Siren

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  “That smell. What is it?”

  Sarah frowned, setting the jar in the basket, and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Truly?” Phoebe shuddered. “I would swear there is a wet animal under the table. A dead wet animal.” She sniffed, trying to discern the odor, and her stomach lurched instantly. “Oh, dear.” Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth and nose.

  Sarah stood instantly, rounding the table to sit beside Phoebe. “Are you well? You’re green as a goose.”

  Phoebe moaned, closing her eyes. “Geese are not green.”

  “No, but that did have a nice ring to it. It almost rhymed.” Sarah pressed the back of her hand to Phoebe’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish,” she said, tone sobering, “but you don’t look well at all.”

  Phoebe gave her head a slight shake. “Would you mind terribly if I went to lie down?”

  “Of course not.” Sarah’s brow furrowed with concern. “Come, I’ll walk you upstairs and ring for some tea. I do hope it’s nothing catching.”

  Phoebe stood and offered her friend a weak smile, looping her arm through Sarah’s. “I’m certain it’s not. A little rest is all I need. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “After some tea and a nap you’ll be right as rain.”

  “I hope so,” Phoebe replied weakly. “I hope so.”

  * * * *

  Incessant beams of sunlight peaked around the heavy velvet drapes in Phoebe’s bedchamber, demanding she shake off the overwhelming fatigue strapping her to the bed, and rise. It wasn’t like her to sleep late—a thing she’d done every day for the past week—and if she didn’t remedy the behavior soon everyone would begin to worry. Panic welled in the dark space behind her eyelids, dragging troubling questions out for inspection. Phoebe forced her eyes open and drew a steadying breath. She quickly suppressed the uncertainties bandying about the periphery of her mind. Surely she had nothing to fret about. Soon this overwhelming sleepiness would pass, and the unease she’d tried to ignore for the past two weeks would be but a bad memory.

  Sufficiently reassured, Phoebe mustered her strength and swiftly sat, slinging her legs over the edge of the mattress.

  Oh, dear!

  She shouldn’t have moved. Her stomach churned, threatening to spill whatever contents lurked within. She clamped a hand over her mouth as she inadvertently heaved. Desperate, she scrambled off the bed, dropping to her hands and knees and grappling for the empty chamber pot beneath. She just barely grabbed the copper basin in time and retched until the muscles in her abdomen hurt.

  The door crashed open.

  Phoebe groaned as Sarah appeared.

  “Phoebe? Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Sarah,” she choked, gripping the copper basin in both hands. “What are you doing here?”

  “You certainly don’t sound fine.” Her friend strode across the room, concern lining her pretty visage. “How long have you been sick like this?”

  “Lady Phoebe is sick?” Mrs. Condon was hot on Sarah’s heels. “I certainly hope it wasn’t last night’s fish. I told Cook it smelled tainted.”

  “There was nothing wrong with the fish,” Phoebe muttered, wishing the two of them would disappear.

  Mrs. Condon stopped dead in her tracks, glancing from Phoebe huddled on the floor in her night robe, clutching the chamber pot for dear life, to Sarah and then back to Phoebe. The older woman paled. “What’s going on?”

  Sarah crossed her arms. “That’s what I came over to find out. I wanted to check on Phoebe after she fell ill yesterday.”

  Her stomach promptly began to heave again.

  A knowing and thoroughly devastated expression settled across Mrs. Condon’s face. “Miss Hardy, close the door on your way out.”

  “It’s Mrs. Collins, if you please, and I’m not going anywhere.” Sarah closed the door, but refused to leave.

  “Lady Phoebe—” Mrs. Condon’s voice cracked. “I hate to ask this, but… are you…”

  Trembling, Phoebe nodded before her servant could finish the question. “Yes.” Tears of shame and anguish flooded Phoebe’s eyes, there was no denying the fact any longer. She squeezed her lids shut to block out the hurt and disappointment pouring from her housekeeper’s eyes, and Sarah… she couldn’t bring herself to look at Sarah. All the pent up fear and emotion burst from Phoebe and sobs racked her body with gale force. “I-I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe it.” Hot tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks. “What will come of me? How will I ever tell Edward?”

