His valet, Lucas Crawford, was waiting by the carriage, and Ian saw him exchange a look with the driver. Neither were surprised at the sight of their master surfacing from the Vaults with a body. The driver opened the door as Lucas approached to help.
“Netted yourself a trout tonight, Captain?”
Ian shook his head. “No net required. This one dropped in my lap.”
“Och, it’s a woman!” Lucas exclaimed, peering at her face as Ian carried her past a streetlamp. She stirred and moaned, but then was silent again.
“Well, she’s alive, at least,” the valet said, sounding relieved.
Reaching the carriage, Ian deposited her on a seat and inspected her for bleeding. She had a small lump on her head and a welt forming just below her eye, but he saw no stab wounds.
Lucas looked over his shoulder. “And she’s a bonnie lass as well.”
Ian glanced into her face. He sat back suddenly. He knew her.
Bloody hell.
Ian’s brain threatened to explode. It was almost too much to fathom. Alone. In men’s clothes. In the middle of the night. In the most dangerous place in Scotland.
And he knew the vile corruption that lay at the top of those steps where he found her. The wretchedness that consumed the Vaults.
Of all the places for a young woman to be traipsing through, why the devil was she in there?
Dressed like a man. Fighting . . . fighting! And with God-knows-who. Running for her life, from the looks of it.
He’d like to think she was a fool, but he knew she wasn’t. He’d known her for years. His temper grew even hotter at the thought that this woman at one time had a connection with his sister. Sarah had socialized with the family, considered her a friend, looked up to her with respect. She’d often visited their home at Baronsford when they were in residence. And invited her to come and stay with them at Bellhorne.
Why such foolhardy behavior? He seethed. He couldn’t get past that question. She could have died down there tonight, murdered just as his sister had been.
“Do you know her, Captain?” his valet asked.
“Blast me,” he cursed, staring. “She’s Lady Phoebe Pennington, the Lord Justice’s younger sister.”
Chapter 2
A vague sense of awareness returned.
The boy. He got away. She saw him run. One thing to be thankful for.
The thought gave her mind some relief, but it did little to soothe her body’s aches. Phoebe felt like a cleaver had split her skull in two, and where she’d been punched, her face was throbbing dreadfully. She didn’t know how long she’d lain unconscious in the Vaults, but the pain beneath her eye told her she was alive, at least. Her limbs seemed to be intact, and she was still wearing the men’s clothing she’d donned before setting out with Duncan tonight.
Duncan. He’d be beside himself when he came out and found her missing.
The pounding in her head wouldn’t let up, but she forced herself to focus past the pain and pay attention to her surroundings. She was propped up in the angle of a bench seat, her head lying against a cushioned side wall. From the smell of leather and the whinny of an impatient horse outside, she knew she was in a carriage, and it wasn’t moving.
Phoebe opened her eyes a slit and peeked through her lashes, but quickly shut them tight. Two others occupied the carriage with her, and one of them was hovering over her, too close for comfort. Still, she sensed no threat.
She let her head roll slightly, and the cravat she’d worn rubbed against her throat. Stinging pain brought back her memory of what happened in the Vaults. Hearing the lad’s cry, she had to go after him. Never in her life had Phoebe been in a situation where murder was being committed. She couldn’t stand by and let it happen.
Cold sweat spread across her brow even now at the recollection of the knife in the man’s hand. He’d intended to kill. To kill. And once she’d interfered, his fury turned to her.
Her throat. She was cut. But it had to be only a scratch, for she’d survived. Every muscle in her body tensed as she relived the fight in her mind. Hitting him with the cane wasn’t enough. She’d kicked him. Her arms weren’t long enough nor strong enough to keep him away. She’d kicked him again. Finally Phoebe had found some use for her long legs. She wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t. Everything in her mind was a jumble. One moment she was chasing after an evil spirit, the next her boots were connecting with a man’s flesh. And now she was here.
The pain in her skull was not helping her reassert order to her thoughts.
Her hat was missing. Her rescuers must already know she was a woman. She tried to build the courage to open her eyes again.
“Do you know her, Captain?”
Captain. Phoebe forced herself to focus. She was rescued by a captain. The memories of the fight tried to claw to the front, but she pushed them back. Captain.
Since the war with the French, many men still used their rank. The names and faces and voices of her brothers’ friends came to mind. She avoided most social events, but twice a year Baronsford put on the most eagerly attended balls in Scotland, and her parents made it mandatory for her to attend.
She wished he would say more. Perhaps she knew him. But she didn’t want to know him. Tonight, coming here to the Vaults . . . she cringed at the thought of how horribly her family would react to find where she’d been.
“Blast me.” The voice was deep and angry. “She’s Lady Phoebe Pennington, the Lord Justice’s younger sister.”
The tone of each syllable emphasized the displeasure of the speaker.
She knew the voice. Her curiosity bested her, and she opened her eyes to be sure.
Damnation. Captain Ian Bell of Bellhorne, Fife.
Her throat tightened. Sarah. Her dear friend. The memory of her fight in the Vaults disappeared. The headache was forgotten. Her thoughts shifted and focused on an innocent life lost.
