“That ought to keep the rest of us anchored here through the end of the month,” Devenham said dryly. “In some places the partridges may remain safe for even an extra day!”
Sir Henry sighed. “Yes, the next week and a half will be busy. His Highness the Duke of Cumberland is due to arrive back with his new bride, as well. I wouldn’t mind some time off to go shoot a few brace of partridge after this month is done! Be careful of that leg, sir. I shall look forward to seeing you again on the twenty-ninth.”
After Mullins had helped Devenham into the carriage, the earl handed him the ribbons and directed him to drive to the park. He wanted to think, and the park seemed the best place to be undisturbed, as it was a little before the fashionable hour to be there.
Sir Henry was right about protecting Phoebe’s reputation; it was time to give up the Allingtons’ hospitality. He no longer had the excuse of convalescing to explain his presence at their home, and Phoebe’s presence there would be common knowledge now after her attendance at Lady Follett’s last night. Apparently it had already begun to be known around Town, or Sir Henry would not have been aware of it.
The idea that he should go home had actually been in the back of his mind, where he had rather guiltily been trying to ignore it. His mother had not yet seen him, although he had written her several letters. In all honesty, he did not want to leave London just now. Lady Brodfield certainly had something to do with that. But now he had the perfect excuse. He could not fail to attend the Duke’s reception. He had an idea he’d like Lady Brodfield to go with him.
The other information he had learned from Sir Henry bothered him a good deal. He wished Phoebe did not have to have any dealings with a blackguard like Richard Brodfield. Sir Henry had given no specifics, but Brodfield had to have indulged in some extremely disreputable activities and been indiscreet about them as well to be called into question on morals. Unauthorized absence was also a curious but very serious charge. If Brodfield had not been Lord Tyneley’s son, the whole matter would not have been allowed to slip under the carpet so easily, Devenham was certain.
Sir Henry had told him the information in confidence; he could not divulge what he had learned to Sir Charles Mortimer this evening when he met him for dinner. But he had no doubt he would be able to learn quite a bit else from Sir Charles, for it was clear he had been a good friend of Lord Tyneley’s, and Phoebe had later confirmed that fact. He wondered at Sir Charles’s haste to set up their engagement.
“Sir, we are being hailed by a lady in a phaeton over there,” announced Mullins, interrupting Devenham’s ruminations.
“Where? Oh, I see her, Mullins. Damn! Don’t you know who that is? It is Sophia Legere. Too late to pretend we did not see her, eh?”
The spankingly stylish high-perch phaeton approached them even as he spoke, and its occupant blew Devenham a kiss in greeting. The woman was a stunning auburn-haired beauty, as stylishly turned out as her equipage. Only the smallest details of her appearance—the faintest enhancement of the natural color in her cheeks, a single button of her dark green spencer left unfastened—suggested that she was anything other than the fashionable young lady she seemed.
“Lord Devenham,” she cried, apparently close to fainting from delight, “I have heard such tales since your arrival in London! How wonderful to see you are recovered from your illness enough to be out! ‘He is too ill to come and see me,’ I told myself over and over, wondering when I would hear something from you! If you only knew how I longed to be by your side to comfort you!”
She accompanied the last remark with a peculiar little twist of her shoulders that Devenham knew was meant to be sexually suggestive. He knew Sophia well—all too well. She had a wonderfully expressive body, a talent that had advanced her career on the stage as well as in bed. As she smiled at him now, however, he wondered why he had never before noticed that her teeth, while admirably straight, were quite a bit too large for her otherwise perfectly proportioned face.
“How are you, Sophia? You look as sleek and happy as ever. Someone’s been keeping the cat in cream, I’m pleased to see.”
Her face darkened slightly before she responded. “You needn’t be as pleased as all that, my lord. You do not sound as if you missed me at all. And I missed you dreadfully.”
Devenham sighed. He had absolutely no wish to hurt the lady’s feelings, but neither did he wish to encourage her. Apparently she was not as satisfied with her current protector as she had been with him. He had been congratulating himself that so far he had not run into any of his former flames in London, of the respectable variety or otherwise. He supposed it was inevitable that his luck should run out.
“Of course there were times when I missed you,” he said diplomatically. “A soldier’s life can get quite lonely.” But never the way he missed Phoebe. He missed Phoebe now if he was gone from her for even a few hours. Seeing Sophia was merely making him wish to head back to Wigmore Street, where Phoebe was no doubt spending a quiet afternoon. He would do so, he decided, although first he would have to stop at the Clarendon to make arrangements to move back there, and he also needed to stop at the apothecary’s on Oxford Street to replenish his supply of laudanum. He had not yet managed to accustom his body to doing without the drug. He found he was beginning to require regular doses of Lady Brodfield’s company in a shockingly similar manner.
“Apparently you are not so lonely now,” Sophia said, assuming a petulant expression. “I am quite devastated that you are out around Town and I have heard nothing from you. It must be that the rumors I’m hearing are true.”
“What rumors?”
She glanced at him sideways with a mischievous pout. “Perhaps I shan’t tell you. You have been naughty—you don’t deserve to know.”
