Drawing up so quickly she almost lost her footing, Phoebe snapped her fingers in sudden realization and whirled toward her writing desk in search of paper and quill. Striking a tender, she carefully lit a half-burned taper and sat down to compose a quick note while shaking her head in wonder at the utter simplicity of her solution.
Find Lady Chelsea!
All she need do to save Tristan from the hangman's noose was find Lady Chelsea.
It was perfect! So perfect, in fact, she wondered why she had not thought of it before. Not once had she believed the lady was dead, she realized now, but the fact that she had only just considered Chelsea was out there somewhere and could be found was like a heavy weight lifted off her chest.
She laughed.
Tristan was right, though she knew his suggestion had been satiric at the time—finding Lady Chelsea was precisely what she needed to do—and Edward, bless him, was going to help her!
Of course, it would not do to make the rest of the family aware of her plans. Lucien would never allow it, and Grandmother, well, she had dealt with enough of Phoebe's shenanigans during the few short weeks that had followed her bow into Society to last the rest of her lifetime. Emily and Alaina could be trusted to help her, she decided, and mayhap even Lady Claire. But with tensions high and tempers short as they currently were, it would doubtless be for the best if she took it upon herself to handle the matter entirely on her own.
She would go to Tony.
Other than Tristan, he was the only other person with whom she was acquainted who had known about the kidnapping, and the pirates, and it was her sudden hope that perhaps he knew a great deal more about the shooting as well.
Thoughts flying and her previously flagging spirit filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Phoebe carefully penned a somewhat cryptic but concise letter of request, complete with brief instructions, for her betrothed. Sealing the missive, she carried it with her to the bed where she tucked it carefully beneath the book she sometimes read when she had trouble sleeping—like tonight. It would be easy enough to have Elise hand off her missive to a footman when she came to help her dress in the morning.
Content now that she would no longer be sitting by, passively awaiting word that her brother would indeed be facing the hangman, Phoebe slipped beneath the covers on her bed, pulling the pale yellow counterpane to her chin, and breathed out a contented sigh of relief. Come morning, Edward would take her to Chateau Ambray, where she could speak with Tony in private. By afternoon, she would be well on her way to locating Lady Chelsea and to finding the answers she, Tristan, and the whole family needed in order to get on with their lives.
“You still have not convinced me this is a good idea, Phoebe,” Edward cautioned for the third time since they had left Rothwyn House shortly after the sun rose over the east lawn. Taking her hand in his, he waited for the carriage to draw to a halt so that he could assist Phoebe from it, a worried frown drawing his brow downward. “When your brothers discover where you have gone, and why, they will have our heads.”
“Nay, they will not. Tristan will naturally be furious for knowing I have come here without a chaperon—with you. And Lucien? He will have your head since you are, after all, the one who brought me here,” she cheekily reminded him. “Not that it matters. By the time either of them realize we have disappeared, the twins will have assured them that all is well. Alaina promised to let them know we've gone for a visit with Uncle Tony and both Lucian and Tris know Tony would never let harm befall me.”
Edward was not much heartened by her attempt to console him. Nor was he particularly pleased to hear that between the two of them, it was Tony whom her brothers knew would keep her safe.
Phoebe was so certain of herself and her mission, she, at least, was able to smile. In fact, after a sideways glance at his expression, he knew she almost laughed. One hand came up to cover her grin while the other landed casually against his thigh as she attempted to bat away his pessimism.
“Stop being such a blither-ninny. Lucien did allow me to go with the two of you to Newgate, if you will recall. I trust even you will agree Chateau Ambray is the safer place by far,” she said, still trying to make him believe naught could possibly go awry with her hastily drawn plan to use the Duke of Ambray to locate Lady Chelsea Hastings.
Edward had more doubts than he could count, but the feel of her fingers resting upon his thigh, albeit gloved as they were, quite removed each and every one, leaving him with only the barest recall of what his argument should have been. Willing his thoughts away from the many other places upon his person which were now completely awakened and clamoring for her touch, he cleared his throat and tried to remember.
