“What would be better than the daughter of a marquess?” Artemis asked.
“A duke,” Cousin Bathilda said bluntly. “I’ve heard the gel went to Montgomery to keep his town house.”
“However do you learn of these things?” Hero asked with not a small amount of exasperation. Phoebe could sympathize. Cousin Bathilda always knew the best gossip before anyone else.
“What else do you think I discuss when I take tea with my circle of white-haired ladies?” Cousin Bathilda said. “Why, only yesterday I learned that Lord Featherstone was found admiring the duck pond in Hyde Park with Lady Oppertyne.”
“That doesn’t seem terribly scandalous,” Hero said, sounding puzzled.
“Lord Featherstone wasn’t wearing his breeches at the time,” Cousin Bathilda said triumphantly. “Or his smallclothes.”
Phoebe felt her eyebrows arch.
“But he was wearing Lady Oppertyne’s garter on his—”
“Would you like some more tea?” Hero hastily offered, apparently to the room at large.
“Please,” Artemis replied.
China clinked.
Phoebe made a very rude noise with her lips, which caused her nephew to giggle. She squinted, peering as hard as she could, but the light must’ve been too dim in the sitting room. She couldn’t even make out the shape of Sebastian’s head. “Hero?”
“Yes, dear?”
“What color is his hair?”
There was a short silence. Phoebe might not have been able to see, but she knew the other women had looked at her. For a moment she wished—wished with all her heart—that she were normal. That she weren’t a worry, maybe even a burden, to her family. That she could simply look and see, damn it, what her precious nephew looked like.
She couldn’t, though.
Something clattered on the tea table. “Oh, Phoebe, I’m sorry,” Hero gasped. “I can’t believe I’ve never told you—”
“No, no.” Phoebe shook her head, tamping down her frustration. She hadn’t mentioned it to make everyone else feel guilty. “It’s not… you don’t need to apologize, truly. It’s just… I just want to know.”
Hero drew in her breath and it sounded almost like a sob.
Phoebe tightened her lips.
Artemis cleared her throat, her voice low and soothing as always. “His hair is black. Sebastian’s a little baby, of course, but I really think he’ll look nothing like Sweet William. His eyes are a darker brown, his complexion seems to be quite tawny—unlike William’s naturally fair skin—and I do think he’ll have the Batten nose.”
“Oh no.” Phoebe felt a grin split her lips, her shoulders relaxing. Maximus had a mild version of the Batten nose, but if their ancestors’ portraits were anything to go by, the affliction could be quite prominent.
“I think a largish nose gives a man a certain air of gravitas,” Cousin Bathilda broke in with just a touch of disapproval in her voice. “Even your captain has a bit of a nose and I think it makes him quite dashing.”
“He’s not exactly my captain,” Phoebe said, and then, as much as she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help adding, “Dashing?”
“Rather handsome,” Cousin Bathilda began.
At the same time Artemis said, “I don’t know if dashing is quite—”
“Too severe.” Hero’s voice ended the verbal melee.
Everyone paused to take a breath.
In the ensuing silence, baby Sebastian whimpered.
“He’s probably hungry,” Hero murmured, taking her son.
Phoebe listened to the rustle of clothing as her sister put the baby to her breast. Hero was unfashionable in her desire to nurse her sons herself, but Phoebe rather envied her.
It would be so nice to hold a little warm body to her breast. To know she could nourish and cherish her own child.
Phoebe bowed her head, hoping her longing didn’t show on her face. The fact was, she had pitifully few chances to meet eligible gentlemen—assuming she could even find a man willing to take a blind woman as wife.
“So what exactly does Captain Trevillion look like?” she asked, eager to avoid her morose contemplations.
“We-ell,” Hero began thoughtfully. “He has a long face.”
Phoebe laughed. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Lined.” Artemis spoke up. “His face is lined. He has these sort of indents about his mouth, which is a bit thin.”
