A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (14 page)

‘You could not have known, Sebastian.’

‘She has no one to protect her, Jed. Her mother and sister are dead. Her father is imprisoned through a mess
of debts that were no fault of his own. She is three-and-twenty years of age and alone.’

‘How is Miss Allardyce subsequent to the attack?’

‘As far as I can tell she is bruised, but otherwise uninjured. The bastard meant to rape her, McEwan.’

‘Hell,’ muttered McEwan.

‘I will speak with her.’

‘And say what?’ McEwan laid his hand upon Hunter’s good shoulder. ‘Hunter, no matter what has happened, she is your mother’s companion and there is this other business of your father’s ring to consider.’

‘There is an enemy at work here, Jed, but I cannot believe that it is Phoebe.’ He met McEwan’s eyes. ‘There has to be some other explanation behind it.’

‘Maybe,’ said McEwan but he did not sound convinced.

‘I mean to confront her over it, to hear her side of the story.’

Phoebe came down the stairs and was about to cross the hallway on her way to the drawing room when she saw Hunter walking towards the bottom of the stairs. A week had passed since the highwaymen’s attack on Mrs Hunter’s carriage, a week in which Phoebe’s love for Hunter had grown. Her eyes scanned over him, noting that he was no longer wearing the black arm sling and she gave a little sigh of relief that his arm was healing so well. He looked so strong and devastatingly handsome and her heart swelled with love and warmth when she saw him.

He stopped where he was on seeing her, and such a determined look came over his face that Phoebe’s heart turned over. There was no way she could avoid him.

‘Mr Hunter.’ She gave a polite nod and made to pass him, but he captured her and pulled her into the shadows of the servants’ corridor at the side of the hallway.

‘Phoebe, we need to talk.’ His hands were gently around her waist, his body close to hers as he stared down into her face.

‘Mrs Hunter is waiting.’ She tried to break away, but Hunter did not yield.

‘Meet me tonight. Come to my study once my mother is in bed.’

‘I cannot,’ she whispered.

‘Why not?’ His green gaze bored down into hers.

Because I love you. Because if I let myself be alone with you I do not think that I can hide that truth from you, and they will kill my papa. Because if you were to learn what I am, what I would do to you, you will hate me.
But Phoebe spoke none of those truths.

‘I have duties to which I must attend.’

‘Tomorrow morning then, first thing, before breakfast.’

‘No, Sebastian. We cannot meet alone, not then or any other time.’

She saw the muscle flicker in his jaw. ‘Why not?’

‘I … I have my position to consider. And you have yours.’

There was a flash of fierce green fire in his eyes. ‘Damn it, Phoebe, this is nothing of positions. You know there are matters of which we must speak.’

‘No,’ she forced herself to say. ‘I do not.’ She could not let herself conduct an affair with him. She had to find the ring and steal it, to save her papa. But she loved
Hunter. And she had not found the ring. And she did not know what she was going to do.

Their eyes clung together, her heart was aching, but she could not let herself weaken. The distance between them seemed to shrink. His face was only inches from hers. She could smell his scent, feel his warmth. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the feel of his breath against her cheek. She ached for his kiss, longed to wrap her arms around his neck and press her lips to those of this kind, strong, glorious man whom she loved.

‘You must let me go,’ she whispered.

‘For now,’ he said and pressed a fierce kiss to her lips. It was a kiss of possession, a kiss that seemed to seal all that was between them. And then he released her.

Phoebe walked across the stone flags of the hallway just as a maid appeared on the stairs leading from the kitchen and scullery.

‘Mrs Hunter rang from the drawing room,’ the girl said.

‘I am on my way to her at this very moment.’ Phoebe smiled and hoped that nothing of Hunter’s kiss showed upon her lips. But the maid did not seem to notice anything awry. Phoebe tucked a loose strand of hair into her chignon, and accompanied the girl towards the drawing room.

Hunter had not moved. She did not need to look back to know that he was still standing there in the shadows watching her.

