In Total Surrender

by Anne Mallory

  Phoebe pushed aside strange thoughts on what she wanted from Andreas Merrick and let part of her tenseness loosen, leaning into her mother as well. Safety. Security. Love. Even with the fractures that always threatened lately, she still had her family. If only Christian were here as well.

  Her mother touched her hand. “We have chosen our roles and paths. I have allowed this to occur. And I know you, Phoebe. I can see that you are setting your sights. As much as you wish it, I do not forget when you attempt to misdirect me.” No, it was a blessing and a curse in this specific instance that her mother was not the forgetful one of the Paces.

  “It would be silly for me to set my sights on anything here, Mother.” She attempted a light tone. “But we can stay for as long as we need, I believe.” She had read it there for that split second. In the deep well that was Andreas Merrick, there was something there that spoke of interest. Reticence, vulnerability, and strength. Secrets and plans. “And he can find Christian—or determine what happened to him. He has the resources. All I need to do is give him the proper incentive.”

  Unfortunately, if she promised never again to show her face near him, he would probably leap on the opportunity. Though she forgave herself the thought that . . . maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it would be the opposite. Given time. Maybe.

  “Though I wish I could rein you in as I used to be able to before your father . . . became ill . . .” Her mother swallowed. “I must console myself with the knowledge that you have always had good instincts about people.”

  Phoebe didn’t speak for a moment, but as the constant worry in her mother’s eyes shifted to something far more focused on her, she found her tongue. “Andreas Merrick is an intense man, but ruthlessly fair.” It was what everyone said of him, but she often wondered if ruthless and fair might mean different things to him than they did to her. “Quick-witted and decisive. A good decision maker.”

  Her father mumbled suddenly, moving a backgammon chip.

  After a quick visual check to make sure her husband was fine, and that his mutter didn’t signal something dire, her mother pressed closer to her, fatigue showing in the cast of the candlelight. “Though I understand your reasons for being here and doing all of this . . . Heavens, sweetie, I understand your reasons . . . I can’t lose you too.” Fierce desperation was in the depths of her eyes. “If we lose everything, so be it. I can’t lose you too.”

  “You won’t,” she said softly, touching her mother’s hand again, refusing to entertain the possibility that it might be a lie. To reveal to her mother that she was in far deeper than she had planned. “We will be safe here.”

  She didn’t care what Andreas Merrick verbally professed. He wouldn’t allow anything harmful through those doors while they were here. She had read it there in his intense gaze.

  “Christian . . .” Phoebe stared at their touched hands instead of gazing at the worried face, so similar to hers. “And our craftsmen. And just to know . . .”

  “I know. I know.” Her mother turned her hand under hers, gripping upward, a tiny bit of the misery hidden beneath the depth of her mother’s outer strength showing through.

  They stayed that way for long moments. The clink of the chips, as James Pace played backgammon against himself, was the only sound in the room.

  “The new salts for Father—”

  “Will still be there. We can wait a few weeks. We will stick together.”

  Phoebe bit her lip. “We won’t be able to keep Father’s condition a secret from Mr. Merrick for long. We were lucky father was lucid when we moved in here. You aren’t prepared for—”

  “Neither are you.”

  Phoebe paused, accepting the truth of the statement. “No.”

  Her mother gave her hand a squeeze. “Without Christian as a barrier, we won’t be able to keep your father’s condition a secret in Bath this year either.”

  She nodded. “And Mr. Merrick will discover it immediately if he presses to see him.” Phoebe looked away, unable to put the request into words. She hadn’t had to worry about it before the building was secured—as they had had to stay out of the eye of any patrons below. Phoebe had been using the gray wig even when she ventured down the back stairs to the kitchens.

  “We will stay in the rooms. Your father is a sly beast,” her mother said with no small amount of exasperation laced with fondness. And sadness. “He would probably cause a revolt if we let him out.” She gave Phoebe a penetrating glance. “And you wish me to avoid meeting Mr. Merrick.”

  “Yes.”

  Her mother nodded. They had banded together in equal roles when James Pace had begun his steady decline. But it was still tenuous at times, the conflicting desires to be a daughter, a mother, a partner, or a friend.

  “If he meets you, it would seem strange for him not to meet Father too. There is a better chance of keeping him from both of you through joint excuses.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Phoebe, truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And not just your fascination with him?”

  “No, though there is something captivating about him,” Phoebe admitted. “A hook and a draw.”

  A shiver under such a stark, unbending façade.

  The hand around hers tightened more. “He is not a broken chair you can fix, Phoebe. Nor a lamb without a mother that needs you. He is said to be a very dangerous man.”

  “I know that,” she scoffed, but it emerged a trifle weak. “And I don’t intend to ‘fix’ anyone. But Christian trusted him enough to formulate plans surrounding him. Christian wouldn’t be duped.”

  They had discussed a partial plan at one point before Christian had disappeared. It had concerned gifting part of the company to Andreas Merrick in order to secure his help. Christian had planned to speak with him. Her intuition said that choice had been correct.

  Her mother’s entire body issued a sigh.

