She had thought to offer some financial aid to Sheldrake’s employees when she realized Sheldrake had run off without telling them he wasn’t coming back, and their circumstances hadn’t changed with his death; they’d gotten worse. She would need to help them anyway.
The Wentworths had no money of their own, and other than the entailed properties he could not use as collateral, Sheldrake had surely left them nothing but debt.
Phoebe could imagine Wentworth would have to let most of Sheldrake’s staff go.
She sighed and offered her excuses to Miss Hepridge, moving away from Mrs. Wentworth and seeking out her aunt.
No one had approached her with a warning or a threat. So either tonight had been a genuine gesture on the Prince Regent’s part, or someone had been searching her home for Sheldrake’s letter.
However, if tonight had been engineered to let Phoebe know that a woman whose engagement had been broken was deemed ruined, then they had succeeded.
She’d known it, but the reality was an ugly, spiteful monster that leered at her from the faces of the women standing around her, sipping coffee and eating petit fours.
Relief that it was not them, or one of their daughters, and a compulsion to make it her fault—to hide the truth that they had no control over whether a man kept his word or not—shone from them in ugly greens and dirty reds.
She took all her hopes for acceptance in the world her father so desperately wanted her to live, all the personal wishes for friendship and connection, and crushed them like autumn leaves, grinding them to dust and then letting them float away.
There didn’t seem to be a friendly face in the room besides her aunt, whom she finally spotted in a corner, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. Their eyes met, and Phoebe gave a tiny nod of her head, which Aunt Dorothy returned.
They made their way toward each other and Aunt Dorothy bent her head close to Phoebe’s ear. “Leave?”
“Yes.”
There was no mistaking the relief on her aunt’s face, and Phoebe felt a renewed rush of anger. Sheldrake hadn’t just ruined her, he had tainted her aunt’s social standing, as well.
They stepped out into the corridor, and Phoebe motioned a footman closer. “We need to take our leave. Could you convey our thanks to His Royal Highness?” As he bowed, Phoebe worried her bottom lip, wondering how to let Wittaker know they were leaving, as well.
He had planned to follow them home, to make sure they got there safely, and she wanted his protection. For her aunt’s safety, if nothing else. “One moment.”
The footman had already turned to go and he looked back at her.
“I would like to give you a note for the Duke of Wittaker, if you would wait a moment.” Phoebe couldn’t help the heat that burned in her cheeks as she spoke. She knew the implications that could be—would be—drawn from a private note, but she couldn’t risk her aunt’s welfare.
Besides, the guests here tonight had made it clear she was ruined. She may as well do as she pleased.
The footman directed her to an exquisite table in the massive entrance hall that contained paper and pen in its little drawer, and she wrote quickly and handed it to him.
They settled in to wait for a response besides one of the massive pillars in the great room and were approached by the doorman, wanting to know which carriage to call.
Phoebe clasped and unclasped her hands, in a quandary as to whether she should presume to call the Duke of Wittaker’s carriage around as well as their own.
She didn’t have the nerve, she decided as she gave only her name to the doorman. To do so would be to presume too much, no matter what he had said.
The footman reappeared, his eyes refusing to meet theirs. “His Royal Highness sends his best wishes, and was pleased you could join him.” He bowed, and when he straightened, his gaze was firmly fixed on his own feet.
“I…” Phoebe exchanged a look with her aunt. “Thank you.”
He gave a nod and turned back, and Phoebe raised a tentative hand, which her aunt gripped, hard, and pulled down.
“Do not ask about that note.” Her whisper was fierce. “You are not desperate. You are a Hillier.”
Phoebe watched the footman disappear, and felt an odd mix of fear and disappointment. “I wish you hadn’t done that.” She flicked a glance at the doorman, but the carriage must still be coming round, because he did not look their way to call them.
“Sheldrake was in trouble.” The words leapt from her mouth, and her aunt’s eyes widened.
