by Tarah Scott
Phoebe glanced at the sky. The sun would set within the hour and already a raw chill hung in the air. The men faced a bitter night if exposed to the elements. As did she.
“Sir—"
The innkeeper cut off the traveler with a derisive snort. “Off with you, you Scottish bastards,” he snarled.
“Why doesn’t he like us?” the smallest girl said in a half-whisper. She clung to another child, a boy not much older than herself.
The innkeeper jerked a startled look in the children’s direction. They stared back, eyes wide in gaunt faces. Embarrassment shadowed the innkeeper's face and Phoebe thought he would relent.
“You ought not to speak that way in front of the bairns,” the traveler said in a soft voice that didn’t quite hide his effort to maintain control.
The innkeeper’s face mottled with anger. “Watch your tongue,” he snapped. “We don’t want the likes of you here. Now get out before I have you jailed for trespassing.”
The traveler’s jaw tightened and he flushed a deeper red.
By heavens, the fool of an innkeeper will start a row that will end in half the village being burned.
“I'll pay for their lodgings,” she interjected.
The group turned toward her.
Phoebe met the traveler’s gaze. “How many rooms do you require, sir?”
“We—I—" He dropped his gaze. “My lady, we can't—”
“Money isn't the issue,” the innkeeper interjected.
Phoebe pinned him with a cold stare. “What is the issue, sir?”
His jaw clenched. “I have the right to turn away anyone I please.”
She started forward and the travelers parted as she passed through their midst. She halted before the innkeeper. “A fine thing to be able to turn away paying customers.”
He gave another snort, this one even more scornful. “They ain’t paying customers.”
“Four rooms,” she said. “Three for these people and one for myself. Supper for everyone, as well as breakfast, and dinner for tomorrow’s travel.”
The innkeeper’s expression melted into a confident sneer. “That’s a lot of money.”
Phoebe reached into her dress pocket and pulled out her reticule. She loosened the drawstring and retrieved her mother’s ruby ring. Her heart wrenched as she held it out. A murmur rippled through the travelers.
“This will more than cover the cost,” she said.
The innkeeper's eyes widened and Phoebe knew she had him.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “How can I be sure you didn’t steal the ring?” He ran his gaze down the length of her. "You don’t look the sort to own something so fine. I don’t need—"
"Don’t be a fool," she cut in. "If I had stolen the ring, I wouldn't be trading it for simple lodging. The ruby is genuine, and the gold of the highest quality. I will require a bath as well and—" the innkeeper opened his mouth and she went on in a more forceful tone "—and your other guests will be given the same privilege should they choose."
The innkeeper glanced at the travelers. “If there’s any trouble—”
“If there is any trouble, I shall call the constable myself.” She brought her gaze to bear on the traveler’s spokesman. “I expect that won't be necessary.”
"My lady," he began, but she turned again to the innkeeper.
"Please see to my horse." With that, she brushed past him and into the inn.
*****
Shyerton Hall in London. Despite the fact the townhouse hadn't felt like home since her mother died, anticipation swept through Phoebe when the cab turned onto the dead end lane and the house came into view at the end of the road. She surveyed the neighborhood as they rolled along the lane. Autumn leaves littered the cobblestone street and rustled with the wisps of air created by the cab. The hour was early yet, nine-thirty or so, and no signs of life were evident in the homes they passed. Phoebe breathed a sigh of thanks for the small favor. She had dreaded any neighbors witnessing her arrival. The bath at the inn had refreshed her, but that had been two days and many dusty roads ago.
Water enough for drinking had been offered on the ride from Yorkshire, but no more. Phoebe had dipped a corner of her dress in the quarter cup she was given at the last stop the previous night and, without the aid of a mirror, had cleaned her face. The looks she’d gotten from drivers at the London depot told her she’d been unsuccessful in elevating herself above the status of street prostitute. Her hair hung in limp tresses around her shoulders. If the dusty taste in her mouth was any indication, even her tongue needed a good cleaning. All would be well, however, if her good fortune included her aunt and uncle’s absence when she arrived.
What of the travelers’ good fortune, she wondered? The man who had begged shelter from the innkeeper had introduced himself the following morning as David MacEwen. His gently offered thanks had wrenched her heart, but it was the children’s faces that haunted her. The meal they’d eaten at the inn and the night in a warm bed had restored some of the glow to their cheeks, but no hope illuminated their eyes. Suffering through the ride in the public carriage from Yorkshire to London had been worth the price of giving her horse to David. If they sold the beast, they would get enough for passage to a larger city where the men could find work. She laughed. It wasn’t her the travelers had to thank for the horse, but the Duke of Ashlund.
The cab jostled as the driver turned off the street and onto the gravel drive that circled Shyerton Hall. A moment later, they came to a halt at the townhouse steps. Phoebe opened the door, knowing the driver wouldn't bother to assist her, and stepped to the ground.
“Wait a moment,” she instructed, and hurried up the steps.
“This is your home, is it?” the driver said in a doubtful voice.
“Be good enough to wait,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’ll wait,” he said.
