A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  He knocked using his walking stick. A liveried footman admitted them and took their hats and cloaks. Together, they ascended the wide red carpet-lined stairs to the upper floors.

  Phillip led the way from the landing. The place was as opulent as a palace. Gold satin curtains. Elaborate chandeliers. Cozy leather chairs surrounding mahogany tables that overlooked blazing hearths. As they strolled from room to room, the number of smartly dressed gentlemen and their chatter increased. At one point, Phillip paused to indicate a gaming room. Everyone in there seemed to know Phillip and tried to pull him in. After casually presenting her as young Turner, he firmly steered her away. They entered a larger room where comfortable chairs were grouped around small round tables. Phillip waved to three men near a window.

  “Jones!” one of them said. “Well met.”

  “That is Fitzgerald,” Phillip said in an undertone. “A longtime acquaintance. A viscount. The one seated with a love-bemused smile is my cousin, Rufus Marlesbury, Earl of Terrance. The chubby genial chap with them is Bosworth.”

  Phillip tipped his head to the men. “Well met, indeed.”

  “Who have you brought to amuse us?” Lord Fitzgerald asked.

  Phillip made the introductions.

  Rose bowed. “How do you do?”

  “Better for having Jones join us,” Mr. Bosworth said. “Come, come, Jones, it is all the talk. Tell us your news.”

  “Let the man have a seat and order a drink,” Lord Terrance said. “He has barely taken a breath.”

  “Surely not?” Lord Fitzgerald said in an affronted tone. “By the time he does all that, we would be inundated with fellows who have noticed his entry and want to hound him with useless questions about his latest conquest.”

  “Sit,” Lord Terrance said. There was no brooking that barked order.

  Phillip took the seat his cousin offered and kicked the chair beside him toward Rose.

  She sat back. She must be overtired because she barely followed what they said.

  A footman arrived to take orders.

  Remembering her reaction to drink, Rose declined.

  A twitch of Phillip’s lips suggested he understood her abstinence. “How go the wedding plans, cuz?”

  “Well as can be expected,” Lord Terrance said. “It is surprising how four women of diverse temperament can deal so amicably together when it involves a wedding.”

  At Rose’s inquiring glance, Phillip said. “The four are my cousin’s betrothed, his sister, his mother, and my mater.”

  “Congratulations, my lord,” she said. “I wish you well.”

  “Thank you. There was a time when I thought I would never have a future with my Annabelle.”

  “Terrance and his lady love almost died in a fire,” Lord Fitzgerald said. “Ask him about that.”

  “Not today,” Lord Terrance said. “All I wish for today is to relax with friends and go home to loved ones.”

  “Ah, the happily attached man,” Mr. Bosworth said with an exaggerated sigh. “What woman would not be pleased to hear you speak so? We lonely bachelors still seek our entertainment elsewhere. Which brings us to our beloved ‘Prince of Bachelorhood,’ Sir Phillip Jones.” He bowed.

  “How did I earn this stalwart title?”

  “Why, by leading Lady Roselyn out after all these years, of course,” Mr. Bosworth said.

  Rose insides burned. They were talking about her?

  “It is all about Town,” Fitzgerald said. “You escorted her around Hyde Park. Confess, Jones, do you intend to take up with the lady again?”

  “It is said the loss of your company completely did her in,” Mr. Bosworth said.

  “This matter is none of our business,” Lord Terrance said in a drawl.

  His comment stopped the talk, but in its absence, an awkward silence prevailed. Rose noticed that many a gentleman’s gaze strayed in their direction. Everyone in the room seemed to have overheard their conversation and waited to hear Phillip’s response. As did she. She had lost her looks but it hurt to hear that all of London had noticed. Had Phillip?

  He did not say a word in her defense. And that hurt most.

  Lord Fitzgerald patted his knee consolingly. “No offense meant, Jones,” he said in a lowered tone. “But you must know they have placed a bet in the books.”

