by The Spy
Survival became her primary concern. She had been forced to push her worry for Papa and her own loneliness to the small dark cellar of her mind, where it only showed itself in those barren moments when she awoke from yet another nightmare.
But there had been no nightmares last night in this fine house. Surely she had broken her trail this time. And now that she no longer had to worry about being hunted, she could concentrate on finding out what happened to Papa. Now she might be in a position to do more for him, if Mr. Cunnington turned out to be on the right side. Phillipa shook off her reverie, deciding to concentrate instead on the present.
Especially when the present included food.
Hesitating outside the breakfast room door, Phillipa tugged nervously at her cravat and looked down at herself to check that she’d not forgotten any masculine accouterments.
Cravat neatly tied—bloody awful thing, but it hid her lack of Adam’s apple nicely—waistcoat, boots newly shined, hair slicked back, hands authentically roughened by months without cream.
She was well equipped. At least, as well as she could be without . . . equipment.
Standing as tall as possible and squaring her shoulders, she reminded herself for the thousandth time to speak deeply and sit rudely. Then she opened the door with a nervous smile to greet—
No one. Not a soul. Her shoulders slumped. All that bloody work to get ready. Why, she’d risen two hours early just so the servants wouldn’t catch her before she’d bound her breasts and stuffed her trousers!
There was no one here to see. Well, then, she might as well eat. At least she wouldn’t have to watch herself every minute for fear of behaving strangely.
And she could eat whatever she wanted. All she wanted.
What a lovely thought.
Immensely cheered, Phillipa strode forward to prepare a plate for herself from the steaming trays on the sideboard. Eggs! She hadn’t seen an egg in weeks. And ham, wonderful salty flavorful ham. Eagerly, she filled her plate, led from one fragrant dish to another.
“Kippers!” she sighed aloud. “I shall simply die now, for I can only be in heaven.”
“Good Lord, Phillip, it’s only food.”
Phillipa jerked, her thumb slid into the gravy from the ham, and the plate flew from her grip as if she’d thrown it. All the lovely food spattered the table and several chairs, and there seemed to be a bit on the ceiling as well.
James Cunnington stood next to the table, picking egg from his shirtfront. “At least, it used to be food.” He peered mournfully about the room. “Did you leave any for me, Phillip? Or did you feed it all to the furniture?”
Dear God. The room was simply showered in food. The elegant furnishings were likely ruined. The ceiling plaster certainly was. Not to mention that her employer’s fine linen shirt was worth more than the entire balance of her wages.
Stunned, Phillipa could only stand there and watch her last chance to retrieve her father evaporate along with the smears of liquid on the mahogany tabletop. She’d be thrown out before she even got a bite of those kippers dangling so reproachfully from the chandelier.
She couldn’t breathe. She could only watch as Mr. Cunnington rounded the table and raised his hand—
To lift another plate from the stack in the warmer. He handed it to her, using his hands to wrap both sets of her fingers around the china rim. “Let’s start you out with two hands, Sir Flip-the-plate,” he said. Then he smiled.
Phillipa’s throat went dry. He was letting her stay, after what she had done? He was jesting about it? She sent a last wild glance around the room, but the devastation truly was as bad as she’d thought.
“But—I—”
“Had better stay out of Denny’s way for a few days. He won’t say a word, but he’ll ‘humph’ at you until it drives you mad.”
“Denny?”
“My manservant. Butler, housekeeper, and all-around nursemaid. You recall, the fellow in the grass-green monkey suit?” He turned to extract his own plate from the warmer. “The livery wasn’t my idea. My sister wanted apple red, but I refused. So she went behind my back and ordered apple green.” He filled his plate and took it to the table. “I hate bloody apples.”
The statement struck Phillipa oddly, jolting her from her stupor. “Everyone likes apples.” Good, her voice was only a tiny bit shaky.
She put a few items on her plate but her appetite had gone clean off. Gingerly she sat across from Mr. Cunnington, who had cleared half the table with one grand and largely useless sweep of a napkin.
