Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  With that thought squeezing his mind, he saw Winston threading his way through the crowded tavern, oblivious to the stares and hushed whispers he attracted. Stephen's presence had been quietly accepted after a few heated glares. Evidently the presence of two lords was something to be remarked upon.

  Winston stopped and swiped his hand across the nearby table to inspect the grime collected on his leather glove. He grimaced. "By Henry, this place should either be torched, or at the very least scoured with lye soap and aired for a month."

  "The price one pays for anonymity, my friend. No one here prattles in my ear, nor do they cast disparaging remarks or scowls my way. How did you find me?"

  "I went by your home. Your coachman implied you might be found here. He seemed unhappy, and I understand his ire. I remember this tavern from our last adventure."

  "What do you want?" Stephen asked absently.

  Stephen's opponent, who had been silently observing the conversation, finally lost his patience. He shoved Winston to the side no small feat considering Winston's powerful frame to stand directly in front of Stephen. He grumbled, "You going to play or wag your lips? I want to win some of me blunt back."

  Winston glanced superciliously the meaty hand that dared soil his linen jacket, then crossed his arms over his chest.

  Stephen smoothed the whiskers of his mustache as his mood improved considerably. Perhaps a brawl was just the thing he needed to purge the last of his frustration and in a place like this a person simply planted a facer on one man and soon the entire crowd was exchanging fisticuffs. He grinned. "Winston, meet Scoots."

  "Pleased," Winston said as he gave Stephen a look of understanding. He wasn't taking the bait. "By all means, play," he said. "I'll make sure our little conversation doesn't disturb your game." Scoots's grunt was his only response. Winston started to sit down, changed his mind and leaned against the wooden beam. He nodded to Stephen's opponent. "Charming fellow. Unfortunately I don't have time today to teach him any manners. Elizabeth ordered me to find you and drag your arse her words, mind you back to her, at which time she intends to smash her silver tureen over your obstinate head while she enumerates the pitfalls of stupidity. Again, her words." He spread his arms wide. "So here I am."

  "And you live to do to her bidding."

  Winston's face blossomed into that silly, I'm-in-love expression that Stephen had grown accustomed to seeing on his friend's face. As Winston shrugged his shoulders, accepting his condition with his usual ease, he said, "What can I say? Besides, I wanted to see how you fared as well. I must say, you seem to be taking all this business in stride."

  "What am I to do?" Stephen muttered more to himself than Winston, as he watched the giant score thirty-five points. He didn't really care one way or the other about the game, though he was disappointed he wasn't going to have his fight after all." 'Tis a sorry state of affairs when a mere slip of girl lies a man low. Like a willow, he can only stand so much, then he either bends in the breeze or snaps in two. The concept of snapping is anathema to me."

  Raising a brow over the remark, Winston lifted Stephen's drink and sniffed. "Waxing a bit poetic, are we? How much have you had to drink?"

  "Not enough," Stephen said. He rolled the three darts in his fingers.

  "Your turn," said the sailor as he swaggered between the two men.

  Winston shook his head, sighed and continued to talk to Stephen. "I truly thought a woman had come along whose charms were potent enough to make you forget that ridiculous curse someone to make you happy."

  "Make me happy? Hell, since I've known Phoebe, I've been confused, agitated, frustrated and endured enough social functions to last me three lifetimes. She's willful and stubborn and she refuses to see reason unless it smacks her between her beautiful green eyes."

  The giant braced his feet apart. His stance suggested they listen. "Play."

  Patting the broad shoulder of his opponent, Stephen said, "No need to cob on, Scoots." He tossed a dart, pleased to score another bull's eye.

  As he watched, Winston said, "Well then, everything has worked out for the best."

  Stephen snorted, thinking of the life before him. He threw a dart and scored another ten points. "I shall have no peace. I will worry every waking moment of my day, wondering where Phoebe is and what she might be doing, whether or not she is safe. I'll go mad in short order."

  "You made your choice. Put her out of your mind."

  "Play," Scoots boomed. It was a demand, not a request.

