Hunter moved, closing the distance between them. Phoebe gave a gasp as his hand reached round behind her. He was so close she could smell his soap, his cologne, the very scent that was the man himself. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy. And as Hunter stared down at her she could see the sudden darkening blaze in his eyes, could sense the still tension that gripped his large powerful male body, could feel the very air vibrate between them. The edge of his sleeve brushed against her arm. And part of her dreaded it and, heaven help her, part of her wanted to feel the touch of those strong firm lips. To be kissed, to be held by such a strong dangerous man. She squeezed her eyes closed and clutched the dress all the tighter.
Cool air hit against her skin and she heard the sound of booted steps receding along the passageway. She opened her eyes to find Hunter gone and the door to her chamber wide open behind her.
Hunter paused as the clock upon his study mantel chimed eight and then looked across his desk at McEwan, who was sitting in the chair opposite and waiting with the air of a man much contented. Hunter swallowed back the bitterness.
‘You are up and about early this morning, Hunter.’ Hunter saw McEwan eye the still half-full brandy decanter, but his steward was wise enough to make no comment upon it.
‘I have things on my mind,’ said Hunter and frowned again as he thought of Miss Allardyce.
‘What do you make of my mother’s companion?’
‘I cannot say I have noticed her,’ McEwan confessed.
‘Hell’s teeth, man, how could—?’ Hunter stopped, suddenly aware of revealing just how much he had noticed Miss Allardyce himself. In his time he had known diamonds of the ton, actresses whose looks commanded thousands and opera singers with the faces of angels, all of whose beauty far exceeded that of his mother’s companion. And yet there was something about Phoebe Allardyce, something when she looked at him with those golden-brown eyes of hers that affected Hunter in a way no woman ever had. He took a breath, leaned back in the chair and looked at McEwan.
‘She seems much as any other lady’s companion I have met,’ McEwan offered. ‘Why are you asking?’
Hunter hesitated.
The clock ticked loud and slow.
‘I do not trust her,’ he said at last.
McEwan’s brows shot up. ‘What has she done?’
‘Nothing … at least nothing solid I can confront her with.’ He thought of her visits to his study, and the telltale hair upon his desk so vibrant against the polished ebony of the wood. He glanced up at McEwan. ‘Let us just call it a gut feeling.’
‘Is it a question of her honesty?’
‘Possibly.’ Hunter thought of her lies about the coach fare, Evelina, her absence at the seaside trip, all of which were trivial and might be explained away by a myriad of reasons. But his instincts were telling him otherwise. And that was not all his damnable instincts were telling him of Miss Allardyce. A vision appeared in his mind of her standing in the upstairs passageway, her shift clinging damp and transparent, and the pile of clothing that hid little, and he almost groaned at the pulse of desire that throbbed through him. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth to martial some control and felt anger and determination overcome the lust. When he opened his eyes again McEwan was staring at him.
‘Everything all right?’
Hunter schooled himself to dispassion. ‘Why would it be otherwise?’ He saw the compassion that came into McEwan’s eyes and hated it. ‘We are talking of Miss Allardyce,’ he said and knew he should curb the cold tone from his voice. Jed McEwan was his friend and the one who had helped him through those darkest days. The man did not deserve such treatment. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered.
McEwan gave a single nod and the expression on his face told Hunter that he understood. ‘What do you want to do about Miss Allardyce?’
Hunter narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Find out a little more about her. There is a man I know in Glasgow who should be able to help.’ A man he had used before for less honourable pursuits. ‘Would you be able to act on my behalf?’
‘Of course.’
Hunter scribbled the man’s details on a sheet of paper; while he waited for the ink to dry, he opened the drawer and extracted one of the rolls of banknotes. ‘The sooner, the better.’ He pushed the money and the paper across the desk’s surface to McEwan, who folded the paper before slipping both into his pocket.
‘And while you are gone I will see what I can discover from my mother.’
Hunter waited until his mother and her companion had finished their breakfast and were playing cards within the drawing room before he approached.
