A terrible thought struck her. “Are you shoving me at Mr. MacLeish because I kissed you?”
“I—”
“It was my very first kiss, you ought to know,” she said very rapidly, because sometimes it was just better to say the embarrassing thing and get it over with. “I’m sure I’ll improve with practice. In fact, I’m sure of it. Almost everything improves with practice, don’t you think? And really, if I had a just a bit of help from your end next time—”
“I am not kissing you,” he said with the awful finality of a judge pronouncing a death sentence.
“Why not?”
“You know very well why not.”
“Nooo,” she said slowly, thinking it over. “No, I can’t say that I do, really. I mean I know why you think we oughtn’t kiss again: you’re as old as the Thames, you’re below me in rank, I’m too young and frivolous, and you much too serious, et cetera, et cetera, and et cetera, but frankly I don’t have any reasons not to kiss you.” She stopped for breath and to think and amended her statement. “Unless, of course, you’re either (a) a murderer running from the law or (b) hiding a secret wife. Are you?”
“I… what?”
“Are you,” she repeated patiently, “either a murderer running from the law or hiding a secret wife?”
“You know I’m not,” he said with impatience. It was a good thing she was so stubborn, because that tone might have put off many another young girl. “Phoebe—”
“So then there’s no reason at all not to kiss me again.” She folded her hands in her lap and smiled.
He drew the horse to a very abrupt halt. “We’re here.”
“Oof,” she muttered. “This isn’t Wakefield House.”
“No, it isn’t,” he replied. “I’m not taking you back to Wakefield House until your brother has found the kidnapper.”
She turned her head again, her lips brushing his hair. “Does Maximus know you’re doing this?”
“He will when he gets the message I told Alf to give him.” His voice was hard, almost foreign in its steeliness.
“You didn’t work this out with him beforehand?” she asked with interest, because her brother was after all a duke and Maximus to boot. He wasn’t used to other people’s taking charge.
Not at all.
“No,” he said quietly.
She shivered suddenly. In his own way, Trevillion was just as stubborn as her brother.
Perhaps even more so.
Hadn’t she had enough of autocratic men in her life? Did she really want to become closer to Trevillion? What if he was no better than her brother?
What if he was worse?
But Trevillion was still speaking. “Your maid, Powers, was the one who sold the information that you liked to visit the stables of a morning.”
That diverted her attention. “What? That can’t be.”
“I’m afraid it is, my lady,” he replied, not unkindly.
“But…” Of all the events of the day, this was the one that made her lips tremble. Powers hadn’t been with Phoebe long, but she’d seemed quite nice. They’d had a lovely discussion about the proper height of heeled shoes just yesterday.
“I’m sorry,” Trevillion said as he dismounted. “But if Powers could be bought, there may be others in his house who can be as well. Until the kidnapper is caught you aren’t, in my estimation, safe at your brother’s house. And since we cannot determine who is to be trusted and who is not, I’ve decided to trust no one at all except myself.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
He wrapped his hands about her waist. Strong. Competent. Safe.
His voice was low and not a little dark when he replied. “I’m removing you from London entirely and not even your brother shall know where I take you.”
LADY PHOEBE’S WARM waist was caught between Trevillion’s palms as he waited for her to do the sensible thing and protest his high-handed declaration.
Instead she beamed at him as if he’d shown her a particularly clever trick. “Really?” she said, sounding ridiculously excited. “Where do you intend to take me, then?”
“I’ll tell you once we’ve started,” he replied. “Come, let’s get you inside first.”
He’d ridden to an inn on the outskirts of London—one that happened to be owned by a former soldier who had been under his command. Reed was supposed to meet him here, but Trevillion saw no sign of him. He wasn’t particularly worried, though, given the tasks he’d asked Reed to perform for him.
Trevillion lifted Lady Phoebe carefully down from the horse, reluctant to let her go when he’d set her on her feet.
“Where are we?” she asked, her berry-red lips curved in a smile.
“A posting inn outside London called The Piper.” He handed the reins of the horse to a boy and led her inside.
The interior of the inn was dim after the brightness of the courtyard, the ceiling beamed and very low. Round tables were crowded in the common area about a roaring fire, and a dozen or so travelers sat eating. Trevillion wasted no time in renting a private back room. The sooner Lady Phoebe was out of public sight, the less likely that she’d be recognized.
“There’s a chair here for you to sit,” he said when the lass who’d shown them the room had departed in search of the innkeeper. The private room was small, with a rectangular table, six chairs, and a fireplace. “I’ve ordered something for you to eat.”
“Beer?” Lady Phoebe perked up. “I’ve never had beer.”
“No.” He cocked his head. Common women drank beer but ladies didn’t. “Some tea, ham, and eggs.”
“Oh well,” she said, exploring the wooden table before her delicately with her fingertips, “I expect I’ll have a chance to try beer later on our trip. We are going on a trip, aren’t we?”
“We are.”
She frowned suddenly. “But you did send word to Maximus that I’m safe?”
“I sent Alf—he’s nimble enough to dodge should the duke become overly irate,” he replied drily. “He also has the address of our destination so that your brother can send word when it’s safe.”
