A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (8 page)

Phoebe and Mrs Beattie made their way back outside just in time to see toddler Rosie fall over beside Mrs Hunter. The toddler began to cry and tried to right herself, reaching with little muddy hands for the lady’s fine silk skirt.

‘No, Rosie!’ shouted her mother, trying to rush forwards and prevent the calamity that everyone standing there in the yard could see unfolding before their eyes.

Phoebe reacted in an instant, sprinting and scooping the child up into her arms just in time, cuddling her in close so she would feel safe and secure. ‘Oops a daisy, Rosie. Up you get.’

The little girl looked at her, fat tear drops balancing on the end of her lashes, her little nose all pink and wet.

‘Have you been making some lovely mudpies?’

Rosie nodded.

Phoebe smiled at Rosie, ‘And what’s all this wet all over your face?’ she asked. Rosie sniffed back a sob.

‘Shall we wipe it all nice and clean?’ She set the little girl carefully on her feet out of reach of Mrs Hunter’s dress; taking out her handkerchief, Phoebe wiped the child’s nose and tucked the handkerchief in the pocket of the little mud-smeared smock. ‘Just like a big girl,’ she whispered.

Rosie patted her pocket. ‘A big girl,’ she said with a shy smile.

‘I’m ever so sorry, ma’am, miss.’ Mrs Beattie was looking from Mrs Hunter to Phoebe.

‘There was no harm done,’ said Mrs Hunter, but she lifted her skirts and started to make her way back to the carriage. ‘And now we must be moving on. We are visiting quite a few of the farmsteads this afternoon.’

Phoebe smiled to reassure Mrs Beattie, who had taken a firm hold of Rosie’s hand. ‘Good luck for the baby when it comes,’ she said quietly.

‘There’s a month to wait yet, but thank you, miss.’ Mrs Beattie smiled and then her eyes shifted to Phoebe’s side. ‘Mr Hunter, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsy and hurried away to catch hold of another small child.

‘Mrs Beattie.’ Hunter nodded and Phoebe jumped at the sudden sound of his voice beside her. He leaned closer and said quietly to Phoebe, ‘You will have no handkerchiefs left at this rate.’ And she remembered their first meeting upon the moor when he had rescued her. Their eyes met just for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to send a myriad of shimmering sensations racing through her body just as if he had pulled
her into his arms and lowered his mouth to take her own. She blushed and quickly averted her gaze.

‘Phoebe!’ called Mrs Hunter with impatience.

Fortunately for Mrs Hunter there was only one more tenant to be visited and he was without children, muddy or otherwise. He was an old man, tall and thin, but slightly bent, his hands large and ruddy, his knuckles enlarged with age and too many years of hard living. Dressed in his brown overalls and an old woollen work jacket patched at the elbows, he walked forwards to meet Hunter’s horse, pulling a cloth cap from his head to reveal some sparse white hair as he did so.

Phoebe was surprised to see Hunter dismount and grip the man’s hand in a warm greeting. The coldness had vanished from his face. Indeed, he was smiling so warmly and sincerely that it quite transformed his face, lighting all of the darkness to reveal something very different in its place. Phoebe stared and could not look away, shocked at the difference in him. And she felt a warmth steal over her heart.

She blushed at the feeling and at her staring, and glanced round at Mrs Hunter to see if she had noticed, but Mrs Hunter was also watching Hunter, and with a less-than-convivial expression. Her face was thoughtful, her mood sombre as if seeing him like this brought back memories that saddened her.

‘I am sure Sebastian can manage this one by himself, Phoebe. McInnes lives alone so there can be no need here of female sensibilities. Besides, I am feeling a little tired.’

Hunter glanced round at the carriage at that moment, expecting to see his mother and Phoebe alighting.

Mrs Hunter looked away, but not before Phoebe had seen that the lady’s eyes were blinking back the tears.

And when she looked at Hunter again he was making his way towards the carriage with a grim expression upon his face.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘I have a headache. I believe I shall return to Blackloch,’ Mrs Hunter said without even looking round at Hunter.

‘This is the last farmstead. We are for home after this.’

‘I cannot wait; I am leaving now.’

‘Will you not at least step out of the carriage and show your face to McInnes? He will be insulted if you do not.’

