Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) (15 page)

“Well, yes. No, I mean—your attentions to me go too far, sir. I do not return your interest.”

He had not moved from behind her. In fact, he stood so still she was not even sure he was breathing. She began to fear she had angered him, but then he spoke, quietly, in an even voice.

“Perhaps I would believe you if you could look into my eyes and say that.”

Oh no
, she thought.
How can I? I must—I will make myself do it. I am strong. I can do it, this one time. He will believe me then and be gone.

She turned around and looked into his intense blue eyes. For a moment, her resolve faltered, but then she spoke. “I am looking into your eyes,” she said in carefully measured syllables. She tried to summon some feeling of anger to help her. He had pushed her to this, after all. But his face showed her the range of his feelings—longing, love, passion, doubt.
I must say it now
, she told herself.

“I am not interested in you. I want you to leave me alone.” There, she had done it. She felt the betraying tears start into her eyes, and quickly turned her face away before he should notice.

“Your words say no, but your heart says yes. If you have truly fooled yourself, let me prove it to you.”

She tried to push past him then in panic, but he took her into his arms and put his lips gently upon hers. She struggled for only a moment. As the kiss continued, it acted like a drug upon her reason. The stiffness went out of her, and she began to savor his taste. His lips were gentle yet demanding, seeking. The response they sought fanned to life within her, rippling up through her body.

As she gave a small gasp, his kiss deepened. The searing desire she had thought was dead or at least banished forever suddenly was pouring through her again. Its power had always frightened her. It possessed her for several moments, until the remembrance of Stephen's kisses and her response to him intruded upon her pleasure. Then she was filled with pain that more than equaled her passion.

“No!”
She broke away so suddenly that Devenham could not stop her. As she pushed past him, she saw the hurt and bewilderment in his face.

“Phoebe, why? Why can you not trust me and let me care for you?” He held his hands out to her almost in supplication.

She had failed, utterly failed, to pass his test. Now he knew her feelings, but he still would not understand.

She turned her face back to him, knowing full well it was streaked with tears and full of anguish. Could a heart already broken break again? “Don't—please, don't. How can I explain? I tell you, it is my own heart that cannot be trusted.”

Choking back her pain, she ran from him.

Chapter Thirteen

“Devenham, 'tis your play.”

“Hello, Jack?”

A gentle nudge brought Devenham's attention back to the cards in his hand and the laughter of his companions as they sat in the card room at Brooks's two nights later.

“If you're going to be woolgathering, I demand a new partner!” teased the friend who sat opposite him.

“I never thought I'd see the day when Devenham lost his concentration at cards! I tell you, gentlemen, this is serious—very serious.”

Devenham smiled and shook his head. His thoughts had been full of Phoebe, it was true. He studied the cards on the table now, trying to sort out who had led what suit and which card his partner had played in turn.

“Hush!” cried another in the group. “For once we have a sporting chance of beating him. Let him woolgather all he wants, and later we'll offer a toast to the lady, whoever she is!”

“Nay, gents, this is more serious than you think,” Devenham's partner protested. “He's on his way to being ruined, can't you see? Not to mention me along with him. When a man as sharp as Jack loses his edge, he's in trouble. 'Tis Lady Brodfield that has brought him to this, mark my words. Look into my eyes, Jack, and tell me which suit is trump.”

The others at the table roared at this and reached for their drinks to wash down their laughter. Devenham didn't mind. He was quite inclined to agree with their analysis of his situation, but he was damned if he knew what to do about it. Inconceivable as it might be, or even inconvenient, he was in love with Phoebe.

Even more amazing was his belief that she might be capable of loving him in return, if she would only allow herself the chance. Such a possibility damned near turned his view of life and the whole world upside down. But he was beginning to despair of ever breaking through the barriers she had erected around her heart.

“Why, look! There's old Lord Nowersby. Now there's a man whose addiction to the fairer sex has fair ruined him, indeed.”

This was met with a rude chuckle around the table.

“I didn't know he ever ventured out!” said one of the friends in mock amazement.

“I've heard it said that his coattails are hot to the touch and his breeches require special tailoring.”

“He looks quite normal to me,” came the reply. “Although I could have sworn I've heard that description applied to you, Rawson.”

This comment was deemed hilarious, although Devenham did not join in the round of laughter.

“I've heard that it's his bedsheets that never cool off! They say he has procurers who bring the women right to his door!”

“Or right to his bedside? The devil, you'd never think he'd have such prodigious stamina, would you? No wonder he's so scrawny—he must never get a chance to eat.”