  Discussing Phoebe so openly revived Stephen's need to pound something or someone. Scoots was quickly becoming a likely candidate. Tom between planting the dart in the sailor's arse or the board, Stephen aimed as he said to Winston, "I think, my friend, it would be rather difficult to forget one's wife."

  Winston pushed away from the beam. "Wife? Dear Heavens. Phoebe left with Lord Tewksbury this morning."

  The dart flew from Stephen's hand, landing with a whack in the wooden breast of a carved seagull that sat perched on a shelf by the bar where Scoots stood. Stephen whirled about to face Winston. "Impossible. She's to marry me."

  "Does she know that?" asked Winston.

  "I said play," the giant boomed.

  Winston planted a firm hand on the sailor's shoulder and squeezed. "The game is over, my good fellow. Go away."

  "I intended to inform Phoebe this afternoon." Stephen continued as though Scoots were nonexistent. "I can't believe she would up and marry another man without so much as a by-your-leave."

  "She sent you a note."

  "The hell you say," snapped Stephen, his arms already in his jacket. "I received no note. What makes you think I did?"

  "She said so last night at the opera."

  "Well, I didn't receive a damned note. Come along. We don't have time to waste." He reached for the coins on the table.

  Scoots's meaty hand landed on top of Stephen's with a resounding thud. "I want me blunt back."

  There was no hope for it. Scoots refused to see the need for expediency. Stephen hung his head in resignation, balled his hand into a fist and planted it squarely on the giant's broad chin.

  When Winston and Stephen approached Tewksbury Manor, a lone black carriage, the sort used by a local vicar, was parked in front. Stephen cursed, then muttered a plea of mercy. They had made a brief stop at Hildegard's on the off-chance Phoebe might still be there. They'd encountered Hildegard, who'd gleefully claimed responsibility for the missing note, then in the same breath ranted and raved about the loss of Marsden Manor. Hildegard would always be a lonely, bitter woman. Stephen pitied her.

  For the last hour, during the harrowing ride from London, he'd vacillated between silence and profanity. Winston had abandoned all attempts at conversation long ago. At the moment, Stephen Lambert, the Duke of Badrick, was loutish company. He leaped from the vehicle before the horses completely stopped.

  Winston quickly followed, trying one last time to appeal to Stephen's common sense. "At least find out if they've married before you attack like Edward on Scotland. A scene is the last thing you need to press your case." Stephen charged up the stairs two at a time. "Why do I have the feeling you're ignoring everything I say?" Winston called up.

  "Because I am." Stephen rapped the brass knocker against the giant oak door.

  Knowing when to wave the flag of surrender, Winston leaned against the brick wall and sighed. "This should be interesting."

  Stephen pounded, prepared to break the bloody door down. When the butler finally peered out, his eyes were round with shock. No small wonder, thought Stephen. His jacket was torn and his eye was swollen half-shut. Winston had fared no better in the brawl they'd just escaped. He sported a bloody lip, a lump above his brow from a pewter mug and more blood smattered on his lovely white cravat. The stench of the bar from their clothing did nothing to soothe the servant's nervousness. At the moment, Stephen didn't give a damn. He shoved his way across the threshold. "Where the hell is Tewksbury?"

  When the butler contin
ued to gape, open-mouthed, Stephen marched through the foyer and down the hall, his footsteps thundering on the marble floor. He opened doors, peeked inside, and, finding nothing, he slammed them shut and proceeded farther. The butler practically ran to keep up. Winston followed behind, doing his best to placate the poor man before he dropped to the floor in a fit of apoplexy.

  A familiar tiny blonde with a mop of curls on her head appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She tilted her head regally and observed Stephen's approach. With all the dignity of Queen Elizabeth, the moppet wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. "You stink."

  Stephen paused. "So good of you to notice. Where is your father?"

  She turned to the butler who was readying himself to call in reserves at the least provocation. "Go along, Simpson, I can handle this." To honor the girl's wishes, the butler skulked to a nearby room but hovered in the doorway. Bliss faced Stephen, and judging from the stern expression on her face, the chit was about to offer him the proper setdown. "What do you want?"

  "I don't think that's any of your business."

  "It is if you want my help."

