can get your father out and restore him to you.”
How did Addyman know that? Unless he was everything Goodrich said he was. But that didn’t detract from the fact Papa might be alive, and Addyman was offering to get him out of France. Papa could return home and take care of them again—he’d find it much easier to raise funds for the roof repairs than she could—and she needn’t marry at all if she didn’t want to.
Her employer was waiting for a response, so she steeled herself and asked the inevitable question. “What will it cost to rescue him?”
“Oh, don’t worry about financial issues—I can call in some favours. All I want from you is the writing box and its contents. I only ask for a loan of it, in fact, and I will return everything to you. I’ll get Grant to put together an inventory if it pleases you.”
Hand over the box? When Goodrich had told her its significance? She’d risk doing a disservice to her fellow countrymen in order to get her father back to England—men might lose their lives on the back of her decision. Stalling for time, she said, “I’d like to remove Papa’s will first, as that is only of interest to myself, and is very personal.”
“Interesting.” He rose and went to the window, leaving her to watch helplessly as he shuffled through the papers.
“Good. You’re not objecting. Learning fast, Miss Phoebe, learning fast. You appreciate what might be at stake if you don’t comply. I could just as easily have your father killed as saved.”
The air turned chill as the grave. Goodrich was right—Addyman was a traitor. How had she ever had the misfortune to become entangled with such a despicable man?
Had he planned this all along? Had he known exactly who he wanted under his eye? But what were his ultimate plans for her, and poor, unsuspecting Aunt Molly?
He took out a long, folded document. It was weighted at the bottom with a solicitor’s seal.
Papa’s will.
As Addyman unfolded it, the letter fell out, which he caught deftly. As if things couldn’t get any worse. He was now reading Papa’s letter about her having to be married to claim her share of the trust fund.
After a long, intense silence, broken only by the sound of her rapid breathing, he let out a low whistle. “Oh dear, Phoebe, you are in deep water, aren’t you? Luckily for you, I can offer a solution to this problem.”
She cringed, then closed her eyes. There was nothing this man could do to solve her problems, only add to them. She waited, head down, for the axe to fall. And it did.
He sounded genuinely cheerful as he informed her, “You will continue here, performing the task for which I employed you, namely acting as hostess at my charitable and social functions. You will ask no questions, or you will never see your father alive again. But you will no longer be carrying out these functions as an employee. You will be carrying them out as my wife.”
Chapter 13
There was something about the taste of Phoebe’s lips—Robert couldn’t get her out of his head. Despite telling her in the yew walk he had his eyes on the Grand Prize, he was starting to think that if she were part of it, he wouldn’t mind at all. How fortunate that this dangerous enterprise had dropped such a nonpareil in his path. The gods knew how to reward him right enough.
No, the gods were untrustworthy—always had been. But he needed Phoebe’s help. Her loyalty and integrity were essential to his mission. She was young, but mature at the same time, although he sensed she had no real experience of men. However, her response to his kiss, the way she’d pressed against him, hanging on his lips like a bee sucking nectar, told him her body was more than ready to gain that experience.
There was more than just her sensuality that attracted him, more than her looks, the tone of her voice, and her graceful way of moving. There was her willingness to risk anything to protect her nearest and dearest. It could not have been easy for her, as a well-bred female used to a life of ease, to opt for employment in a strange house, with such weight of responsibility. Half the women he’d been with couldn’t boil a kettle, let alone cook, and more than half seemed incapable of dressing themselves. Although his presence in their chambers at the time of getting dressed might have had something to do with it.
Playing the Lothario belonged to his past. Once he’d established himself at Donhead and won back the title of Earl of Marchmont, his days of climbing up steep walls and diving into canals in pursuit of well-protected young ladies would be behind him.
He’d told Phoebe he loved her. That had been a vile thing to do. Luckily, she was level-headed enough not to believe him. But there was something there, a tightness around his heart, more pleasure than pain, that he’d never felt before. Had he started to care for this woman? Would he ever have a chance to explore his interest in her any further?
A knock on the door jerked him out of his reverie. His Italian footman’s distinctive knock. “Come in, Guido.”
The servant entered, bearing a letter. “This came for you, Signor. By private courier. He did not wait, as no reply was required.”
“Thank you.” Robert took the missive and looked at the writing. Yes. It was the letter he’d been waiting for, the answer to his enquiry about Benjamin Duvall.
He scanned it and his jaw went taut. Not good news. No one recently returned from France had any news other than that Duvall had been betrayed into the hands of the French authorities. As nothing has been heard from him in almost three years, everyone assumed he had either succumbed to torture or been executed.