He was tiring quickly of her childish games. “Then I will bid you good day, madam. I wish you well.” He signaled Mullins to move on.
Sophia tossed her head and threw back her shoulders in annoyance, thrusting out her bosom rather dramatically. “I heard, Devenham, that you found your extended convalescence quite enjoyable, thanks to the ministrations of your nurse. Frankly, I was surprised to find I had competition in such highly respectable circles.” She laughed as she slapped the ribbons to start her own pair. “If you tire of her, my lord, I would still take you back.”
Devenham thought it was just as well that their carriages had already begun to draw apart then, for the surge of anger that went through him was quite violent. Several moments passed before he was calm enough again to direct Mullins to drive to the Clarendon.
***
Phoebe had indeed been spending a quiet afternoon in Wigmore Street. Judith and Edward had taken the children to Greenwich for a picnic, and even Nanny and the baby had gone with them. Phoebe had seen the perfect opportunity to do some work in her garden. She was fully engrossed in removing some unwelcome thistles when she heard a small commotion at the French doors that opened from the dining room. She glanced up and with a sinking feeling saw Richard Brodfield approaching, trailed by Maddocks absolutely looking daggers at him.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Maddocks apologized in obvious distress. “I told Mr. Brodfield I would present his card, but he positively brushed me aside.” It was clear the dignified servant was highly insulted.
Phoebe stood up, brushing bits of dirt and greenery from her apron and stripping her soiled gloves from her fingers. “Richard, as you can see, I am not receiving callers this afternoon.”
“If I waited for you to be receiving callers, I could be cold and in my grave,” Richard said. “Besides, I am not an ordinary caller; I am a family member. There is no need to stand on ceremony.” He gave the butler a significant look, holding out his hat and gloves.
Phoebe sighed. “It is all right, Maddocks. I suppose there is no point in arguing, since he is already here. Thank you.”
For a telling moment Maddocks
looked as if he might disagree with her dismissal, but then he turned and disappeared back into the house.
“I told you I would communicate with you by letter once I had made a decision about Beau Chatain,” Phoebe said to Richard coldly.
“I thought perhaps I could save you the trouble,” Richard replied smoothly. “I had not heard anything from you yet.”
“You did not indicate that there was any deadline on your offer. It is taking me some time to gather the information I wish to know.”
Richard took a step closer to her, and she instinctively stepped back. She stopped herself there, for she did not want to appear as if she feared him.
“I have certain matters pressing me for resolution,” he said vaguely. “I would find it very helpful to get this one cleared up.” He did not meet her eyes.
“I have asked Edward to act for me—” she began, but he cut her off.
“Yes, I know that your dear Sir Edward has been out there snooping around.” Now he was looking at her intently and took another step toward her. “He does not seem to be the only one. Someone else has been around asking questions as well. Whom do you suppose that could be?”
She was genuinely puzzled by that, but it was the intensity of Richard’s gaze that was starting to stir up the first flutterings of alarm inside her. She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
He seemed satisfied, staring at her. “No, you probably do not. Dear little sweet Phoebe. I expect it is nothing.” There was something very predatory in the way Richard was looking at her, and all of Phoebe’s instincts screamed at her now to step away from him. But she could not understand why, and she felt rather as if she were suddenly rooted in the spot where she stood facing him.
“Now you know that I told you the truth—that I am technically in possession of the place. You will have to accept what I’ve offered, one way or the other.”
He moved suddenly with lightning speed and captured her hands. As she gasped in surprise, he raised one to his lips, keeping his eyes locked with hers. His hands were hot and moist, her own like ice. She tried to pull them away, but he would not release them. She wished they could freeze him to the bone.
“So cold,” he said softly, putting her hands together and beginning to rub them gently with his fingers, as if to warm them. But then his rubbing slowed and began to be a very erotic, sensual exploration. “Cold hands, warm heart,” he whispered, quoting the old adage.
She tried again to pull her hands away. He tightened his grip and pulled in response, bringing her hard up against his chest.
“No!”
“Yes!” There was a savage note in his voice. “There’s only one way to warm these hands—that’s the fire inside you.” He lowered his head to her mouth. She struggled, turning her face away, and he buried his face in her neck. She felt his teeth grazing her tender skin.
A tremendous shudder ran through her.
“Ah,” growled Richard. He stepped back from her with a triumphant gleam of satisfaction in his eye. “A year and a half is a long time to leave that fire banked, my dear. I thought I’d find a spark if I just reached in and stirred a little.”
Phoebe gaped at him, speechless. She was certain she had reacted in revulsion.
“Just think of the blaze we could start if I stirred a little more.”
Finally she found her tongue.
“Get out! Now, Richard! Do not ever try to set foot in this house again!”
“I don’t think I will need to, my dear. You’ll find in the end that you’ll come seeking me.”
She was not quite sure what he meant by that, but she was too angry and insulted to care. “Go!” she cried, pointing toward the house. She was astonished to see Devenham coming down the steps.
“You had better do as the lady says,” the earl warned Richard. He looked at that moment quite capable of murder.
Phoebe stared in horrified fascination as the two men squared off, clearly taking each other’s measure through narrowed eyes.
