A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (9 page)

‘I owe you thanks for all that you did last night,’ he said stiffly. ‘It was much appreciated.’ He sounded ill at ease. He did not speak of their arrangement, nor did he try to take her hand or to kiss her. She wondered at the change in him.

Those pale haunting eyes held hers and there was something different in them this morning, as if he were looking at her for the first time. A footman passed in the hallway below. Hunter gave her a little nod of the head and carried on down the stairs, but a few steps later she glanced back at Hunter at exactly the same time as he looked back at her. A feeling of recognition and something shared, something binding, passed between them.

Hunter leafed through the pile of newly delivered letters.

The day was warm and sunny; the sky outside his window, blue and cloudless. There were two letters for his mother and all the rest were addressed to himself, all save the one at the bottom of the pile. The small neat handwriting on the front had directed it to Miss Phoebe Allardyce, care of Blackloch Hall. Both the handwriting and the slight scent of violet perfume indicated a female sender. He turned the letter over, and on the reverse written in small script at the top right-hand corner was the sender’s name.

Hunter stilled. The shock kicked in his chest. The rest of the letters tumbled forgotten to the floor. He read the name again and again, and still the taste was bitter in his mouth and his stomach felt a small tight knot.
Miss Emma Northcote.
All he saw of the name was
Northcote.
It had been the start of the whole of this sorry mess. And the nightmare played again through his mind and he gripped so hard to the letter that his knuckles shone white. And then, quite deliberately, carefully, he set it down upon his desk. It sat there, a small pale square stark against the ebony; he reached
for the brandy decanter and filled his glass, and with his eyes still fixed upon the letter, he drained it just as quickly. And outside the clouds moved across the sky to block the sun, and all of the darkness had returned.

‘D
amnation!’ Mrs Hunter cursed. ‘There is never a servant to be found in this wretched place when I need one. Should I have to run my own errands? Have I not reached the stage in my life when I warrant a little comfort and ease? And instead I find myself in this … this mausoleum of a house.’ Mrs Hunter winced and rubbed her fingers against her forehead. ‘Perhaps it is time that we went back to Charlotte Street, even if the decorating is not yet complete.’

‘No!’ Phoebe said a little too forcefully and found her employer peering round at her. She forced a smile and picking up Mrs Hunter’s shawl draped it around the lady’s shoulders. ‘What I mean to say is, would it not be better to wait just a week or two more? You know how sensitive your head is to strong vapours. The smell of the paint would not be good for you, ma’am. Perhaps you should wait until it has dispelled somewhat before returning to Charlotte Street.’

Mrs Hunter nodded, but her face was all discontentment. ‘You are probably right, Phoebe.’

‘And Polly is preparing you a sleeping draught so you should rest well tonight.’

‘For that, at least, I am thankful. Be a dear, Phoebe, and fetch my fashion journals from the drawing room. I left them in there earlier.’

‘Of course.’

Phoebe was passing Hunter’s study with the journals in her hand when he appeared in the doorway. She started, but then smothered the butterflies in her stomach to walk past him. He could not kiss her here in broad daylight where anyone might chance to see them.

‘Miss Allardyce,’ he said and her heart gave a little somersault. His face was paler than normal, his eyes glittered in the sunlight and there was something very cold and very dangerous in the way he was looking at her.

‘I have a letter for you.’ ‘A letter?’

A movement of his hand and she saw the small folded parchment there. He held it out to her.

‘Thank you.’ The cool brush of his fingers against hers as she accepted the letter made all of the butterflies and tingles reappear. Her heart began to thud as ever it did when Hunter was around. She turned to hurry away, desperate to escape the madness of the feelings surging through her body.

‘I could not help but notice the sender,’ he said and beneath his usual coolness was an edge of something else. ‘I did not know you are an acquaintance of the Northcote family?’

She glanced at the back of the letter and saw Emma’s
name. ‘Miss Northcote is a friend of mine. We were at school together.’ She folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.

He stepped out into the corridor, walked closer until he was standing right before her, staring down into her eyes. ‘So many things I do not know about you, Phoebe Allardyce.’

