Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  George placed the candle on the table and sat down next to her. “You thought you were bidding me goodbye? Forever?”

  She nodded.

  “And you didn’t even shed a tear?”

  She had sobbed her heart out, but she couldn’t tell him that. So she remained silent.

  “You did shed a tear,” he teased.

  “I did not.”

  “You did.”

  “Did not.”

  “Liar,” he said wagging a finger at her and winking at the same time. “You sobbed your heart out when you thought you would never see my handsome face again.”

  Celine started giggling. “Lord Elmer, we cannot meet like this.”

  “But it is the only way. The servants will tell the pirates that I have left the mansion, and I can sneak in like a thief at night and meet you and discuss the next step. Everyone will be safe and we can carry on with our plans. It is the perfect solution.”

  “I don’t think so. If anyone found you in my room, I will be ruined—”

  “Why does society treat women like a bunch of mangoes? If they are not treated a certain way then they will rot. The best way to preserve them is to pickle them or dry them in the sun. It is ridiculous. I don’t like pickled or dried up women—”

  Celine touched his cheek halting his tirade. “You are sweet,” she whispered.

  He turned his face and kissed the palm of her hand.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  “I found him,” he told her abruptly.

  The way he said the words Celine knew that this time he truly had.

  He jumped off the bed and started pacing the room. “I am sorry I did not tell you before, but I stole your poet’s painting and showed it to an artist. He said that what we thought was a camel’s hump and three sticks was in fact a pitchfork, and the pig was not a pig or a kidney but the devil. Hence Ludsthorpe—”

  “Who?”

  “Ludsthorpe … Your poet can be found at The Devil’s Pitchfork. It is a gamblers inn. I spent all day greasing the innkeeper’s palms. He told me that your poet does in fact arrive at the inn every single day.”

  Celine took a sharp breath, “You did find him.”

  He stopped pacing, “I told you I would.”

  Her eyes widened. He had found her Philly.

  “Are you happy?” he asked gently.

  Her eyes darkened as he came towards her. She nodded.

  “You don’t look happy,” he said kneeling down next to the bed.

  “I am happy,” she insisted.

  He took her hand. “I have never seen a less happy person.”

  “I am just surprised. I never thought I would see Gilly … err … I mean Philly again. It is unexpected, sudden …” She trailed off. She didn’t know how she felt, and with George holding her gloveless hand, it was even more difficult to focus on her beloved poet.

  George tugged at her hand pulling her closer. “Is it different?”

  “Is what?” she asked huskily.

  “Kissing someone you love?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have never kissed anyone I have loved before. Only girls I liked. Is it different?”

  “I have only kissed one person and I loved him.”

  “I found your poet.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is your duty to help me now.”

  “How?”

  “Let us begin with a kiss,” he said slyly, “and then you can judge and tell me the difference.”

  “Begin with a kiss,” she mused. It had been a long while since she had been kissed, and kissing was not all that earth shattering as poets made it out to be. She had kissed Philly often, and she recalled vaguely that it had been a pleasant sensation.

  She looked at George’s moist parted lips, soft curly hair and the muscles moving under his shirt. What, she wondered, would it feel like to be kissed by him? She shivered at the thought, her mind going strangely numb.

  “Amy?” he coaxed.

  Oh, to hell with propriety, the devil with being sensible and good riddance to maidenly modesty sang her heart and mind. She forcefully ejected Mrs Beatle from her head and said firmly, “We will begin with a kiss.”

  “Truly?” he asked shocked.

  She lost her nerve and wilted, “No, no, I am sleepy you see and didn’t know what I was—”

  He silenced her with a kiss.

  An earth shattering kiss. A kiss that made her world tilt to never right itself again.

  Her senses contracted to a point where all she could feel was his lips on hers. Her hands clutched his lapels in a deathly grip.

  Poets were not wrong. A single kiss could contain everything. Philbert’s kiss had made her stomach tickle pleasantly, but George’s kiss was creating a fully fledged ball in her belly.

  Her knees melted like jasmine flavoured ice and her emotions whirled, bounced and ricocheted inside her.

  She sighed.

  She was a young tender leaf uncurling for the sun, a soft petal letting the dew soak into her thirsty veins, a tiny pup who had found a juicy bone to chew …

  He broke the kiss, but her lips continued to move and seek.

  He tapped her on the shoulder and she opened her eyes.

  “Now tell me the difference,” he said moving slightly away from her.

  She gazed at him feeling decidedly foolish. The kiss had sent her wits gallivanting it seemed. “Whaa—?” she asked not very seductively.

  “Tell me the difference between kissing someone you love and someone you like? You like me and you love Scroggs.”

  “Philbert,” she mechanically corrected.

  “Yes, him. Tell me the difference.”

  “I can’t … I don’t … It is late. I am tired. I don’t think I can think at the moment. You will know one day …” she babbled in utter confusion, her hands mangling the bed sheet.

  He smiled. “Go to sleep, Amy.”

  She nodded, avoiding his gaze.

  He caught her chin and forced her to look at him, “You are going to meet your poet tomorrow, you need to rest. I will meet you in the orangery and we can depart for The Devil’s Pitchfork at four.”

