“I know that Mullins is a very capable nurse,” Phoebe was saying, “but I could not help worrying about your welfare, all the same, my lord. I hope you did not suffer too greatly.” She took refuge in addressing him formally; she felt awkward with him now after all they had been through.
“Dear Lady Brodfield, it was nothing. A few unpleasant symptoms, and then I confess that when I finally slept, I did so for some twenty-four hours! I imagine I ought to be leaping about with a surfeit of energy quite like Henrietta.”
Devenham’s teasing, lopsided smile was back in its usual place, to Phoebe’s great joy. She suspected he was sparing her the details of what he’d been through. Deprived of his company for the past two days, she had suffered miserably, although she thought she had hidden the fact quite well. It was as if the deep anger Brodfield had brought out in her had cracked all the remaining barriers she had built to contain her passions. She was grateful for the reprieve in departing to Kent for whatever few extra days or hours it gave her to be with the earl.
“I hope this time our friend won’t scare up any great flocks of birds,” she said quite seriously.
Devenham laughed. “I could not agree more, but I must tell you, I don’t believe that particular sound will ever again hold as much terror for me after what I went through at Brodfield’s hands.”
Only Phoebe had been able to appreciate the full significance of Devenham’s escape from his prison in the abandoned gardens of Beau Chatain. She shuddered as she thought again of what he had faced.
Devenham stopped walking and turned to face her. Somehow, they seemed to be standing very close together. The smile had suddenly vanished from his face, and his eyes were more intense than she had ever seen them, seeming to search her own face for something—she was not sure what.
“I could not tell you this in front of everyone, but it was you that rescued me, Phoebe. It was the thought of you that gave me the courage to do what I had to.”
He had used her Christian name, as he had when he rescued her from Richard. He had also taken her hands into his, and she could feel that he was shaking, ever so slightly. She began to wonder and to hope.
“You have been through a terrible ordeal, and I do not mean just what has occurred in these past few days or weeks. I believe it began on the day your husband died or perhaps even before that. It is only natural that the shock should take some time to wear off, that it should take you some time to recover, to heal. But I must ask you if—if you think, if I might hope, if ever at some future time—oh, confound it! Do you think there is a chance you might one day come to care for me? Would you ever consider me if I were to press my suit?”
Phoebe was amazed to see her gallant earl so uncertain of himself. Could he truly be unaware that her heart was already his? Could it be that he truly wished to marry? Surely her answer must shine in her eyes brighter than the sun itself.
“When I was alone with Richard in the carriage, my lord, it was you who helped me. Do you remember what you said to me that day in St. James’s Church? You said that I should be angry, that I should fight back. I heard your words again as clearly as if you were right beside me, and I fought with strength I hardly knew I had. I think we have given each other an extremely special gift—perhaps the gift of having a future. It does not seem inappropriate to consider sharing that future together.”
“Phoebe.” He stared down at her and raised her hands each in turn to his lips without ever letting go of her gaze.
“I was wrong about your eyes,” she said. “I thought they were blue like the sky in October, but they are really a deeper blue than that. They are more like the sky after the sunset colors fade, when the first star comes out.”
“You do have the soul of a poet, madam. I thought I was the one who is supposed to compose odes to your beautiful eyes. I would write odes to your eyes, your hair, your skin, your spirit, your courage, your beautiful soul, your generous heart . . .”
Phoebe laughed and put a hand on his lips to stop him, for his intention to go on for some time seemed quite clear.
“My lord! You will create a new scandal if anyone should hear you going on so.”
Devenham growled and took her into his arms. “I’ll give them a new scandal,” he said, and proceeded to kiss her thoroughly, standing there in the middle of the public park.
Phoebe was shocked, but she thought she might never have enjoyed anything half so much.
“I love you, Phoebe. I love you more than life itself. You had better learn to call me Jack, for that is the name my closest friends use, and you will always be closer to me than any of them.”
“I love you—Jack, Major Jameson, Lord Devenham. I tried so hard not to, but you would persist. I don’t know why.” Phoebe reached her arms up around his neck, inviting another scandalous kiss. Her emotions were threatening to overwhelm her.
“Because that’s the way I am,” he said at length, pausing for breath, “and that’s the way love is. And I’ll tell you a secret you’ll discover once we are wed. My eyes can get even bluer than this. Will you marry me?”
She nodded. “Just to see that.”
“Not to mother my children?”
Phoebe caught her breath. Did he know? She had told no one of that part of the events. Her question must have been visible in her eyes, because he said, “Brodfield told me. He was a very cruel man, and to have withheld that knowledge from you was unpardonable. But I want you to know, and never doubt, that I would have you for my wife even if you could never have a child. Your Stephen knew that, too—that you are too precious, too wonderful, for that even to matter. I knew he could not have taken his own life.”
He cradled her against him protectively. “When you marry me, your name will be Jameson, your title will be Countess of Devenham, and we will see how quickly the haut ton forgets all the scandals that we have been through. They will forget that the name of Brodfield was ever connected with you. And we will show them that this Earl of Devenham has broken the mold that cast all the others before him.”
