“I would demand the same,” Drew said. “They don’t know you. I don’t like it, but I’m a householder. They’ll have to believe me, especially if Lady Phoebe is willing to give witness. The real problem is how to stop the men who employed the villains.” Drew chewed a cold piece of bacon and considered how that might be done.
“I think Dalrymple may have been involved,” Hugh added grimly. “They knew how to unlatch the door to enter without disturbing the alarm—something Henry told his aunt who may have told her employer. The scoundrels are not from around here but knew where to find our coal cellar. Someone gave them information about this household. Unless one of the servants is involved, I have to suspect the neighbor seeking approval from the Association.”
Drew grimaced. “Lady Phoebe said something of the sort. Apparently Dalrymple thinks she and the children are all that stand in the way of my fortune. Perhaps I should tell him my coffers are running on empty.”
“I’ve not had time to renegotiate the deed terms, so they’re not empty yet,” Hugh said. “If you don’t need me to maul killers today, I’ll do that this morning.”
“I’ll take my leave of the weans and leave them in your fine care,” Simon said sarcastically, holding his head up with one hand while holding his cup in the other. “I’ll handle the bastards on me own.”
“I’ll gag and bind you first,” Drew said, respecting his cousin’s pain by not raising his voice. “We’re in this together. Dalrymple is a weak link. We’ll start there. I don’t expect trouble immediately, but I’ve hired a constable to patrol and Wolf is guarding the halls. Sleep it off while I go about my business. And watch yourselves. The countess arrived an hour ago. She’s upstairs now. I daresay she’d pierce an intruder to the quick with one look.”
Both Simon and Hugh stared in shock. Hugh made a cutting gesture across his throat. Drew shrugged. The aunts might not mind if Phoebe lived with a bachelor. A mother would. He’d meant to marry anyway.
Lady Phoebe simply wasn’t the kind of woman he’d ever imagined spending his life with. His nights—yes. His days—would never be the same. Maybe he could draw boundaries. Buy a bigger house. Start a business in the Shetlands.
He pushed away from the table. “No warfare until we have a battle plan, gentlemen.”
That might be a good admonition for the matter of marriage as well.
After leaving her mother in the suite, Phoebe tucked the journal into a satchel with the remnants of last night’s nightclothes, then ran up to the nursery to assure the children that their world was still as it should be.
She’d heard the men arrive. Mr. Simon might be taking the children home soon. She couldn’t stay here after they were gone, not and remain a free woman.
She needed time to think. She had never planned on meeting a man who made her heart race and her mind go blank. She’d never expected to even meet one who accepted that she talked to mice and birds.
She didn’t care if Drew was a shipbuilder’s son. What concerned her most was that he needed a civilized woman who stayed at home, tending the household, entertaining his guests, being his extra appendage.
She was not and never wished to be that woman.
To prove it, she called Abby up after she was done waiting on the breakfast table to find out what the men had discussed. Repeating everything she’d heard, Abby frowned in concern, but Phoebe just nodded reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I know a few policemen. They’re very nice people, for the most part, but I’d rather they didn’t disturb my mother and the children. I’ll take care of it.”
With a plan in mind, she gave the children assignments Daisy could easily monitor. Then she slipped out the back door carrying the satchel.
She wished for her penny farthing, but she was wearing proper skirts and petticoat and couldn’t ride it, even if had been repaired. She didn’t own a crinoline—another of those reasons she’d never suit a respectable household. Walking around inside a cage just to prove she was idle—was the most ridiculous folly anyone had ever invented.
Carrying her satchel, she hurried down the street to the police watchbox. The helmeted constable, unaccustomed to being accosted by ladies, blinked at her in surprise.
“I’ve been told I need to testify against the intruders at Mr. Blair’s house last night. I don’t wish to disturb my ill mother and the children. Would it be possible to go to the station?”
She knew the police station in Canongate. She’d rescued a few neighbors upon occasion. She feared this more formal, respectable side of the city might not approve of her visit.
The policeman frowned, confirming her fears, but she meant to prove to herself and everyone else that she was her own woman. “I know the captain at Canongate. I will go to him, if necessary.”
The man’s eyes widened. Canongate was notorious, for good reason. Abject poverty did not bring out the best in people.
He escorted her the few blocks to an official-looking building, where he talked to a clerk. Then he waited nervously with her until another man in uniform led her into an office.
All the stiffly formal officers and clerks terrified her more than the raging drunks up the hill. She was out of her element among civil society, evidently, which was simply foolish. Perhaps she failed at obeying society’s dictates, but she knew how to be a lady.
Phoebe straightened her spine in the chair she’d been offered and smiled at the officious gentleman who entered. “I have been told I must give testimony against the two scoundrels who broke into Mr. Blair’s home last evening,” she said in her best rounded tones, learned at her mother’s knee. Sliding the journal into her pocket, she removed the rag bag and set it on the desk. “This is what they did when they attacked and mauled me as I attempted to protect Mr. Blair’s wards.”
She pulled out what had once been fine, if threadbare, nightclothes and showed the rips. “The scoundrels terrified the children into nightmares as well. I cannot have the little ones interrogated and frightened more. I hope this is evidence enough.”