“You must be Devenham.” Richard’s tone was ugly as he faced the earl. “What are you, her watchdog? Or did you just think you had exclusive rights to her?”
“I have no ‘rights’ to Lady Brodfield whatsoever,” Devenham answered with a calm so icy it made Phoebe shiver. “Nor, I would add, do you. I certainly hope that you meant no disrespect to her, just as I hope I did not hear you call me a dog just now. I will give you approximately ten seconds to comply with her wish that you leave, however, or my hearing may improve, and you will certainly rue the consequences.”
“You dare to threaten me?”
“I dare to, and I believe I just did.”
“Lady Brodfield and I have unfinished business.”
“Not according to what I just heard. I distinctly heard her tell you to leave, sir. Now do so.”
For a moment there was nothing but highly charged silence. Richard glared at Lord Devenham and then at Phoebe. The look on his face frightened her.
“You may be the ones to rue consequences,” Richard muttered, his face white and his fists clenched. He spun on his heel and stalked back toward the house.
Chapter Twelve
Phoebe stood where she was, her face covered with her hands. Devenham was unsure whether to go to her and offer comfort or to wait for some sign of acknowledgment from her.
He could not blame her for being upset. He definitely had not liked the last look on Richard Brodfield’s face. He was not sure he had ever made an enemy so quickly or seen hatred in so pure a form. The two men were about equal in size, and Devenham had judged Brodfield to be reasonably fit, but the earl had not felt intimidated. What he had felt was anger so overwhelming that he dared not let it out.
He looked down at his right hand, which still gripped his cane with a white-knuckled force fit to break the ebony shaft. He let out his breath slowly, as if releasing his anger with it. Very deliberately he set the tip of his cane back down on the gravel walk, shifting his hand to rest loosely on its silver head.
“Thank you, Lord Devenham.”
He looked up. Phoebe was pale and obviously shaken, but she seemed to have collected herself.
“Your timing was impeccable—and appreciated. I am not at all sure Richard would have left without your persuasion. He—he can be somewhat unreasonable at times.”
“Unreasonable!” He took a step toward her and was dismayed to see her flinch and retreat a step in response.
He sighed. So that was how it would be. He tried to speak in a gentler tone. “That seems a mild term to apply to his behavior. I must admit that the terms that come to my mind are not fit to be spoken in your presence.” He gave her a concerned glance. “Perhaps you should sit down?”
She shook her head. “I am all right.” She looked down at her hands and then at the apron that covered her dark gray dress. “I was just . . .” She spread her hands apart in a helpless gesture, then let them drop. Shaking her head again, she turned away from him and stooped to begin gathering the small tools she had been using in the garden. She placed them in her basket with unsteady hands.
“I don’t suppose you want to talk about what happened?” Devenham thought he had to try, at least.
She shook her head, not looking at him. So intent upon her business, he thought. He studied her, taking in her bowed head and hunched shoulders. He suddenly realized those shoulders were trembling. She was crying.
“Please let me help you,” he said softly, moving beside her. He held out the neatly pressed handkerchief he had managed to retrieve from one of his pockets. She accepted it but still would not turn to him.
She wiped her cheeks and held the cloth pressed to her eyes for a moment. Then she drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. You have already helped me. There is nothing more to be done.” She turned her face up to the patch of sky
above the garden. “I will sell Beau Chatain to him, and that will be the end of it.”
“Will it?” he asked. “Will he be satisfied to leave you alone then? And what will you do? Go on living with the Allingtons forever?”
She acted as if she did not hear him. She wrapped her arms around her as though she felt chilled. “Why, why did he have to come out here to the garden? It feels defiled, as if he was some rotten thing whose smell has overtaken all the flowers.” She stood up with her basket, looking very distraught. Before Devenham could think of what to do or say, she gathered her skirts and ran toward the house.
He could only follow slowly.
***
Upstairs in the guest bedroom, the earl fidgeted while Mullins tried to make him presentable for dinner at Watier’s.
“Blast and confound it, man, I don’t care if you achieve the perfect ‘Mathematical,’ I would rather be able to turn my head. And I’m in danger of being impaled upon these collar points. Too much starch—I don’t give a damn what Brummel said.”
“Sir,” remonstrated the patient Mullins, “if I can do naught to improve your temper, the least I can do is take some pains over your appearance. After invitin’ you to be ’is guest, Sir Charles don’t deserve to find you lackin’ in both departments.”
Devenham closed his eyes and attempted to rein in his anger and frustration. Poor Mullins had done nothing to deserve the brunt of it. If anyone had, it was Richard Brodfield or at the very least himself. How he wished he had arrived back from his errands just a few minutes sooner! Or if only he had been able to walk faster through the house once he had learned from Maddocks whose hat and gloves were on the hall table.
He was not exactly sure what had passed between Brodfield and Phoebe in the garden, or exactly what had made him so certain that he should intrude upon them. He had not been able to hear their words until he had started through the door and heard her ordering Brodfield to leave. But he had seen the man release Phoebe and step back, and he had seen the look of utter shock on her face. Just the memory of it made his blood boil. He had desired enough women himself to recognize—even smell—that desire in another man.
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 15
