“My lady.”
She turned at the sound of Lewis’s voice. He was frowning at her from the top step. He couldn’t know everything that was happening, but he was intelligent enough to work out something was wrong, and he didn’t like it.
He looked down at the tray he was holding in his hands and his face changed, shedding the disapproval as he walked down the stairs toward her. The way he carried himself, the excitement in his eyes, made her focus on him more sharply.
Something had happened.
“A note for you.” The way he said it, the word ‘note’ had a capital N. He held it out on the good silver tray, and that in itself was so unusual that she stopped short.
She said nothing, but she thought Lewis’s cheeks reddened a little.
“A note from the Prince Regent.” He proffered the tray to her, and it trembled a little.
The Prince Regent? Phoebe stared down at embossed gold on linen paper.
“It was delivered less than five minutes ago.” Lewis lifted the tray to her again.
She picked the note up, reluctant, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps because recently none of the surprises in her life had been particularly pleasant.
Lewis presented a letter knife with a flourish, and she slit the seal.
A card lay within, an invitation to a private dinner that evening. Written on the paper beneath it was a short note in a scrawled hand:
My condolences on the death of your betrothed. He was a friend. To commemorate his passing, I’m holding a small dinner in his honor. I could not think of having it without you.
The Prince Regent’s scrawled signature adorned the bottom.
She lifted her head. “I’m to attend a private dinner tonight with His Royal Highness.”
She held up the invitation that had been enclosed with the note, and saw the dinner was for eight o’clock at Carlton House.
“I will have to go.” She spoke to herself, thinking of the Duke of Wittaker’s warning to stay at home, but this was a direct summons, however politely couched, and one she couldn’t ignore.
Lewis looked at her strangely. “I’ll instruct your maid to get out your best gown.”
“Is the messenger waiting for a reply?” There was no mention of her aunt in the invitation, but it was unthinkable that she go without a chaperone.
Lewis gave a nod.
“Let him know my aunt and I would be honored to attend.” She put the invitation and the note back on the silver tray and Lewis disappeared inside.
She did not want to follow him in.
The gardener was still working on the rose bed on the other side of the garden, but well within earshot should she need him.
She turned and walked into her enclosed sanctuary, the thought of attending the dinner making it harder and harder to breathe.
Lady Halliford would have been at work since her visit earlier. Spite had shone out of her like the glitter of cold, sharp crystal. The news that Sheldrake had ended their betrothal, that she was ruined, may well reach the Prince before tonight, but even if it didn’t, given Lady Halliford’s reach, at least some people at Carlton House tonight would know. And they would be only too happy to spread the word.
Tonight would be awkward. Possibly a social disaster.
She started walking the paths, blindly picking herbs as she went and she had a fragrant bouquet by the time she reached the far end of the row.
“Do you not understand the meaning of ‘don’t go out’?”
The words were murmured just above her head.
She froze in surprise, and jerked her gaze upward. The sight of Wittaker, crouched above her like a vengeful angel, helped to steady her, but too late. Hot tears stung her eyes and she turned away immediately, breathing hard.
He jumped down instead of climbing, and before she was ready to look at him again hands gripped her shoulders and turned her around.
“What is it?” He studied her face with such intensity she looked down at his highly polished boots to hide from him.
A single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek, and a warm finger brushed it away. His arms enfolded her, so she was pressed against his chest, the herbs in her hands crushed between them, the scent of rosemary and sage mingling with the smell of wool and sandalwood. For a moment she let her head rest against the beat of his heart.
It was hard to pull away.
Harder still because he resisted, only releasing her when she jerked back. He seemed to have no sense of propriety.
“Why are you hiding in your garden, when you know it’s not safe?” He looked bigger, somehow. More dangerous than before.
“It should be safe. This was the one place I could count on.” Sheldrake, with his schemes and deceptions, had taken that from her, and the rush of anger at the thought gave her what she needed to find her equilibrium. She was fast friends with anger, and happy to use its steadying hand.
He said nothing, watching her intently.
He kept doing this to her, making her so uncomfortable she had to look away. The herbs were a mangled green mess in her hands and she concentrated on them. “I’m in trouble.”
“Someone is trying to kill you. Of course you’re in trouble.” He spoke softly, the way some men she’d seen at balls or dinners spoke to their wives, head bent close to her ear, warm breath soft against her skin.
“Not that.” She shook her head to hide the shiver that shimmered through her.
His hand reached out and cupped her shoulder, drawing her even closer to him. He held her gaze and she drew in a breath at the banked fury there. “You have more pressing troubles than someone trying to kill you?”
“Someone knows Sheldrake broke off the betrothal.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “And now the Prince Regent has sent me a command to attend a dinner at Carlton House tonight in Sheldrake’s honor, and I don’t want to go.”
He stared at her, and she realized she had rendered him mute.
“The invitation arrived a few minutes ago.”
“Was Sheldrake a particular friend of the Prince Regent?” Wittaker’s hand gripped her shoulder a little tighter.
“He said he was. That he was regularly in the Regent’s company. I thought he was exaggerating the connection, but…perhaps not.” She let the crushed herbs fall onto the path and looked down at her green-stained hands.