  Winston burst into laughter. He couldn't help it. Here stood the Duke of Badrick at his most desperate of times and he was arguing with a tot. He laughed even harder.

  Stephen, who couldn't quite believe the child's insolence either, glowered at Winston. The wee tyrant before him actually expected, no, demanded, an explanation. He crossed his arms over his chest in his most authoritative manner. "If you must know, I am here to collect something that belongs to me."

  She stepped closer, not the least bit fearful of him. She planted her hands on her hips, likely in the manner she had seen her father do repeatedly. "I don't believe I like you."

  Good lord, Phoebe wanted one of these of her own. It was too much to comprehend. "The feeling is mutual. However, I do not have the time to discuss our feelings toward one another. Where is Miss Rafferty?"

  "Why?"

  "Why?" he bellowed. The butler lunged forward, as did two other servants, prepared to protect their charge. A gray-haired woman flew into the room, her feather-duster mop above her head. The cook, judging from the pot in his hand, had entered from another door down the hall. Winston raised his arm, silently requesting they wait.

  Bliss trembled, but held her ground. "I won't let you hurt her."

  No one deserved his anger, which stemmed from sheer panic. Leastways not this child. Deflated, Stephen knelt before Bliss. "I hope to make Miss Rafferty very happy. I promise. I need to find her first."

  Wisdom and acceptance shone in her eyes, an odd mix to be found in one so young. Bliss spun on her heels and proceeded up the steps. "All right."

  The assembled group marched upstairs like a gaggle of geese with Bliss in the lead. Winston brought up the rear guard, the collected staff in between. Bliss stopped outside a pair of mahogany doors. "She's in there with my father."

  "Stay calm," Winston called from stairway.

  As he reached for the doorknob, Stephen said a silent prayer, a meaningful thing since he wasn't a man prone to piety. What if they were married? Dear God, what if they were making love, what if...? He felt a tiny hand grasp his and squeeze. With renewed hope, he shoved the doors open.

  Phoebe sat on a settee, her head nestled on Tewksbury's shoulder. White-hot rage soared through Stephen's veins; it was such a surge of jealously, he was likely going to have to kill someone after all. Then he noticed the trembling of her shoulders. Tewksbury looked up. Phoebe lifted her head. Stephen saw the tears in her eyes and lost all control. He launched himself to her side. "What have you done to her, you bastard?"

  Before Stephen managed three steps, Tewksbury stood, which effectively stopped Stephen's advance.

  "That's diplomacy for you," Winston muttered as he casually leaned against the doorframe. A small army of servants, whose ranks quickly expanded, surrounded him.

  Stephen shot scowls at both men, finally settling his glare on Tewksbury. He spat out, "Get out of my way."

  Tewksbury crossed his arms. "Do you think to force me?"

  Stephen didn't dignify that comment with an answer. "Phoebe, come out from behind him. I don't give a damn if you're married. You'll be a widow by tomorrow. He can't keep you."

  Phoebe, frozen on the sofa until now, finally peeked from around Tewksbury's hip. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying - a considerable amount of crying, Stephen thought. He wanted to plant a facer on Tewksbury all over again. Clearly, he had put the tears in her eyes.

  She said with a sniffle, "What happened to your face?"

  "A minor disagreement," he answered.

  "More like a minor battle," muttered Winston.

  "Good evening, Winston," Phoebe said absently, as if she had just noticed his presence. She kept her eyes fixed on Stephen.

  "For the love of God, we're not serving tea." In disgust, Stephen threw his hands in the air. "Could we possibly have some privacy?"

  Tewksbury, Winston and Phoebe all spoke at the same time. "No."

  Leaning a bit further to the side, Phoebe asked, "What do you want, Stephen?"

  "Why were you crying?" he demanded.

  "I felt like it."

  "Damn frustrating when they do that, isn't it?" Winston said while moving to a chair where he sat and massaged his knee. "When Elizabeth cries, I want to flee the room and take her in my arms at the same time. Then she never seems to remember why she's crying."

  Rising from the settee in a fluid motion, she put her hands on her hips. "I know full well why I was crying."

