So saying, the Duke of Montgomery continued down the street.
Trevillion waited until he could no longer hear the duke’s retreating footsteps, and then he turned and retraced his steps.
The list of questions he had for Malcolm MacLeish was even longer now.
He used his cane to knock upon the door to MacLeish’s boardinghouse, waited a minute, knocked again, and then stood waiting for quite a long time before the door was pulled open by the scowling landlady.
She wore a shawl thrown over her nightdress and an enormous mobcap. “Knocking at all hours! This ain’t a bawdy ’ouse, I’ll ’ave you know. Now what can you want at this time o’ the night?”
“I’d like to see Mr. MacLeish,” Trevillion said.
“An’ so would ’alf o’ London, so it seems,” said the landlady, turning about without bothering to ask him in. “First that gentleman, all fancy-like, and now you. Told ’im I run a nice quiet ’ouse. Won’t ’ave riffraff about, no I won’t!”
“Perhaps this’ll make your labors sweeter,” Trevillion said drily, pressing a coin into the harridan’s hand.
She narrowed her eyes, palmed the coin, and jerked her head to the stairs behind her. “ ’E’s up this way.”
She mounted the stairs, one hand gripping a candle, and Trevillion followed.
On the upper floor, she rapped sharply on the first door to the right. “Mr. MacLeish! You’ve a visitor—another one.”
The Scotsman opened the door, looking wary. When he saw Trevillion, though, relief seemed to flicker in his eyes. “Captain, please come in.”
“I don’t run to tea this time o’ night,” the landlady warned.
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Chester,” MacLeish assured her drily. “I’m sure we’ll manage on our own.”
Trevillion stepped into the room and, as MacLeish closed the door behind him, took a look around. As in his own rooms, there was a narrow bed, a chair, a washstand, and the fireplace, but here the similarities stopped. MacLeish had a large rectangular table before his fire, huge sheets of paper spread upon it. In addition he also had a rather nice chest of drawers, an overstuffed chair, and several small paintings hung on the walls.
“My inheritance, such as it is.”
Trevillion turned to find MacLeish gesturing at the paintings.
The other man smiled. “My grandfather was the younger son of a baron. At his death he had but few worldly goods, but as he knew I had an eye for art, he left me what paintings he had collected.” His smile turned rueful. “I’m afraid I was forced to sell the better pieces to pay for my education, but I’m still rather fond of the remainder.” He shrugged. “Will you have something to drink? I’ve a half bottle of wine.”
“No, thank you,” Trevillion replied, sinking into one of the chairs. “I hope not to stay overlong.”
MacLeish nodded, watching him warily.
“I wanted to ask you some questions about this afternoon,” Trevillion began. “It would’ve been near impossible to trail us to Harte’s Folly across the Thames—not and have horses waiting on the other side.”
“You think they knew Lady Phoebe would be there,” MacLeish said.
“I do.”
“And do you think I informed her kidnappers?”
“Did you?”
MacLeish’s eyes widened at his blunt question. “No. No, I…” He turned away, running his hand through his red hair. “I’ve been giving the matter some thought myself, and the problem is that it could’ve been anyone at the tea party.” He swung back around, looking pleading. “Not to mention someone within Wakefield House itself.”
Trevillion’s eyes narrowed. “You think there’s a spy in Wakefield House?”
“It mightn’t be anything so formal.” MacLeish shrugged. “A servant gossiping would do the trick.”
Trevillion thought about that a moment, absently rubbing his leg. Then he glanced up at his host. “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for saving Lady Phoebe this morning.”
“Oh.” MacLeish looked embarrassed. “It was nothing, truly.”
“And yet if you hadn’t, she might now be God knows where instead of safely in the bosom of her family,” Trevillion said, the words like acid on his tongue. “I thank you most sincerely.”
MacLeish blushed and ducked his head.
“Tell me,” Trevillion murmured. “Do you always carry a knife about with you?”
