Candlelight Wish

by Janice Bennett

  “Absolutely not!” she objected. “It would quite ruin the fun.”

  “Then I shall leave you for a little to enjoy it. But never fear, I shall return to rescue you after you have become hopelessly lost.” Holding her gaze, he kissed her hand then headed back the way they had come.

  Phoebe stared after him for a moment then plunged between the yew walls. She could hear laughter and calls from various directions, indicating that the members of her party had wasted no time in becoming thoroughly lost. Left seemed an unlikely first direction so she turned that way then glanced back at the entrance to memorize how the passage looked from this direction. What she saw though was Lucilla slipping through the exit.

  Phoebe didn’t waste time pondering intents and purposes. She followed and as she emerged from the shrubbery she was greeted by the unwelcome sight of Lucy’s back as the girl hurried to join the scarlet-coated officer who strode toward her. They met, clasping hands and for a long moment simply stood gazing into one another’s eyes. Then the officer seemed to recollect himself and he drew Lucy away, across the Wilderness to vanish behind a hedge. Phoebe followed but soon found herself amid a formal planting of flowers and shrubs with her quarry nowhere to be seen. She took a few more uncertain steps then halted, staring about at a loss. Then a feminine giggle from just behind the rhododendrons where she stood reassured her. She circled around the leafy barrier and found herself in a secluded bower, facing the two truants.

  Lieutenant Harwich, who sat upon a bench at Lucilla’s side, sprang to his feet at once, his expression alarmed. Then he seemed to take in his diminutive confronter and he straightened, his manner taking on a belligerent edge. He looked down on her from his superior height and his lip curled. “You are intruding.”

  Lucy though did not take so sanguine an attitude to being discovered. She shrank back with a gasp and her eyes widened. “Miss Caldicot! I-I thought you were in the maze.”

  “Be glad your brother is. Lieutenant Harwich, you must not be caught here. Hampton Court is not open to the general public and I cannot but think Rushmere would not be pleased to discover his guest list has expanded itself without his consent.”

  Dull color flushed the lieutenant’s face. “I needed to speak with Miss Saunderton,” he said with an assumption of hauteur. “Urgently.”

  Phoebe eyed him coldly. “And now that you have done so you may leave. And as quickly as possible, I would suggest.”

  He hesitated a moment then turned to Lucilla and, taking her hands, pressed them. “Until later,” he said. He awarded Phoebe a curt bow then turned and strode away along the path.

  Phoebe watched until he turned a corner and vanished from sight then turned back to Lucy, who stood now, watching her warily.

  “Are you going to tell Miles?” she asked in a tone in which defiance faded beneath resignation.

  “Should I?” Phoebe countered, then added in a rush, “You really cannot keep meeting officers like this, Lucy. You will gain the most shocking reputation.”

  “Oh, how can you say such a dreadful thing? Why is it so terrible to speak to a gentleman?”

  “Why do you need to seek out such privacy if your intentions are quite proper?” Phoebe shot back.

  Lucy’s color heightened. “It is only because he should not have come here.”

  “What did he have to say that could not wait a few more hours?”

  Lucy’s lips twitched then spread into a secret smile. “He came simply because he was not invited. He is quite daring and said he would prove that nothing would keep him from—” She broke off in consternation. “From-from seeing me if he wished,” she finished lamely. “Oh Miss Caldicot, there is truly no reason to tell Miles about this. There has been no harm done and I told him it was wrong of him, truly I did.”

  Phoebe fixed her with her best schoolmistress expression. “Give me your word you will not slip off to meet him—or anyone else—in this manner again.”

  Lucy hung her head. “I promise.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “You have to mean it.”

  Lucy looked up, stung. “I—” she began then broke off. “Very well,” she said resignedly. “I promise before I do anything I shall ask myself whether or not you would approve and then act as you would wish.”

  “If you mean that then I suppose there is no need to tell your brother about this.”

