All four men reviewed Ridley. He lingered near the auction platform and appeared overeager. Phineas fingered his lucky coin, safely tucked in his trouser pocket. He intended to win this auction, no matter the extended interest by those out to strengthen their stable. Ridley’s presence did not deter his purpose and Phin wasn’t one to entertain ludicrous harbingers or speculative gossip.
Devlin agreed. “I don’t like him. He interrupted our inspection of the grey earlier and hadn’t the decency to initiate proper introductions or refrain from rude questions. He also stated he didn’t have the pockets for such an animal, so what purpose would be served by deflecting others with rumors about the horse’s health?” Unmistakable dislike furrowed Devlin’s expression.
The conversation proceeded no further as the auctioneer began to call, his deep tenor settling the crowd with alacrity, although a tremor of tentative anticipation reverberated throughout. Bid after bid, the offer for Trump’s horse climbed to an impressive high, the room fell silent and Phineas stood poised to win. The gavel sounded with a second fall. One more strike and Phin would own the horse, but when a male voice objected from the front row, the agent paused. An obstreperous rumble rushed through the room, while the same boisterous voice interrupted with what could only be a higher amount.
The new offer nearly doubled the suspended bid and Phineas, caught off guard as he’d become lost in consideration of Penelope’s fine qualities, jerked to awareness, unsure of what occurred. If Devlin hadn’t rapped his arm he would have missed the opportunity altogether, but instead he whipped his arm upward and dropped the auction paddle. The gavel fell while he attempted to muddle through the occurrence and recover.
“It was Ridley. There’s no way he can sustain that kind of funding and have remained so invisible here in London. The man is proving to be a nuisance.” Harry couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice and Harold Chadling rarely voiced an unpleasant word against anyone. Devlin and Con agreed.
“I would go to him even though he underhandedly won this auction, but without a doubt I am sure it is expected.” Phin threw an angry glare in Ridley’s direction. The crowd had surrounded the man in congratulations and the scene stoked his temper. “Let’s go, gentleman. Ridley played me the fool and I will not easily forget it. I am done here.” He dropped the auction pamphlet and left Tattersalls without another word.
It was half past midnight when Phineas fumbled for the key in his pocket as he stood on the lantern-lit porch of the East End apartment. He didn’t fear for his safety, his fists as lethal as any weapon, but one needed to stay alert during the dead hours, most especially in this section of London.
The curtain fluttered in the window to his left and then the door cracked open far enough for him to see the illuminated smile of the lady within.
“You’ll catch a chill. The dampness of this fog burrows straight to the bones.”
Her concerned tone caused him to grin despite she continued to chide him. He knew her words held a note of affection.
“And where is your coat and cravat? I suppose you thought it would be quicker this way?”
She tugged him off the porch and into the hall, as if her admonishment wouldn’t serve its purpose.
“It is most efficient given I’m restricted to this ungodly hour under the cover of the night, still I couldn’t wait to get here. I’ve had more than my share of disappointment today. A little pleasantness would serve me well.”
She laughed softly as she led him to the back of the house, the rustling swish of her skirts followed by his boot heels, the only sounds to be heard in the hall.
Chapter Five
“Cursed imagination. I do not need another problem.” Muttering, Phineas slit his eyes the sufficient width to see the gilded clock on the mantel in his bedchamber. It read half six in the morning. Even his valet would be hesitant to wake him at such an early hour, yet his nightly dreams upheld no such reluctance in gulling him awake with vigorous suggestions concerning his new houseguest.
Her hair reminded him of cinnamon biscuits and her fetching smile made his heartbeat quicken. How would she taste were he to kiss her lips or nibble on her graceful neck? Was she as delicious from head to toe as she appeared? Were he to have a sweet sample of her affection, would she prove as irresistible to all of his senses as his wild imaginings taunted, her skin as silken, her cries of pleasure as melodic, her scent as delectable as his fantasies insisted true?
