by Regina Darcy
They stood the appropriate distance apart, but Phoebe could feel the heat radiating off him in waves, and her hand trembled in his as he twirled her round and round the impromptu ballroom. At the end of the dance, he kissed her hand and she escaped to the side where she took a drink from a passing footman and cooled her cheeks. She danced a set with her father, and one with Lord Wiltshire, and then Lord Beckton was back for the last dance.
As they moved apart and together, she thought back to that other last dance, which now seemed so long ago, and marvelled at the difference between the man then and the one now. He smiled at her, and squeezed her hand lightly when they had to touch. And each time they stepped close to each other in the dance, he spoke a sweet word in her ear.
“Your perfume is intoxicating,” he said the first time.
“Green is a lovely colour on you,” he said the second time.
When they circled each other, palms touching, he asked, “When may I have the pleasure of riding with you?”
She answered, “In company or alone, my lord?”
He smiled, and they moved apart, but when they swung back in he replied, “Alone would be preferable, but I am aware that there needs to be a proposal before that can happen.”
They swung apart again, changing partners as the dance required, and when they were back together she said, “There seems to be some speculation that something is planned in that regard, my lord.”
He tut-tutted, and they swung apart, and Phoebe’s heart rose into her throat. What if she were wrong, and he was not going to propose? Had she been too forward? Would she be humiliated once again by this man? He swung back around to her and asked, “What would be your response, should such a question be asked?”
She opened her mouth to answer and the set ended. He bowed to her, she curtsied to him, and they moved apart. But she could not get his question out of her mind. Her mother noticed her distraction and asked if she were feeling all right. She told her she was just winded from the dancing, and was glad when the festivities began to wind down. She needed some time alone to think. What would she say when he asked her to marry him? Before, she had been sure of her answer. It would have been a resounding no. Now, she rather suspected that it would be yes, and that realisation was at once thrilling and terrifying.
SEVEN
The morning mail brought dreadful news, and Lord Beckton summoned Bailey to his study as soon as breakfast was over.
“Ask Lady Iris to spare me a moment if you will, Bailey? And have Smith take a cab to the docks and book my passage to France as quickly as he can get it. Spare no expense. I must away immediately. My young cousin Edwin needs me. His estates have been seized, and the money I sent to help him settle his affairs and book his passage for Dover has been confiscated. He was last heard of in the environs of Marseilles, and is gone into hiding, to avoid capture and imprisonment. I must go and fetch him back home. He is still just a boy, and I cannot leave him and risk his life. His parents left him to my care before their own untimely deaths.”
While the butler hurried away to do his master’s bidding, Lord Beckton paced, making plans for this unexpected trip. He would need to apprise his solicitor of the situation, in the event that he himself was unable to escape with his life. The thought of dying tormented and angered him now, in a way it never had when he held his commission. Because now, there was Phoebe. She had just been about to tell him what she would say if he asked her to marry him when the dance had ended, and there had been no opportunity to finish the conversation. Now he had to leave, possibly without seeing her, knowing that he might never see her again.
He wished he could hold her, actually hold her in his arms, and feel the fullness and weight of her body against his own, before he had to go and face a deadly situation. He wished he had told her of his feelings were now. He wished he had been less of a blundering fool. But wishes could change nothing. He sighed, and straightened his shoulders as his aunt appeared, escorted by Bailey.
“The carriage will be here momentarily, my lord.”
Bailey left, closing the door behind him.
“I must go again, Aunt Iris,” Lord Beckton began. “Edwin is in trouble. They have seized his property and confiscated his money, and he is on the run. It is believed he is in the south of France, in Marseilles; of all places the most dangerous, and so close to the Spanish too, and you know as well as I the situation between our government and theirs. But I must go and find him and bring him home, he is but a boy.”
He saw his aunt’s face blanch. He saw the fear in her eyes, but he also saw steel, the determination to support him, to do what she could for her family.
“Do what you must, my boy, and take great good care. Go and find your cousin, and bring him home again. And God speed!”
She closed the distance between them and enclosed him in a tight embrace. Then she let him go, her hand trembling as she placed it on to his. “Remember, you have someone else to come home to as well, now. Her heart will be broken if you do not return.”
Lord Beckton smiled sadly. “I will make every effort to return, aunt. It will take more than a few revolutionaries to stop me.”
He knew the words were mere bravado, but he needed to put up a good front for his aunt, whom he cared for deeply, and who would be devastated if anything were to happen to him. He felt the weight of his responsibilities, and was glad that he had already made a will, and that Lord Wiltshire, as his executor, knew what must be done in the event of his demise. Still, he would not think of death, but rather of life. He would think of his Phoebe, and of the need he had to claim her and make her his own. His memories of her would be his talisman until he came home again.
The carriage took him to the docks, and he boarded a cargo vessel bound for France. It quickly became clear that he would get no closer to Marseilles than Le Havre . He would have to find a boat bound for San Sebastian or Bilbao, then double back across the Spanish border into France and hope against hope to arrive at last safely in Marseilles, and finally begin his search for his young cousin. Lord Beckton felt for a moment almost overwhelmed by the enormity of the undertaking.
