Almost a Gentleman (40 page)

"Everybody out of this hall," David yelled. "Go
now, right now
! We don't know if the rest of the chandeliers are safe."

The panicky hubbub started up again. Numbly, with the little girl still tightly clasped in her arms, Phoebe joined the crowd rushing toward the doors. David had reached her side. His face was white and his lips were pinched.

"My God, you could have been killed." His voice was harsh, awestruck. "You and Susan both. All that sharp, heavy iron, falling straight down atop your heads."

"It's… it's all right," she kept repeating in a toneless voice. "It's all right. No death. I've got her."

Gently, he attempted to pry Susan from her arms to give to her frantic grandmother. But Phoebe didn't seem quite able to let the little girl go.
What a sharp clean smell a child had
, she thought,
there was really nothing like it on earth
.

What was upsetting everyone so much anyway
? she wondered.
Everything was all right, wasn't it? And why had they taken the child from her
?

There was a gap then, an emptiness, and a darkness.

Her reason and senses returned slowly over the next half hour. She found herself in a big armchair, at the fireside of the green bedchamber, with her dress unhooked and her stays loosened. She felt cold, though the fire was quite indisputably hot and she was swaddled in soft blankets. David was at her side, on a footstool. He held a mug of something to her lips. She took a sip; it was hot, spicy, and alcoholic.

"Phoebe?" he whispered.

"I… I think I'm a bit better," she said.

"You had me frightened, though. I think you were in some sort of shock."

"Yes, I think I was."

"You're a heroine, you know, saving the child's life like that. Not to speak of your own."

"I felt very strong for a moment. Strong and quick and invulnerable. I've had the feeling before, sometimes when I've been fencing. Even gambling."

"Yes, I know, it happens, sometimes, in the midst of a fight. I love the fighter in you, Phoebe."

He kissed her forehead. She took hold of his hand.

"I want to go to bed, David."

"Of course. You need your sleep. I'll finish undressing you."

"No, I mean I want to go to bed with you."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"No, probably not. But then, it wasn't very wise of Lord Linseley to follow Mr. Marston to Rowen-on-Close, was it?"

"I expect not."

"Or to offer his services when Marston announced he was in trouble?"

"No, but…"

She put his hand to her lips and kissed the palm. "Or to take Phizz home with him to Lincolnshire, giving their enemies in London plenty to gossip about, you know."

"You have a point."

She held his hand against her cheek.

"It wasn't an accident, David. Somebody wanted to kill us. If I hadn't brought Susan over to sit by me, the chandelier would have been suspended directly over me and you."

"I know. You saved us."

"Maybe the play saved us. The moment of exhilaration when that ridiculous Doctor makes everything all right. Maybe
that's
what gave me the eyes to see what was coming, and the energy to move away quickly enough."

He smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders.

"It's fading, David, that moment of exhilaration."

"I don't think it fades. It sinks in, rather."

"Perhaps. I don't know if I believe that. But while I can still remember how it felt, I want you inside me."

He tilted his head to the side. "You want what? Where?"

"Oh all right." She laughed. "I want your cock inside my cunt, if you insist upon a specific request. Deep inside, my lord. Yes, I'm sure of it."

He'd been extraordinarily gentle at first; she'd had to encourage him, to persuade him that she wouldn't break. She stroked the upward curve of his erection, caressing him with long, light, adoring fingers. He lengthened and hardened at her touch, and when she cupped his scrotum, she could feel it grow dense with seed.

He moved his hands up and down her body, watching her arch her back and stretch her limbs. He breathed sharply, touched her more deeply, and felt her open and soften under his caresses. Smiling, she bent her knees and tilted herself upward, moist and shining along the furrow between her legs. "Now," she whispered, "yes now, please."

His cock entered her easily, like a plow in rich, rain-soaked earth. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He rose to his knees and thrust from his hips. He lifted her, cradling and rocking her, sweetly and strongly, beyond will or consciousness or fear or regret. Until his thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper; until he had to let go, to pour, to spurt and spew, to spend himself within her while she still bucked and bounced and vaulted underneath him, still riding him, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist. They both cried out, their throaty, inchoate shouts of pleasure and release mingling in unembarrassed barnyard cacophony.

