by Anne Mallory
She seemed to be adopting more of Andreas Merrick’s quirks. But they were useful tools in this odd and dangerous game she now played.
“Mr. Wilcox. I had thought Edward was in residence.”
“He is out, surveying the fields at the edge of town.” He gripped a paperweight on his desk without looking at her. “I heard about what is planned for your father. Why didn’t you come to me immediately?”
She watched the tense set of his shoulders and the constriction of his lips. She had, at times, been slightly leery of Henry. He was usually friendly, but there was a darkness to him too, buried beneath a fine veneer of civility. There had been whispers that his mother had gone mad after giving birth to Edward. That she had alternated between rage and desolation for over a year. Some people even whispered that she had killed the eldest child in that time.
The Paces hadn’t known the family then, not until the viscountess was over her disturbance. But Phoebe wondered what that time had been like for nine-year-old Henry, especially with a father like Lord Garrett.
She moved toward him. “This is silly. I haven’t even greeted you properly.” She gave him a firm hug, which he returned.
“How are you?” he asked, pushing her back and examining her for a moment.
“I am well. Better than expected. Hopeful. As to why I didn’t come to you immediately, you know why I did not.”
His lips tightened. “I do. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. The whims of our fathers forever cast shadows on our actions. Therefore, we must look to the light.”
“For you, there is light. Your father made mistakes that weren’t even of his rational choice. For me, there is unending darkness.”
She squeezed his arm.
He shook himself from his daze and pointed at the small set of armchairs around the fireplace. “Please sit.”
She did. The room seemed smaller and more intimate with all of the furniture overloading it.
“I thought you were at Fairhaven,” she said. She would have made alternate plans otherwise.
“I was. I arrived here last night. I had planned to be there two weeks more.” His voice held a bit of wistfulness. He leaned forward, his arms crossed over his knees. “Not that I am unhappy to see you, but why are you here? The timing is . . . concerning. You risk much.”
“Yes.” She withdrew a folder. “I couldn’t risk getting in touch with either of you using other methods. And I knew neither of you would sign these papers without seeing me.”
He looked at the papers in her hands. “What are you plotting, Miss Pace?”
She shook her head and handed him the papers.
He flipped through them, checking the standard clauses and phrases, nodding as he went. He stopped at the last page and stared at the name over the third signature line for a long moment. “I believe we need to have a chat, Miss Pace,” he said at last.
“We are overdue on a great many topics of conversation.”
He continued to stare at the paper, eyes not seeking her out. “Do you know who you are signing your company, and our investments, over to?”
“Yes.”
He finally looked at her, eyes serious and dark. “What game are you playing, Phoebe?”
“I am playing no game, Henry.”
He watched her, searching her face for something. “Are you truly guileless in this, or is trickery involved?”
“It is no trick, no deception.”
“No? What do you know?”
“I have mere suppositions.” Such as the shape of a nose, the set of a chin. Though the number of features that were dissimilar were too many to count. It could be that her imagination had finally run wild, but she had a feeling—to the good or bad—that the evidence wasn’t just in her mind’s eye.
“Is he here?” He cast his eyes around the room, looking into the shadows cast by the furniture. Henry suddenly looked much older than his thirty years. “Have you set me up for death, Phoebe? And Edward? Edward is innocent.”
She blinked. “No. Of course not. I would never hurt either one of you.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Mother wasn’t in her right mind after Edward was born. There was . . . just something wrong with her for months on end. Father exploited it.”
“Henry, of what are you speaking?” she asked cautiously.
He waved a hand, lips tight. “Nothing. Father is ever pushing me to marry you.”
“Of course.” She went along with the subject change, caution overriding all else. “You, Christian, Edward, and I knew that would occur months ago.”
“I, I can. I will marry you, you know that. I can keep you safe.”
“Don’t be silly. You will marry Cecily.”
Cecily Spinner was the one who banished Henry’s shadows. And Phoebe had thrown them together frequently after the first mutually wistful exchange she had witnessed.
The skin stretched at his neck, tight and uncomfortable. “Mr. Spinner wants a viscount for his daughter.”
“And you are the heir to one. Stop being silly.”
His laugh had more bite this time, and his eyes pinned her. Yes, that stare was similar too, though Henry had nothing on Andreas Merrick’s hard gaze. “I have not taken you for a fool since I was twenty. Don’t play with me, Phoebe.”
“I will let nothing happen to harm you, Henry.” Her voice was sure and strong. Henry was her friend, and she would keep her promise.
“You cannot make such a promise. What have you gotten into?” He flung a hand toward the paper. “I do not want to know what this means. And yet I must.”
“It means that I have found a solution for our concerns.”
He laughed humorlessly. “There isn’t anything that is more of a concern than . . .” He flashed a hand again, seemingly unable to say his name. “Don’t have any more contact with him, Phoebe.”
“How much contact would I have?” she demurred without outright lying. “Mother, Father, and I are closeted away, hiding, trying to keep Father safe. Our hope resides with someone powerful enough in London to wield on our behalf.”
