by Scott, Tarah
“I think it is you who needs a scolding," she said. "Why didn’t you demand my release or, at least steal me away in the night?”
“What?” Horror appeared on his face. “And be guilty of the marquess’ crime? No, thank you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “And, as I said, I was curious.”
“Your curiosity may have cost me a great deal.”
“Hmm,” Alistair intoned. “The duke wasn’t pleased with his son’s antics?”
“He was not.”
“He's insisting the marquess make things right?”
“And being quite pigheaded about it in the bargain,” Phoebe added darkly.
“The duke can afford to be as pigheaded as he pleases. He is a powerful man.”
“And he knows it," she muttered. "With your help, however, I can better deal with him.”
“You have been in the company of one of Britain’s most eligible men for two weeks.”
Phoebe stiffened. “You don't think—”
“I think nothing in particular,” Alistair interrupted. “but it isn't my tongue that will wag all over London.”
“Tongues can't speak of something they don't know.”
Lord Redgrave gave her a fool yourself if you like look.
“Calders will keep quiet,” Phoebe insisted.
“And your servants?”
“They know nothing.”
“The marquess won't pursue the matter?” Redgrave paused, then added, “Once he makes known his suit, word will be all over London in a day.”
Phoebe thought of the letter probably already read and acted upon by her uncle. “He can't force me into marriage,” she said with vehemence.
Redgrave angled his head in ascent. “Ultimately, you can refuse him, but your uncle will be pigheaded about the matter as well. Not to mention, you're likely to receive no other reputable offers. Though, fortune hunters will hound you. You will soon be a rich woman.”
She snorted. “I care nothing for offers, reputable or not. I am well past marriageable age.”
His lip twitched. “On the shelf, are we?”
“I haven't had an offer in years.”
He lifted a brow.
“A reputable offer,” she said. “Adam does not signify.”
“Adam would disagree.”
“I have more pressing matters,” Phoebe replied.
“More important than a family?” His face softened. “Do you so fear another mistake that you will deny yourself happiness?”
Phoebe blinked. “What—you don't mean—”
“You were but seventeen. Surely you understand what an impressionable age that is?”
“I realize he was a fortune hunter," she replied. "A very patient fortune hunter.”
“Patience is a fortune hunter’s greatest asset,” Redgrave replied. "You understand why your marriage to him had to be annulled?”
She regarded him. “This is the first time you asked me that question. Why now?”
“Perhaps my advanced years have given me a different perspective.”
“You're not so old. What, forty-six this year?”
He scowled. “Forty-five, my girl.”
She studied him, noticing the flecking of gray that highlighted his brown hair and, for the first time, she wondered why he had never married.
“I am no longer seventeen,” she said. “Long past the girlish idea of true love.”
Alistair didn't reply, and Phoebe realized he wondered the very thing everyone else did: whether he and her uncle had reached her and her new husband in time to prevent a true wedding night.
Alistair and her uncle had arrived in time to find her in her shift and Brandon, his trousers hanging open as if in hurried disarray. She remembered all too well the rare look of disappointment in her uncle’s eyes.
She straightened. “Enough of this. Alistair, I expect your help in dealing with the marquess.”
“Don’t you mean the duke?”
“Both. I have no intention of marrying. It would interfere with my work. Lord Briarden wouldn't be pleased.”
“On the contrary, he may be very pleased. You wouldn't be the only married woman employed by the British government, and it will give you a fine cover. Your reputation, I might add, has been sorely compromised as a result of this escapade.”
"How can I possibly consider marriage to a man who might be connected with criminals?"
"You don't know that Lord Ashlund is connected to this Alan Hay. When you consider the facts, it doesn't make sense. You said Hay happened to come into the village. Why would the marquess conspire with a stranger to murder the duchess?"
"I don't know," Phoebe admitted. "But there's more."
