by Anne Mallory
She took the volume from him, bare fingers drawing over his.
“Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” he said harshly.
She contemplated the book for a moment before tilting her head up so that she could meet his eyes. He wasn’t sure anyone other than Roman and Nana had ever met his eyes so often.
“I wear them when necessary. But I enjoy feeling the sensations and textures when I touch things.” As if she had enjoyed touching him. “I enjoy not wearing gloves in my own home.”
“This isn’t your home.”
She smiled. “You are wrong. At least temporarily it is. Home is where my family is.”
He had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn’t emerge with far more admission than he intended.
“Thank you for helping us, Mr. Merrick.”
She rose to her tiptoes, free fingers curling around his forearm. Somehow he became even stiffer. Her lips brushed his cheek. Soft petals sliding along a rocky cliff face.
Something less impulsive than before—more deliberate this time.
She dropped back to her heels and smiled at him. “We always share kisses good night,” her soft, husky voice said. “Mother and Father have done so for as long as I can recall.”
He stared at her, on edge from the conflicting feelings such an action generated within him.
“I think it a fine tradition to continue.” She released her fingers from his arm. The soft touch that felt like a manacle. “Now that you are family—”
“We aren’t family.” It was a tight, telling response.
Family meant things both wonderful and horrid. Family that he had picked for himself were his everything. Those he had been born to weren’t worth a positive thought.
The woman before him, with her tight-knit, born-to clan would never understand such a thing. How important it was to him when he called someone family. And how rare such a thing was.
Her smile stayed firm. “Floormates then. And partners. Now that we are floormates and partners.”
But before he could hold on to the sharp satisfaction of such a thought, wedged between them, her lips were warm against his cheek again.
“Good evening, Mr. Merrick,” she murmured as she pulled away.
Then she was gone. Along with his increasingly tattered semblance of control.
Chapter 11
I kissed Andreas Merrick.
“Thank you, Tommy,” Phoebe said, handing the dog to the boy and trying to keep her thoughts away from what had just happened fifteen minutes previously.
Tommy nodded at her, eyes wary and shadowed as always. “The building is going to be locked up tight soon. No more gambling here. The order has gone into place.”
They were all strange, these odd boy-men who inhabited the halls. Oh, there were plenty of adults—wicked-looking men with slightly maniacal grins. Or those wearing no expressions at all.
I kissed Andreas Merrick.
But they all nodded politely to her when they saw her. And they all ate the treats she baked. So she continued to make more, as she enjoyed doing so. And the recipients seemed to enjoy receiving them, and so she continued to be unafraid in a situation where a normal, nonaddled person would have been terrified.
I kissed Andreas Merrick.
“Thank you for letting me know and for walking Mr. Wiggles, Tommy. Please let me know if you stop enjoying the task.”
He looked at her, eyes penetrating. “You have more of that pudding you made this morning?”
“Yes.”
The boy nodded and took the leash from her too, transaction obviously made.
“You may have the pudding without walking Mr. Wiggles.”
Another penetrating look. “No.”
She didn’t protest, she just nodded in return. She had realized quickly that no one here liked being beholden in any way. “I will have a bowl for you when you return.”
Here things worked as an exchange. Exchanging or trading one object or service for another. The concept of the Collateral Exchange that the Merrick brothers ran brilliantly was simply another stitch in the surrounding fabric.
She had a feeling the sentiment concerning paying one’s debts sprang directly from the man at the top. Ingrained into each of those beneath him. That, and living on the streets made one obviously more wary of good intentions.
Tit-for-tat transactions were likelier far safer in every way.
I kissed Andreas Merrick.
Tommy nodded sharply, then hooked the dog up, set him on the floor, and gently tugged the leash. Mr. Wiggles obediently followed.
Mr. Wiggles was quite an ordinary-looking dog, fortunately. Mutt born, shaggy, and brown. He looked enough like the dogs skulking in the gutters here to be beneath notice. Though he was a bit plumper than the other dogs she had seen.
But plenty small enough for the boys to handle.
Tommy stopped at the door, standing there for a moment without looking at her. “Peter said he’d come speak to you in the next hour.”
Relief washed through her. “Thank you, Tommy.”
He gave a sharp nod, still without meeting her eyes again, and disappeared through the portal.
She leaned back against the door. Taking a moment alone—and in blessed quiet—before she would have to return to her parents.
I kissed Andreas Merrick.
She needed to stop thinking of such things: the firm, rough texture of his skin, just a hint of coarse grain against her soft cheek.
I kissed Andreas Merrick. I kissed Andreas Merrick. I kissed Andreas Merrick.
The litany of it needed to be dealt with. She had kissed him on the cheek. Hardly something worth much note. She was a tactile person. And her family had always been so inclined. Her female friends exchanged cheek kisses with her all the time.
Andreas Merrick, however, was not a person who accepted tactile advances well. The first time she had kissed him that afternoon had been an impulse. Leaning over to happily thank him, as she would to Christian or even Edward.