Much to his dismay, his sensual daydreams concluded with a forceful intrusion of honor, spurring his conscience into banishing the luscious fantasies and replacing the delightful images with self-admonishment and harsh recrimination. Penelope was an itch he couldn’t scratch. The lady had confessed her heart remained with another and he’d vowed never to become entangled in affection. He didn’t want to think of her. Damn it all, he didn’t want anything to do with her or her problem. With determination he rallied his mantra: no wife, happy life.
It was difficult enough living with his marriage-minded mother in house without having to look out a window whenever Penelope neared or risk revealing his forbidden fantasies through inelegant body language, his cock hard.
He had avoided taking meals at home yesterday, but he couldn’t continue for long in the same fashion. It was his home they’d all but invaded to obliterate his quietude.
A sharp squawk resounded from below stairs and he groaned.
Intent on speaking to Maman and encouraging a Herculean effort to complete Penelope’s request so to be rid of her, Phin dressed for breakfast and entered the morning room with newly constituted resolve. Sunlight slanted through the windows with aggressive cheerfulness matched by the floral tapestries and scenic artwork that decorated the walls. Random artifacts, collected by his father during his travels and installed on a grand bookcase, was centered between the curtain-drawn windows. He crossed the tiled floor, his boots tapping a determined tempo.
His mother sat at the breakfast table alone. Already the day proved promising. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and settled in a chair, anxious to delve into the food and the subject at hand. Mon Ami, his mother’s parrot, eyed him derisively from the elaborate white cage perched near the far side of the dining table.
“There you are.” His mother smiled grandly. “I worried I would have to eat without company this morning. I sent Penelope and Aubry to the modiste with two maids. They will not return for some time. Where have you been for the past day and a half?” Without pause, she leaned toward the cage as the parrot began to chatter. “Mon Ami, stop that ridiculous nonsense.” She clicked her tongue at the red macaw before returning her attention to her son. “So everything is in order in Brighton? You found your aunt and uncle well? The entire situation has left me beside myself with concern. I’m relieved Julia is removed, but I worry still. I hope the time away will ease her heart. One cannot be sure.”
Phineas knew Julia would not be assuaged until he supplied the answers she sought, but Maman need not know those particulars. Before they’d departed for Brighton, he’d helped his sister send a missive to Winton’s residence and the envelope returned unopened. It added insult to injury the man would not explain his actions. No, he could never break his sister’s trust nor confide his intentions to his mother. Maman already worried over her daughter. He refused to add concerns.
Mon Ami fluttered his wings and the unexpected sound interrupted Phin’s reflective musings. Nonplussed, his mother pursued her favorite subject with zeal.
“So when are you going to make me happy and choose a wife? Every time we attend a function you dance a waltz or two, but never with the same female. Then like magic, you disappear. Mon dieu! How are you going to find a mate if you nary pay attention to the same lady and spend all your free time with horses? Wharncliffe has found happiness in marriage. You’ll be a fish out of water as soon as the rest of your friends follow suit. What is holding you back from making me a grand mere?”
At sixty two years of age, Victoria Betcham r
emained a force to be reckoned with and Phin suspected it was the reason his father spent so much time out of house. By aristocratic standards, his parents shared a happy match, but that hypocritical misconception fed his discontent. With his father abroad for long stretches, his mother focused on finding him a wife and every conversation followed the same path. She accepted all invitations, schemed with anxious dowagers in dark corners of the ballroom, and prodded him with sentiments of disappointment whenever possible. Nevertheless, the thought of marriage caused his brain to twitch.
No wife, happy life.
“It’s too early for this conversation. I haven’t eaten.” Adjusting his cravat, he donned a tolerant expression and reached for a platter of food. He made no secret he held severe reservations about marriage, so where lay the purpose in attending society’s gatherings if not to meet a future wife?