  Stephen wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss every vile tear from her face. "Must we do this with an audience?"

  "Until I hear something to persuade me otherwise, yes," Tewksbury said.

  Stephen barely restrained himself from choking the man, but killing someone was not a stellar way to begin a honeymoon if he was going to have one. He didn't know whether he would or not. "Answer me this. Are you married?"

  Deathly silence overtook the confusion of the last halfhour. The ticking of the wall clock matched the drumming in Stephen's head. He heard the rustling of Phoebe's dress, Winston's sigh, the shuffling of the servants gathered in the doorway. A dog howled somewhere outside. His future hung in the balance, dependent on one word: yes or no.

  The terrifying realization that he might have arrived too late wrapped around his chest like a wide leather strap. Stephen locked stares with Tewksbury, who contented himself with making him squirm. Tewksbury's expression was as telling as a stump's. Stephen clenched his hands at his sides and waited.

  Finally, Tewksbury said, "Not yet. What matter is it to you?"

  The tension eased from Stephen's shoulders, but the knot in his stomach never lessened. He had yet to gain Phoebe's agreement. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the gathered multitude watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and astonishment. There was no hope for it. No one was leaving. He spoke to Phoebe as though the room were empty. "Come home with me."

  Tewksbury crossed his arms over his chest. "She stays exactly where she is."

  Stephen mirrored Tewksbury's position. "Isn't that for Phoebe to decide?"

  "If I remember correctly, you relinquished that right," Tewksbury answered.

  "He has a point there," interjected Winston.

  Phoebe moved impatiently to Tewksbury's side. "If you all don't mind, I have something to say."

  She hadn't said more than a few words since he arrived. Stephen took that as a good sign. He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture. "By all means, darling."

  "Don't you Jarling' me. You expect me to up and leave Lord Tewksbury on the night of our wedding? Do you realize you put me though hell? Why couldn't you have thought of this when I sent you the note?"

  Taken aback by her attack, he mumbled, "I never received a note. Hildegard intercepted it."

  "You never received my note?" She repeated the words more to herself than to anyone else. She looked to Winston for validation. He nodded.

&
nbsp; Shifting his weight to one leg, Tewksbury said, "Nothing has been said to change my mind."

  A most profound curse slipped from Stephen's lips.

  The matter was settled by an unexpected source. Bliss strolled to her father's side and tugged on his jacket. "He won't hurt her anymore, Father. He promised."

  The calm assurance of those words, spoken by a mere child, was simply too much to bear. Imagine, thought Stephen. Championed by a seven-year-old. His life was no longer recognizable. The beliefs he'd clung to had been whipped upside down and inside out, ripped from the past and reshaped into the present. The responsibility lay at the feet of the woman before him, the woman who had loved him and trusted him. And he had hurt her terribly. Softening his voice to a whisper, he said, "Phoebe, I'm truly sorry. Trust me to make this right." He wasn't above begging. Stepping forward, he added, "Please."

  "L.." The solemn despair in Stephen's voice tugged at the wounded strings of her heart. Hope opened within her soul like the bud of a lily awakening to greet the dawn. He was a fool. But fool that he was, she loved him. She'd been sitting here, weeping all over Lord Tewksbury, apologizing because she had been unable to marry him after all. Logic and common sense dictated she stay, but her heart demanded she go. The power of her love had made only one decision possible. She had planned to return to London, to Stephen.

  Now he stood before her of his own volition. Surely he hadn't come all this way to wish her well, but his reasons didn't matter. She would refuse him nothing. "I don't know what you expect from me."

  "Come with me and I'll make my intentions perfectly clear." When she nodded, he gathered her into his arms. The servants blocking the doorway parted, then scattered down the hall. Winston, Tewksbury and Bliss followed Stephen and lined the balcony. Stephen called over his shoulder. "Winston, see if Tewksbury has a carriage for you. I'll be taking yours."

  "I'll expect to hear from her, Badrick," called Tewksbury.

  Phoebe answered with a lopsided grin. "I'll be all right. Truly." Halfway down the stairs, Phoebe said, "Wait." Stephen stopped.