But while leaning across the desk . . . after her lips had touched his cheek . . . freezing him in place . . . the thought had wended and weaved. The impulse turning into desire, then resolve, to do it again. To bring him within her fold. To show him the pleasure of sharing simple affection.
There was nothing simple in her thoughts of it now, though, without the determination there to distract her. What was she hoping to achieve, really? She wouldn’t lie to herself.
That tiny shiver that had cleaved his body when she had touched her lips to his cheek . . . she wanted that again. It called to her. Even though she didn’t understand exactly what that calling meant.
And so she had trapped him in the corner and made him shiver again.
She had kissed him.
Her body gave a quiver that she didn’t understand. She only knew it wasn’t negative.
“Phoebe?” She could hear the frown in her mother’s voice, calling her from the bedroom.
She called up a bright smile and walked the long expanse of floor to the other room.
Mathilda Pace was sewing an intricate needlepoint, tilting the piece toward the candlelight. It was a good sign, as she hadn’t been able to relax most of the day. Her eyes still strayed every few seconds though to watch her husband hunched over a backgammon board, rubbing his chin, the scraggly dog missing from his feet.
It had been a . . . mixed day here. They typically had a small cordial of port at the end of a challenging day. She knew even the servants sometimes indulged in the kitchen after such days. Sally had once confessed it while helping her dress.
“Tommy just took Mr. Wiggles for a walk,” Phoebe said softly.
She stepped farther into the room and wondered for the tenth time what it had looked like before Roman Merrick had moved his personal things. There were still rich accents that pointed to someone with expensive tastes and varied interests.
“Good.” Her mother surveyed her. “Now are you going to tell me your plans?” There was
a threat of demand in her tired voice.
“There is little further to tell,” she said lightly.
“I know you, Phoebe Jane Pace. You are scheming.”
“No more than usual. As I said, Mr. Merrick agreed that we can stay.”
“I am still not pleased by any of your actions these last few weeks. And you ran off last night with the barest of explanations, Phoebe. I nearly had a conniption.”
“I know,” she soothed, watching her mother’s hands clutch the piece. “But you were and are needed here with Father, and I will need to continue to work with Mr. Merrick. He was . . . unnerved by seeing me, and I needed to sort matters right away. I am completely safe with him. There was, and is, nothing to fear.”
“Fear? That my daughter has been running off on strange jaunts, dressed in strange clothing, dealing with strange men? That we are now living in an area of London ruled by thieves and scoundrels? Waiting for bribed members of the Watch to arrest us? No, there is nothing to fear. How silly of me.”
The only positive thing that had resulted from her father’s episode last night had been that her mother had been unable to trail her after Phoebe had encountered Andreas Merrick on the other side of their door. With no servants to help, her mother’s every activity was wrapped around watching her husband now. Not that that hadn’t been the case before, but her mother had had free moments to be concerned about Phoebe.
“And there is no reason to feel guilty, Mama.” She could read her mother’s expression and promptly walked toward her and laid a hand on her arm, skin to skin. “This is how we need to divide and tackle. If you are to feel guilty, then so am I for not spelling you equally throughout the day.”
“You spell me too frequently already, Phoebe. You take no rest. You work too hard. You should be enjoying lavish balls and being doted on by suitors.” Her mother looked away, pained. “I worry, Phoebe. And I am proficient in the art.”
“You are exceptional at it, Mother. Do not underestimate your talents,” she said, lightening her voice again. “If I had not returned in a timely manner last eve, you would have convinced even Father to venture out to search for a strange girl named Phoebe. Mr. Merrick and I came to terms, though, no worries to be had. I returned quickly, did I not?”
Her father had still been slowly recovering from his episode when she had returned. It had taken an hour more to settle him fully, and by that time, her mother had been too exhausted to quiz her, which had been to Phoebe’s benefit.
She stared at a vase in the corner. It was enameled in striking shades of red and gold. She wondered what Andreas Merrick’s rooms looked like. Would they be similar to these, his brother’s? The two men were so dissimilar in some ways that the question tugged relentlessly when she was surrounded by a hint of half the answer.
“The quickness of your visits does not lessen my anxiety. Having you gone at all . . . I am more than within sense to be worried. This just isn’t done, Phoebe. Any of it.” Her mother’s expression smoothed out—Phoebe had tried to emulate that maneuver forever. “But I know there is little more discussion to be had on the matter. Did you show him the figures?”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t the only thing she had shown him.
“What happened?” Her mother’s eyes were sharp, obviously picking up on something in her expression.
“We had a pleasant conversation. Just as we did earlier.”
Pleasant—full of fire and interest and paradox. And two kisses. And many more questions. She would need to be very, very careful. In her next steps and with him. But . . .
“I think I make Mr. Merrick more nervous than I make you, truth be told.”
Before her mother could question her further and wrench any details from her, Phoebe walked to her father’s side. “I say, Mr. Pace, you are playing quite fiercely. I haven’t seen such impressive moves in years.” She squeezed his shoulder. He looked up at her, no personal recognition in his eyes, only simple satisfaction at the compliment, then looked back to the board. Phoebe squeezed his shoulder again without comment, then returned to sit in the comfortable chair next to her mother.