  “Oh, Phoebe.” Sarah crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside her, wrapping her in a sisterly hug. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know what to say.” Phoebe held tightly to the caring arms cradling her, but they were not the arms she longed for. The arms she wished for had thoroughly used and then left her.

  Mrs. Condon sank down beside them, resting a soothing hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “I will speak with His Grace. All will be well,” Mrs. Condon crooned. After a long silence she sighed weightily. “You know, girls, I always thought it would be my daughter, Carol, I’d be having this conversation with.”

  Phoebe choked out a single wry laugh, pulling away from Sarah and sitting back on the floor. “You may still. She’s only fifteen.”

  “Now.” Mrs. Condon grew more serious, dabbing the corner of her sleeve at her eyes. “Who is the father?”

  Phoebe shook her head, staring at the floor. Shame burned in her cheeks

  “Who, Phoebs?” Sarah lifted Phoebe’s hand and squeezed it.

  Phoebe raised heavy eyes to Sarah and Mrs. Condon. “James Witherspoon.”

  Thirteen

  Located in what remained of the original castle, Edward’s study door loomed, ominous and medieval, much like the duke himself. Phoebe dragged a long breath into her lungs, squashing the overwhelming desire to flee. This must be done. She couldn’t hide her secret from Edward forever. Best to have it out now—or so she was trying to convince herself.

  Sarah grabbed Phoebe’s hand and squeezed hard. “I am coming with you. There is no way I am leaving you to speak with Edward alone.”

  “I agree,” Mrs. Condon interjected. “His Grace is a good man, but he has the devil’s own temper. I’ll come as well.”

  Phoebe nodded weakly, unable to conjure even the shadow of a smile at their show of support. She’d spent the last hour telling Sarah and Mrs. Condon the whole sordid tale of her affair with James. They’d been compassionate and supportive—as friends should be—but Phoebe could well imagine Edward’s murderous tirade. Steeling her courage—fallen woman or no, she was still a Landon and refused to cower—she rapped on the study door.

  “Edward,” she called. “It’s Phoebe. I need to speak with you right away.” Without waiting for an answer, she swung the door inward. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s important.”

  Edward slouched over his desk, pouring over an overwhelming stack of documents, brow furrowed in concentration. He glanced up with a look of mild irritation, but bade her enter anyway. “What is this about, Phoebe? I am extremely busy.” He turned back to his document, dipping a quill in ink and proceeding to sign his name to the bottom of the page.

  Trembling with shame and fear, Phoebe clutched Sarah’s hand so hard the other woman winced. “Edward, I…” the words escaped her, leaving her voice a mere rasp. She cleared her throat, steeling her courage. “Edward, I-I am with child.” There. She’d said it. The truth was out—most of it in any case. She resisted the urge to look away, and braced for the tirade to come.

  Dead silence ruled the air.

  Drawing a tentative breath, Phoebe debated repeating herself. Had Edward even heard?

  He finished signing the document before him and calmly proceeded to sand the ink. The line of his jaw set like concrete and the muscles in his neck tensed like iron. Phoebe gulped. He’d heard, and he was practicing an uncharacteristic show of restraint. He set his work aside and s
tood, striding to the window at the far side of his study, clasping his hands behind his back.

  The silence ensued. It was more than she could bear. She’d prepared herself for anger. She wanted anger—deserved anger. Anything but this deafening quiet.

  “Edward?” Phoebe prodded softly.

  “Has a physician confirmed your condition?”

  “No.”

  “The signs are unmistakable, Your Grace,” Mrs. Condon interjected, her tone matter-of-fact and soothing.

  Edward nodded, continuing to stare through the window. After a moment he glanced down at the floor, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I am afraid to broach the next question.” Finally, he faced Phoebe, sadness and hurt brimming in his dark eyes. “To whom should I defend my sister’s honor?”

