A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

  “All right,” he drawled. “As to this...fwoo-age,” Malcolm said from behind her, in a tone that implied that he couldn’t quite believe he’d just said such a word, “have the bouquets I’ve sent been doing their duty?”

  She swirled a dirty brush in the water, watching the color cyclone before tinting the liquid green. “Oh, yes. They are displayed right in the main hallway where Father can’t help but see them. He hasn’t mentioned Mr. Jones at all. Thank you for that,” she said, tapping the droplets off of the now clean brush. “Although, if it’s all the same to you, I’d appreciate it if no more flowers were murdered on my account.”

  Malcolm seemed to choke for a second, then croaked, “Murdered?”

  She shrugged her shoulders as she finished drying one brush and picked up another. “Perhaps that is a bit of a harsh term, but quite accurate. A living, breathing organism is severed from that which sustains it by the hand of another. Just because the flower takes a few days to die, dead is dead.”

  Malcolm shook his head, but his crooked smile had returned. “Only you, Pheebs.” He reached out and fingered a leaf of the oxalis that covered the raised flower bed before them. “Although...do flowers actually breathe?”

  “Mmm, not technically,” she answered, wrapping her dried brushes in their fabric case and tying it. “But they do respire, which is much the same. A Dutch scientist named Ingen-Housz actually proved that plants, like animals, produce both fixed air and oxygen.” She turned to him after she packed the brush case in her bag, her hands gesturing animatedly. “But here’s the interesting thing—they produce fixed air at night, but when they’re in sunlight, they produce mainly oxygen. Ingen-Housz has even proposed that they can absorb bad air, making it cleaner for us to—” She broke off, her cheeks heating. “That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

  Malcolm only chuckled. She couldn’t help laughing herself.

  When their mirth faded, he said, “Why haven’t you married, Phoebe?”

  Her throat and her stomach constricted at the same time, from embarrassment or from longing she wasn’t certain. She shook her head. “You’ve heard how awful things were for me.”

  “I have,” he said. “But, Phoebe, you’ve...” Malcolm circled his wrist, his hand gesticulating as he searched for a word. His eyes lit and he pointed at the flower bed. “You have blossomed into a lovely woman. You’re intelligent, you’re funny—which is naught but bonus, in my opinion—and you have passion.”

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  He must have noticed, for he glanced around as if checking to see if anyone overheard. Then he grinned at her. “For plants and flowers and life-threatening carnival rides, that is,” he clarified.

  “Ah.”

  “Take this, for example.” He indicated her ruined painting, which was still drying on her easel. “Yes, it’s marred, and I apologize for that, by the way. But that’s not what I see when I look at it. These...” His lips pressed together.

  “Primrose,” she supplied, “with oxalis and irises.”

  He gave a short nod. “They leap off the paper. I can’t imagine how you achieve the effect. I care nothing for such things and yet I want to touch the petals to see if they are as velvety as they look. That’s more than just talent, Phoebe. That’s something special. You’re something special. I refuse to believe that every man in London has been a blind fool.”

  She simply gaped at him. And then anger slid through her like a creeping vine. It was fine and well for him to say such things. Just as he’d apparently not known how his friends had continued to torment her after he’d left London, he had no idea the years that she’d continued to hope she would find someone who fit her. She’d been the blind fool.

  But Malcolm just looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer that should be obvious.

  She sighed, knowing he’d hound her until he got one. “Have you ever seen a helenium?” She waved a hand at him. “Never mind, even if you had you likely wouldn’t know its name.” She rifled through her portfolio until she found her painting of the bright rust-and-yellow flower with its brown center and held it out to him.

  He took it.

  “I’ve often thought of myself as a helenium.”

  His brow furrowed, but all he said was, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. A blush kissed her cheeks and she immediately tried to squelch it. He’d said it was beautiful. He’d said nothing about her. “But the helenium is also a late bloomer. It’s too bright and too bold. And its petals are not perfectly formed, at least not in the classical sense. It is in the same subclass and family as the daisy, and yet it is not at all the same. Englishmen, I’ve found, tend to prefer daisies.”

  He’d been looking at the painting as she’d described her signature flower, but now his gaze captured hers. “I find the daisy rather plain,” he said. “Much too commonplace.”

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Do you? You’re in the minority, I’m afraid.”

  Something intense sizzled between them. Phoebe had no idea what it was, but she could not look away from him.

  In the end, her mouth rescued her. “Did you know the helenium is also known as sneezeweed? Which I find apropos, given I tend to annoy by moving too fast and talking too much. Although my friend, Miss Claremont, says it was named so because Native Americans used it as a snuff to make one sneeze out evil spirits.” She took in a deep breath, feeling more herself after that little soliloquy.

  He blinked several times, whatever strange spell that had been woven between them now broken. He handed back her painting. “Phoebe, I—”

  Dong. Dong. Dong. The bells of a large clock somewhere outside rang out the time.

  Phoebe gasped. She was to meet Mr. Updike on the half hour! The author was staying at a hotel in Berkley Square whilst he was in town. She could never visit him there, of course, so they’d agreed to meet at Gunter’s for tea. It wasn’t terribly far, but with the conditions of the roads in this awful cold, she’d never make it if she didn’t leave right now.

  Blast. There wasn’t even time to wait for her carriage to be brought around. She’d just have to hope for a well-placed hackney.

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I really must run,” she said, restoring the helenium to her portfolio. She set the ruined painting on the bench so she could pack her easel.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, taking the easel from her. He collapsed it and tucked it neatly beneath his arm. “May I drop you?”

  Lord, no. She was nervous enough about her upcoming interview with Mr. Updike. She needed the time on the ride over to settle her nerves, and Malcolm certainly wouldn’t help there. Nor did she want him questioning her regarding her business with the botanist and author.