Finally dislodging her fingers from their resting place, he said, “Still, we should be spending the day in the meadow with a picnic beneath a tree with your family or racing along the lane to Vykhurst, or visiting friends … all with your maid firmly in tow. Running off without explanation or chaperon to save a brother who clearly does not wish to be saved...”
Her expression fell, but Edward was far too caught up in trying to convince himself to stop thinking about they myriad other areas he would love for her fingers to be to realize he had mentioned the wrong thing about the wrong brother at the wrong time.
“Tristan wants to be saved,” she insisted, her eyes narrowed and now shadowed by the haunting fear which had driven her every thought for the past several months. “He merely does not believe he can be.”
The wistfulness in her tone did not go unheard, but she shifted her hand back to her own lap, where it properly should have rested all along. Edward covertly tried to catch his breath without drawing her attention, and thus her concern for his sudden state of discomfort while she tried to downplay her sadness by continuing in a more positive, less hopeless tone. “Though why he thinks there is no hope for salvation is beyond me. I am hoping Tony will know more of the matter and that he will be willing to divulge more detail than my surly brother.”
Feeling it rather more wise at the moment to keep his opinions on the matter to himself, Edward rose quickly and opened the door. He stepped down from the carriage and took a moment to breathe, slightly restoring his passion-dazed sanity before turning back to help Phoebe safely alight, as well.
Once they reached the front steps to the entrance of Ambray's residence, Edward peered upward, wondering if the duke would even be at home to receive them. He need not have wasted the effort, however, for the front door of the Chateau opened before him and to his surprise, the duke himself stepped out to greet them, his brows drawn.
“Claybourne? Phoebe? To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your visit?” Tony asked, a wary look on his face. He hurried forward to greet them. “Please, I beg you do not tell me Tristan has disappeared yet again.”
Phoebe allowed him to take her hands, lifting her cheek for his kiss before making a negative motion with her head.“No, he is with us still. In fact, Tris was yet sleeping when Edward and I departed Rothwyn House. I suspect it shall be noon ere he rises if the noises I heard coming from his chamber long into the wee hours of the morning are any indication of how poorly and little he slept.”
Phoebe took a step to the side so that she could move around the duke and into the manor, but the duke took hold of her upper arm, keeping her in place while he peered over her shoulder toward the empty carriage. “Where, pray tell, is your maid?”
“At home,” Phoebe said, her tone unconcerned, but Edward realized he was not the only one to note that she was unable to keep the quick stain of a blush from filling her cheeks before she quickly changed tact.
“Please, Tony,” she implored, appealing to his good will as only one loved as a favored niece might. “I needed to get here with as little fuss as possible. If I had waited for Elise...”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the duke set his feet wide, effectively barring her path forward into the chateau while he stared down the length of his nose at her through narrowed eyelids. “She wou
ld have mentioned your visit here to Lucien and he would have forbidden you to come, is that it?”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes, but I truly have good reason for coming, Tony. You see, Edward and I—” Motioning toward him, Phoebe was fully prepared to deliver the explanation she had given Edward earlier, but the duke ignored her attempt at an explanation.
“You think the fact that you slipped out here with your betrothed, unchaperoned, to seek me out with neither his blessing nor awareness is going to sit the better with Lucien once you return merely because your intentions were well-placed?” he asked, disbelief and a slight annoyance clearly evident in his tone.
“Nay, she fully believes Lucien will have my head,” Edward interjected, the wry edge in his voice saying all too clearly how well he was aware of the duke's concerns; they mirrored his own. But he knew how dearly Phoebe loved her brother. He also knew how terribly afraid she was that Tristan would be sentenced to death upon the morrow. Even had he tried, he would not have been able to refuse her this morning's request. “Rothwyn will be cross, and rightly so,” he continued. “But I do believe the lady intends I should champion her cause.”