MacLeish’s head snapped up. “I… erm… yes, I do. Got in the habit while traveling the Continent viewing the classical ruins. Some places are rather uncivilized and a foreigner is seen as fair game.”
Trevillion nodded. It seemed a likely enough explanation. “I saw the Duke of Montgomery coming from this house earlier.”
MacLeish paled. “Are you watching me, Captain?”
“Should I?”
The other man snorted. “A lot of good it’ll do you. The duke is my patron.”
“He seemed to be threatening you.”
“Did he?” MacLeish’s upper lip curled and he suddenly looked quite a bit older than his years. “He has a curious way about him sometimes, I’ll grant you, but his bark is worse than his bite.”
“Odd.” Trevillion narrowed his eyes. “I would’ve said it was the other way round.”
“He’s an aristocrat,” MacLeish said. “They’re used to ruling the world, aren’t they?”
Trevillion couldn’t argue with that. He stood. He was weary and he didn’t seem to be getting any information here. “If you do have cause to regret your… association with the duke, you might come to me.”
“You?” MacLeish looked at him, puzzled. “Not that I do have a problem with Montgomery, but what can you do against a duke?”
Trevillion smiled grimly as he opened the door. “Anything I want.”
He closed the door gently.
PHOEBE TRAILED HER fingers over a rose the next afternoon, letting the scent drift up to her face. She usually enjoyed walking her garden, but today she was sunk in a kind of cloudy melancholy. Trevillion had left Wakefield House the previous evening without another word to her. Rather as if her kiss had been so repelling he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
She hadn’t thought the kiss that bad.
Strange. Six months ago she would’ve felt nothing but relief to be free from her bodyguard’s constant presence. Now he was no longer just a bodyguard to her. Trevillion was companion, verbal sparring partner… friend.
More than friend, she realized, now that it was too late.
Phoebe crushed the blossom beneath her fingers, the sharp scent of the rose perfuming the air. The scent reminded her of the last time she’d been in the garden—with Trevillion. Regret was a bitter taste on her tongue. If only she’d not insisted on going to Harte’s Folly.
If only she could be content to be caged.
She tore the bloom from the bush and scattered the petals beneath her feet.
The problem was she wanted both things: to be free and to have Trevillion back in her life—a blatant contradiction. He was a guard. She couldn’t be free with him there. And yet she couldn’t be entirely happy with him gone.
Phoebe sighed and continued down the path, the gravel crunching beneath her heeled shoes.
Maximus had, of course, assigned a group of strong young footmen to guard her, including both Reed and Hathaway, whose wound hadn’t been that dire after all. Her brother had refused to even discuss the guards with her. The scene in the dining room the other night might never have happened at all. Maximus treated her with polite courtesy… and turned away when she attempted to make her case.
She might as well have been mute as well as blind for all the notice her words got her.
Phoebe could hear her guards, even now, shuffling about the outskirts of the garden, no doubt armed to the teeth and giving her little to no privacy. It was incredibly awkward when she had to use the necessary.
“My lady.”
She turned around at the call—one of th
e footmen, obviously, but she wasn’t sure which one. Definitely not Reed with his Cockney accent, but other than that… bother. Trevillion would’ve found a discreet way to alert her to the speaker, but he wasn’t there, was he? No, she’d driven him away with her stubborn desire to be free.
Or maybe it was her kiss that had driven him away. Awful thought. She’d liked that kiss, as brief as it had been. It’d seemed to hold a world of discoveries, just beyond a closed door.
If she could kiss Trevillion again, perhaps she could open that door.
The footman cleared his throat, reminding her he was still there.
She sighed. “Yes?”
“Mr. Malcolm MacLeish is here to see you, my lady. Will you receive him in the sitting room?”
“Yes,” she said, then immediately changed her mind. It was a lovely day after all. “No, show him out here, will you…?”
“It’s Green, my lady.”
“Of course. Green. Perhaps you can ask Cook to put together some refreshments to serve in the garden?”