  “Oh thank you, Miss Caldicot!” Lucy flung her arms about her former preceptress, giving her an enthusiastic hug. “I always knew you were a darling. Let us get back before they realize we are not lost in the maze.”

  With that plan Phoebe heartily agreed. Lucy’s promise did not completely relieve her mind, for she had a shrewd notion that Lucy might view potential indiscretions in a more tolerant light than would she herself. But she knew she would get no more and led the way back to where the sound of laughing voices assured them that the others had yet to penetrate to the heart of the maze.

  By the time they too had become lost between the yew hedges the shouts of triumph assured them that a solution was indeed possible. Lucy ran off, calling for directions that no one could possibly give as they had no idea where amid the winding passages she raced. Phoebe strolled in the opposite direction glad just to be alone.

  It was not, she decided after a little while, that the maze was so very complex. It was simply so very large. The pathways took considerable time to traverse so that when one found oneself facing a dead end one had to return that great distance again. She turned a sharp corner and found herself facing Rushmere.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” he said.

  She had found the center. The others, she realized the next moment, had already gone. Rushmere took her hand, his thumb smoothing her palm and she tried to draw back.

  “We will not be disturbed,” he said softly. “Saunderton has taken them to view one of the other gardens.”

  “They will wonder where we are.” She inched away, trying to maintain the distance between them that he seemed bent on removing. And what, she wondered, was she doing? Xanthe was offering her a matrimonial prize of the first water in answer to her wish and all she wanted was to escape. It made no sense whatsoever.

  Rushmere eased another step nearer and his hand clasped hers. “Nervous, Miss Caldicot?” His tone teased but the gleam in his eyes warned her he was serious.

  Indecision tore at her. If his intentions were dishonorable then the matter needn’t trouble her in the least. She had only to send him about his business. But what if his purpose was marriage, which she was inclined to believe it must be? Surely Xanthe wouldn’t arrange anything less for her. Yet in spite of his exalted title and position, in spite of his dashing and flirtatious manner, in spite of her daydreams inspired by her pupils’ rapturous whisperings about him, she didn’t love him in the least. Yet did that matter when compared with the innumerable advantages of such a match, both for herself and for Thomas? All she had to do was stop retreating, let him kiss her, allow him to declare himself…

  “Here you are.” Miles’ deep voice sounded behind her.

  Relief washed over her followed at once by indignation at his picking this, of all moments, to interrupt. Could he not even permit her to make this decision on her own?

  “Have you been unable to find your way back out?” he inquired, apparently oblivious to the tension that filled the air. He offered Phoebe his arm.

  Rushmere tucked her hand firmly into his own arm. “I am well acquainted with the paths,” he informed Miles and drew her away from her would-be rescuer. The two gentlemen exchanged a long measuring look then the marquis strode down the path, pulling Phoebe with him.

  She would have been content to return to Half Moon Street at once but despite the advancing hour Rushmere suggested they tour more of the gardens. Phoebe strolled along with him dutifully, responding to his flirtatious comments with a smile that grew progressively more rigid and wishing for the long day to end. It had grown quite late when at last the marquis sent
for the carriages and the party began their drive home.

  Phoebe cast one look of longing at Miles’ well-sprung curricle then resigned herself to the uncomfortable ride. Exhausted from the long day, she clung to the carriage’s side as the precarious phaeton pitched and swayed. At least he kept his team to a decorous pace rather than racing ahead. Ashby and Hanna, waving gaily, swept past them a mile or two beyond the gates of Hampton Court. Then Miles and Lucilla, with Charles Dauntry riding at their side, left them behind. For a time Phoebe could see their dust but in the fading light of the late afternoon this soon vanished.

  They continued at their steady slow pace, the distance between them and the other vehicles growing greater and greater, until they reached the outskirts of a tiny inhabited area too small even for the designation of village. The phaeton lurched to a stop, its body swinging wildly and Rushmere clambered down. Phoebe peered over the side as the marquis and his groom consulted.

