—From The Kelpie
Phoebe was bending down, listening carefully because she thought she might’ve heard the deep croaking of frogs, when several footsteps approached at a run.
A very gruff voice bellowed, “Hand over the woman!”
Phoebe straightened, fear shimmering down her spine like ice water.
Mr. MacLeish shouted something next to her, but when she reached for him, he wasn’t there.
No one was there.
She was alone, confused, unable to tell where the danger was now. Everyone was yelling, and she could hear scuffling and what sounded like blows landing on flesh.
BANG!
She flinched horribly, stumbling, hands outstretched, the stink of gunpowder in the air.
Trevillion? Had he fired? Where was he? She couldn’t smell his scent, couldn’t tell where he was.
“James!”
Someone rushed by her, catching her arm and squeezing quite painfully.
Another shout from Mr. MacLeish.
The hand was ripped from her arm.
“James!”
BANG!
Dear God, she was going mad. She wanted to run, but was too afraid to move.
“James!”
The scent of bergamot and sandalwood, familiar, comforting, surrounded her and then Captain Trevillion bore her to the ground.
She sobbed in relief. Blessed relief. The sounds of struggle still went on around them, but she was enveloped by his body, by his smell. She could feel him against her back, the hard edges of the belts he wore across his chest to holster his pistols, but not the pistols themselves. He must’ve drawn them. His cheek was warm against hers, a bit rough with stubble.
The ground was hard and cold under her and her palms were scraped where she’d caught her fall.
Trevillion’s breath was measured, not in any hurry, and she wondered wildly what would make him breathe faster. Wondered if she could make him breathe faster.
“My lady,” he said in her ear, his voice a caress, deep and sure and protective. “My lady.”
The sound of running feet—moving away from their position.
“Lady Phoebe,” Mr. MacLeish called, quite close, “are you all right?”
“Are they gone?” she asked Trevillion.
“Yes,” he said, and she knew suddenly that everything was wrong. His voice was dead. “Mr. MacLeish has saved you.”
“What? How?”
His warmth left her back and she felt suddenly cold even as he pulled her to her feet.
“Are you at all hurt, Lady Phoebe?” MacLeish asked anxiously. “Damn those scoundrels! To attempt kidnap of a gentle lady in broad daylight. Thank God I was here to help.”
“I… no, I’m fine,” she said. “Captain, what—?”
She heard running footsteps drawing closer and tensed, but then Reed said breathlessly, “I’m sorry, Cap’n, we lost the buggers. I think you got one with your pistol, though—’e was bleeding bad. They ’ad ’orses waiting just around them trees.”
“You did your best,” Trevillion replied, still in that flat tone. “How are you, Hathaway?”
“I’ve a graze on my arm, sir.” The young footman’s voice shook. “There… there’s an awful lot of blood.”
“Steady on, lad,” Trevillion said. “Take his other arm, Reed.” He sighed. “What a fucking mess this is.”
Phoebe’s mouth opened in shock at the vulgarity. Trevillion had never used such language in front of her before. Something truly must be the matter.
She held out a trembling hand to Trevillion, but it was Mr. MacLeish who took it instead. She caught the scent of ink and it wasn’t right. Ink didn’t make her feel better.
Didn’t make her feel safe.
“Come, my lady,” Mr. MacLeish said. “This must have been a terrible shock to you. I have a temporary shelter nearby, not much more than a lean-to, I’m afraid, but I can make you a hot cup of tea there.”
“No,” Trevillion said, short and clipped. She wanted to touch him again, smell the spiciness of bergamot and sandalwood. Why was he so upset? She was safe now, the kidnappers routed. “We’ll take Lady Phoebe home, out of the way of danger.”
“I’m coming with you.” Mr. MacLeish sounded defiant.
But Trevillion didn’t argue the point. “Very well.”
She heard his distinctive footfall with his cane and realized—awfully—that he wasn’t going to guide her to the boat.
“This way, my lady,” MacLeish said with tender consideration, but all she really wanted was Trevillion.
