Of course. Why did I not think of showing it sooner? Phoebe fished in her reticule for the miniature of Stephen she had brought with her for just such a purpose. “Surely this will clear up the confusion,” she said. She handed over the portrait and then attempted to dry her eyes with the silk handkerchief she had taken out at the same time.
“It looks so like him!” Mlle. Gimard exclaimed, yet she hesitated. “It is like, and yet it is not. Perhaps the artist? I am not sure. There is something . . .”
At that moment, Phoebe knew the answer. It had been Richard. Richard had used this poor woman in Stephen’s name and cruelly abandoned her. It was Richard the mademoiselle had seen from her carriage and called to in vain. It was Richard who was still very much alive.
“Mademoiselle,” said Phoebe in a deadly serious voice. “My husband’s brother—half brother—looks very much like him. His name is Richard Brodfield.”
“But madame—forgive me, but my lover, my Etienne, was the Viscount Brodfield.”
“Then he lied to you.” Phoebe’s words came out more sharply than she intended, but her mind was racing ahead. If Richard had posed as Stephen in one affair, might he not have done so in others? But why?
“It is true,” the other woman said reflectively, “he lied to me at the end. Perhaps he also lied at the beginning.”
“By courtesy my husband was Baron Brodfield of Ruslan,” Phoebe said almost apologetically. “The earl did not hold any other titles.”
“This brother, this Richard Brodfield, he lives here in London?”
“Yes.”
“I must see him. Perhaps he never saw the letter I wrote to tell him the child was a son.”
“The family has a large house in Charles Street. He and his mother are the only ones left there now, But do you think it wise to confront him?”
“I must. I have come all the way back to England for this purpose.”
“You cared for him?” Phoebe found it almost impossible to believe, but the other woman nodded. Somewhere, deep in Richard’s black soul that had always seemed the perfect antithesis of Stephen’s, there must be some shred of good. Phoebe had always hoped so. Certainly, Lord Tyneley had always believed so. Perhaps Mlle. Gimard had found and touched it, however briefly.
Phoebe regarded the Frenchwoman through narrowed eyes. “You still care. Even after what he did and what we have discovered?”
Mlle. Gimard began to cry again. She bobbed her head saying, “God help me.”
This time Phoebe put her arms around the young woman. “God will help you, and so will I.”
***
Phoebe left the church by the same door she had entered and looked for Mullins as she stepped outside. It had begun to rain, and she felt a pang of guilt for making him wait in it. A male form peeled itself from the brick sidewall of the building and came toward her, but it was not Mullins. It was Devenham.
“You have been crying,” he stated as he reached her. He grasped her elbow and like a perfect dance partner turned her around and back in through the church door with a single smooth motion.
For several seconds Phoebe had lost her voice in astonishment and indignation. Finding it at last, she sputtered angrily, “What are you doing here? Where’s Mullins? I trusted you! You gave me your word.”
“Sh-h.” He put a finger on her lips. “I could ask you the same question, what are you doing here? I have sent Mullins to Hatchard’s to buy you a book, since that is apparently the excuse you used to get yourself here. Did you not consider that someone might wonder when you came home empty-handed?”
In truth, she had not, but that did not make her feel any less annoyed with him.
“As for keeping my word, I agreed that I would not ask Mullins anything about this exercise after he returned, and indeed, I will not. I always keep my word. Besides, I will have no need to ask anything by the time I am back in my rooms at the Clarendon. We are not leaving this church until you have explained everything to me.”
She jerked her head back from his lingering finger and glared at him. How dare he? “Why should I explain anything to you? What did you do, follow us here? What did you think might be going on? What gives you the right to spy on me or interfere?” She fired the questions at him like artillery missiles.
“This,” he said simply, slipping his arms around her and lowering his mouth to hers.
His kiss was brief this time, but it communicated a great deal. This time it was neither hesitant nor gentle, but confident, demanding. It told Phoebe that Devenham saw through her attempts at resistance. It told her that he cared enough not to take no for an answer and that he would not give up easily. Above all, it told her he knew she would respond to it exactly as he wished, as indeed she must have, for he broke it off with a tender but satisfied smile.
She put the back of her hand against her lips and turned her head away from him, trying to replace the hunger of her response with the anger she had felt before. “You cannot keep me here,” she said with a sharp intake of breath.
“Yes, I can. And I will, until I have my explanation.” The warning note in his voice forced her to look back at him.
He cocked one eyebrow at her infuriatingly. “Think about it. Who knows that you are here? Even the person you were meeting thinks you have left, and you made sure no one else knows that you came. And God forbid if we were to be discovered here like this, alone. If your brother-in-law Edward found out, he’d have us back here in a trice, awaiting the parson.”
With a sinking feeling, she realized he was right. Even if she tried to run, where would she go? Out into the streets would be worse than staying here.
“Begin at the beginning,” he prompted. “Why did you come here? Why all the secrecy?” When she still hesitated, his voice became rough-edged. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you not know why I arranged with Mullins to follow? I was concerned for your safety. I care about you.”
