Loving Lady Dervish - A Veiled Seduction Novella

by Heather Snow

  And he liked having both back in his life.

  “Ho!”

  Malcolm heard the jarvey’s call and braced himself as the hackney came to an abrupt halt. A quick glance out the window told him they were now in Berkley Square. The other carriage had stopped just ahead, and its driver had already hopped down from the box. Malcolm fixed his eyes on the door. Now he’d learn whether his instinct had been correct.

  A lady’s gloved hand emerged first, then a boot. Malcolm released a breath as Phoebe’s fur-trimmed blue cloak came into view. She stepped down from the hackney with the driver’s help, holding her portfolio close to her with her other arm.

  Adrenaline surged through him. Malcolm reached for Phoebe’s bag and easel and threw open his own door, hopping down into yet another mess of dirty melting snow. He kept his eyes on Phoebe as he paid the jarvey his promised double fare, prepared to turn his shoulder should she look around. He didn’t want her to know he’d followed her, after all…at least not until he learned who she was meeting and why. But Phoebe seemed quite intent on her destination as she hurried up the street before ducking through an open door.

  Malcolm set after her in a quick-step. He didn’t want to be caught, but neither did he wish to lose her. As he drew nearer, he eased his pace as he recognized the establishment. She’d stepped into Gunter’s, so he needn’t rush.

  What he did need to do was figure out how he was going to see who Phoebe was meeting with, without being seen himself. Gunter’s was best known for their ices, which often attracted crowds that lined the streets on hot summer afternoons. But their confections still drew plenty of lofty patrons during the winter months. As large and bustling as London was, aristocratic circles were annoyingly small. Since the tea shop was quite popular with the young ladies of the ton, an eligible bachelor like himself would be recognized before both of his snow-ravaged boots were through the door.

  Damn. Lugging around Phoebe’s paint supplies and easel didn’t help matters, either. Inconspicuous he was not.

  As Malcolm approached the great windows of the tea shop, he still had no brilliant plan for hiding himself. He stopped just short of where the stone façade gave way to glass, and slowly leaned over until he could peek within.

  Gunter’s was doing a brisk business today. Several small groups of well-dressed ladies stood waiting for tables, but he saw neither Phoebe’s blue cloak nor the emerald green of the frock she was wearing today.

  A matron in a ghastly yellow hat caught sight of his head, snapping her own around to look at him from her table near the window. Malcolm jerked himself upright and out of sight.

  Feeling like an ass, he maneuvered the easel and bag to his right side, using them to partially block him from view as he walked past. He peered into the tea shop as well as he could without turning his head. There! He caught sight of Phoebe being led to a table where a gentleman was already waiting for her.

  He knew it!

  When he’d cleared the shop’s windows, he turned around. He needed to see in, but he couldn’t very well keep walking back and forth in front of the windows, switching the bag and easel from his right side to his left depending on which way he was heading. It wasn’t as if they formed a shield…

  Or did they?

  Malcolm edged back toward the windows, placing himself at an angle where he could glimpse Phoebe well, but where he wouldn’t be in her natural line of sight. She was far enough away that he could make out her features and gestures, but not see the color of her unforgettable eyes. Perfect.

  Now he just needed a bit of cover from other prying eyes.

  He set up Phoebe’s easel on the diagonal, then searched her bag until he found a piece of woven watercolor paper and stretched it into place. He pulled out her paint box and a couple of brushes as well, for legitimacy. He was sure to draw a few stares, as most artists did not paint out of doors in the dead of winter—and if they did, they likely stationed themselves across the street in the park. But he doubted if anyone would look too hard at him. Besides, most people saw only what they expected to see.

  And he was certain no one expected to see Viscount Coverdale painting on the street in Berkley Square.

  He hunched over the paper all the same, dabbing absently at it with a dry brush, while he raised his eyes above the easel just enough to see Phoebe sipping from a dainty teacup. She sat across from her gentleman friend, whose back was to Malcolm. He couldn’t see a damned thing about the man, aside from the fact that he was tall, if slightly built, with a head of thick brown hair.