How was he going to break this to Phoebe? Did he even want to? Yes, of course, he must, even though it pained him. She’d been used to managing without her father for so long, she would recover from news she must be half expecting. She was a survivor, the doughty Miss Phoebe Duvall. He ought to tell her right away. Striding to the door, he opened it and called out, “Guido!”
“Signor?”
“Get a couple of horses saddled up. We’re going to Donhead. Wear dark clothes—I want to get in without attracting attention.”
“Si, certo, Signor.”
Guido had proved his usefulness in Venice, and when Robert was contacted and asked to spy on Addyman, he’d insisted Guido come with him. The man spoke English and French as well as his native Italian and had proved himself useful on numerous occasions. He also had an excellent nose for scents and could work out the ingredients mixed in any perfume with stunning accuracy. He was good with his fists too—always an advantage.
In less than fifteen minutes, they’d reached the part of the Donhead es
tate wall closest to the Dower House. Robert bade Guido hide the horses and keep a lookout, while he scaled the wall into the grounds. They would signal with the sound of a chattering magpie if anything were amiss.
His plan was to go to the Dower House, talk with Phoebe, then leave, having ascertained both she and her aunt were safe. He’d also try once more to make them quit Donhead and get themselves out of danger.
The place was dark and quiet when he reached it. The gloom of evening had already descended, so he would have expected to see light, and a smoking chimney. Maybe they’d gone up to the main house for their evening meal. Damn. Should he break in and wait inside? He’d rather that than delay seeing them until the morning.
Cautiously, he dug his picklock into the front door keyhole and twisted it. The lock was simple, and he had no difficulty undoing it. Stealing into the house, he closed the door softly behind him, then stood in the hallway, wishing he’d thought to bring light.
Something didn’t feel right. The house was cold as if no fire had been lit in several days, and there was a musty odour, suggesting it hadn’t been aired in a while either. He made his way up the stairs and entered the first bedroom he came to. Usually, a female room would smell of perfume, fresh flowers or scented soap, or even just lavender from the linen closet. But there was no scent at all.
Feeling about on the mantelpiece above the tiny fireplace, he found the stub end of a candle. He lit it and looked around him. Nothing. There was no sign anyone had occupied this chamber in days. No shoes, no clothes in the press, no hats, bonnet boxes…nothing.
With growing alarm, he tried the other bedroom but was met with the same story. No sign of occupation. Both Phoebe and her aunt had moved out. But why had she not told him? It wasn’t safe for them to return to Blacklands if Addyman knew something was amiss. The thought of what he might do to Phoebe…
Moisture pricked his upper lip, but he wiped his face with his sleeve and swallowed down the fear. Only keeping a level head would help him protect her, and he mustn’t behave like a love-sick idiot, immediately imagining the worst.
By the light of the candle, he hunted about for a lantern, eventually finding one on a nail by the front door. Should he go back to Guido? Or signal for Guido to join him? They needed a concerted plan of action.
Pausing just outside, he stared at the main house but could neither hear nor see any unusual activity. He was about to turn away when his eyes snagged on a faint pale shape, just visible at the edge of the pathway leading towards the house. Creeping forward, he lowered his light and discovered the object was a handkerchief. A large one, with a distinctive lacy edge to it. Falling to his knees, he examined it in trembling fingers and saw his own initials, RGB, sewn into one corner.
His heart skidded to a halt. Phoebe had left him a distress signal, but what did it mean? Had she left it there to show where she was going? Because this path only led to one place. The main house.
As his pulse thundered into action again, Robert let out his magpie call. Shortly thereafter, a call came back, followed eventually by the person of Guido.
“I tied the horses up, Signor—well hidden from the road and from anyone looking over the wall of the estate.”
“Well done. Now we are on the track of two missing ladies.”
The man’s brows drew together. “Gone? That is worrisome. But I’m not used to English gardens, Signor. How does one track people in a garden? At night?”
“Not necessary.” If Phoebe were in trouble, Addyman would be the cause of it. If the villain had reason to suspect her, he’d want her where he could keep an eye on her. Up at Donhead, with its ancient moat, and high walls. “They’ll have been taken to the house.”
He led the way, keeping in the shadows of the leafy laurels and rhododendrons, tripping over tangled roots and approaching as close to the building as he dared. If the worst had happened, and Addyman knew about the association between Phoebe and himself and if, God forbid, he knew the English authorities were closing in, he’d be on his guard. He’d have posted sentries, he’d have loosed the dogs, utilised everything he could to protect what he valued.
The main door, at the end of the bridge spanning the moat, was tight shut. Of course, it was. The tradesman’s entrance by the back bridge would be closed too. The walls of the house rose sheer from the moat’s edge—there was no other way in unless one was prepared to swim across and climb through a window. Not impossible, especially if the ivy that had been allowed to run riot over the walls was strong enough to hold his weight. But risky all the same.