“Not everybody. I don’t.”
“I love apples.” She shook out her own napkin. Egg rained down anew. Phillipa looked away quickly. “I cannot get enough of them, frankly.”
“Good. You eat them all.”
“All?”
“All twelve thousand bushels of them. Red ones, green ones, red and green ones . . .” He shuddered. “Can’t abide them, not a one.”
“You have twelve thousand bushels of apples? Whyever for?”
He sighed. “Because my sister wanted us to be the largest apple growers in Lancashire and I wasn’t there to tell her not to plant endless more acres of orchard.” He set his fork down as if he could no longer stomach his food. “It’s close to harvest, so right now the place reeks of apples. Soon it will be applesauce, apple cider, apple tarts as far as the eye can see—which is why we are in London instead of Lancashire.”
So he was landed and undoubtedly wealthy. Had some of that wealth come as payment for treasonous deeds? “We?”
“Robbie and I. And now you, of course.”
Phillipa took a bite of her eggs and savored them slowly. Perhaps she would be able to eat after all. Was it too soon to express more curiosity about her employer? Yesterday she’d gotten the impression that he didn’t appreciate too many questions.
Then again, as the one responsible for Robbie’s education, it would be in keeping with her role to want to know more. She cleared her throat and tried to deepen her voice a bit. “If I may ask, sir, where is Robbie’s mother?”
Mr. Cunnington shrugged and forked another bite of ham to his mouth. “Don’t know,” he said when he swallowed, then he tucked into his eggs with enthusiasm. His square jaw worked quickly and his muscular brown throat contracted, drawing Phillipa’s attention to the fact that his ruined shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest and she could see glimpses of the springy brown pelt on his chest.
Oh, yes, she remembered that chest . . .
Phillipa looked away, then forced herself to look back. Perhaps this was how men behaved when there were no ladies present to embarrass them. Fascinated by the concept, she wondered what else these mysterious creatures got up to when there were no women around.
“He’s an orphan, as far as we know,” her employer continued. “He says he has no parents, and by his mistreatment before he came to us, I don’t doubt his story. No one has ever stepped up to claim him.” Mr. Cunnington grinned fiercely. “Not that they could. Robbie has friends now.”
Phillipa blinked but did not comment. There was something strange about this man, with his amiable exterior and steely inner glint. “Do you know his precise age?”
Mr. Cunnington shook his head as he chewed and swallowed. “Even Robbie doesn’t know. Sometimes he claims twelve years but I think it is closer to nine. It’s difficult to tell. He can be a canny little scamp, a true cynic of the streets—then suddenly be so lost . . .”
His voice trailed off, then he shrugged and cleared his throat as if uncomfortable with his own notion.
Tossing his napkin alongside his empty plate, he stood. “Eat up, Sir Flip. You’ll need your strength today, I think.” He hesitated. “Only don’t . . . don’t expect too much from Robbie at first, will you? The poor little bloke’s had a hell of a time.”
Phillipa only nodded at her employer, then swallowed as Mr. Cunnington turned away. She opened her mouth to assure him of her patience—and forgot to close it. Without his coat, Mr. Cunnington’
s broad figure was neatly outlined in his soft shirt and snug trousers. And good gracious, what trousers!
Directly at her eye level, his rear was muscled and sculpted, flexing in a most fascinating way as he strode to the door. What a finely made creature he was!
He turned. Phillipa jerked her gaze up before she found herself eyeing the front of his trousers from the same altitude. She’d apparently been a bit too late, for Mr. Cunning-ton gazed at her oddly for a moment, then shook his head. “If there’s anything you need to purchase for the schoolroom, simply charge it to me.”
With those words he was gone, thankfully before Phillipa’s blush hit full glow. As the door swung shut, she pressed her palms to her face, trying to check the blood in her cheeks. It was such a burden being a redhead.
She suspected that her lifelong curse of coloring easily was about to be put to the test. Living here would put the blush to any sensible woman. She felt her cheeks cool under her palms. Good.
