“Robert?”
“Thank heaven.” He was at her side in an instant, helping her to her feet, then assisting her Aunt Molly too. Both women looked tousled and pale, but he saw no signs of harm.
“It’s over. Captain Cranborne has rounded up everyone in the house. And Guido discovered an escape tunnel over by the old watchtower—they’re making certain there’s no one in it, before sealing it up. No Frenchman will ever again swell the ranks of Napoleon through this route.”
Phoebe pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. “And what of Addyman?”
His smile faltered. He’d hoped, expected, that she would throw herself into his arms, expressing her eternal gratitude. Instead, she looked… angry.
“He is just in the hallway, shackled and ready to be removed. I’ll bring him in here to apologise if you wish. I can promise he won’t harm you.”
She jutted her chin. Why so cold, after all they’d just been through? Had she thought he was mocking her with his offer of marriage?
“Yes. Bring him in, if you please. I have some questions for him, but I doubt he’ll answer truthfully.”
Robert looked down at his hands, at the grazed knuckles with their smears of blood, then pushed them behind his back. “I’m not—under normal circumstances—a man of violence, Miss Phoebe, but if he offends you in any way, I swear he’ll be punished.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I am ready to see him now.”
Addyman had been put into the care of Guido and one of the Redcoats and was chained both at ankles and wrists. Even though he could harm no one, tension pulsed through Robert and his fists flexed.
His enemy was somewhat the worse for wear, with a bloodied nose and swelling eye. But true to their word, the militia had taken every last traitor alive, if a little damaged. The prisoners would provide a fund of useful information to the authorities.
Robert seized Addyman’s shoulder and propelled him into the room. “Here he is.” He didn’t trouble to keep the disgust from his voice.
Phoebe didn’t bat an eyelid as she stood in front of the traitor. “Look at me,” she commanded.
When Addyman made no response, Robert unsheathed his dagger and pressed it under the man’s chin, forcing his head up. “Do as she says, dog.”
Like a sulky schoolboy caught out in mischief, Addyman met Phoebe’s eye. “Oh. It’s you. I guessed you had something to do with this. Such a shame about what will happen to your poor father when those holding him hear I’ve been taken.”
“You lied to me.” She spoke with conviction, and Robert felt a swelling of pride at her certainty. “My father is dead. You could never have restored him to me.”
Her assertion was met by a shrug. Having said he was not a violent man, Robert realised he could very quickly become one, in defence of his loved ones. He forced himself to lower the knife, lest temptation prove too much.
“Nothing to say? I expected as much. But my next question requires an answer, not a shrug. Where’s my father’s writing box?”
Addyman looked her full in the face, then threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I daresay you’ll find it eventually. Only the box, mind. I burned the papers myself, having deciphered that I wanted. The knowledge resides in my head, where no one else can read it.”
“Don’t be so sure of that.” The Redcoat looked down his nose at Addyman. “We have ways of finding out what we need to know. And of stopping folks passing information on to those as shouldn’t have it.”
Phoebe ignored this exchange. “I’m not interested in cyphers. I just want my father’s writings. He’s dead, yet you tell me you’ve burnt all his letters, destroyed my mementoes of him? I’m not a vengeful woman,” she said, glancing at Robert, “but I think you deserve to rot in Hell, Mr Addyman. You have no humanity.”
Robert’s captive sniggered. “Typical English sentimentality. My father had it, but my mother, of course, was French. Much more level-headed.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Robert wanted this conversation at an end. It was hurting Phoebe—though she was brazening it out—and he couldn’t bear it. He turned to Guido. “Did anyone search him?”
“No, Signor. I don’t think so.”
Robert prayed he was right. “Hold him still,” he commanded. “Arms away from his body.” As Addyman was wrestled into position, he felt along the man’s flanks. The crackle of paper. His head buzzed with excitement as he extracted and examined it.
Then he handed it to Phoebe. “Your father’s will—and a letter by the look of it. Addyman must’ve thought the document might still prove useful to him.”
