by Lisa Kleypas
Chapter 29
As Phoebe led the way to the study, where they could speak in complete privacy, she noticed Ethan Ransom absorbing every detail of his surroundings. Not in the way of someone who appreciated interior décor, but rather like a surveyor examining distances and angles. He was pleasant and polite, with a guarded charm that almost made her forget the flash of ice-cold brutality in the first few moments of their disastrous meeting.
Even without having been told about Ransom’s appointment with the Metropolitan Police, Phoebe would have known he held a position of responsibility in some potentially dangerous profession. There was something almost catlike about him—a quiet and lethal grace. She sensed that West’s relaxed presence helped to make him far more approachable than he ordinarily would have been.
Once inside the study, Phoebe and West sat at the table, while Ransom stood on the opposite side and began to lay out documents. The review of the loan and initial expenses began predictably enough: there had been checks made out to brick and tile manufacturers for field drainage systems, and other checks for installation. There were also checks for land work such as hedge removal and leveling, and waste land reclamation. But soon they reached a run of checks written for less easily identifiable purposes.
“C. T. Hawkes and Associates,” Phoebe read aloud, frowning as she saw a draft in the amount of five thousand eight hundred pounds. “What kind of work do they do?”
“It’s a residential building company,” Ransom replied.
“Why would Edward Larson pay such a large sum to a house builder? Do they also repair farm buildings?”
“I don’t believe so, my lady.”
Frowning, Phoebe scrutinized the next large entry. “James Prince Hayward of London. Who is that?”
“A coach builder,” West said, his gaze moving farther down the list. “Here are expenses for a saddler and harness maker . . . a domestic employment agency . . . and more than a few charges at Winterborne’s department store.” He gave Ransom a sardonic glance, shaking his head slowly.
It vexed Phoebe that they both seemed to understand something she hadn’t yet grasped. She mulled over the information. House . . . coach . . . horse furnishings . . . domestic servants . . . “Edward set up a household somewhere,” she said in wonder. “With money he borrowed from my son’s inheritance.” A wobbly feeling came over her, and she needed ballast even though she was seated. She watched her slender white fingers creep over West’s coat sleeve as if they belonged to someone else. The solid muscle beneath her hand was familiar and comforting. “Is there more you can tell me?”
West spoke in a flat, resigned tone. “Out with it, Ransom.”
The other man nodded and leaned down to pull more papers from his bag. “Mr. Larson purchased a speculative house built not far from here, in Chipping Ongar. It has eight bedrooms, a conservatory and a veranda.” Ransom set the floor plans and elevations in front of them. “There’s also a walled garden and a small coach house occupied by a single-horse brougham.” Ransom paused to glance at her with a faint frown of concern, as if to evaluate her emotional state before continuing. “It’s been leased for the nominal sum of one pound a year to Mrs. Parrett, a woman of approximately twenty-two years of age.”
“Why so large a house for only one person?” Phoebe asked.
“There seems to be a plan for the woman to turn it into a boardinghouse someday. Her true name is Ruth Parris. She’s the unmarried daughter of a button maker who lives not far from here. The family is poor but respectable. About five years ago, Miss Parris left her family’s home when it was discovered she was with child. She went to stay with a distant cousin, gave birth, and eventually returned to Essex to take up residence at the Chipping Ongar house with her son. A boy of four.”
Almost Justin’s age, Phoebe thought numbly. “What is his name?” she asked.
A long hesitation followed. “Henry.”
Tears stung her eyes. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, pulled it out and blotted them.
“My lady,” she heard Ransom ask, “is it possible your husband—”
“No,” she said in a watery voice. “My husband and I were inseparable, and besides, he hadn’t the health or opportunity to carry on an affair. There’s no doubt he’s Edward’s.” She struggled to fit this new idea of Edward in with what she knew about him. It was like trying to push her heel into a punishingly tight shoe.
West remained silent, staring fixedly at the floor plans without really seeing them.
“Even if Larson isn’t the father,” Ransom said, “you still have ample proof of negligence on his part. He abused his position as executor and trustee by using your son’s inheritance as collateral for a loan and using the money to benefit himself. More to the latter, the loan company is at fault in failing to provide oversight, since the money was designated only for land improvement.”
“Edward’s executorship must end immediately,” Phoebe said, her fist clenching around the handkerchief. “However, I want to proceed in a way that will cause the least amount of harm to Ruth and her child. They’ve suffered enough.”
“They’re living in an eight-bedroom house,” West pointed out sardonically.
Phoebe turned to him, her hand smoothing his sleeve. “The poor girl has been made an object of shame. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old when she and Edward . . . when their acquaintance began. Now she lives a half existence, unable to meet with her family openly. And little Henry has no father. They deserve our compassion.”
West’s mouth twisted. “You and your sons are the ones who’ve been wronged,” he said flatly. “My compassion is all for you.”
Ransom’s face had gentled at Phoebe’s words, his eyes now warm blue. “You’ve a rare, good heart, my lady. I wish I could have brought better news today.”
“I appreciate your help more than I can express.” Phoebe felt inadequate and overwhelmed, thinking of all the emotional and legal tangles ahead of her. So many difficult decisions.