“Will you wish to keep Beau Chatain?”
“Do you want to, my love?”
“No. Lord Tyneley meant well when he left it to me, but there are too many unpleasant associations. When the scandal dies down, I think we should sell it.”
“You already know much about my estates, from your service as my secretary. You know I have no need of more. But remind me never to build a temple in our gardens. No temple, no grotto, no maze . . . Perhaps we shall forgo the gardens altogether. Leave the places natural—but no caves.”
He laughed when he saw the stricken look on her face.
“Dearest Phoebe,” he said, kissing her once more before the Allington children and Lizzie and Goldie could descend upon them. “We can have flowers. Acres of flowers. And birds and frogs and stray cats—even pet ones. And lots of children to help us love them all. As long as we have each other.”
Author’s Note
The first English edition of fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm was published in London in 1824 and was illustrated by Cruikshank. This means that many such beloved and well-known tales as Snow White and Rumpelstiltskin were not familiar in Regency nurseries. It is entirely possible, however, that some of the stories Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm had collected by 1815 could have been retold in England by soldiers or statesmen who encountered Jacob Grimm in Paris or particularly in Vienna.
Jacob Grimm worked for his government during the closing years of the Napoleonic Wars and in 1814–1815 he served at the Congress of Vienna in addition to making two trips to Paris to recover important German paintings and books stolen by the French army. It is known that in Vienna he was the nucleus of a small literary gathering who entertained each other with the telling and retelling of folktales and fairy tales. Many of these stories were not originally intended for children and were only made sui
table after the Grimms modified, edited, and in some cases embellished them for publication. Jacob’s store of tales in Vienna would have included those already published in the Grimms’ first volume of Nursery and Household Tales and others like “The Frog Prince” about to make their appearance in the second volume.
Jacob and his younger brother Wilhelm were German scholars who, as a side interest to their primary fields, collected and wrote down folklore and fairy tales from the oral traditions of German peasants. Eventually their collection numbered some two hundred tales. Their first volume of tales was published in 1812. They published a second volume in 1815 and followed this with a third volume in 1822 that included both new and repeated stories. The expanded collection we know today as Grimms’ Fairytales did not appear until 1857.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance
by Gail Eastwood
A PERILOUS JOURNEY
Available now from InterMix
“Devil take it, Rafferty! The woman’s blind, or we’ve suddenly become invisible,” the Honorable Archibald Spelling grumbled to his companion. The two young Corinthians sat in the taproom of the Ram’s Head Inn with empty tankards on the stained cloth in front of them.
Julian Rafferty de Raymond, the Earl of Brinton, glanced up from the newly dealt cards in his hand with a sigh. “You can’t expect normal service under these conditions, Archie. I rather imagine that what we have here is a barmaid’s idea of hell.”
In the hours since the two friends’ arrival, the venerable Ram’s Head had become a madhouse. In the taproom every conceivable excuse for a seat had been called into use; people perched on trunks and baskets and even packing crates dragged from the storerooms. They leaned against the wainscoted walls and stood in the spaces between tables. The heat and the noise were nearly unbearable, and the stench of spilled ale overwhelmed all other smells. Through the smoky haze that filled the room, Brinton spied the barmaid struggling through the crowd, mugs aloft, looking remarkably like a frigate foundering in a storm.
Spelling had already tossed down his cards. “I confess I have a prodigious thirst, and I’m hungry enough to eat the elephant in the Tower menagerie.”
“How fortunate we are not in London, then,” Rafferty teased, setting his own cards aside in a deliberately tidy stack. Only intense concentration on their card play had allowed him to ignore his own discomfort. “The odds on food or drink reaching our table appear to be slight,” he added, his words trailing off as his voice suddenly tightened.
He pressed his fist against his chest as a deep, painful cough racked him. He waited for the spasm to pass before attempting to speak again, shrugging off Archie’s sharp look of concern. “I think I shall test my invisibility by trying to get into the kitchen,” he finished finally.
“Perhaps I should—” Spelling began, but the earl cut him off with a shake of his head. Foraging for food might not be a normal occupation for a peer, but social standing at the Ram’s Head had deteriorated to an animalistic survival of the fittest. Brinton was taller, leaner, harder, and tougher than his friend, despite his bad lung. His aristocratic features and confident bearing could communicate a cold air of authority that was seldom challenged. He preferred to take matters into his own capable hands. Grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, he rose from his seat and began to make his way through the crowd.
The state of affairs at the Ram’s Head was not immediately discernable from the outside. Porters, ostlers, and patrons alike had been driven under cover by the heavy spring rain, and the sound of water splattering from roof corners and gable ends echoed through an empty courtyard.
In truth the Ram’s Head was bursting at the seams like every other inn in Taunton. The first of the early season horse races had been planned to coincide with the usual Saturday market, and a profitable amount of crowding had been expected. The avaricious gleam in the innkeepers’ eyes had dimmed in dismay, however, when the morning’s drizzle had thickened into a driving downpour. As the turnpikes became quagmires, the steady stream of coach travel through Taunton had stalled there. The inns had quickly filled beyond capacity and beyond any innkeeper’s ability to cope.