“Thank you. This, at least, is something. Now take him away if you please. He offends my eyes.”
Robert signalled to the Redcoat, who frogmarched Addyman out of the room.
“Guido, would you please go above with Miss Duvall and see what can be found of the ladies’ possessions? Then have them returned to the Dower House.”
“You order my life now, do you, sir? Am I just exchanging one prison for another?” Phoebe glared at him.
He reeled at the animosity in her tone. Whatever had he done to arouse such anger?
“Excuse me.” He gave Guido and Aunt Molly an apologetic look. “I rather think I need to speak to Miss Phoebe alone.”
They left immediately, and he closed the door behind them, then stared at the broken panels in despair. They afforded little privacy. He would have to make do.
“Why did you have to break the door down? You scared us half to death.” Phoebe did, indeed, look pale. Was that a tremor in her hands?
“Why so critical? I lost the key in all the excitement, that’s all. I worried an enemy might have picked it up and that you were in danger—that’s why I broke the door. Anyway, it can be fixed.”
“I didn’t know Venetian perfumiers knew anything about carpentry.” Her head went back, and her eyes glittered coldly.
What a peculiar thing to say. He’d saved the day, at enormous risk to himself, and now she was making fun of his profession. Had she banged her head when she’d scuttled under that desk? He reached for her, but she evaded him.
“What’s wrong, Phoebe? I don’t understand.” It hurt to have her shy away from him. More than he would ever have expected. If only he could have played this game of chance without hazarding his heart.
“I thought you were hazarding your life from patriotism, from altruism, protecting King and Country.” She sounded like an angry snake. “But no. Your reward was not to be some medal or badge of honour or even preferment at court. Your motives were purely venal—you were after this place.”
He followed the direction of her gaze, to the portrait over the fireplace. It was shrouded in shadow, but nonetheless, the subject looked so like Robert that, were it not for the antiquated clothing the man was wearing, they could be mistaken for brothers.
His great-grandfather. Addyman, thankfully, had never spotted the picture. Phoebe, however, had not only noticed it but drawn the right conclusion. His shoulders drooped as the euphoria of accomplishing his mission seeped from his veins. “Yes. I admit that Donhead is my ancestral home. That is an image of the first Earl of Marchmont. I should, by rights, be the fourth.”
She drew herself up as if she were about to explode. “Were you ever going to tell me that was why you wanted to bring Addyman down? When was I to be informed that you ruined my life and all my plans out of pure self-interest?”
He heard a wobble in her voice and knew that despite the bravado, she was close to tears. Edging closer, as if she were frightened fawn rather than a hellion bristling with fury, he softened his voice. “I was coming to lay all before you today, I swear it. But circumstances rather took over. It’s true. I do hope I will soon be reinstated as Earl of Marchmont. My father forfeited the place to the Crown twenty years ago—most unfairly in my opinion. I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain I made with the king’s representatives, so it is only a question now of obtaining the re
levant documents and deeds. I have a sister, Aurora. She needs the services of expensive physicians. And she needs to regain her pride, as do I.”
“You were going to tell me today. All of it?” Was there a slight softening of her demeanour? He hoped so. With her hair awry and the uncertain trembling of her lower lip, she looked adorable. All he wanted to do was sweep her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
“That’s why I came here. But when I reached the Dower House and found you gone, I knew something was amiss.” He tilted his head at her. “You must’ve hoped I’d come, or you’d never have left that handkerchief.”
Her chin dropped, and she hid her expression from him. “So, you admit you never were a perfumier in Venice. All that was a pack of lies.”
“Not at all. I had to make myself a place in the world. How else could we have survived the past twenty years with no income? Papa had nothing to leave my sister and I when he died. I had to leave Aurora behind in a convent in Venice, as she is too sickly for sea-travel, but if she were here, she’d confirm everything I’ve told you. Look, why not put me to the test? Ask me how I obtain ambergris, ask me who the best merchants are for copal, ask me which roses make the best base essence. Ask Guido. He knows. He’s been with me the past five years.” He’d moved in close enough to touch Phoebe now. Praying she wouldn’t slap his hand away, he raised her chin, willing her to look at him.