Signalling Guido to follow, he covered his lantern. Crouching low, he made his way around the brick wall that edged the moat, poking at the irises and bulrushes that had been allowed to grow unchecked at the water’s edge. Eventually, he saw what he was looking for. A dark shape, low down in the water, almost hidden from view. The old punt. It would get himself and Guido across the moat, and provide a vessel in which to evacuate the ladies since Addyman was highly unlikely to let them walk out the main door. Dare he hope the punt’s pole was still close by?
He turned and grinned at Guido. “If you can propel a gondola, you can manage a punt, so long as we can find the pole. I need to reach the west wall, where the ivy is—I hope it’ll take my weight, as I’m no child anymore. I can make it to the study window on the ground floor. Let’s hope I can get inside that way.”
“Signor, look.” Guido pointed up at a lighted window in the attics. A small white cloth hung from the sill, like an item of laundry put out to dry. It was square. A lady’s handkerchief.
An icy hand squeezed Robert’s heart. His surmise was correct. Phoebe had somehow given herself away to Addyman and been taken—and was in desperate need of his help. A quick trawl through his childhood memories told him what room it must be and how to get there. But as a child, he’d moved through the rooms the conventional way—from the inside. That way was closed to him now.
His original plan to climb in through the lowest accessible window he could find was replaced by the need to climb all the way up to the attics so he could reach Phoebe directly. He’d no idea what might be happening up there—she could be drugged, chained, under torture. The idea brought bile to his throat.
Grabbing Guido’s arm, he hoisted him over the wall, then vaulted over himself and slid down the steep bank and into the punt. The vessel rocked wildly as they hunted for the pole, but after what seemed like hours, it was discovered and freed from a net of brambles and bindweed. Guido steered them out into the water.
Robert’s feet got wet right away—it was too much to expect that the thing that would be watertight after all this time. Silently gliding around the moat to the point where the ivy began, he was numb with tension, praying they’d make it before the boat sank.
They did. “Stay here with the punt,” he told Guido. “Bail it out with your shoes if need be. I’ll climb up and assess the situation. Then, if I can, I’ll bring the ladies down to the ground floor and get them out through the study window, which is just here. If you can get it open without attracting attention, that would be a great help.”
As he indicated the window closest to them, he realised getting an elderly lady to climb through it and down several feet of wall into a rickety punt would be no mean feat. Again, he must trust to luck.
But at that very moment, luck chose to desert him. The noise of many feet crunching on gravel increased in volume and a party of about a dozen men appeared at the end of the driveway, approaching the house.
“Into the water, quick!” he whispered to Guido, and they slid over the side of the boat, manoeuvring their way round to put the punt between themselves and the unwelcome arrivals. Robert’s heart thundered like cannon fire as he held his breath, praying they hadn’t been seen.
There was no sudden furore, no unsheathing of weapons, and after a moment, he chanced looking out. A faint glimmer of moonlight revealed the new arrivals were dressed in workmen’s clothes, with stout boots, thick woollen coats, and
a range of battered hats. They looked for all the world like a group of English agricultural labourers, returning home from a day in the fields.
Two members of the group carried themselves with an air of self-importance—one was in the lead, the other taking up the rear. Both had pistols tucked into their belts, unusual for a group of labourers. But what was most striking about the group was that, although there was no stealth in their approach, none of them was talking.
Mayhap because the only language they knew was French?
Robert dug his nails into his palms. Here was his quarry at last, ripe for the taking, and he was outnumbered and forced to keep to cover. A thousand damnations upon Addyman! If the blackguard hadn’t decided to take advantage of two helpless women, Robert could have had them all in his hands this very night.
What must he do now? His mission was clear—capture Addyman and the French prisoners. Failure meant not only shame, but the loss of everything he’d hoped for when he set sail from Venice; the restoration of his father’s good name, his own reinstatement as Earl of Marchmont, and the return of Donhead Castle and the family’s lands to himself and his sister.
Yet, balanced against all of this were the lives of Miss Phoebe Duvall and her aunt. Courageous, innocent, clever Phoebe. Beautiful, delectable, adorable Phoebe. If anything were to happen to her, he could never, ever forgive himself.
He knew what he had to do. There was no choice.
He gritted his teeth, then whispered, “Guido, swim back across the moat, take the fastest horse and get a message to the militia—you know where to find them. Captain Cranborne should be on alert and able to ready his men quickly. Tell him we’re dealing with around a dozen French, and more men inside, ready to defend their master. He must take everyone alive so they can be questioned. I’ll try and rescue the ladies, then open the door by the back bridge to give the soldiers access. If I can make it through alive.” His voice sounded rough with strain, and he grimaced. “And tell Cranborne to keep his blasted soldiers quiet, will you?”
A Treacherous Engagement Page 8