“Debts, you said?” Her expression was one of disgust.
“Not debts.” Phoebe paused, then shrugged. “Or, not only debts. He had done something criminal. And the people he was in league with have decided he might have told me something dangerous to them. They tried to kill me last night. That man in the garden, he held a gun at me.”
Her aunt’s mouth fell open.
“I am only telling you this so that if they try again, you are aware and can take precautions. And so you understand why I’m going to ask you to leave tomorrow. Go back home, where it’s safe.”
“Phoebe?” Her aunt grabbed her arm again, her grip as tight as before, her eyes confused.
“Your carriage, my ladies.” The doorman held one of the massive double-doors open for them.
Phoebe glanced back one last time to see if Wittaker was coming, and then stepped into the night.
* * *
James noticed a footman approach the Prince Regent. He wished him luck getting any sense out of His Highness. The Prince had been slurring his words since James had joined him after dinner.
James had since insinuated himself into a group playing Hazard, hoping to hear something that would help Dervish’s enquiry, but he began to ease himself out of the crush.
The restlessness that had gripped him since dinner made it difficult to concentrate on the talk around him, and his thoughts kept turning to Miss Hillier. The rigid line of her back as she’d left the room spoke of a fighter going into the ring already outmatched.
The footman had left by the time he broke from the rowdy crowd. He thought he might go check on Miss Hillier. At least a half hour had passed since dinner was over, and the men would be expected in the withdrawing room soon, anyway.
“Wittaker?” An hand came down hard on his shoulder, and James turned to find Lord Halliford standing behind him.
“Halliford. I hear you’re responsible for my invitation here tonight.” James made no attempt to hide the dislike that flared up inside him.
Halliford took a step back. “Did you, now?”
James gave him a long, cool look. “Yes.”
Halliford looked across to the Prince Regent and then let his gaze jump back to James. “Well, I might have mentioned you knew Sheldrake.”
“You and your wife seem particularly interested in me today.” He kept his gaze on Halliford steady, and Halliford shifted uncomfortably.
“My wife?”
James flexed his fingers. “Miss Hillier told me about her visit this morning. The timing is quite interesting to me.”
Halliford turned his head away for a moment, his cheeks and throat going a dark, mottled red. “Interesting in what way?” His voice was thick.
James hesitated. In the past, this conversation would not have happened. He would have played drunk and bumbled his way through a meaningless five minutes before wandering off. But the Hallifords’ interference had caused harm to Miss Hillier and it had made him forget his usual role. “In something I’m looking into for Lord Dervish.” He smiled.
Halliford frowned and took an uncertain step back.
James laughed loudly, slapped Halliford on the upper arm and turned away. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Halliford’s confusion.
His act should keep Halliford off balance, and not quite sure if James was telling the truth or not. It might even force some results, stir up the hornet’s nest. His usual methods certainly weren’t working.
He started for the door, and knowing Halliford’s e
yes were still on him, allowed himself to list a little to the left and stumble. When he stepped out of the room and out of sight, he straightened and started toward the withdrawing room.
“Your Grace?” The footman he’d noticed talking to the Prince Regent hovered a few steps from the door to where the ladies gathered. “If you are looking for Miss Hillier, she has already gone home.”
James stopped. “Gone?”
“Did you not get the note from her? His Highness took it on your behalf.” The footman edged a step closer to the door.
James stared at him. “No. I didn’t get it. When did she send it?”
The footman looked down. “When she asked me to conveying her regards and goodbyes to His Highness.”
James glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the room he’d just left. He had a strong urge to confront the Prince Regent, standing in his drunken fog. No doubt he’d wanted to read just what a private note between himself and Miss Hillier was about. He probably thought it all highly amusing.
The footman clenched and unclenched his white-gloved hands.
“How long ago did she leave?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but the footman blanched.
“Five minutes ago, at most, Your Grace.” The man’s voice rose a little toward the end.