  Phoebe faltered. Whatever calm façade her brother managed to cloak himself in would dissolve the moment he learned of her intimacy with James.

  Edward’s mouth hardened to a grim line as black fire lit in his eyes. “No. Anyone but Witherspoon.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Edward. I thought—”

  Her brother roared with fury. “Witherspoon! Sweet Jesus, Phoebe, how could you? The man murdered our brother.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Phoebe defended.

  “Everyone knows he’s guilty.”

  “Then why was he never brought up on charges,” Phoebe argued. “Tell me, Edward, what proof do you have that the magistrate never knew of?”

  For the first time Edward hesitated. Phoebe capitalized on it.

  “No one knows the facts of Patrick’s death. We all mourn him, but he is gone and his death should mean more than hatred.”

  Edward’s face turned to stone. “Patrick is irrelevant. We are here because of your monstrous indiscretion. Your supreme ruination.” Edward fell to cold silence, but Phoebe could see the fire and rage his eyes. “I’d bloody well murder that womanizing bastard with my bare hands, but he’s quite conveniently left the country. Has he made you promises?”

  Phoebe looked away, shame spurring yet more tears to her eyes. “No.” She held her breath, forcing herself to regain control. Edward would tolerate no show of weakness.

  “Of course not. How like a Witherspoon to use a woman and cast her aside for revenge.”

  Revenge? “No, Edward, it wasn’t like that.”

  “Enough. I will not hear you defend him to me again.” Her brother paced the length of the room, brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, he faced her again. “Go to your room,” he ordered. “I need time to consider our options.”

  “Edward—”

  “Go!” he thundered. “I will summon you when I am prepared to discuss this further.”

  Mute, Phoebe acquiesced with a stiff nod. Numb, she backed from Edward’s study and retired to her room.

  Sarah and Mrs. Condon followed in silence.

  Once back inside her bedroom, Phoebe stopped in the center of the room, simply staring at the cream colored wall. What would Edward do? What could her brother do? He’d spoken of options, but what options did she have? She was a ruined woman. Fallen. Utterly tainted in the eyes of society. Would he shut her away in a small cottage? Would he claim her dead and shun her completely?

  Phoebe shivered at the prospect.

  Perhaps… A foolish kernel of hope lit within her… Perhaps Edward would force James to marry her. Edward was one of the most powerful peers in Britain, if anyone could move heaven and earth to make a marriage possible—even a marriage by proxy across continents—it was Edward.

  She turned to Sarah and Mrs. Condon. “I suppose I should pen Colonel Witherspoon a letter.”

  Sarah nodded. “Probably wise. I will send one to Nicholas as well.” She offered a tentative smile. “I could stay and we could pen them together.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Phoebe,” Sarah said softly, “When did all this happen? Would you tell me about it?”

  Over the next hour Phoebe told Sarah everything.

  “Wow,” Sarah said at the end of the tale. “I knew something wasn’t right, but I never imagined anything like this.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he came here only to tell you it was over.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “I like to think he came with other plans, and that Edward’s tirade caused him to back off. I had hoped he’d write to me in secret, but there’s been no word.”

  “I think there’s a good chance he’ll come around the moment he learns of the babe.”

  “I can’t help but pray you’re right.” Phoebe rested her head in her hands. “None of this seems real. It’s like a horrible nightmare that I can’t wake up from.”

  Sarah fell silent. “I envy you just a bit,” she said after a long pause.

  Phoebe cast her a baleful look. “You’re joking.”

  Sarah’s ever jovial expression grew grave. “I had hoped to get with child right away. I… I have this terrible sense that I’ll never see Nicholas again. I’ve even been dreaming about it.”

  “Oh, Sarah.” Phoebe reached across the settee and to grasp her friends hand. “You mustn’t think that way. Nicholas will be fine. The war will end and you two will have a lifelong wonderful marriage.”

  Sarah offered a weak smile. “I wish I shared your optimism.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Phoebe straightened, putting on a show of good faith she did not feel, “you be optimistic about my circumstances and I’ll be optimistic about yours.”