She still didn’t look easy. “But what if Maximus forces Alf to tell him the direction?”
“Alf is very hard to find when he doesn’t want to be found. I gave him instructions to make himself scarce until the kidnapper is discovered and apprehended. He’ll also be doing his own investigating—for me.”
Trevillion had expanded Alf’s directive to find the kidnappers when he’d given the instructions for informing Wakefield. Now Alf was to find out all she could about both the kidnapping and the Duke of Montgomery’s relationship with Malcolm MacLeish. The latter didn’t seem to bear on the former, but there was MacLeish’s proposal to Lady Phoebe now. That, if nothing else, called for MacLeish to be thoroughly examined.
Her eyes widened. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
Before Trevillion could answer, the door to the room burst open. Instinctively his hand went to the pistols on his belts, but the newcomer was no threat.
“Captain, sir!” The innkeeper enveloped Trevillion in a bear hug and then, as if recollecting himself, stepped back and, standing at attention, saluted him. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Ben Wooster, formerly Sergeant Wooster of the 4th Dragoons, was a barrel-chested man with flaming orange hair, a massive nose that had once been broken, and a wooden leg he’d received courtesy of a gunshot to the tibia. The injury had put an end to his army career. Fortunately Wooster had had a much older brother who owned The Piper. Wooster had come to work for his brother after his retirement and eventually bought the inn outright when his brother decided to move to the countryside.
“It’s good to see you, Wooster,” Trevillion said. “I have a favor to ask of you, if you’ve a mind to help me.”
“Anything at all, Captain,” replied the innkeeper. “Was your quick thinking that saved me from losing more than this old leg the night I was shot.”
“Good
man,” Trevillion said. “I’m protecting this lady from those who would do her a terrible wrong. I shan’t give you her name, for it won’t be in either of our interests. Should someone come inquiring about her after we’ve left, I’d be obliged if you’ll forget we were ever here.”
Wooster’s cheery face turned grave. “O’ course, Captain.”
“Further, I have need of a carriage and team, and a change of clothes for the lady,” Trevillion continued. “I’ll pay for both, naturally.”
“Won’t be a problem for the carriage, though the vehicle I’ve in mind is a bit old.”
“No matter,” Trevillion said, relieved. His biggest worry had been finding a carriage on such short notice.
“But I ’aven’t such clothes what are fit for a grand lady,” Wooster said, scratching his head. “Only some of my wife’s things. If you don’t mind waiting I can send one of the girls out—”
“No need,” Trevillion interrupted. “Your wife’s clothes would be just the thing.”
Wooster grinned, revealing a missing eyetooth. “In that case, sir, I’ll send me wife right away with the articles.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Trevillion shook the other man’s hand.
Wooster left just as a maidservant entered, bearing a tray of food.
“Oh, that smells wonderful,” Lady Phoebe remarked as the dishes were laid on the table. “Will you join me, Captain?”
It seemed too intimate to dine alone with her—no matter recent events she was still his charge—but he hadn’t been able to finish his own breakfast this morning.
“If you’ll permit,” he said.
“Of course I permit,” Lady Phoebe replied. “Really, Captain, when have I ever not permitted you anything?”
He shot her a suspicious glance, but she seemed engrossed in serving herself some of the coddled eggs, carefully feeling with her fingertips as she filled a spoon and transferred it to the plate in front of her.
“Would you like some tea, my lady?” he asked gruffly.
“Oh, please,” she replied. “My throat is quite dry after being held so long.”
“Did they gag you?” He paused with the teapot half lifted, and found himself staring at his hand. It was trembling. With rage. If he could have, he’d have gone back and cut their fingers off for daring to touch her.
She turned to him as if she sensed his inner fury, her brows knit over vague hazel eyes. “One of them placed his hand over my mouth, but I wasn’t gagged. I suppose they handled me quite gently, all things considered. I really oughtn’t complain.”
He poured her tea without comment, too afraid of what he might say.
He added sugar and pushed the cup toward her across the table. “Your tea, my lady. It’s just to the right of your plate.”
She found the cup and took a sip. “Lovely. Just the way I like it, with sugar—but then you knew that, didn’t you?”
Any answer he gave would just incriminate him, so he dished up some eggs of his own. They were quite good and for a moment they simply ate in silence.
A knock came at the door before it opened a crack, revealing a small, smiling woman in a mobcap and apron and with a bundle of clothes in her arms. “Now I’m Mrs. Wooster come to ’elp the lady dress,” she said, “as Wooster said I should.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wooster.” Trevillion stood. “I’ll wait in the outer room while you do so.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Mrs. Wooster said, bustling in. “Wooster is waiting for you with your man, as I understand.”
Trevillion nodded and went out. After a bit of searching, he found Reed and Wooster in the courtyard inspecting a carriage that had seen better days.
Wooster turned at his arrival. “I knows it’s not much to look at, but she’s still in working order an’ will carry you where you need to go, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Trevillion returned. He glanced at Reed. “Did you do as I asked?”
“Yes, sir,” Reed responded. He lifted Trevillion’s own soft bag. “Got your things from the boardinghouse.”