He allowed himself to fall on top of her then, his cock still buried deep, his semen seeped into her. In her mind, Phoebe saw the fields of Linseley Manor, winter wheat sprouting in the earth below its heavy blanket of snow. They lay for some time as she slowly let him go from between her legs. And when he drew himself out of her he did it so slowly that she cried out afterward—surprised to find herself emptied of him.

Empty and so soon to be alone.

But she wouldn't allow herself to weep, she told herself, stretching her body gently while he slumbered in her arms and the moon rose high in the sky. Taking extreme care not to disturb him, she gradually untangled herself from him and extricated herself from his grasp.

She didn't need to sleep. In the cold white flash of consciousness that seemed to be the consequence of the shock she'd suffered, she felt that she'd never sleep again. Crouching by the fireplace, she scribbled the letter that told him everything she couldn't say out loud. Her mouth had learned to shape the words for lovemaking, she thought sadly, but she still didn't know how to say good-bye.

Wraithlike, she walked quickly across the carpet to the dressing room. One of the portmanteaux was still strapped shut; she'd told Lissie not to bother with that one. She unstrapped it now: Marston's suit was a bit wrinkled, though his shirt and cravat remained reasonably fresh. She shrugged her shoulders: it wouldn't be Phizz's most elegant night.

In the unpredictable way of these things, though, her hair—Marston's hair—fell easily into place, its unaccustomed length seeming to lend itself to a dashing, Byronic look. She'd have to dye it immediately upon returning to London, though: there was a definite pale cast to it at the roots now.

She'd overdone the eyebrows a bit, but she left them alone. For if she didn't keep moving, she might never leave this place.

The French doors that led to the garden closed softly behind her. What a solid house this was, she thought: no telltale squeaking of hinges or creaking of floorboards to wake him and bring him running after her. Nothing to stop her in her flight, no one to throw his arms tightly around her, carry her back to bed, swear he'd never let her go.

Only silence. She walked quickly, noting that her limbs had taken on Marston's stride as soon as she'd slipped through the yew hedge and turned in the direction of the stables.

She could see from her shadow against a snowbank that her top hat was tilted at exactly the correct, fashionable angle.

Oberon knew her well now, and the moonlight was so bright that she was quickly able to saddle and bridle him. It might snow tomorrow or the next day, she thought—David had taught her some of the signs—but she'd be safe tonight. It would be a clear quick ride due east over the wolds to Lincoln, whose spires would soon become visible in the gray light preceding the dawn. And where Phizz Marston would be boarding the early morning coach to London.

She allowed herself one glance back over her shoulder. At the slumbering house, with its mellow stone and well-trimmed ivy, its stately architecture affectionately enfolded in the curve of the land. A sense of loss threatened to overwhelm her. Phoebe might have wept at this moment, she thought. But Phizz Marston never wept.

A gloved hand flicked the riding crop smartly at the big black horse's flank. A moonbeam briefly illumined a slice of white cravat, an angular plane of pale cheek, the curve of a cynical, downturned mouth.

Hooves thundered. The young man on the large black horse disappeared beyond the rise of a hill.

Stupid, stupid. How
could he
have been so stupid? Stupid and callous, he added, grasping the pages of her letter while his face burned with shame.
And while we're at it, David, let's not forget crude and ill bred
. Because for the entirety of their week together—or so it seemed to him now—he'd done nothing but drop broad hints about how he wanted to make her pregnant. Perhaps the only way he
hadn't
announced it was to engage a crier to shout it out in the village square.

While she'd been agonizing about how to tell him the painful truth, he'd been mugging and grinning like an ape. Not to speak of capering like a goat and strutting like a turkey-cock. Of course he hadn't known what she'd been feeling—after all, he comforted himself, how
could
he have known?

