by Aston, Alexa
“Bound for where?”
“America.”
Andrew expelled a long breath. It would take Francis a good while to reach there.
“Hopefully, he’ll never be back to bother you, Your Grace.”
“Let’s hope so. I do have another matter to discuss with you. A case I hope you’ll take on.”
“You are a friend of the Duke of Treadwell. That is good enough for me. Tell me about it,” Brock encouraged.
“I wasn’t entirely truthful with the magistrate about everything that happened with my half-brother.”
The runner frowned deeply but kept silent.
“I assure you that everything in my sworn statement regarding Francis’ actions was true. What I fibbed about was the fisherman that supposedly rescued me.”
He explained about Phoebe finding him and why he lied to protect her reputation.
“I understand, Your Grace. You acted as a gentleman and wanted to keep a widow from harmful gossip. I see nothing wrong in what you did. But how does this woman come into play?”
“I need her found—because I want to wed her as soon as possible.”
This statement rattled the runner’s detached demeanor. He sat up, his surprise evident. “Go on.”
When Andrew exhausted everything he knew about Phoebe and the dead end he’d come to trying to gain information from her leasing agent, the detective stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“As you know, this is very little to go on. Certainly, I will take on your case but I must warn you, Your Grace. Don’t expect too much.”
“I’m afraid I am expecting a miracle. If you can’t conjure one, then my only hope is to return to Falmouth next summer and hope Phoebe does the same.”
Brock rose. “I see how much this means to you and I promise to do my level best to find Mrs. Smith.”
“How will you even begin?” Andrew asked, perplexed on how the runner would proceed to look for Phoebe in a city of thousands.
“I’ll work on finding her sister. The woman may have lined up a midwife for her birth or be looking to do so since she’s to give birth in a little over three months. If I can find this Letty, then it should be easy to find her sister. I’ll warn you, though, that this is the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“I understand. I plan to remain at Windowmere for several months. If you find her, send word immediately and I will come at once to London.”
Andrew offered his hand and the two men shook. Brock took his leave and Andrew sank into his chair. It was out of his hands for now. He only hoped the Bow Street Runner could find Phoebe.
Chapter Eighteen
London—Six months later
Phoebe awoke early. No matter how late she went to bed as she tried to prepare for the upcoming Season’s hours, she seemed to always rise when the sun did. She supposed it was from her time in Cornwall. She hadn’t wanted to waste a minute of any day when she lived there, especially when she had to do all the menial tasks herself. She’d never realized how hard it was to wash and iron clothes, much less prepare even a simple meal. Her hands told the tale of her time at Falmouth Cottage. Faithfully, she’d slathered lotion on them every night and then slipped cotton gloves over her hands, trying to make them appear more ladylike. Months later, she finally saw some progress though she doubted she’d ever get rid of a couple of the calluses which had formed.
She longed to go back to those days in Cornwall. Walking on the beach. Working on her stories. Most of all, she wished to be back with Andrew. She gave in for a moment and thought of his touch. The feel of his hands running along her curves. His mouth on hers. The heat and passion that had sparked between them. Phoebe had thought time and distance would lessen the desire she felt for him.
It hadn’t.
He was unique in every way. A man who had thought of her pleasure rather than his own. No man would ever make her as happy as the smuggler had but she knew it was better to cast aside those thoughts. She’d been lucky to find love briefly and knew lightning wouldn’t strike twice. Her best hope was to find a decent man and build a life with him.
She stretched lazily and thought that her most important task this morning would be to go visit Basil in the nursery, first thing after breakfast. It was the best way to start every day. Letty had sailed through the birth and was already recovering her figure. The entire household was taken with Basil, who’d proved to be good-natured and rarely cried. Holding him made Phoebe long for another child of her own. That was why she was in London. Having a baby meant finding a husband.
With Basil less than three months old, Phoebe questioned whether Letty should return with the baby for the Season. Her sister insisted, saying she wanted to be there for Phoebe. First, to ensure Phoebe was actually serious about finding a new husband and not acting half-heartedly. Second, to approve of the match to be made and have Burton act as her representative in the marriage settlements.
She had no illusions of being able to compete with the girls fresh out of the schoolroom who would be making their come-outs. All eyes of the most eligible bachelors would be on them. Her best hope was to gain the attention of an older man. Not one as old as Borwick had been when they’d wed but possibly a man in his thirties. One more settled into life. With as many women who died in childbirth, there had to be several widowers among the ton who might be looking for a mama for their children. As long as her husband would agree to also allow her to have a child or two, Phoebe didn’t mind mothering his children.
Bored, she rose and rang the bell for Letty’s maid to come and help her dress. They shared the servant. It was easy in the mornings because while Phoebe was an early riser, Letty enjoyed sleeping later and then breakfasting in bed. The maid had ample time to prepare them both. It would be much harder in two days when the Season started. They would have to juggle her services. Perhaps she should go ahead and hire a lady’s maid of her own and take the girl with her when she left the Burton household. It was something to think about.