At the intensity in his voice Phoebe felt as though something quite physically cracked inside her. She didn’t know if it was her heart or a piece of the wall she had built all around it. Suddenly she began to talk, the words slipping out without waiting for her permission.
“I came here to meet with a woman,” she said. “It is not what you think.”
“I didn’t think anything but that you might be in trouble,” he replied softly.
“I couldn’t let Judith and Edward know. This woman was—I mean, she thought she was—one of Stephen’s mistresses. She had sent me a note, asking to meet me here. She thought—she thought Stephen was still alive.”
Phoebe went through the whole story with him. She did not know when the tears began to roll down her cheeks or when the earl took her into his arms to comfort her as she finished the rest of the tale. She only became conscious that these things had happened as she came to the end and rested quietly against him.
“You do not find this shocking?” she asked.
“My dear, you are speaking to the notorious Earl of Devenham. I am no stranger to scandals, you’ll recall. And I must confess, some parts of your story had already come to my ears. I have been looking into it, for it did not seem to me to make sense.”
“What do you mean, you ‘have been looking into it’?”
“I have been making certain inquiries. But this new information about Richard’s masquerade opens up many more questions.”
“Why would Richard use Stephen’s name?” she asked now as she had already asked herself several times.
Devenham tightened his arms around her but did not answer right away. “Not only why, but how often?” he finally said, echoing her own thoughts. “Not only how often, but when? If one mistress was his, could not the others have been also? What of Stephen’s supposed other marriage? And what of Stephen’s gambling debts? Were those truly his, or were some of those Richard’
s?”
Phoebe remained in the earl’s embrace, drawing comfort from the feel of his warm, solid body. Was it selfish to grasp a few crumbs of pleasure from a relationship she could not allow? He had not recoiled from her in horror when her narrative had revealed that she was barren, but certainly now he would see that she could never be his wife. Perhaps he would even understand how foolishly she had given her heart, how blind and stupid her own passions had made her, how her overpowering love and unproductive body had driven her husband to take his own life. No matter how much of the scandal had been Richard’s doing, nothing altered the fact that Stephen had put a pistol to his own head and fired it.
She lifted her head just enough to shake it. “In the end, asking questions does not bring Stephen back. What does it matter except to understand Richard?”
“Do you not feel angry that it may have been Richard’s deeds that blackened Stephen’s name? And after his death, when he could not vindicate himself! The very idea offends me deeply. Think of the reflections the scandal cast on your own reputation and the pain it has caused you!”
“There would still have been scandal,” she answered, “and there is no remedy for the pain.”
“Yes, there is. Tell me if you feel pain when I do this.” Devenham proceeded to kiss and caress her with a determined thoroughness that both aroused and astounded her. She scarcely noticed when he untied her bonnet and removed it. When her knees gave way, he half carried her into the nearest pew and sat there with her in his lap. She saw her own smoky desire reflected in his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said, nuzzling her neck.
She could not make her mouth form words. She shook her head.
“Give me your pain,” he whispered. “Let me be your remedy.”
Finally she pushed away. “No,” she said. “You cannot.” She stood up and moved a few steps away to be out of his reach. She retrieved her bonnet from the floor where he had dropped it and poked at her hair with unsteady fingers, looking at him reproachfully. “Such behavior in a church! Really, Lord Devenham, I believe you are every bit as scandalous as people say.”
She repositioned her bonnet and tied it securely, mindful that Mullins should soon be joining them.
For a few moments neither of them spoke. Finally, Devenham said, “You should at least feel angry. You should be angry with Richard and the world, and you should fight back. Fight back! People always want to believe the worst. Instead of hiding, show them that you don’t give a fig for their opinions. If it is what you want, be so virtuous and good that it shames them. Hold up your head and live your life! As for Richard, we must expose him.”
“How?” she asked. The single word seemed the only possible response to everything he had just said.
“For one thing, go with me to the Duke of York’s reception. Show people you are not afraid of their clucking tongues. They will gossip, unquestionably, if you make your appearance there with me. Are you brave enough to take such a step?
“I am less certain what to do about Brodfield. We have no proof of anything, just Mlle. Gimard’s story.” He looked at Phoebe thoughtfully and rose from his seat. “What became of Stephen’s papers after his death? There must have been notices from his creditors, and the lines from his other marriage, to have set off the scandal, or was all of it hearsay?”
“There were papers. Some were examined at the inquest. I suppose they are still at Charles Street. I took nothing when I left there.”
“If we could see those papers—get names from them—then we could interview some of the people who were involved in this. Perhaps they would discover, as Mlle. Gimard did, that the brother who presented himself as Stephen was not, after all.”
Phoebe could see that the earl was excited by the idea. The spark of desire in his eyes had been replaced by a spark of—what? Revenge? Anticipation? Why did Richard’s duplicity matter to him? He stood like a man prepared to do battle, his fists clenched and his jaw set. If he thought he could slay her personal dragons like a knight of old, she knew he was sadly mistaken.
“I suppose I could ask Lady Tyneley for them,” she offered without much enthusiasm. “If she won’t give them to me, perhaps she would at least let me look at them.”