After studying her for a moment, Ransom spoke with encouraging gentleness. “As my Mam always told me, ‘If you can’t get rid of your troubles, take them easy.’”
Ransom left Clare Manor as swiftly as he had appeared, taking the financial documents with him. For some reason, West’s mood went rapidly downhill afterward. Turning grim and taciturn, he told Phoebe he needed some time to himself. He closed himself in the study for at least four hours.
Eventually Phoebe took it upon herself to see how he was. She knocked lightly on the door, let herself inside, and approached the table where West was writing. He had filled at least ten pages with lines of small, meticulous notes.
“What’s all that?” she asked, coming to stand beside him.
Setting down the ink pen, West rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “A list of recommendations for the estate, including immediate needs and long-term goals. I want you to have a good idea of what the most pressing concerns are and what information you’ll still need to find out. This plan will show you how to proceed after I’m gone.”
“For heaven’s sake, is your luggage already packed? You sound as though you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, but soon. I can’t stay forever.” He neatened the stack of pages and set a glass paperweight on top. “You’ll need to hire a qualified assistant—I expect your father will know someone. Whoever he is, he’ll have to build a relationship with your tenants and at least pretend to give a damn about their problems.”
Phoebe stared at him quizzically. “Are you angry with me?”
“No, with myself.”
“Why?”
A scowl darkened his expression. “Just a dash of habitual self-loathing. Don’t worry about it.”
This irritable melancholy was completely unlike him. “Come for a walk?” she suggested. “You’ve closed yourself in this room for too long.”
He shook his head.
She dared to broach the subject that was preoccupying
both of them. “West, if you were in Edward’s place, would you have—”
“Don’t,” he said testily. “That’s not fair to him or me.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to hear the answer.”
“You already know the answer,” he growled. “The boy’s welfare is the only thing that matters. He’s the only one who didn’t have a choice in any of this. After what I endured in my childhood, I would never cast my own son and his defenseless mother on the world’s mercy. Yes, I would have married her.”
“That’s what I expected you to say,” Phoebe murmured, loving him even more than before, if that were possible. “You have no illegitimate children, then.”
“No. At least, I’m reasonably sure. But there’s no ironclad guarantee. For a woman who doesn’t like nasty surprises leaping up, you’ve a knack for choosing the wrong companions.”
“I would hardly put you in the same category as Edward,” Phoebe protested. “He borrowed money against my son’s inheritance. You would never do anything to hurt Justin or Stephen.”
“I already have. They just won’t feel it until they’re older.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Too often in the past, I made a public spectacle of myself on the worst possible occasions, in front of the worst possible people. I was an absolute swine. Brawling at parties. Pissing in fountains and vomiting in potted plants. I’ve slept with other men’s wives, I’ve ruined marriages. It takes years of dedicated effort to discredit one’s own name as thoroughly as I did, but by God, I set the bar. There will always be rumors and ugly gossip, and I can’t contradict most of it because I was always too drunk to know whether it happened or not. Someday your sons will hear some of it, and any affection they feel for me will turn to ashes. I won’t let my shame become their shame.”
Phoebe knew if she tried to argue with him point by point, it would only lead to frustration on her part and wallowing on his. She certainly couldn’t deny that upper-class society was monstrously judgmental. Some people would perch ostentatiously on their moral pedestals, loudly accusing West while ignoring their own sins. Some people might overlook his blemished reputation if there was any advantage to them in doing so. None of that could be changed. But she would teach Justin and Stephen not to be influenced by hypocritical braying. Kindness and humanity—the values her mother had imparted—would guide them.
“Trust us,” she said quietly. “Trust me and my sons to love you.”
West was silent for so long that she thought he didn’t intend to respond. But then he spoke without looking at her, in a flat and unemotional tone. “How could I ever count on anyone to do that?”
To Phoebe’s relief, West’s dark mood seemed to have been dispelled by that evening. He romped with the boys after dinner, tossing and wrestling and flipping them, eliciting squeals, grunts, shrieks, and endless giggling. At one point, he was crawling on his hands and knees through the parlor like a tiger with both of them riding on his back. When they were all happily exhausted, they piled onto the settee.
Justin crawled into Phoebe’s lap and leaned his head back against her shoulder as they sat in the light of a standing lamp with a yellow silk shade, while a small fire crackled in the hearth. Reading aloud from a copy of Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter, she enjoyed Justin’s spellbound interest as they neared the end of the chapter.
“‘Stephen Armstrong watched as the sun’s burning rays slanted over the temple ruins. According to the ancient scroll, at precisely three hours after midday, a telltale animal shadow would reveal the entrance to the treasure cave. As the minutes passed but slowly, the shape of a crocodile gradually appeared on one of the embedded stone slabs. Directly beneath Stephen Armstrong’s feet, the treasure he had been seeking half his life lay in a deep, dark cavern.’” Phoebe closed the book, smiling at Justin’s groan of protest. “Next chapter tomorrow,” she said.