As the maid helped dress her, Phoebe worked out a new story in her head. When she’d sent Sir Winston Barnaby her stories and illustrations, she hadn’t expected to hear from him for several months and had listed Burton’s Oxfordshire address in her correspondence instead of Falmouth Cottage. To her surprise, not long after she’d returned to nurse Letty, Sir Winston had written to her, offering to buy all of what she had sent. Three weeks ago, a collection of her stories had come out. Sir Winston informed her that sales had been brisk and he was eager for more work from her. She devoted her afternoons to writing and drawing. With the Season, though, she would have to work hard to carve out time for her own pursuits since she would attend many events in the afternoon or be making her morning calls then.
Ready for the day, Phoebe went down to breakfast. Burton rose and kissed her cheek.
“How are you today, Phoebe?”
“Quite well. And you?”
He indicated the newspapers next to his plate. “Reading about how we have Bonaparte on the run. It looks as if this infernal war might finally be over soon.”
“That is good news.”
The viscount took a sip of his coffee. “Are you ready for the Season’s start in two nights?”
“I suppose so. Letty and I are going to Madame Toufours’ shop this afternoon for the final fittings of the last batch of our gowns from the modiste.”
He chuckled. “Then I should be getting a hefty bill fairly soon.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I am paying for my own gowns from funds Borwick left me.”
Burton frowned. “I can pay for those, Phoebe.”
“No. I insist. I’ve been rather reasonable in replenishing my wardrobe. It was quite affordable. I will wear some of the gowns several times. I see no need to be wasteful and wear something only once. It’s not as if the bachelors of the ton will be making a beeline toward me. They will have their choice of many young and pretty women making their come-outs.”
“Speaking of that.” Her br
other-in-law looked pensive. “I have spoken to a few of the men at my club. About you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. I know you’ve already visited with a few of your old friends since we arrived in town last week and they know you are ready to visit the Marriage Mart again. I took it upon myself to let a select group know you might be interested in entertaining offers of marriage.”
“You sly fox,” she said. “I must thank you for helping me navigate these waters, especially since I no longer have youth or beauty on my side.”
He smiled gently. “You deserve a good man, Phoebe. One who will make you happy. As for your age, I don’t believe twenty-seven is so very old. And as for beauty, you will be one of the most stunning women present. You and Letty both have the type of looks that only improve with age, like a fine wine.” He patted her hand. “Never fear. Even without help from me, your dance card will fill quickly.”
“Thank you for looking out for me, Burton. You are a good brother-in-law and a wonderful husband to my sister.”
They finished eating and he left for his study, while Phoebe climbed the stairs to the nursery.
“Ah, good morning, Lady Borwick,” the wet nurse greeted. “Master Basil has just finished eating. Care to burp him?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She took the cloth hanging over the woman’s shoulder and draped it over her own before taking the infant and placing him against it. Patting gently, he let out a huge burp, delighting her. She took a seat in the rocker the woman had vacated and held the baby, softly singing to him. Hopefully, this time next year she would be wed and expecting a child of her own.
*
Despair filled Andrew as he walked through the streets of London.
Phoebe was nowhere to be found in the city.
Brock had kept on the case for months, interviewing dozens of midwives throughout London since they had no idea what area Letty and her husband lived in. Once January had come and gone and the child should have been born, the runner made the rounds again, trying to locate Letty and, in turn, find Phoebe, as well. No promising leads had been discovered. No sign of Letty, her baby, or Phoebe were to be had.
Knowing Letty had been seriously ill, Andrew had Brock then speak to physicians throughout London. Again, he came up empty, despite the number of men he spoke with.
The detective had questioned Andrew, asking if perhaps he’d gotten things wrong. That maybe Letty lived outside of London, in one of the surrounding areas. Brock had then gone beyond the outskirts of the city, still having no luck. Andrew finally pulled him from the case, fearing that Letty might never have had the baby. That she’d lost it because of her illness.
He’d then covered the same ground Brock had, going down the list the Bow Street Runner had provided, visiting every midwife and physician on his own, hoping his status as a duke might come in handy and jog someone’s memory. It hadn’t. No Letty. No baby.
No Phoebe.
For the last week, he’d wandered the streets of London, praying for a glimpse of the woman he loved. The city teemed with people and yet he carried the small hope that he would spy her on a street corner. Finally, in this moment, Andrew admitted to himself how impossible the task had been. That the only hope he had of finding her was to return to Cornwall. He’d already purchased Falmouth Cottage and then left it in the hands of a new leasing agent with orders not to allow anyone but Mrs. Phoebe Smith to rent it. The man had told him without renters that no money was to be had. Andrew merely gave him the ducal death stare and repeated that only Mrs. Smith would be allowed to rent it—and that he was to be immediately contacted when that occurred. When. Not if.
His aunt expected him to participate in the Season. So did his friends. Dancing with any woman but Phoebe was unthinkable. Making small talk with young women looking for husbands was the last thing that appealed to him. No, he wanted his mature beauty, a woman of sterling character and the face of an angel.
