Cowboys and Highlanders

by Scott, Tarah

  “Jest?”

  “Exactly.”

  His brow furrowed, then his eyes narrowed shrewdly. He started to say something, but Phoebe raised a brow. His expression melted into his usual placid look.

  “As you say, Miss.”

  “One more thing, Calders.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “What did my uncle say when you told him I was, er, lost?”

  “He hasn't said anything,” Calders replied.

  “Lord and Lady Albery left for their estate in Carlisle before Calders returned," Gaylon interjected.

  Hope surged through Phoebe. “You didn't tell them I was missing?”

  “I did, indeed. I sent them a message.”

  “And?” Phoebe prodded impatiently.

  “Lady Albery wrote back that they were dealing with the situation.”

  Dealing with the situation? What did that mean? Had the duke's letter reached her uncle? Or had Uncle been wise enough not to make a ruckus about her disappearance until he could find out what happened?

  “Has there been any further communication?” Phoebe asked.

  “No,” Gaylon said.

  She turned. “Calders, why didn’t you stay in Scotland?”

  “Your cousin sent me home.”

  “Ty? What has he to do with this?”

  “We assumed he was assisting in the search for you,” Gaylon said.

  “Quite right,” Phoebe quickly put in. She smiled at Calders. “You did the right thing.”

  “I don't think so, Miss.” He hung his head again. “I should have been watching you closer.”

  “What were you to do? Follow me about in the ballroom?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “If need be.”

  She laughed despite herself. “A fine sight, indeed. No, I think we can do without the drama. Don't forget, I am unharmed.”

  He surprised her by running an assessing eye over her. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Miss, you don't look as well as you usually do.”

  “No, I suppose not. But all in all, none the worse for wear.”

  “You shouldn’t have any wear on you at all,” he grumbled.

  Phoebe would have commented, but he turned and headed down the hall. “Well,” she bestowed a smile upon the remaining staff, “I shall begin with a bath. Will you have one prepared for me in my room, Mrs. Harkin?”

  “Molly,” the housekeeper shot the girl a stern look, “there's water on the fire. Take it up and begin another pot—but for goodness sake, pick up these linens first.”

  The girl quickly gathered the linens, then scampered off to do her mistress’ bidding.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Harkin.” Phoebe turned to leave, then stopped. “Gaylon, are any messages for me?”

  “A package came for you,” he replied. “It's in your bedchambers.”

  “From whom?”

  “There was no return address on the envelope.”

  Phoebe nodded. “It would seem all has been quiet.”

  “There was that message from the Duke of Ashlund,” Mrs. Harkin commented.

  Phoebe jerked her head in the housekeeper's direction. “Message?”

  “The letter was for your uncle, Miss,” Gaylon said.

  “Where is this message?”

  “The messenger insisted on delivering it personally. I gave him your uncle’s direction in Carlisle.”

  Phoebe swallowed. “When did this message arrive?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “I see,” Phoebe mumbled. “Nothing else, then?”

  “No, Miss. Hardly seems anything else was needed."

  Phoebe’s stomach flipped. He was right. Not a blessed thing more was needed.

  Phoebe dropped her shoulders and allowed her dress to slide onto the carpet beside the tub in her bedchamber. She stared at this last piece of Highland garb she had worn. Could she shed the memories of that place and time as easily as she had the dress? She thought of David MacEwen and his people and knew she would never forget the innkeeper's derision, or the confusion on the children’s faces. Just as she would never forget Kiernan MacGregor; the flash of his smile when he appeared in her coach doorway, the smell of sandalwood, and the steel of his arms around her.

  By now, Alistair would have shared with Lord Briarden the information concerning the assassination attempt against the duchess, which she sent when the duke allowed her to send a letter to her uncle. What might Alistair have already uncovered in his investigation into the marquess' affairs? Phoebe was suddenly very tired, more tired than she could remember being since her mother's death. She picked up the dress and tossed it onto the chair left of the fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth as she stepped into the tub and sank chin deep into the blessed water. The door opened and Molly entered.

  The maid crossed the room to the chair and gathered up the dress. “Do you need anything else, Miss?”

  “That will do for now,” Phoebe answered.

  “You’ll want this.” Molly placed a package on the table beside the tub.

  “The package Gaylon mentioned?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Molly,” Phoebe said.

  A moment later, the door clicked softly shut. Phoebe thought about opening the package, then closed her eyes.

  The chime of the grandmother clock brought Phoebe bolt upright in the tub. She blinked the room into focus before realizing she was in her own chambers in Shyerton Hall. She shivered. The water had grown cold. She glanced at the grandmother clock in the corner. Eleven o’clock. An hour had passed. She rose from the tub. Goosebumps raced across her arms when the chilled flesh collided with the warm air of the room.

  Phoebe grabbed the towel from the table beside the tub, knocking the package Molly had left there to the floor. She picked it up and her gaze caught on the London postmark before she tossed it onto the bed. She began drying herself. As Gaylon had said, no return address. Phoebe grabbed the robe Molly had laid out and picked up the package as she stuffed an arm into one of the sleeves. She tore open the package and slid the other arm into the remaining sleeve, then pulled out several documents folded around four letter-sized envelopes. When she unfolded the documents she startled upon seeing the date at the top of the first page.