At daybreak they got underway. The hours at sea on that first trip were torturous, and the crossing was rough. But Lord Beckton didn’t notice. He was used to rough channel crossings, and as his mind was wholly concentrated on finding a way to free his cousin, and worrying about getting back to the woman he loved, he had little time to fret about the weather.
In Le Havre, he disembarked but was not able to secure an onward passage for more than a day. Arriving in San Sebastian almost a week after leaving London, he was already exhausted, having had little rest for fear of treachery. The port was as raw and noisy as ever, the smells making him nauseated. He fought against the queasiness and went in search of a carriage that he could hire to take him at least part of the way.
By paying double the normal fare, he managed to secure a seat that would get him as far as Lourdes, and there he had some luck and met with a Bishop returning to Montpelier, and he was grateful for the chance to ride in relative comfort.
From Montpelier, he made two perilous night-time journeys to the house where his cousin’s last letter had said he was hiding.
The dilapidated dwelling looked as if it had been abandoned since the time of the cholera epidemic and never lived in since. If it weren’t for the thin line of mud-stained washing flying like ragged flags atop the roof, he would have said it wasn’t a house at all. He called out in French to anyone inside, but got no response.
Pushing open the door that sagged in the doorway, he stepped into an odorous gloom, and once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he saw two adults and some children huddled around a meagre fire, wrapped in the thinnest of clothes. Their grimy faces and tired eyes told their own story. The revolution had brought no betterment to their situation. His heart wrenched in his chest at the abject poverty that surrounded him, but he had no time to linger. There was a ship sailing for Southampton in two days, an
d he aimed to be on it with Edwin...if he could find him.
***
Phoebe sat quietly in the sitting room of her father’s house. A month after Lord Beckton’s departure, with no word from him but that first note to say he had found a ship and was on his way to Dover, her parents had thought it best to leave London, rather than burden his aunt with their entertainment. For once, she was in complete agreement with them. Lady Iris had assured them that she had family who would visit her and keep her company, and she had promised to send them word the moment she heard any news. Phoebe recalled how the lady had drawn her aside and held her hands in her own shaking ones. She remembered looking at them, and seeing their fragility.
“We must have faith, Phoebe,” she said, abandoning all formality. “Beckton would not want us to despair. He has been in dangerous situations before, with his regiment, and he has come out unscathed. We must pray for his safe return.”
“Yes, my lady,” Phoebe had said, fighting the tears that had been threatening.
“I know that you were unhappy with the arrangement when you first arrived here,” Lady Iris continued, “but you have changed your mind now, haven’t you?”
“Yes, my lady,” she said again, wiping away the tear that had managed to escape.
“If your feelings for my nephew are as deep as his have been for you these past four years, you must let them be your comfort until he returns.”
“Four...four years?” Phoebe stared at his aunt, her face drenched in tears. “He has loved me for four years?”
“He has, my child,” his aunt said. “But he is sometimes tongue-tied and shy, and where you are concerned, he was painfully so.” She smiled. “That is how he got that horrible reputation as the Lord of Ice...no women had ever been able to get close to him because of it, and they construed it as arrogant disregard for their feelings.” She patted Phoebe’s hands, and said, “I’m glad that you have discovered the man my nephew truly is. You will make him a fine wife, and he will be a devoted husband to you.”
Now, as she sat in the brightness of mid-morning in the silent house, she wondered if she would ever have the opportunity to be his wife. Her mother came in with a letter which she handed to her daughter.
“It’s from Lady Iris,” she said, and watched as Phoebe tore it open and read. “Well, what does it say?”
“They can’t find him,” she whispered. “His cousin has been delivered home to them safe and sound, but Lord Beckton is missing. Something happened in Calais, and he did not return. All his cousin knows is that they were ambushed on the way to the docks. He managed to escape, and thought that the Earl was right behind him. The men who had come to help Lord Beckton bring him home led him back to the ship, and hid him away in the hold. He didn’t know his cousin wasn’t with him until he reached Southampton.”
“How dreadful!” her mother’s tone was hushed. “How old is this young man?”
“He’s seventeen, Mama. He’s just a boy.”
Mrs Alexander took the letter from her daughter and pulled her into her arms. “We must pray for Lord Beckton’s safe return, my dear,” she said. “And we must trust that he is safe and well where he is at present. We cannot give up hope.”
Phoebe listened numbly. The words did little to lift her spirits. She had not realised, until this moment, that she loved Alden Haddington with her whole heart. And if he were to be—lost in France—she would never be able to tell him so. She wept bitter tears into her mother’s bosom.
EIGHT
“This was the last place the boy remembers seeing his lordship,” the detective told Lord Wiltshire. “This is where the scuffle occurred.”
Lady Iris had asked for Lord Wiltshire’s help in locating her nephew, and he in turn had hired a detective to do some investigating. After a month, they had finally arrived in Marseilles, and the Viscount looked like every other downtrodden man in the town. No one would mistake him for an aristocrat, which was exactly how he wanted it to be. But he was an experienced former officer in His Majesty’s army, and he knew how to defend himself if need be.