Trevillion, who was moving ever farther away.
Something in her heart seemed to clench in fear—more fear than she’d been in when they’d been under attack.
Then she’d been safe in Trevillion’s arms.
“I’ll protect you, never fear,” Mr. MacLeish said to her.
“I have Captain Trevillion for that,” she replied a bit tartly, but she did. Mr. MacLeish was being presumptuous.
“And yet it was Mr. MacLeish who saved you, my lady,” Trevillion said from in front of them, his voice cold.
“What?” she asked peevishly. Had the world gone mad? “You covered my body with your own, Captain. I think I wasn’t imagining it.”
“I did cover you, my lady.” His voice wasn’t completely dead anymore. Instead there was some faint emotion in it—one she couldn’t quite identify. “But it was Mr. MacLeish who led the charge against the attackers. Mr. MacLeish who drove them back armed only with a knife against their pistols. It is he who deserves your thanks… and mine.”
“Oh, I say,” Mr. MacLeish said, sounding embarrassed. “I only did what any gentleman would.”
“Perhaps,” Trevillion replied, “but I thank you even so for saving my lady’s life.”
Grief. The emotion in his voice was grief.
Phoebe’s heart sank to her toes.
HE FELT LIKE vomiting. The carriage rocked rhythmically as Trevillion looked out the window, trying desperately to school his features.
He’d failed—failed again. He should never have allowed Phoebe to go to Harte’s Folly. He’d let himself become too close to her. Let his affection for her sway him into permitting the outing. He’d wanted to make her happy, he realized, and that had been a near-fatal mistake.
Trevillion closed his eyes, helplessly reliving that horrible moment. He’d lain atop Phoebe, protecting her small form with his own body. He’d already fired both his pistols and somehow failed to fell any of the attackers. Reed and Hathaway fought on, but two men were advancing on him and his charge and he simply couldn’t fight them both. Worse, he recognized one of the men from the attack in Bond Street. Then MacLeish had dashed forward, striking with his knife, and somehow driven both men away.
If MacLeish hadn’t been there, they would’ve taken Phoebe, and then—
No. He simply couldn’t think of what might have happened to her—what might’ve been done to her—without going mad.
Lady Phoebe and MacLeish were on the opposite seat, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that MacLeish still held her hand. The lad seemed truly smitten, he thought with a small, dispassionate part of his mind.
Too bad MacLeish was not of the aristocracy. Without a pedigree of the highest sort, it was doubtful that the duke would let the architect anywhere near his sister.
Especially after this afternoon’s debacle.
Trevillion suppressed a wince. His leg was giving him the very devil. He’d landed on it hard when he’d leaped to cover Lady Phoebe. He’d pay for it in the next several days and though he had an urge to rub the affected calf, he refrained.
It seemed he still had a bit of pride left.
The carriage drew to a halt and he was jolted from his bitter thoughts. They’d arrived. It was his duty to see Lady Phoebe safely into the house.
“Keep by her side,” he told MacLeish.
Fortunately the man wasn’t perturbed at taking orders. He merely nodded and waited as T
revillion climbed out of the carriage.
Trevillion took a moment to look up and down the street. They must’ve been followed to Harte’s Folly—how else could the kidnappers have guessed they would be there? Yet he hadn’t noticed any followers, and too, the attackers had been waiting with horses. Obviously they hadn’t been followed on horseback across the Thames. No, the would-be kidnappers had known Lady Phoebe would be at Harte’s Folly and at precisely what time.
Had one of the guests at Miss Dinwoody’s tea party gossiped?
Trevillion grimaced. Gossip, he found, was inevitable.
However the attackers had learned of their trip to Harte’s Folly, he didn’t see any lurkers now—no suspicious carriage, no group of men hanging around. He turned back to the carriage.
Reed and Hathaway had already dismounted from the back, Hathaway looking faintly green about the edges. The blood from his arm had soaked through his livery, despite the hasty bandage they’d put on the wound at Harte’s Folly.