Alistair sat patiently as she told him all that happened and ended with, "When I questioned Lord Ashlund about contacting the authorities to report the planned assassination against the duchess, he told me to keep my nose out of it. I saw nothing suspicious in the letter from Clachair, but given Lord Ashlund's attitude about the planned assassination attempt on the duchess, everything is suspect."
"The last you saw of Ashlund he was laid up at the inn?" Alistair asked.
"Yes."
Alistair nodded. "I have apprised Lord Briarden on the situation with the duchess. If anything comes to fruition, we'll have our answers, at least in regards to Lord Ashlund's involvement. As for Clachair, we have heard nothing of him in years. I'm doubtful the Clachair of Ashlund's letter is our man. We have suspected for some time that he may be dead."
"What are his crimes?" Phoebe asked.
"He is charged with trying to overthrow the government."
"Just like my father," she murmured.
"He is of your father's generation, in fact."
Phoebe scowled. "Was there something in the water in those days, my lord?"
He laughed. "It was a tumultuous time. Many changes for the positive were taking place and, as is always the case, there were those men who tried to use the uncertainty of the times to gain power."
"Men like Arthur Thistlewood."
"In fact, Thistlewood had some good ideas," Redgrave replied. "But he intended those ideas as a means to gain followers who he hoped would seat him in power. As we know—" A sharp rap cut him off and the door opened and Gaylon entered.
“Forgive me, madam, but you have more visitors.”
Phoebe frowned. “I wasn't expecting anyone. Who is it?”
“Lady Carlton, Lady Mansford, and Miss Smith.”
“What do they want? By heavens, I just returned home. Tell them I'm busy.”
“As you say, Miss,” Gaylon replied. “However, I suggest you see them.”
Phoebe paused. “I have never known you to suggest a blessed thing, Gaylon. What has happened?”
“There is talk of a certain announcement in the paper, Miss.”
“An announcement?" Feminine voices in the hallway caused Phoebe to glance sharply in that direction. “Gaylon, who is that I hear on the second floor of this house?”
“I believe that would be your visitors, Miss.”
She snapped her gaze onto him. "What are they doing up here?”
Gaylon looked as if he were exerting a great deal of patience. He opened his mouth and Phoebe shot him a narrow-eyed look.
He cleared his throat and said, “I informed the ladies I would inquire as to whether or not you were entertaining. I left them in the drawing room. They must have followed me upstairs.”
“Which room is it, girls, do you remember?” Leticia Mansford’s voice was uncomfortably close.
“Get rid of them,” Phoebe said in a low voice. “And make it quick.”
“Here we are,” Leticia said as she appeared in the doorway.
Phoebe caught sight of the golden brown satin of Leticia’s dress as Gaylon took a step back against the door. The ridiculously puffy sleeves of her dress were a strange contrast to the tiny corset-constricted waist. The combination made Leticia look like a cartoon.
Alistair rose as Leticia said, �
��She's hiding, just as I said.”
Her gaze slid onto Lord Redgrave and Phoebe caught a flicker of malicious satisfaction in her eyes. So, Lady Mansford believed she’d caught the future Marchioness of Ashlund in the middle of a private moment with a man other than the marquess. Phoebe wondered if a scandal would discourage Kiernan MacGregor.
“Phoebe, darling.” Leticia glided past Gaylon and across the room. “It's so good to have you back.” Upon reaching her side, Leticia placed a hand on her shoulder, then bent and kissed her cheek. “Look darlings,” Leticia glanced over her shoulder at her companions, “isn’t she radiant?” She faced Lord Redgrave. “My lord.” She extended a gloved hand, which he graciously grasped and brought to his lips.
“Lady Mansford.” He looked over her hand at Phoebe, amusement twinkling his eyes. He straightened and looked at the other two women, who stood near the door. When they didn’t approach, he strode to them. “Lady Carlton,” he said, as he neared them. He grasped her hand and kissed it as he had Leticia’s. “Miss Smith.” He turned to her and bent over her hand, as well. “It is good of you ladies to visit Miss Wallington on her first day back.”