‘What do I care for McInnes’s thoughts?’ Mrs Hunter glared at her son. ‘He is a tenant. Little more than a peasant grubbing in the dirt with his sheep and his hens. Lord, Sebastian, you always did treat him better than your own fath—’ She bit off the word but even to Phoebe it was obvious what she had intended to say. Mrs Hunter set her face straight ahead, stubbornness and fury was etched into its every line.

Hunter stilled. Phoebe saw the tightening in his jaw as if he was clenching his teeth, controlling some strong emotion.

‘He is an old man.’ Hunter said quietly so that McInnes would not hear. ‘Put aside your personal grievances for me in this one instance. He has a mare not long foaled. Come, ask him about it.’

But Mrs Hunter’s face remained front facing and stubbornly defiant as if she had heard not a word her son had spoken.

‘He is ill,’ Hunter said, and then added, ‘Mother … please.’ Phoebe could see what it cost him to plead.

‘He is ill?’ Mrs Hunter turned to him, anger and hurt blazing in her eyes. ‘Your father was ill! What care had you about him?’

Hunter’s face seemed to bleach while his eyes darkened. His lips pressed firm. He turned and walked away without another word.

Phoebe knew she had to act quickly. ‘Ma’am, you are unwell, and little wonder when you have suffered a headache the day long and still undertaken all with a smile for the sake of those who admire and respect you.’ She paused, knowing that she might be risking too much in what she was about to say, but she spoke the words anyway. ‘I could make your apologies to Mr McInnes and see to the linen and the food … if you so wish.’

Mrs Hunter looked at her for a moment and Phoebe could see the anger and jealousy still simmering, and, behind that veil, the hurt and the grief.

‘Thank you Phoebe, that is what I was about to ask.’ Mrs Hunter looked away before the tears could betray her completely.

Phoebe nodded.

Hunter started to talk to McInnes, again, drawing the old man away from the carriage and his mother. McInnes was no fool—Hunter knew he would realise the truth. Then he saw the old man’s gaze shift back to the carriage and he heard the crunch of footsteps; when he turned there was Phoebe Allardyce walking beside the footman and his hamper, carrying an armful of linen.

‘Good afternoon, Mr McInnes. I am afraid that Mrs
Hunter is quite unwell with a headache, but she has sent you some linen and some small extras, too, and she asked if I would be so kind as to enquire as to your mare. Mr Hunter was telling us that she recently foaled.’ Miss Allardyce smiled a tremulous smile at the old man.

‘Very kind of Mrs Hunter. Please be sure to thank her for me.’ McInnes kneaded the cloth cap between his hands and gave a respectful nod and a tug of his forelock towards the shadowy figure of the woman within the carriage.

And Hunter watched with surprise as a gloved hand appeared through the carriage window in an acknowledging wave.

‘This is Miss Allardyce, my mother’s companion,’ said Hunter, and his eyes met those of Phoebe Allardyce both in warning and question.

Then McInnes took the linen and the small hamper and disappeared with them into his tiny stone cottage, only to reappear in the doorway a minute later with a stone bottle in his hand. ‘Will you be taking a dram, Mr Hunter?’

‘Not today, thank you, McInnes. Mrs Hunter is unwell, I should be returning her to Blackloch. I will drop in when I am passing tomorrow.’

The old man nodded, then shifted his rheumy gaze to Miss Allardyce. ‘Do you want to see the foal so that you might tell Mrs Hunter?’

‘Could I?’

He had to admit that Miss Allardyce’s acting skills were of the first order. She managed somehow to make her face glow with delight; her eyes were bright and her smile broad and warm as she looked at McInnes.

McInnes gave a chuckle. ‘Just a quick peek, mind, so as no’ to keep Mrs Hunter waitin’.’

And just like that, Alasdair McInnes was won over by the girl who was lying to her employer, and who was steadily working a search through Blackloch by stealth, no doubt with a view to theft. She was dangerous, Hunter thought. And not only with her lies and her subterfuge. She was dangerous enough to tempt a man, to make him forget what it was that drove him through every hour of every day. Even now he was too aware of her, of her slender neck with its soft velvet skin that he had nuzzled and mouthed, of the small dimple that appeared in the corner of her mouth when she smiled, and the sweep of her long dark-red eyelashes, and the depths in those clear brown eyes.