The earl and Spelling had claimed their space at the Ram’s Head early enough in the day to obtain sleeping quarters, although no private parlor had been available. They were a striking pair, the earl’s dark coloring and angular features contrasting with Spelling’s round face and sandy red hair. Immaculately attired in tight-fitting buckskin and superbly tailored superfine, they exuded wealth and the careless confidence of the aristocracy. They had passed the hours playing piquet, watching and speculating about the steady accumulation of other guests.
Now as Brinton shouldered his way into the front entry hall of the inn, he could see that it was every bit as crowded as the taproom. The place reeked of wet wool and warm bodies. He could not catch his breath in the close, thick air, so he hurriedly pushed on toward the back of the passage.
As he did so, a sudden gust of wind set the candle flames dancing, and cool, fresh air steadied him. The thundering of a new downpour on the cobbles outside became momentarily louder, announcing the arrival of more pathetic souls to join the crush. Curious, he glanced toward the front door, wondering what sort of person would still be journeying on such a dismal night.
He glimpsed a tall, fair-haired youth, who turned to an even younger lad, Brinton guessed, judging by the shorter height and the cap that were all he could see of the second traveler. No servant or older person appeared to be with them.
Poor devils! he thought. They seemed so young to be traveling alone, and to be confronted with such a situation! As he turned again toward the kitchen, he wondered how they would manage. The unpredictable challenges of traveling could be difficult to bear, even for someone as seasoned as himself.
In the kitchen the earl easily rescued a haunch of mutton from the fire while the cook was busy berating a luckless stable boy who had been ordered to help her. Not one of the servants collected in the kitchen paid Brinton any notice. He hacked off a sizable chunk of the meat with a nearby kitchen knife and, skewering it neatly on the blade, carried it off, amused by his success even though he had not managed to find any beverage.
Brinton had never expected to be foraging his own fare now that he was home from the war against Boney. Service in the military, following his family’s tradition, had hardened him to inconvenience and discomfort, but his friend Spelling had not shared in those experiences. Archie was probably suffering much more from the present difficulties than he was, the earl reflected as he retraced his steps. The sound of raised voices in the entry passage brought him to an abrupt halt.
“I’ve got no place left to put you,” the formidable innkeeper was booming at the new arrivals. Although the blond youth was taller, the man’s girth could have encompassed the lad three times at least. Brinton was impressed that the lad stood his ground. As he positioned himself for a better view, he realized with surprise that the boy was nearly his own height.
The innkeeper waved a pudgy hand helplessly and continued in his rumbling tone, “I’ve got people everywhere—in the stable, in the cellar, even under the stairs. I’ve got fifteen people in each part of the attic if I’ve got five, and that’s packing ’em in like pickled herring.”
“We won’t be turned away,” the tall youth replied in a firm and obviously educated voice. “We have been to three other inns already and have traveled a great distance today.”
Brinton heard courageous desperation in that voice. He watched in fascination as the young man locked his eyes on the innkeeper and ignored the rude, unsympathetic noises coming from the crowd close by.
“Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do,” the innkeeper responded uncomfortably. “I’m no magician.”
Hoots of derisive laughter met this observation. A large, pasty-faced woman pushed up close to t
he young travelers. “There’s no room here—get on wi’ ye and let this man tend to the rest of us, wot’s got ’ere first!” She coughed, adding the vile smell of blue ruin to the foul air already around them.
The smaller lad sagged noticeably, and the taller youth slipped an arm around his companion for support. They were so wet the water from their clothing was draining into a puddle at their feet. The tall one, clad in a stylish greatcoat of brown wool broadcloth, held his head high and glared defiantly at the innkeeper. The short one could hardly be seen, muffled up in a voluminous green wool traveling cloak that must have been a crushing weight now that it was thoroughly soaked. A dripping lock of reddish brown hair hung over his forehead.
The earl remembered how it felt to be that wet. He and Archie might be hungry, he thought, but at least they were warm and dry. He was aware of the calculating looks directed toward the meat he was carrying, and he consciously tightened his grip, torn between the drama unfolding in the hall and his duty to his famished friend in the next room.
More ugly noises came from the crowd. He had no desire to be caught in the middle if the scene he was witnessing turned nasty, yet somehow the pair of young lads had engaged his sympathy. As Brinton continued to watch, the tall youth leaned close to the innkeeper.
“We will pay you double—triple—your usual rates,” he said in a low voice that nonetheless could be heard clearly by everyone. Then his proud posture crumpled as his companion very deliberately stuck a sharp elbow into his side.
The smaller lad looked away as he did so, by chance casting his glance in Brinton’s direction. The shock of meeting those eyes rattled the earl considerably. They were the most remarkable blue-green color he had ever seen, and they seemed to reflect the most profound distress. They widened slightly as awareness of his own gaze registered, and then the small face abruptly turned away again.
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 24