  “Damaged axle,” Rushmere declared after a cursory examination of one of the wheels. He held up his arms and Phoebe allowed him to help her from the vehicle.

  “Will you have trouble getting it fixed?” she asked as he took her arm and led her up the road.

  “No need for you to worry, my dear.” He patted her hand. “There’s an inn just a few steps away.”

  Phoebe hung back. “Is there also a blacksmith?”

  “You need not worry,” he repeated. He drew her along the road, past the first of the cottages.

  There weren’t many. The village didn’t seem large enough to be able to provide more than an indifferent meal for a passing traveler. Surely though there must be at least a smithy. She cast an uncertain glance at an establishment that bore all the appearance of a common alehouse. Still, if any gentleman of Rushmere’s rank and taste were willing to stop here, it could not be as bad as she feared.

  It was not. Inside she found the floors and tables scrubbed, the innkeeper who greeted them respectable and the maid who brought wine and cakes to be primly gowned. Almost, Phoebe reflected as she settled in the corner of the inn’s only private parlor, as if they were accustomed to noblemen breaking down at their doorstep. But perhaps they were, situated so close to Hampton Court. She could only be grateful for her good fortune. While Rushmere, with a murmured word of excuse, departed to make his inquiries, Phoebe relaxed before the cozy fire took another sip of wine and gave up an unequal struggle and allowed her eyes to close.

  How much time passed before the marquis returned, she had no way of knowing. She opened her eyes to find that candles now lit the tiny apartment and outside the windows all seemed black. Rushmere stood in the room, his cloak and driving gloves cast across the back of a chair, a glass of the excellent wine in his hand.

  He looked up as she stirred and smiled. “So you are awake, my dear.”

  She smothered a yawn. “I’ll be with you in a moment, my lord.”

  “You are with me now,” he pointed out and settled himself in the chair opposite her.

  She shook her head, rising. “We must be getting back. Lady Xanthe will be worried.”

  Rushmere studied his glass, his expression pensive. “I am afraid, my dear, that will be impossible.”

  “But—” She sank onto the chair again. “Why?”

  “I fear the axle cannot be fixed until morning.”

  “Until—” She sat up straight, staring at him. “Until morning? Then I shall have to hire a carriage, I suppose.”

  “There’s no need.” His smile sounded in his voice and he reached across and took her hand. “This will give us the opportunity to continue the discussion we had barely begun when Saunderton showed the ill breeding to interrupt us in the maze. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I.”

  “Have we?” She pulled away, chilled. “I fear that will be impossible. I must return to London tonight. Will you arrange for the hiring of a carriage for me?”

  He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “I fear there are no conveyances available.”

  “None at all?” Disbelief welled in her only to fade into anger. The horrible suspicion dawned on her that there was not a thing wrong with that phaeton. He had plotted this with care, allowing the others to go ahead, stranding them in a place where it seemed impossible she could get help, still a good nine miles from London. Whether he in fact planned to offer her marriage or ruination, she discovered she honestly did not care. She didn’t want anything to do with him. She looked about, fuming.

  “You shall have to make the best of it,” he said. So much self-satisfaction sounded in his voice there could be no room for any trace of an apology. “You will find that can be very good indeed.”

  “Will it?” She made a show of looking at her slippers. “Perhaps you are right. These seem to be quite stout shoes.” And with that she pulled free of his hold and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  She had descended the stairs and stormed out into the gathering night before the enormity of her situation struck her. Well, she had done it this time. She had thrown away her chance at marriage with a marquis. If that had been Xanthe’s answer to her wish— She shied from completing that thought. Her wish, her precious wonderful wish, wasted. She had failed Thomas.

  And if that weren’t bad enough she was probably about to lose her reputation as well. If that happened she would never be able to find respectable employment, never be able to so much as assist her poor brother, never be able to support herself again…

  She was growing despondent, she realized.

  But perhaps she had cause.

