Candlelight Wish (20 page)

She still puzzled over this when a tentative knock sounded on the front door. Absentmindedly she opened it to find Lucy standing on her doorstep. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying and her cheeks betrayed an unnatural pallor.

“I am not a fool, am I?” the girl demanded by way of greeting.

Phoebe, dragged from her reverie, hushed her and ushered her into the front salon. James, the younger footman, hesitated in the hall and Phoebe sent him for refreshment. She stripped off her gloves and riding hat then turned her attention to the girl who stared at her wide-eyed, her jaw set in a firm line. Lucilla bore a disconcerting resemblance to Miles at his most stubborn at this moment.

“What has happened?” Phoebe demanded, ignoring Lucy’s opening gambit.

“Miles—beast that he is!—has called me foolish!” She sniffed.

“And what reasons did he give?”

Lucy sprang from the chair she had taken. “Because I will not wed Ashby.”

Phoebe nodded. “Very wise of you. A most dissolute gentleman who holds you in contempt. It is quite impossible to imagine you being happy with such a man.”

“He is no such thing!” Lucy protested. “He is one of my dearest friends and always has been. Only I cannot believe he loves me, for he-he called me brat and he is forever in Hanna’s company. And even if he did love me,” she added hastily, “I could not possibly marry him when I am in love with someone else.”

“Lieutenant Harwich.” Phoebe nodded. “And he of course loves you and would never dangle after any other female.”

“Well he wouldn’t.” Lucy studied her clasped hands. “He loves me passionately and says if I do not marry him he will kill himself.”

Phoebe bit back the caustic remark that sprang to her lips. Instead she asked, “Does a declaration such as that make you happy?”

“Oh, you do not understand either!” Lucy cried. “He is quite the most romantic gentleman I have ever met, so very dashing. How can I help but love him?”

Yet Phoebe thought she caught a note of hesitation in the girl’s voice. “Every young lady longs for romance,” Phoebe assured her. “It is a great pity that the gentlemen who are the most romantic, who display such passion when they pay one court, so often make the most uncomfortable of husbands.”

Lucy glared at her. “You sound just like Miles.”

“No, do I?” That stopped Phoebe. “I most sincerely beg your pardon.”

A fleeting smile tugged at Lucy’s lips. “And so you should. But why must we ladies be forced to choose between comfort and excitement in a husband? I want both!” She tilted her head to one side, regarding Phoebe with the air of one who had been and in many ways still was, one of her pupils. “What do you think of Lieutenant Harwich, Miss Caldicot?”

Dismay filled Phoebe and frantically she sought for just the right note so as to neither alienate nor encourage the girl. After a moment she hazarded, “I do not believe I am well enough acquainted with him to give you a true answer. I know what is said of him, of course—”

Lucy sniffed. “Nothing that is good, I will wager.”

“That is not exactly true.” Phoebe weighed her words with care. “He is generally held to be handsome and there are those who are pleased with his manners.”

“Miles is not one of them,” Lucy inserted.

“I have observed his behavior,” Phoebe plowed on, determined not to allow Miles and his opinions to enter into this discussion, “and while I can see the romantic aspect of many of the things he has done I can also see, because I am not emotionally involved, where he gives his critics cause to disparage his conduct as dishonorable. No, Lucy.” She held up her hand to stop the girl’s protest. “One must be able—and willing—to view a person or situation from all points of view before one can truly form an opinion. His impetuous behavior has earned him his unsavory reputation.”

Lucy sighed. “It does not matter to anyone whether he is judged fairly or not, does it?”

“Very little, I fear,” Phoebe agreed.

Lucy paced the length of the room and back, her brow creased. As she passed Phoebe, she looked up and said, “Miss Caldicot, I—” then broke off. “I want to thank you,” she finished lamely. “I believe I understand my brother a little better.” Then impulsively she went forward in a rush, gave Phoebe a brief but fervent hug and hurried from the room.