But he might have noticed something, he thought now, if he hadn't been so intoxicated by the pleasures they'd shared. He might have discerned the hurt he was causing, if he hadn't been transfixed by thoughts of the fine new life they'd be embarking upon together. Or if he'd been able to cease congratulating himself ahead of time for rescuing her from Crashaw's vile threats.

Who could say what he might have understood if he'd been paying attention? If he hadn't been so overwhelmed by her beauty and thrilled by her desire for him. Or so absurdly gratified by the potency and frequency of his own performances.

But he hadn't known, seen, understood, discerned, or divined a blessed thing. Her letter had come as a total surprise. An absolute embarrassment. As difficult for him to read as it must have been for her to write.

You see
(she'd written),
I can't have children. It was a terrible blow to me when the doctor told me this after the accident. It's why I became Phizz Mars ton
—
if I couldn't have a woman's greatest happiness, I told myself, I would bloody well enjoy a man's privileges and prerogatives
.

But now I wonder if I was correct to assume that children are a woman's greatest happiness. Loving you has made me wonder. This week has been the happiest I've ever spent.

And at the same time, I've learned how important children can be to a man
—
a certain sort of man, anyway. I've seen how deeply you wanted us to have them. Every word, every gesture of yours
(he shuddered)
has proclaimed it
.

Well, you should have them. We should have them. But we won't. Because I can't.

I should have told you all this in my own voice, but I couldn't. I was too cowardly. I've adored being with you at Linseley Manor, but everything I've seen and touched here has seemed to reproach me for my sterility.

I still want you, David. But I want us to be together in London, not Lincolnshire. I can't remain at Linseley Manor any longer.

I shall love you forever, but I shall understand if you decide that I'm not what you want after all. I'm certainly not what you thought
—
somehow you keep discovering one or another scandalous truth about me, don't you
?

She'd signed it with a
P
. The initial made him sad and even a little angry, for it clearly indicated Phizz as well as Phoebe. In fact—her letter had spelled this out on its last page—she did intend to become Phizz again. What she wanted, though, was for Phizz to have a secret lover—one who'd come down from the country for oc-casional trysts, brief sweet erotic interludes, during which she'd un-knot her neck cloth and drop her mask for a precious hour or day at a time.

He thought of her in her slim trousers, high cravat, and veiled, ambiguous smile. Very elegant and very arousing; any number of London gentlemen would agree with him there. She was offering him something those gentlemen would probably kill for—a crack at the real, naked Marston.

No
, he howled. No, he didn't want her that way.

Yes
, he whispered. He wanted her any way she'd allow.

Absurd. This wasn't a dalliance he was considering. There was real substance between the two of them: they
loved
each other, dammit. One couldn't, one
shouldn't
limit it to what she was proposing. It would be a sort of blasphemy, he thought, to reduce what they'd had together to a series of provocative intrigues. He didn't want an affair. He wanted a
life
together.

Even if that life together didn't include children?
Be honest, David. Your dearest hopes have been dashed. Will you be able to give that up
?

He sent Mr. Dickerson to retrieve the horse. Phoebe had written that she'd stable it in Lincoln near the inn where she intended to pick up the London coach.

He wanted to follow her himself; certainly his own fast carriage could catch up with a lumbering public coach. He imagined himself heading them off, highwayman-style. In his mind's eye he'd throw open the coach door, pluck her from her seat, and carry her off.

"Come home with me. Now. I love you. It doesn't matter…"

Did it really not matter?

The truth was that it
did
matter. He didn't love her a whit less but—
be honest, David
—he
had
cherished the image of her with his child in her arms. He'd delighted in fancies of his seed taking root within her after he'd plowed the earth of her body.

For a moment he thought he could almost feel what she'd suffered—the pain of knowing she was going to disappoint him.

And for the next moment he could only taste the bitterness of his own disappointment.

Perhaps—there was a measure of shame in admitting this to himself—perhaps it was just as well that he
couldn't
follow her today.

