Chapter Fourteen
In the privacy of her bedchamber Phoebe stared again at the letter that had been delivered that morning. A letter that comprised only three words: We are waiting.
And whatever she might have been hoping, that the postponed trip to London might have in some way meant that the nightmare had vanished, those three words told her that she was wrong. Whether she went to London or not, whether she was here at Blackloch, or in Mrs Hunter’s house in Charlotte Street, the Messenger would find a way to reach her … and, more importantly, her papa. She did not have the ring. Indeed, she was no closer to finding it now than she had been the first day she had arrived at Blackloch. Hunter had it, guarded most carefully as he had said. Maybe not even in Blackloch. Maybe in a bank or safety deposit box. Wherever it was, Phoebe had almost given up hope of finding it. And when she thought of what that meant she wanted to weep.
The clock had just chimed five when she heard Mrs Hunter’s bedchamber door open and the lady’s slippered steps across the passageway.
Phoebe screwed the letter to a ball and threw it onto the fire, watching the flames consume the paper and burn it to a cinder. Then she straightened her back, held her head up and went to follow Mrs Hunter down for dinner.
Hunter waited until both his mother and Phoebe were seated before he took his own seat. Hunter was at the head of the table, Mrs Hunter at the foot; Phoebe sat in between the two, her back to the windows and facing the door.
‘Such fine salmon,’ commented Mrs Hunter. ‘I must compliment Cook.’ Phoebe watched her clearing her plate. Such a marked change for the lady who, in all the months that Phoebe had worked for her, had only ever picked at her food. The lines of Mrs Hunter’s face were no longer gaunt and sharp looking; she looked softer, happier, more agreeable. In contrast, Phoebe was feeling tense and worried. She had not the slightest appetite and there was a tinge of nausea in her stomach. She poked her salmon around her plate to make it look as if she were eating it, and cut her beef into small pieces, only one of which passed her lips.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Hunter.
The conversation passed on around her. Phoebe made small noises of agreement, but otherwise said little. Plates were delivered and removed. All she could think of was her papa.
‘But you are not recovered enough to endure the rigours of such a journey, Sebastian.’ Mrs Hunter’s exclamation brought her from her reverie. Phoebe noticed that the last of the plates had been removed.
‘Mother, I am perfectly recovered and the injury was the merest scratch in the first place.’
‘I am not sure.’ Mrs Hunter sounded doubtful.
‘Besides, Arlesford has written to me. He is expecting an addition to his nursery. He and Arabella are planning a ball to celebrate the good news and we are invited.’
Hunter rose from his seat and walked down the side of the table opposite to Phoebe, pausing just past her. He produced a letter from the pocket of his dark tailcoat and passed it to his mother with his right hand. His left hand leaned flat upon the table as he did so.
Mrs Hunter slipped her spectacles from around her neck onto her nose and read the opened letter. ‘How delightful! And I suppose it would be such a shame to disappoint Lady Willaston. It was so kind of her to invite me and she was to have thrown a card rout in my honour.’ Her eyes moved to Phoebe and they were filled with concern. ‘What say you, my dear? Given what happened upon the moor, I would understand perfectly if you do not wish to travel to London.’
Phoebe barely heard the question. She was too busy staring at Hunter’s hand leaning upon the crisp white tablecloth, at his long, square tipped fingers. Her heart began to race. She bit her lip and slowly raised her gaze to his.
Hunter’s eyes glittered as green and intense as the emeralds in the silver wolf’s-head ring that he wore.
‘Phoebe?’ Mrs Hunter prompted.
She drew her gaze away from Hunter’s. ‘London sounds delightful. It is exactly what we need at this moment in time.’ She did not know how she managed to keep her voice so calm and level when everything of her emotions was in such chaos.
‘I am so glad that you think so, my dear.’ Mrs Hunter smiled and returned the letter to her son. ‘When shall we leave?’
‘As soon as possible,’ said Hunter as he slipped the letter into his pocket. ‘Unless Miss Allardyce has any objection.’
‘I have no objection whatsoever.’ She tried to feign a smile, but could not do it. The relief was sour, tainted by deep sickening dread. In her ears she heard only the whisper of betrayal and in her heart felt a deep pulsating ache.