  And with another lingering kiss, he departed taking with him Celine’s peace of mind as well as an entire night’s sleep.

  ***

  At ten minutes to four Celine met George in the orangery. Thereafter, the two of them spent a few moments admiring each other’s respective shoes in awkward silence. Another moment went by in clearing throats.

  Finally George spoke, “I think we should go and sit in the carriage. I brought the veil for you this time. Here,” he said pulling out the dark cloth from his coat pocket.

  Celine took it and with numb fingers tried to attach it to her bonnet.

  “Let me,” George said reaching for her.

  Celine took two hurried steps backwards almost toppling over a plant, “No, I can do it.”

  His face darkened but he nodded.

  They walked towards the carriage hidden behind trees, and all through the walk Celine kept a good distance between them. A single kiss had changed their relationship overnight. She felt more aware of him now than she ever had. Once she would have thought nothing of touching his sleeve, and now the very thought set her heart racing.

  He too seemed to be behaving oddly with her. His eyes met hers and flittered away only to meet again a moment later. His shoulders were tensed and his mouth was set in a grim line. His whole form seemed filled with suppressed energy. Words perched on the tip of his tongue but were never spoken.

  Her heart stopped for a fraction of a second when she had to take his help in climbing into the carriage. Her hesitating fingers clutched his, and even through her thick white gloves the heat of him seared her palm.

  He helped her in and quickly let go.

  She busied herself arranging skirts looking at anything but him.

  He pretended to look for his cigar.

  All at once the carriage start
ed shaking from side to side as if someone was energetically bouncing up and down on the roof.

  It yanked them out of their brooding moods, and they eyed each other in astonishment.

  “Lord Elmer?” Celine asked nervously, “I think someone is trying to cut a hole in the roof.”

  George did not get a chance to reply, for at that moment two masked men burst into the carriage.

  One held an evil looking snickersnee and the other an equally vile looking rifle.

  Everyone froze.

  George and Celine had frozen in shock, while the muscled men had frozen because it appeared as if they wanted to be admired in their deadly masked forms, swathed in black, holding newly acquired, glinting weapons of destruction.

  They narrowed their eyes and snarled dangerously.

  Celine stared back at them. Her chin lifted in defiance, and her hands slipped into her pockets.

  They smirked at her defiance and lifted up their weapons.

  George moved but did not get a chance to do anything more than take a step, for Celine whipped out two glass jars from her pockets.

  The men eyed the glass jars in confusion.

  This time Celine smirked as she undid the lids and flung the contents of the jars at the men.

  The men screeched in agony.

  George leaped at the man with the rifle and wrenched it out of his hand. “What was that?” he panted.

  “Chilli powder,” Celine replied as she twirled and with pointed feet kicked between the other man’s eyes. It successfully knocked the man to the ground, and she grabbed the knife out of his hand.

  “Good girl,” George grunted in reply. He dragged the unconscious men towards the door, and she gave him a helping hand.

  “On the count of three,” he told her lifting one of the men by the shoulders.

  She nodded and caught hold of his ankles.

  “Now, one, two and … three,” he yelled, and they swung the man to and fro between them before flinging him out of the carriage. They did the same with the other man.

  “That was easy,” George said, brushing off a little lint on his coat. He turned around and his smile faded.

  One Legged Tim stood in the middle of the carriage. He grinned, his gold teeth sparkling.

  Celine looked up. Tim had cut a large hole in the roof of the carriage.

  She gasped.

  When she looked back down, she found One Legged Tim unconscious on the carriage floor. A dart with a turkey tail feather was sticking out from his buttock.

  “This time I was prepared,” George said pleased.

  “I think some more men are coming this way,” Celine announced looking out of the window.

  “Why is this blasted carriage not moving?” George growled pulling out more poisoned darts from his coat pockets, breeches, shirt, underneath his hat, shoes and socks.

  Celine took some darts and moved to one window while George went to the other window.

  Sixteen rifles pointed back at them.

  The dart dropped out of Celine’s hand. “We are dead.”

  The carriage lurched.

  George flew across the carriage and landed on top of Celine. They both ended up on the floor with a thud.

  When Celine stopped seeing stars, she noticed the carriage was moving and the walls were being peppered with bullets.

  Finally everything became silent and Nithercott’s head appeared at the window. Celine no longer cared if he was hanging by his toenails. She was simply too happy to scold.

  “We escaped. It was a miracle,” Nithercott grinned.

  “How did they know where to find us?” George mused.

  “The driver was bribed,” Nithercott informed them. “I knocked him out.”

  “Who is driving now?” Celine asked.

  “I am,” Nithercott replied.

  “But you are here …” Celine trailed off. She heard the hysterical note in her voice.

  “Return to your seat,” George ordered.

  As soon as Nithercott disappeared George pulled Celine into a hug.

  It was a hug that was meant to comfort her and it did. She lay her head on his shoulder taking deep ragged breaths.

  The panic receded, and she slowly became aware of his arms around her, his chin nestling at her nape and her own hands clutching a fistful of his shirt.

  She stilled.

  He moved away searching her face.