A few days later Hunter was sitting opposite his mother and Phoebe in the breakfast room, sipping at
his coffee and thinking. The day was bright, a last throw of summer. Sunlight filled the room, lighting Phoebe’s face and showing too well the shadows beneath her eyes. She looked as if she were sleeping badly, and when she thought that no one was watching there was a worry in her eyes. And she had been avoiding him most successfully.

A footman brought the mail in, setting the silver salver down by Hunter’s elbow.

Two letters for himself. One from his tailor, the other with Dominic’s writing on the front. Three for his mother. And one for Phoebe, not from Emma Northcote; indeed the handwriting looked masculine and simplistic as if someone had taken pains to disguise their hand—the sender’s details were not recorded upon the back of the letter.

He passed them across, threw the tailor’s letter aside unopened and broke the wax on Dominic’s note. Hunter’s eyes scanned over Dominic’s words. He smiled at the news.

‘Be a dear and run and fetch my reading glasses will you, Phoebe.’ Hunter felt a pang of irritation at the way his mother treated Phoebe.

‘We have servants for that sort of thing,’ he said drily and set Dominic’s letter upon the table before him. His mother looked up at him in surprise. A hint of colour washed Phoebe’s cheeks. ‘It is no inconvenience, I assure you, sir.’ And she slipped away before he could reach for the bell.

There was the cracking of wax and rustle of paper as his mother unfolded her letters. She picked up the first and held it at arm’s length, peering at it with screwed-up
eyes. ‘Writing the size of an ant. Cannot see a word of it. Read it to me, Sebastian.’

‘Hawkins writes to inform you that the decorators have finished at the town house in Charlotte Street. And that all is order for your return.’

Phoebe came back into the breakfast room just as he was reading the words. He saw her stiffen, saw that she understood the implication of that news just as well as he. But she did not look at him, just smiled at his mother and delivered the spectacles.

‘So soon.’ His mother seemed surprised.

‘You do not have to leave,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I insist that you stay.’ He thought of what Phoebe had told him of the break-ins at Charlotte Street and of his mother’s fears. And he thought, too, of Phoebe.

‘You are a young man, Sebastian.’ His mother smiled. ‘You are already burdened with an old woman’s over-long visit.’

‘You are neither old nor a burden. And I insist that you stay.’

‘I will not hear of it,’ his mother said, but she laughed and there was a sparkle in her eye that he had not seen since before his father’s death.

From the corner of his eye, where he was surreptitiously watching Phoebe open her mail, he saw her fold the letter away almost as soon as she had opened it. Hunter glanced across at her, just as she looked up and met his gaze, and what he saw in her eyes was a fleeting glimpse of fear before she glanced down, and when she looked up again all of that was hidden and she was quite herself again.

‘Good news?’ his mother enquired and gestured to the letter clutched tight in Phoebe’s hand.

Phoebe’s smile was almost convincing. ‘Nothing important,’ she said. ‘Now, what plans do you have for today, ma’am?’

Hunter rode Ajax hard across the moor. The wind was harsh against his cheeks, the sky a bright white-grey, lighting all of the moor with that clarity that he loved. In the distance he could see a pair of eagles soaring high in the sky, the birds huge and majestic. Hunter noticed it all, even though his mind was fixed most firmly on Phoebe Allardyce.

The letter had to be linked in some way with her search for his father’s ring, its address penned by a male hand. And he thought of the man he had seen her meet outside of the Tolbooth, and the fear that flashed in her eyes as she saw the letter’s contents. He had no intention of just letting her walk out of Blackloch, out of his life. There was too much that he still did not know. He needed answers. He needed her.

Hunter rode faster, harder, longer. And by the time he walked Ajax into Blackloch’s stables he knew what he would do.

I
n the privacy of her bedchamber Phoebe stared again at the letter that had been delivered that morning. A letter that comprised only three words:
We are waiting.