He watched her absorbed in what the old man was telling her, with her shabby plain blue dress and her prim pinned hair, and that most wonderful warm smile. Yes, Miss Phoebe Allardyce was definitely the most dangerous woman he had ever met. The sooner he discovered what she was up to and she was out of his house, the better.

T
he sunset had lit the moor in a fire of red hues but, for once, Sebastian Hunter was paying no attention. He had not seen Phoebe Allardyce since their return to Blackloch the previous day, yet he had been thinking of her and the mystery she presented without respite.

‘You are sure that she met with no one either before or after her visit to the Tolbooth?’ Hunter asked as he leaned against the mantel above the fireplace.

McEwan made himself comfortable in one of the winged chairs before the empty fireplace and sipped at his brandy. ‘Quite sure. The only time she was out of my sight was when she entered the building of the gaol itself. There was no man.’

Hunter’s thumb toyed absently with the cleft in his chin and his eyes narrowed in thought. ‘How the hell are we going to find him?’ he murmured almost to himself.

‘How goes your side of the campaign? Has she searched any of the other rooms?’

‘The bedchambers—mine and my mother’s. Nothing was taken that I can see.’

‘But if nothing was taken? You are certain she was searching the rooms?’

‘Oh, I am sure of it,’ said Hunter grimly.

‘What can she be looking for?’ McEwan frowned in puzzlement.

‘I suspect the answer to that question is the key to solving the whole damn mystery.’

‘And how are we to find the answer? Short of catching the girl in the act with the Hunter family silver in her pocket?’

‘I suppose I will have to keep an even closer eye on Miss Allardyce than I have been doing.’ Hunter made no mention of just how close an eye he had been keeping on his mother’s companion, or of how the prospect both compelled and taunted him. ‘My mother’s safety is paramount.’

‘Absolutely. We should stop at nothing to discover Miss Allardyce’s scheme.’

The pounding of the wolf’s-head knocker woke Phoebe in the night. Over the sound of heavy rain drumming against the peat land outside there was the sound of footsteps running up and down the stairs, of hushed voices, and small scrapes and bangs from Hunter’s room as if he were opening and closing drawers or cupboards. Phoebe rose from her bed, pulled a shawl around her shoulders and peeped out into the hallway. A couple of wall sconce candles had been lit, casting the passageway in a dim flickering light.

And just at that same moment Hunter emerged from his bedchamber, pulling his great caped riding coat over
his dark coat and breeches. His hair was ruffled and dark as a raven’s wing, and over his cheeks and chin Phoebe could see the shadow of his beard’s growth. He looked piratical, wicked and dangerously handsome. His gaze met hers and that same tremulous feeling fluttered right through her.

‘A coach has come off the road. Assistance is required at the scene of the accident.’

‘There may be ladies present amongst the passengers. I will come with you and help, if you will give me but a moment to dress.’

‘You offer is appreciated, but unnecessary. The moor is difficult to negotiate in the dark and rain. As I said, I will deal with the matter. Go back to bed, Miss Allardyce.’ He glanced towards his mother’s door, which remained shut.

‘Mrs Hunter has taken one of her sleeping draughts. I doubt the rumpus will wake her.’

A nod of the head and he was gone, his great coat swirling out behind him and only the sound of his booted steps running down the stairs. She heard the distant thump of the back door as she returned to her room to dress.

Downstairs a few servants were huddled in the hallway, discussing the possible severity of the coaching accident and what they should be doing.

‘Oh, Miss Allardyce, Mr Hunter told us no’ to waken you,’ McCabe, the oldest of the group and Hunter’s valet, said.

‘Rest assured, you did not waken me,’ she said with a smile, knowing that Hunter had no housekeeper and that his mother was in no fit state to oversee what needed to
be done. ‘Now, tell me, what instruction has Mr Hunter left?’

‘He’s no’ left any instructions. The master went out in such a hurry, there wasnae time,’ said Jamie. ‘And Polly told us that Mrs Hunter’s had her powder the night so there’ll be no wakenin’ her.’

‘We thought we would wait up for the master to return,’ added Polly.

‘Where are the rest of the servants?’

‘Most dinnae live in, miss, but come over fae Blackloch village in the morning,’ said a dark-haired maid by the name of Annie, standing beside Martha Beattie.