  * * * *

  Sarah pulled Phoebe into a tight hug as she prepared to take leave that evening. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you,” she promised.

  “Thank you, Sarah. You are a wonderful friend.”

  A fresh wave of nerves beat back the overwhelming nausea that continued to assail Phoebe as she closed the door behind her friend. Already she missed Sarah’s distracting presence.

  “Lady Phoebe?” A maid approached her in the front hall. “Your brother requested your presence in his study.”

  “Thank you, Alice.” Phoebe dragged a steadying breath into her lungs, making her way slowly to Edward.

  What would he do? What could he do?

  The questions had whirled through Phoebe’s head all afternoon, and the hope that Edward would force a marriage between her and James had grown from a foolish whim to a full-on daydream. She’d even begun to think of baby names.

  She stepped into her brother’s study without bothering to knock. Edward stood behind his desk, arms crossed, and instantly leveled a chilly gaze upon her. Any fantasies drifting about her mind instantly whisked away

  “You will go to the country,” he began, voice terse with barely concealed rage. “I’ll tell everyone you’ve taken ill. Once the child is born it will be given to a suitable family. You will then return to Corsair and marry a man of my choosing.”

  Phoebe gasped, an inadvertent hand flying to her abdomen. “Y-you can’t take my baby.”

  An icy, murderous gleam roiled in his eyes. “Yes, you little whore, I can.”

  Fourteen

  June 18, 1815

  “Can you walk on that leg?” James knelt beside Corporal Jonas Walters, hastily bandaging the gaping gunshot wound in his left leg. All around them musket shots popped and echoed off the trees.

  The young corporal looked up to James, green eyes grim. “I don’t think so, sir.”

  James flinched and hunkered lower as a shot splintered a tree just three feet from his head. Everything had gone wrong. Everything. The correspondence intercepted by General Boland had been nothing but a trap. It was fortunate only a small party had been sent to investigate as opposed to the entire army or a large brigade. James and his men had walked right into it. Now he and Walters were the only members of the scouting detail left alive.

  “Just leave me, Colonel. I’ll only slow you down. Better I bleed to death here than we both die picking through these woods.”

  “Nonsense.” James knotted off the linen bandage. “We’re a half-mile from G
eneral Boland’s camp at most. I’m not leaving you here to rot.” Odds were they’d both die within ten feet of this very spot, but he didn’t share such with the young corporal. James pulled Walter’s arm across his shoulders and hauled the soldier to his feet. He’d never left a breathing man behind and he wasn’t about to start now.

  Musket balls kicked dirt up all around them.

  “Keep your head low,” James muttered grimly, guiding Walters behind a long row of boulders. “We have a long run ahead of us.”

  Two hours later, James and Corporal Walters approached the Brussels Road. British flags and familiar regimental standards flapped in the breeze. Carts, horses and soldiers rushed back and forth along the road carrying wounded men and ammunition. James frowned. This battle was far bigger than skirmish fire in the woods.

  “By God,” Walters sobbed, tone wrought with exhaustion. “Our colors. I see our colors.” The young man slumped weakly, nearly falling to his knees and dragging James along with him.

  “Stay strong, lad.” James hefted him up once more. “We’ve got a stretch to walk yet. Then we’ll get you to the medical tent.”

  “To hell with the medical tent. I want water and a pint of ale.”

  James chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Within twenty minutes, Corporal Walters was safely ensconced in the medical tent with a water canteen and a whiskey flask. James clasped the younger man’s hand warmly, thanked him for his loyalty, and left him in the surgeon’s care. Despite the evidence of a major battle waging, the medical tents were not yet over run. That would change soon.

  James vacated the medical tent and went in search of General Boland. He needed to update the general of his mission and catch up on the major events which seemed to be unfolding all around him.

  “Colonel Witherspoon!”

  The call snapped James from his intense thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder and immediately checked his stride. “General Boland.”