“His eyes are blue,” Cousin Bathilda cut in. “Rather nice-looking, really.”
“But piercing,” Hero said. “Oh, and he has dark hair. I understand he wore a white wig as a dragoon, but since retiring he’s let it grow and braided it into a very tight queue.”
“And of course he wears nothing but black,” Artemis said.
“Truly?” Phoebe wrinkled her nose. She’d had no idea she’d been escorted about all this time by an embodiment of Death.
“The Ladies’ Syndicate,” Cousin Bathilda suddenly exclaimed.
“What about it?” Artemis asked.
“Why, we meet tomorrow,” Cousin Bathilda said.
“Of course,” Hero said. “But will Maximus allow Phoebe to go?”
The Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children was Hero’s pet project. A club made up exclusively of ladies—no gentlemen were allowed to join—it had been formed to help an orphanage in the slums of St Giles. The Ladies’ Syndicate met irregularly, but Phoebe quite looked forward to the meetings, as they were among the few social events Maximus let her attend.
Or at least he had up until now.
“He won’t let her go,” Artemis said quietly. “Not after yesterday’s events.”
“Oh, but we were to review a possible new member.” Hero’s voice held dismay. “Shall we postpone the meeting, do you think?”
“No.” Phoebe said very firmly. “I’m tired of hiding and being told when and where I can go.”
“But, darling, if it’s dangerous—” Artemis began.
“A meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate?” Phoebe asked incredulously. “We all know the meetings are safe as can be.”
“They are in St Giles,” Cousin Bathilda pointed out.
“And all the noble ladies of the Syndicate bring their strongest footmen. I shall be surrounded by protectors, including my own captain and his two soldiers. I’m not sure Reed even knows anymore that he’s employed by Maximus and not Captain Trevillion.”
“At least you’ll acknowledge he is your captain.” Hero’s voice was teasing before she sobered. Somewhere across the sitting room the door opened. “I don’t see how you’ll get around Maximus, though.”
“I don’t know either, but I shall,” Phoebe declared. “I’m a woman, not a caged singing finch.”
She felt his presence before she heard the boot falls behind her. Dash it. If he would wear a scent she’d at least have some idea when he was about.
“My lady,” Captain Trevillion rasped. “I’ve received word from His Grace that the man behind your kidnapping attempt is no longer a threat to you. May I say, however, that while you may not be a caged bird, neither are you merely a woman. You’re a precious artifact. As long as there are men who wish to steal you, I’ll be right by your side.”
Phoebe felt the heat invade her cheeks. As soon as she could get her captain alone she would tell him exactly how this “artifact” felt about his words.
TREVILLION WATCHED AS Lady Hero took leave of the other women. They had formed a protective circle around his charge and he thought that had they not been well-bred ladies he would be receiving an earful right now.
From the delicate pink in Lady Phoebe’s cheeks, he still might. She wore a sky-blue dress today. Instead of the usual fichu, her bodice was trimmed with fine lace, framing and cupping her round breasts distractingly. He couldn’t help thinking the cool color of the gown made her mouth look like a ripe berry. Soft. Sweet. Luscious. A mouth he could bite into.
He glanced away, re
ining in his thoughts.
“I’m so glad that you’ll be able to attend the Ladies’ Syndicate meeting,” Lady Hero murmured as she bussed her sister on the cheek. She sent a dark look at Trevillion before sweeping from the room, head held high.
Trevillion sighed silently.
Miss Picklewood’s lapdog wriggled in her arms and the lady bent stiffly to let the dog down. “I believe Mignon is ready for her daily perambulation.”
“Lovely,” said Her Grace, smiling at the tiny dog dancing against the ladies’ skirts. “I’ll have my maid fetch Bon Bon and we’ll join you, shall we?”
“Excellent,” pronounced Miss Picklewood. “Phoebe, will you be coming as well?”
“I think I’ll take a turn in my garden,” Lady Phoebe replied. She had a polite smile on her face, but Trevillion caught the edge in her voice.