‘Well, I am sure we will manage as we are,’ said Phoebe. ‘Jamie and Gavin, fetch some more coal in and up to the guest bedchambers and then lay the fires ready to be lit. Lay the fire in my room, too, as I may need to move elsewhere if a large enough number of injured persons are brought to Blackloch. And light the fire in Mr Hunter’s bedchamber.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Tam and Stewart, check the accommodation in the stables for extra horses and carriages and then return to your room above the stables. Get what sleep you can before Mr Hunter returns.’

‘Polly and Annie, prepare a pile of the oldest linen that would be suitable to be used as dressings and bandages, and some drying cloths, too. Mr McCabe, are there any old clothes suitable for gentlemen and lady passengers to borrow?’

‘I will check, miss.’

‘And you had best set out some drying cloths and night clothes for Mr Hunter in his chambers; he will need them upon his return.’ As if to emphasise her point
the rain drummed harder against the great front door and the wind gave a howl as if moaning across the moor.

‘Martha and Sally, come with me. We will boil up plenty of water. There may be wounds to be cleansed or baths required. And prepare a pot of soup for the simmer.’ Phoebe began to roll up her sleeves.

‘Cook doesnae come in until the mornin’,’ said Martha.

‘I am sure we will manage between us.’ Since the loss of Papa’s money Phoebe had become adept at managing their household on the most meagre of coins. She could make a very palatable pot of soup, even if she did say so herself.

Phoebe and the servants worked hard, but when two hours later there was still no sign of Hunter she sent the servants back to bed, telling them to get some sleep and that she would wake them upon Mr Hunter’s return. Phoebe wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and sat down in the night-porter’s chair in the hallway to wait for Hunter.

The first hint of dawn was lighting the charcoal from the sky as Hunter and his men handed their horses and the gig across to the grooms in the stable. The rain was still falling, albeit lightly, and Hunter could feel the heavy ache of fatigue in his muscles as he entered Blackloch through the back door with the rest of his menservants.

The smell of the broth hit him as soon as he opened the door. His stomach growled its response. They peeled off their sodden coats and over-garments and left them to dry in the scullery. Not a single maid was in evidence
so Hunter and his men helped themselves to the soup, ladling the broth into bowls, gulping down the warming liquid. The great pots of water were still warm to the touch although they had been moved off both the range and the open fire. On the long table at the side of the kitchen sat piles of linen sheets and some of his old clothes neatly folded. The big kitchen clock on the wall showed a little after four. All of Blackloch slept. Hunter left his men to find their quarters and went to seek his own bed.

He did not doubt that Miss Allardyce would have used his absence and his mother’s sleeping draught to continue her search. Would he find her in his bedchamber again? Part of him hoped it would be so. And right at this moment he was too tired to be angry or to fight the temptation she embodied.

His boots made no noise upon the stairs up from the kitchen. But when he reached the hallway and glanced across at the porter’s chair, he knew he had been mistaken. Phoebe Allardyce was not conducting a search of any room in Blackloch, for she was curled up fast asleep in the chair.

In the faint light of the dawn she looked very young, her face creamy pale and unlined in sleep, her lips pink and infinitely kissable, her auburn lashes long against the unblemished skin of her cheeks. She was dressed in the same blue muslin dress as ever, but her hair snaked over her shoulder in the long thick braid that she wore for bed. And from beneath the hem of her skirts, tucked up on the chair, peeped her stockinged toes, where she had curled her legs beneath her on the seat of the chair. His gaze dropped lower to the worn boots that sat neatly by the chair’s wooden leg. He stepped closer, his own
boots making a small noise against the stone flags of the floor and she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, yet still heavy-lidded with sleep.

‘Mr Hunter,’ she whispered sleepily, and the sound of his name on her lips was as if she had trailed her fingers teasingly down the length of his spine. She uncurled herself, yawned and stretched, the thin muslin stretched tight across her breasts. Hunter’s mouth went dry.

‘What happened with the accident?’ She rose from the chair and stood in her stocking soles on the cold stone of the floor before him. ‘Were there many injuries?’ She looked up at him, her face filled with concern and he thought he had not realised just how much smaller than he she was. The top of her head barely reached his chin.

‘Mr Hunter?’ she prompted, and he realised he was staring.