James turned to the entrance hall, and then swung back. “Why did you mention this to me?”
The footman’s gaze moved past him, in the direction of the rowdy reception room. “I was afraid His Highness might be too…preoccupied to give it to you.” He looked down at his feet. “And Miss Hillier seemed anxious.”
James gave a nod and then strode to the front doors.
He couldn’t work out whether it was by design or terrible luck, but if someone had hoped to leave Miss Hillier vulnerable tonight, they had succeeded.
Chapter Twenty-three
Phoebe asked the coachman to wait a few minutes, just in case Wittaker was still coming. They sat in silence, bathed in the glow from the brightly-lit windows of Carlton House. Aunt Dorothy yawned and clamped a hand over her mouth in mortification.
“Time to leave.” Phoebe couldn’t understand what was keeping Wittaker, but it was clear he wasn’t coming. She was about to give the word to the driver when a carriage pulled in behind them, the rattle of its wheels on the cobbles vibrating through their sprung carriage.
Someone arriving very late for the dinner. Or perhaps someone who had preferred to skip dinner and go straight for the evening’s entertainments.
Thinking of that, she realized almost no mention had been made of Sheldrake this evening. It had been more like a social affair than a memorial. The Prince Regent had raised a glass for absent friends, but he may just as well have meant the living as the dead.
From the driver’s seat she heard Rogers call to the driver of the new carriage. He swung down and poked his head through the door. “They want to come past, my lady. Should we go?”
Phoebe looked toward the door one last time, then nodded. “Yes, let’s get home.”
They heard Rogers climb back up, the creak of him taking his seat, but before he could urge the horses to move, there was a shout.
Wittaker came stumbling out of Carlton House. He was calling to them, his hand raised although his words were so slurred, they were unintelligible.
She opened the door.
“My lady?” Rogers peered down at her, a worried frown creasing his lined face.
“Wait for him, Rogers. It will be all right.”
Rogers hesitated, but gave a brief nod. The driver of the other carriage called something, just as Wittaker reached them and pulled himself inside, and Rogers urged the horses forward before he’d got the door completely shut.
They left with a rumble over the cobbles, down Pall Mall toward Portman Square, their pace slow with the evening traffic.
Wittaker leaned back and breathed out a sigh of relief.
She realized the drunken behavior had been a ploy, and it hurt that he had done that to himself, to his reputation, for her. He shouldn’t have to keep blackening his name.
She reached forward and touched his hand, and the look he gave her was startled.
“I’m lucky I caught you in time.”
“We waited for a bit. Hoping you would come.” She hadn’t thought he would, though. But now he was sitting opposite her, looking at her with that clear, steady gaze, she realized she should have had more faith in her instincts.
“Well, that was dramatic.” Aunt Dorothy kept looking at Wittaker, just to make sure he really wasn’t in his cups. “Why did you pretend to be drunk?”
“To make anyone watching think he’s not much of a threat, but still let them know we aren’t alone.” Phoebe answered for him, and she saw the gleam of Wittaker’s eyes in the light of the street lamps as he lifted his head up at her answer.
“Hopefully the rest of your evening was more sedate?” He folded his arms across his chest.
She knew what he was asking, and leant back. “No overt nastiness, except one incident with Mrs. Wentworth. Plenty of subtle signals I am no longer welcome.”
“Who is Mrs. Wentworth?” Wittaker looked between them.
“Harold Wentworth’s mother. Harold is next in line, so he’ll inherit Sheldrake’s titles and all the entailed property that goes with it.”
“Ah.” Wittaker sent her a crooked grin.
“Exactly.” Phoebe smiled back, even though a few minutes ago, a smile was the last thing she’d felt like. “It seems I was somehow at fault for not marrying Sheldrake sooner, because if I had, Mrs. Wentworth’s Harold would be inheriting as much of my money as was in Sheldrake’s control, as well as the titles and houses.”