Trevillion nodded to Hathaway. “Report to the kitchens at once and see that wound is taken care of. Reed, stand by the front door.”
Reed hurried to assume his position as Hathaway disappeared inside. Trevillion drew one of his pistols though it was no longer loaded—at least he gave the appearance to any onlookers of being armed.
“MacLeish.” He watched as the architect carefully helped Lady Phoebe from the carriage. “Go straight in the house. Don’t stop.”
Lady Phoebe turned her face toward him. “I’m right here, you know.”
“My lady, we’ll talk inside.”
MacLeish followed his orders to the letter, hurrying her inside without another word.
Trevillion took the rear and shut the door to Wakefield House behind them. “Reed, show Mr. MacLeish and Lady Phoebe to the sitting room and send for some tea.”
Lady Phoebe frowned. “Where are you going?”
“I need to report to your brother.”
She grabbed his arm with remarkable accuracy. “You said we’d talk.”
“And so we shall, my lady.” Gently—regretfully—he removed her hand from his arm. “After I’ve reported to the duke.”
“James—”
He turned before she could make further protest and made his way down the hall to His Grace’s study. The door was shut, but he entered without knocking.
The duke was leaning on his desk, examining some sort of map laid out over the entire surface. Beside him was his valet, Craven.
Both looked up on his arrival.
Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“Lady Phoebe was attacked again,” Trevillion said. He refused to sit this time, no matter how his leg protested. “She is unhurt.”
“Thank God,” Craven said softly.
“When did this happen?” Wakefield growled.
“At Harte’s Folly, Your Grace, just an hour ago. I brought her straight home.”
“What,” the duke said dangerously, “was my sister doing at Harte’s Folly?”
Trevillion bowed his head. This was on him, he knew. He’d made the decision to let her go.
In hindsight, that had been sheer idiocy. “She was invited there by the architect designing the buildings, one Malcolm MacLeish.”
Wakefield glanced at Craven. “Find out who he is.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Craven took a notebook from his pocket and wrote something in it.
“What do you know of this man?”
Trevillion shook his head. “Not nearly enough, beyond the fact that your sister likes him. He’s the architect for Harte’s Folly. He has some sort of connection to the Duke of Montgomery, which bears further looking into, but he seems a good man.”
Wakefield stared at him balefully.
Trevillion held his gaze. “She could do worse, Your Grace.”
The duke waved aside that thought. “Phoebe should never have been at Harte’s Folly.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Trevillion said. “I bear full responsibility.”
“As you should,” snapped the duke. “Whatever possessed you to let my sister visit an abandoned garden? Anyone might’ve been lurking about.”
Trevillion closed his mouth. What could he say in his defense? That he’d endangered Phoebe because he’d been thinking with his heart rather than his head?
Wakefield frowned irritably. “How is this possible? Maywood is dead. It beggars the imagination that she should be attacked twice in one week by different men.”
“She wasn’t.”
Wakefield stilled. “Explain.”
“This isn’t Maywood,” Trevillion said. “It was never Maywood. I recognized one of the attackers—a man with a scar on his face—from the first attempt on Bond Street. Whoever was behind this was behind Bond Street.”
Wakefield swore. “You were right all along, Trevillion. I owe you an apology.”
“Thank you, Your Grace, but that hardly matters now.” Trevillion clenched his fist. “You need to look for this man with the scar, but you also need to broaden your investigation. Look closely at your enemies and business associates. Find out who holds a grudge against you, who might want to sway you in Parliament by holding Lady Phoebe’s safety hostage, what fortune seekers would want her dowry, and any man that showed special interest in her in the past.”
Wakefield nodded, looking weary and grim. “Of course.” He glanced at Craven.
The valet had been busily scribbling on a piece of paper as Trevillion listed the investigation points. Now he folded the paper and stood. “I’ll see to it immediately, Your Grace.”
He bowed and left the room.
“There’s one more thing I must tell you, Your Grace.” Trevillion fisted his hands, feeling his fingernails dig into his palms. “If it weren’t for Mr. Malcolm MacLeish she would’ve been taken.”
