Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  Elizabeth waved her napkin toward Stephen before she turned to grin at Phoebe. "And he's quite rich. A benefactor for numerous charities, a"

  "I'm quite rich," added Stephen, trying with considerable difficulty not to lose his temper. My God, Elizabeth seemed prepared to nominate Tewksbury for sainthood. Phoebe's insipid fascination with the man, not that it mattered, wasn't helping.

  A fanciful smile on her face, Elizabeth said, "But remember our task. We search for a husband for Phoebe."

  Stephen's eyes narrowed to thin slits. Tugging none too lightly on the ribbons of her bonnet, he said, "You're toying with my good humor today, aren't you, Elizabeth? Matchmaking is for doddering matrons who chew with their back teeth and undisciplined young girls with nothing better to do. Leave Phoebe and myself to our own devices."

  "Why would I do that?" Her blond brows arched and her mouth formed a pout honed by years of practice.

  Stephen had fallen for Elizabeth's false innocence hundreds of times. Normally, he detected such transparent tactics. Today he'd fallen for her trap like an unwitting hare. He quickly excused his lapse to Phoebe's presence. Her behavior was rude, a shameless exhibition of bad manners. A lady simply did not stare at one man when another sat beside her as an escort. Stephen reminded himself to clarify for her that little lesson in propriety when Phoebe and he were alone. Stephen stood and pivoted toward the Thames. "Enough. We came to watch the race."

  Feeling better, he concentrated on the fifteen boats moving closer. Three in particular raced head-to-head. The excitement grew to a deafening roar as the sailors rounded the bend, veering toward the finish line at the Chelsea Royal Hospital. He pulled Phoebe to her feet.

  Elizabeth gleefully announced, "Here comes Tewksbury."

  Stephen glanced over his shoulder to witness the earl's approach. Noting that Phoebe also watched the man, he remained indolently beside her, purposely closer than was proper. "Ignore him. The boats are coming."

  Chuckling, Winston stood, as did Elizabeth. "Good afternoon, Tewksbury," he said.

  "Good to see you, Payley." Tewksbury faced Stephen. "Badrick."

  Stephen nodded in turn while Tewksbury assessed Phoebe with disturbing frankness. Blast, but this entire morning had been one annoyance after another. No matter how irrational he was being, he wished the man would turn about and leave. Now. Before introductions took place.

  No such luck. Elizabeth cleared her throat.

  "I believe you know my wife, Elizabeth." Winston said.

  Tewksbury greeted Elizabeth with perfect comportment, then turned expectantly toward Phoebe. "And this must be the illustrious colonial."

  Reluctantly, Stephen introduced Phoebe, who extended her hand far too eagerly to suit him. He stifled the impulse to grab her fingers and secure them in his lap. The thought of her hand within inches of his groin led to a tantalizing image that caused an uncomfortable physical reaction inappropriate to his current surroundings. He groaned. Today was not going as planned. In fact, none of his encounters with Phoebe Rafferty ever seemed to go as he intended. Right now she needed a reminder of his presence. He edged closer yet, going as far as to place a hand on her elbow. "Pardon us, Tewksbury, but we did come to watch the race." Stephen fixed his eyes on the river.

  Attempting to pry her arm free of Stephen's grip, Phoebe twisted around Stephen and smiled. "I understand you placed a sizable wager. Is your sailor in the lead?"

  "No, but fortunately Hathaway's apprentice is further back than mine. I shall gain a small compensation for that."

  "Glory be. I'd hate to think of you losing a ship."

  "You are exceedingly kind."

  Prepared to relinquish her arm lest he appear like a buffoon, Stephen dropped his hand. Air puffed through his nostrils like an angry bull preparing to charge. He took three deep breaths before he finally muttered, "Impetuous, if you ask me."

  "Mind your manners, Lord Badrick," Phoebe whispered. She exchanged glares with Stephen before whirling around to watch the race. Sunlight glistened off the Thames. The men used their entire bodies as they gripped wooden oars, their strokes hurling their boats forward. The excitement escalated as one young apprentice, Phoebe figured to be eighteen or so, exhibited a final burst of strength. His tiny scull flew the final few feet ahead of his competitor. The crowd cheered loudly. People continued to shout until the last of the racers crossed the line, at which time money exchanged hands and hawkers began to push their wares once again.