“Phoebe, you must understand I couldn’t reveal all my secrets to you when you were still under Addyman’s influence. Be sure of this—it was only him I mistrusted, never you.”
Her warm hazel eyes gazed into his, stirring his soul. Her slightly-parted lips looked so tempting his whole being ached for her. When a tear escaped and slid down her cheek, he captured it with his finger, brushing her moist skin with the lightest of touches.
“Now, my darling, we have a few loose ends of our own that need tidying up. I asked you to marry me. I accept the circumstances of my offer were not ideal, but I would like to repeat it.” Oh, how formal that sounded. Should he fling himself on his knees in dramatic, Mr Goodrich fashion? Hold her and kiss her and hope she could hear his heart? Never before had he felt at such a loss.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut as if in pain. “How can I marry you? Nothing about you is real. You’re only asking because you know I’m desperate. We’d make each other miserable—I couldn’t bear it.”
The time for formal declarations was over. He pressed her hand against his chest. “And I couldn’t bear to let you part from me without telling you that I love you.”
Her eyes flashed open, and his heart leapt. He gazed at her expectantly, the breath frozen in his lungs.
“No.” She shook her head blindly and pulled away. “No. I can’t trust anything you say. You used me to get this house back. You’ll use my trust fund to bring it back to full splendour, as I shouldn’t imagine the perfume business brings in sufficient funds. You’re no better than Charles Addyman. I hate you, Robert Goodrich, or Bligh, or whoever the devil you are. I’m going back to Blacklands, and I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Before he could move, she’d dragged open the door and rushed out, taking all his hopes of happiness with her.
Chapter 17
Three days after the momentous events that had overtaken Donhead Castle, Phoebe had virtually completed her plans to return to Blacklands, defeated in all her goals, and frantically trying to decide what to do next.
There was a knock on the front door, which set her heart racing. Had he come, finally? The flush that suffused her cheeks told her she was not yet ready to greet the Earl of Marchmont with equanimity. She’d pretend not to be at home.
That choice was taken from her by Aunt Molly, who shot to the door like an arrow from a bow, and immediately engaged the mystery visitor in conversation. Unable to identify the male voice as Robert, Phoebe fumbled about with her packing, poised between brazening things out, and diving into a closet.
“Phoebe, there’s a gentleman here to see you.” A smile flickered at the edges of Molly’s lips, and her eye was bright.
Robert. It must be him. Aunt Molly had declared herself to have a soft spot for the man she insisted on calling ‘the hero of the hour’, and grinned like a gaby if ever his name came up.
“If it’s Mr Goodrich, he can just go away again.” Phoebe tossed her head.
Her aunt fixed her with an accusatory stare. “It’s not my job to turn people away from the door. If you don’t want to talk to him, you must tell him so. The poor man at least deserves an explanation.”
Phoebe sighed. Molly had been particularly unhelpful the past three days. It had taken her ages packing up her possessions ready for the move back to Blacklands, and she was continually losing things, then turning her boxes out to discover she had already packed the items for which she’d been looking.
It would have been nice to have a bit more support from her aunt, but in her heart of hearts, Phoebe knew she should deal with Robert herself. Only a coward would send their elderly relative out to face the foe. She went downstairs, took a deep breath, and entered the sitting room. Then immediately let the breath out in a huff of surprise.
“Miss Phoebe.” Mr Goodrich, complete with yellow suit, fancy waistcoat and lacy handkerchief, gave his flamboyant bow, then brushed his lips across her hand. “How delightful you are looking today.”
“Robert?” Why was he using this disguise again? Surely there was no need for him to hide his true identity any more.
