Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  She looked at him and felt a tug at her heart strings. “The letter?”

  “Here,” he said quickly producing it. “Am I forgiven?”

  She nodded and turned to leave.

  “Celine?” He caught her sleeve.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to the housekeeper.”

  “After that?”

  “After that, I will go over the household accounts with the steward,”

  “Why do you have to do them?”

  “Because Penny has been told to rest. I am here to help her and temporarily take over her duties.”

  “After you do the accounts?”

  “I will go to Penny’s room and she will dictate letters—”

  “What are the other members of the house doing this morning?” he interrupted.

  “The duke will be working in his study, Penny takes a nap after breakfast and then again in the afternoon and evening. Dorothy is busy with her lessons, and Sir Henry never leaves his room unless for dinner.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Celine hesitated.

  An adorable lock of hair fell onto his forehead. He looked at her mournfully, his eyes dirge-like at the prospect of nothing and no one available to entertain him for the rest of the day.

  She wrenched her eyes away. He had tried to blackmail her, the cad. Squelching every bit of sympathy for him she ignored the blasted curly lock, the mournful eyes, and the pouting lips, and walked out.

  She refused to be responsible for his amusement.

  Chapter 9

  You did your part

  You tore my heart

  Into tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny shreds

  “Lord Elmer,” Celine gasped. She quickly slammed a book on top of the maps and turned around. “Give me back the poem.”

  “This one is truly terrible,” he grinned. “Hold on, I will give it back to you, just let me finish reading it first.”

  Celine lunged and grabbed the sheet out of his hands.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” He snatched another sheet off the table, “And since you did, I will read this one aloud just to see you blush.”

  She blushed.

  He grinned and cleared his throat,

  Observe here, my dear friends,

  The sentimental night sky.

  It expects to twinkle upon kissing lovers in dark lanes,

  Instead, it brightens the path for rogues, thugs and prisoners in chains.

  Observe here, my dear friends,

  The sentimental velvet couch.

  It expects to warm the buttocks of lords and ladies, earls and viscounts,

  Instead, it heats up the backsides of footmen that bounce the kitchen maids in return for small amounts.

  Observe here, my dear friends,

  The sentimental window pane.

  It expects lovely women to peer out of it and observe the world outside,

  Instead, it finds your ugly nose squished to its panes,

  And your putrid breath fogging up the glass on the inside.

  Stop observing, my dear friends,

  For you are blocking my view through the new optical lens.

  Didn’t you hear me, you fool,

  You mangy blockhead, go away, shoo shoo,

  For you are covering my shoulders with green hued drool.

  A small silence ensued after he had finished reading.

  “I shouldn’t have read that,” he said in a small voice. “I feel wronged somehow. I cannot believe I read the deuced thing and the whole of it. I couldn’t stop. I tried, but the words they were so … I was compelled to read it until the end. I feel tortured, abused—”

  “What are you doing here?” Celine cut in.

  “I was looking for a book.” He continued slyly, “Why were you looking at maps?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You are a bad liar. You should spend a few minutes every day in front of the mirror practising how to lie. It is a talent worth nurturing. Now, look at me, widen your eyes … not too much, a little less … very good. Now tell me without twitching that you were not looking at maps.”

  “Lord Elmer–”

  “You are blinking too much,” he interrupted. “It is an art, my dear. Do not disrespect it. Now, let’s try something different. I can clearly see a map peeking out from below those tomes in front of you. Therefore, look into my eyes, and this time without blinking and with complete earnestness tell me that you like maps, you adore them. In fact, you simply have to carry one everywhere you go. You cannot live without maps. Maps are your life. You were looking at them because they make you feel adventurous or something of the sort. Whatever you do don’t deny their existence or look guilty.”

  She blinked at him lugubriously, “I am sorry. I am busy. Can you go plague someone else?”

  “No.”

  “Penny will appreciate your company.”

  “I was with her in the morning room. I had to escape. She was slathering blackberry jam on chunks of venison and eating it.”

  “It doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “The venison was swimming in gravy.”

  “I see.”

  “Before that she was crying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in her words, I have a head full of ringlets, and the curls are so poetic that she couldn’t help it. She had to weep.”

  “I promise you, Penny is perfectly sane. But I am sorry, I have work to do, I—”

  “Let me stay here. I will sit quietly in that corner and read. I promise not one word will escape my lips,” he requested.

  “Has Penny made you uncomfortable?”

  “No, she has terrified me. I am scared in broad daylight.”

  Celine giggled. “Stop, she is not so bad. You can stay, but please don’t try to read any more of my letters.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he said and then pulling out a book from the shelves sat down to read.

  Celine dragged another letter towards herself and got to work.

  Half an hour later the silence was broken.

  “I cannot stand here and let you continue like this,” he exclaimed. “Miss Amy Montrose Fairweather, what in the world are you doing?”

  “Penny told you my name?” Celine cried.

