by Scott, Tarah
“What gave you the notion you need to guard me?”
“I can't leave you unguarded in a foreign country.”
“You're telling me this is for my own good?” she demanded.
“Aye. I would be drawn and quartered if anything happened to you.”
That, Phoebe knew, was true. “You weren't instructed to see that I don't escape?” She left off the word again.
Donald didn't answer.
“How did that devil of a man have the strength to give any orders?”
Donald straightened with obvious pride. “He's a strong one. He said it didn't matter if none of us got a wink of sleep, we are to watch over you until his father arrives.”
By heavens, Phoebe cursed inwardly. They sent word to the duke.
“I "have no intention of sleeping in His Lordship’s room the remainder of the night," she said. Someone must attend to him. I give that task over to you. I shall fend for myself. You needn’t worry. I'll lock my door from inside."
Five minutes later, ear pressed against her bedchamber door, Phoebe heard a shuffle outside her room. Damn the man. Donald had recruited help with guard duty. This time, she had no choice: it was to be the rooftop.
Chapter Nine
At the muffled thud of approaching horses, Ty reached for the revolver he'd set on his log backrest and rose from the side of the long dead fire. He had expected one rider this morning, no more. His horse tugged uneasily on the reins Ty had secured to a nearby branch, and he flicked the animal a glance just before spotting the riders through the trees. He recognized Bernard, the man he'd hired to locate Ashlund and Phoebe, and with him, was Clive Randal. So, despite his warning, his mother had involved her lover. Clive’s gaze met his and didn't waver. Apparently Ty's warning to Clive had gone unheeded, as well.
Ty should have known the coachman would coerce his mother into interfering again. He saw this situation as a chance to help Lady Albery spend the money he believed she would have access to once Ty took possession of Phoebe's inheritance. Dammit, he should have killed Clive after he'd questioned him the night he tried to kill Phoebe. Once Clive described the two men who were with her, Ty recognized the description of Kiernan MacGregor—and Clive had outlived his usefulness.
“Arlington,” Bernard said, halting in front of Ty. Loosely gripping the reins, Bernard raised his hands in mock surrender and nodded toward the revolver Ty aimed at them. “You wouldn’t shoot your own men, would you?”
He would. Ty lowered the weapon.
Clive dismounted as Bernard swung his leg over his horse’s rump and stepped to the ground. Clive reached inside his coat.
“Clive.” Ty stepped toward him, but Clive already had his pistol pointed at Bernard as he emerged from between their horses. “Clive!” Ty shouted.
Bernard’s eyes widened in the same instant Clive fired. The horses squealed and lunged to the side as Bernard staggered back, arms flung wide. He made a gurgling noise, then twisted, falling face down onto the ground.
“You bloody fool,” Ty snarled. “I needed him.”
“The man was a risk.” Clive stuffed the pistol back into his waistband. "He led me to you without question."
Ty slipped a booted foot under Bernard's belly and turned him over. Blood stained his dirty, white shirt in a large circle over his heart. Ty looked at Clive. “You could at least have waited until I got the information I needed."
"He learned that Ashlund was at the inn a week ago with your cousin."
A week ago? Damn it, was he too late? "Are they married?"
Clive shook his head. "No, and there's something odd about the situation."
Ty tensed. "What?"
"She's going by the name Heddy Ballingham."
"Ballingham? Why is she using that bitch's name?"
Clive's brow rose. "You know her?"
"A baron's daughter. She married young, to an elderly man who left her with a small stipend. She is currently associated with Lord Stoneleigh. Are you sure it's Phoebe with Ashlund and not Hester?"
Clive shrugged. "Bernard seemed convinced."
"Did he find out where were they headed?"
"Ashlund's castle north of Glasgow."
"God damn it, Clive. Bernard had men working for him. Now I'll never know if they discovered anything more."
“His men never returned.”
“What are you talking about?”
"Bernard sent his men to find Ashlund, but they were a day overdue in returning. My guess is they tried to rob the marquess and either they killed him and ran, or he killed them.”