“He sought you out and wheedled or threatened you. He is lying to you.”
“No. I sought him out.”
That caused Henry to pause. “Why would you do that?”
“Instinct.”
He laughed without humor. “Of course. Are you sure it wasn’t some bird chattering in your ear, whispering?”
She tried not to let the hesitation show on her face, but the narrowing of Henry’s eyes confirmed that it hadn’t worked. “There was. Dammit, Phoebe. Rip these up. Hide further. Farther. Forever.”
“I can’t.” She was in too far, in all ways.
Henry leaned forward, his movements aggressive. “He is the reason we are in this position. He . . .” He gripped the arm of the chair. “Listen, I can’t tell you more without saying things that might put me in jeopardy should someone overhear. I’m sorry, Phoebe. Just believe me. He is out to do you harm.”
“No.” She tilted her head. “He won’t do me harm. I am sure of that.”
“He will destroy the company and fund. He will flush us all with it.”
She gazed back steadily, mind working to assimilate all of the information she had gleaned. “He returned our debts.”
“He what?”
She nodded. “We are clear. Well, there are still a few outstanding debts, small ones, as he hadn’t collected all of them, but a place no longer awaits any of us in debtor’s prison at least.”
“Why would he . . .” Henry looked stunned.
She regarded him. “Do you know him?”
Henry’s lips clamped together. “No. Not really.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “There was a bird, you are right about that. But I am certain of my present course. I need you to trust me.” She nodded at the papers. “And to help me. Your signature—or Edward’s—will do as well as your father’s by the words of the original agreement.”
&nb
sp; “Your father would never have—”
“He didn’t.” She met Henry’s questioning gaze. “I inserted that language in the final contracts. Your father glossed it over, thinking he was taking advantage of my father by signing quickly. He actually laughed as he signed the agreement.”
“You sly vixen,” he murmured. “Christian was forever warning me, but you have always managed to surprise me, even now.”
“It is because you expect women to be as you see us at social functions, with our masks in place. We are far more complicated.”
“I should know. Mother was nothing if not complicated.” His mouth twisted. “I try to pretend that she was extraordinary.”
“Complicated does not have to mean negative.”
“I know.” His hand went to the top of his head, and he pulled it forward, bringing his hair an inch farther down his forehead, trying to hide behind a veil of hair far too short. “You are asking me for a leap of faith that may bring about my destruction.”
“You want to take control of your own future,” she said firmly. “And at the same time this will remove you from your father’s path and place that burden elsewhere. This will be your decision. I trust you to make the right choices for all of us.”
A grim little smile took his lips. “You are a manipulative cat, Phoebe. You say what I want to hear.”
“No, I say what I mean. That you want to hear it only means that we are in agreement.”
He stared at the names on the document for a long minute more. Finally, he nodded shortly, a bitter twist of lips. “And I am tired of the lies. I will sign. I will attempt to make up, if even a small part, for my past.”
He signed the paper.
Andreas was livid.
He strode forward and took her arm as soon as she walked by his hiding place, steering her into a little lane down the street.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he hissed.
He gathered himself physically as her eyes went wider than he had seen them before.
“Whatever is the matter, Mr. Merrick?”
“You drew the shades. So that you were alone with him,” he snapped, unwillingly.
Her expression didn’t change. “So you were there?” She nodded, obviously not needing the answer. “It was not you who I was trying to block, Mr. Merrick, but if you were unable to pierce our conversation, that means others were equally unable.”
“You were supposed to meet with the youngest one.”
“Yes. I planned to speak to Edward. I didn’t realize that Henry would read a note meant for him and answer me himself.”
“You promised to leave—” He stopped abruptly, hand tightening. “You never said you would leave if Henry were there, did you? You changed the subject.” He cursed fluently. “You will not visit him again.”
She nodded and patted his hand soothingly. “No, I won’t. There is no need to.” She looked at him. “Do you fear that we were physically intimate, Mr. Merrick? I assure you, we were not. Nor that we will ever be. Both Edward and Henry are my friends. Good friends and business associates, and nothing more.”
“Why are you telling me that? I don’t care about your intimacies.” He felt himself shifting without conscious thought.
“No?”
“No,” he said a little more forcefully.
“I do not believe you.” She smiled at him. Why was she always smiling at him? It made him tense. “I will tell you of our conversation, though, should you desire it.”
He desired it greatly.
She nodded, as if he had asked the question. “Henry signed the papers.”
Andreas paused. Edward, yes. Henry? That was . . . unexpected. “Why?”
“He said he wishes to make amends for the past.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said before he realized what he was admitting. “What do you know?” he asked harshly, forcing himself to move backward, a pace away from her. He’d never forgive himself if he accidentally gripped her arm too hard because he was thinking other thoughts.
“As I said to Henry, I only have conjecture. Both of your responses lead me to believe at least some of that speculation to be accurate.”