It was time to go home. Not just to his London townhouse but back to Windowmere. The gaiety of the Season and its events had nothing to offer him. He would retreat there and wait.
Even if he had to wait a lifetime.
He reached Mayfair, exhausted, and slowed his gait, realizing he was famished. He toyed with the idea of stopping for tea somewhere and then decided to push on toward home. As he moved along the sidewalk, he glanced at the shop windows as he passed. He saw a hat that Phoebe would look smart in. A gown that would have suited her coloring. Then he came to an abrupt halt, lifting a hand and placing it on the display window of a bookshop.
A cover had Freddie the Flounder’s picture on it.
He would know that fish anywhere. Of all the stories Phoebe had told him, he liked the one best about the flounder and his friend, a whale. He’d encouraged Phoebe to send off her work to a publishing house. She had—and here was the result.
His heart thundering, Andrew quickly entered the store and found a display of her books in a section for children. He picked up the book and lovingly stroked the cover.
Children’s Tales. By P. Smythe.
He flipped through the pages, recognizing the style of her drawings, pausing to read a few passages that sounded so familiar to him. Closing the book, he studied the cover again. It was clever of her to not list her first name on the work. Merely being authored by a woman would have kept most customers from purchasing the book. Changing her middle-class name of Smith to the more upper class-sounding Smythe was also a calculated move on her part that would help the book sell.
“May I help you, Sir? We are about to close up shop.”
He turned and saw an eager clerk standing there.
“Yes. I’ll take this volume.” Reluctantly, he handed the copy to the man and followed him through the store.
As the clerk rang up his purchase, Andrew asked, “How would one go about contacting the author of a book?”
“I would start with the publisher,” the clerk said. “Write to the author in care of his publisher. I’m sure they would gladly forward on the correspondence.”
“No need to wrap it,” he said, paying for the book and claiming it. “Thank you.”
Andrew stepped outside and immediately opened Phoebe’s book. He saw the publisher was located in London. With it being so late in the day, he would only find the offices closed if he went there now.
But he would be waiting outside first thing in the morning. Nothing would keep him from the information he sought. By God, he was a duke. No one would dare tell him no.
And then he would finally find his love.
Chapter Nineteen
Phoebe stared at the bronze gown that she would don for tonight’s ball at the Rivertons’ townhouse. Madame Toufours had assured her that the color of the gown complemented the varying shades of gold and brown in her hair. It had been so long since she’d danced. Though she enjoyed doing so, Borwick had loathed dancing. They had only danced twice before he offered for her. Neither time had been enjoyable, with the earl stepping on her toes and dirtying her satin slippers. She had told her friends that she would never dance with him again—and she hadn’t. Instead, she’d wed him, thanks to her father’s insistence.
Her father was no longer here. Phoebe held the power as to which man she would allow to be her husband. That alone gave her confidence when she was sorely lacking in it. She told herself that dancing was natural and though she hadn’t done it for many years, it would come back to her. She regretted not hiring a dancing master to come and refresh her on the dances she’d once learned, as well as help her master new ones that had come out since she’d hung up her dancing slippers.
Tightening the sash on her dressing gown, she left her bedchamber and went down the hall to Letty’s suite of rooms.
“Do I look all right?” her sister called out as she entered the room.
Phoebe came to stand before her sister, who rose from the dressing table where the lady’s maid was arranging Letty’s hair.
“The gown
looks lovely on you,” she reassured.
Letty grinned. “I believe Burton will like this dress. He certainly likes my new breasts.” She sat again so the maid could finish with her hair.
Letty’s figure had filled out after Basil’s birth. Her once small waist was larger and her breasts had gained a fullness. Phoebe turned away, consumed by a memory of Andrew’s mouth on her breast, sucking and nipping and teasing it.
Would it never stop?
She supposed it wouldn’t until she found a new man to replace Andrew in her mind. Sadly, she shook her head, knowing no man could be an adequate substitute for the incredibly handsome outlaw. He was an original who had made a lasting impression on her—and her body.
“There, my lady. What do you think?” asked the maid.
Phoebe turned to see how Letty’s hair had been arranged. “Oh, you look wonderful, Letty.”
Her sister patted her hair, staring into the mirror. “I do favor this style.” She stood and looked at her maid. “Go on. Help Lady Borwick to look just as lovely as I do and be quick about it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The servant returned to Phoebe’s bedchamber and helped her into the layers of clothing. The pair had already decided on the way to arrange Phoebe’s hair so it didn’t take long to finish.
“You look right pretty, my lady,” the maid said.
“Thank you. Let’s hope a gentleman or two at tonight’s ball agrees with you.”
She claimed her reticule and a shawl since the April day had been a cool one and the night was bound to turn cold. Making her way down the stairs, she saw the foyer was empty. Surely, they hadn’t left her behind!
Then she heard voices and turned, seeing Letty and Burton coming down the staircase together. They made for a handsome couple.
“Sorry if we’re a bit late,” Burton apologized. “We had to look in on Basil a last time before we left.”