His suspicion was verified when she turned without a word to him and stomped from the sitting room.
He caught a sympathetic glance from Her Grace as he followed after his charge, but he really wasn’t interested in her sympathy.
The sitting room was at the top of the grand staircase leading down to the main floor of Wakefield House. Trevillion watched closely as Lady Phoebe descended the gleaming marble steps. She never even faltered—she never had—but he hated those stairs nonetheless.
On the lower level, Lady Phoebe turned and headed to the back of the house, trailing her fingertips along the hallway wall as she did so. He stalked less gracefully after, watching the sway of her bright-blue skirts as he did so.
She was nearly to the high doors that let out into the garden before he caught up with her. “Childish, my lady, trying to outrun a crippled man.”
She didn’t turn, but her back did stiffen. “We artifacts tend to be a childish lot, I’m afraid, Captain.”
With that she opened the doors and swept out onto the wide granite steps leading down into the garden. The blue of her dress against the gray of the granite and the deep green of the grass brought out the auburn of her light-brown hair. She looked like the embodiment of spring, near angelic in her loveliness.
Well. If she hadn’t been determinedly marching away from him.
He strode forward and caught her arm. “If you’ll permit, my lady.”
He rather thought she growled at that, but he didn’t wait for her answer, simply placing her hand on his left arm. The grass was uneven and she must have realized that she’d look foolish if she fell on her proud little nose.
“You’re hardly a cripple,” she said abruptly.
His mouth twisted as he led her down the steps. “I’m not sure what else one should call a man unable to stand without the help of a cane, my lady.”
She merely snorted in reply. “Well, you may consider yourself a cripple—even though you’re clearly not—but I wish to inform you that whatever else I may be, I’m most certainly not an artifact.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended, my lady.”
“Are you?”
He stifled a sigh. “Perhaps if you explained why my perfectly reasonable observations should offend you, my lady.”
“Really, Captain, it’s no wonder at all that you’re not married.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No one wants to be called an artifact, especially no woman.”
A calculated retreat might be in order. “Perhaps my assessment was overly blunt, but you must allow that you are indeed precious to your entire family, my lady.”
“Must I?” She halted, making him stop as well if he didn’t want to leave her. “Why? I’m loved by my family—and I love them in return—but I have to tell you that being called a precious thing makes my stomach turn.”
He glanced at her, surprised at so visceral a reaction. “Many men will see you as such. You’re the sister of a duke, an heiress who—”
“Do you?”
He stared at her, this lovely, vehement, maddening woman. Of course he didn’t see her as a mere artifact. Were she not blind, surely she’d know already.
He’d taken too long. She folded her arms across her bosom, scowling ferociously. “Well, do you, Captain Trevillion?”
“It’s my duty to keep you safe, my lady.”
“Not the question I asked, Captain,” she shot back. “Am I merely a valuable object to you? A jeweled box to protect from thieves?”
“No,” he said, hard.
“Good.” She laid her hand on his arm once more, her touch like a brand upon his flesh even through the layers of fabric that separated them.
One of these days he would break, and when he did she’d see he wasn’t made of stone.
Not at all.
But that day wouldn’t be today.
The steps ended on a square of grass. Beyond that was Lady Phoebe’s garden, a tangle of neatly graveled paths that meandered here and there among extravagant mounds of flowering plants. The garden was like none Trevillion had ever seen before. First of all, the flowers were all white. Roses, lilies, daisies of all sorts, and dozens of other blooms that Trevillion was unable to name, for he’d never been that interested in plants.
The second difference in this garden was one only discovered when a person neared it: the perfume that lay heavy in the air. Trevillion had never asked, but as far as he could tell, every single flower in the garden bore a scent. Entering the garden was like stepping into a fairy’s boudoir. Bees buzzed lazily over the blooms while the scent-laden breeze enchanted the senses.