Devenham was used to the crude banter of his friends. He found he had lost his taste for it, somehow, although he tried to maintain his tolerant smile. The next comment riveted his attention, however.

“Isn't Nowersby a confederate of Richard Brodfield's?”

A sudden, sobering silence descended on the table of friends.

“If you want my advice, Devenham,” said the player to his right, “you'll let go of whatever there may be between you and Lady Brodfield. She's a beauty, there's no question. But if I may speak frankly, as a friend, she's damaged goods. Not damaged in the sense we might usually mean,” he hastened to add, “but damaged nonetheless.”

Devenham narrowed his eyes. “Would you care to explain in what sense you do mean, Corbet?”

“Nothing disrespectful, Devenham, please believe me. It's just—surely you know about the scandal that surrounded her husband's suicide. No one knows what truly passes between a man and his wife. Just the scandal alone is reason enough to look elsewhere, man.”

“Her remaining connection to the Brodfields is reason beyond that, Devenham, trust us.”

The earl's friends shook their heads solemnly.

“She has another strike against her now that Lord Tyneley is gone,” said the one called Rawson. “He was the stabilizing influence among the Brodfields. Any man would think twice now before making even an oblique connection to that family.”

“Explain that to me.”

“Reputation, man. Reputation! There's only a certain kind who don't care if his name gets linked with the likes of them. Brodfield has been a scandal unto himself for some time, and it would not surprise me now with the old earl gone to see his mother, Lady Tyneley, kicking over the traces. The only surprise was that his half brother was apparently cast from the same mold.”

These comments only frustrated Devenham. “You forget I have not been in London for more than two years, my friends. Not all the gossip you know reached us in the Peninsula or France. And in Vienna, there was so much new gossip being generated every day, any London news was likely to pale beside it, I assure you. If you truly mean to advise me in my affairs, you'd best speak plainly.”

Corbet, who had first spoken against Phoebe, lowered his voice. “I'll speak plainly, Devenham, but if any repeat what I say, I'll deny every word. Think about Brodfield. Have you ever seen him in here or in White's or Watier's or Arthur's or any of the more acceptable clubs? No, you have not. He's been blackballed in every one he ever tried to get into. He haunts the hells on Jermyn Street and Pall Mall. The man is a born cheat and a liar. We believe in a life of pleasure, and I'd not be the one to cast the first stone, but none call us depraved or perverted that I know of, nor would they have grounds. Rakehell or libertine I might answer to, even proudly, but not such other charges. But I have heard such things whispered about Brodfield. He is said to hold strange orgies at his property outside of London, and some say he belongs to the Hellfire Club. No one seems to know how he managed to be away from his regiment so often as he seemed to be.”

“He missed his own father's funeral,” said Devenham's partner. “The one time he could have gotten an authorized leave!”

“He didn't need to get leave by then—he had already sold out, from what I hear.”

“I heard he was too busy with private business at Margate to attend.”

“Private business? Of course! The kind conducted in bed, that is!”

There was laughter after this remark, but there was tension beneath it that had been missing when the discussion first started. Devenham did not even smile. Instead, he tossed down his cards.

“Gentlemen, I will have to beg your indulgence on this one occasion. I promise to make it up to you another time—if you like, you can make me pay double the stakes that everyone else pays. But you are right about my preoccupation this evening.” He reached down for his ebony cane on the floor by his chair and stood up. “I am quite unequipped to play, and it is unfair to my partner and to all of you. I am certain you can find another fourth to replace me.”

“I hope we have not given offense? None was intended,” said Corbet.

“None was taken. If it had been, trust me, you would know. As for the advice you have offered, I will consider what you have said. But I would leave you with a thought to consider yourselves. I was damaged goods on the field after Waterloo. I am damned thankful I wasn't abandoned there simply because of it.”

Devenham bowed and headed for the door.

Once outside, the earl decided to walk for a bit. The strength of his injured leg was increasing every day, and using the muscles seemed to help. He wanted to think, and the cool evening air seemed conducive to putting together bits and pieces of a difficult puzzle.

The more he heard about Richard Brodfield, the more convinced he became that Richard must have played some role in whatever had happened between Phoebe and Stephen, and even in Stephen's death. He did not have the faintest idea what that role might have been, and he had not a shred of evidence. But he was not going to give up his efforts to find out. Quite contrary to their intentions, his friends had helped him to renew his determination to dig into Phoebe's past until he found some answers. If he could accomplish nothing more, he at least wanted to help her to come to grips with that tragedy.

He wished he could find a way to prevent Phoebe from having anything more to do with Brodfield. His friends had reported rumors that the man had held “orgies” at his property outside of London. If Brodfield did own property outside of London, why was he so insistent on having the estate his father had left to Phoebe?