  Stephen traded an almost adversarial look with Tewksbury, as though they shared some secret masculine conversation without the benefit of words. Phoebe thought she knew the topic. Her. Annoyed with Stephen, Phoebe said, "Lord Tewksbury, I must ask. Whyever did you call me the illustrious colonial?"

  "I meant no insult, Miss Rafferty. Only that your prominence precedes you. It seems that after today's events, coupled with your unique situation, someone felt you aptly deserving of such a name. It's in the papers."

  Clearly expecting an explanation, Winston said, "It seems I missed something of import. Would anyone care to enlighten me?"

  "Nothing to worry yourself with, Winston," Phoebe said. She knew every action had a consequence. Thinking ahead to the problem of Hildegard, she also knew this name business was utter nonsense and nothing but trouble. Phoebe peeked at Stephen to judge his reaction to this new information. Considering the scowl on his face, he seemed no less pleased than she was. "My, my, I declare, you British have a way of creating a rumor big enough to choke a cow."

  Tewksbury laughed. "My dear Miss Rafferty, after making your acquaintance today, I wholly agree with my peers. You are a delight."

  Stephen crossed his arms over his chest. "Thank you for your edification, Tewksbury. I believe Hathaway is looking for you. Good day."

  Winston choked on his wine while Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle or a gasp Phoebe wasn't sure which, nor did she care. She was so astounded by Stephen's rude behavior she could only stare.

  After a seemingly inordinate length of time, Tewksbury bent slightly at the waist. He lifted Phoebe's hand to his lips. "Lord Badrick is correct. I am required elsewhere. First though, I've decided to hold a small, impromptu dinner party on Tuesday. I shall send invites today. I hope you shall attend. Until we meet again."

  Drumming her fingers together, Phoebe faced Stephen, who had the audacity to smirk with self-satisfaction. Irritation bubbled below her calm surface. She waited for Tewksbury to venture a step or two away, then said, "That's a fine how-do-you-do. Your behavior was rude and then some."

  "Mine? Hah! After listening to your recitation of the man's many attributes, I wearied of watching him ogle you before my very eyes. A man can only take so much."

  "You hold no claim over me."

  "Not yet, at least."

  "Not ever, if this behavior is an example of-"

  Winston cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, children. Unless you wish to add a public argument to Phoebe's list of accomplishments, I suggest we change topics."

  She wanted to stomp her feet or, at the very least, kick Stephen in the shins. He was infuriating. A bully. And judging by the twitching of the corner of his mouth, he was enjoying himself. Immensely. That realization checked her temper long enough for an idea, like a small seedling, to take shape in her mind. A plan. The very plan she needed. A way to spend more time with Stephen Lambert and pry information from his very own lips. A way to prove to the man that he was the only one she should marry.

  Feigning exasperation, she threw her hands in the air. "Fine with me. Besides, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of Winston."

  "By all means," Winston said.

  "As you well know, I'm searching for a husband. I narrowed the list to several possibilities, but truthfully, I know very little about the men."

  "A list of possibilities?" Stephen asked, his forehead creased with confusion. Surely he'd heard wrong. He'd left her to her own devices for three days and now she had a bloody list. "Since whe
n?"

  Elizabeth's gaze flipped from Stephen to Phoebe to Winston and back again to Stephen. Gleefully, she said, "It's certainly no surprise. Why Stephen, you should have seen the carriages lined up outside Hildegard's. As I told Phoebe, she's the rage. I can understand her need for counsel. Winston is a logical choice."

  Stephen's confusion quickly shifted to irritation, Elizabeth the new target of his scowl. "Because?"

  As though she schooled an unruly youth, Phoebe patted Stephen's arm in a patronizing manner. "Excuse me. I was trying to have a conversation with Winston." Dismissing Stephen once again, she said, "Anyway, what I was wondering is this. Would you be willing to tell me whether or not any of the gentlemen are suitable? I mean, I certainly don't trust Hildegard's opinion. She highly recommends the likes of Sir Lemmer, who already acts as though we're betrothed."

  Abandoning any and all pretense of control, Stephen leaned forward. "Stay away from him."