Trevillion turned and watched as Lady Phoebe visibly relaxed. Her shoulders dropped, her hands loosened from half-clenched fists, and a smile played about her plush mouth. She lifted her face to the wind and he caught his breath. Out here, alone with her, he could look his fill. Let his eyes caress the tender curve of her cheek, the stubborn arch of her brow, her mouth, half-parted and moist.
He glanced away again, his lips curling sardonically at his own weakness. She was everything he was not: young, innocent, filled with the joy of life. She had the blue blood of centuries of aristocrats running in her veins.
He was a cynical, older ex-soldier and his blood ran common red.
“Who was he?” she asked, her voice breaking into his thoughts.
He had to clear his throat before he spoke. “To whom do you refer, my lady?”
“My kidnapper, silly.” Her expressive face crinkled. “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. ‘My kidnapper’ sounds much too intimate. Rather, the scoundrel who attempted to kidnap me. Who was he?”
“Ah.” The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they stepped onto the garden path. “He was, apparently, a neighbor of your brother’s in Lancashire. A man by the name of Maywood.”
She stopped at that, turning to face him, her eyes wide. “Lord Maywood? Really? But he must be sixty at the very least. What did he want with me?”
“His Grace isn’t sure,” Trevillion replied slowly. His meeting with the duke this afternoon had left many of Trevillion’s questions unsatisfied. It made him uneasy. “Possibly Lord Maywood wished to force you to marry his son.”
She frowned at that, her eyebrows gathered above eyes that seemed to stare at the pistols strapped over his heart. “But Lord Maywood confessed to the crime?”
“Not exactly.” Trevillion’s lips flattened. “Lord Maywood sent a threat to your brother last week and one of the men I shot was found to be originally from Lancashire.”
Her dark brows knit. “What did Lord Maywood say when confronted?”
“Nothing, my lady,” he admitted reluctantly. “Maywood died this morning from a sudden attack of apoplexy.”
“Oh.” She blinked, her hand gently stroking the petals of a nearby rose as if for comfort. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I am not,” he replied. “Not if it means your safety.”
She said nothing to that, merely turned to continue on their perambulation. “So Maximus feels the affair is over.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The duke seemed content that th
e matter had ended so neatly, but Trevillion would’ve been much happier had Lord Maywood confessed to the kidnapping. He’d argued that they should still be investigating to see if there was any other possible identity for the kidnapper. Wakefield, however, was convinced that the affair was over.
But without a confession there still remained doubt in Trevillion’s mind.
He didn’t share that thought with Lady Phoebe. No need to worry her without specific cause. Besides, he would remain as vigilant as always.
“Oh, this one’s gone to seed,” Lady Phoebe muttered, fingering a bloom that had lost most of its petals. “Have you a basket?”
He raised his eyebrows. Where and why would he have procured a basket? “No, my lady.”
“Shortsighted of you, really, Captain,” she muttered, and produced a small scissors from a chatelaine at her waist. She snipped off the bloom and held it out to him. “Here.”
Trevillion took the bloom and, with nowhere else to put it, shoved it in his pocket.
“Do you see any others in need of cutting?” she asked, her hands dancing over the plant.
“One.” He caught her fingers, cool and delicate in his larger hand, and brought them to the wasted rose bloom.
“Oh, thank you.”
He flexed his hand. “Don’t you have gardeners to do this?”
“Yes.” She snipped the bloom and again gave it to him. He was forced to place it with its sister. “But why would I wait for them?” Her hands were busily seeking again.
“Because it’s a chore, my lady?”
She laughed, the sound trailing uncomfortably down his spine. “You truly are no gardener, Captain Trevillion.”
She offered no further explanation, but bent to her task. Trevillion was struck by how comfortable she was here, among her flowers, her face bright and open.
“Pity it’s overcast today,” she murmured absently.
He stilled.
He made no sound, yet she must’ve sensed something. She straightened slowly, her too-young face turned toward him, the scissors clutched in her hand. “Captain?”