A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘Phoebe. You are pink-cheeked and puffing. Come and sit down.’

  She sat in the chair across the table from her father in his prison cell.

  ‘The day is warm.’ She smiled as she gave the excuse, but her gaze was busy studying his face, checking that his bruises were fading and that he had taken no new hurts.

  ‘You look radiant, child,’ he observed. ‘Just like your mother when she was young and in love.’ He smiled and his eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered her mama from across the years. ‘Something of the moor air must be agreeing with you.’

  Phoebe’s heart gave a little flutter as she thought of Hunter and realised that her father was not so very far away from the truth. She glanced away so that he would not see it in her eyes.

  ‘How are you enjoying Blackloch Hall?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well, indeed.’ Phoebe relayed something of her days at Blackloch, rambling on, telling her papa all the small details of the farmsteads and the tenants and the coaching accident that she knew he would be interested to hear. She made no mention of Mrs Beattie or the baby.

  ‘So Hunter went to the gentlemen’s assistance?’

  She nodded. ‘He cleared the road of the damaged vehicle and had the shaken passengers transported to Glasgow in his own coach.’

  Her papa looked at her with such an expression of surprise on his face that she wondered if she had said too much of Hunter.

  Her gaze dropped, moving over the sheets of paper strewn in piles across the table’s surface between them. Her papa’s writing was small and cramped and he had filled the sheets one way, before turning the paper at a right angle and writing across the lines of words already there, making a lattice of words that utilised every available space on the paper.

  ‘I am sorry that I could not bring more paper with me today,’ she said to change the subject from Hunter. Indeed, there had barely been enough to pay to the turnkey.

  ‘You are here, and that is all that matters to me. To see your face, Phoebe, it gladdens my heart.’

  ‘Dearest Papa,’ she whispered and felt the emotion sweep over her. ‘How does your book come along?’

  Sir Henry nodded. ‘Nicely enough, although I have had a new thought concerning one of my hypotheses.’ A distant look came into his eyes. Phoebe recognised it well. Her father was thinking of his chemistry. ‘I might need to write to young Davy on the matter. I wonder …’

  She felt a measure of reassurance that her papa must be feeling his old self if he was so absorbed in his science.

  ‘Mmm …’ And it was some minutes later before Sir Henry remembered that she was sitting there before him.

  She laughed aloud; so did he and the sound of his laughter eased the worry from her heart.

  ‘I did not tell you, did I, my dear? I am to have a new cellmate.’

  The laughter died upon her lips. ‘A new cellmate?’

  ‘Before the week is out. Wonderful news, is it not? I do like some company.’ He stopped, staring at her with eyes laden with concern. ‘What is wrong, child? You look as if you have just heard a death knell. Is it something I said?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. Nothing is wrong.’ She shook her head and forced a smile. ‘It is wonderful news indeed, Papa.’ And all of the danger and the threat was back in the space of a moment, all that she had not thought of in these past days with Hunter. ‘Now tell me all about your book,’ she asked to distract him.

  Her father smiled and began to tell her all about his latest theory.

  If her visit to the Tolbooth had not been enough to remind Phoebe that the Messenger meant what he said, there was no room for doubt the following morning. When Phoebe met with Mrs Hunter in her little sitting room at ten o’clock, the lady was positively beaming, a sight that in Mrs Hunter was rare indeed.

  ‘We are going to Glasgow today to order ourselves some new dresses.’

  ‘New dresses, but—’ Phoebe thought of the few coins in her purse.

  But Mrs Hunter rushed on. ‘For London. Caroline Edingham, Lady Willaston, has written to me, insisting that I visit her at the start of next month, and do you know, Phoebe, I am going to go. It is exactly what I need.’ Mrs Hunter flicked a finger at Polly to pass her the fashion journals from the table in the corner. ‘And, of course, it goes without speaking that, as my companion, you will be coming with me.’