Her mother peered at her above her thin glasses, not distracted in the least.
“What can I add that you do not already know? I gave him partial control of the company. Our fate is now tied to his.”
Her mother’s lips tightened, and she looked at her husband. “I hope you know what you are doing, Phoebe.”
“As do I.”
“The rumors about him—”
“Are, many of them, true. But I have a good feeling about Mr. Andreas Merrick.”
Her mother watched her for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Phoebe waved a hand at her father. “Did you help him set the board this time? I think he is going for the Pace gambit. It was only two years ago that he created that move.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I think Mr. Wiggles is helping, Mama. Now, if we can just get him to stop wetting on—”
“I worry that one of these days your feelings will fail.” Her mother had dropped her needlepoint flush to her lap and was frowning at it. Her mother did not easily fall to her tricks. “I thought you had said—”
“Mr. Merrick is a shrewd businessman,” Phoebe interrupted. “He seeks the best terms for himself and maintains continuous reservations on most everything.” She kept a calm expression on her face.
“Yes, of course. Your father was always the same. Kind, but stern and savvy with business matters.”
It would do her cause no good to tell her mother that Andreas Merrick would rather be hanged than considered kind, so she took the opportunity to set her mother’s mind at ease. She tried to do so as often as she could. If it only made her own inner turmoil worse, she could handle the strain. Dealing with Andreas Merrick actually did wonders for loosening stress. She wondered if kissing him more frequently would help even more.
Her mother continued to frown, though. “Roman Merrick seemed such a nice man when we met him. And he too is chased by a dark reputation. Is it the same?”
Phoebe wondered if she’d be able to keep her mother away from Andreas Merrick for the duration of their stay. The things that appealed to Phoebe about the man would definitely not appeal to her mother’s sensibilities. Roman Merrick had been charming enough to pull the wool over even her mother’s discerning eyes.
No one would call Andreas Merrick charming.
“They are obviously not blood kin. Though they share similar . . . traits.” Danger traveling constantly over the whorls in their very skin. “Physically he reminds me of someone, though I cannot put my finger on whom.”
She wished she could, for it had caused her to feel at ease with him immediately, and even though she was usually a trusting sort, wanting to believe the best about people, even she had known that blindly trusting Andreas Merrick was not smart. Yet there had been something from the very beginning urging her to put her trust in the man and their safety in his hands.
Phoebe decided to steer the conversation in another direction, if possible. “Do you mind if I have a spot of tea, Mother?” She motioned toward the service on the table.
“Of course, dear. That nice boy Johnny sent up a pot without my asking.” Her mother made a stitch, a wonderful sign, which caused Phoebe’s shoulders to relax a fraction. “Such a nice boy, though I admit I miss Sally’s crushed-mint tea.”
Phoebe did as well. But having their three servants here would have unduly complicated matters. Keeping six people hidden was far harder than three. So she had gained their servants temporary employment with a friend in the country. A friend who could be counted upon to make them permanent retainers if the worst were to occur.
“I believe that if you are going to continue this present course, Phoebe, that we would be wise to involve Johnny further. I think he would be willing to help and keep quiet. He kept mumbling about your biscuits.”
Phoebe smiled faintly. “They are nice folks here.”
> “You’ve never minded a little rough talk either.” Her mother pinned her gaze on her without missing a stitch. “I told your father nothing good would come of taking you to the warehouses and docks on business.”
“Christian was always permitted to go, I hardly thought it fair.”
“Your brother is a man.”
Phoebe ignored the strain on the “is.” As each day drew to a close, it became harder and harder. “He was a boy at the time. And that hardly mattered to me. Mary Wollstonecraft states definitively—”
“You know I cannot argue with you about such things.”
“A decided advantage for me,” Phoebe said lightly. “On the other hand, I never fare well in arguments with you concerning manners or fashion.”
Though they agreed on one thing concerning those topics. No mourning wear. Not yet. Phoebe couldn’t bear the thought of it, and she knew neither could her mother.
“When Christian returns, I will have him argue that point with you,” Mathilda Pace said. Christian was simply still at Cambridge, not yet home for break. Neither of them had ever spoken of it aloud, yet both of them clung to the illusion, the mental deception.
For Christian was not at Cambridge.
“And though you befuddle and prevaricate, I want to know of this Merrick. I should meet him tomorrow.”
Phoebe hummed without answering and thought of three different ways to prevent such an occurrence.
“The only things I have firmly wrenched from you is that he doesn’t have the beady eyes and crooked nose you amused yourself with anticipating.”
Phoebe pictured the man’s sharp, straight features.
Her mother moved her embroidery to the side table. “And that he is not hulking and terrible.”
“No, lean and tight.”
And easy to kiss.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed for a second. “And that you are far too interested in him.”
“He is very interesting.”
That shiver . . . the way he looked at her sometimes. . .
“Hmmm . . .” Her mother gave a quick look to her father, who was frowning over his next move, then looked back to Phoebe, scooting forward in her seat so that they were physically closer.