“They simply might not have discovered anything yet," Ty countered.
The coachman gave him a deprecating look. "You don't know the criminal sort, my lord." My lord held his usual condescension.
Ty nodded. "Not as well as you."
"That's right. Trust me when I say they made plans of their own."
Ty hated to admit it, but he was probably right. "What are you doing here?"
“Your mother sent me with this.” Clive reached into his pocket.
"Easy," Ty warned.
Clive's mouth twisted into an arrogant grin as he pulled an envelope from his pocket, then handed it to Ty.
Ty took the envelope. “How is it you found Bernard?" he asked as he broke the seal. "I didn't inform my mother I’d hired him.”
“I immediately pegged him as someone who didn’t belong at the Green Lady Inn. When I told him I had a message for an English friend I was sure he knew, his description of you told me I was right.”
“Many people come and go at the Green Lady Inn. You could have been wrong.” Ty withdrew the two sheets of paper from the envelope, unfolded them, and read.
Humphrey,
You must read the enclosed letter immediately. It will explain all. I managed to intercept the letter, so Charles is yet ignorant of this news.
Ty paused to unfold the other letter. He sucked in a breath at sight of the letterhead. Marcus McGregor Duke of Ashlund.
To Charles Wallington, Viscount Albery
Sir,
I write in regards to the marriage of my son, Kiernan MacGregor, Marquess of Ashlund, to your niece, Phoebe Wallington. This announcement will come as a surprise, but be advised there are circumstances surrounding this engagement we must discuss privately. The formal announcement has been dispatched to the post and will appear in print, at the earliest, the day you receive this letter, at the latest, the next.
I will be in London within the week and shall call upon you immediately.
Signed,
Marcus McGregor, Duke of Ashlund
“Bloody hell.” Ty cursed, and finished reading his mother's note.
You must tell me immediately how to proceed. The announcement did not appear in today’s paper, but it will surely be all over London by tomorrow. Do make haste.
Lady A
Phoebe had made no noises about marrying the marquess. To Ty's knowledge, she didn't even know him. Ashlund must have compromised her somehow and his father was forcing the marriage, though why he would do that, Ty couldn't understand. The Duke of Ashlund was rich as the devil and very powerful. He didn't have to do a damn thing he didn't want to do.
Ty refolded the letters and put them in the envelope. "Tell my mother I'll speak with her when I return."
"You have plans for the girl?"
Ty looked up. "Stay out of this, Clive."
He shrugged. "I'm just saying that sons die, even the sons of rich men."
“The duke is not one to dally with,” Ty said.
Clive gave a deferential nod. “I only thought perhaps you might not realize how easy it is for a man to die while walking down the street after a night at his club.”
Ty knew. He also knew that Clive might decide to prove how right he was before Ty had a chance to take care of Ashlund himself.
*****
Phoebe brought her horse to a stop at the inn where a group of bedraggled travelers faced a man in the doorway. She threw the cloak from her s
houlders and dismounted.
“Please, Sir,” one of the travelers said with a light Scottish brogue, “all we ask is a wee bit of food for the women and children, and that you let them sleep in the stables.” The traveler towered over the innkeeper, but kept his gaze lowered as he pointed to the three women and four children. “We men will sleep in the forest.”
Phoebe glanced at the sky. The sun would set within the hour and already a raw chill hung in the air. The men faced a bitter night if exposed to the elements. As did she.
“Sir—"
The innkeeper cut off the traveler with a derisive snort. “Off with you, you Scottish bastards,” he snarled.
“Why doesn’t he like us?” the smallest girl said in a half-whisper. She clung to another child, a boy not much older than herself.
The innkeeper jerked a startled look in the children’s direction. They stared back, eyes wide in gaunt faces. Embarrassment shadowed the innkeeper's face and Phoebe thought he would relent.
“You ought not to speak that way in front of the bairns,” the traveler said in a soft voice that didn’t quite hide his effort to maintain control.