And whatever she might have been hoping, that the postponed trip to London might have in some way meant that the nightmare had vanished, those three words told her that she was wrong. Whether she went to London or not, whether she was here at Blackloch, or in Mrs Hunter’s house in Charlotte Street, the Messenger would find a way to reach her … and, more importantly, her papa. She did not have the ring. Indeed, she was no closer to finding it now than she had been the first day she had arrived at Blackloch. Hunter had it, guarded most carefully as he had said. Maybe not even in Blackloch. Maybe in a bank or safety deposit box. Wherever it was, Phoebe had almost given up hope of finding it. And when she thought of what that meant she wanted to weep.

The clock had just chimed five when she heard Mrs
Hunter’s bedchamber door open and the lady’s slippered steps across the passageway.

Phoebe screwed the letter to a ball and threw it onto the fire, watching the flames consume the paper and burn it to a cinder. Then she straightened her back, held her head up and went to follow Mrs Hunter down for dinner.

Hunter waited until both his mother and Phoebe were seated before he took his own seat. Hunter was at the head of the table, Mrs Hunter at the foot; Phoebe sat in between the two, her back to the windows and facing the door.

‘Such fine salmon,’ commented Mrs Hunter. ‘I must compliment Cook.’ Phoebe watched her clearing her plate. Such a marked change for the lady who, in all the months that Phoebe had worked for her, had only ever picked at her food. The lines of Mrs Hunter’s face were no longer gaunt and sharp looking; she looked softer, happier, more agreeable. In contrast, Phoebe was feeling tense and worried. She had not the slightest appetite and there was a tinge of nausea in her stomach. She poked her salmon around her plate to make it look as if she were eating it, and cut her beef into small pieces, only one of which passed her lips.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Hunter.

The conversation passed on around her. Phoebe made small noises of agreement, but otherwise said little. Plates were delivered and removed. All she could think of was her papa.

‘But you are not recovered enough to endure the rigours of such a journey, Sebastian.’ Mrs Hunter’s exclamation brought her from her reverie. Phoebe noticed that the last of the plates had been removed.

‘Mother, I am perfectly recovered and the injury was the merest scratch in the first place.’

‘I am not sure.’ Mrs Hunter sounded doubtful.

‘Besides, Arlesford has written to me. He is expecting an addition to his nursery. He and Arabella are planning a ball to celebrate the good news and we are invited.’

Hunter rose from his seat and walked down the side of the table opposite to Phoebe, pausing just past her. He produced a letter from the pocket of his dark tailcoat and passed it to his mother with his right hand. His left hand leaned flat upon the table as he did so.

Mrs Hunter slipped her spectacles from around her neck onto her nose and read the opened letter. ‘How delightful! And I suppose it would be such a shame to disappoint Lady Willaston. It was so kind of her to invite me and she was to have thrown a card rout in my honour.’ Her eyes moved to Phoebe and they were filled with concern. ‘What say you, my dear? Given what happened upon the moor, I would understand perfectly if you do not wish to travel to London.’

Phoebe barely heard the question. She was too busy staring at Hunter’s hand leaning upon the crisp white tablecloth, at his long, square tipped fingers. Her heart began to race. She bit her lip and slowly raised her gaze to his.

Hunter’s eyes glittered as green and intense as the emeralds in the silver wolf’s-head ring that he wore.

‘Phoebe?’ Mrs Hunter prompted.

She drew her gaze away from Hunter’s. ‘London sounds delightful. It is exactly what we need at this moment in time.’ She did not know how she managed
to keep her voice so calm and level when everything of her emotions was in such chaos.

‘I am so glad that you think so, my dear.’ Mrs Hunter smiled and returned the letter to her son. ‘When shall we leave?’

‘As soon as possible,’ said Hunter as he slipped the letter into his pocket. ‘Unless Miss Allardyce has any objection.’

‘I have no objection whatsoever.’ She tried to feign a smile, but could not do it. The relief was sour, tainted by deep sickening dread. In her ears she heard only the whisper of betrayal and in her heart felt a deep pulsating ache.

‘In that case, come along, Phoebe, we shall leave Sebastian to his port and organise the maids to our packing.’

As she followed Mrs Hunter out of the dining room Phoebe could not help glancing back at Hunter. He was still watching her, his gaze intense. And Phoebe shivered at the prospect of all that lay ahead.