  Phoebe was secure in her mother’s love, but she had no illusions that her mother would ever think she had a greater head for decision-making than Christian, her elder child by a mere ten minutes of birth time. “Christian would not. And Charlotte Chatsworth did just marry into the family, so the Merricks mustn’t be as bad as the gossip once said.”

  Phoebe refrained from commenting, relieved beyond measure that her mother had never seen nor met Andreas Merrick yet—some of his physical similarities to the high-ranking members of the ton aside, the aura he carried was far more deadly and powerful. When her mother finally did see him, Phoebe would have a fight on her hands to continue to meet with him.

  Though Phoebe was confident she’d be able to bring her around. Necessity dictated it if nothing else.

  “At least with all of us here together, your life will not be completely ruined if someone finds out where we are staying.”

  “Or I could always marry him,” Phoebe answered lightly.

  Her mother stared at her for long moments. “I misheard you, dear.”

  Phoebe hadn’t gotten this far without investigating every avenue. “It would take a lot of convincing, but I believe I could put forth some sound arguments.”

  It wasn’t so much confidence as pure determination that drove her in life. When things were hard, she exerted whatever effort was required to succeed.

  “I, you . . . you can’t marry him.”

  Phoebe thought for a moment. “I believe that a parson would hear us.”

  “That is not what I meant,” her mother said, furiously, strangely, out of sorts.

  A sound from her father, bless him, took both of their attention. “Could tell. Recognized the look,” he mumbled.

  Phoebe welcomed the distraction and hurried over to him. “Father?”

  “Ack, woman, you are ruining my concentration.” He waved her hand away. Phoebe was used to the absent gesture, but the pang never grew less.

  “I will never forgive myself if this brings you to ruin, Phoebe,” her mother whispered from where she still sat. That she was worried about things far more dire
than her daughter’s ruination went without being said.

  “There will be nothing to forgive, Mama,” she said as brightly as she could manage, moving a corresponding piece on the board across from her father when he didn’t object. “Andreas Merrick is not remotely interested in me as anything other than a novelty or business contact. Besides, it is not as if I’m risking the match of next season.”

  Or risking pain of death. She had promised to stay in the confines of the building, and she would do so. She didn’t back out of promises, and her mother knew that.

  “Phoebe, you know that if you—”

  “I know. I am merely being amusing, Mother.”

  Though they both knew she wasn’t. Every season had proven lovely and comfortable up until her father’s decline. But she was the type of girl that people flocked to for support and good humor and eccentricity, not the type who made hearts flutter with desire. And no man of the ton had made her heart flutter yet. Or else she would have done something about it.

  Besides, she had had other things to worry about during the seasons. Before her family had . . . accepted . . . that James Pace was not quite the same as he’d once been, he had been taken in by an increasing number of fraudulent schemes and invested in a number of shady and defunct investments. They had accepted his excuses, blaming too much stress and work. It had still taken two long years before people had begun to doubt his legendary business acumen. Christian and she had concealed the situation as much as they could.

  Hiding Father away broke her heart every day. But with Christian gone, there was nothing they could do otherwise. No one listened to two women over a respected man. They were ripe pickings for someone with Parliament’s ear. They would be “compensated,” then shuffled out of the company James Pace had built.

  She could marry. It was always the first solution on every lip. But she was not without eyes and sense to see what could and did happen. If she chose incorrectly, her husband could easily have her father committed. Could take everything from their family, simply and easily.

  It could not be risked. Not yet.

  And she’d never been particularly flush with offers. Edward had once commented that she’d find plenty of chaps ready to settle down with a “good, respectable sort” once they’d grown up a bit. The problem was she always found better matches for any of the men who looked at her with interest. There was always a girl each man had overlooked who fit him better. It seemed to be her fatal flaw, letting the “good sorts” pass her by—actively helping them find their true mates.

  Her mother’s eyes were disapproving at her choice of words. Worried. Worry underlining all other emotion.

  “Phoebe, you can—”

  “I know. But . . . but it will all work out, Mama, I won’t let it be otherwise.” Christian fondly liked to say that she’d change the world for the better if every man would just throw his hands up and let her rule it. She clasped tightly to the thought of her brother.

  Too many things were in flux. Too many possibilities swirling.

  She wondered what marriage to Andreas Merrick would be like. In the abstract, of course. Warmth heated her cheeks. She was just thinking out the thought to its logical conclusion, that was all.

  Would people stare at her wide-eyed and terrified?

  Charlotte Merrick, née Chatsworth, had invoked such reactions. Even marrying a man who could claim not a single notable ancestor, she had barely suffered a blip on the social stage. Something had happened after the first waves of gossip concerning their engagement. What that something was was cause for great speculation, but the male population of the ton had influenced their wives to the point that not even the starchiest matron dared to curl her lip in disdain.

  It was the most secretive and most talked-about news of the ton. Everyone exchanged coded words and glances about it. She wondered if she could pry it out of Andreas Merrick. Find out the details of what his brother had done.