The innkeeper’s face mottled with anger. “Watch your tongue,” he snapped. “We don’t want the likes of you here. Now get out before I have you jailed for trespassing.”
The traveler’s jaw tightened and he flushed a deeper red.
By heavens, the fool of an innkeeper will start a row that will end in half the village being burned.
“I'll pay for their lodgings,” she interjected.
The group turned toward her.
Phoebe met the traveler’s gaze. “How many rooms do you require, sir?”
“We—I—" He dropped his gaze. “My lady, we can't—”
“Money isn't the issue,” the innkeeper interjected.
Phoebe pinned him with a cold stare. “What is the issue, sir?”
His jaw clenched. “I have the right to turn away anyone I please.”
She started forward and the travelers parted as she passed through their midst. She halted before the innkeeper. “A fine thing to be able to turn away paying customers.”
He gave another snort, this one even more scornful. “They ain’t paying customers.”
“Four rooms,” she said. “Three for these people and one for myself. Supper for everyone, as well as breakfast, and dinner for tomorrow’s travel.”
The innkeeper’s expression melted into a confident sneer. “That’s a lot of money.”
Phoebe reached into her dress pocket and pulled out her reticule. She loosened the drawstring and retrieved her mother’s ruby ring. Her heart wrenched as she held it out. A murmur rippled through the travelers.
“This will more than cover the cost,” she said.
The innkeeper's eyes widened and Phoebe knew she had him.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “How can I be sure you didn’t steal the ring?” He ran his gaze down the length of her. "You don’t look the sort to own something so fine. I don’t need—"
"Don’t be a fool," she cut in. "If I had stolen the ring, I wouldn't be trading it for simple lodging. The ruby is genuine, and the gold of the highest quality. I will require a bath as well and—" the innkeeper opened his mouth and she went on in a more forceful tone "—and your other guests will be given the same privilege should they choose."
The innkeeper glanced at the travelers. “If there’s any trouble—”
“If there is any trouble, I shall call the constable myself.” She brought her gaze to bear on the traveler’s spokesman. “I expect that won't be necessary.”
"My lady," he began, but she turned again to the innkeeper.
"Please see to my horse." With that, she brushed past him and into the inn.
*****
Shyerton Hall in London. Despite the fact the townhouse hadn't felt like home since her mother died, anticipation swept through Phoebe when the cab turned onto the dead end lane and the house came into view at the end of the road. She surveyed the neighborhood as they rolled along the lane. Autumn leaves littered the cobblestone street and rustled with the wisps of air created by the cab. The hour was early yet, nine-thirty or so, and no signs of life were evident in the homes they passed. Phoebe breathed a sigh of thanks for the small favor. She had dreaded any neighbors witnessing her arrival. The bath at the inn had refreshed her, but that had been two days and many dusty roads ago.
Water enough for drinking had been offered on the ride from Yorkshire, but no more. Phoebe had dipped a corner of her dress in the quarter cup she was given at the last stop the previous night and, without the aid of a mirror, had cleaned her face. The looks she’d gotten from drivers at the London depot told her she’d been unsuccessful in elevating herself above the status of street prostitute. Her hair hung in limp tresses around her shoulders. If the dusty taste in her mouth was any indication, even her tongue needed a good cleaning. All would be well, however, if her good fortune included her aunt and uncle’s absence when she arrived.
What of the travelers’ good fortune, she wondered? The man who had begged shelter from the innkeeper had introduced himself the following morning as David MacEwen. His gently offered thanks had wrenched her heart, but it was the children’s faces that haunted her. The meal they’d eaten at the inn and the night in a warm bed had restored some of the glow to their cheeks, but no hope illuminated their eyes. Suffering through the ride in the public carriage from Yorkshire to London had been worth the price of giving her horse to David. If they sold the beast, they would get enough for passage to a larger city where the men could find work. She laughed. It wasn’t her the travelers had to thank for the horse, but the Duke of Ashlund.