And there was something in his voice that sent a shiver down the full length of her body. She swallowed, feeling her stomach dance at his proximity, both wanting and dreading his kiss.

She grasped around for something to say. ‘Are you acquainted with Miss Northcote, or perhaps one of her brothers?’ She knew the moment the words were out of her mouth that she had chosen wrongly. Gone was the cool quiet intensity and in its place was pure and unadulterated anger. She saw the sudden tension that ran through Hunter’s body, saw the tightening of his jaw, the sudden flare of fury that darkened his eyes. She edged away until her spine touched against the stone of the corridor wall. But Hunter saw the move, and in an instant his hands were leaning against the wall on either side of her head, his body so close to hers yet not touching, effectively trapping her where she stood.

‘What manner of game are you playing with me, Miss Allardyce?’ he demanded and his voice was low and guttural and tortured.

Her heart was racing in earnest now, thudding so hard she could feel the vibration of it throughout her body. She shook her head with the tiniest motion. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

He leaned so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek and smell the sweet rich aroma
of brandy. ‘If you do not already know it, I give you fair warning, Phoebe.’

Her heart stuttered to a halt before racing off at full tilt again. He could not know, could he? She stared up into his eyes, and the intensity that was in them, the anger, and such tortured pain made her forget all about her own fears. ‘Sebastian,’ she said softly.

He squeezed his eyes closed as if aware he had inadvertently revealed too much, and when he opened them again the hurt was gone, hidden well away, and his anger was reined under some measure of control.

‘Do you not know that you are playing with fire?’ he said and his voice was harsh. ‘If you are such good friends with Miss Northcote, you must know what I am.’

She shook her head. ‘I …’ she said, but something in his eyes stopped her.

He took her lips and this time there was nothing of gentleness, only of urgency and a need so overwhelming that it razed everything in its path. His mouth was hard and possessive as it claimed hers. He took her without mercy, his tongue plundering, his lips pillaging, ravishing her with his kiss as thoroughly as in the dreams that plagued her nights. It was a kiss that should have frightened, a kiss that should have punished, but in it she felt the measure of his desperation and hurt.

She knew she should have resisted, despite their ‘arrangement’. All that was right and proper decreed that she should have made some excuse to escape him, but Phoebe reacted instinctively, responding to Hunter and the hurt in him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself up to his onslaught, salving his
pain with her gentleness, meeting his passion with her own. Losing herself in the ecstasy and power of his kiss.

When he eventually raised his face from hers, he retreated, breathing heavy, leaning against the wall and staring at her with an unreadable expression upon his face. And Phoebe stared back, as aghast at what she had just done as Hunter looked. Her heart was thudding fit to burst. Her body felt molten from his touch. Everything was in tumult, everything, wild and overwhelming.

She picked up the journals from where they had fallen and walked away while she could, her head held high as if she were not trembling from the force of what had just exploded between her and Hunter. And not once did she look back at him.

‘Phoebe, there you are. I was just about to send out the search party. What on earth took you so long?’ Mrs Hunter demanded.

‘Forgive me, ma’am, I …’ Phoebe could not meet the lady’s eyes. ‘I had a little difficulty in locating them.’ She set the fashion journals upon the table before Mrs Hunter and tried to mask the riot of emotion still pounding through her blood.

Mrs Hunter peered at her. ‘Are you feeling quite yourself?’

No!
she wanted to cry.
I have not been feeling myself since the moment I looked into your son’s eyes.
She was still reeling from the hurt in Hunter’s eyes and the fury that she had done nothing to provoke, still reeling from the wantonness of her response to him. She felt frightened by her feelings and how very little control she seemed to have over them. But Phoebe hid her fears
and feelings and forced herself to look calmly at her employer.

‘Perfectly,’ she lied.

But Mrs Hunter was not convinced. ‘Come and sit down beside me.’ She patted the sofa seat by her side.

Phoebe had no choice but to obey.

‘You look positively feverish, my girl, and breathless.’ Mrs Hunter took Phoebe’s hand in her own. ‘And you are trembling.’