Well, of course he couldn't, he reminded himself. Murder had been attempted yesterday in the Great Hall of Linseley Manor. The earl's guests had been threatened; his people had been threatened. And
he
had been threatened himself. The earl of Linseley couldn't leave at a time like this. He had to stay and investigate. To find the culprit and bring him to justice. The earl of Linseley was obliged to make things right with the land and the people before he could think of himself.

He summoned Mr. Neville and a few very agile young men to help him. Together they inspected the chandeliers, each in its turn. The thirty-seven iron hoops that still hung from the ceilings were solidly in place, suspended from strong chains and sturdy hooks. Their very stability made the single fallen chandelier look even more ominous and malevolent.

"But here's yer culprit, my lord." A sharp-eyed young fellow had retrieved something from under a bench. A chain link that
looked
like all the others—for it was painted a dark, rusty gray-brown—but wasn't at all like the others. For instead of iron, it was made of thin, soft copper, which had bent and opened, melted by several hours of the heat from the candles. A brief search yielded several of its fellows. While the crew of chandelier-cleaners had been busily scraping away at a century of tallow, someone among them had substituted these weak links.

"Clever," David muttered. "Well planned." The culprit would be miles away by now.

"Do you know the names of the men in the gang, Mr. Neville?" he asked.

Well, not all of them, the steward admitted. Of course most of them were local lads. The chief of the gang, Jeremy Paternoster, had played the Farmer's Lady in the entertainment. It was he who would have hired any outsiders. Perhaps
he
might know.

But Paternoster—his blond locks closely trimmed now and a handsome new beard starting up—didn't know. There
had
been a few outsiders, he said, but he'd been so intent upon rehearsing for his part in the play…

Well, wait a minute now, my lord. For Jeremy did remember something after all. Yes, there'd been a tall fellow, with a London accent… London with a strong undertone of Derbyshire. The man had mentioned that he'd had enough of the city; he'd been making his way home when he'd run out of money. Well, of course Jeremy had wanted to help him get home. His name? Hmmm, let's see. William Smith? William Jones? William Byrd, perhaps. Anyway, something like that, my lord.

The stranger had been good with his hands. Had a good reach, too, and some skill with metals, so he'd been set among the men patching the chains. He could easily have been the culprit, Jeremy thought.

No, my lord, he answered David's next breathless question. Jeremy hadn't seen Smith-or-Jones around here since he'd paid the fellow. Said he wanted to get home for his own local village's Plough Play, you see, though of course it would be small beer compared to how we do it.

"And we hadn't thought of looking for suspicious characters who'd been here
before
Plough Monday, had we, Mr. Neville?" David scowled and Mr. Neville agreed sorrowfully.

"He's given us the slip," David concluded. "We
could
send someone to sniff out every Smith, Jones, and Byrd in Derbyshire, but I rather think that's what the blackguard wants us to do—he and whoever has engaged him to do this mischief. I rather suspect that our Smith-or-Jones is back with his employer. He'd probably lain low somewhere, waiting for the chandelier to fall. But when he learned that we'd survived, he needed to relay the news to whoever had wanted the deed done in the first place."

To Crashaw? Had Smith-or-Jones been waiting at some inn to relay his progress to Crashaw?

David smiled grimly, taking some small consolation in imagining Crashaw's anger and chagrin upon learning that his plot had failed. The gentleman would be off his game tomorrow, David thought, when he came to visit. And with any luck David would be able to learn the truth from him.

But could Crashaw really be so evil? David pondered the possibilities as he took his lonely cold supper in the echoing dining room.

He and Phoebe had certainly picked an unsavory suspect: a man who cared more for money than he did for the common well-being, and who valued a club membership above the humanity of the boys who serviced his erratic lusts. An unsavory specimen certainly, a vile and vicious man absolutely. But a murderer?

Somewhere within himself, he felt a stirring of doubt. There were plenty of men like Crashaw and they surely weren't all murderers. Quickly, he suppressed this inconvenient thought.

Somehow, the man would expose his character and motivations. If not, David would simply have to beat it out of him, which would hardly be difficult. What would be difficult was restraining himself from using his fists.