He spread his hands. “As you see.” He spoke in the high-pitched voice that characterised Mr Goodrich, macaroni, as opposed to Mr Robert Goodrich-Bligh’s deep, seductive tone. “Shall we be seated?” He held out a chair for her.
Aunt Molly stuck her head around the door. “I’m going over to the castle. I know I’ve left my hairbrush over there. Don’t worry if I’m not back in an hour. I may have to hunt around a bit.” Before Phoebe could stop her, Molly was through the front door and hurrying off down the sandy path towards the main house.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes at Robert. “Why do I get the feeling this is a conspiracy?” Her heart had started beating faster now they were alone. She wished she could tell it not to.
He touched a hand to his breast as his eyebrows shot up. “I, dear lady? You cannot think I might be involved in a plot against you. You must know I was away all day yesterday, and inordinately busy the two days prior to that, so when could your aunt and I have arranged such a conspiracy?”
“I only have your word for it.” She hadn’t known what he’d been doing with himself since the capture of the Frenchmen; in fact, she’d tried not to think about him at all, as it was too painful. All that mattered was the blow he’d dealt her fragile heart by concealing the true reason for his crusade against Addyman. Although deep down, there was a gnawing ache of guilt, a feeling that she might also have hurt him when she should actually be thanking him for risking his life to rescue her. But how did one go about saying sorry to a man who was behaving so oddly?
He reached into his pocket.
“No, please, no snuff.” She waved an admonitory finger. “I don’t want you sneezing all over the sitting room. Oh, wait. I was forgetting—it’s your sitting room now, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. I see from the boxes standing around you are getting ready to say farewell, although I had no intention of evicting my two charming tenants. As I have come to tell you. Amongst other things.”
Farewell. Now he’d said the word aloud it hung in the air between them like a challenge. Her chest felt hollow.
“I think you knew we were leaving. Why did you have to come to make your farewells in costume? I assumed the foppish Mr Goodrich could be dispensed with now, in favour of the future Earl of Marchmont.”
He took the seat next to her. “I know. ‘Earl of Marchmont’ sounds very grand, doesn’t it? But now that my inheritance has been restored, I’ve been asking myself if it’s what I want after all. There was a certain amount of pleasure
to be had in being plain Robert Bligh.”
She detected an unexpected note of regret in his tone. Why wasn’t the man cock-a-hoop about it? He’d won his battles. Hers still lay ahead.
“You could go back to Venice, but still be Earl of Marchmont,” she suggested. “Employ a steward to look after Donhead when you’re away. Or install your sister here, if she’s well enough.”
“Indeed—I’m sure I can come to some sort of arrangement. Now, I have something for you. Two things, in fact.” He pulled out a small glass bottle, decorated with ornate silver filigree, and handed it to her. “I think of you as a musk person—deep, passionate, down-to-earth. But that would be too overpowering, so I lifted it with a dash of lavender. Then toned the lavender down with a little honeysuckle to complement your sweetness.”
Dumbstruck, she uncorked the bottle and sniffed the contents. Her heart lifted.
“Why, it’s lovely.”
“You must dab some on. You’ll only get the true effect when it’s applied to the skin.” His voice had lowered now, sounding more natural, and his head was close to hers as he watched her apply the perfume to her wrist. In such proximity, she sensed the tension in his body. Her reaction to his gift mattered, it seemed. Very much.
She sniffed the perfume again before carefully corking the bottle. “How clever you are. It’s utterly delightful.”
“Just like you, my darling, just like you.”
Her breathing faltered. Mr Goodrich had disappeared, to be replaced by Robert Bligh, hot, vital, and intensely real.
Thank heaven.
He cleared his throat. “I hoped the perfume might help us to be friends again. A peace offering, if you like. But there’s something else as well. If you’ll permit me—”
The catch in his voice made her look up. Hope kindled in his blue eyes.
Damn him. How could anyone look so magnetically attractive with their face plastered in cosmetics? She attempted a frown. “You expect me to forgive you for concealing your identity and your true reason for bringing down Addyman.”
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