“As long as I’ve your undivided attention, I see no reason not to discuss what is most important. Besides,” Victoria Betcham spooned sugar into her teacup before she glanced across the table, maternal concern softening her expression. “I worry about you, and I know you do not wish to cause me sorrow.”
Phin sliced the ham on his plate with thoughtful concentration. His mother possessed a talent for creating conversations provoking the participants to unintentionally bare their souls. He’d grown wise to her technique. Her English-French mixture proved a charming tool in her arsenal of information recognizance, as did her cunning utilization of self-distress; and while she offered innocence in her demeanor at first perception, it was always in one’s best interest to be on guard from her propinquity to achieve her goals.
“Never would I wish you discontent, Maman. However, as I have no immediate thoughts of marrying, the season’s ever present schedule of masquerades and parlor parties holds little appeal. It makes sense to leave before the hour grows late.” He dared a glance in her direction. If anything, it appeared his mother accepted his explanations, reasoning and excuses with an elaborate show of ennui. A change of subject was in order, no matter how the two issues overlapped.
“Now with Penelope in house, I will be forced to attend a string of events.” He paused, allowing the information to settle. For some strange reason his heart thrummed a rapid beat. “While not exactly what you desire, due to your meddlesome offer I’ll be present at social functions nonetheless.” The irony of the situation brought his words forth in a tetchy tone.
His mother beamed. “How perfectly wonderful. Penelope is delightful, don’t you agree? A clever, lovely girl. Any man would be lucky to gain her attention. You should be giving more thought to your future.”
Phineas scoffed as he loaded his plate with kippers and eggs. “You speak as though I’m at the end of my rope instead of one and thirty.” He slid a finger into the knot of his cravat. In his hurry he had tied the cloth too tightly, the accessory fast becoming a noose.
His mother rose from the table and floated toward Mon Ami’s cage. As she stood, Phineas was inclined to do so and he walked to the sideboard to pour himself coffee. Tea just wasn’t the thing when battling Maman and her marriage lectures. “I’ll know the lady who’ll claim my heart when I meet her.” He pursued his goal. “By the by, have you garnered any information pertaining to the gentleman Penelope seeks? With the Pimbles’ masquerade this evening, I may solve her problem with alacrity if I possess purposeful information concerning the anonymous gentleman.”
Maman stopped feeding seeds to Mon Ami and offered her full attention. “Penelope has not mentioned specifics. I’m overjoyed to have the sisters in house. With Julia away, it is a balm to soothe my spirits. Not only will we assist the ladies, but I’ll be able to spoil them for a spell. They’ve experienced horridly difficult times. Bringing them to London presents a rare opportunity for all of us.”
Phineas quirked a brow at the troubling gleam in his mother’s eye. Considering her words with caution, he returned to the table. Surely she could not believe her veiled insinuations would go unnoticed. He watched her whisper enamored compliments to the parrot as she offered a sliver of fruit between the bars.
“My sweet Mon Ami has a French appetite.”
“That bird is from Africa.” It seemed necessary for him to point out the obvious. “Pity we can’t send it back.”
Maman did not object to the latter mutter and continued a string of coos. Phineas scoffed. Who had the birdbrain in the room? Helping himself to another serving of eggs, he awaited his mother’s reply.
“Alors, the English will never understand the French when it comes to food.” Her face reflected true pity. “Now, listen closely. We have a wonderful opportunity before us. Let us not waste it. Promise me you’ll work harder at finding a wife.”
Phineas noted his mother’s tone, full of crisp precision. “Oh, I am aware of your impatience to see me happily settled.” Once again, he attempted to bring the conversation to rights. “If nothing else, attending social events as a favor to Penelope will also lend me to abide your wishes.” He placed his napkin on the table and left, discarding the food on his plate with the same alacrity as the wishes of his mother.