“Right away, my lady.”
She assumed he went back into the house, but as the grass rather muffled Green’s footsteps it was hard to tell.
A moment later, though, she heard Mr. MacLeish call. “Lady Phoebe! Good afternoon. Have I told you how like your roses you are—both beautiful and delightful?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. MacLeish,” she replied, her lips twitching. “At least not today at any rate.”
“A terrible oversight on my part, I’m sure.” And then to someone else, presumably one of her guards, “I say, good fellow, I’m merely here to chat with your mistress. I’ve no nefarious plans against her, I assure you.”
Phoebe smiled for the first time today—it was impossible not to in the face of Mr. MacLeish’s good humor. She held out her hand to him. “I fear in the excitement yesterday that I was rather brusque in my thanks to you for saving my life. Let me try again: thank you so very much for standing between me and those kidnappers.”
She felt his hand as he took her fingers in his. The slight brush of his lips over her knuckles and his warm breath against the back of her hand. “It was my honor, my lady.”
His voice had lowered and he sounded strangely serious.
She cocked her head, wondering about the reason for his mood.
He still held her hand when he said, “Where is Captain Trevillion this afternoon? Is it perchance his afternoon off?”
“He’s resigned and left my brother’s service,” Phoebe replied, her lips turning down.
“He has?” Mr. MacLeish sounded startled. “But…”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing, my lady,” he replied. “I’m just surprised at his action. I would’ve thought your safety would be at the forefront of Captain Trevillion’s desires.”
She stiffened, the casual observation unaccountably hurting her, though she was sure that was the last thing Mr. MacLeish intended. “I think it is. He has this odd notion in his rather thick head that he can’t protect me just because he’s lame.”
“Ah.”
“Ah?” She frowned suspiciously. “Why, ah?”
“It’s just that perhaps he’s the best judge of what he’s capable of,” Mr. MacLeish said far too reasonably. “In a way it’s quite brave of him to admit a fault and gracefully stand aside because of it.”
“Brave.” She snorted. “Brave if you think being soft in the head is brave.”
He laughed lightly at that. “I see I’m not winning any arguments on this front with you, my lady, so I concede: Captain Trevillion was indeed a softheaded cad to abandon you just because he worried for your safety.”
She smiled weakly and turned to stroll along the garden path, aware that he kept step with her at her side. “I have to make you aware of a terrible fault you have, Mr. MacLeish.”
“Your words strike terror in my heart, my lady,” he said, a quiver of laughter in his voice. “What is this fault?”
“You make it very hard to remain at odds with you, sir,” she replied. “In fact, I find I cannot.”
“I shall endeavor to try and be more unlikable, my lady,” he said. “Perhaps if I practice every day, in time I can become quite loathsome.”
“Do,” she said. “I expect a report at the end of every week regarding your progress.”
They’d come now to the bench where she and James had sat just a few nights before. She paused, her heart squeezing at the memory.
“Lady Phoebe.” Mr. MacLeish suddenly caught her hands in his, drawing her down to the bench. “Forgive me, my lady. I’d hoped to take more time. To write a speech fully worthy of you, but I fear I simply cannot. Your bravery, your wit, above all your charm…”
He pressed his mouth to the backs of her fingers—not a polite greeting, but a passionate kiss, and Phoebe had a sudden horrible idea where all this was going, followed immediately by bewilderment. Had she missed something? Had her blindness caused her to misread Mr. MacLeish’s intentions all along?
“Mr. MacLeish,” she said, and then stopped, because she liked him. If it weren’t for…
Dear God. If it weren’t for James Trevillion, she might even consider him.
Well, if he weren’t acting so very rashly.
But Mr. MacLeish had disregarded her interruption. “I’m not rich by any means, Phoebe, but if you’ll permit me—if you’ll do me the great honor of consenting to be my wife—please know that I’ll work every day joyfully, with all my heart, to make sure you never want. I swear upon all I hold holy that I’ll protect you with my body from daily irritants and the bigger dangers of life. You need never go out without a guard and a husband. I’ll keep away anything that might possibly bother you. I’ll make it my life’s work from this day hence, I swear.”