  But Malcolm didn’t have to see him to know that he didn’t like him.

  He dabbed his imaginary paint harder. At least, if Phoebe were going to meet a man without a chaperone, she’d had the good sense to come to Gunter’s. It was one of only a handful of places a young lady could do so without risk to her reputation—although typically that maxim only extended when the young lady was in an open curricle across the street sharing an ice with a gentleman who stood outside of said curricle with an ice of his own.

  But she didn’t seem concerned. Whatever they were discussing, she clearly enjoyed the subject. Her face was alight and her hands gestured with happy energy. She tilted her head and listened to the man, nodding and smiling at something he said, and Malcolm’s stomach knotted.

  No, he did not like this man one bit.

  Loathed him, in fact. Which was ridiculous, he knew. Hell, he didn’t even know the chap. What Malcolm did know was that he wanted Phoebe to look at him like that, only—

  A tug on his greatcoat startled him upright, and he jerked his head around, instinctively looking for the danger. A pickpocket? Or perhaps a—

  “What’re you painting?”

  Or perhaps a curious little cherub with brown curls and golden brown eyes, blinking up at him. Her nursemaid smiled apologetically and held fast to the girl’s hand, but did not pull her away.

  “I—um…” He glanced at the blank paper, wishing they would move on. “A portrait,” he said curtly.

  “Of whom?”

  Malcolm nodded toward the door. “A lady in the tea shop. And I must really get back to it.” He turned his eyes back to Phoebe’s table. She and the gentleman looked quite cozy now, their heads bent toward one another conspiratorially. Phoebe tugged on her lower lip with her teeth, as if nervously excited. What were they talking about?

  The little girl popped in between him and the easel. She scrunched her nose and peered up at him. “But there’s nothing there.”

  Malcolm clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. How was he to spy on Phoebe and Ellison with this child underfoot? However, he pasted a smile on his face. Having spent a good deal of his adolescence with another inquisitive young girl with honey-brown eyes, he knew very well he’d have no peace until the imp was satisfied. He backed up a step and crouched down to her level.

  “There’s plenty there, poppet. Just not on paper yet. I’ve got to work everything out in my mind first, before I can commit it to paint.” There. That had better be answer enough. No telling what he was missing in there.

  But the girl’s lower lip pouted and her little brows dipped dubiously. “Is she pretty, this lady you plan to paint?”

  Phoebe’s face came to mind, with her slightly too-prominent chin, her sharp nose, her wide arresting eyes. “Yes, though maybe not in the way some people think of as beautiful. It’s not her outer beauty I wish to capture, anyway, but rather all that’s within her. That’s what truly makes her special.”

  As he said the words, he knew that he meant them. He did want to capture Phoebe, and all that she was…not in watercolor, of course, but for his very own.

  The little angel in front of him simply shook her head, curls bouncing. “If she’s so special, then paint her already. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

  Malcolm huffed a laugh. Out of the mouths of babes.

  “Indeed.” He reached out and patted her on the head.

  He straightened as the girl and her nu
rsemaid bundled off, his heart light and his mind made up. He did intend to “paint” Phoebe, and he’d best get to it before someone else painted her first. He peered over the easel, searching for her.

  Her chair was empty. Ellison still sat in his seat, pouring another cup of tea, but it looked as though Phoebe’s dishes had been cleared. His eyes scanned the crowd frantically and then his heart shot to his throat. Bloody hell, she was almost upon him, heading for the door with a stunning smile on her face.

  But it wasn’t for him. He was quite sure she hadn’t seen him. Ellison had put that smile on her face. Bloody bastard.

  Malcolm scrambled to shut the easel and gather Phoebe’s implements. While he’d made up his mind to woo Phoebe in earnest, he wasn’t prepared to do so this very second.

  He snatched everything and ducked into the stoop of the next building just in time. He watched as she floated down the street in her happiness and hailed a hackney. Each bubbly step she took was a kick to him. What chance had he if Phoebe’s heart was already engaged?