  “What books?” Rose asked.

  “The betting books, of course,” Mr. Bosworth said. “Down for twenty to one that the lady is your queen by month’s end.”

  “Bosworth!” Lord Fitzgerald said in a warning note.

  “I merely inform him of what has taken place.”

  Rose, completely mortified, was on the verge of bolting when Phillip spoke. “And have you two gentlemen placed your own wagers?” Although his voice did not rise, she sensed a dangerous undertone. His friends must have as well, for they both disavowed having done any such thing.

  What had upset Phillip more? That his so-called friends bet on his next move mirrored his own plans, or that part of his murder investigation was now public knowledge?

  Her walk in Hyde Park had indeed brought her back into society’s notice. She stood and her chair scraped the wooden floor. “Pardon me. It is late and I must be leaving.”

  “Late?” Bosworth sounded aghast. He took out his watch and checked. “Is it barely a quarter past eight. The night has yet to begin, lad.”

  “I hope our careless talk did not give offense,” Lord Terrance said in a concerned tone.

  “How could it, my lord?” She reined in her anger with difficulty. “Since this talk was designed to offend only one woman and she is not here to defend herself. I bid you gentlemen goodnight and leave you to your sport.” She bowed and left.

  “Turner!” Phillip called.

  She could not bring herself to look back. Once she reached the landing, she ran down the stairs and called for her cloak and hat. A footman hurried off to procure it.

  Outside, there were many hackneys but she chose to walk, taking deep breaths to cool her temper. She had traversed only halfway down the street before remorse set in. Had she ruined her relationship with Phillip by walking out on him? He had been kind to introduce her to his set, and she had stormed out like a petulant child.

  Would she ever learn to not let him bother her? When she was Rose, he tipped her equilibrium and stirred her passions. When she assumed her role as Ben, he tugged at her heart one moment and riled her the next. Ever since Eve died, she had tried to put him out of her mind, and succeeded to some degree, except in her dreams. Why must he return now to disturb her waking hours?

  The entire afternoon had wearied her. She wanted to go home and sleep for a day or more. She could not recall the last time she had been this tired. Holding the shift for so long had drained her. At any moment, her face might revert back. Her skin and muscles were tensed, wanting to stretch from the confinement she had forced onto them.

  Not yet. She must hold on until she reached home.

  More than her impulse to relinquish her shift was a deeper ache that cried out for Phillip to forgive her rudeness. She touched her lips, remembering his kiss. She tingled at the very memory of his touch. Though logic said he was dangerous, his kiss had indeed transformed her world and was awakening her to the wonders of life.

  For the first time in years, she felt alive and invigorated. And despite Daniel Trenton’s assertion that all she wanted to do was to retreat into her dream world, all Rose wanted tonight was for Phillip to come find her.

  AT WHITE’S, PHILLIP leaned forward to apologize to his cousin. “The lad is young and sensitive. Oddly, Turner reminds me of you at that age. Please do not take offense.”

  “None taken, Cuz.”

  “Who is he?” Bosworth said. “Turner. Turner. Is he related to the artist?”

  “No, he is jus
t a friend who is not used to our social circles,” Phillip said. “Nor must I be, for I too found our conversation distasteful.” He pushed his chair back and stood, and with that action, his tenuous control over his anger broke. “Turner was correct in his reaction. Lady Roselyn does not deserve such disrespectful gossip bantered about. And for the record, even in her grief, the lady is more of a beauty than anyone you two gentlemen will ever lead out. Now, since I invited Turner, I had best see if I am able to convince him that despite our current fall from grace, we are worthy of his future consideration. Good evening.”

  A glance at Rufus showed his cousin took the hit better than the other two. He nodded to Phillip, showing he approved of the set down. Bosworth, on the other hand, appeared shocked, while Fitzgerald wore a satisfyingly contrite expression.