Phoebe quickly withdrew her traitorous hand from Mrs Hunter’s, and felt the blush of guilt and embarrassment and turbulent emotion heat her cheeks all the hotter. ‘I rushed up the stairs too fast so as not to keep you waiting any longer.’

‘I should not need to remind you, Phoebe, that young ladies never run.’

‘I am sorry, Mrs Hunter.’

Mrs Hunter gave a nod of conciliation. ‘It is fatigue, Phoebe. I can see it in your eyes. And little wonder with having been awake half the night with the storm and the hullabaloo surrounding the coaching accident. I think I have been a little selfish in my demands of you today.’

‘Not at all, ma’am,’ said Phoebe.

‘I am sending you to bed. You need to rest.’

‘But it is Mrs Montgomery’s rout this evening.’ She thought of what Mrs Hunter’s absence would mean—she would be alone at Blackloch with Hunter.

‘Exactly—we both know what Amelia’s routs are like. If it runs on as late as the last one, I shall stay overnight and travel back in the morning. Believe me, Phoebe, you are in no fit state for such an evening and I shall manage very well alone. And you need not fear to be left in Sebastian’s company. My son will be gone
to McEwan’s house to dine with him and Mairi, so there will be no one here to disturb you.’

No one to disturb her.

All of her protestations died on her lips. Phoebe swallowed. She would be free to search Blackloch.

‘Now, off with you, girl. I will not hear another word on the matter.’

The evening was still light, but the curtains were closed in Phoebe’s bedchamber. Phoebe lay in the bed and listened to the faint chimes of the grandfather clock down in the hallway, and the crunch of Mrs Hunter’s carriage as it rolled down the gravel of the driveway. Hunter was long gone, but Phoebe was thinking of him, just as she had been thinking of him all of the previous hours.

In all her three-and-twenty years no one had ever made her feel the way he did. She had never questioned her life. Not the loss of a mother so young, or the years spent keeping house and caring for a father who, for all his brilliant mind, had not the slightest notion of how to care for himself. Not the loss of a sister so beloved or the tragedy that went with it. Not even the loss of all their money and the gaoling of her father. She loved her papa, Mrs Hunter was more than kind and Phoebe had been content with her life. But now that she had met Hunter, everything up until that moment on the moor felt as if she had been existing rather than living.

He did not look at her as a daughter, a carer or a servant. Hunter looked at her as a woman. And no one had ever done that before. For the first time in her life she felt attractive and desirable and alive. He made her feel excited. He made her feel like she was glowing inside.

And all of this while her papa was locked in gaol with a face beaten black and blue.

It was so wrong, for Phoebe loved her papa, and she could not understand the selfishness of her feelings, or how she could even be thinking of Hunter in such a way. And she wept with the guilt and confusion and she knew she could not allow this madness to continue. The Messenger wanted one thing. Phoebe knew she must focus only on that and her papa.

She dried her tears and slipped silently from the bed.

Hunter handed the reins of Ajax over to the groom and slipped into Blackloch. The dinner with McEwan and Mairi had been pleasant enough, but he could not dislodge the feeling of guilt over the way he had treated Phoebe Allardyce. He thought of last night, of her standing before him in the darkened hallway with that look of concern and tenderness in her eyes. The coaching accident had presented her with the perfect opportunity to continue her search of Blackloch, yet Miss Allardyce had forgone it in order to help him and his household. And he thought of how pale she had looked this morning, of the shadows that had pinched beneath those warm golden-brown eyes. Little wonder after everything she had done through the night. But all of Hunter’s gratitude had been forgotten the moment he had seen that name upon the letter. Even if she had been sent here by the Northcotes to remind him of what he had done to them, or to exact some measure of revenge, she had not deserved the harshness of his treatment. And he thought of the passion of her response, of its gentleness and strength. Remorse moved over his heart.

Hunter did not go to his study, pour himself a brandy
and sit staring out over the moor. Instead, he walked up the stairs and headed straight for Phoebe Allardyce’s bedchamber.