The officer took her name and her account of the intrusion. When he finished his report, he studied her with curiosity. “The villains looked as if they’d been run through a mill when they were brought in. They raved of rats and monsters and swords. We had to bring in a physician to bandage them. They’re big brutes. Your account does not explain the damage done.”
Phoebe offered her best complacent smile—this was not the first time she’d had to explain the inexplicable. “I am a woman, sir. That does not mean I am helpless. They are ashamed to admit that a woman and a dirk could hold them at bay until help arrived. They may have fallen down a few stairs in the process. Should I send the servants to give witness of their terror when they were smoked out of their rooms by the fire the scoundrels set? Mr. Blair will be fortunate if they do not all give notice. I am here to speak for them, if I may.”
He rubbed his eyebrow and studied what he’d written. “Thank you. . . Lady Phoebe. I used to work up the hill. I’ve heard of you. I just never believed. . .”
“Believe, please.” Phoebe rose. “Frightened men create bogeymen to explain their fears. I assure you, no monsters other than a dog and cat occupy our home. Those wicked men are the only beasts here.”
She checked the pin in her pretty indigo hat and sailed out, only to almost bump into Mr. Dalrymple coming up the stairs of the police station. He started to step aside until he recognized her. Then he blocked her path.
“We are aware of your wicked ways,” he said with a scowl. “You will not trick us or Mr. Blair much longer. Your time is coming, harlot.”
“And a pleasant good day to you too, sir.” Disturbed by his obvious agitation, Phoebe stepped to one side so she might squeeze past him.
“We could have all burned in our beds!” he cried. “The rats could have eaten us alive! Nothing of this sort has ever happened until you and those damned children came along.”
She raised her eyebrows in disapproval. “Really, sir, your language is rude. G
ive my regards to your lovely wife and niece, please.” She kicked at his ankle, forcing him off balance so she could push past and down to the street.
Shaken, she considered her next goal. She had meant to prove that she was still her old self, but Dalrymple reminded her that her independence came with risks. She must make the prize worth the risk.
Her mother was correct that she should not abandon her hopes of an education. Now that the countess was well, and they might have the upkeep of only one home, perhaps she could again entertain the idea of the university. It was in the old town, near her aunts, where she needed to go next anyway. The journal had become too dangerous to leave with the children.
She started up the hill, away from the vet school. Dick’s would not have changed its mind already about women. She had little desire to masquerade as a man to attend if cattle disease and husbandry were all they offered. No school would tell her how to mend a pigeon wing. She would like to know more about diseases of dogs and cats. Would the university allow her to take biology classes?
Feeling more like herself, Phoebe aimed for the university. She was not just a governess—and she would not be just a wife, even if there were certain aspects of marriage she was inclined to enjoy.
While she was in the old town, she should check to see how her former neighbors were faring.
Twenty-two
Drew returned from the meeting with the development consortium with the hope of working on his pterotype—and speaking with Phoebe. He couldn’t think of her as Lady Phoebe after last night. She was Phoebe, goddess of the night, in his mind. Maybe mythology said goddess of the moon, but he was hoping she might be a little more constant than a silvery orb that disappeared regularly.
A note from Hugh awaited, asking him to meet at the Margaret’s Wynd properties. Being part of rebuilding an historically important part of the city had its fascination, but he had new priorities.
He glanced longingly up the stairs where he could hear the faint laughter of children. Simon was here to guard them. He could pray the countess still slept. He probably shouldn’t disturb Phoebe while she was with her students. If he wanted her to respect his work, he had to respect hers.
With a resigned sigh, he scratched Wolf behind his ears, clapped his hat back on his head, told Abby where he was going, and set out to the stable for his horse. He nodded at the constable patrolling past. He hoped the need for extra eyes was over, but they were taking no chances.
Dalrymple’s carriage stopped in the mews. “A word with you, Blair, if I might.”
Not if his neighbor had anything at all to do with last night, Drew vowed. He ostentatiously drew out his house keys and locked the back door. “I’m in a hurry, sir. Perhaps later.”
And he crossed the garden and mews without a friendly handshake. He disliked turning his back on a man he’d considered his friend, but if Dalrymple had insulted his future wife, the man was no longer even a sensible acquaintance.
The ride across town gave Drew time to indulge in fantasies of Phoebe gracing his bed, presiding over his dinner table, perhaps even forcing Cook to prepare meals when he was ready to eat them. He needed to provide her with a more suitable wardrobe. . . and a wedding ring. He should talk to the local minister. Or was Phoebe Anglican?
He had to admit he knew little or nothing about Phoebe’s background, just the information Hugh had dug out about her family and origins, and what little he’d learned in their encounters. He had to adjust his thinking from a meek, obedient wife keeping his house and children to a fearless one who defied convention, but after last night. . . Fearlessness had some redeeming qualities.
After crossing the bridge, he steered his horse down the busy Royal Mile in the direction of the narrow lane leading back to Margaret’s Wynd. Once he turned off the wider street, towering tenements and clothes hung overhead, blocking what little sun the day provided. The cobbled alley didn’t normally teem with people, but it seemed unusually busy for this time of day. Drew edged his nervous horse through the rushing throng until he feared trampling the children racing down the lane. What the devil?