“Why don’t you want to go? Aside from the fact that leaving the safety of your house is dangerous?”
“Because the invitation makes it clear he thinks Sheldrake and I were still betrothed when Sheldrake died.”
Wittaker frowned at her. “You said someone had found out you weren’t. Who?”
She rubbed her hands together, smelled the scent of thyme again. “Lady Halliford came around well before the visiting hour today, and let me know she knew.”
“She didn’t say who told her?”
“She let slip it was a man, but that was all. She…” Phoebe thought back to the open glee on her ladyship’s face. “She was thrilled to have such a scandal. She began the visit by pretending to offer her support, but she was after gossip. Only, finding out from me that Sheldrake was dead derailed her plans. She didn’t know how to respond.”
“She may be at the Prince Regent’s tonight. Her husband is a close confidant of his.”
Phoebe closed her eyes. “Then the Prince will definitely find out I wasn’t Sheldrake’s betrothed when he died.” She shrugged. “I assumed she would spread the word, anyway, though.”
His free hand came up, and grasped her other shoulder. “It would seem someone has set Lady Halliford on you. I’ve heard she’s a gossip, but this seems a level above how she usually operates.”
“Who, though?”
He raised his brows.
“Not the men trying to kill me, surely?” But why not? Sheldrake was too vain and too conceited to get involved with anyone less than his social equals or betters. Which meant whoever he had plotted with had been his contemporaries. They would be exactly t
he people she would be dining with tonight.
“I will see if I can get an invitation to Carlton House as well.” Wittaker’s voice was tense.
She looked up, surprised. “I don’t expect…” She frowned, and realized his hands were still on her, still holding her. “You are surely busy with this investigation, Your Grace, you don’t have time to watch over me. I’ll be safe enough with the Prince Regent. He must be well-guarded, especially after the prime minister’s death.”
He gave a slow nod. “He will be. But you have to get to Carlton House and get back. I will escort you and your aunt.”
She thought of Lady Halliford, and how Wittaker’s name was already linked to hers, and shook her head. “I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”
He finally dropped his hands. “Why not?”
“Lady Halliford had another little surprise up her sleeve. She knew about your visit to me this morning.” Phoebe blushed. “She was already speculating about it.”
Wittaker went still. “Your house is being watched. And whoever has arranged the watching is at a high enough level to feed gossip to the likes of Lady Halliford.”
It came back to whoever told Lady Halliford about the end of the betrothal. It had to be the same person, or she suddenly had more enemies than she knew.
“But surely, by giving her that information, they’re revealing that they are watching me. Do they not mind that I know?”
“Perhaps they want to intimidate you. They don’t know the true nature of our relationship, and they may think you are alone, with no one to help you.” Wittaker looked thoughtfully up at the house, then back to her. “Or perhaps she was told the information in confidence but couldn’t resist using it to stir up trouble.” He gave a sudden grin. “I doubt they know I’m here now.”
Phoebe felt a little sick at the thought that he might be wrong. “What about last night?”
Their gazes met, and Wittaker lifted his hand again, sliding it along the back of her neck to cup her head like he had done in the dark of the garden yesterday evening. “They only know about last night if they’ve spoken to their assassin, although I doubt it. He’s hiding somewhere out of their reach, is my guess.”
Phoebe let herself enjoy the warmth of his hand, the shocking frisson of excitement at their closeness. She wanted to step even closer, press herself against him, and so she did.
He drew in a sharp breath.
“Phoebe?”
The horror in her aunt’s voice, calling from the entrance to the garden, froze her, and she closed her eyes. Wittaker brought her head forward, to rest on his chest, his fingers smoothing her hair in a gentle stroke. It was a small movement, incredibly intimate. The significance of it astonished her.
It was the action of an ally, and she gained strength from it. Enough strength to reluctantly turn in his arms and face her aunt without a hint of shame tinting her cheeks.
Wittaker did not release her, as she thought he would, he stood behind her with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, and whatever was on his face, her aunt closed her mouth and flushed a bright red.
When she spoke again, her tone was less strident. “Phoebe, what is going on? Lewis says we are to dine with the Prince Regent tonight.” She flicked a glance at Wittaker. “And when did His Grace arrive? I didn’t hear him announced.”
“He only just arrived a few minutes ago.” Phoebe looked up at him.
“And I’m afraid I must be going already. I have an invitation to procure.” In an outrageous flaunting of the rules, he touched her cheek with his fingertip. “Will you go inside? Please?”
She nodded, and at last he dropped his hands.
“I will spend another moment admiring your garden, and then see myself out.” There was a hint of laughter in his eyes, as he reminded her that he had to climb back over the wall, and didn’t necessarily want her aunt to know.
“Your Grace.” Her aunt’s voice was sharp, her courage back at the sight of his flaunting of the proprieties. “Am I to understand—”
“I will explain.” Phoebe walked to her aunt and took her arm. “Let’s go inside and choose our gowns for tonight’s engagement.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He bowed. “Until this evening, ladies.”