  April 26, 1820

  April 1820 was two months after her father disappeared and the month he sent the letter to her mother. Phoebe lowered herself onto the mattress as she began reading.

  In early February of this year word reached me, John Stafford, chief clerk at Bow Street, and head of the Bow Street officers, that Arthur Thistlewood, leader of the radical Spencean Philanthropists Society, planned on February 15 to assassinate the king's ministers…

  …So I was surprised when Lord Mallory dispatched another spy from the Solicitor General's office, Mason Wallington, Viscount Albery.

  Phoebe halted. John Stafford had known her father was a spy for the Crown? She remembered vividly the one and only meeting with Stafford five years ago. She had shown him her father's letter, insisted she wouldn't leave until he read it. He had acquiesced, but his agitation after he'd read the letter made her think he couldn't even speak the name of a traitor, much less abide the company of his daughter. Stafford, for all his civility, had been austere, advising her to accept things for what they were. But all the while he'd known…

  A moment later she finished the letter, ending with;

  At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive. When no trace of him was found, he was thought to have perished.

  Phoebe drew in a shaky breath, set the letter aside and began the next one.

  July, 1824

  Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.

  Phoebe reread the name: Niles Mallory. At l
ast, she knew the identity of her father’s direct superior.

  August 1824

  Lord Mallory, member of the House of Lords. Resident of London. Married, one child. Wife died in 1819.

  Two months, and my investigations yield no derogatory reports about Lord Mallory. Surprising, considering the devils that surround him in the House of Lords.

  January 25th 1825

  While I have yet to discover the significance of the meeting I observed tonight, I cannot deny the excitement I feel. Tonight, Mallory left his home at about eleven o’clock and visited Lord Harrington, a man whom I had not observed in Mallory’s company before now. Mallory stayed but a few minutes, then set out, despite the late hour, straightaway to a residence in a neighborhood in the docks.

  Though I have no previous knowledge of the place, I was quite familiar with the man who lived there: Peter Jenkins, a former law enforcement officer who made a name for himself as a thief, liar, and suspected rapist. He was eventually discharged for taking bribes.

  The meeting between him and Mallory lasted three quarters of an hour. From there, Mallory went directly home.

  January 30th 1825

  A quick investigation proved that Jenkins hadn't changed. When in the employ of the London magistrate, Jenkins consorted with criminals who were involved with everything from blackmail to black market French brandy. Dealing with a man like Jenkins called for drastic measures. I would chance no discovery before my investigations bear fruit therefore; for the first time in my career, I stepped outside the law.

  Disguised, I hired two felons from the docks, and accosted Jenkins in a side street not far from his home. My cohorts and I had only just thrown Jenkins against the wall when he began to blubber that he would repay the loan. All he needed was a little more time. I realized he had mistaken me for the owner of one of his gambling debts, and demanded to know when I might expect payment. Jenkins blathered on about how he had landed a big ‘fish,’ and would that next day receive an advance that would more than cover his current payment.

  The man is a coward at heart and it was easy to force from him the name of Mallory as his client. I insisted on knowing what Lord Mallory would want with a river rat like him. I nearly gave myself away when he revealed that Mallory had hired him to discover if any trace of Wallington could be found.

  Phoebe’s breath caught. Lord Mallory was searching for her father. Her heart pounded as she read on.

  On the surface, it seemed a simple enough matter. Despite Jenkins’ unscrupulous nature, he was a superb investigator, which made Mallory’s choice understandable. Oh, how I wanted to believe Mallory planned to right matters. Yet, that special sense, the sense which every investigator must have to survive, screamed with that his motives were not altruistic.

  When I questioned Jenkins as to why Mallory hadn't gone to a legitimate Bow Street runner, Jenkins said Mallory didn’t want a particular member of the House of Lords to learn of his inquiries. Jenkins denied knowing who the man was and I realized he must be telling the truth. Why would Lord Mallory reveal this information? However, I recalled that Lord Mallory had once gone from Lord Harrington's home to see Jenkins, and I wondered if Lord Harrington wasn't the man from whom Lord Mallory was hiding his investigation.

  Phoebe paused and searched her memory, but found no recollection of a Lord Harrington. She put the question to the back of her mind and read on.

  March 1825

  Two months, and Mallory has visited Harrington on several occasions. Not once, however, have I observed Mallory visit Jenkins again. In the meantime, I began investigating Harrington. Thus far, the information is much like that of so many in the House of Lords, mainly, the taking of bribes for judgments in the favor of the party offering the bribe.

  September 1825

  When two months passed and all remained quiet with Mallory, I decided to focus on Jenkins. Another month passed and Jenkins didn't appear, so I took a look inside his home. It appeared he hadn't been there for some time; therefore, for the next three months I split my time between Jenkins, Harrington, and Mallory. At the end of the third month, Jenkins returned home. On the night he returned, I arrived to his street with the intention of stationing myself in the alleyway across the street, but I observed another man watching Jenkins’ establishment from that spot. I continued around the block to the rear of the alley and watched from there.