Dismounting, he wondered how he was supposed to find Hugh in this mob. Was it a street fair? A carnival? He couldn’t think of any holiday to be celebrated, and this didn’t exactly seem to be a joyous lot.
He led his horse down the street in the direction the crowd seemed to be heading, forcing a path with his mount’s hooves and his greater size. He frowned at people leaning against windows in the towering old stone buildings that formed this man-made canyon. He had visions of that badly-fitted old glass caving under the pressure of everyone pushing to see out. The boys on the roofs eight stories over his head shouted and waved their hats, and Drew had to look at his feet not to feel dizzy just imagining standing at that height.
He frowned when he realized the worst crush formed in front of the consortium’s properties. What now? Had another front collapsed?
He picked out Hugh’s familiar bellows near the partially collapsed building. Men shoving in that direction didn’t want to give way, but Drew squeezed through using his elbows and his prancing, nervous horse. He wished himself elsewhere as he followed gazes upward, and the source of the disturbance became apparent. His gut churned from more than vertigo.
A child and her mother perched on the disintegrating edge of a floor six or more stories over his head. How the devil had they got up there? The structure was in such bad shape that Drew couldn’t actually count the layers of floor and debris to be certain of the height. On the street, Hugh was attempting to build a platform of stones from the wall’s remains. Men beside him held a ladder that was far too short to reach without a raised area to set it on, and even then, it would take a far stretch just to grab the woman’s ankles. Precarious, at best.
“Jump, jump!” a few ghouls shouted. The inhuman cry had him gritting his teeth to prevent throwing punches.
The other half of the mob wept or avidly watched as if this were a circus.
Something had to be done. “Back stairs?” Drew demanded as he reached Hugh.
“Tried that. The whole floor tilts. We’d endanger our lives, and she’d jump before we reached her,” Hugh replied curtly. “We need taller ladders so we can go up and talk her down.”
Hugh could read contracts and calculate numbers, but he was no engineer. Drew studied the situation and shook his head. “Ladders are likely to disturb the timber too. We need a net to catch her.” They had about as much likelihood of finding a net as a ladder.
Would the woman really kill her child too?
Fighting off his fear by applying his brain to the problem, Drew searched the upper stories, looking for anything likely—feather mattresses? Mounds of pillows? But from what little he could see, it appeared as if the flats had been stripped. He grounded his gaze on the lower levels again. Maybe there was. . .
A heavy mound of burgundy velvet plunged from above, landing on the men helping Hugh. The crowd gasped and heads swiveled upward. Shouts and finger pointing ensued. Despising his weakness, Drew forced himself to look up again—and wished he hadn’t.
A woman who looked far too much like Phoebe in her bright blue gown stood in the shadows of the third story, using some sort of stick to push at. . . Drew leaned against his horse to study what in hell she was doing.
Another mound of burgundy parted from one of the ancient timbers that had once held a wall or window in place. Staying far back from the edge, she whacked and poked at the heavy cloth with her stick until gravity gradually drew the weight over the edge, tumbling it to join the other.
Even while he froze in utter horror imagining every conceivable tragedy that could come of this reckless endeavor, Drew’s inventive mind grasped what she was doing.
“A net!” he cried. “Pick up the edges, spread it out between you. You, grab that corner.” He handed his reins to a stout, bearded fellow in a faded top hat and pushed to the front to show Hugh’s helpers what needed to be done.
The velvet dr
apery had once been thick and sturdy but was worn in places now. As another layer tumbled on their heads, Drew had the men crisscross the fabric to strengthen it.
The child wailing above provided all the incentive anyone needed to rush the task. More hands joined them, strengthening and tightening the unconventional net. The crowd alternately cheered and jeered their efforts.
Swallowing hard, Drew dared another glance upward. The woman in blue had vanished. He had a horrible feeling he knew why.
It couldn’t be Phoebe, he told himself. Even if the ridiculous bit of fluff on her head and the bright blue skirt looked familiar, his governess was safely ensconced in the nursery with his laughing wards. Yes, her aunts lived several blocks away, near the university, but Lady Phoebe. . . Had probably been the charity worker he’d seen last time he was here. Damnation.
What were velvet draperies doing here? He might not know much about fabric, but he was pretty certain that velvet of this quality cost a king’s ransom in some prior century. It did not normally hang on the windows of the poor. His own family adorned their few small windows with tattered remnants of lace woven by some distant ancestor.
The childish wail grew more frightened. The murmur of the crowd took on a more frantic note. Even the apes shouting jump ceased their cries and more men rushed to hold up the edges of the makeshift net. Hugh muttered imprecations under his breath as he directed the placement of hands and material.
Holding his hat on, Drew forced his head back.
The child was attempting to squirm out of her mother’s hold. The woman on the edge continued to blankly stare down at the street. Thin to the point of emaciation, with lank blond hair hanging about her dirt-smudged face, the mother did not appear well. The round-faced little girl, on the other hand, appeared clean and well-cared-for, from what little he could see.
Lessons in Enchantment Page 20