They travelled to London in Hunter’s sleek black travelling coach, after Phoebe had visited the Tolbooth gaol to bid her papa farewell. Hunter himself insisted upon riding, despite all of his mother’s protestations, and, although she worried about whether his arm was healed enough, Phoebe was glad. There was such a tension of feelings between them; she feared that, once they were enclosed within such a small space, his mother would be aware of it.

They broke the journey twice, staying in expensive and comfortable inns, Phoebe and Mrs Hunter sharing a room, Hunter in his own. And with every hour
that passed, and every mile that took them closer to London, Phoebe felt as if she were travelling to some sort of inevitability that could not be stopped. Hunter treated her just as a gentleman should treat his mother’s companion, nothing more, but when he drew near, when his glance met hers, her whole body flared its response and her heart glowed with love. And from the look in his eyes she knew that he felt it, too.

Every day her eyes scanned his fingers for the ring: she saw it only once more and then thereafter, when he removed his gloves, his hands were bare. And even if he were to wear it, there was only one way she could think of to glean it from him and she could not bear the thought of tricking him, of seducing him, of stealing from him. Soon they would be in London, and soon the Messenger would make contact. Phoebe tried not to think of what was coming.

The town house, in Grosvenor Street, held many memories for Hunter. The smart terraced house of golden sandstone had belonged to his father the last time Sebastian had stayed here, and now it belonged to Sebastian. The paintwork around the door and Palladian windows still appeared a fresh glossy black, the window panes sparkled and the steps were scrubbed and clean, just as if the house had not lain empty for almost a year. Even the door knocker had been replaced for their arrival by Trenton, Hunter’s caretaker butler, and Mrs Trenton, his housekeeper-wife.

They had been in London for four days. Four days of shopping and excursions, routs and musicales, none of which had seen Hunter alone with Phoebe.

He stood in the empty echoing hallway. The black-and-white
chequered marble floor gleamed a reflection of the crystal-and-obsidian-tiered chandelier that hung suspended from the high ceiling. To the right-hand side, close to the door that led into the drawing room, stood a circular table inlaid with mother of pearl and obsidian, and upon which was a silvered glass vase containing a huge bloom of white flowers. On the wall on the left, above the black chinoiserie chairs lined with their backs to the wallpaper, was a large elaborate gold-framed mirror. The décor of the house, in all rooms save for the study, was elegant, sophisticated and in stark contrast to the sturdy old comfort of Blackloch. The smell of the place filled his nostrils, Mrs Trenton’s own beeswax polish mix and the echoes of his father and the years he had spent here.

He stood there in the silence, absorbing it all, letting the memories of last year and all that had been wash over him. There was still a sadness, but the terrible eroding guilt had lessened since the night of the thunderstorm with Phoebe. She believed in him. She did not blame him.

From the drawing room came the tinkling of women’s laughter: his mother and her friends … and Phoebe. A vision of Phoebe played in his head. For all that they had not been alone, that was not due to Phoebe. She was no longer avoiding him. She had seen the ring. It was just a matter of time before she came to his room.

He lifted his hat, gloves and cane and went off to spend another afternoon at the home of his friend, Dominic Furneaux, the Duke of Arlesford.

‘So let me get this straight. This Miss Allardyce has ignored rolls of bank notes and bags of sovereigns, your
mother’s diamonds and the priceless paintings hung in your drawing room to search exclusively for a ring.’

Hunter could see the way Arlesford was looking at him across the library. He glanced away so that his friend would glean nothing of the depth of his feelings over the matter.

‘Most peculiar.’ Arlesford frowned as he thought. ‘And there is nothing in particular about this ring?’ The Duke picked up the brandy decanter and poured a measure into each of two glasses, passing one to Hunter before sipping from the other himself. ‘Aside from the fact it was your father’s and thus has significance to you,’ he added more gently.

‘The ring is indeed precious to me, more so than you can imagine, but why it should be so to any other is a mystery. There is nothing exceptional about it apart from its unusual design. I have only seen its like once before, on a cane belonging to our favourite viscount.’

Arlesford’s frown deepened.