  She looked back at him from beneath heavy lashes, a blush tinting her cheeks.

  He frowned.

  She tilted her face up softly, her lips trembled and parted.

  He hesitated, unsure of what she wanted.

  Her chest rose and fell in anticipation. Her eyes dazed, her skin heated and flushed. The air seemed charged, the world outside forgotten. She waited ….

  He cocked his head to one side, reading the signs but uncertain. His hand rose and fell back to his side.

  She licked her bottom lip in blatant invitation.

  Still he did not move.

  Her eyes narrowed, and with a growl of annoyance, she pounced. She grabbed the back of his head and kissed him on the mouth.

  He was stunned but not for long.

  The moment he recovered his wits he was more than happy to oblige her with an equally heated response.

  When the kiss ended Celine burst into tears.

  “Amy, I am sorry. The attack on our lives was too close for comfort and it simply triggered our deepest instincts and we kissed. It was only a kiss. You still love Harper—”

  “Philbert,” she wailed, “his name is Philbert.”

  “Yes, him. Now stop crying please. Here, I have a handkerchief … No wait, it is dirty … This one is clean. Now, in life and death situations things often get out of control and we do things we don’t want to, and a kiss is not something to worry about. I am sure Dauncey … err … your poet must have kissed plenty of women … no, no, I never meant to say that. I am sure he has been loyal. After all, who would kiss a fat, dim witted poet, only a fool—”

  “Lord Elmer,” Celine choked out, “for goodness’ sake, do not utter another word.”

  George nodded and pressed his lips together. They sat in silence until the carriage stopped at The Devil’s Pitchfork.

  “We have arrived,” George said. “Let Nithercott investigate first and make sure everything is in order. I don’t want to put your life in any more danger. We will wait in the carriage.”

  Celine nodded, her mind in turmoil. She was busy dissecting the difference between kissing George and kissing Philly. If George’s kiss was like a lavender satin bonnet with rose bud trimmings, then Philly’s kiss was like a spinster’s cap. If Philly had made her heart beat faster, then her heart thundered at the sight of George. And if the thought of Philly made her smile, then George made her laugh.

  She dug her nails into her palm … Her heart and mind were in conflict. A gruesome battle was occurring inside her head while her emotions churned and heaved in confusion.

  “He is inside,” Nithercott arrived to tell them.

  Celine moved and George caught her hand. “Is it safe?” he asked his valet.

  Nithercott nodded.

  George turned to Celine. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  She saw the concern in his eyes. “I want to do this alone.”

  He nodded and dropped his hand. “It is time to meet your poet. I wish you luck, Celine.”

  “Amy. For you my name is Amy,” Celine replied, her eyes on the inn.

  Chapter 26

  They were parked near The Devil’s Pitchfork sitting inside a holey carriage. Philbert Woodbead was inside the inn and all Celine had to do was walk a few dozen steps and meet him.

  After ten minutes they were still outside The Devil’s Pitchfork and Celine had still not walked those few dozen steps.

  George watched her quietly. He seemed to understand that she needed this time to come to terms with what was going to happen.

  Celine stared up at the grey s
ky through the hole in the roof of the carriage. She was afraid. What if he no longer loved her, or worse, what if he still did?

  She wondered if she had romanticised the depth of their love in the time they had spent apart. Had she truly loved him to distraction or was her head stubbornly insisting on continuing a love that her heart had never felt?

  A drop of cold water fell on top of her nose.

  “It is going to start raining,” George spoke up, “and our carriage can no longer shelter us. I think you should go inside.”

  Celine swallowed nervously but did not move.

  A bullet scraped George’s hat momentarily distracting her.

  George looked out of the window, “It is only an unhappy husband. Hurry, Amy, go inside. Don’t worry, I can handle this one man alone.”

  Celine picked up her parasol and adjusted her gloves. She would have liked some more time to prepare herself, but what with an unhappy husband out for George’s blood, it wasn’t really possible.

  Ready or not, this was it. Taking a deep breath she descended from the carriage and walked into The Devil’s Pitchfork.

  She looked around the inn.

  It was a low roofed, wooden establishment, the wood being dark, dusty and grey. The floor was peppered with peanut shells, and a small fire burnt in the fireplace at the back of the room. The fire did nothing to light the room nor did the windows admit any light. The fire did however contribute to the smoke in the room, for the chimney, it seemed, had never since its construction been cleaned. Her lungs complained and she stifled a sneeze.

  She counted five men sprawled over wooden chairs with tankards of ale sitting in front of them. None of them looked like her Philly … except … She squinted … A man in a familiar parrot green patchwork coat sat reading a book right at the back of the room.

  She rubbed her eyes and inched closer to the parrot green patchwork coat. She observed the man for some time, her tentative steps getting closer and closer to the table at the back of the room.

  Finally her mouth dropped open in horror.

  She gurgled and wheezed.

  Philbert Woodbead was now, she moaned softly in despair, no longer fat. In fact, he was most certainly reed thin.

  It took a few moments for the truth to sink in. She eyed his gaunt face, his thin bony hands and the wispy beard. Another thought struck her. Philly had not only become thin, but he had also become handsome.