Now if she could only curb her straying gaze . . .
Chapter Five
Phillipa was ready to teach the world after two good meals from the Cunnington kitchens. Unfortunately, her schoolroom was not nearly as well prepared as she was.
In truth, the chamber was little more than an old nursery with bookshelves. The only furnishings were two child-sized chairs that had seen better days. There were a number of tall windows to let in good light and the place had been well dusted, but that was about all she could say for it.
Where were the books, the slates, the primers? For that matter, where were pen nibs and ink?
She was standing in the middle of the rather useless space, turning slowly as she examined every inch. Her hopes of finding anything with which to teach her student were lost when Robbie bounded in.
“What’s to do, then?” His gaze was wary, but expectant. She suspected that he was interested in learning in spite of his facade of indifference.
“I must go to the study for a moment to find something for you to read from—”
“Won’t do no good.”
She stopped. “Are you saying you refuse to read for me?”
He shrugged. His head was bent and his gaze fixed on the toe of his shoe as it worried the rug. “Not sayin’ so, not sayin’ no.”
Wonderful. Her first student was an uncooperative—
Wait a moment. She sat on one of the small chairs, careful to keep her knees wide in a masculine fashion. “Are you trying to tell me that you cannot read?”
Her eyes were level with his, but he shifted his gaze away again. “Readin’s for ponces.”
She sat up, thinking. “Wellington can read. Are you calling our own leader a ponce?”
“What? You say that again and you’ll take your lickin’, lady or no!”
“So, you do know my secret.”
“You got no gullet,” Robbie said, pointing to her throat. “Every bloke’s got a gullet.”
Ah. No Adam’s apple. Phillipa self-consciously twitched her cravat higher with one hand. Blasted noose. Give her a well-made corset any day. “I suppose you’d like to know why I’m dressed so.”
Robbie nodded, his arms folded and his eyes narrowed.
How to put it in terms he would understand, without giving too much away? “There is a man—a very powerful man—who I am hiding from.”
Robbie looked skeptical. “More powerful than James?”
Although Mr. Cunnington undoubtedly outclassed Napoleon in physical power—heavens, those shoulders!—Phillipa didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I fear so. Will you help me stay hidden, just for a while?”
Robbie considered her for a moment, then nodded. “But you’re going to need a bit of schooling yourself,” he said. He pointed at her chair. “Blokes don’t sit like that.”
Phillipa looked down at herself to see that while she’d been speaking, her knees had come together and her feet had slipped sideways, offering a demure glimpse of her booted ankles from beneath her slightly tatty trousers. If a gentleman were to see her now, he’d think her decidedly odd. “Quite right. I thank you for pointing that out.” She shifted back, although prying her knees apart went against a lifetime of habit. “How’s that?”
Robbie tilted his head. “Not bad. Now you need to scratch.”
She blinked. “I will not!”
“You want to learn this or not?”
“But—but gentlemen don’t scratch! Only common—” She halted as she remembered that Robbie was as common as they came.
He scratched his nose. “You might be right about that. Never did see James scratching . . .”
“So I needn’t scratch?”
“Guess not. Spitting now . . .”
“No. I won’t do it.”
He considered her. “Not much, but you’d best do it once, just to be sure you can.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage, should the need arise.” Never. Ever.
“Well, best keep it in mind. It does come up.”
“Well, then, now that you know my secret, it’s only fair if I know one of yours, isn’t it?” She leaned closer to the boy and whispered, “If you can’t read, shake your head.”
She waited. The dust motes danced in the moments that stretched between her and the boy standing before her. Finally, his tousled head shook slowly from left to right.
“All right then. Your secret will not leave this room. Will mine?”
His head came up and he gave her a calculating look. “You’re right clever for a bird.”
“Thank you.” She rested her elbows on her knees once more and tapped her chin, thinking. “If you cannot read, then there is no point in starting with books. This afternoon I shall find you a slate. We’ll begin your letters in the morning. Until then, what would you like to do?”