‘In that case, come along, Phoebe, we shall leave Sebastian to his port and organise the maids to our packing.’
As she followed Mrs Hunter out of the dining room Phoebe could not help glancing back at Hunter. He was still watching her, his gaze intense. And Phoebe shivered at the prospect of all that lay ahead.
They travelled to London in Hunter’s sleek black travelling coach, after Phoebe had visited the Tolbooth gaol to bid her papa farewell. Hunter himself insisted upon riding, despite all of his mother’s protestations, and, although she worried about whether his arm was healed enough, Phoebe was glad. There was such a tension of feelings between them; she feared that, once they were enclosed within such a small space, his mother would be aware of it.
They broke the journey twice, staying in expensive and comfortable inns, Phoebe and Mrs Hunter sharing a room, Hunter in his own. And with every hour that passed, and every mile that took them closer to London, Phoebe felt as if she were travelling to some sort of inevitability that could not be stopped. Hunter treated her just as a gentleman should treat his mother’s companion, nothing more, but when he drew near, when his glance met hers, her whole body flared its response and her heart glowed with love. And from the look in his eyes she knew that he felt it, too.
Every day her eyes scanned his fingers for the ring: she saw it only once more and then thereafter, when he removed his gloves, his hands were bare. And even if he were to wear it, there was only one way she could think of to glean it from him and she could not bear the thought of tricking him, of seducing him, of stealing from him. Soon they would be in London, and soon the Messenger would make contact. Phoebe tried not to think of what was coming.
The town house, in Grosvenor Street, held many memories for Hunter. The smart terraced house of golden sandstone had belonged to his father the last time Sebastian had stayed here, and now it belonged to Sebastian. The paintwork around the door and Palladian windows still appeared a fresh glossy black, the window panes sparkled and the steps were scrubbed and clean, just as if the house had not lain empty for almost a year. Even the door knocker had been replaced for their arrival by Trenton, Hunter’s caretaker butler, and Mrs Trenton, his housekeeper-wife.
They had been in London for four days. Four days of shopping and excursions, routs and musicales, none of which had seen Hunter alone with Phoebe.
He stood in the empty echoing hallway. The black-and-white chequered marble floor gleamed a reflection of the crystal-and-obsidian-tiered chandelier that hung suspended from the high ceiling. To the right-hand side, close to the door that led into the drawing room, stood a circular table inlaid with mother of pearl and obsidian, and upon which was a silvered glass vase containing a huge bloom of white flowers. On the wall on the left, above the black chinoiserie chairs lined with their backs to the wallpaper, was a large elaborate gold-framed mirror. The décor of the house, in all rooms save for the study, was elegant, sophisticated and in stark contrast to the sturdy old comfort of Blackloch. The smell of the place filled his nostrils, Mrs Trenton’s own beeswax polish mix and the echoes of his father and the years he had spent here.
He stood there in the silence, absorbing it all, letting the memories of last year and all that had been wash over him. There was still a sadness, but the terrible eroding guilt had lessened since the night of the thunderstorm with Phoebe. She believed in him. She did not blame him.
From the drawing room came the tinkling of women’s laughter: his mother and her friends … and Phoebe. A vision of Phoebe played in his head. For all that they had not been alone, that was not due to Phoebe. She was no longer avoiding him. She had seen the ring. It was just a matter of time before she came to his room.
He lifted his hat, gloves and cane and went off to spend another afternoon at the home of his friend, Dominic Furneaux, the Duke of Arlesford.
‘So let me get this straight. This Miss Allardyce has ignored rolls of bank notes and bags of sovereigns, your mother’s diamonds and the priceless paintings hung in your drawing room to search exclusively for a ring.’
Hunter could see the way Arlesford was looking at him across the library. He glanced away so that his friend would glean nothing of the depth of his feelings over the matter.
‘Most peculiar.’ Arlesford frowned as he thought. ‘And there is nothing in particular about this ring?’ The Duke picked up the brandy decanter and poured a measure into each of two glasses, passing one to Hunter before sipping from the other himself. ‘Aside from the fact it was your father’s and thus has significance to you,’ he added more gently.