“I don’t like the idea of your going back to that house. What if Brodfield is there and Lady Tyneley is not? What if he approaches you as he did in your own garden? Who would be there to help you?” She saw his face darken at the very thought. “You will let me accompany you.”
“I am not certain Lady Tyneley would cooperate if she suspected anything was amiss. I will only go when I know she is at home,” she replied quickly. Then she added, “Perhaps I will bring Mlle. Gimard. She wishes to meet with Richard, and I promised to help her. I had not thought of taking her to the house, but really, she seems very respectable. I suspect that originally she came from a good family. I do not see what Richard could do if there were two of us.”
She hoped he would be satisfied with that. She did not feel challenged to fight the way he did; perhaps there was something lacking in her spirit, or else she just saw the world through different eyes. She suspected that battling her demons might be a way for him to battle his own. She had seen clearly the pain he carried from his childhood, and she was beginning to understand that the scandalous behavior behind his reputation was his way of answering the pain caused by other people’s false assumptions. This chance to do battle was one thing she could do for him, one small thing she could give freely.
“All right,” he said. Relief washed over her. Then he smiled, and she felt even better. “You have not yet said if you will accompany me to His Royal Highness’s reception.”
“I will. You honor me by asking. Who would not feel proud to attend a reception at Carlton House and stand by the side of a Waterloo hero?”
She smiled back at him, and they simply stood there, more than a dozen feet apart, until a moment later Mullins arrived, spattered with rain and carrying a paper-wrapped parcel from Hatchard’s.
Chapter Fifteen
“You look positively beautiful, Aunt Phoebe. Everyone will admire you.”
Phoebe smiled and tried to draw comfort from Dorrie’s rather partisan approval. She was nervous about attending the reception at Carlton House, and unlike her innocent niece, she was aware that the second statement did not necessarily follow from the first. “Thank you, Dorrie. You are sweet to say so.”
She sat still while Mary Anne fastened a necklace of jet beads around her neck, the finishing touch to her toilette. At Judith’s insistence, she had indulged in a new evening gown to wear to the Duke of York’s reception. With so much of the city’s population already gone to their country estates, she had found no difficulty in procuring the services of a modiste on short notice. The woman had gone to great lengths to please her, no doubt in view of the further exodus of clients about to take place as the month of August came to an end.
The Allingtons were preparing to leave London like most of their remaining neighbors and acquaintances. In a few days, Phoebe would find herself in Kent with the family at their country estate, which was finally sporting a completely repaired roof. Such a prospect would normally have lightened her step and filled her heart with joyful anticipation, as she vastly preferred the quiet months spent in the country. This time, however, she felt suspiciously dismayed to be leaving.
She had tried to tell herself that the feeling was due entirely to Devenham’s unfinished efforts to investigate and expose Richard Brodfield’s villainy. Her initial lack of enthusiasm for the project had been overthrown by Richard himself. She had done as she had promised Devenham, paying a call on Lady Tyneley and taking Mlle. Gimard with her. The young Frenchwoman had succeeded in having an interview with Richard while they were there, and Phoebe had in fact managed to get her mother-in-law to let her see the papers Stephen had left behind in his desk. When the two young
women left, Phoebe had a list of names she had surreptitiously copied down to give the earl, and Mlle. Gimard had Richard’s answer to her son’s future.
Unfortunately, the visit had proved successful for only one of them. What Richard’s response had been was very clear from the Frenchwoman’s pale face and drawn expression. Phoebe had prodded Mlle. Gimard until the woman finally confided in her. Richard had refused to acknowledge Gaston, saying that it was to the lad’s advantage that he not do so. Phoebe was deeply offended by this, for she was certain the poor Frenchwoman was at her wit’s end.
She had decided then that Richard deserved whatever scandal or legal repercussions resulted from Devenham’s efforts. She was sorry that she would not be in London to see the process completed, but if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that that was not her greatest regret. The curtailment of her connection with the earl weighed on her heart far more heavily.
Tonight, at least, she would be with him. She supposed it was a fitting farewell of sorts. Judith and Edward had kindly invited him to join them for a formal dinner prior to the reception, and then there would be the reception itself. Phoebe wanted to look especially fine to honor him in front of his comrades-in-arms and the Duke of York. There was speculation that the Prince Regent himself would be attending in addition to having provided Carlton House for the event.
Once her abigail had declared her perfect, Phoebe stood up and performed a quick pirouette in front of her niece. Her dress was an elegant confection in black and white, for she had decided half mourning would be acceptable for such a gala occasion. The low-cut corsage of white crepe was trimmed all around with small black crepe roses and leaves, which also accented the tiny sleeves. The fall of the skirt was fashioned from black crepe, with an attached ornamental white apron embroidered in black and a wide panel of white set on around the hem. This band was overlaid with an interlaced trimming of jet beadwork and headed by a row of black roses where it joined the plain skirt. Phoebe thought the dress was fashionable and extravagant to the extreme, but it pleased her immensely.
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 19