  Phoebe stared at Mrs Hunter, speechless as the memory of the Messenger’s words ran through her head: At the start of September Mrs Hunter’ll be travelling down to London to visit a friend, no doubt taking her trusty companion with her.

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Hunter, quite misinterpreting Phoebe’s shock. ‘Is it not just too too good? And I am sure that your papa, even with his current state of health, would not wish you to miss such an opportunity.’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Phoebe weakly. The Messenger was setting everything in motion just as he had promised.

  ‘Well, I mean to convince him, even if I have to go up to that hospital and tell him myself.’ Mrs Hunter smiled.

  Phoebe could barely keep the horror from her face. It was the nightmare come true.

  ‘La, I declare I have not felt so excited in an age. In two weeks, Phoebe, we shall be in London,’ she said. ‘Only two weeks. And there is so much to be done.’

  ‘So much indeed,’ murmured Phoebe. Two weeks to find what she sought. Two weeks to evade Hunter and her feelings for him. Two weeks to save her papa’s life.

  Hunter made his way towards the drawing room. A week had passed since his mother’s announcement of her trip to London, during which Phoebe had successfully avoided him thanks largely to his mother spending all day every day shopping in Glasgow.

  ‘A strong box is a splendid idea for the town house, Phoebe,’ Hunter heard his mother saying as he approached the half-opened door. ‘At least I know my jewellery would be safe.’

  ‘Maybe you should use one here. Does Blackloch Hall possess such a thing?’ She was trying to sound casual, but he could hear the slight tension beneath the façade. Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He stopped where he was and listened in.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ His mother did not seem to notice anything amiss with the question. ‘My husband had one in our town house in London, but never here. I believe Edward never thought Blackloch at risk of break-ins.’

  ‘He was most probably right,’ he heard Phoebe say in a reassuring tone. ‘Blackloch is a most secure place.’ He felt a small measure of relief that at least she had not frightened his mother by revealing her knowledge of Blackloch’s burglaries. There was a pause and then she said, ‘Mrs Hunter, I could not help but notice the preponderance of wolves in the decoration of Blackloch. It is most unusual.’

  ‘And quite frightful, I know, my dear, but the wolf is the Hunter family emblem. I believe it stems from some play on the name; the original Hunters must have been hunters in the true sense of the word, just as much as the wolf. Men and their silly games!’ His mother gave a small laugh. ‘But enough of this talk, Phoebe. We have more important matters to discuss, such as your stubborn refusal to permit me to buy you more than one new dress.’

  ‘Your offer was most kind and I thank you for it, but I have more than enough serviceable dresses.’ Hunter thought of the bloodstains that had marred the bodice of her dress the night he had brought her back to Blackloch. ‘And you have already been more than generous to me.’

  He turned and quietly retraced his steps away from the drawing room.

  The day grew more dismal as it progressed. There was a dampness in the air, a dull grey oppression that brought on one of Mrs Hunter’s headaches and lowered everyone’s spirits. At three o’clock the lady took a tisane of feverfew and went to lie down, leaving Phoebe to brood alone in her bedchamber.

  Phoebe paced the room. She could not rest, could not even sit still. And she dared not go down to the drawing room, for Hunter was about and she had no wish to let him see her, not when she felt so worried and anxious and desperately ill a
t ease. She did not doubt that he would fathom something of her distress, and what could she tell him when he asked the reason?

  Events were slotting into place, all of them engineered by the Messenger. He would be waiting for her in London, waiting for what she was supposed to have found, except that she had searched everywhere in Blackloch that she could think of and discovered nothing. And when she arrived in London he would find her and learn that truth. She knew what the consequences would be for her papa. Her palms grew clammy and she felt queasy. She had not found what the Messenger wanted. And she knew she was falling in love with Hunter. It was all of it a mess, a terrible dangerous mess.

  Phoebe stood by the window and stared out at the black water of the loch, and the great dark heavy sky, and the wild bleakness of the moor, and felt something of its dark beauty touch her spirit. She leaned her forehead against the window pane so that its coolness soothed the heat from her head, and let the moor calm her.