Phoebe tried the knob. Locked. If not for the driver, she would enter through the rear servant’s entrance. She glanced at him. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Phoebe faced the door and knocked several times with the ball of the knocker.
The door opened with a jerk and the butler stood in the doorway. “What—"
Recognition flooded his angular face and his mouth fell open.
Phoebe smiled reassuringly and stepped into the foyer, forcing him back. “Is there any money to be had in the house, Gaylon?” she asked.
“Money?” he repeated.
“Yes, money.” She pointed to the driver, who watched them intently. Gaylon glanced past her, and she added, “I find myself short of cash. If you don't have any, I'll fetch some from my room.”
“No, Miss. I'll deal with the gentleman.”
“He was most kind,” Phoebe said.
Gaylon nodded understanding, then stepped past her out the door. Phoebe hurried toward the stairs to the right. Gaylon would keep silent about her present state of dress. If she could avoid the other servants, she might yet circumvent any gossip. Her foot touched the third step when a woman behind her shrieked. Phoebe jumped, then cursed, and slowly turned to face Molly, the downstairs maid. Linens lay strewn about her feet.
With a sigh, Phoebe stepped back down onto the hallway carpet. “It's all right, Molly.”
A quick, heavy tread of feet echoed down the corridor that led to the kitchen and Phoebe groaned. An instant later, the housekeeper appeared in the foyer. Phoebe started at sight of the large butcher knife Mrs. Harkin held even as the housekeeper’s eyes widened and she halted.
“Hello, Mrs. Harkin,” Phoebe said.
“Lord,” Mrs. Harkin said, circling Phoebe, eyeing her, “you look terrible.”
“Mrs. Harkin,” Phoebe said mildly.
“Huh?” Mrs. Harkin’s head jerked up and she met Phoebe’s gaze.
Phoebe nodded toward the knife. “Do you mind?”
The housekeeper gave her a blank look, then glanced at the raised knife. “Oh.” She laughed. “I was cutting ham.” She lowered the knife. “Where have you b
een, Miss? There’s been something of a stir this past two weeks, what with you missing and all.”
“A stir?” Phoebe asked in a light voice.
“Oh, yes, Miss,” Molly broke in. “Calders returned home hoping to find you here.”
“I thought he was in Scotland,” Phoebe said with a laugh.
“Said he’d been poisoned,” the maid said. “Said, when he woke up, you were gone.”
“Poisoned?”
Mrs. Harkin snorted. “He wasn’t poisoned. Got a hold of bad brandy, is all. If he hadn’t been drinking to begin with, he wouldn’t have lost you.”
“He didn’t lose me,” Phoebe replied. The beginnings of a headache pressed against her skull.
“Who was it made off with you?” Molly asked, wide eyed.
“No one made off—”
“Miss!”
Phoebe whirled at the sound of Calder’s voice. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. By heavens, all the thought she had given to keeping quiet her abduction, and not once had she considered Calders.
“Calders—”
“I nearly got you killed,” he said with such anguish that Phoebe stood dumbstruck. “Your uncle will never forgive me.”
“It wasn't your fault,” she said. “As you can see, I am well.” She prayed no one would notice she looked more worn than she should.
“Calders,” Gaylon’s low voice drew everyone’s attention to him. He stood behind the group. “I believe you have work in the stables.”
Calders nodded, shoulders slumped, and turned.
“Calders,” Phoebe called.
He halted, but didn't face her.
“Calders,” she repeated firmly, and he turned.
“It wasn't your fault,” she said. “If it hadn’t been the brandy, it would have been something else. I'm thankful you weren't a casualty. The jest was in very bad taste.”
“Jest?”
“Exactly.”
His brow furrowed, then his eyes narrowed shrewdly. He started to say something, but Phoebe raised a brow. His expression melted into his usual placid look.
“As you say, Miss.”
“One more thing, Calders.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“What did my uncle say when you told him I was, er, lost?”
“He hasn't said anything,” Calders replied.
“Lord and Lady Albery left for their estate in Carlisle before Calders returned," Gaylon interjected.
Hope surged through Phoebe. “You didn't tell them I was missing?”
“I did, indeed. I sent them a message.”
“And?” Phoebe prodded impatiently.
“Lady Albery wrote back that they were dealing with the situation.”
Dealing with the situation? What did that mean? Had the duke's letter reached her uncle? Or had Uncle been wise enough not to make a ruckus about her disappearance until he could find out what happened?
“Has there been any further communication?” Phoebe asked.
“No,” Gaylon said.
She turned. “Calders, why didn’t you stay in Scotland?”
“Your cousin sent me home.”
“Ty? What has he to do with this?”
“We assumed he was assisting in the search for you,” Gaylon said.
“Quite right,” Phoebe quickly put in. She smiled at Calders. “You did the right thing.”
“I don't think so, Miss.” He hung his head again. “I should have been watching you closer.”
“What were you to do? Follow me about in the ballroom?”
He gave her a sharp look. “If need be.”