They had also mentioned his absence from his regiment, the same problem Sir Henry Torrens had mentioned. Devenham knew now that he wanted to learn not only how often Richard had been absent, but when. Finding out could prove to be a bit challenging. He would need to visit the Horse Guards again, and another consultation with Sir Charles Mortimer might prove helpful.

The evening was particularly fine, the night air cool but soft like the breath of a woman. Devenham walked along the pavements through alternating patterns of shadow and pools of lamplight, disrupted by increasing numbers of passing carriage lamps as the hour grew late. He wandered the streets for a little while longer before turning his steps toward the Clarendon.

He had kissed Phoebe twice now, and her response to him was undeniable. He had felt it clearly the first time, but the second time it had been even sweeter and far more intense, albeit brief. If only she would trust him, confide in him! If only she would share her pain. He wanted her so much it hurt, but he wanted all of her—heart, soul, mind, and body. If the pain he sensed in her was so much a part of her, then he wanted that, too.

When he finally returned to his rooms at the hotel, he was astonished to discover that Phoebe had sent a note to him quite late in the day. He literally snatched the message out of Mullins's hands in his eagerness to read it, and found a request for him to call on her at Wigmore Street at his earliest convenience.

“Blast and confound it,” he said, looking at the clock. “It is far too late to send a reply. I wish now I had come back sooner. I shall simply take her at her word. If my earliest convenience tomorrow is too early, I shall simply wait upon her.”

He sat down in the nearest chair, feeling quite suddenly the combined effects of both the quantity of wine he had drunk with his friends and the exertion of his evening walk. He looked helplessly at Mullins, who came over and began to help him out of his coat without further prompting and without comment.

***

Phoebe had herself received a most astonishing note that afternoon. According to Maddocks it had not come by the regular post, but had been brought to the door by a ragged boy who could not so much as say who sent it, but who stubbornly refused to depart until he'd been given a coin for his trouble.

From habit, Phoebe took the letter and headed toward the garden, thinking she would sit in the shade under the hawthorn tree to read the message. She stopped at the door. For the past two days she had not been able to bring herself to go into the garden. It was quite as if Richard had poisoned it. Instead, she turned back and retreated up the stairs to her room on the second floor.

The note was small, written by some parsimonious person on only a portion of a sheet of foolscap. That its author was a woman was quite clear from the handwriting, a schoolgirlish script that lacked style but appeared both laborious and careful.

Intrigued and mystified, Phoebe unfolded the paper and read:

“Dear Madame, What I have to tell you cannot be explained in a brief note. I have reason to believe that your husband is still alive. If you would know more, please to meet me at St. James's Church tomorrow at the hour of three. You do not know me, but I knew your husband well. I believe we may help each other.”

It was signed “Mademoiselle Jeanette Gimard.”

Phoebe dropped the letter onto her dressing table quickly, as if it singed her fingers. She blinked in shock and surprise. Then, as she began to feel the old tingling numbness spread through her shaking limbs to overtake her body, she closed her eyes and willed herself not to give in to it.

Think
, she told herself,
do not feel. Focus on what you know in your mind.

She knew very well that Stephen was not alive. She had identified his bloodstained body herself. The horrifying image haunted her worst nightmares. Was the note intended as a cruel jest? No, she did not think so. There was a simple sincerity about the words that convinced her the author believed what she had written. She picked up the letter and read it over again.

Who was Jeanette Gimard? The woman was obviously French. How had she known Stephen? Phoebe retracted the last question as soon as she thought it, for it was simply too naive not to assume the obvious. She had to have been one of Stephen's lovers. What could possibly have led her to think Stephen was still alive? And after all this time?

Phoebe stood up and began to walk in absent circles on the flowered carpet as she stared at the letter and thought. There was only one way to learn the answers to these questions, and that was to meet the woman. But she did not want anyone to know. How could she manage to do that?

She ran through various possibilities, coming up against obstacles built into each one. She could not ask Goldie or Mary Anne to go with her, for then surely Edward and Judith would find out. Also, someone might identify her by recognizing them. She thought she could disguise herself, ironically, by not wearing mourning dress. She must have something plain in a color that combined with a deep bonnet and perhaps a veil, would render her anonymous on the street. That did not solve the problem of getting from Wigmore Street to St. James's Church, however. And how would she get away from the house alone?

In the end, Phoebe had written the note to Devenham. He had said he stood ready to help her and had practically begged for her trust. Perhaps he would be willing to loan Mullins to her for a few hours, without knowing why.