  “Yes, and Amy suits you far more than Celine does,” he said gazing at her, “Amy. Short, sweet, simple.”

  “Don’t call me Amy.”

  “Amy, tell me what are you doing?”

  “No.”

  “Please. Perhaps I can help.”

  “I don’t trust you,” She shook a quill at him, splattering his stark white shirt with droplets of ink, “and why would you want to help me?”

  “Because it will give me something to do, and you did help me by asking the duchess to let me stay. It was done reluctantly, but you still did it.”

  “I am not sure.”

  “And I think you are pretty. A pretty damsel in distress, and it goes against my nature to leave you suffering like this—”

  “I am not suffering,” she replied blushing.

  “Disturbed then. I want to help.”

  “No.”

  “What if I told you something about myself that no one knew?”

  She pushed away the letter and looked at him. She hated to admit that she was intrigued.

  He smiled and fluttered his lashes, “Ask me anything, Amy” he said huskily.

  Celine wanted to slam the book on top of his head. She eyed his practised romantic expression, all pouting lips and dreamy eyes, and frowned.

  A sudden thought struck her. Perhaps it was better to learn some of his secrets. After all, he knew hers, and in case he decided to blackmail her again in the future, she would have something to protect herself with.

  But to ensure that he did tell her the truth she would have to behave like a simpleton. Inwardly grinning she let her shoulders relax, her chin slightly tilt up and her eyes grow large. A soft smile played on her li
ps.

  His dreamy expression faded and his hooded lids sprang up, his entire body going into alert mode.

  “Tell me,” she asked, a single finger making concentric circles on the wooden desk. “Why don’t you want to go home?”

  He gazed at her as if he had never seen her before. “I don’t want to be the ninth Earl of Devon. My father threw me out of the house and I had to make my own way in the world. Now that I have found my place he wants me back because it is convenient for him.”

  She eyed him sympathetically. This time her emotions were genuine. “Your pride and honour are holding you back.”

  He turned his back to her. His voice was cheerful when he said, “Can you see someone like me becoming the Earl of Devon? Being responsible for an estate and human lives? My brother has been groomed since the moment he was born. He is the heir.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes, I am afraid of becoming the earl and living a life of utter boredom until my dying day.”

  “But why do you want to stay here at the Blackthorne Mansion? It can’t be amusing. You don’t know any of us, and surely you have friends all over England?”

  He sighed and came and sat down next to her. “I did tell you to ask me anything.”

  She nodded.

  “It has to do with my last occupation. Before I was summoned to England by my father, I was apprenticed to a Pirate.”

  Chapter 10

  “A pirate?” Celine asked intrigued.

  “Yes,” George replied. He took out a cigar and lit it.

  “And before that what did you do?”

  “I was in partnership with a highwayman,” he said, smoke curling out of his mouth.

  “Was his name Jimmy?”

  “No, not the Falcon. How do you know the Falcon?”

  “Penny knows him well. I met him during the wedding. Nice fellow.”

  “I see. I was working with a highwayman who you may know as the White Tiger. I had to leave when I realised that too many highwaymen were sprouting up all over England and the magnanimity of the job had become diluted. I then became an apprentice to the Black Rover.”

  “Good lord!”

  “Have you heard of him?”

  “No, but he sounds frightening.”

  “He is intimidating. Six feet five inches, long black hair streaked with silver which is constantly whipping around in the roaring ocean wind. His jet black eyes are like the darkest part of the night, and his fine velvet clothes always smell like the freshest and finest fish in the ocean.”

  The two of them became silent out of respect for the Black Rover.

  He cleared his throat and continued, “He has a mother. She sails with him. She is an excellent cook or so I heard from the Captain. The crew calls her Sordid Sandy. She owns a large treasure chest filled with recipes that she has collected over the years. I stole one.”

  “Stole what?”

  “A recipe.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  “Are you trying to annoy me?” he asked testily.

  She shook her head, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you steal a recipe? If you had to steal something, then shouldn’t you have pinched something more exciting, like say … a jewel filled treasure chest or a solid gold statue, that sort of thing?”

  George leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. His head tilted slightly to the right while his eyes took on a faraway expression. “It was a beautiful cloudless night. The Desperate Lark sat bobbing in the sea a few miles off the coast of England. The black flag with skull and bones had been replaced by a cerulean flag depicting a fig leaf. We were once again in the guise of rich merchants, the blood washed away from the decks and the treasure buried in a faraway land—”

  “Lord Elmer, kindly come to the point,” Celine cut in.

  George glared at her. “Fine. My faculties were impaired by alcohol. I was intoxicated and my cranium was fogged up. I was befuddled, foxed, pickled. In a word … drunk.”

  “I see.”

