Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841)

by Eastwood, Gail

  Judith might not have relented except for the agonized expression on David’s face, and the unusual amount of emphasis he had managed to give the last word. When she nodded, the lad fairly bounded out of his chair to go to her.

  Phoebe felt extremely uneasy. Obviously something had occurred at the park of which she had been entirely unaware. Had she been too distracted by her own thoughts to exercise appropriate vigilance? What bothered her most was that, whatever had happened, the children obviously had not felt they could confide in her. She felt far more shaken by that than anything else that had occurred all day, including her encounter with Lord Devenham.

  “All right, I understand,” Judith was saying as David finished whispering in her ear. “I am sure you thought you were being noble. But although your motives may have been the best, I have to tell you that in this case you did not do the right thing.”

  All three boys looked crestfallen at this, and for a moment, they did not seem to Phoebe all that far apart in age.

  “David, please tell your father and Aunt Phoebe what you just explained to me.” Judith looked very serious indeed.

  “The boys told us there was a man over in the bushes who had been watching us ever since we had settled down in that spot in the park. We didn’t believe them. I thought if there was somebody, he was probably just—you know, cup-shot.”

  Phoebe saw Judith cringe as she heard this comment from her ten-year-old, but she did not interrupt.

  “We looked where they pointed, and sure enough, there was a man there, watching Dorrie and Aunt Phoebe. But when he saw us looking his way, real quick-like he slid out from the bushes and walked away fast. We decided not to tell, because he left, and we thought Aunt Phoebe and Dorrie would just get frightened.”

  ***

  Dorrie had remained most noticeably silent after her siblings’ revelations at dinner. When the children were sent up to bed, Phoebe followed and sought to give her niece some reassurance.

  “You mustn’t be alarmed about the man in the park, Dorrie. He was most likely just a secret admirer, embarrassed at being discovered. He did us no harm, and I’m sure he meant us none. We should feel flattered that he found us so worthy of his attention!” Perched casually on the edge of Dorrie’s bed, she managed to achieve a light, reassuring tone. She only wished she could believe her own words as easily as she hoped Dorrie would.

  When she stopped in the room that David and Thomas shared, the boys in turn assured her that they had sought merely to spare her feelings by not telling her about the unknown man. “There seemed to be no point in it,” David finished, “once the man was already gone.”

  “I appreciate and thank you for your attempt to shield me from being upset,” she said gently, observing their chastened spirits, “but I think somehow we have gotten things turned about. It is the adults who are supposed to shield the children, not the other way ’round.”

  She bid each of them good night with a kiss and quietly headed for the stairs, lost in thought. Did the children see her as so fragile, so weak, that she needed even their protection? Did they think, perhaps, that she was cowardly? She had never stopped before to consider how they might perceive her in the light of her reclusive habits. If that was indeed what they thought of her, then it was far and away time to make a change. It was time to take back control of her life and to stop hiding. For the first time all day, she felt glad that she had accepted Lucy’s invitation to tea.

  Mullins was waiting for her in the shadows of the first floor landing. He stepped forward just as she came down the last step.

  “Oh, Mullins!” she exclaimed, putting her hand to her throat in an instinctive gesture. “I didn’t think there was anyone here but Aristotle,” she added, smiling as she regained her composure.

  “Sorry to startle you, Lady Brodfield. I never meant to. It’s just that his lordship has been askin’ for you all day. Would you be kind enough to see him?”

  Would she? Phoebe hesitated. She had spent the afternoon with the children and their lessons, and with Judith in her sitting room. She supposed she was not a very responsible nurse if she did not at least check on her patient, much as she might prefer not to. Hadn’t she just resolved to stop hiding from things? “Very well,” she agreed. “I’ll stop in for just a moment.”

  As she entered the guest room, Phoebe was surprised to see by the soft light of the bedside lamp that Devenham’s bed was quite empty.

  “I believe you have been avoiding me since this morning,” came his deep voice, startling her. How jumpy she was! Perhaps her nerves were more overset by old friends roaming Oxford Street and strange men lurking in bushes than she had thought. She took a breath to calm herself.

  The earl was seated in the wing chair by the hearth, clad in a dressing gown with a blanket covering his legs. As Phoebe approached, she noted that the glow from the fire in the grate lit his face and emphasized the whiteness of his shirt collar against the deep blue of the brocaded silk wrapper.

  “You should be in bed, my lord,” Phoebe chided. “Whatever was Mullins thinking?”

  “Nonsense,” replied the earl in a dampening tone. “If you are any kind of a nurse, Lady Brodfield, you should know it is important for a patient to change his position whenever possible. Demmed if I’ll suffer bedsores on top of everything else.”

  Phoebe ignored his language. “But you are so weak! You need to rest.”

  “I have been resting all day, waiting for you.” He gave her an angelic smile. “I wanted to apologize.”

  Phoebe did not know whether to sit down or stay standing. She did not know whether he was being sincere or starting a new game with her. She looked at him dubiously.

  “You surprise me,” Devenham said. “I thought you would deny avoiding me. Have I been punished sufficiently for my bad behavior? Please, Lady Brodfield, since you are here, sit down.” He indicated the straight chair that was already so familiar to her, now drawn up by the hearth opposite the wing chair.