Later that afternoon, Phin met his mother in the drawing room. He’d spent the day seeking information concerning Daniel Winton and had little to show for his effort, although Constantine uncovered a possibility and agreed to notify him if the rumour proved reliable. After meeting with Con, Phin went for a long ride to clear his thoughts. Rarely one to take life seriously or harbor poor feelings toward others, he would be pleased to have Julia’s issue and Penelope’s, put to rest. Fishing, boxing, horseracing; everything comprising the natural simplicity of his life was pushed to the side for the matters at hand.
Now, dressed in formal attire for the Pimbles’ masquerade, he awaited Penelope’s entrance, as did Maman. Aubry would be staying home of course, not having had her proper come out.
Approaching footsteps turned all attention toward the door. Jenkins cleared his throat and then a shadowy figure skirted past the staid butler. Phin had managed fleeting glimpses of Penelope since his abrupt decision to stay out of her path, but no one could deny she was present now.
Once his eyes skimmed over her slim silhouette the floor fell away. Gone was the faded day gown and mousy straw bonnet, her hair unbraided, her repose no longer reticent. Instead, a grand beauty waited inside the doorframe. The room grew silent and time stretched until Mon Ami, the offensive bird, released an intrusive squawk. Penelope startled, recovered just as quickly, and smothered a bemused smile. Phineas told his feet to move but Maman passed him on her way across the room.
“Jolie mademoiselle, you look lovely from head to toe.” She clasped Penelope’s hands and pulled her forward. “I shall be proud to introduce you to everyone this evening. You will do nicely.”
Wasting not another breath listening to his mother’s chatter, Phineas locked Penelope’s gloved hands in his, his heartbeat kicking up speed with the motion. Maman could not have been more correct. Penelope looked breathtaking, as delicious as a treacle dream. She dropped into a deep curtsy and the action allowed him an enticing glimpse of the creamy skin framed by her bodice.
“Phineas,” Maman called with a delighted trill.
What a magnificent transformation. Oh, Penelope had appeared lovely in the gardens, in the sunlight as beautiful as a wildflower, but this evening in a modern gold-colored gown of fine velvet, she looked as exquisite as any debuted female of the ton.
No. She looked better. Desire quickened his blood.
“Phineas!”
She possessed a freshness that could not be feigned. He pressed a lingering kiss to her gloved fingers, all the while his eyes drank in her green gaze, wishing to memorize every detail of her appearance.
“Phineas.” Penelope tugged her hand. “Your mother is calling you.”
She leaned in with a conspiring whisper and Phineas caught the light scent of vanilla. He stalled for a breath before releasing her glove, his heart thudding a heavy beat and then he
smiled, thankful for the verbal nudge.
“Where have we heard the Rosebery name before? Penelope, did your father remain active in society?” Lady Fenhurst motioned toward the overstuffed chairs.
Phineas walked to the fireplace to attend to the flames all the while willing his body to co-operate. “I can’t say, Maman.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Penelope grin at his use of the familiarity. Should he be embarrassed? It was foolish in the extreme to put such acute interest in someone’s impression that the typical be overthought. Still an unwelcome heat warmed the back of his neck. He turned to focus on the discussion in the room.
His mother’s voluble conversation flew from her faster than a hummingbird’s wings, the different societal events they would attend together, the opportunity to mix with the oldest members of the ton all in a combination of mostly English, a little French and the occasional squawk of an overfed parrot.
How twisted and ironic, and a little too complicated, having Penelope in house while she sought the man for whom she had tender feelings. Everyone referred to Phin’s resplendent virtues as a prime example of the self-possessed gentleman, yet the perception evoked a wry smile. While he did not make a show of his habits and preferred his relationships kept private cloaked by the night hours, he was a man with masculine needs and urges. Something about his new houseguest ignited all the wrong desires.
His eyes sought Penelope. By damn, if she wasn’t completely fetching. Candlelight reflected off the wayward curls resting against her shoulders to highlight their silky appeal. His fingers twitched with restlessness, interrupted by the clock chiming nine. They walked to the hall in wait of the carriage, his mother and Penelope engrossed in animated conversation.
The Midnight Rake Page 5