  Chapter Eight

  Before Phoebe reached the end of the village she heard Rushmere’s booted footsteps striding after her. She paid them no heed except to increase her own pace. Still he gained on her. He called her name and she ignored him. That brought an audible exclamation of vexation from him and his pace quickened. She too walked faster. It would be fully dark soon and the last thing she wanted was to waste more time and words on the marquis.

  Twenty strides later his hand closed over her wrist. “Miss Caldicot,” he said, his breath coming heavily, “you are behaving in a ludicrous manner.”

  “I am?” she cried, spinning to face him, unleashing her outrage at last. “Do you really think it is ludicrous to try to preserve my reputation?”

  “Is that all that is worrying you?” his own vexation relaxed. “My dear girl—”

  She turned on her heel and started walking once more. She didn’t want to hear his explanations or excuses. She simply wanted to escape from him, from this whole dreadful day. The chill breeze sent the ends of her thin shawl waving and she shivered. Surely she wouldn’t have to walk the whole distance back to London. There must be a farm where she could get help. Or barring that there would be another village soon. She shrank from the inevitable explanations, from the fact that she carried but little money with her.

  She could still hear him behind her. For how long would she have to endure this pursuit before she convinced him she had no intention of returning with him? She should never have encouraged his advances, never led him to believe she might be willing to accept a carte blanche. She’d been so certain this high-ranking nobleman must be Xanthe’s answer to her wish.

  The sound of an approaching carriage caught her attention and for a moment her hopes soared. Only the vehicle came toward her, not headed for London. She moved over to the side of the road, not wanting to add being run down to her list of grievances for the day.

  The carriage, a gentleman’s curricle pulled by a pair, slowed as it approached then the horses eased from their trot to a walk then a stop. The bay horses. The familiar bay horses. She transferred her gaze to the driver and met the relieved gaze of Sir Miles Saunderton. He smiled, a warm comforting expression and Phoebe had to fight the absurd desire to burst into tears.

  “I see I’ve found you at last,” he said quite unnecessarily. “We’d feared there’d been an accident when you didn’t return. Are you safe?”

/>   “We are quite all right, Saunderton.” Rushmere glared at the new arrival.

  “I am glad to hear it.” Miles regarded the marquis with a steady challenging gaze that held more than a hint of deadly steel. “A high-perch phaeton can be dangerous. I would consider it a very grave matter if anything unpleasant befell Miss Caldicot.”

  Rushmere flushed. “You need not concern yourself for her safety.”

  “No.” Miles held his gaze. “Not now at least. Miss Caldicot, may I offer you a ride back to your godmother? She is, needless to say, most concerned for you.”

  He picked up something from the seat and held it out to her. Her pelisse, Phoebe realized with a rush of gratitude. She cast the flimsy shawl she had worn for the excursion to Hampton Court onto the seat of the carriage and donned the warmer garment against the growing cold of the approaching night. Now if he’d only brought a rug and a hot brick she would be quite in charity with him.

  As soon as she had fastened her buttons he held out his hand and Phoebe grasped it, accepting his aid as she climbed into the curricle. Easy, compared to the high-perch phaeton, a vehicle she sincerely hoped she never laid eyes upon again. She settled at his side and already he drew a rug from beneath the seat and spread it across her legs. She snuggled into it.

  Miles took the ribbons in both hands. “Good evening, Rushmere,” he said and gave his horses the office.

  Phoebe glanced down at the outraged marquis. “Thank you, my lord, for a-a most interesting day,” she said, her tone icy. And with that she lapsed into a fuming silence as Sir Miles turned his equipage and headed back the way he had come.

  They drove without speaking for some little time while the awkwardness of the situation struck her. She and Miles had barely spoken a civil word to one another over the last few days. Their last real encounter in fact had been a raging argument in which he had told her to stop meddling in Lucy’s affairs. And now here he was, meddling in hers—and she could only be profoundly grateful that he had. Still it made the situation a trifle sticky. With an effort, she managed, albeit stiffly, “I have not yet thanked you for coming.”