  In the entrance hall, a few men arrived but there was no sign of Turner. Outside, pedestrians hurried by. Phillip cursed himself for not getting the boy’s lodging directions. For all he knew, Turner could be sleeping on the streets or under a bridge.

  Phillip hailed a hackney and gave directions to his hotel. As the vehicle trundled on, he leaned back into the squabs and gazed at passersby in dissatisfaction.

  He liked Turner’s fighting spirit. Enjoyed having someone with whom he could openly discuss his case. And that turn of events surprised him most. When was the last time he had confided in someone about a case? Never.

  If things had turned out differently, Rose might have been such a friend. But it was useless thinking of that now. In childhood, Rufus had been his closest friend. Until that snuffbox incident. They had reclaimed a portion of their lost connection this past winter when Phillip had helped Rufus clear his name of a looming murder charge, but it was not the same. Certainly not the way he and Turner had talked today.

  Like a man thirsting for water, Phillip wanted friendship back in his life. But was he capable of offering it? Rose had accused him of holding her at arm’s-length three years ago. Despite professing to love her, he had been unable to confide in her about his suspicions about her sister.

  As the hackney turned a corner, he caught a glimpse of close-cropped blond hair and immediately tapped the conveyance’s roof. Before the vehicle came to a complete stop, he jumped out, told the jarvey to wait there, and sprinted to the man walking ahead and swung him around. “Turner?”

  “Sir!” Turner appeared shocked to see Phillip. “Why did you leave your friends? I am sorry I insulted them. I did not mean to. Do you wish me to apologize?”

  He waved away the offer, though it pleased him that Turner’s first thought was to offer an apology. That reaction confirmed his assessment of Turner’s sound character. “They understood that they had stepped beyond the pale.”

  “It is only that I did not like the way they spoke about Lady Roselyn. They do not know her, and have no right to place bets on her as if she was no more than a mare in a horse race.”

  “Understood.” He hid his humor lest it offend his young friend. What an innocent. He, himself, was so used to betrayals and lies, he sometimes thought he had become jaded. Perhaps what he liked best about Turner was the young man’s honesty and faith in the goodness of people. “Come, let us discuss other matters. We still need to talk about the investigation and our next course of action. Shall we discuss it over a glass of port?”

  Turner’s gaze drifted ahead and he rubbed the side of his face as if it itched.

  He intends to refuse. Obviously, the boy no longer trusted him. And why should he? Phillip and his friends had proven today that they did not value what Turner apparently held dear. Respect for women. The weight of years ahead with few true friends lay heavy on his shoulders.

  Then Turner nodded and Phillip was swamped by a sense of tremendous relief. He slapped the boy on his back and in a more congenial frame of mind, they returned to the hackney. He ordered the jarvey to take them to his mother’s house instead of his hotel. They could discuss the case there in private.

  Also, it was time to reveal to Turner a secret about Lady Roselyn that might make the boy see her in a more realistic perspective. Perhaps, afterward, he would not judge Phillip quite so harshly.

  Chapter Six

  PHILLIP UNLOCKED the door of his mother’s townhouse and invited Turner inside. The house was shrouded in darkness. “No servants are expected for another week. I will find us light.”

  He made his way toward the drawing room by skimming his hand past portraits. His knee knocked a small side table. Cringing, he continued until he located the correct door. He made his way to the hearth’s mantel in search of a candle and brimstone match. It might have been better to go to a public parlor at his hotel after all.

  Once he successfully lit a candle, his doubts subsided. Caution was called for. He could not risk compromising Rose’s safety with a waiter who eavesdropped or a customer who sat close enough to overhear the tale he had to tell Turner.

  Soon, he had tinder cracking in the hearth and warming the coals until they painted the room in shadowy flames. He turned to fetch the lad, and found Turner at the open doorway.

  “I take it your mother’s not come to Town yet, sir?”