P
hoebe had almost finished searching the last of the guest bedchambers when she heard the tread of feet upon the main staircase. Her first thought was that it was one of the servants taking advantage of the family’s absence to use the main stairs. But even before she recognised the sound of the footsteps a shiver tingled through her body and her heart leapt—she knew it was Hunter. She quietly closed the cupboard door and stood where she was, listening. Her heart was galloping. If Hunter caught her in here, what feasible excuse could she give?

Hunter’s bedchamber was at the end of the corridor. But the footsteps stopped short. She heard the nearby knock, the pause, the tread of his feet as he entered Phoebe’s own bedchamber.

The room was empty. The covers on the bed were thrown back as if she had only just climbed from it.

Hunter moved forwards, pressed his hand to the sheets and found they were cool. He glanced around
the room, seeing the curtains still drawn and Miss Allardyce’s blue dress hanging over the door of the wardrobe.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. He crushed the tender feelings he had been harbouring, and strode out of the bedchamber to discover just which part of Blackloch Phoebe Allardyce was engaged in searching, and found her standing, still in her nightdress, outside the door to the next guest chamber.

‘There you are, Miss Allardyce.’

She stilled. ‘Mr Hunter. I thought you were having dinner with Mr McEwan and his wife.’

‘I was.’ Hunter did not elaborate. ‘I thought you were abed.’

She gave a nervous swallow. ‘I … I have been in bed since this afternoon. I was merely stretching my legs.’

Hunter moved his gaze to the door of the guest chamber immediately behind her before shifting it back to the woman.

Her stance did not waver, but he saw the tiny flicker in her eyes, that moment of doubt, and the flush of guilt that coloured her cheeks. He was angry, partly at Miss Allardyce, but mainly at himself. He had had enough of women’s games.

‘Why are you and my mother really here at Blackloch?’

Her eyes widened slightly, but whether it was a response to the question or the cold demand in his voice he did not know, nor did he care.

‘The town house is being decorated.’

‘Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that my mother’s desire to change her wallpaper would bring her back here. She left Blackloch the day we buried
my father and swore she would never return,’ he said harshly. ‘My mother loathes the very sight of me.’

‘No!’ Miss Allardyce took a small involuntary step towards him and shook her head. ‘You are quite wrong. Mrs Hunter—’ She caught herself back from saying what she would have, but the concern was still etched upon her face. She bit at her lower lip as if weighing up a decision. ‘I am not supposed to tell you, but I think perhaps Mrs Hunter is wrong in keeping it from you.’ She looked at him, her expression serious. ‘If I confide in you, you must keep it secret.’ She waited for his reassurance.

Hunter just looked at her. ‘Miss Allardyce.’

‘She would be very angry if she thought you knew. I could lose my position.’

Still Hunter would make no promise.

Phoebe Allardyce’s eyes regarded him steadily. ‘I would have your oath on this, sir, or I will tell you nothing.’ And from the strength in her gaze Hunter knew it was no idle threat.

‘Very well, you have my oath.’

Her eyes met his and he knew she would tell him. ‘There have been two break-ins at the town house in Charlotte Street. The first was some months ago, not long after I first started as Mrs Hunter’s companion, and the second was only a matter of weeks ago. Mrs Hunter would never admit to it, but the last break-in distressed her greatly. Nothing was left untouched. All of our most personal possessions were rifled through. She did not sleep well before the last break-in, and since then, well …’ She raised her eyebrows and Hunter could only guess at how bad things had become. ‘That is why she makes such use of sleeping powders. In answer to
your question, Mr Hunter, I believe that your mother is here because she is frightened.’

Her words hit him hard. ‘She should have told me,’ he ground out.

She touched her fingers to his sleeve. ‘Mrs Hunter is too proud. As I think are you,’ she said softly.

His eyes met hers and he saw the sympathy that was there. It hardened his heart. He stepped back out of her reach.

‘What was stolen?’

‘That is the strange thing. Nothing was actually stolen, but they made something of a mess in their searching. I think that is why Mrs Hunter is having the house redecorated, that and, I suspect, as a way of wiping away the intruder’s presence.’

The significance of what she was telling him slotted into place. ‘There have been two break-ins at Blackloch since my father’s death, both of which revealed nothing was taken.’