  ‘So we are no closer to solving the mystery of Miss Allardyce?’ McEwan asked as he stood by the fireplace of Hunter’s study, watching the golden lick of flames devour the coal.

  ‘Further investigation is required,’ said Hunter. He did not look round at McEwan, just stood by the window staring out over the moor. It was dark today beneath an ominous leaden sky. Not a breath of breeze to stir the slow creeping stillness. He did not want to tell McEwan how much he had learned of Phoebe Allardyce in these few short weeks and how much he had come to feel for her. None of it mattered. She was still a would-be thief. He had not yet discovered what she was looking for.

  ‘The man has never shown for any of her prison visits. I followed her each time. There has been no one. And your contact in Glasgow could turn up no further information upon her. Perhaps you were mistaken, Hunter. Perhaps you should just let it be.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are spending much time with Miss Allardyce.’

  ‘It is a necessary part of my investigation.’ Hunter turned to look at McEwan.

  ‘People are beginning to notice.’

  Hunter narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. ‘She is a would-be thief.’

  ‘She is also your mother’s companion, a lady and a young and comely one at that.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That you should be careful if you do not wish to find yourself having to offer for her.’

  ‘I am intent on discovering the truth, not bedding her.’ Yet the thought of bedding Phoebe Allardyce was dangerously arousing. ‘I have not had a woman these nine months past. I have not gambled. I am not a damned rake.’ He was keeping the promises he had sworn.

  ‘I know, Sebastian.’ McEwan clapped a hand against his shoulder. ‘Just have a care, that is all I am saying.’ And McEwan left, leaving Hunter sitting alone.

  The wind tapped against his window, moaning softly, stirring the deep red of the curtains. He thought of Phoebe and all he had not said to McEwan: that he wanted her, that he cared for her, even knowing that she was a liar and had searched his home. He stroked at his chin, his fingers toying with its cleft. She had even quizzed his mother. And now he was sure she was avoiding him. Hunter pushed aside his emotions, deadened them, just as he had all of the months past. This was about a threat to his mother’s safety. He could not afford to let his feelings for Phoebe sway him.

  He rang the bell for a footman, and summoned Miss Allardyce.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You wished to see me, Mr Hunter.’ Phoebe was determined to keep matters on a formal footing. She faced him with a feigned serenity, showing nothing of her worries, nothing of the feelings that roared in such turmoil. Behind her the study door remained open as was only appropriate for a single lady alone in a room with a gentleman.

  ‘Close the door and come and sit down.’

  ‘I do not think that is—’

  ‘Just do it, Phoebe.’ The tone of his voice was almost weary.

  She turned to close the door and there it was. Facing her. On the wall beside the door. A portrait of a man with the same brilliant green eyes as Hunter, a man whose face had the same classical features, but aged by the years. Instead of the dark ruffle of ebony hair, the man’s hair in the painting was a dark peppered silver. But upon his face was the same brooding expression that Hunter wore. She saw all these things in a second, but none of them was why she was staring at the painting. Her heart began to beat very fast. ‘Phoebe?’

  She knew she should turn away and answer Hunter, but she could not. She walked closer to the painting, peering up at its every detail as the tension coursed through her body.

  ‘My father,’ he said and she could hear the slight change in his voice.

  All was quiet in the room. She heard the spit of logs on the fire, as the flames licked around the wood to release the subtle scent of pine throughout the study, and the slow ticking of the clock. Phoebe knew how difficult this might be for Hunter. She did not want to hurt him, but she had to ask the question.

  ‘The ring he is wearing …’

  She did not hear Hunter move, but felt his sudden close presence. The words she spoke were calm and quiet, a stark contrast to the roar of tension through her body. ‘A silver wolf’s head with emerald eyes.’ It matched precisely the description the Messenger had given her. ‘A most unusual design,’ she said and did not dare to look round at him.