His lips twisted. “You cannot know everything.” He was a little frightened, though, that she might. She was a dangerous woman.
“Of course not. If myth tells us nothing else, it is that no one listens to people who know everything.” She poked him, then turned and started back toward the high street. “And since you might be forced to listen to me forevermore, I must on occasion make a misstep.”
“What—” He ran after her, catching up with long strides. “What the devil are you talking about?”
But she just laughed. “Are you going to do whatever task you planned to undertake while we were here? I will rest at the innyard if so. I had hoped to speak with Edward and do some other questioning but . . .” He couldn’t read her eyes, as she had the hood of the cloak up, and she bounced entirely too much as she walked. “ . . . that is perhaps not wise at this juncture.”
He did want to do his task, tasks now—as a chat with Henry Wilcox was sorely needed, but he had the sure notion that leaving her on her own was a very bad idea.
“No.” He stopped her, making everyone veer around them. “Let’s just leave.”
Stopped, he could see her expression. See her wistful glance toward the docks. Maybe he should just let her investigate. Go question people about her brother. Find the answers. See what she could uncover, then what she would do with the knowledge.
She peeked up at him from under the hood of her cloak. “Very well, Mr. Merrick. That is undoubtedly the wisest course of action. Let’s go home.”
He stiffened involuntarily at the words but led her back to the carriage.
It was not a long trek, but then he was quite wishing they were somewhere else already.
He knew something was wrong before the fresh carriage horses pulled into a full gait at the fourth stop. He should have been alerted by his second involuntary visual check to make sure the weapons in the carriage were where he had last placed them. But his mind was on so many other things—mostly centered around her—that the alert slipped past him.
Gunshots rang out in the encroaching twilight.
The carriage tilted precariously. Andreas had known better, and still he had accompanied her and pushed forward. He hadn’t waited to exchange the carriage that would have arrived in Dover that evening. He’d just wanted to get her away from Dover, Henry, the docks, and the dangers her curiosity threatened. And she’d said home, and he hadn’t wanted her to be able to retract it. He would need to deal with those thoughts later.
His mind focused down to the immediate situation, letting the inner dark stillness weave up and over him.
The driver, chosen precisely for his skill in dangerous situations, turned with the movement, and they slid for a long moment on two wheels, the spindles creaking in protest. The vehicle righted itself, and he could hear the reins snapping and the horses blowing as they galloped on, the driver not wasting movement.
Phoebe Pace’s eyes were wide, but she said nothing, bracing herself on the seat. She had obviously been trained to react in the event that a stage was set upon, she was the heir to a carriage empire, and, frankly, she was intelligent.
He grabbed three pistols, checking them, and unlocked the padded box secured under the seat as carefully as he could amidst the motion. He’d blow them all to hell if he accidentally dropped what was inside.
Shots rang again, closer, attempting to surround them. Prepared. Cornelius, on neutral territory, was a threat.
Something hit one of the back wheels, and the carriage tilted up for a moment and Phoebe flailed, losing her purchase.
He caught her and pulled her against him, bracing with his right leg. The driver pulled back on the reins, and the belly of the carriage lunged forward, then shifted to the side as the coachman turned sharply in front of the men tailing them, the carriage skidding to the side in the mi
ddle of the road.
Andreas clenched his teeth as he felt the bone pop in his leg as the vehicle jerked to a stop. He didn’t waste any time, though, and kicked out the door with his other leg, pistol up and firing. The assailants were obviously taken by surprise, not expecting such a thing to occur, the driver stopping dead and opening the entire side to their fire. Andreas shot two of them before they could even think on it. Three more reared back, horses spooked. He could hear the driver discharging above as well.
A bullet whizzed past, and Andreas pinned Phoebe Pace more firmly behind him.
He flung the large ball from the overly padded box toward the remaining assailants. He pointed his weapon, drew a steadying breath, then shot it as it hit the ground.
The blast rocked the coach, and he braced himself over her as he prepared for them to overturn. They tipped up for one suspended moment, then righted with another jerk that buckled his leg more. He could feel the heat of the explosion, could hear the driver snap the reins and jerk the carriage back westward, then the wind through the open door was battering his face as they flew. No one followed behind.
He closed his eyes. He’d make the driver rich once they got back to London.
A questioning stomp came from above.
He set his pistol down and pulled Phoebe from behind him. He looked her over, quickly running hands over her limbs. She stared back, blankly, in obvious stupefaction. Assuredly she would have bruises, but she wasn’t in physical peril.
Andreas gave two thumps to the roof, and the vehicle continued its breakneck pace, the scenery whirling by the open door, the sounds unmuffled.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
She blinked a few times, then awareness started to return. She sat up and ran a shaky hand through her hair, looking through the open cavity of the doorway. “No. I don’t think so.”
He nodded tightly. He couldn’t think of anything outside of the present. Other things, like the bloodcurdling revenge he would wreak after this, were unimportant right now. “The driver will take us somewhere safe.” Or the horses would give out, but he kept that information to himself.