‘How very peculiar.’ She frowned. ‘Break-ins in both properties in which nothing was taken, but the rooms turned over as if they have been searched most thoroughly … It sounds as if someone is looking for something very particular that they believe to be in my mother’s or my possession.’ He looked at Phoebe Allardyce.

She was staring not at him, but at some point in the far distance, a look of sudden realisation and horror in her eyes. The blood drained from her face so that she was pale as a ghost.

‘What do you think, Phoebe?’ he asked quietly. She tried to mask her shock before she looked at him, but not very successfully. ‘I do not know.’ She
swallowed and her gaze fluttered nervously around the corridor. ‘It seems … unlikely. I mean, what on earth would such a person be looking for?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me as to that.’

Her eyes shot to his and he saw that they were filled with fear, more than just the fear of discovery. She was standing against the wall, holding her breath, her body rigid with dread. And Hunter had the sensation that something much more was going on here. He backed off a little.

‘You witnessed the evidence of the break-ins in Charlotte Street so I am interested to hear your thoughts on the matter. Your insight could be valuable.’

She swallowed again and the small smile was forced. ‘What are thieves normally after—money, plate, paintings … jewellery?’ She gave a shrug. ‘Anything of value, I would think.’

He nodded and came to stand opposite her, leaning back against the wall to mirror her stance. ‘You know that I cannot stand by and allow a threat to my mother, Phoebe.’

She nodded and closed her eyes, but not before he had seen the unshed tears.

‘Threats are such a terrible thing,’ she said and her voice was barely more than a whisper. The clear brown eyes flickered open and how she managed to prevent the swell of tears from falling he did not know. ‘And now if you will excuse me, sir, I must return to bed.’

She was so pale that Hunter thought she might swoon where she stood. But Phoebe Allardyce held her head high and walked the small distance to her bedchamber to disappear inside.

Phoebe could not sleep that night. The implication of what Hunter had said, that the Messenger was behind the break-ins and the violent ruthlessness of his search through Mrs Hunter’s home and personal possessions, played in her mind. And for the first time she realised the significance of the Messenger having spoken of ‘we’ rather than ‘I’. How many of them were involved in this and who were they that such a small seemingly inconsequential item could mean so much to them? Phoebe feared the strength and force of the men and what they could do to her papa. She feared she had allowed her attraction to Hunter and all that he made her feel distract her from the importance and urgency of what they had set her to do. And she knew that she must find what they wanted very soon.

She tossed and turned for hours, unable to find comfort, and had almost given up on sleep when a knock sounded on her bedchamber door. The maid Martha Beattie, who Phoebe had seen leave for home after dinner, slipped through the doorway wearing a dark shawl and with a lantern in her hand.

‘Oh, Miss Allardyce, I’m so sorry to waken you.’ The girl sounded breathless as if she had been running. Phoebe could smell the damp night air coming from her and see the girl’s face was taut and pale and so filled with worry that it made Phoebe forget all of her own.

‘Martha, what is wrong?’

‘Oh, Miss Allardyce, it’s my ma.’ Martha began to sob and the lantern trembled in her hand.

‘Take a deep breath, calm yourself and tell me what has happened.’ Phoebe placed a steadying hand on the girl’s arm.

‘The baby is coming and my pa hasnae come back from Glasgow the day. I cannae run all the way to the village for the midwife and my ma says there’s something wrong. I—I dinnae know what to do, miss.’

‘Stay here, Martha, while I wake Mr Hunter. Then we will have someone fetch the midwife before we set off for your cottage.’

‘Oh, miss.’

‘We will do everything that we possibly can to help your mother.’ She patted the girl’s shoulder. ‘Stout heart, Martha. I will be as quick as I can.’ She lit her candle from Martha’s lantern and hurried to fetch Hunter.

Hunter’s face was not peaceful in repose. Whatever dreams he had did not look to be pleasant. He murmured and his head rolled against the pillow. In the flicker of the candlelight Phoebe could see the slight sheen of sweat upon his pale skin and the pain that racked his features and felt a surge of compassion for him. From the wall above the fireplace the dark-cowled man and the wolf looked down on her and this time when she looked at the monk, she had the strangest notion that he was not a monk at all, but something altogether more sinister. Such a painting could not help Hunter’s nightmares. She turned her back on the twin watchers and touched a hand to Hunter’s arm.