  But even if it was, who said this Ellison was on the level? If the man was meeting her clandestinely at Gunter’s rather than calling on her at home, as was proper, how could he be? Malcolm determined to keep to his original plan and discover what Phoebe was up to…in addition to sizing up his competition.

  When she was safely gone, he pulled his hat low over his eyes and entered the tea shop. Waving off the servant who attempted to greet him, he shouldered past others in the queue and made straight for Ellison.

  Malcolm came around the table and stopped short. This man was in his fifth decade at the least. Yes, he had thick brown hair, but it was winged with gray in the front, his face lined in a way that spoke of many years in the sun. Not at all who he pictured Phoebe running away with.

  Malcolm glanced around. Perhaps he’d come to the wrong table? But no… The man sitting before him held Phoebe’s painting—the ruined one that had moved Malcolm so—and seemed engrossed in it. Malcolm fisted his hand against the urge to snatch the artwork from him.

  “Ellison?”

  The man’s head snapped up, but confusion crinkled his eyes more deeply than his crow’s feet.

  “Pardon?”

  “P. A. Ellison,” Malcolm said. “You are he, yes?”

  The gentleman shook his head. “Afraid not. The name’s Updike.” He rolled up Phoebe’s painting almost protectively, and said, “And you are…?”

  Updike? Malcolm frowned. Clearly he’d misread something, and now had no idea what to think. He wasn’t about to go poking blindly. He’d just have to confess to Phoebe that he’d followed her and ask her who this man was.

  “My apologies. I—” Malcolm scrambled for a way to extricate himself without looking even more foolish. He lifted the bag of painting supplies and easel slightly. “I was asked to deliver these to a Mr. Ellison and was told he’d be here. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

  “Ah,” Updike said, nodding, though he still looked a bit confused. “Well, you did just miss Ellison, and it’s no wonder if you’ve been looking for a man. You’ve made the same mistake I did, my friend.” The man chuckled. “P. A. Ellison is a woman.”

  Chapter 7

  Phoebe strove to take a calming breath as she stood at the top of the staircase that led into Lady Davenport’s grand ballroom, but the fist in her middle refused to unclench enough to let air in. Her aunt—whom she’d wrangled into chaperoning her at the last minute—had already deserted her for a group of matrons near the refreshment tables. That left Phoebe to navigate the throng on her own.

  It was the last place on earth she wanted to be.

  Well, perhaps on the banks of the Congo being chased by headhunters would be the last place on earth she’d want to be… She scanned the candlelit room. Couples twirled on the dance floor as groups of revelers exchanged on-dits behind open fans and gloved hands. Memories of humiliations past burned her eyes.

  No. No. She’d take the cannibals any day.

  Phoebe blinked away those thoughts and started down the steps. She could do this…she had to. Malcolm had unquestionably fulfilled his end of their bargain—so well, in fact, that her father hadn’t so much as spoken the name Jones. He’d also been quite jovial these past few days, particularly this afternoon. It had been downright unnerving.

  Now, she had to keep up her end of the deal. When she’d arrived home to find her art supplies returned to her, along with a very touching gift and Malcolm’s note asking her to meet him here, her sense of fair play insisted that she must. Still, if he didn’t present himself within a quarter of an hour, her conscience had no problem claiming a megrim and retreating.

  Her palms smoothed over the lavender silk of her scalloped evening gown. It took everything in her not to find the nearest wall and hold it up while she waited, but she refused to give in to her nerves. This could very well be her last foray into the ballrooms of London. She’d hold her head high.

  She had much to be proud of. Mr. Updike had been surprised yesterday to learn that the botanical artist he’d been corresponding with was a young lady, but he’d also been suitably impressed with her vision for his forthcoming book, and was happy to hire her as his illustrator. The botanist was certain an advance from his publisher would be possible. He was bringing the man to Lord Pickford’s symposium tomorrow evening to introduce her.

  And just today, she’d met with a widow who had an affordable room to let. Should the advance come through, Phoebe was certain she could make it stretch the extra time.

  A satisfied smile curled her lips. No, nothing could dampen her spirits tonight.