  She perched uneasily on the edge of the seat. “Had you not considered the possibility that I am charged with other duties besides yourself?” she asked testily.

  His attractively lopsided grin appeared, gleaming in the dim light. “Indeed, I had. But I am a man, with a man’s vanity. I found that I preferred to think I was being punished, and that I was at least that much on your mind.”

  Disarmed by his candor, she stood up again and moved a few steps toward the fire. She could not possibly admit to him that he was so completely right or that he had read her so well. What an aggravating man! Aggravating, yet at the same time dangerously charming.

  The earl continued when she did not respond. “As I said, I wish to apologize to you for my behavior this morning. I often act the scoundrel without thinking—it is a role that comes easily to me. I am sorry I offended you. Especially you, of all people!”

  She turned around at that, her question in her face. “Why me, of all people?”

  “Mullins has told me how faithfully you attended me in the throes of my delirium. I am greatly in your debt. I am sure you must be tired, and I shall not detain you long. But I must make it clear to you how much I shall still need you, now that I appear to be recovering.” He sighed and suddenly looked as weary as Phoebe knew he must be.

  “Shall I call Mullins?” she asked quickly, making a move toward the door.

  Devenham waved a hand vaguely as if to detain her. “No, let me finish first.” He interrupted himself, serving her with a penetrating stare. “Will you sit down, woman? You are very restless and unusually quiet tonight. I hope it is not on my account.”

  She shook her head and sat down again meekly. Her discomfort was not on his account alone, at least. But she was not about to confide her troubles to him.

  “Better. Now, I will still be needing you as a nurse, I know, but I shall need a secretary while I am
here, as well. Since I have not shown sense enough to die, there is a good deal of business that I must attend to. Mullins will have to serve as my legs and my presence about Town, temporarily. He will not always be able to spend entire days at my side as he did today.” He lifted one eyebrow, managing to produce a mischievous expression despite his obvious fatigue.

  Sobering again, he continued. “Mullins’s handwriting resembles chicken scratches more than anything alphabetical in nature, and I will have letters that must be sent. So, after what happened today, I would like to arrange with you in advance for your services. Will you help me?”

  Phoebe folded her hands in her lap and fought the impulse to get up again. Did she really have a choice?

  She ventured a glance at Devenham, only to discover his blue eyes regarding her intently. She could feel his magnetism; indeed, she had been more than a little aware of it from the moment she stepped into the room. She decided it was inescapable and that she had better become accustomed to it. Some perverse fate seemed to have decreed that she must spend time with the earl.

  “Do you promise to behave?” she asked.

  “You have my word on it.”

  So much for her decision to avoid him. She closed her eyes, feeling that somehow, just when she had decided to take charge of her life, everything in it was spinning in different directions, out of control.

  “You may call Mullins in now,” Devenham said softly.

  Chapter Five

  The following days settled into a regular pattern. Phoebe divided her mornings and afternoons, spending part of each with the children at their lessons, and part with Lord Devenham, assisting him with correspondence or whatever else he required. Her hours with him passed quietly, measured more by the scratch of her pen on foolscap and the deep, regular cadences of his voice than by anything else, Phoebe thought.

  She had not desired to deepen her acquaintance with the earl. His presence in her life, while unsettling, was temporary, and once he was gone, she planned to get on with the business of building some sort of future for herself.

  However, her role as his secretary had suddenly positioned her squarely, if uncomfortably, on intimate terms with his private affairs. Her elegantly rounded script spelled out seemingly endless instructions and queries to his bailiffs at three estates, and comforting reassurances to his mother in Rutland. She penned letters to his commander and to fellow officers in his regiment, and others to solicitors and bankers. She even wrote notes to several of his personal friends, whose names she recognized as among London’s most notorious. She was relieved that these contained nothing even remotely out of the ordinary. And, he had not asked her to write to any women.

  In truth, she found no evidence to support the dire reputation he was supposed to have. From what she could tell, he was nothing if not conscientious, dutiful, responsible, and courteous—just exactly what she had not expected. His demeanor toward her was businesslike, except for his occasional lapses in language and a tendency to ask her discomforting questions.

  “Where did you get that God-awful stuff you’ve been passing off on me as tea?” he asked one afternoon when she had finally allowed him to indulge in a cup of the regular beverage.

  He was ensconced in the wing chair, which had been pulled over to the window. She sat in the straight chair opposite him, with a small writing table between them. For the moment, it was burdened with tea things rather than papers.

  “That was tea,” she replied calmly, “just not of the Chinese variety. Milfoil, or yarrow as some call it, has been known for centuries as an aid to healing wounds and combating fevers. An old name for it is Soldier’s Wort.”

  “Did you make it?”

  “I instructed our kitchen help in making the tea. I grow the herbs right out there in the garden.” She nodded toward the window.

  “Ah, that explains the scent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The scent you wear. It has been haunting me ever since I arrived here.”