  She stiffened her spine. "I believe that's for me to decide. Anyway-"

  "This little charade is not going to work."

  "What charade?"

  A calm settled over Stephen. Confident in his powers of deduction, he curled his lip in a familiar cocksure manner. He rocked back on his heels, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. "This nonsense of analyzing your potential suitors, your attempt to make me jealous."

  "Why on earth would I do that? You already told me you wouldn't marry me."

  "He did?" Elizabeth asked. "When?"

  "None of your business," Stephen answered, his eyes fixed on Phoebe. "You know my intentions."

  "I certainly do. And you know mine." Phoebe's tone hinted of challenge. "If Winston can aid my cause, then so be it."

  "What a splendid idea," Elizabeth added with an abundance of enthusiasm. "By the way, Winston, I invited Phoebe to our party. There will bachelors galore."

  Phoebe was playing a game with him. Stephen was sure of it. Some form of manipulation that Elizabeth had seized with her front teeth. He had two choices. Stay out of the matter altogether or act as her go-between, which in turn would provide time and circumstance to persuade her to become his mistress. "Why Winston?"

  Nestled beside Winston, Elizabeth squeezed her husband's arm. "He knows everyone."

  "I know everyone," he rejoined.

  Elizabeth tsked several times, wagging her head. "Stephen, you spend far too much time in the country."

  "I do not."

  Phoebe pursed her lips, deep in thought. She wrinkled her nose and drew an invisible pattern in the soil. "Why Stephen, if I didn't know better I'd say you were offering your services."

  Folding one arm across his chest, he repeatedly stroked his mustache with his other hand while studying Phoebe, noting every nuance, every twitch, every blink of her eyes. The opportunity she provided was too tempting by far. He'd cling to Phoebe like a shadow, ever eager to reveal the peccadilloes of the overbearing lords of the Ton. By the time he finished, he'd be the prize worth winning. "I live to do your bidding. Remember. To the victor go the spoils. I shall plead my own case as well."

  "Which case is that?" asked Elizabeth while kneeling beside Winston.

  "None of your business," Stephen quickly remarked.

  Elizabeth tossed a napkin into the basket. "What is the point of eavesdropping if no one intends to elaborate?"

  Ignoring Elizabeth's frustration, he smiled at Phoebe. "When are my services required?"

  "We can begin with Lord Tewksbury's party. With only four weeks left, time is of the essence. And I leave for Marsden Manor sometime soon. I hadn't planned on visiting before I married, but I received an odd note from the butler. Truth be told, I might enjoy a few days free of Hildegard's household."

  "Where is your estate?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Somewhere on the southeast coast, near a small town called St. Margaret's at Cliff. It's supposed to be quite lovely."

  "Not far from Dover," added Stephen. "You can practically see France."

  Elizabeth tapped her finger to her lower lip. "I have an idea. We'll make an outing of it. Winston and I shall gladly act as chaperones. We can wave to dear old Bonaparte."

  "I doubt he'd wave back," muttered Stephen.

  "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," said Elizabeth, fixing Stephen with a baleful stare, "I haven't been to the coast in ages. And we can discuss eligible bachelors the entire trip. What do you say, Phoebe?"

  "My companion is coming, but...are you sure you can spare the time? The trip will take several days. I don't even know what--"

  While Elizabeth and Phoebe rambled on, Stephen considered an idea teasing his brain. To be alone with Phoebe away from London without another suitable male in sight besides Winston, who was already married was to tempting to ignore.

  "I believe the idea has merit," Stephen announced.

  "It does?" asked Phoebe, her surprise obvious.

  "Undoubtedly. I am your new matchmaker, am I not? It will provide me with ample time to discern the type of man best suited as your husband."

  "Splendid," Elizabeth crooned. "Why Phoebe, with all our help we shall have a list for you in no time. Add the weekend in the country, and you'll have a betrothal ring on your finger in short order."

  Not if he had a thing to say about it, thought Stephen. He intended to use the five days with Phoebe to his advantage, wooing and seducing her into an agreement to become his. He clasped her hand and kissed her palm. "I look forward to our time together."