Phoebe's jaw tightened when Lady Mansford ensconced herself in the chair Alistair had vacated. He offered an arm to each of the other two ladies and escorted them to Phoebe’s side. He released them and looked about the room.
“Ah,” he said, and hurried to Phoebe’s desk. He picked up the chair there, and carried it to the ladies. He placed the chair beside Leticia's chair. “Now.” He again looked thoughtfully around the room.
“By heavens, Redgrave,” Phoebe blurted, “seat them on the settee.”
“Miss Wallington,” he said, his voice brimming with reproof, “the settee is too far from the hearth. There is a definite chill in the air today, and the ladies have just arrived. I strongly advise the four of you stay as close to the fire as possible. Gaylon,” Redgrave’s expression brightened, “be so good as to find another chair for,” he glanced back at Brenda Smith, who still stood, “Miss Smith.”
“Of course, sir,” Gaylon said, and disappeared into the hallway.
“What do you want?” Phoebe demanded of Leticia.
Leticia gave her companions a knowing look, then produced a newspaper clipping from her purse.
“You naughty girl,” Leticia chided, waving the clipping. “Matty, Brenda, and I were quite peeved that you hadn’t uttered a peep about the marquess’ intentions. Isn’t that right ladies?” They murmured agreement and she went on. “You must tell us all about him.” Leticia leaned forward in her chair, expectantly.
There was no mistaking the gleam of excitement in her eyes, but Phoebe noted an underlying trace of malevolent jealousy. “There's nothing to tell,” she said.
“Nothing to tell?” Leticia pouted. “You mean to keep us in suspense?”
“What I mean—” Phoebe stopped when Gaylon reappeared, carrying a wing backed chair. He set the chair next to hers, and Miss Smith sat down.
Phoebe glowered at Lord Redgrave who hovered over them like a mother hen. “Have you nowhere to seat yourself?” she demanded.
“I will do very well standing. Thank you, my dear.”
“My dear, indeed,” she muttered, then looked at Leticia. “There is nothing to say, because the announcement was a mistake.”
Lady Mansford studied the announcement. “No,” she pointed with a gloved finger at the text. “It says right here, His Grace, the Duke of Ashlund, is proud to announce the—”
“I don't care what it says,” Phoebe snapped. "The announcement is incorrect.”
The room fell quiet. Leticia refolded the clipping, creasing each fold with deliberate precision. She placed it inside her reticule, then looked Phoebe in the eye, and said, “He is no child. He must understand the need for discretion. Also, there are your sensitivities.”
Phoebe frowned. “What—"
“A newly married man won't flaunt his dalliances to the world. Never fear,” Leticia patted Phoebe’s knee, “I'm certain his father will take him to task for forgetting he is about to be a married man.”
Phoebe stared. “You think I am denying the engagement because he dallied with some—" Alistair coughed discreetly. She scowled. “This is rubbish.”
“His father married that American woman some years ago,” Leticia said. “I don’t recall even a whisper of infidelity.” She smiled. “Yes, I am correct. His father will take him to task. If Lord Ashlund is half as discreet as his father, you will be a lucky woman. I wager this will be settled in time for the two of you to attend the Halsey soiree.”
Phoebe shot to her feet. “I assure you, Lord Ashlund has not been unfaithful. It would be impossible.”
Leticia made a tsking sound. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, but don't delude yourself as to the nature of the male of our species.”
“Nature of the male of our species?” Phoebe looked helplessly at Alistair.
“Perhaps we should leave Lord Ashlund’s reputation to him?” he offered.
“Indeed,” Phoebe agreed. “Considering he has dragged my repu—”
“Miss Wallington.” Redgrave’s voice was low, but firm.
Phoebe glanced from him to the two women who had remained mute throughout the meeting. “Ladies,” she said, “I had not intended to entertain today. Good day.”
With that, she quit the room.
*****
Three days later, Phoebe closed the door to the drawing room and Alistair turned from the window overlooking the gardens.