“And Lady Halliford?” Wittaker steepled his fingers and looked at her from under half-closed lids. He looked dangerous and still had that wild, unpredictable air of a drunk, as if he hadn’t fully dropped his act.
She shifted on the carriage bench. “She gave me the cut direct, so she couldn’t approach me after that. It was quite a relief.”
“But surely you don’t think us in danger from anyone at dinner tonight?” Aunt Dorothy had relaxed, sitting more fully on her side of the bench.
“I don’t know.” Wittaker looked out the window as they slowed a little. “Too many variables at play. Tonight could have been the result of malice or a true ploy to get you out of your house and vulnerable. Or something else altogether.”
The carriage picked up speed again, and Phoebe leaned toward the window to gauge how far they were from Portman Square. “We’re almost home.”
Wittaker stirred. He looked half-asleep, his legs stretched across the cab so they brushed the hem of her gown, but she somehow knew that if he wanted to, he could burst into action.
Rogers slowed again, and then pulled up in front of the short path to the door of Home House.
“Ladies, if you’ll allow me.” Wittaker opened the carriage door and jumped down, and until that moment, Phoebe didn’t realize he was going to don the cloak of drunkard again.
He pretended to lose his balance, and then pitched forward, putting out his arms to prevent him from falling through the doors from the waist up.
“If anyone was watching here and at Carlton House, don’t want them comparing notes on my amazing abilities of recovery,” he murmured to her at the sight of her face.
She gave a nod and he winked at her again, staggered back and held out his hand to Aunt Dorothy. “Madam.” He half-bowed as he spoke, and she allowed herself to be helped down.
The front door opened, and Phoebe saw Lewis was standing silhouetted against the hallway light. Aunt Dorothy walked up the path to him, and Wittaker turned back for her.
“Miss Hillier.”
She didn’t like the way he spoke her name. Slurred and with a leer to it. She knew it was all an act, but something in her recoiled at the sound.
“Hush.” He looked at her, serious and concerned, and instead of taking her hand, he reached into the coach, pu
t his hands on her waist and lifted her down, rock-steady.
There was a flash of light from the right and then a bang, and she felt Wittaker flinch. He swore, a word she’d heard many times before on the streets of Manchester, but never from a gentleman’s lips in London.
“Go inside.” He pushed her in the direction of the front door and then ran toward where the flash had originated.
Straight for trouble yet again.
After what happened in the garden, she shouldn’t be surprised, but this time, he was injured. That flinch had not been at the sound of gun fire but the sting of a bullet.
She looked down at her hands and the one that had been on his left shoulder was bloody.
“My lady. Come in.” Lewis was halfway down the path, his face white.
Rogers jumped down from his perch, landing heavily beside her, and she saw he was holding his whip.
She grabbed it from his hand. “Lewis, it will be dangerous, so please don’t feel compelled, but if you would like to, follow me.”
She ran in the same direction at Wittaker and almost tripped over the whip. She lifted it higher, so it wasn’t trailing on the ground and swung her arm back so it was behind her.
Up ahead, Wittaker and their attacker rolled around on the ground, just below the yellow, wavering light of a street lamp. She heard a fist strike flesh and then the gunman rolled to his feet and stumbled back.
He looked set to run, but as Wittaker began to heave himself up, he fumbled in his pocket.
Phoebe’s foot kicked something hard and a pistol flew off the pavement and onto the road with a clatter.
She ignored it, keeping up her pace, with Lewis just behind her.
The man at last grabbed hold of the handle of another pistol wedged in his coat pocket and wrestled it out, pointed it in Wittaker’s direction.
She cried out. A long, loud scream of rage and frustration, fuelled by years of keeping it in. She raised the whip even higher, running faster than she had ever run before.
The gunman jerked up his head and the look on his face was one of utter astonishment.
She kept coming, and with a curse he spun on his heel and ran down an unlit side street. The darkness swallowed him up.
A Dangerous Madness Page 12