Tony's snort said he found both their attempts to smooth away his concerns unworthy. “It appears that someone must, lest she fall headlong into the same sort of trouble as her brother.”
Edward merely cocked a brow at the duke's cutting edict, but with quick, heavenward roll of her eyes which said she saw straight through his feeble attempt at dissuasion, Phoebe interrupted before he could gather steam enough to launch into a full explanation of precisely why Edward, as her betrothed and soon to be husband, should assert himself over her ill-considered wishes, and quickly.
“Oh, for Christ's sake, Tony,” she said. “I came here to ask about Lady Chelsea. Rumor has it that she was staying with family until her grandfather returned from his unexpected business trip. Since you knew of the pirates and of the shooting, I had hoped you would also know the name and direction of the family member with whom she was residing.”
“This is what you came for? Without either your maid or the slightest care for your reputation? No wonder Lucien prefers to keep you at home until after the wedding.”
The demand in the duke's voice was sharp. Edward almost winced at the effect the strict censure in his tone had on Phoebe, as her immediately fallen countenance attested. But when Ambray also turned an impatient glare upon her, one coupled with a reproving shake of his head and demanded, “Go home, Phoebe. I can tell you nothing you want to hear,” he knew the trip back to Rothwyn House would be a very long one indeed.
13
After being sent home like an errant, wayward child, bearing Tony's hurtful admonishments as incontrovertible proof she had disappointed yet another of the people who loved her most dearly in this world, Phoebe was inconsolable.
Not only had she been reprimanded and scorned, she had learned nothing from the duke regarding Lady Chelsea's last known whereabouts. In fact, Tony's words had left her with the sinking feeling that perhaps Chelsea Hastings was, indeed, dead. Her final, grand attempt to save the life of the one person she cherished most had failed, and because of her failure, the looming specter of her brother's imminent death felt all too real.
During the brief carriage ride to Rothwyn House, she had sobbed out her grief on Edward's shoulder. He hadn't spoken, merely held her close and let her cry. By the time they arrived, she did not think she had any more tears left inside. He had led her up the front steps, his mood much subdued, and stood silent beside her as, dry-eyed, she meekly accepted Lucien's scolding without protest. She merely nodded her acceptance of the punishment deemed and after a quickly whispered “thank you” to her betrothed, she went straightaway to lock herself in her room, uncaring that she was being sent to her chambers for the remainder of the family's last afternoon with Tristan before the hearing.
It did not matter.
There was no reason left to hope and she could not bear to look at his beloved face knowing he would be gone forever come tomorrow. Ignoring the pitying look on Lady Claire's face as she passed her on the stairs, Phoebe felt the tears start again, pooling in heavy wells to further weight her already swollen eyes.
She did not care.
If she cried for the entire remainder of her life, there would never be enough tears to account for the intense grief she felt at this moment. It had permeated her very soul.
Inside her room, she did not bother to lie upon the bed, or to pace the room as was her usual habit when she became upset. This time was different. Today, she knew at last what it was like to face devastation, immediate and complete, and there was naught she could do but sit and wait out the storm. Dragging her chair to the window, she sat looking out over the expanse of lawns beneath her, too drained by the onslaught of her emotions to do more.
Below her, she could hear the sounds of her family attempting to carry on in the face of the coming desolation. Bits of conversation floated upward. From time to time, there was the sound of stilted laughter, forced happy sounds that were so fraught with tension Phoebe thought she might die simply from the pain they invoked.
A servant brought up a tray for lunch but both it and the one bearing her evening meal went untouched.
Soon, afternoon became evening and the thumps and footsteps of servants making final preparations for the morning journey to London mingled with those of the family wearily making their way to their beds for the night until, finally, there was silence in Rothwyn House.
The sound of it was so complete, Phoebe thought it must be the echoes of her empty soul, spilling out to create an ever deeper void of disconsolate sadness until all the world lay trapped within.