  ‘One of a kind, so my father told me.’ Hunter answered, his voice so close behind her she felt the nape of her neck and shoulder tingle.

  ‘I wonder what became of the ring …?’ There did not seem to be enough air in the room. The clamminess prickled upon her palms.

  ‘It was my father’s,’ said Hunter, ‘and now it is mine.’

  ‘You must consider it to be the most precious of keepsakes.’

  ‘I do. It was the last thing my father gave to me, the last tangible link between us.’

  His words made her falter—she remembered how very much it had hurt to part with Elspeth’s possessions. And it seemed that from across the years she heard again the sound of her father’s grief, sobbing in the depth of the night when he thought there was none to hear. Papa. The thought of him was enough to push her to the task. The quiver of her nerves stilled.

  ‘The ring,’ she said quietly, and her eyes never left the portrait. ‘Where is it now?’

  She felt Hunter’s hand rest upon her right shoulder and schooled herself not to react. He moved, turning her as he did so, so that they were standing face to face. She kept her eyes trained upon his cravat, on the knot he had used to tie it. The minutes stretched and still Hunter was waiting and she knew she must meet him head on over this. She raised her gaze to meet his.

  They looked at one another across that tiny divide and the very air seemed to crackle between them.

  ‘Guarded most carefully,’ he said, ‘close to my heart.’

  Phoebe’s focus dropped to Hunter’s chest.

  The wind howled across the moor and the branches of the old clambering rose tapped against the study window.

  Slowly she reached her hand out to lay it very gently against his black superfine lapel. Through all the layers of shirt and waistcoat and coat Phoebe could feel the strong steady beat of his heart. Inch by tiny inch, as if dragged by a will that was not her own, Phoebe raised her eyes to look into Hunter’s, and they were the colour of a Hebridean sea. As they stared into one another’s eyes the distance between them seemed to shrink.

  She knew she should look away, drop her fingers from where they touched him, change the subject to talk of small trivial matters. She knew all of that, yet she did none of them. And when Hunter took her mouth with his own she met his lips with a passion that flared through the entirety of her being. Her hand slid up his lapel to the nape of his neck. She felt his arms close around her, felt him pull her so that their bodies stood snug together, her breasts crushed against the hard muscle of his chest. She kissed him with all the need that was in her soul.

  There wa
s a slight tap at the door as it swung fully open. Hunter and Phoebe jumped apart.

  ‘Forgot to leave these—’ McEwan stopped, the shock evident upon his face. ‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said and retreated as quickly as he had entered, the thin pile of papers still gripped within his hand. The door closed firmly behind him.

  Phoebe stared, horrified at what she had just done. She glanced at Hunter. His normally pale cheeks held a faint touch of colour. His hair was dishevelled where she had threaded her fingers, and there was a slight elevation in his breathing. And in his eyes was shock and desire and anger. She said not a word, just turned and fled.

  McEwan did not let the matter lie.

  ‘What the hell are you thinking of, Hunter?’ His steward ceased his pacing, raked a hand through his hair and stared across the study at Hunter in disbelief. ‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on her, not seducing the girl.’

  ‘I was not seducing her,’ Hunter said stiffly and wondered if he had not set out to seduce Phoebe Allardyce from the very start.

  ‘Then she was seducing you? To get her hands on whatever it is that she is supposed to be seeking?’

  Hunter’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Or is all of this just an excuse that you might have her?’

  ‘Be careful, McEwan. You go too far.’ His voice was cold and hard-edged.

  McEwan stopped pacing and came to stand before him. ‘I am sorry, Sebastian, but I am worried for you. I thought at first this business with Phoebe Allardyce was a blessing in disguise. It drew you out of your megrims, gave you a purpose, a task on which to focus.’

  ‘No.’ Hunter shook his head in denial.

  ‘Yes, Hunter,’ McEwan affirmed. ‘When was the last time you sat in this study the whole night through? When was the last time you drank a bottle of brandy in one sitting? Do you observe no correlation with Miss Allardyce’s arrival?’