  “Why, if it isn’t Lady Dervish,” came an insidious voice she could have lived the whole of her life never hearing again. Still, she knew it would do her no good to pretend she hadn’t heard it now.

  She turned to face Chester Harvey, her smile gone brittle. She dropped it altogether and warily nodded acknowledgement.

  As usual, he stood at the center of his group of admirers, no doubt entertaining them by passing judgment on anyone who had the misfortune to wander by.

  “I do hope you each have your affairs in order,” he drawled to the group. “First the Thames freezes over, then Haverstan and Lady Juliette Trent are seen out and about together after he jilted her, and now Lady Dervish has whirled out of the woodwork—all in the same week. I daresay the apocalypse may be upon us.”

  Harvey’s sycophants chortled and twittered, as expected. The tips of Phoebe’s ears burned. That was the absolute last snide comment she was going to entertain from that man. She had nothing left to lose, after all. She opened her mouth, intent on giving him a set-down for the ages.

  “Miss Anson,” a voice interrupted. Malcolm’s voice. A tingle coursed down her spine. He’d appeared behind her, she knew. And not just because he’d spoken. She actually felt the heat of his nearness, an awareness that set her nerves aflame.

  She swallowed the insult she’d been about to hurl at Harvey. ’Twas probably for the best. There was nothing to be gained by it, not really. It would only give them more fodder to add to the gossip that would come when she walked away from Society.

  “Lord Coverdale,” she murmured as she turned to face Malcolm. Her breath caught at the green flames burning in his eyes. Oh, my. He seemed quite angry. Surely not at her. On her behalf, then?

  His voice was deceptively pleasant. “I am gratified to have found you at last,” he said. “Now my evening can be deemed a success.” He was doing it up thick, this fwoo-age. He actually sounded as though he meant it. Then he asked a question that surprised her. “If, of course, you will do me the honor of partnering me in the next dance?”

  The titters had stopped, and Phoebe had the surreal feeling that more than Harvey’s little group watched them now. Their last dance, five years past in this very ballroom, had been a disaster—and the ton had a long memory. She’d humiliated herself thoroughly in her exuberance, twirling too heartily and knocking over the poor dancer next to her
in the line.

  Given Malcolm’s admission of a few afternoons ago, she could see now that she’d likely mortified him at a time when he was trying so hard to fit in.

  Why must you always be such a whirling dervish? He’d hurled the words at her in harsh accusation—in front of all and sundry—before stalking off of the dancefloor. An endearment turned insult—one Harvey and his set had been only too happy to take up.

  It had been the last time she’d danced in company. She didn’t even know if she remembered the intricate steps anymore. Why was he asking this of her now? And in the very same ballroom? Quivers of nerves fluttered, but she answered, “Of course, my lord.”

  Malcolm’s smile was quick, but the heat in his eyes remained. He offered her his elbow. She placed her hand upon his forearm, which he promptly secured by covering it with his large palm.

  And then Malcolm quite shocked Phoebe to her slippers.

  He looked Harvey straight in the eye and then swung Phoebe neatly around, turning their backs decidedly on the gossip and his group, effectively giving the man the cut direct.

  Several gasps behind them let her know the slight had not gone unnoticed.

  This time Phoebe knew eyes followed them as they made their way to the dance floor. She felt them as surely as she felt Malcolm’s warmth even through her glove.

  “Everyone’s staring at us,” she whispered.

  “Only because I have the most beautiful lady in the room on my arm,” Malcolm said, not in a whisper, which sent heat flushing to her cheeks. She should really tell him he no longer needed to pretend to woo her. Her future was all but set.

  Still, she couldn’t help but snort. “I’d rather say it’s because you just publicly made an enemy out of a darling of the ton,” she said, just loud enough for his ears. “Whyever did you do it?”

  Malcolm brought them to a halt, pulling her into his arms as the strains of violins lilted on the air. “Harvey’s an ass,” he said simply.

  He encircled her waist with one arm, and lifted her other hand. She glanced around at the other dancers, who were doing the same—not lining up across from each other at all. Her palms started to sweat. What dance was this? She didn’t know it at all.