  Phoebe tucked the invitation to Winston's country party in the panel of her morning dress. Thank goodness Siggers had remembered to give it to her and not to Hildegard. Ever since the escapade with the mule, which remained a secret for a paltry six hours, her aunt had been unbearable to live with, her sole purpose making Phoebe's life more miserable. Mercy, she was glad to be leaving for Marsden Manor in two days. She could still hear her aunt's blistering tirade over yet another savory tidbit in The Times, linking Phoebe's name with Lord Badrick. Someone had actually penned a cartoon with the American flag waving over Phoebe's head as she tugged at a mule. Stephen pulled from the other end, a British flag over his head. The caption read, "War? Again? Or is it soon to be nuptial bliss for Miss P R, our illustrious colonial, and the D of " Wary of her aunt's constant scrutiny and changing moods, Phoebe had abandoned her early-morning rides in Hyde Park indefinitely.

  And if that wasn't enough, the number of her suitors had doubled. Her newly found notoriety plagued her at every turn. She should have been pleased. After all, she needed a husband, and the more suitors, the greater selection to choose from. The problem was that Stephen wasn't amongst the group knocking at her door.

  And she missed him with his do-as-I-say attitude and churlish remarks. The wretch. She hadn't seen him since the Doggett's race, yet every night he managed to invade her dreams, wicked fantasies complete with burning kisses and wanton caresses. She'd never had wicked thoughts before, at least not like these. She felt justified in blaming him for her restless condition. She needed to escape. Desperately. Trying to think of any plausible excuse to leave the house without her aunt's supervision, Phoebe stopped in the doorway from the breakfast room and stared.

  Dee stood by herself in the foyer. She pulled a dead mouse from her red-flowered apron and stuck it on a threelegged table where Hildegard kept her dearest of possessions: her embroidery, her spectacles and The Times.

  "Dee, whatever are you doing?"

  Evidently quite pleased with herself, Dee chuckled. She covered the rodent with the social section of the newspaper. "I'm just wishing that woman never come back. She's been nastier than Widower Webster the day he lost his best piece of horseflesh to your father in that poker game."

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. "I'll admit, my aunt is not the kindest of women. Where is she?"

  "She dragged that poor girl off to some singing lesson. Even the baker boy could tell that Charity don't have the voice for it. Downright painful it is. It's a wonder she don't just lock herself in
her room and never come out." Dee grabbed Phoebe's chin and tipped her head up. "Why the long face?"

  "I don't think I can endure one more afternoon of callers. Winston's party is next week, and I've yet to think of a way to ask and convince Hildegard to let me go."

  Grinning, Dee tweaked Phoebe's nose. "You'll think of something, Sweet Pea. You always do. You just need a little sunshine, not that you'll find any in this here city. Never saw a place as gloomy as this. But then again, at least it's not raining." Tucking her basket of mending, under one arm, Dee draped the other over Phoebe's shoulder. She turned toward the kitchen. "You know, child, I promised Siggers I'd go to the butcher for him, and my feet seem to be bothering me something fierce. I don't suppose you'd like to go for me?"

  An escape! If only for a short time. If humanly possible, Phoebe felt as though her entire body grinned. "You know I would."

  Within minutes, she had her cape, a straw bonnet decorated with bright white daisies, a list of purchases and the necessary coin. She waltzed out the front door. The sun barely penetrated the haze and moisture clung to the air, but Phoebe didn't care. She was free, at least for an hour. And it wasn't raining. She practically skipped down the lane toward Hyde Park, where people dawdled, enjoying the break in the weather. Nursemaids conscientiously watched their wards and ladies displayed themselves and their finery in their carriages while gentlemen displayed their horses. She found herself purposely slowing her pace, searching the dirt tracks for Stephen.

  Instead, to her bad luck, she found Sir Lemmer, dressed in his typical peacockish fashion. Fine feathers certainly didn't make a fine bird, she thought, then caught herself before she burst into laughter at her own jest. He sat atop a black stallion whose sides heaved from exertion. The poor horse was lathered and carried marks consistent with the harsh use of spurs. Her dislike for the man increased with every encounter. She averted her eyes, hoping he'd pass her by.

  "What have we here? A damsel, certainly in need of rescue."

  "Good afternoon, sir." Nodding only slightly, she started back down the path.