  Suddenly the conversation seemed to have become very personal. “It is a combination of rosemary and lemon verbena,” Phoebe said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. How ridiculous that such a small comment from him had set her pulse racing! She could feel it in her breast, her throat, and the palms of her hands.

  “It lingers very pleasantly,” he said. “I can smell it on the writing paper after you are finished each day and sometimes on other things as well. Yet it is very delicate, very light.” His voice was suddenly warm, and Phoebe realized with alarm that his gaze was, as well.

  I mustn’t appear flustered, she told herself firmly. Truly, the idea of him sniffing the paper after she left the room each day, of him haunted by her scent, was very unsettling indeed. “I—I make it myself.” She felt a response was necessary and did not know what else to say.

  “It is very seductive.”

  He was pushing her for a reaction, she knew. He must be very bored to be playing games with her after his promise to behave. “It isn’t meant to be,” she snapped. She reached for the rolled copy of the Times that lay on the tea tray and opened it with a loud rustling of pages. She scanned quickly for something that would distract him from this line of conversation.

  “Did your husband like it?”

  Her head jerked up at that. She couldn’t help showing a reaction. “That is certainly none of your business!”

  His voice was gentle, in contrast to her sharp tone. “I am not toying with you, Lady Brodfield. I only ask because I am interested in you. I want to know you, to understand you. You never speak about your late husband. It seems curious.”

  The pages of the newspaper were shaking. “I find it painful to talk about the past. Like most human beings, I prefer to avoid pain.”

  He was looking at her with sympathy now, and Phoebe was not sure she liked that any better than the hunger she had detected in his eyes just before.

  “I am sure you must have some very happy memories of your husband,” he said. “Sometimes it helps to share those with a caring friend.”

  Phoebe raised the pages of the newspaper like a barrier between herself and the inquisitive earl. He had managed to touch a chord in her—to reach through some infinitesimal crack in the wall she had built around her heart, to some loneliness and longing she did not want to admit existed there. She could not, would not acknowledge it.

  “His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, has broken his arm,” she announced, studying the small print and swallowing the lump in her throat. “It seems he slipped on the oilcloth while taking a showerbath at Oatlands.”

  Devenham sighed, and Phoebe took it as a sign of capitulation. After a pause he commented dryly, “How undignified, and how embarrassing to have it reported in the Times. His poor Highness, although certainly it is nothing compared to a juicy scandal. Will he be all right?”

  She was relieved that he had accepted the change of topic. “It says his doctors have seen to him.”

  “I suppose that will keep him at home for several weeks to come. As far as I am concerned, that is all to the good. I should like to be mobile again before my presence is required at one of his military levees.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Maddocks, bearing mail for Phoebe.

  “You look astonished,” Devenham said as Phoebe broke the seal on the letter.

  “I seldom receive mail,” she answered absently, intent upon reading it. Her face cleared as she saw the note was from Lucinda Follett. “As it happens, however, I was told to expect this.”

  She smiled as she refolded Lucy’s letter. There was a certain note of satisfaction in her voice as she informed him, “I am afraid you will have to do without me tomorrow afternoon, my lord. I am invited to take tea with an old friend.”

  ***

  It was Judith who convinced Phoebe to take Goldie
instead of Mary Anne as her escort to tea at Lady Follett’s. In the several days that had passed, Phoebe had rather forgotten about the lurker in the park, but Judith had not. Aware that her sister’s fears were now mirrored in her own anxiety, Phoebe was inclined to dismiss as pure imagination her feeling that someone was following them when she and Goldie walked the short distance to Lucy’s gracious town house in the heart of Mayfair.

  Phoebe had taken extra pains with her appearance, ferreting out the best articles of mourning dress in her wardrobe for this occasion. She had made Mary Anne fuss with her hair quite uncharacteristically, and she knew it was from nervousness at the upcoming encounter.

  Upstairs in Lucy’s elegantly furnished drawing room, Phoebe felt awkward. How out of practice she was at making conversation! However, she had given some prior thought to the meeting and had resolved to set things straight with her old acquaintance. Nurturing a friendship from a base that was tainted by misconceptions would be like trying to grow seedlings in soil filled with rocks and weeds.

  “Lucy, you were very kind to invite me to tea,” she began politely. “It will surprise you to hear that I have not been in the habit of going out at all for some time now. I actually feel quite nervous. Please, you must not think it is on your account.”

  “Oh, my dear, I feel honored that you’ve come,” Lucy responded sympathetically. She settled Phoebe into a chair beside the tea table and proceeded to pour, passing her guest a steaming cup made of the thinnest porcelain. Everything in Lucy’s drawing room was of the latest style, as was Lucy’s lemon-yellow muslin gown. “I had no idea. Of course, you are in mourning . . .”

  Phoebe shook her head. “There is something I would like to clear up between us, Lucy. I am in mourning again, as you say. But I am not just arrived in London for my father-in-law’s commemorative. I have been here through the entire Season.”

  “The entire Season?” Lucy was dumbfounded. “But no one knew! What a terrible waste! Why would you hide like that? You are so beautiful and charming; you would have been such a welcome guest. However did you manage to keep your presence such a secret? Your servants must be the rarest souls of discretion. I can scarcely credit it.”