  Phillip chuckled. His mother was the epitome of a Town lady. Each spring, at the start of Parliament, she posted herself to London, ready for the social rounds. But this year was different. “This house sits empty because she stays with my cousin in Mayfair, to help with his wedding plans.”

  “Oh, yes, Lord Terrance said as much.” Turner shuffled on his feet.

  Did he still feel uncomfortable about what happened at White’s? To put him at ease, Phillip set him to work lighting a few more candles while he ventured to the cellar for refreshment.

  On his return, the drawing room was as bright as if the sun had entered the room. He had not realized his mother kept so many candelabras about the place. A couple of chairs facing the fire had been uncovered. He poured a half glass of port for his young guest and a full one for himself.

  “To capturing Mrs. Beaumont’s killer,” he said.

  Turner clinked Phillip’s glass and sat in one of the chairs. Phillip took the other and relaxed into its leather softness, allowing the day’s tensions to ease from his knotted shoulders. Thoughts of Rose meeting Mrs. Beaumont on that dark night two days ago crowded in. But he was not yet ready to voice that revelation.

  He turned to Turner with an inquiring smile. “We have not spoken much about you, Turner. Tell me about your family. Do you have siblings, nieces, and nephews? Who are your parents?”

  That closed look slid over the lad’s face and he remained silent.

  Impatience snapped at Phillip’s heels. Trust flowed two ways. He had made enough concessions. It was high time Turner took a step or two in his new partner’s direction. Phillip let the silence stretch out and sipped his drink. He savored the warm liquid on his tongue, recognized a hint of blackberry as the velvety smooth wine slid down his throat.

  Turner broke. “There is not much to tell, sir. My parents have passed away.” He hesitated, and then added, “I have no siblings.”

  “Have you always lived in London?”

  He nodded.

  “Who raised you, if not your parents?”

  The lad slumped into his chair, as if the world settled on his shoulders. “My grandmother.”

  “Do you live with her still?”

  “She died. I live on my own.”

  Though they had been together all afternoon and evening, there was no sign of shadow on Turner’s chin. Phillip scraped the familiar brush of hairs on his face. “Where are you lodged? Do you have a position that helps you cover your expenses?”

  “There is no reason for you to be concerned, sir. I intend to pay you back for the clothes.”

  “Do not be daft. As I stated before, that was payment for services rendered. I merely wondered if you have ti
me to spare to run errands and such.”

  “Yes, I have time. I am between positions.”

  Phillip wondered how best to approach the next subject with such a prickly lad. “If you need a place to stay, you may use a room here until after my cousin’s wedding.”

  “I have rooms at 214 Weston Street.”

  Since Turner looked away as he said that, Phillip took it as a lie and sighed.

  As if he sensed Phillip’s misgivings, Turner added, “The house is called Heaven’s Gate. The landlady is Mrs. Merry Weatheringham.”

  “Have you been there long? Is she your friend?”

  “Helen was my only friend.” The lad tentatively met his gaze. “Until recently.”

  The weight of that acknowledgement sank in and Phillip smiled in warm acceptance. Finally, a breakthrough.

  ROSE TOOK ANOTHER sip of the fortified wine. Her mind did not whirl as it had when she downed the gin. This liquor, one she was familiar with, and was therefore certain would have no ill effects on her shift, merely warmed her insides and put her at ease. Although, that was hard to do with Phillip peppering her with questions, and she was tired. It partially explained why she had blurted out the Rue Alliance’s street address, but besides Helen’s home, that was the only location she could think of where Ben Turner might live. She must remember to send a note to Mrs. Weatheringham, letting her know that if Phillip ever came by, to simply agree to pass on a message to Turner. Her web of lies was expanding.

  Other than that one moment of panic, she rather enjoyed this cozy fireside chat with Phillip. She used to dream of spending moments like this with him.

  “Have you known Lady Roselyn long, sir?” If he could grill her so mercilessly, why should she not return the favor?

  He gave her a wary glance before his attention returned to the fire. “A while.”