“But,” Phoebe said, because sadly she had a tendency to latch on to the wrong thing at moments like this. “I don’t want a bodyguard for a husband.”
“Of course not, my love. I spoke badly. I simply mean—”
“No, actually,” she said thoughtfully, “you were quite eloquent. You mean to keep me from any little bump or misstep in life. Any irritant. Any bothersome thing. But you see, the thing is, I don’t quite think one can live like that, all rolled up in a blanket of care. One rather has to be bumped now and again to know one is alive, don’t you think?”
“You’re a lady of refinement,” Mr. MacLeish began in a puzzled tone that, sadly, gave her answer enough. “You need to be protected from the rougher things in life.”
“Actually, I don’t,” she said as gently as possible. “And I’m afraid, though you do me great honor, I can’t accept your suit.”
“My lady,” said the very correct voice of one of the footmen. It must be Green, surely? “Your tea.”
“Oh, lovely,” Phoebe said with a great deal of relief. She felt the tray carefully and found the teapot and a mound of some sort of iced cakes. “Would you like a cup, Mr. MacLeish?”
“I fear I have another appointment,” Mr. MacLeish said rather stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady?”
And he left precipitously, making Phoebe feel guilty that she didn’t, in fact, care more.
She did like Mr. MacLeish, she really did, but his proposal had come quite out of the blue—very puzzling, surely? And didn’t he know enough to ask Maximus first for permission to court her?
Phoebe shook her head, trying to work through what had happened. Not that it mattered much, in the end. Even if Mr. MacLeish had followed the correct steps she wouldn’t have accepted him.
He wasn’t James Trevillion and he never would be.
Was Trevillion now the pattern to which she held all other men? How odd. She hadn’t even known that was how she felt until now. The realization—that she needed him in her life, that something was missing without his steady presence by her side—had crept up on her.
And now he was gone.
On that thought she called Reed over.
“My lady?”
“Reed, do you know where Captain Trevillion has taken himself off to?”
“No, my lady.”
“Well, find out, please, for me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She listened to the retreat of the footman’s shoes, and then she was alone again—or as alone as she ever was these days.
Strange that one could be surrounded by guards and still feel isolated. That hadn’t been the way she’d felt with Trevillion. He’d often made her cross or irritated, sometimes amused with his quiet wit, rarely incandescent with rage, and, more recently, warm with a sort of longing.
But she’d never been lonely with Trevillion.
Phoebe straightened. Reed would find where James had gone to ground and then she would visit him—guards and all—and convince him somehow that life simply wasn’t the same without him here.
Really, it was his duty to guard her.
And with her mind made up she bit into a lemon cake.
EVE DINWOODY BENT over her desk later that same day and peered through a large brass magnifying glass on a stand. She took a breath and very carefully touched a thin sable-hair brush to the pink cheek on the miniature portrait of a man she was working on.
“Ma’am?” Jean-Marie called from the doorway. “His Grace is here to see you.”
“Show him in, please, Jean-Marie.”
A moment later His Grace Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery, breezed into her private study, carrying a rectangular package with a cloth draped over it. He wore a yellow-green suit today, embroidered in black and gold. On anyone else it would’ve looked excruciating.
On him, it merely highlighted the guinea-gold of his hair.
“Darling Eve, you must stop your labors at once. Not only will you give yourself a squint if you insist on painting every day, but I’ve brought you a present.”
“Have you?” She sat back and dabbed her brush in the pink watercolor before bending once more over her task. “It’s not another box of marzipans, is it? Because I did tell you that I don’t like them.”
“Nonsense,” the duke said briskly. “Everyone likes marzipans.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m not everyone.” A heavy breath at her shoulder. “That’s not me, is it?”
Dearest Rogue Page 11