His mother was dressed as smartly as ever, not a hair out of place in her chignon, her dress of deep purple silk proclaiming her still to be in mourning for his father, although it had been nine months since his death. Miss Allardyce sat opposite her, wearing the same faded blue dress he had last seen clutched raggedly against her breast, on the face of it looking calm and unruffled, but he saw the flicker of wariness in those tawny eyes before she masked it.
‘If you would excuse me for a few minutes, ma’am.’ Miss Allardyce set her cards face down upon the green baize surface of the card table and got to her feet. She smiled at his mother. ‘I have left my handkerchiefs in my bedchamber and find I have need of them.’
His mother gave a sullen nod, but did not look pleased.
‘Well?’ she asked as the door closed behind her companion. ‘What is it that you have to say to me?’
Hunter walked over to Miss Allardyce’s chair and sat down upon it. ‘How are you finding it being back at Blackloch?’
‘Well enough,’ she said in a tone that would have soured the freshest of milk. She eyed him with cold dislike. ‘There are no amends that you can make for what you did, Sebastian. You cannot expect that I will forgive you.’
‘I do not,’ he said easily and lifted Miss Allardyce’s cards from the table. He fanned them out, looking at them. ‘Is Miss Allardyce to play?’
His mother gave a grudging nod.
Hunter gestured for another card from the banker’s pile. And his mother slid one face down across the baize towards him. He noticed the arthritic knuckles above the large cluster of diamonds that glittered upon her fingers, and the slight tremor that held them.
‘I did not know you had taken on a companion.’
‘There is much you do not know about me, Sebastian.’
‘You did not advertise the position in the Glasgow Herald; I would have seen it.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the cards as if musing what move to make. His attention was seemingly focused entirely upon the fan of cards within his hand.
‘Miss Allardyce came to me recommended by a friend. She is from a good family, the daughter of a knight, no less, albeit in unfortunate circumstances.’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Hunter and played his card.
His mother nodded appreciatively at his choice. She sniffed and regarded her own cards more closely, then filled the silence as he had hoped. ‘She is left alone while her father, a Sir Henry Allardyce, is hospitalised. I offered my assistance when I heard of her situation.’
‘You are too good, Mother, taking in waifs and strays.’
‘Do not be sharp, Sebastian. It does not suit you.’ He gave a small smile of amusement. She played a card.
Hunter eyed it. ‘Your card skills have improved.’
His mother tried not to show it, but he could tell she was pleased with the compliment.
‘Did she offer a letter of recommendation, a character?’
‘Of course not. I told you, she is a gentleman’s daughter with no previous experience of such a position.’ His mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are very interested in Miss Allardyce all of a sudden. Do not think to start with any of your rakish nonsense. I will not stand for it. She is my companion.’
‘Miss Allardyce is not my type,’ he said coolly. ‘As well you know.’
Her cheeks coloured faintly at his reference to the light-skirts
in whom he had previously taken such interest. ‘There is no need for vulgarity.’
‘I apologise if I have offended you.’ He inclined his head. ‘My concern is with you, Mother, and if that warrants an interest in those you take into your employ, particularly in positions of such confidence, then I make no apology for that. What do you really know of the girl? Of her trustworthiness and her background?’
‘Oh, do not speak of concern for me, for I know full well that you have none,’ she snapped. The disdain was back in her eyes, their momentary truce broken. ‘And as for Miss Allardyce, or any of my staff, I will not be dictated to, nor will I have my choice vetted by you. To put it bluntly, Sebastian, it is none of your business.’
‘On the contrary, I owe it to my father—’
‘Do not dare speak his name! You have no right, no damned right at all!’ And she threw the cards down on the table and swept from the room.
Phoebe spent the next hour trying to pacify her employer in the lady’s rooms.
‘Come, cease your pacing, Mrs Hunter. You will make yourself ill.’ Already the older woman’s face was pale and pinched. She ignored Phoebe and continued her movement about the room.
‘How dare he?’ she mumbled to herself.