  In any event, thinking about marriage to Andreas Merrick was quite silly. Shivers and kisses aside.

  “Blasted game is taking an age.” Her father seemed to be waiting for her to move a piece.

  She did so, then touched his bare hand with hers. “I love you, Father,” she said softly, trying not to cringe in anticipation.

  Her father patted her hand, looking up at her, recognition there for a second. “I love you too, Phoebe-bear.” She held on to the feeling, chest tight, before it slipped away from his eyes.

  She leaned forward to give him a tight hug, even knowing her time had run out, swallowing around the lump in her throat.

  “Ack, woman. You will ruin my waistcoat.” He smoothed down his undershirt—the only thing he had covering his chest. “Dratted maids trying to unman a man when he is dressed in his best.”

  “I’m sorry, Fa-, Mr. Pace,” she said, for calling him Father sometimes sent him into a fit if he thought himself still unmarried without children at that moment.

  He waved her off. “Going to meet with Prinny, Brummel, and Avanley. Need to look smart.”

  She nodded and smoothed his cuff. She hoped her father didn’t remember the end of that memory. Brummel had said the investment was ridiculous, and her father had been embarrassed in front of the future king. Then again, her father, still fully in control of his faculties then, had had the last laugh on that one. The investment had made everyone who’d gotten involved rich.

  Brummel could have used those funds. Stupid man, doubting her father in his heyday.

  “Need to make a stop at the office, ensure the company is thriving. Just a few more years, and I’ll make everyone’s head turn.”

  “Yes, sir.” And he would, in the future of the memory. Unfortunately, it had taken far less time to destroy the empire he had built. If only they had known when his heyday had run out.

  Someone knocked politely on the outer door. She squared her shoulders and blinked repeatedly to absorb the gathered moisture back. That would be Peter, one of the boys who had a unique place in the middle of the younger boys and grown men. She had a chance here, if she was smart, to cultivate a better position on the game board. She couldn’t destroy her chance.

  Her mother’s head was buried in her needlepoint once more, but as Phoebe passed, her hand shot out and gripped hers before releasing it. A gesture of love and support. One that they had long shared among the three of them before Christian had disappeared.

  Phoebe smiled, the wallpaper blurring again.

  She walked from the bedroom with her course plotted. She would save her father’s legacy and prevent his incarceration—for he would not survive prison. And she would get her brother back or she would gain them resolution.

  There were far too many things in their life that held no clarity, she would not let anything else be otherwise.

  And with the resolve of Job, she would determine exactly what that shiver meant. And how Andreas Merrick’s cheek felt pressed against hers for more than a single moment.

  She might be a “good sort,” but when it came down to sticks and needles, she was always the one who finished the game. The last man standing, determined.

  Andreas Merrick wouldn’t know what had hit him.

  Chapter 12

  He was in hell. That was all there was to it. He had entered hell approximately four weeks ago, when she’d cheerfully skipped into his life, and now he was trapped in the arms of the devil without a way to return.

  He wasn’t sure he had ever felt such awful certainty that he was truly damned as everything in him stiffened as her hand touched his arm, once more. Her soft, happy lips touching his skin.

  Knowing what was to come.

  “Good evening, Mr. Merrick.” Soft breath upon his cheek. The smell of honey on her skin.

  Cheerful and overly helpful during the day, skipping through the fully secured building, baking and charming and plotting. Bringing him food, helping him with accounts—both her family’s and the day-to-day tasks that she freed him from. Taking on tasks within the buildi
ng with the boys and men who were always in and out. Who all too frequently came from their other establishments in town in order to crowd into this one during lunchtime.

  Tightening him with the thought that any moment one small slip from young lips could invert everything. And the knot was drawing tighter, pressing coarsely against his neck with the threat of that change.

  And each night, soft lips pressed against his cheek, drawing the noose tighter still with a breathy, “Good evening, Mr. Merrick.”

  Her lips grew closer to his each time. He couldn’t be imagining it. He couldn’t be tilting closer himself.

  She translated her brother’s notes about Garrett’s machinations. Not realizing what she held in her hand, the key to the ruination of more than one person.

  Honey drifted over the downward curve of his cheek.

  She ran the carriage company. Corresponding with the craftsmen and the accountants and the investors. Seamlessly fending away concerns for James Pace to meet with them and soothing fears about the allegations against him. The goodwill the Paces held with their contacts had held them in good stead and continued on for longer than another company would expect.

  Honey plied the valley to the east of his lips.

  Garrett was moving. Trying to subvert this tactic and take over the company “in the interest of the public while Pace was located and brought to justice.” Garrett was close to success too. They had approximately two weeks more of their current tactics.

  Andreas had implemented a sequence of couriers who each carried notes a minor distance before handing off to the next in line, keeping the origin of Phoebe’s notes—and her location—safe. Cornelius’s forces had been strangely silent, but the Merrick men were ready.

  Honey whispered at the very edge of his mouth.

  She put in suggestions about how to reveal the fund’s performance, due out at the end of the week.

  Soft air moving just over his lips.

  She took on as many projects around the building as she could. Always cheerful.