‘The ring is indeed precious to me, more so than you can imagine, but why it should be so to any other is a mystery. There is nothing exceptional about it apart from its unusual design. I have only seen its like once before, on a cane belonging to our favourite viscount.’
Arlesford’s frown deepened.
‘But quite what that means I do not know. Silver and chip emeralds are hardly worth a mint.’ Hunter took the brandy with a murmur of thanks. He took a single sip and then set it down on the occasional table. ‘And then there was the man she met with outside the gaol.’
‘He might have been a lover, rather than an accomplice.’ Arlesford arched an eyebrow. ‘Or maybe even both.’
Hunter felt himself tense. The muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘He was not her lover.’ ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Just a gut instinct,’ he said, keeping his voice flat and without emotion so that Arlesford would not guess the truth.
‘And the letter she recently received?’
‘Whatever was written within it frightened her for all that she tried to hide it.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Arlesford sipped at his brandy.
‘Intimidation.’
‘Not that some collector with an eye for the unusual, perhaps even Linwood himself, has found himself a little thief willing to steal for him?’
‘She is not like that.’
‘She certainly has you on her side.’ Arlesford smiled in a suggestive way. ‘Pretty little thing, is she? Captured your fancy?’
Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He stopped pacing and came to stand directly before Arlesford in a warning stance. ‘Have a care over how you speak of Miss Allardyce.’
‘What aren’t you telling me, Hunter?’
‘There is nothing else you need to know.’
Arlesford’s eyes were too perceptive as he looked down into Hunter’s face. ‘She is a thief and your mother’s companion,’ he said.
‘My mother’s companion maybe, but Phoebe is no thief.’
‘Phoebe?’ Arlesford arched an eyebrow.
‘Damn it, Dominic,’ snapped Hunter.
A knock sounded at the door and Arlesford’s wife, Arabella, entered. She smiled a radiant smile at her husband, before speaking to Hunter.
‘I thought I heard your voice, Sebastian.’
‘Arabella.’ Hunter bowed.
‘So glad to see you again. Now, tell me, are you and your mother attending Lady Routledge’s ball this evening?’
‘We are.’ He thought of Phoebe.
‘How lovely. Please tell her I am so looking forward to seeing her again.’
‘I will.’ Hunter nodded. ‘If you will excuse me, I must head back to Grosvenor Street.’
As Hunter made his way down the stone steps outside Arlesford House, the Duke and Duchess of Arlesford stood by the library window and watched him. Arabella leaned back against her husband as he wrapped his arms around her.
‘He is more changed than I realised, Dominic. He seems a man with something pressing upon his mind.’
‘Indeed he is, my love,’ said the Duke. ‘And from the looks of it, a deal more than he is willing to admit.’
At Lady Routledge’s ball that evening Phoebe sat with Mrs Hunter and a group of her friends, two of whom were accompanied by their own companions. She was only half-listening to the chatter going on around her; she was too aware of Hunter leaning against a nearby Doric column, of the brooding expression upon his face and the way his gaze came too often to rest upon her face.
‘Is that not so, Miss Allardyce?’ Mrs Hunter asked.
‘Indeed, yes, ma’am,’ she answered as if she had been following the conversation most carefully. And when she slid a surreptitious glance across at Hunter again he was still watching her.
She turned her gaze away and looked longingly at the dance floor, where Hunter’s friend the Duke of Arlesford was dancing with his wife. Arabella Furneaux, Arlesford’s duchess, was by far the most beautiful woman in the whole ballroom. Tall and elegant, she wore her hair piled in a mass of golden shining curls high at the back of her head, several of which had escaped to trail artlessly around her perfect throat. The dove-grey silk dress overset with silver gossamer must have cost a small fortune if its cut and fit and richness of material were anything to judge by. Next to Arabella, Phoebe felt drab and old-fashioned in her old green-silk evening gown. But the duchess was also kind and warm and had included Phoebe completely in her conversations with Mrs Hunter. And when the dance was over, and Arlesford delivered her back to the seat she had taken beside Phoebe and Mrs Hunter, Phoebe saw Mrs Hunter glow with pride at her favour with a duchess. And soon the ladies were all of a-chatter again.