He was up in a flash and at the door.
“Hold on there, Master Robert! I didn’t say you were free to go.”
His shoulders sagged and he came back to stand before her with a sigh. “Almost bloody made it too,” he mourned.
She shook her head. It wouldn’t do to laugh at his horrid language, for it would only encourage him. That gave her an idea.
“Perhaps for this first day, we shall practice some common phrases that a young gentleman needs during the course of his day.”
His eyes narrowed and his little jaw went mulish. “Like what d’you mean?”
“Why don’t we begin with ‘Good morning, Mr. Walters. It seems we are in for fine weather today. I trust you slept well?’ ”
Robbie’s nose twitched and he scrubbed it with one fairly clean wrist. “Good mornin’ Mr. Walters . . . It seems we’re in . . . we’re for . . . we’re for fine . . .” Robbie went beet red in the face and burst forth with a shocking phrase that no child of his years should know.
She was taken aback, not so much by the words, but by the fact that he knew them. What had his short life been like that he was already so lost to innocence?
She hid her shock and only gave him a measuring look. “Not bad,” she said grudgingly. “A bit limited in scope, but not bad.”
“What d’you mean, limited?’
“Gutter speech is only vulgar. A truly accomplished curser should know more than simple crudity.”
“You’re funnin’ me, ain’t you? You don’t curse. You’re a lady!”
“Yes, but I am an educated lady. Therefore, I am able to curse a blue streak and never let on.”
“Huh. ‘D like to see that one.”
She leaned back and cut loose with a string of words that would have her stoned in any respectable Russian village. As the syllables rolled from her tongue, Robbie’s eyes widened and his lips formed an O of helpless admiration. When she was finished, he gulped once.
“Cor. That were beau’iful.” He sighed deeply, obviously moved by her virtuosity. Then he stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it contemplatively. “Would you teach me a bit o’ that?”
“If you wish. What do you say to a trade? One phrase of perfectly obscene Ru
ssian for one phrase of perfectly pronounced King’s English?”
He pondered that for a moment, but apparently couldn’t deny that it was to his profit. He nodded once, then spit on his palm and held it out. “ ’S deal.”
Oh, no. So soon? Phillipa firmly suppressed a shudder and even managed a droplet of saliva for her own palm. She gave Robbie’s a good hard shake. “Deal.” It was worth it to see the respect dawning in his wary eyes.
She could always wash her hand later.
With a great deal of soap.
The afternoon’s shopping expedition began well enough. When Phillipa took Robbie to a bookseller on Portobello Road in search of a slate and a hornbook, Robbie seemed awed by the sheer number of books that stood on shelves all the way to the high ceiling.
The owner had a very nice globe on his own desk that he was persuaded to part with, and she was directed to a stationers’ where she bought paper and pencils and ink. If nothing else, the schoolroom would look useful, even if she hadn’t a clue what she was doing.
The shadows were beginning to slant as they made their laden way back toward the house. Robbie was starting to lag, and quite frankly, to whine. He’d been a stoic little lout for most of the day, but now he was hungry. So was she, and she struggled for patience against the weight of her parcels and the emptiness in her stomach.
If she were herself in her old life, she’d have had a footman with her to keep her safe and to carry her shopping. Even to carry Robbie if necessary. Even at that, every fellow she met would likely attempt to assist her.
As it was, she was expected to not only manage her own burdens, but to open doors for every lady who so much as twitched her skirt in Phillipa’s direction. It seemed the masculine prerogatives weren’t entirely enjoyable.
“I want my tea.” Robbie’s voice had taken on the unpleasant quality of rusting metal hinges.
“I want your tea too,” Phillipa snapped. “So keep up, Robbie, or I’ll gobble it all before you make it home.”
She trudged on, her feet slipping in her too-large boots until she was sure the flesh of her heels was bubbled with blisters. She ought to hail a cabbie again, but found herself unable to part with the penny fare. There was no way to know how long her current prosperity would last.