  At four a.m., Jenkins returned home and the waiting man closed in on him and stepped inside the doorway just as Jenkins shut the door. I hastened to the window I had previously used to gain entrance into his home. As before, the window was not locked. I—

  A knock caused Phoebe to jerk her head up as the door opened and Molly stepped in.

  “Miss Wallington,” she said, “Lord Redgrave is here to see you. Gaylon informed His Lordship you weren't accepting callers, but he insisted you would see him.” Molly gave a derisive snort. “It’s almost as if he knew exactly when you returned.”

  Damn him, Phoebe silently cursed. That is precisely the case.

  Molly reached for the towel Phoebe had discarded on the bed. “You’ve scarcely finished your bath, and not even a morsel of food for your stomach, and already folks are demanding to be entertained.”

  Phoebe folded the papers, then gathered the envelopes laying beside her. She picked up their envelope and slid the papers inside.

  “Tell His Lordship I will be down directly,” she said.

  Molly scrutinized her. “You’ll need help dressing. I’ll tell Gaylon you’ll be down, then come back and help you.” She started for the door, but paused beside the bed and lifted a lock of Phoebe’s hair. She tsked. “You’ve let your hair dry all helter-skelter. It'll need combing, then we’ll put it up.”

  Phoebe raised a brow. “You have no compunctions about Lord Redgrave waiting to see me?”

  The maid’s face remained composed, but the flicker in her eyes gave her away. “You can't entertain a gentleman looking anything but a lady.”

  Chapter Ten

  Half an hour later, Phoebe opened the parlor door. She looked into Lord Alistair Redgrave’s brown eyes as he rose from the settee at the window.

  She closed the door behind her. “Lord Redgrave.”

  “Phoebe.” He smiled and started toward her.

  Phoebe warmed to this man who had been her father's friend, then her friend and mentor after her father disappeared. As a young girl, she had fancied herself in love with Alistair. It wasn't uncommon for women to marry men twenty years their senior, and Phoebe had fantasized about their life together. In some small way, she had—did—love him. The impulse to confess Stafford’s letters surfaced. Steady, she told herself. Finish reading them before sharing secrets. That was a precept Alistair himself had taught her.

  “Alistair.”

  He clasped her hands in his. “Phoebe.” He kissed her cheek, then held her arms out to her side and surveyed her. “You look well.”

  “Do I?”

  “Indeed.” He released her. “It's been too long since I’ve seen you. How have you been?”

  Phoebe scowled. “You know very well how I've been. You received my letter?”

  “I did, so you need not worry. The duchess is safe. There have been no attempts on her life. Come, tell me everything that happened.”

  “Must I?”

  "You have never before hesitated to give a report," he said.

  The report had never been so…personal, she thought, but said, "It has been a long journey, my lord."

  A speculative glint appeared in his eyes, but he said nothing more until they sat in the two chairs placed before the fire. “I am curious as to exactly what happened.”

  “Curious? I had hoped for concern.”

  A hint of amusement lit his eyes. “I admit to a moment of uncertainty.”

  Phoebe raised a brow. “How is that, sir? I have never known you to be uncertain of anything.”

  “It was the two days between your disappearance and my discovery of your whereab
outs that befuddled me.”

  “My God,” Phoebe cried. “I was still at the Green Lady Inn at that time. Why didn’t you free me then? It would have been an easy piece of work.”

  He lifted a brow. “What happened, Phoebe? What prompted the marquess to kidnap you?”

  “He mistook me for someone else.”

  “Miss Ballingham?”

  “Yes. I borrowed her carriage.”

  “Indeed, and you also cavorted with her protector.”

  She gave him a reproving look. "I danced with Lord Stoneleigh, nothing more—and Lord Ashlund didn't see me with the earl. Had that been the case, we would have avoided the whole fiasco."

  "So why did Lord Ashlund want to kidnap Miss Ballingham?" Alistair asked.

  “Hester and Lord Stoneleigh suffered a falling out.” Phoebe waved her hand in a disgusted motion. “Everything with her is a drama. She decided to teach him a lesson, and made an assignation with another gentleman. Hence, she leant me her carriage.”

  A corner of Alistair’s mouth twitched. “I see. But that doesn't answer why Ashlund kidnapped you—or Miss Ballingham, as it were. He didn’t have designs of his own on her? No,” Alistair amended before Phoebe could reply. “He would have known her and wouldn’t have made off with you.” A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. “Unless, that is, he discovered his better fortune.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “He had the ridiculous idea of playing cupid.”

  “Well,” Alistair said, “this fills things in nicely. You can imagine the drama that played out in my mind. I must scold you,” he added. “You should have notified me the moment you arrived in London.”

  “I have been home for two hours, my lord, and already you are here. You couldn't have arrived any sooner had I sent word. I only hope it wasn’t that odious Barrister who you had watching Shyerton Hall. He can't keep a secret.”

  Redgrave laughed. “No, I would not be so unkind.”