“Well done,” Trevillion said. He took the bag that Reed handed him and rummaged in it to find his purse. Then he counted out several gold coins. “Will this do?” he asked Wooster.
“Indeed, sir, more’n enough by my estimate,” Wooster said. “Now let me show you the nags I have, for I know you like to choose your own horseflesh.”
Trevillion nodded. He plucked one thing more from his purse, then pocketed it and stowed his bag in the carriage.
In another fifteen minutes he’d picked four sturdy animals from those in Wooster’s stables. He turned to Reed. “Do you think you can drive this carriage? I can if you feel unprepared to do so, but I think it better that I ride inside with the lady.”
“I’ve driven a team before, sir,” Reed said.
Trevillion clapped a hand on the man’s back. “Then let’s ready the carriage and be on our way. I’ll fetch our lady while you oversee the hitching of the horses.” He looked at Wooster. “I’m in your debt, Sergeant.”
“Never say so, Captain,” Wooster replied. “I’m that glad to ’elp ye, sir. You were the best officer the dragoons ever ’ad and that’s a fact.”
Trevillion smiled his thanks and made his way past a new coach and various passengers, dogs, and stableboys to the inn. Inside he quickly slipped back to the private room and knocked.
Mrs. Wooster opened the door. “Well, she’s all set, though it’s a shame to trade a silk gown for plain fustian.”
“It’s all for the best, Mrs. Wooster,” Trevillion said. “I thank you for your kindness.”
“She’s already thanked me, she has—and given me her gown.” Mrs. Wooster suddenly grinned. “Won’t old Wooster be that surprised to find ’is wife in silk come Sunday morning!”
So saying, the innkeeper’s wife bustled away.
Trevillion turned to find Phoebe standing in the private room, waiting for him.
“Well?” she asked, nervously twisting her fingers together. “What do you think?”
She wore an indigo gown with a lighter-blue bodice. A neat white apron was pinned to the front and a white cap and fichu completed the ensemble. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink and the blue brought out the green in her hazel eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Trevillion said, and then found he had to clear his throat. “I have one thing more to add to your costume.”
She cocked her head. “What’s that?”
He stepped closer and took her left hand, slipping a plain gold band on her finger. “A wedding ring, Mrs. Trevillion.”
MANY HOURS LATER Phoebe sat in the carriage and surreptitiously felt the ring on her finger again. It was very smooth with no sharp edges, which really didn’t tell her anything at all. Now if she could see the ring…
She sighed and let her hands fall to her lap. It was terribly monotonous traveling by carriage, especially when one couldn’t even see out the window. She’d spent part of the afternoon sleeping fitfully in between being jostled as the carriage bumped over what felt like furrows in a field. Now, however, she was wide awake and bored beyond belief.
“Whose ring is it?” she asked. Trevillion had spent a good deal of time riding with Reed up in the box, but he’d come inside again at their last stop.
“What?” He sounded distracted. She knew that he was worried about being followed and about keeping her safe, but she really did think they must be well away from London by now.
“The ring.” She held up her hand in case he was looking her way. The carriage hit a rut in the road and she bounced on the seat. “Oof! Whom does it belong to?”
“No one, my lady,” he said in a voice that meant he’d really rather not discuss the matter. “At least not anymore.”
She waited, but apparently he was going to leave it at that.
Well, not she.
“You know,” she began as gently as possible, “you can’t just pop a ring on a woman, declare her your wife, and not have to answer
a few questions.”
“I told you, it’s only a ruse until we can get to a safe place,” he said. “A man and wife are much less likely to cause comment than a man traveling with a woman not related to him.”
“Yes, that’s certainly true,” she said sweetly. “I suppose I should be happy you just happened to have a wedding ring lying about the place.”
“It was my mother’s,” he said abruptly.
The carriage was small, she knew, and he sat across from her. She could smell, faintly, the scent of sandalwood and bergamot. Physically he was very close, but from his tone of voice?
He might as well be on another continent.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, choosing her words carefully. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” he said, flat and toneless. “Died of fever when I was four. We all caught it, apparently, but only she died of it.”
She’d lost her own parents, of course, but she’d been only a baby. She didn’t remember them at all. But a four-year-old boy would remember his mama—remember and mourn her.
Not of course that Trevillion was the type of man to tell her that. “That must’ve been very hard for you. Very hard for your family.”
He didn’t reply.
She tried again. “What was she like?”
There was a silence and she thought he might not answer her question—it was rather intrusive.
“Soft,” he said. “I remember her being very soft. Her arms, her hands, her lap, and her cheeks. I thought her very beautiful—the most beautiful woman in the world—though I’ve heard from others that she was an ordinary sort of pretty. She used to tell me stories.”
He abruptly stopped talking.
“What kind of stories?” she asked quietly, afraid of breaking the spell.
“Oh, of giant slayers and knights fighting dragons,” he said. “Sometimes she told me about the mermaids in the sea.”
“What about them?”
“Be wary of their song,” he answered drily. “Ah, we’re stopping.”
“Already?” she asked, disappointed now that she’d finally gotten him to talk just a little about his family.