She laughed despite herself. “A fine sight, indeed. No, I think we can do without the drama. Don't forget, I am unharmed.”
He surprised her by running an assessing eye over her. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Miss, you don't look as well as you usually do.”
“No, I suppose not. But all in all, none the worse for wear.”
“You shouldn’t have any wear on you at all,” he grumbled.
Phoebe would have commented, but he turned and headed down the hall. “Well,” she bestowed a smile upon the remaining staff, “I shall begin with a bath. Will you have one prepared for me in my room, Mrs. Harkin?”
“Molly,” the housekeeper shot the girl a stern look, “there's water on the fire. Take it up and begin another pot—but for goodness sake, pick up these linens first.”
The girl quickly gathered the linens, then scampered off to do her mistress’ bidding.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harkin.” Phoebe turned to leave, then stopped. “Gaylon, are any messages for me?”
“A package came for you,” he replied. “It's in your bedchambers.”
“From whom?”
“There was no return address on the envelope.”
Phoebe nodded. “It would seem all has been quiet.”
“There was that message from the Duke of Ashlund,” Mrs. Harkin commented.
Phoebe jerked her head in the housekeeper's direction. “Message?”
“The letter was for your uncle, Miss,” Gaylon said.
“Where is this message?”
“The messenger insisted on delivering it personally. I gave him your uncle’s direction in Carlisle.”
Phoebe swallowed. “When did this message arrive?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“I see,” Phoebe mumbled. “Nothing else, then?”
“No, Miss. Hardly seems anything else was needed."
Phoebe’s stomach flipped. He was right. Not a blessed thing more was needed.
Phoebe dropped her shoulders and allowed her dress to slide onto the carpet beside the tub in her bedchamber. She stared at this last piece of Highland garb she had worn. Could she shed the memories of that place and time as easily as she had the dress? She thought of David MacEwen and his people and knew she would never forget the innkeeper's derision, or the confusion on the children’s faces. Just as she would never forget Kiernan MacGregor; the flash of his smile when he appeared in her coach doorway, the smell of sandalwood, and the steel of his arms around her.
By now, Alistair would have shared with Lord Briarden the information concerning the assassination attempt against the duchess, which she sent when the duke allowed her to send a letter to her uncle. What might Alistair have already uncovered in his investigation into the marquess' affairs? Phoebe was suddenly very tired, more tired than she could remember being since her mother's death. She picked up the dress and tossed it onto the chair left of the fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth as she stepped into the tub and sank chin deep into the blessed water. The door opened and Molly entered.
The maid crossed the room to the chair and gathered up the dress. “Do you need anything else, Miss?”
“That will do for now,” Phoebe answered.
“You’ll want this.” Molly placed a package on the table beside the tub.
“The package Gaylon mentioned?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Thank you, Molly,” Phoebe said.
A moment later, the door clicked softly shut. Phoebe thought about opening the package, then closed her eyes.
The chime of the grandmother clock brought Phoebe bolt upright in the tub. She blinked the room into focus before realizing she was in her own chambers in Shyerton Hall. She shivered. The water had grown cold. She glanced at the grandmother clock in the corner. Eleven o’clock. An hour had passed. She rose from the tub. Goosebumps raced across her arms when the chilled flesh collided with the warm air of the room.
Phoebe grabbed the towel from the table beside the tub, knocking the package Molly had left there to the floor. She picked it up and her gaze caught on the London postmark before she tossed it onto the bed. She began drying herself. As Gaylon had said, no return address. Phoebe grabbed the robe Molly had laid out and picked up the package as she stuffed an arm into one of the sleeves. She tore open the package and slid the other arm into the remaining sleeve, then pulled out several document
s folded around four letter-sized envelopes. When she unfolded the documents she startled upon seeing the date at the top of the first page.
April 26, 1820
April 1820 was two months after her father disappeared and the month he sent the letter to her mother. Phoebe lowered herself onto the mattress as she began reading.
In early February of this year word reached me, John Stafford, chief clerk at Bow Street, and head of the Bow Street officers, that Arthur Thistlewood, leader of the radical Spencean Philanthropists Society, planned on February 15 to assassinate the king's ministers…
…So I was surprised when Lord Mallory dispatched another spy from the Solicitor General's office, Mason Wallington, Viscount Albery.
Phoebe halted. John Stafford had known her father was a spy for the Crown? She remembered vividly the one and only meeting with Stafford five years ago. She had shown him her father's letter, insisted she wouldn't leave until he read it. He had acquiesced, but his agitation after he'd read the letter made her think he couldn't even speak the name of a traitor, much less abide the company of his daughter. Stafford, for all his civility, had been austere, advising her to accept things for what they were. But all the while he'd known…
A moment later she finished the letter, ending with;
At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive. When no trace of him was found, he was thought to have perished.
Phoebe drew in a shaky breath, set the letter aside and began the next one.
July, 1824
Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.
Phoebe reread the name: Niles Mallory. At last, she knew the identity of her father’s direct superior.
August 1824
Lord Mallory, member of the House of Lords. Resident of London. Married, one child. Wife died in 1819.