Phoebe followed in time to see the girl let herself out to the street. She stood for a long while staring at the door then went in search of Xanthe.

She found her in her room, with Titus curled on the bed watching, trying on hats by the simple expedient of humming then considering the resultant creation.

Xanthe looked up from beneath a straw bonnet with a silk-lined high poke which promptly turned into a cap of lace knotted with trailing violet ribands. “There you are, my dear,” her godmother exclaimed. “Do you come with us this afternoon?”

“With you?” Phoebe racked her memory. “Where?”

“Mrs. Weaver’s. It is almost as far from London as Hampton Court only in the opposite direction. I cannot recommend it but you are quite welcome to join us.”

“Us?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “You and Titus?”

Xanthe laughed. “Now that would quite make the afternoon a joy rather than a bore. No, my love, it is Mrs. Mannering who has requested my company. It seems little Lucilla has the sense not to go.”

“Then why do you?”

Xanthe gave her that enigmatic smile. “Curiosity, I suppose. It shall be quite out of my ordinary experience. One can never tell what one might learn.”

“Will you be back before the Denvilles’ rout party?” she asked.

Titus, who had been sprawled on the bed, rolled to one side and emitted a short staccato sound.

Xanthe laughed. “As he said, of course I shall. Now how do you plan to spend the afternoon?”

“Addressing cards for our
soirée
, I suppose. And I shall invite Lucilla to drive with me in the park.”

Xanthe beamed at her and Phoebe found herself holding a bouquet of violets. “Have a delightful time, my dear.” And with that Xanthe hummed a bar, burst into a cascade of glittering particles and vanished.

Phoebe eyed the violets with uncertainty, glanced at Titus who merely blinked at her, then sniffed the blossoms. Their sweet scent reassured her so she carried them from the room to search out a bowl of water. Once she had them arranged she scribbled a note to Lucy and dispatched it by the second footman.

The acceptance, coached in terms certain to make proud her former schoolmistress, came back less than ten minutes later. That left Phoebe with the remainder of the day and, mindful of her promise, she set to work on the invitation cards that had never seen the inside of a printer’s shop. Why Xanthe hadn’t bothered to add the directions of their guests as well, Phoebe didn’t quite understand, especially since this boring task fell to her. But since she never received straight answers from her godmother she had long since given up asking the whys and wherefores of magic.

She had returned to the spacious apartment at the back of the house that served as a library, where she wrote a letter to Thomas while Titus sprawled in a patch of sunlight on the carpet, when the door opened and Arthur, the senior footman, showed Miles into the room. The force of his rage hit her even before she read it in his lowered brow and tightened jaw. She came to her feet and stood facing him, her hands clasping the back of her chair.

“I hope you are satisfied with what you have done,” he declared through clenched teeth.

“What has happened?” she demanded, going straight for the important issue.

“Lucy has eloped with her damn fortune hunter!”

Phoebe opened her mouth to tell him it was absurd but held her tongue. After a moment, she asked, “Did she leave you a note?”

“There was no need. She has vanished along with her maid and a couple of bandboxes. They must be away to Gretna and now you may see where your meddling has gotten us.”

Chapter Ten

For a long moment Miles glared at Phoebe. He didn’t know why he had come here, he realized. Not to blame her, that did no good at this point. The possibility that he needed her support he rejected utterly. He simply wasted precious time. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his steps short, controlled, angry.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“After them. Where else?” he flung back at her.

“Wait!”

“Wait?” He spun about. “My dear girl—”

“You cannot go alone. Only consider. If you hope to bring her back—”

“I will,” he broke in, grim.

“With her reputation intact,” Phoebe pursued, “then she must have some female companion to bear her countenance. Your aunt—”

“My aunt,” he snapped, “is away from home. It was her intention not to return until this evening.”

“Xanthe—” Phoebe began then broke off. “Oh bother, they have gone together, have they not?”

“They have,” Miles agreed. “Good God, are you all in league to ruin Lucy?”