‘Mr Hunter has upset you,’ Phoebe said with concern.
‘My son’s very existence upsets me,’ muttered Mrs Hunter in a harsh voice. ‘I rue the day he was born.’
Phoebe masked her shock before it showed. ‘I am sure you do not mean that, ma’am. Let me ring for some tea. It will make you feel better.’
‘I do not want yet another cup of tea, Phoebe,’ she snapped. ‘And, yes, when it comes to Sebastian, I mean every word that I say.’ She stopped by the window, leaning her hands upon the sill to stare out of the front of the house across the moor. ‘I hate my son,’ she said more quietly in a tone like ice. ‘It is an admission that no mother should make, but it is the truth.’ She glanced round at Phoebe. ‘I have shocked you, have I not?’
‘A little,’ admitted Phoebe.
She turned to face her fully. ‘If you knew what he has done, you would understand.’
Phoebe felt her blood run cold at the words. Tell me, she wanted to say.
Mrs Hunter looked at Phoebe for a moment as if she had heard the silent plea, then the anger drained away. In its place was exhaustion and a fragility that Phoebe had never before seen there. Her face was pale and peaked and as Phoebe looked she realised Mrs Hunter looked old and ill.
‘Do you wish to speak of it?’
There was silence and for a moment, a very small moment, Phoebe thought she would. And then Mrs Hunter shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘I cannot.’ And then she pressed a hand to her forehead, half-shielding one eye as if she might weep.
Phoebe moved to take Mrs Hunter’s arm and guided her to sit in an armchair. She knelt by her side and took one of the lady’s hands within her own. ‘Is there anything that I might do to help?’
Mrs Hunter gave a little shake of the head and a weak smile. ‘You are a good and honest girl, Phoebe.’
Phoebe felt the guilt stain her cheeks. She glanced down uneasily, knowing that she had been less than honest and that thieving made her very bad.
Mrs Hunter sighed as her hand moved to her breastbone and she rubbed her fingers against the silk of her dress, feeling the golden locket that Phoebe knew lay hidden beneath. ‘My head aches almost as much as my heart.’ Her voice was unsteady and there was such an underlying pain there that Phoebe felt the ache of it in her own chest.
‘I could make you a feverfew tisane. It should relieve the pain a little.’
‘Yes. I would like that.’ Mrs Hunter patted Phoebe’s hand, then she rose and walked from the little sitting room towards her bedchamber. ‘And send Polly up. I wish to lie down for a while.’
Phoebe nodded and quietly left. Yet she could not stop wondering at the terrible deed in Hunter’s past that had made his mother hate him so.
McEwan came to him that evening with the information he had discovered.
‘Are you certain?’ Hunter demanded.
McEwan glanced up at him. ‘Absolutely. Sir Henry Allardyce was sent to gaol for an unpaid debt of fifteen hundred pounds some six months ago. He has been imprisoned in the Tolbooth ever since.’ McEwan tasted the brandy. ‘It seems that your instincts concerning Miss Allardyce were right, Hunter.’
Hunter said nothing, just toyed with the glass of brandy in his hand.
McEwan lounged back in the wing chair by the unlit fire. ‘I suppose it is understandable that she would lie over the matter. She is unlikely to have found a decent position otherwise.’
‘Indeed.’ Hunter took a small sip of brandy.
‘Will you tell Mrs Hunter?’
‘My mother will not thank me for the knowledge.’
‘Then we will leave Miss Allardyce to her secret.’
‘Not quite,’ said Hunter and set his glass down on the drum table between him and McEwan. He thought of Miss Allardyce in his study and of the lies she had spun, and he could not rid himself of the notion that there was more to the mystery surrounding the girl than simply hiding her father’s fate.
McEwan listened while Hunter told him his plan and then left to rush back to his Mairi. Hunter lifted his glass and stood by the window, looking out over the moor. In all these months not once had he even looked at a woman. He was the man his father had wanted him to be. And yet it was all too little, too late. The past could not be undone. Some sins could never be washed clean. And Hunter would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. All he had were the vows he had sworn and his determination to honour them. And now it seemed even they were to be tried.