Her aunt looked between them, and the eyes she raised to Phoebe’s were unhappy.
“Come.” Phoebe led her out into the main garden, and knew Wittaker was most likely already gone.
She had told him she didn’t expect his protection, but she acknowledged now that she was glad to have it.
“He is a duke, and you are only the daughter of a baronet. Your mother was a commoner, and there is no social advantage to a match with you for him.” As they approached the open doors of the library, Aunt Dorothy slowed her steps, to give them privacy before they were back amongst the servants. “Are you trying to ruin yourself?”
“No, Sheldrake did that for me. This mess is his doing, and Wittaker is merely trying to extract me from it, with my reputation intact.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me.” Her aunt’s words were short.
“What does it look like?” Phoebe looked across at her.
Aunt Dorothy shook her head. “Seduction.”
Chapter Twenty
James had never been so glad of his reputation as a rake and a scoundrel. The Prince Regent liked to think of himself in those terms, and enjoyed the company of others of the same ilk.
He was invited in immediately at Carlton House, and ushered upstairs to the Prince’s dressing room. The Prince Regent sat surrounded by waistcoats and jackets, his color high and a glass of red wine at his elbow.
“Wittaker. You will have to choose a waistcoat for me.” The Prince Regent leaned back in his chair and motioned James in.
There were two other men in the room. Wittaker knew one of them, Lord Bartlett, but the other was young and foppish, and James had never seen him before. Bartlett stood by the window, a glass of wine in his hand. He raised it in James’s direction.
“Wittaker.”
They exchanged a nod.
“Do you know Mr. Fortescue?” The Prince Regent waved a hand at his young companion.
“No.” James gave a shallow bow in the man’s direction, and Fortescue pouted mullishly at him, without responding.
James raised an eyebrow in utter disdain and boredom, a man of the world in the grip of ennui, and as he turned back to the Prince, saw Fortescue flush at the set down.
The Prince Regent noticed as well, and smiled rather more warmly at James.
Let the one-upmanship begin.
James had avoided it for more than a month, and being back in it for even a few minutes sapped his strength.
“What’s the occasion, Your Highness?” James eyed the waistcoats. They were certainly ornate for a private dinner held in memory of a departed friend.
“You should know, Wittaker. You’re coming. Aren’t you?”
James lifted his head sharply. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Your Highness, although, of course, I am at your disposal.”
“What?” The Prince Regent looked carefully at James, and frowned. “You’re not bamming, are you? You really don’t know?”
James shook his head. “Something you’ve organized?”
“Spur of the moment. If you’ve been out this afternoon, then the invitation is probably waiting for you at home.” The Prince Regent took a gulp of wine, peering at James over the top of the glass with heavy-lidded eyes. “An acquaintance has passed away suddenly. I’m holding a small dinner in his honor and Lord Halliford told me you were a friend of his. Lord Sheldrake.”
James hid his surprise, staring back with mild interest. To call Sheldrake a friend of his was so tight a stretch of the truth, he wondered it didn’t snap and lash them all.
And hadn’t the Hallifords been busy bees? He wondered if Lady Halliford had told the Prince of Sheldrake’s death after learni
ng about it from Miss Hillier, or whether he had already known.
He should have gone home first to see if he had an invitation rather than subject himself to this farce of a visit. “Yes, Sheldrake’s death is terrible news.”
He wondered if the Prince Regent would comment on his visit to Miss Hillier this morning, as Lady Halliford had done. It would be interesting to see just how much the Hallifords had shared with him.
“I’ve invited his betrothed. Or rather, I’ve been made aware she is his former betrothed. Miss Hillier. You know her?” The Prince Regent lifted a kerchief in a plump fist and dabbed the side of his mouth. It came away red with wine.
James almost laughed at the gleam in the Prince Regent’s eyes. He was the biggest scandal-monger James knew. “I’m a recent acquaintance. I was asked to convey the news of Sheldrake’s death to her this morning.”
Lady Halliford had obviously told him, because there was no surprise on his face. “How’d she take it? Given he’d thrown her over.” The question was sly.
James shrugged, as if the matter was of no particular interest and he didn’t know or care, either way. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest and tried to forget the warmth of her body, pressed against his in the garden, the smooth silk of her hair under his fingers.
These people wanted to take bites out her, draw blood, just to amuse themselves, and anger and a taste for vengeance rose up in him. “Are you having a dinner in memory of the prime minister as well?”
The Prince Regent set his glass down hard on the side-table. “Lord and Lady Edgeware turned their ball on Tuesday into a memorial to him. I couldn’t go, because it was decided it was too dangerous for me to be out on the roads so soon after the riots on Monday, but I hear almost everyone was there. No sense in my having another one for him. And I actually liked Sheldrake, whereas Perceval—” He paused, and narrowed his eyes at James.
James grinned in response, trying to hide the satisfaction of having drawn a little blood of his own.
“You…” The Prince Regent was momentarily at a loss for words, and James wondered if he’d overreached. This was not a topic the prince could always respond to light-heartedly. “You asked that just to work me up, didn’t you?”
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