  “It was Belcher’s fault. We shared a cabin. He encouraged me to drink a fair amount of dark rum. The result was that I found myself crawling into the Black Rover’s mother’s room, opening her treasure chest and grabbing the first bit of paper I laid my hands on. The next thing I recall was waking up in the kitchens with a treacle bread recipe clutched in one hand, covered in flour, wearing only a shirt and no breeches.”

  “You could have sneaked back in that night and replaced it.”

  George nodded. “Except that I received a letter from my father that morning. He wanted me back in England. He said my mother was ill and I like a blooming fool believed that old rusty guts. I left immediately and only recalled the recipe once I was in a carriage oscillating my way to my father’s house. I realised Belcher is a bootlicker and at the first opportunity he would have told the captain about the theft. I know the captain, and he is normally a patient man unless it concerns his mother.”

  “Men are often wary of their mothers,” Celine agreed.

  “Wary, my dear? Captain Rover is not wary of his mother. He is terrified of her. In her presence he becomes a booby, a looby and a betwattled mopsey. Which is why I quickly changed directions and made my way to Lord Adair’s house. Captain Rover knows where my house is and who my friends are, whereas Lord Adair is a distant enough relation, and his residence is well protected on account of his own life being in constant danger. I knew I would be safe with him. Once at Lord Adair’s residence, I learned the real reason my father wanted me back. The rest you know.”

  “I see. Lord Adair had to leave on the king’s business and the duke is supposed to be in the country with Penny. No one knows that you and the duke are related, and hence Blackthorne is the safest place for you to hide.” She sucked on her bottom lip, “And is that why cooks are disappearing all over England?”

  “Yes, the pirates are trying to get the recipe back.”

  “What will happen if they catch you?”

  “Well, I dared to steal from the Captain’s mother and that in The Desperate Lark’s book means violent death.”

  “How violent?”

  “Starting from my big toe they will burn me inch by inch until they reach the top of my head.”

  “Egad!”

  “Precisely.”

  “I could almost believe you.”

  “I am not lying,” he said fumbling around in his pocket. He took out a fish hook, twine and a pair of pink drawers. He quickly shoved the last item back into his pocket.

  “It is a bang up tale. Just like the story about your two stepmothers,” she remarked, “but this time I shall not be bamboozled.”

  “Here is the recipe,” he said pulling out a yellowed parchment.

  She glanced at the title ‘Treacle bread for ye when a cobra or a scorpion has bitten thee in the fleshy part of—” She stopped reading.

  “Do you believe me?”

  She pulled the maps towards herself and ignored him.

  “It is your turn now. What are you trying to do?” he persisted.

  “Nothing.”

  “You promised to tell me.”

  “Yes, if you told me something honestly.”

  “I was honest.”

  “Pooh,” she said, waving him away.

  “What the devil,” he cursed in anger. “You cannot pooh me. No one dares to pooh George Irvin.”

  “Pooh,” she repeated, hiding her smile behind a large map.

  “Would you like this back?” he asked politely.

  She looked up and found one of her letters once more in his possession. Her smile vanished, “Give it back, Lord Elmer. This is not amusing.”

  “I will give it back but first apologise.”

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “Good, now tell me what you are doing?” he asked gesturing towards the desk.

  “No.”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “Stop being childish and give me back my letter.”

  “Not childish. I simply get what I want, even if I have to use dishonest means.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t trust you.”

  He grinned cheekily. “Now tell me everything.”

  She glared at him.

  A dimple appeared in his cheek.

  He had an awfully infectious smile. She ordered her own features to behave and remain frozen in an expression of annoyance.

  He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  She gave up and smiled. He already knew enough to ruin her. He might as well learn the whole of it. “I have nothing much to tell. I am trying to find Philbert.”

  “He is lost?”

  She nodded unhappily, “He told me he had to leave for London to find his fortune. He couldn’t marry me at the time because he had no money. And then a year ago his letters stopped arriving.”

  “Perhaps he lost interest in you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. And it is very horrid of you suggest such a thing. He could have written and been honest and said that he no longer wanted to see me.”

  “So you are trying to find him. Didn’t he tell you where he lives?”

  “No, he did. I told him I understand all his poems, so he told me the clue to the place where he is staying in London is woven into the last poem that he had sent me. The trouble is I cannot decipher it. It is unlike his other poems.

  “Which poem?”

  “This one.”

  “This is not a poem. This is a splotch.”

  “A painting,” she corrected.

  “A splotchy painting,” he agreed.

  “He was branching out into creative poetry. He wanted to paint his poems.”

  “What does that mean?

  “How am I to know? I am not a poet.”

  “So this awful painting is the only clue you have?”

  “Yes, and it is not awful.”

  “I don’t think he wants you to find him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He has done his best to make things complicated.”

  “He has a very sensitive deep soul.”

  “More likely he is a handsome, brooding emaciated poet with a questionable soul. A woman is bound to fall for such a fellow.”

  “He is not thin. In fact, he is fleshy and not handsome at all. He has spots on his face and thinning hair.”