  “No, thank you,” she said, hefting her bag of paints and drawing supplies. She’d meant to take her own carriage to Gunter’s and leave all of this in it while she met with Mr. Updike. Now, she’d have to drag it all in with her. Lovely first impression she’d be making.

  Unless... “But I would appreciate it if you would take these,” she said, holding the bag out to him, “and my easel, and keep them until I can retrieve them from you later?” She shrugged into her cloak as he juggled the bag and easel, and then she snatched her portfolio.

  Phoebe opened her mouth to ask Malcolm to take the ruined painting as well, but then she remembered his words: I care nothing for such things and yet I want to touch the petals to see if they are as velvety as they look.

  Wasn’t that what she’d been aiming for? To draw those who had little interest in plants to want to know more?

  So the painting wasn’t perfect. But it still showed passion, as Malcolm had said. Perhaps that would stand out to Mr. Updike, in spite of its blemishes.

  She decided to take it with her, and take her chances. And she had Malcolm to thank for it.

  “Thank you, Malcolm,” she called over her shoulder as she dashed for the doors.

  And left him there holdin
g the bag.

  And the easel.

  Chapter Six

  “Damn.” Malcolm shifted the easel under his arm to the side that already held Phoebe’s bag of supplies, then swept his greatcoat, hat, and gloves up in his other hand and ran for the exit.

  An icy blast raked his exposed skin as he exited the conservatory, made more biting because the glass building had been kept artificially warm to protect the greenery within. No time to don his outerwear, however. Nor to call for his carriage. Phoebe had disappeared and he had no idea which way she’d gone.

  But he knew very well she planned to meet someone.

  He’d thought he’d discovered her secret when he’d followed her to the conservatory, but after hiding behind a pillar for nearly an hour watching her paint alone, he’d admitted his mistake.

  He wasn’t mistaken this time.

  Hackneys lined both sides of the street, most displaying the telltale signs of painted-over coats of arms of families that had sold their old carriages into service. Phoebe must have easily found one and departed already. Damn, damn, damn. At least he wouldn’t have to hunt one down once he knew which way to go.

  Malcolm turned and peered up the street. Two hackneys carried passengers in that direction, slowed by the slick condition of the road. The other way, one coach had nearly reached the corner.

  Which to follow? Malcolm glanced at the ground near his feet, but there were hundreds of boot prints tramped all through the icy sludge. No help there. He looked both ways again.

  “That one,” he said, deciding to pursue the lone hackney. He had no reason to think she’d be in that carriage over the others, but Phoebe was certainly proving herself to be one of a kind in all other areas.

  He’d take that as a sign.

  Malcolm picked his way across the road through grimy, soot-colored snow. Christ, he must look like a madman, skidding around with no coat on and dodging this way and that so as not to whack anyone with the easel. And his boots! They’d never be the same. But the need to know what Phoebe was up to dominated his thoughts, and he had a feeling he would soon find out. If she didn’t get away.

  “Double your fare if you catch that hackney!” he yelled to the jarvey as he vaulted into the coach. The carriage rocked beneath his weight. He tossed the art supplies into the seat across from him and rapped on the ceiling. “Without killing us, if you please.”

  “M’lord?” the jarvey called back.

  “That one.” Malcolm pointed down the street. “It just turned left.”

  “Aye.” The hackney rocked back, then jerked forward into a roll.

  Malcolm pulled the door shut, and tugged his coat on as he settled into the seat to catch his breath. As he did, he reflected on how he’d come to be here.

  It came down to one word: Phoebe.

  Not only was she a whirling dervish, but she pulled those around her into her rotation, seemingly without even trying. Mere days in her company again and he felt dragged into a vortex that he might not escape.

  I like that about me, she’d said.

  Malcolm huffed a laugh. He liked it, too. Even chasing her through the streets of London—in a freezing hired conveyance with terribly lumpy seats, no less—was more stimulating than anything he’d done these past few years.

  Not that he begrudged his duties to his estates. It was his own fault they had consumed him. Had he shown proper interest and learned a bit at a time by his father’s side, he wouldn’t have been overwhelmed all at once by his father’s death.

  But he’d missed fun. He’d missed excitement.

  He’d missed Phoebe.

  Malcolm was thrown back against the squabs as the hackney darted through an opening in the traffic, but he hardly noticed.

  Could that be right? He’d missed Phoebe?

  Even as he wondered over it, he knew it to be truth.

  Memories had filled his mind these past days. Most had included Phoebe, and many had made him laugh out loud at quite inappropriate times. He imagined his sanity was being discussed behind his back by friends and servants alike these days. His recollections of years spent in Phoebe’s company were carefree and lovely and left him feeling both at peace and vaguely aware that much was missing in his life.

  But other memories plagued him...ones of the spring his father died, of his own wasted youth spent running from himself, of Phoebe’s first season, of how awful he’d been to her. How could he have treated her so?

  But deep down, he knew why.

  He’d been a lost young man then, and he’d hated himself for it. He’d striven so hard to become more like his contemporaries. To be droll and amusing. Cutting and clever. But he’d hated that version of himself, as well.

  And then Phoebe had arrived in Town, so very happy to see him. Certainly, she’d dogged his steps. And yes, he’d taken some grief for it. But that wasn’t what had earned her his derision.

  No. She’d reminded him of who he really was when he was trying so damnably hard to be someone else. That was her great sin, and for that, he’d hated her, too.

  What a fool he’d been. It seemed a lifetime ago, that struggle within his youthful self—so unimportant in the face of his father’s death that he’d thought little of it these past five years, as he’d striven to become a man worthy of not only the Gray name, but the Coverdale title.

  But he remembered Phoebe. And he remembered the lovely chaos that was simply a part of her, and how much he’d once enjoyed it.

  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.