‘But quite what that means I do not know. Silver and chip emeralds are hardly worth a mint.’ Hunter took the brandy with a murmur of thanks. He took a single sip and then set it down on the occasional table. ‘And then there was the man she met with outside the gaol.’

‘He might have been a lover, rather than an accomplice.’ Arlesford arched an eyebrow. ‘Or maybe even both.’

Hunter felt himself tense. The muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘He was not her lover.’ ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Just a gut instinct,’ he said, keeping his voice flat and without emotion so that Arlesford would not guess the truth.

‘And the letter she recently received?’

‘Whatever was written within it frightened her for all that she tried to hide it.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Arlesford sipped at his brandy.

‘Intimidation.’

‘Not that some collector with an eye for the unusual, perhaps even Linwood himself, has found himself a little thief willing to steal for him?’

‘She is not like that.’

‘She certainly has you on her side.’ Arlesford smiled in a suggestive way. ‘Pretty little thing, is she? Captured your fancy?’

Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He stopped pacing and came to stand directly before Arlesford in a warning stance. ‘Have a care over how you speak of Miss Allardyce.’

‘What aren’t you telling me, Hunter?’

‘There is nothing else you need to know.’

Arlesford’s eyes were too perceptive as he looked down into Hunter’s face. ‘She is a thief and your mother’s companion,’ he said.

‘My mother’s companion maybe, but Phoebe is no thief.’

‘Phoebe?’
Arlesford arched an eyebrow.

‘Damn it, Dominic,’ snapped Hunter.

A knock sounded at the door and Arlesford’s wife, Arabella, entered. She smiled a radiant smile at her husband, before speaking to Hunter.

‘I thought I heard your voice, Sebastian.’

‘Arabella.’ Hunter bowed.

‘So glad to see you again. Now, tell me, are you and your mother attending Lady Routledge’s ball this evening?’

‘We are.’ He thought of Phoebe.

‘How lovely. Please tell her I am so looking forward to seeing her again.’

‘I will.’ Hunter nodded. ‘If you will excuse me, I must head back to Grosvenor Street.’

As Hunter made his way down the stone steps outside Arlesford House, the Duke and Duchess of Arlesford stood by the library window and watched him. Arabella leaned back against her husband as he wrapped his arms around her.

‘He is more changed than I realised, Dominic. He seems a man with something pressing upon his mind.’

‘Indeed he is, my love,’ said the Duke. ‘And from the looks of it, a deal more than he is willing to admit.’

At Lady Routledge’s ball that evening Phoebe sat with Mrs Hunter and a group of her friends, two of whom were accompanied by their own companions. She was only half-listening to the chatter going on around her; she was too aware of Hunter leaning against a nearby Doric column, of the brooding expression upon his face and the way his gaze came too often to rest upon her face.

‘Is that not so, Miss Allardyce?’ Mrs Hunter asked.

‘Indeed, yes, ma’am,’ she answered as if she had been following the conversation most carefully. And when she slid a surreptitious glance across at Hunter again he was still watching her.

She turned her gaze away and looked longingly at the dance floor, where Hunter’s friend the Duke of Arlesford was dancing with his wife. Arabella Furneaux, Arlesford’s duchess, was by far the most beautiful woman in the whole ballroom. Tall and elegant,
she wore her hair piled in a mass of golden shining curls high at the back of her head, several of which had escaped to trail artlessly around her perfect throat. The dove-grey silk dress overset with silver gossamer must have cost a small fortune if its cut and fit and richness of material were anything to judge by. Next to Arabella, Phoebe felt drab and old-fashioned in her old green-silk evening gown. But the duchess was also kind and warm and had included Phoebe completely in her conversations with Mrs Hunter. And when the dance was over, and Arlesford delivered her back to the seat she had taken beside Phoebe and Mrs Hunter, Phoebe saw Mrs Hunter glow with pride at her favour with a duchess. And soon the ladies were all of a-chatter again.

Across the ballroom behind the pillars, Hunter was standing beside Arlesford, talking to Bullford and feeling ashamed of his shoddy treatment of his old friend at their last meeting in Glasgow.