“No one wants to ruin her,” she flared back. “But if you had not practically forced her into Ashby’s arms this would never have happened.”

“Forced her?” Miles glared at her. “I did no such thing. And if you will remember I said not one word when she danced with that—” He broke off in time, recollecting that any epithet he might use to describe Lieutenant Gregory Harwich would not be fit for her ears. “Arguing will get us nowhere,” he said through clenched teeth.

“At least we are in agreement about that,” came her prompt response.

He nodded. “Since neither my aunt nor your godmother are available, you will have to come with me.”

“I?” Her eyes kindled. “But would that not be meddling?”

“If you had not meddled to begin with this would not have happened!” The moment the words escaped his mouth he regretted them. And knew them to be untrue. “Miss Caldicot,” he began stiffly, “that was unforgivable of me.”

Her color, which had blanched at his first words, returned with vehemence. “We are both distressed over Lucy. We must concentrate on her, not on our differences. Of course I will go with you.”

Relief flooded through him. “There are a few things I must take care of then. I will return for you within the hour. Can you be ready?”

“I could leave now if you wished it.”

No missishness, no uncertainties. Her no-nonsense approach relieved him. “I first need to discover when and how they have set forth. To dash off in mad pursuit, without an inkling of where they might change horses, would be foolish in the extreme.” And with that he left.

An hour didn’t give him much time, he reflected as he strode out the door. If his groom would only hurry…

The man did. Within minutes Miles spotted his great roan turning the corner, the groom on his back. Another minute to lengthen the stirrups and he swung onto Cuthbert’s saddle. “Have the curricle here within the hour,” he called over his shoulder and set off at a brisk trot.

There were any number of hostelries and inns where one might hire a post chaise. Finding the right one would take time. He tried to consider what little he knew of Harwich and came up with few facts. The man had precious little money and he had need of secrecy. That probably eliminated the more reputable of the establishments. Which still left him with far too vast a number he would have to visit. He would begin, he decided, at those nearest the outskirts of town near the Great North Road.

He drew a blank at the first two at which he called. At the third though one of the ostlers remembered a young military cove but they hadn’t been able to accommodate him. “Try the Swan,” the ostler suggested. “That’s what I told ’im.”

A half crown changed hands and Miles rode to the stable yard of the inn less than two hundred yards along the street. Here to his satisfaction not only the ostlers but the innkeeper himself remembered Harwich as an engaging young man bent on escorting his sister back home to Yorkshire. The chaise had been hired for an indefinite period of time but the postilions, along with only a single pair, his informants disclosed, had been hired for St. Albans, the Swan’s usual first stage for such a journey.

“Brought the young lady here in a hackney,” said the innkeeper, “then bundled her into the chaise and off they went. Oh, not ’til late in the day, it was. Going on a quarter past noon, wasn’t it?” He turned to his head ostler for confirmation.

The man leaned on his shovel, gave the matter serious consideration then nodded. “That’s right. ’Twas just after twelve, it was.”

Which put them barely three hours ahead, Miles reflected. His own bays could make far greater speed than a pair of job horses. He tried to calculate how far they might get then gave up the effort as a waste of time. Only as far as St. Albans on their first stage, yet he felt certain they would not stop for the night so close to town. Harwich must be well aware of the inadequacies of hired cattle. He would change often. And that meant he would have word at that first posting house of when they left, how far they would go, when he might hope to overtake them. That they headed for Gretna he had not a single doubt. Marriage had to be the purpose for that was the only way Harwich could lay his hands on Lucy’s considerable portion.

He returned to Half Moon Street only a little over an hour after he left. And there, pacing briskly toward him, came his bays, harnessed and fresh for the trip. Miles jumped from his saddle but before he could mount the steps to Phoebe’s house her door opened and she appeared, carrying a pelisse, a lap robe and a hamper. She looked fresh and poised, a bright smile on her face as if they embarked upon a pleasure expedition.