Sarah’s shocking disappearance and the news that came much later of the recovery of her remains had been horrifying. She was her friend. Aside from her sister Millie, her closest friend. To this day, Phoebe had nightmares about the shocking business. Sarah’s young life had been lost, her body defiled in a public dissection, and her family cast into a permanent state of tumult. Mrs. Bell, shut away in the family’s estate in Fife, had become estranged from society. She accepted no invitations, saw no guests. And Phoebe had heard that Sarah’s brother, Ian, scoured Edinburgh’s underworld at night, continually searching for the person or people responsible for his sister’s death.
“Captain Bell,” she managed to croak.
The devil as well should take her. Why did she have to be rescued by him? The one man who had every reason to escort her this very moment to her family’s home and demand an audience with her father or either of her brothers. She had no doubt he’d happily watch as they skinned her alive.
“Out, Lucas. Leave us.”
The sharpness of the order was expected.
The valet climbed out and shut the door of the carriage as Phoebe willed her foot to stop tapping nervously. Even in the dim light, she felt the weight of the man’s glare.
Lectures. Threats. She expected it. But silence hung as ominously as a noose between them. One fist perched solidly on a muscular thigh. Her gaze moved upward over the broad chest to his stern face. He remained perfectly still, except for the sinews in his jaw that clenched and unclenched repeatedly. Much of his face lay in shadow, but she had no trouble seeing that his eyes were watching her with the intensity of a great cat studying his prey.
At a much younger age, long before tragedy struck the Bell family, Phoebe had entertained many fanciful dreams about Captain Bell. But she was six years younger than the war hero, and he was only gradually recovering from recent battle wounds. He barely acknowledged her existence, ignored her subtle overtures. He never knew of her hidden affection.
“Now,” he snapped. “Explain yourself.”
No formality at all in his manner of address. His tone was shar
p and barely civil. Phoebe felt herself squirm slightly, but she fought the urge to look away.
No one. No one but Millie and Duncan knew of the career she’d already established herself in as a journalist. Women—particularly woman of her class—simply did not pursue such indecently “public” endeavors. An earl’s daughter, Phoebe had been born to wealth and privilege. Philanthropy was allowed, a passionate hobby might be acceptable. But a career—particularly one that occasionally endangered her life—was entirely beyond the pale.
Nevertheless Phoebe was doing it, and she was good at what she did. Her writing, albeit published anonymously, continued to strike at the heart of corruption and injustice, and she already felt a sense of pride in her efforts. Still, she couldn’t explain any of that to this man. Not now, to be sure. How could she? She’d never yet felt she could tell her own family.
Phoebe loved her family too much. Knowing what she was doing would simply distress them unnecessarily.
“I wasn’t down in the Vaults alone,” she began, trying to play down the danger she’d faced. “I had a bodyguard with me, and the man was perfectly capable of protecting me. But we were separated for a moment and—”
“Clearly you were not protected,” he cut in even more sharply. “The truth now. Why were you down there?”
He wanted details that she wasn’t about to reveal. She considered sharing what she’d witnessed about the lad and the man chasing after him. But although she’d justified it to herself, her actions would be construed as foolish. She could have been murdered. And that still didn’t explain why she’d gone there in the first place.
“Charity work. I was down there looking for poor families that have been driven out of the poorhouses in recent weeks. The old and infirm. Any who are unable to work. Women and children have been inundating my sister Jo’s charity houses, but many more don’t know there are such options. I went into the Vaults to help direct—”
“I’m quite certain Lady Josephine,” he snapped, interrupting again, “only a fortnight before her wedding, knows nothing of your reckless behavior. And I would be willing to wager neither does your father. Nor your brothers. They’re all at Baronsford, are they not?”
Phoebe struggled not to match the edge in his tone. She was speaking the truth . . . in part. Edinburgh’s dispossessed were the cause for her being here. Her article could expose the political maneuvering and benefit those poor souls put out on the streets.
He wasn’t waiting for her to respond. “Take us to Baronsford,” he ordered, directing his man standing outside to ride with the driver.
“No!” she cried out. “You can take me to my family’s town house on Heriot Row. My sister Millie is in town. She’s expecting me back tonight, and she’ll be beside herself with worry if I don’t return. Please. She and I are to travel to the Borders together.”
The carriage began to move along the stone pavement. No orders were issued to alter the route.
“Does your sister know about this?” He gestured to her attire.
“Of course not,” she lied. Actually, Millie had helped her dress in men’s clothing before she left the house. “No one in my family knows.”
A dark brow arched, and he continued to stare at her. “A moment ago you said Lady Josephine—”
“I never said Jo knew anything about where I was going tonight.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Can you please stop the carriage and allow me to explain properly?”
Her words seemed to fall on deaf ears. The brooding Scot made no move to halt the carriage.
“Please, Captain.”
The thought of arriving at Baronsford just after dawn with Captain Bell, only to have him rouse the earl to report where he found his daughter was unthinkable. But there was no escaping him. She had to convince him, but the stubbornness in his look was daunting.