Fate was taunting him, testing him. Throwing temptation in his path, and such a temptation that Hunter could never have imagined, wrapped in the guise of a plain and ordinary girl, except there was nothing plain or ordinary about Phoebe Allardyce. For the sake of his mother there could be no more thought of avoiding Miss Allardyce. He sipped at the brandy and knew he would have to take an interest in the girl, whether he liked it or not. And in him burned a cold steady anger and a determination to honour the promises he had sworn.
Mrs Hunter was still in bed as Phoebe hurried down the main staircase two mornings later, reticule in hand, shawl around her shoulders. Through the window she could see the sky was an expanse of dull grey filled with the promise of rain, and all around her the air held a nip that boded of the end of summer. Phoebe’s normally bright spirits on a Tuesday morning were clouded by the prospect of meeting the Messenger empty-handed. Ahead of her the front door of Blackloch lay open, rendering the house all the more chilled for the cold seeping breeze. But Phoebe barely noticed; her mind was filled with thoughts of her father as she crossed the smooth grey flags of the hallway.
She was through the doorway, down the stone steps and out onto the driveway before she realised that Jamie was not wearing his normal clothes, but a smart black-and-silver livery. Where the gig should have stood was a sleek and glossy black coach complete with coachman in a uniform to match Jamie’s.
‘Miss Allardyce.’ The voice sounded behind her; his booted footsteps came down the steps, then crunched upon the gravel. And she did not need to turn to know who it was that had spoken for the whole of her body seemed to tingle and her heart gave a flutter.
She turned, showing not one hint of her reaction to him. ‘Mr Hunter.’
‘Forgive me for borrowing Jamie when you had asked him to drive you to Kingswell, but I have a meeting in Glasgow and as we are both travelling the same way I thought we might travel together.’
For just one awful moment Phoebe felt the mask slip and something of her horror show. They could not possibly travel together, not when she was going to the Tolbooth gaol. But she could think of not a single excuse to extricate herself from the situation. She forced the smile to her face and looked at him perhaps a little too brightly so that he would not fathom anything of her real tho
ughts on the matter.
‘I thank you for your offer, sir, but I could not possibly put you to such inconvenience.’
‘It is no inconvenience, Miss Allardyce.’ He was standing close to her, looking down into her face with the same brooding intensity he always wore. Those stark ice-green eyes, the gaze that seemed to see too much. She glanced away, feeling uncommonly hot and flustered, and pretended to fix the handle on her reticule.
‘Indeed, I insist upon it, the roads being as unsafe as they are these days.’ ‘I …’
But he was already walking the few steps to the coach.
Jamie had already opened the door and pulled down the step.
Hunter reached the door and turned to her. ‘After you, Miss Allardyce.’
She stared at the coach, consternation filling her every pore, for she knew there was no means to escape this. Phoebe took a deep breath, thought of her father and climbed into the coach.
The interior was as dark as the outside. Black-velvet squabs upon black-leather upholstery. And at each window matching thick black-velvet curtains tied back to let in the daylight.
The ride was comfortable and smooth, but Phoebe could not relax, not with Hunter sitting opposite, his long black pantalooned legs stretched out by her side, so that his booted feet were close to the hem of her skirt; too close, she thought and she remembered the feel of him standing so near when she was half-naked, clutching the pile of clothes to her breast. She blushed and pushed the memory away.
His boots looked as if they were new, as black and gleaming as the horses that pulled the coach. Her eyes travelled up to his thighs, noting that the pantaloons did little to disguise the muscles beneath. Phoebe realised what she was doing, blushed again and averted her eyes to look out of the window at the passing moorland. But even then she was too conscious of him, of the sheer size of him, of his strength and his very presence. The coach seemed too small a space and the atmosphere held a strain. Her hands clasped tighter together.
‘To which hospital do I deliver you?’
She ignored his question. ‘Mrs Hunter has then told you something of my situation?’ she said carefully.
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 6