‘Mr Hunter … Sebastian.’

His eyes were still drugged with sleep as he squinted into the lantern light. ‘Phoebe?’ And he reached for her, pulling her to him.

She placed a hand against his chest to restrain him and felt the warm firm muscle of bare skin. ‘No, you must wake up. It is an emergency. Mrs Beattie’s baby
is coming, a month before it should. Martha is here for our help.’

Her words reached him and the drowsiness was gone in an instant.

‘Mr Beattie has not returned from Glasgow and Martha has no means to reach the midwife.’

Hunter sat up and Phoebe saw that he wore no nightshirt. His chest, arms and stomach were pale and as defined with the taut lines of muscles as if he were a Greek god carved in marble.

‘I will fetch the midwife and bring her to the Beatties’ cottage.’

Phoebe dragged her eyes away from his nakedness, appalled that she could be staring at him, even at a time like this. ‘If you are amenable I will have Jamie take Martha and me in one of the carriages back to her cottage while we wait for you to arrive. She ran all the way here, poor girl.’

‘Take Jamie and the gig. It’s easier to handle in the dark.’

She nodded and turned to leave.

‘And, Phoebe …’ he called after her.

She glanced back at him, and their gazes locked.

‘Have a care.’

She nodded and hurried back to Martha.

When Hunter arrived at the Beatties’ cottage with the midwife there was no sign of either Phoebe or Mr Beattie. A large pot of hot water was simmering over the fire. In the front parlour the children were red-eyed with tiredness and crying, their little faces streaked with tears and the smear of runny noses. The smallest one, Rosie, who was little more than a baby herself, had
fallen asleep curled in a little ball on the floor. A terrible moaning was coming from the downstairs bedroom and every time it sounded the children’s crying renewed. The midwife did not pause to remove her cloak, just disappeared into that bedroom. Hunter did not dare to even look through the door. He retreated into the hallway, feeling useless, not knowing what to do in this women’s world.

Phoebe appeared from the bedroom, her sleeves rolled up, her cheeks pink from heat and exertion. ‘Oh, Mr Hunter, thank goodness,’ she whispered as her fingers brushed against his hand. Her relief at his presence was like a gentle touch against his heart.

‘What can I do to help?’

‘Look after the children.’

Hunter looked at her helplessly.

‘Put your arm around them, cuddle them when they cry. Put a blanket over them when they are cold. Tell them that everything will be fine and that they must be good girls for their mother.’ Then, to the young footman who was hovering ashen-faced by the kitchen door as if he would rather be outside, ‘Into the kitchen, Jamie, scrub your hands, then fill another pail of water and set another pot on to boil. Once it has boiled, take it off the heat and let it cool.’

‘Yes, miss,’ Jamie mumbled dutifully.

And then she was gone, bustling towards the kitchen to return with a bowl of hot water and a pile of linen.

‘Go,’ she urged Hunter. ‘You can do it.’ Hunter nodded, knowing that he had to help, and walked into the parlour of crying children.

The hours passed slowly, painfully, and still the baby had not been born. Mrs Beattie was in so much pain she did not know who was in the room with her and who was not. The low dull moan was now constant, and every so often she cried and wept for her husband. Phoebe closed off her emotions so that she could get through this night. She had seen this same scene before, and she knew how it would end. And yet even so, through those hours she mopped Mrs Beattie’s brow and held her hand and willed the woman to keep going. And when the midwife went into her bag and brought out a large pair of metal spoon-shaped tongs, Phoebe understood.

‘She’s no’ gonnae manage hersel’, miss. We’ll have to pull the babe out into this world.’

Phoebe nodded and went to scrub the tongs in hot water.

It was just like Elspeth, except that when the midwife handed her the baby, still warm from Mrs Beattie’s body, the boy breathed and moved, a cry erupting from his little gummy mouth. Phoebe wiped him clean and swaddled the tiny body in fresh linen as his loud wails filled the air. And it seemed to Phoebe that she had never heard such a glorious noise.