“What else do we know?” Lord Wiltshire asked, his expression grim.
“I’ve asked around, and the word is that an Englishman was seen wandering round with a wound to the head. He had been severely beaten and stripped of his clothing, and he had had no money or papers. He was in danger of being caught and imprisoned. The man I spoke to said they decided to hide him until someone came to find him. They hoped to get a bit of coin for his safe return.”
“I’ll pay them whatever they ask for within reason,” Lord Wiltshire said. “Where is he?”
The detective led him to the door of a ramshackle building next to what appeared to be the town dump and ducked inside. The foul odours that assaulted his nostrils made Lord Wiltshire gag, but he put a hand over his nose and followed the man to the back of the space where he saw his friend lying, watched over by a bedraggled old man with no teeth.
The Earl was emaciated, caked with mud, bloodstained, and barely conscious. Lord Wiltshire felt a tightness in his chest from the mixture of relief and rage that he suppressed. There would be time for anger later. Now he needed to get him out and to the ship before the watch began its rounds.
“How will we get him to the ship without calling attention to ourselves?’ he asked.
“Have you ever been drunk, my lord?” the detective asked with a faint smile on his face.
Lord Wiltshire nodded, understanding the idea immediately. It was not the best plan, but it would have to do. They had only a few hours before the ship weighed anchor, and he had no intention of being left behind. And Lord knows Lord Beckton looked bad enough to be inebriated beyond the ability to walk on his own. He looked worse for wear. The old man guarding him looked up expectantly, not leaving his spot. Lord Wiltshire understood.
“How much?” he asked, and when the man named a price, he pulled off the filthy rag he wore around his head and withdrew the paper the man asked for, and a few extra, before returning the money to its ingenious hiding place.
The old man moved aside, and Lord Wiltshire and the detective manoeuvred Lord Beckton into position between them.
“Merci, camarade,” he said, and stepped away.
The journey back to the ship was torturous, and fraught with danger. They clung to the shadows as much as possible, dragging Lord Beckton’s feet through the slick mud of the flooded streets. It had stopped raining for a while, but it was starting up again, which made the going more treacherous.
Thankfully, they managed to make it back to the ship, safely and with twenty minutes to spare. They were shown to the captain’s cabin at once. Thankfully, the bad weather that had accompanied them on their trip to France had blown over, and they had smooth sailing back to England.
By the time they landed in Southampton, they had all rested, Lord Beckton had been cleaned up, and dressed in clothes that were now too large for him. They hung on his frame, and Lord Wiltshire felt the tightness of emotion in his chest returning. On the way across the channel, Lord Beckton had awakened, but he had been delirious, and Lord Wiltshire was glad when he passed out again. Never had the Viscount been so relieved to see the coastline of southern England.
The first thing they did was to find an inn and get the Earl cleaned up. His fever had calmed down, but there was no doctor in near vicinity of the village inn. Lord Wiltshire, hired a carriage and decided to set without pause a race for London. The city would have the best physicians. After a two day carriage ride they got the Earl back to the townhouse in London, where his aunt gave way to tears at the sight of her nephew. Lord Beckton was carried up to his bedchamber, and Lord Wiltshire stayed for a few days to be there when he finally awoke from his fever.
The Earl woke up confused. He remembered nothing. He didn’t know who he was, where he was, who his aunt was...nothing and no one was familiar to him. The doctor had told Lord Wiltshire that he might not remember much when he awoke, but this was beyond what they had expected. Wh
en he was called back to Lord Beckton’s side, the physician told them that the blow to the head was the most likely cause of his amnesia. He advised them to surround him with the things he loved, feed him well, and allow him as much exercise as he could tolerate.
“When his brain is ready to start up again, it will,” he told them. “Until then, there’s really nothing else that we can do for him.”
What sounded like it would only take a couple of days, has still not happened two weeks later.
“There must be something we can do other than sit about and wait for him to remember who he is, Lord Wiltshire,” Lady Iris said a week after the doctor’s fifth visit. Her frustration mirrored Lord Wiltshire’s own.
“He said we should surround him with the things he loves, did he not?” The Viscount asked suddenly, a gleam in his eye.
“He did, and we have,” the Earl’s aunt replied. “Everything he loves is here.”
“Not quite everything, my lady,” Lord Wiltshire said, and when she turned puzzled eyes to his face, he explained, “Miss Alexander is not here.”
***
“Send us word as soon as you arrive, Phoebe,” her father said.
“Yes, Papa,” she said, “I will.”
She waved to her parents until they were out of sight, and then she closed her eyes and prayed. Lord Beckton still did not remember anything. It had been a month since his return home and his aunt had sent for her. Her heart soared, even though she knew that he was still not completely whole, but he was alive, and she would do everything she could to see that he got back to full health.
The carriage ride took two days from Derbyshire, with an overnight stay in Bedford. When she finally arrived, late in the evening, Lady Iris had her escorted to her bedchamber at once.