Across the ballroom behind the pillars, Hunter was standing beside Arlesford, talking to Bullford and feeling ashamed of his shoddy treatment of his old friend at their last meeting in Glasgow.
‘Think nothing of it, old man,’ Bullford waved away Hunter’s apology. ‘Just glad to see you are feeling better.’
Hunter nodded. ‘You enjoyed your visit with Kelvin?’ Over Bullford’s shoulder he had a good view of Phoebe. Arabella was sitting by her side and the three ladies seemed deep in conversation.
‘Grand to see the old boy again. Had a splendid time. Even if it was m’father that forced me to make the trip. Can’t upset the old man.’
‘Quite,’ said Hunter curtly.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to …’ Bullford blushed. Hunter relaxed a bit, knowing that it was his own sensitivity and not Bullford that was causing the problem.
‘I know, Bullford.’
‘Damned good at putting my foot in it these days.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘My fault, not yours.’
Bullford gave a nod and smiled in his usual good-natured way. ‘Your mother in good health, Hunter?’ Bullford turned to look across at Mrs Hunter.
‘She is.’ The three men’s gazes moved across the room to where Mrs Hunter was sitting. But Hunter was not looking at his mother.
‘Who is the pretty girl with Mrs H.?’
Hunter frowned. ‘That is Miss Phoebe Allardyce, my mother’s companion.’
‘Looking at the dance floor as if she’d like to be up there. Mind if I ask her to dance, Hunter?’
Mind? Hunter felt a burst of fury just at the thought. He did not think that he could very well ask Phoebe to dance without raising a few eyebrows, notably those of his mother. But he would be damned if he’d see her being handled around the dance floor by some other man.
‘She is here to accompany my mother, not to spend the evening dancing,’ he said stiffly.
‘You’re dashed hard on the girl, Hunter. Mrs H. seems to have plenty of company at the minute, but naturally I would ask the lady’s permission first before stealing her companion onto the floor.’
&nbs
p; Arlesford drew Hunter a meaningful look.
Hunter remained stubbornly tight-lipped.
Arlesford trod on his toe.
‘When you put it like that, Bullford …’ Hunter said grudgingly.
‘Knew you wouldn’t be so unreasonable as to see the poor girl sat in a ballroom full of dancers and music the whole night, without so much as a chance to take a turn upon the floor for herself. Girls do so enjoy a dance. Should ask her up yourself, old man.’
Hunter resisted the urge to plant Bullford a facer right there and then, and had to stand and watch as Bullford made his way around the edge of the dance floor towards Phoebe.
‘Damnable rake!’ muttered Hunter. ‘He need not think to get any of his ideas about her.’
‘Bullford has cooled his heels much as you, Hunter. He is behaving himself these days. Besides, he is right; she has been looking at the dance floor as if she would care to take a spin upon it.’
Hunter clenched his jaw to stopper the reply he would have made.
Arlesford appeared oblivious. ‘Linwood is here.’
Arlesford did not make one movement, yet Hunter felt the tension emanate from his friend just at the mention of the viscount’s name. For all intents and purposes it appeared that Arlesford’s gaze was fixed on Bullford handling Phoebe up onto the dance floor, but Hunter knew that his friend’s attention was elsewhere.
‘Left-hand corner, opposite side of the room,’ said the duke quietly.
Hunter’s eyes sought out Linwood and found him standing behind the chairs where his mother and sister were seated. ‘He was with Bullford when I met him in Glasgow.’
‘I did not know the two of them were on such good terms,’ said Arlesford.
‘I believe their fathers are old friends.’ ‘Then more pity Bullford.’
Hunter did not give a damn about Linwood right at this moment. He was staring at Phoebe and Bullford and wondering how he was going to endure the rest of the night.
By one o’clock in the morning Phoebe and Mrs Hunter were making their way down the stone steps outside Lady Routledge’s house towards the carriage. Arlesford had called Hunter back into the hallway to say something to him.
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 17