Her head resting against the window sill, she ignored it, ignored everything, and still the moon made its journey across the night sky, making way for the sun that would shortly peek above the horizon, spilling its careless rays upon both the wicked and the weary come morning.
“My lady? His Grace sent me to wake you. It is almost time to leave.”
She must have slept because Elise's quiet query in the silence jolted her awake. Lifting her head from the sill, Phoebe nodded.
Today the family would make the journey back to Rothwyn Manor. On the morrow, she and her sisters would go with Grandmother and Lady Claire to the docks to meet Lady Melisande Ruebrige who was returning to England, as promised, for Lucien and Claire's wedding while Lucien would accompany Tristan to face the magistrate—and life as she had known it would draw to an end.
Determined to face his fate head-on, Tristan St. Daine walked into the hearing room with his shoulders back and his chin high. As he strode forward, anyone who dared to cross gazes with him found themselves suspended immediately on the cold, piercing end of his harsh and rather direct stare. He was well aware of the effect it had on anyone upon whom it was directed and that was the precise reason he neither warmed the icy chill in his gaze nor allowed himself to be the first to break eye contact. As a St. Daine, he refused to be intimidated—even now when he faced certain death.
His father would have been proud.
Swallowing down the choked feeling thoughts of his father stirred, Tristan forced his feet to move, to bring him ever forward to his seat at the front of the small assembly room. It was crowded, almost uncomfortably so.
On a dais at the head of the chamber, a long table reserved for the council stretched the length of fully half the room. His own chair, as the accused, was a little apart but in full view of the council. He made his way to it and sat, allowing his icy gaze to scan the faces of the councilors who were already gathered there, each of them undoubtedly eager to see Victor St. Daine's youngest son receive his comeuppance for the murder of Lady Chelsea Hastings, and—if the whispers he had heard as he had made his way through the halls to this chamber of preliminary judgment were to be believed—the disappearance of Chelsea's grandfather, the Marquess of Glenwood, as well.
Uncaring of the additional charges some were wont to lay at h
is feet, Tristan carefully marked each face in the hallows of his memory, for these were the men who would finally put a blessed end to his suffering. Soon, they would declare him guilty, and the waiting would be over, at last.
Before him were the men who would set him free.
Though the thought of being hanged by his neck from the gallows until death was not a pleasant one, it was merely a means to the very end Tristan was after—an eternity of reprieve, which was what he believed his death would bring—from the nightly torture he had lived with since the day he had been transferred from Tony's ship to one belonging to the Royal Navy. Hanging was no less than he deserved for what he had done, and at this point in his misery, he was more than eager to get the hearing over and have done with it all as quickly as possible.
His family, however...
Glancing over his shoulder to his left, Tristan could see that several benches had already been filled. His gaze scanned the benches, pausing briefly to acknowledge each of the men who had turned up in support of his defense, though he had none. Nick, Adrien, Sebastian … Much to his surprise, the earl of Vykhurst was also present, and even the Claybourne chap had dropped by to put in what he assumed was intended to represent a supportive appearance.
Every man who held significant importance to him in his life had come to witness his end, it seemed.
Everyone except for Ambray.
Tristan glanced down at his hands, a twinge of guilt pinching him hard. He supposed Tony had decided he had done enough for him already as a friend of the family as it were. But the truth was, Tony had been so much more than a friend—to Lucien, especially, and to him.
Above and beyond everything that Adrien, Nick, or even Sebastian had done for them over the years, only Tony seemed to have courageously taken the good and bad as it came and somehow managed to remain a true, loyal friend to them both. The man never once shirked from a challenge, never backed down in the face of a fight, and never, ever willingly ceased to at least try to do what he felt was right … and therein lay the cause of Tristan's biting guilt at this particular moment, for he knew if he had but followed Tony's carefully wrought instructions to the letter, he might well not be sitting here today.
An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Page 11