"Where is Susan?" he asked. "Isn't she to accompany us to Lady Halsey's party?"
Phoebe hurried across the room.
"You look beautiful," he said, when she reached him.
She shook her head. "I have decided not to go."
"But you're dressed."
"Alistair, you are well aware that the only reason I received this invitation is because of my engagement to Ashlund. Lady Halsey has never before invited to me to one of her parties. I don't move in her circles."
"That has changed," he replied.
"I'm in no mood for a party."
“So you have said for the last three days. It's time you resign yourself to the notion.”
“Resign myself to the notion of spying on the marquess, you mean,” she said in a whisper.
“Your engagement will circumvent the gossip that is sure to ruin you. Cut off the beast at its head, sort to speak.”
“That is not the head I would choose to cut off."
"I understand your consternation."
"Consternation?" She grimaced. "You have a talent for understating a situation, my lord."
"Better that than melodrama," he replied
"You haven't heard anything on Ashlund's whereabouts?" She would have liked to believe the marquess had changed his mind about marrying her, but that, she suspected, would be too good to be true. "I don't like the fact that we haven't heard anything from him." Or her uncle, for that matter.
"Once I hear from my man, I'll fill you in on the marquess' movements. Alistair's expression gentled. "We have no proof that Ashlund has committed any crime. If he is an honorable man, you could do worse."
“By all accounts I have made the match of the decade," Phoebe said, "perhaps even the century.” She was suddenly struck by a thought. "You don't believe he's guilty." Redgrave didn't immediately answer, and she said, "I've known you all my life, Alistair. You would never try to marry me off to a criminal." Would you?
"I am slow to come to judgment in such matters." He smiled. "You, of all people, can understand why."
"I do. Only, you weren't there, you didn't see what I saw." Kiernan MacGregor telling her to mind her own business…Kiernan MacGregor blind with rage when he attacked Robbie, and Kiernan MacGregor holding her until her dizzy spell passed…then him tucking her into bed.
“Is marriage so terrible?” Redgrave asked.
Phoebe stirred from the memories. “Marriage isn't in my plans.”
<
br /> He sighed. “Have you considered putting the past behind you, letting your father’s memory rest?”
Stafford’s letters came to mind. The memory of what she read in the remaining documents brought a chill just as it had the first time she read them. Was what Stafford said true? Had Alistair kept her in the dark all these years about the truth concerning her father?
“No,” she replied. “I won't stop until I have my answers.”
“As you wish. Cry off from the marquess—when the time is right, not before.”
“Yes,” she replied caustically. “I understand my duty."
"Do you?"
"I agreed to spy for England, now I can't renege because it's too hard."
"Or too personal."
She gave a deferential cant of her head.
“Whatever transpires with Ashlund, I advise you to forget the past," he said. "Keep the memory of your father with you always—though we both know his memory has interfered with your life. If not for this obsession, you would have married long ago.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You changed after Brandon.”
Phoebe felt as if she’d been slapped. There was no denying his words, though she hadn’t thought anyone knew. Redgrave must have read her mind, for he said, “Don't look so surprised. I am a master at keeping secrets. I may have taught you all you know, but I haven't taught you all I know.”
Indeed? her mind fired back.
Would her father’s oldest friend really keep quiet and allow him to keep the name of traitor? What would her father think if he knew she was being forced to marry a man who was in all likelihood a traitor?
Phoebe passed through the French doors of the overcrowded ballroom out onto the balcony. The hour was half past one in the morning. Early by London Society standards. The echo of the orchestra receded as she crossed to the low stone wall overlooking the gardens. Soft moonlight soothed her tired eyes after the bright lights of the room. Her ears roared with the buzz of the crowd occupying a room meant to accommodate two hundred, instead of the nearly three hundred that now milled about the space. The soirée would likely prove to be the crush of the season. Phoebe grimaced at the thought that the success of the party had something to do with the fact the future Marchioness of Ashlund was present.