“I’ll tell you everything. The truth, as damning as it is.” Her fingers clutched the edge of the leather seats. “Captain, you know me. I was a friend to your sister. Many times, I was a guest at Bellhorne. Please give me a chance.”
The carriage wheels hit a rut, jerking the passengers, and Phoebe put a hand to her throbbing head.
“Very well.” He called to the driver to stop. “Out with it.”
Damnation. She let out a frustrated breath. Sarah’s tragedy had hardened this man to any honest plea she might make. And he was not one to be reasoned with. She needed a believable fabrication that would satisfy his curiosity.
A report of her whereabouts—and the situation in which he found her—couldn’t reach her family. At least not until she’d had a chance to explain to them the entire situation. Including her writing.
Hopefully, that would be never.
Her brothers went to war and pursued creditable careers afterward. Jo was an angel of mercy, touching the lives of so many. Millie was already the family peacemaker, and her heart of gold defined the meaning of understanding and encouragement and selflessness. Phoebe was the only black sheep. Already well on her way to spinsterhood, she lived with her head in the clouds and her pen to paper, off in some dreamland. At least, that’s how her family saw her.
It had taken her many years to realize who she was, what she could do, and how to go about doing it. She’d been blessed with a gift, and she’d be damned if she wouldn’t use it for the good of others. She wasn’t willing to give that up.
The captain stirred impatiently. “I see that we stopped prematurely.”
“A man,” she said as he started to call out to the driver.
Ian Bell’s gaze snapped back to her face. He was large and imposing, but Phoebe had spent her whole life dealing with her father and brothers.
“I went there in search of a certain man of my acquaintance.”
Well, that was true, she thought.
“A beau . . . of sorts. A young man my family knows nothing about, and I’m certain they would disapprove of him if they learned of our liaison. Up until an hour ago, I imagined I was in love with him. After what I witnessed in those Vaults, however, that is no longer the case.”
With this single lie, Phoebe knew she was ruining any positive impression he might have had. With just a few words, her character—in his eyes—was damaged, if not destroyed. But what did she care, if she could avoid exposing her true calling to the world and her family? She was twenty-seven years old, and she had no interest in matrimony. And she very much doubted Captain Bell was a gossip.
She could only hope he would see her as unworthy of his time and effort in exposing her.
He leaned back in his seat, much of his face disappearing in the shadows, but the grim line on his lips clearly demonstrated his disapproval.
“As bad as this all seems,” she continued, gesturing toward her attire and feeling encouraged. “Tonight was a blessing. Tonight I woke up. I now know what a vile scoundrel he is. And I shall never see him again. I can promise you I shall not waste even one moment regretting the loss of our relationship.”
“What is the name of this man you were meeting?”
“We weren’t meeting. I was looking for him. But his name is of no consequence. He and I are done. Finished,” she said in the most somber tone she could muster. “I pray you won’t ask another word about him. That foolish chapter in my life is over.”
His scowl became almost fierce. “Were you fighting with him at the top of the stairs?”
The lad’s frightened face as he stared over her shoulder came back to her. His cry for help. Phoebe shivered and resettled herself in the seat. She hoped he had a shelter far from the dangers of the Vaults.
“Were you fighting with your lover?”
The sound of the word “lover” made it more damning, for Ian Bell was the only man she’d ever dreamed of in such terms.
“No. I found him in . . . in an opium den not far from there.” She shook her head. “There, now do you understand why I’m finished with him?”
“You, Lady Phoebe Pennington, went into a drug den?”
“You said he was in the opium den.”
“But I didn’t go in. My bodyguard went in. That’s how we were separated.”
“Then who knocked you down the steps?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t see his face.”
She wanted to tell him about the black-garbed man, but right now whatever she said only led to another question. He was trying to break down her story. He gave her no time to think. And the irritating pain in her skull was no help. She needed time to sort through the fact and the fiction she was weaving.
Phoebe recalled Sarah’s complaints about the brother. Even as a young man, he’d been extremely protective of his sister and his mother. And he was by nature impatient and always too quick to issue a verdict.
“Please allow me to explain, Captain, from the beginning.”
“I’m waiting.”
His gaze was direct and piercing. Phoebe took a deep breath. She needed to end this inquisition, and that would never happen while the carriage was pointed toward Baronsford.
“While I explain everything that happened tonight, could we at least head to my family’s town house? I’ve said before that my sister Millie must be sick with worry. I was expected back long before now.” She gave him the exact address in the New Town section of Edinburgh.
Every request had to be analyzed and stewed over before he responded. As she waited, she tried to fight down the anger beginning to burn within her. She also began to wonder how she could ever have been foolish enough to be attracted to him in her youth. Obviously, she knew nothing of his muleheadedness in those innocent, untroubled times. From his dubious expression, she sensed that the phrase “give her an inch and she’ll take an ell” might be passing through his thick head right now. She had to do something.
“Duncan Turner, the former Edinburgh constable, was my escort when I went down into the Vaults,” she offered. “Perhaps you know him. The man is tall, strong, and knowledgeable. He and his wife are both acquaintances of mine.”
Sleepless in Scotland Page 2