“More now?” Justin asked hopefully. “Please?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.” Phoebe glanced at West, who was half reclining in the corner of the settee with Stephen against his chest. The two of them appeared to be slumbering soundly, with one of the toddler’s chubby arms loosely clasped around West’s neck.
Justin followed her gaze. “I think you should marry Uncle West,” he commented, startling her.
Her voice came out breathless. “Why do you say that, darling?”
“Then you would always have someone to dance with. A lady can’t dance by herself or she would fall over.”
Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw West stretching and stirring. Holding Justin closely, she smoothed his dark hair and kissed his head. “Some gentlemen prefer not to marry.”
“You should use some of Granny’s perfume,” Justin said.
Phoebe suppressed a laugh as she looked into his earnest face. “Justin, don’t you like the way I smell?”
“Oh, I do, Mama, but Granny always smells like cake. If you smelled like cake, Uncle West would want to marry you.”
Torn between amusement and dismay, Phoebe didn’t dare look at West. “I’ll consider your advice, dear.” She gently eased Justin from her lap and stood.
West yawned audibly and sat up. Stephen was limp and heavy on his shoulder, still sleeping soundly.
Phoebe smiled and reached for the baby. “I’ll take him.” Carefully she gathered the toddler close and safe against her. “Come, Justin, let’s go upstairs to bed.”
The boy climbed off the settee and went to West, who was still sitting. “Good night,” Justin said cheerfully, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. It was the first time he’d ever made such a gesture toward West, who held very still and didn’t seem to know how to respond.
Phoebe carried Stephen to the doorway but paused as West stood and reached her at the threshold in a few long strides.
He spoke in her ear, too softly to be overheard. “It would be better if we stayed in our own beds tonight. We both need rest.”
She absorbed that with a quick double blink, a chill running down her spine. Something was wrong. She had to find out what it was.
Chapter 30
Long after the children had been tucked into bed, Phoebe sat in her room with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She argued silently with herself. Perhaps she should do as West had asked, and not go to the cottage. He was right, they both needed rest. But she wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor did she think he would.
How quiet it was, this late at night. No movement anywhere, except for the anxious staccato of her own heart.
That odd, blank look on his face . . . What emotions had it concealed? What was he struggling with?
Abruptly she came to a decision. She would go to him but make no demands. She only wanted to know if he was all right.
She tied a heavy dressing robe over her nightgown, and nudged her feet into leather slippers.
Soon she was hurrying across the stretch of damp lawn between the winter garden and the guest cottage. The night air was cool, the ground alive with shadows and quiet blue shocks of moonlight. By the time she reached the cottage, she was breathing fast from anxiety and haste, and her slippers were sodden. Don’t let him be angry that I’m here, she thought, her fingers trembling as she tapped softly on the door and let herself in.
It was dark in the cottage, except for thin silver gleams of moonlight stealing between curtains. Was West already sleeping? She would not wake him. Turning back to the door, she reached for the handle.
A gasp was torn from her throat as she became aware of movement behind her in the shadows. The door was firmly closed by a pair of large masculine hands. She froze in place with West’s arms braced on either side of her. Warm breath fanned against the nape of her neck, rustling tiny wisps of hair. She dampened her dry lips. “I’m sorry if I—”
His fingers touched her mouth gently, silencing her. He wasn’t interested in talking.
His hands reached around her to unfasten her robe, and he tossed
it aside. She stepped out of her slippers, relieved to be rid of the clammy leather. As she began to turn toward him, he grasped her hipbones and compelled her to continue facing the door. His body pressed against hers long enough for her to realize he was naked and aroused.
He unbuttoned the nightgown from her throat to her navel, and let it whisper over her skin to the floor. Wordlessly he began to arrange her body, pushing her palms against the door. One of his bare feet came between hers, and he used his thigh to spread her legs until she stood in an exposed posture, her torso inclined forward. Remaining behind her, he let his hands slide over her body, cupping her breasts, catching the tips in gentle pinches and lightly swaying their weights. He stroked her hips, waist, bottom, one hand sliding between her thighs from the front and one from the back.
She made an agitated sound, quivering, as he opened and caressed her, fingering the soft outer lips, tugging at the inner ones, running his fingertips through moisture. She felt the cool air against the wetness of her sex, and the warmth of his fingers as he pressed the tender hood back from the stiffening bud. He teased and played slowly until her legs strained and she was weak with desire. Breathing fast, she leaned her weight more heavily on her hands, wishing desperately that he would take her to bed.
But he stepped closer to her, his hands adjusting the angle of her pelvis, and she let out a little sob of surprise as she felt him begin to enter her. He worked carefully inside her swollen depths, opening her with gradual advances and retreats. The hard shaft circled inside her, the sensation so good that her knees threatened to buckle. She heard his quiet huff of laughter, and he gripped her hipbones more firmly. When he was fully seated in her, he leaned over her and whispered, “Brace your legs.”
“I can’t,” she whimpered. All her bones seemed to have softened into isinglass, and her muscles were trembling. The only strength she had left was deep in the core of her body, where she couldn’t help clamping and kneading the rigid invasion.
“You’re not even trying,” he accused tenderly, his mouth curving against the back of her shoulder.