“What do you mean?” Wakefield asked slowly.
Trevillion met the other man’s gaze directly. “Exactly what I say. There were six men this time. I had Reed and Hathaway, with a pistol each. A shot each, but all went wide, even mine, though Reed thought later that I might’ve winged one. I was knocked down and one of the men actually had hold of Lady Phoebe’s arm when I got to her. There were two charging at us as I lay covering her, unarmed. MacLeish drove them both away. Simply put, if MacLeish hadn’t had a knife in his boot, if he’d not been brave enough to take on two men, they would have had the day and your sister.”
“Why do you tell me this?” Wakefield said slowly.
“Because I can no longer protect Lady Phoebe,” Trevillion said. Head up, gaze steady. “Because I am resigning my position as her guard.”
TREVILLION HAD GONE to talk to Maximus an hour ago and Phoebe still hadn’t heard from him.
“Will you have more tea?” Mr. MacLeish asked solicitously.
They were in the Achilles Salon, drinking tea while poor Reed stood somewhere in a corner keeping guard. Thank goodness both Cousin Bathilda and Artemis had been out when they’d come home, otherwise she’d probably be in bed right now with a cloth dipped in lavender water on her forehead.
“And there’s some tiny, rather oddly colored cakes here,” Mr. MacLeish continued, apparently unaware of her impatience, “that probably taste much better than they look.”
“I’m sure they do,” she said absently. “I wonder what’s taking Maximus so long?”
“Oh… er… well, I assume he’s discussing how best to protect you, my lady,” Mr. MacLeish said. He must not’ve seen her wince, for he continued. “I confess I’m rather worried on that very point myself. I would hate to see anything happen to you, my lady. In… in fact, you’ve become very dear to my heart. When I saw those men threatening you this afternoon, why I was simply overwhelmed with rage.”
“You were very brave to come to my defense,” Phoebe said absently.
Footsteps sounded outside the sitting room and Phoebe straightened, turning her head in that direction.
The footsteps passed and her shou
lders slumped.
“It was my pleasure to keep you safe, my lady,” Mr. MacLeish said. “In fact I hope that you’ll count me as a… friend? Perhaps even a good friend?”
“Of course.” Phoebe smiled briefly.
She was having trouble concentrating on their conversation. Maximus would be wild when he heard the news from Trevillion, and when he had his temper up, he was apt to do rather drastic things. What if he decided to send her to the country? What if he decided that Trevillion should no longer guard her?
Surely he wouldn’t do something that stupid?
Phoebe bit her lip. Mr. MacLeish had been very nice to sit with her and try to take her mind from things, but really, however kind he was, he’d begun to get on her nerves.
And she was dying to know what Trevillion and Maximus were talking about.
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacLeish,” she said, standing rather abruptly. “But I think I will rest now.”
“Oh, of course, my lady,” he said, ever the gentleman. “The distress of this morning’s events must be quite overwhelming for a delicate constitution.”
“Erm… quite.” Trevillion would have been laughing himself silly over the idea of her having a delicate constitution… well, if Trevillion laughed himself silly over anything. “I hope you understand?”
“Indeed, my lady. I’m only sorry that I did not realize sooner,” he said, sounding terribly kind and sweet.
Which gave her an awful twinge of guilt, but Phoebe forced herself to continue smiling… weakly.
Mr. MacLeish bowed over her hand, said his good-byes—several times—and finally exited the room.
The door shut behind him.
Phoebe sat down on her hands and began silently counting, aware that poor Reed was probably staring at her and wondering if she’d gone mad.
At one hundred and fifty—she’d never been so patient in her entire life—Panders, the butler, entered.
“Mr. MacLeish has left, my lady. Would you care for—”
“Nothing for me at the moment, Panders,” she said as she leaped to her feet. “Is my brother still in his study?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Panders replied, an ever-so-faint hint of bewilderment in his voice as she scooted past him and out the door. “Might I—”