‘It was a town coach travelling too fast in the rain, the driver misjudged the corner and overturned the coach across the road. There were two young gentlemen passengers, both shaken, but neither of them hurt.’ ‘Do they return to Blackloch with you?’ He shook his head. ‘They were in a rush to reach Glasgow—one of them is the bridegroom in a wedding this morning. I sent them on in my coach.’

She met his eyes before her gaze shifted to take in the dirty wet state of his clothes. ‘I thought you were wearing your greatcoat …’

‘The coach had to be cleared from the road to prevent another accident.’

Her gaze dropped lower to take in the scrapes and cuts and dirt on his hands where he had been helping to lift the carriage and change the wheel.

‘Your hands …’ She took his hands into hers, her fingers small and slender beside his, her touch gentle as a caress. And when she looked up at him there was something in her eyes that made him think he had got Phoebe Allardyce all wrong.

‘They should be cleansed.’

Her fingers felt chilled to his touch. He pulled his hands away, feeling suddenly confused.

‘It is late, Miss Allardyce, go to bed,’ he said and he knew that his voice was too hard.

He saw the small flicker of hurt before she masked it and walked away without a word, and he wished he could call back the harshness.

In his bedchamber, McCabe was snoozing in the corner chair.

‘Mr Hunter, sir.’ The valet wakened and got to his feet.

‘What are you doing here, McCabe?’ ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Miss Allardyce sent me.’

Hunter’s eyes scanned the room that appeared so different to the one he had left earlier that night. The fire had been lit, casting a warm glow to cheer the darkness. A nightshirt was hanging over the second fireguard to warm and his bed had been neatly made.

McCabe saw the direction of his gaze. ‘She thought as how you might be feeling the cold upon your return … wi’ the weather and all.’

‘Miss Allardyce organised this?’ Hunter could not keep the sharpness from his voice.

‘Aye, sir. She organised everything—the guest chambers, the linens in case there was a need for bandages and dressings, the hot water. On account o’ Mrs Hunter
havin’ taken one of her pooders. She made the soup with Martha and Sally, too—in case there was a need for it.’ McCabe removed a warming pan from the bed as he spoke.

Hunter could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

And later, after McCabe had gone and he finally found sleep, the thought on his mind was not the coaching accident or the moor, or the usual nightmare that haunted him, but Miss Allardyce … liar and would-be thief … who had held his household together for him this night.

In Mrs Hunter’s dressing room Phoebe and the lady stood before the opened wardrobes trying to select a dress suitable for the rout that evening.

‘Polly informed me there was something of an incident in the night.’

‘Indeed.’ Phoebe related the details of the carriage accident.

‘I am surprised that Sebastian could drag himself from his slumber to attend the scene.’

‘Ma’am, Mr Hunter not only relayed the gentlemen passengers to Glasgow in his own equipage, but personally participated in righting the damaged vehicle and removing it from blocking the road.’ She thought of the cuts and scrapes upon his hands, of how wet his clothes had been and the fatigue that had shadowed beneath his eyes. And of the strange expression in his gaze before the dark pensive chill had returned.

Mrs Hunter waved away her words with an airy hand. ‘Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.’

‘It is the truth, ma’am.’ Whatever dark deeds Hunter
had committed, his mother deserved to know that he had acted most honourably last night.

‘And you would know this how precisely?’ Mrs Hunter peered at her.

‘I was wakened by the knocking at the front door of those who came to fetch Mr Hunter.’ Phoebe hesitated over admitting her part in the night’s proceedings.

Mrs Hunter peered more closely at her. ‘Indeed, you look as if you have not slept a wink.’

‘I did have some trouble finding sleep once more,’ she offered and was saved from further explanation by Polly’s arrival with Mrs Hunter’s breakfast tray.

‘Miss Allardyce, Cook was wondering if she might have a word with you in the kitchen,’ said Polly.

Phoebe thought of the pot of soup that Cook must have come in to find this morning. She glanced at Mrs Hunter.

‘Go on, girl, go and see what she wants,’ said Mrs Hunter in a grumpy tone. ‘And let us hope that I feel a deal better after my chocolate. I shall see you in the drawing room in an hour.’

Cook wished to know the recipe of the soup. Phoebe smiled and was only too happy to share. She was heading back up the stairs to her own chamber when she met Hunter coming down.

‘Miss Allardyce.’ He bowed. ‘Mr Hunter.’