The cab jostled as the driver turned off the street and onto the gravel drive that circled Shyerton Hall. A moment later, they came to a halt at the townhouse steps. Phoebe opened the door, knowing the driver wouldn't bother to assist her, and stepped to the ground.
“Wait a moment,” she instructed, and hurried up the steps.
“This is your home, is it?” the driver said in a doubtful voice.
“Be good enough to wait,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’ll wait,” he said.
Phoebe tried the knob. Locked. If not for the driver, she would enter through the rear servant’s entrance. She glanced at him. His eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Phoebe faced the door and knocked several times with the ball of the knocker.
The door opened with a jerk and the butler stood in the doorway. “What—"
Recognition flooded his angular face and his mouth fell open.
Phoebe smiled reassuringly and stepped into the foyer, forcing him back. “Is there any money to be had in the house, Gaylon?” she asked.
“Money?” he repeated.
“Yes, money.” She pointed to the driver, who watched them intently. Gaylon glanced past her, and she added, “I find myself short of cash. If you don't have any, I'll fetch some from my room.”
“No, Miss. I'll deal with the gentleman.”
“He was most kind,” Phoebe said.
Gaylon nodded understanding, then stepped past her out the door. Phoebe hurried toward the stairs to the right. Gaylon would keep silent about her present state of dress. If she could avoid the other servants, she might yet circumvent any gossip. Her foot touched the third step when a woman behind her shrieked. Phoebe jumped, then cursed, and slowly turned to face Molly, the downstairs maid. Linens lay strewn about her feet.
With a sigh, Phoebe stepped back down onto the hallway carpet. “It's all right, Molly.”
A quick, heavy tread of feet echoed down the corridor that led to the kitchen and Phoebe groaned. An instant later, the housekeeper appeared in the foyer. Phoebe started at sight of the large butcher knife Mrs. Harkin held even as the housekeeper’s eyes widened and she halted.
“Hello, Mrs. Harkin,” Phoebe said.
“Lord,” Mrs. Harkin said, circling Phoebe, eyeing her, “you look terrible.”
&n
bsp; “Mrs. Harkin,” Phoebe said mildly.
“Huh?” Mrs. Harkin’s head jerked up and she met Phoebe’s gaze.
Phoebe nodded toward the knife. “Do you mind?”
The housekeeper gave her a blank look, then glanced at the raised knife. “Oh.” She laughed. “I was cutting ham.” She lowered the knife. “Where have you been, Miss? There’s been something of a stir this past two weeks, what with you missing and all.”
“A stir?” Phoebe asked in a light voice.
“Oh, yes, Miss,” Molly broke in. “Calders returned home hoping to find you here.”
“I thought he was in Scotland,” Phoebe said with a laugh.
“Said he’d been poisoned,” the maid said. “Said, when he woke up, you were gone.”
“Poisoned?”
Mrs. Harkin snorted. “He wasn’t poisoned. Got a hold of bad brandy, is all. If he hadn’t been drinking to begin with, he wouldn’t have lost you.”
“He didn’t lose me,” Phoebe replied. The beginnings of a headache pressed against her skull.
“Who was it made off with you?” Molly asked, wide eyed.
“No one made off—”
“Miss!”
Phoebe whirled at the sound of Calder’s voice. He stared at her as if she were a ghost. By heavens, all the thought she had given to keeping quiet her abduction, and not once had she considered Calders.
“Calders—”
“I nearly got you killed,” he said with such anguish that Phoebe stood dumbstruck. “Your uncle will never forgive me.”
“It wasn't your fault,” she said. “As you can see, I am well.” She prayed no one would notice she looked more worn than she should.
“Calders,” Gaylon’s low voice drew everyone’s attention to him. He stood behind the group. “I believe you have work in the stables.”
Calders nodded, shoulders slumped, and turned.
“Calders,” Phoebe called.
He halted, but didn't face her.
“Calders,” she repeated firmly, and he turned.
“It wasn't your fault,” she said. “If it hadn’t been the brandy, it would have been something else. I'm thankful you weren't a casualty. The jest was in very bad taste.”
