The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (4 page)

As she foresaw, they arrived in Littleton in the late afternoon.

Phoebe sat forward and blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing. The town was full of men, all shapes, sizes, and stations.

An amazing number of conveyances, phaetons, gigs, and curricles, along with other more modest vehicles, lined the roads.

“Oh, no.” She sat back against the seat so as not to draw attention to herself. “I won’t be able to have my walk now.”

Rose stirred from her nap. “What is it, my lady?”

Sighing, Phoebe replied, “It appears we’ve arrived in the midst of some sort of sporting event or the other. There is no other reason I can think of for there to be so many men in Littleton. I’m happy I sent an express changing our dates.”

Rose shifted on the seat. “Even if you’d not, Mr. Ormsby would have made sure you got your chamber.”

Phoebe smiled. “You are right, of course. Mr. Ormsby and his wife are very good to us. I shall have Sam escort me in. I do not at all relish walking through this crowd of, um, gentlemen.”

The inn’s ostlers shouted, over the commotion of other arriving vehicles, to her coachman, directing him ahead of the other carriages attempting to gain access to the White Horse.

Phoebe’s conveyance drew to a stop in front of the large rambling white building. After her groom handed her down, Phoebe signaled for him to follow her into the building.

Mortified and very much aware of the proprieties, Phoebe looked straight ahead toward the open inn door.

A young buck stepped in front of her, leaned forward, and leered. Phoebe was tempted to punch him in the nose, but that would only cause the type of scene she was hoping to avoid. Mentally gritting her teeth, she raised one haughty brow and fixed him with a cold look of disdain.

He sketched a hasty bow and begged pardon, moving quickly out of her way.

Sweeping past him, then through the throng of men in the hall, she ignored anyone trying to catch her eye.

The innkeeper, Mr. Ormsby, a thin man, just over medium height with stooped shoulders, came forward to greet her.

Phoebe held out her hand to shake his. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ormsby. You seem to have quite a crowd to-day.”

Mr. Ormsby bowed and pulled his forelock before taking a couple of her fingers and shaking them. “Good afternoon, my lady. There’s a prize-fight in the area, and we’re full up, even the stables. But you’re not to worry. We have your usual accommodations.”

He lowered his voice. “I mislike this crowd of gentl’men, my lady. You might want to make sure you keep your room door locked up tight, and your maid on a trestle in with you.

“These gents may look harmless now, but once they get to drinking . . . Well, me and my missus want to make sure that you’re safe in our inn.”

Phoebe nodded. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Ormsby. You are correct. I shall forego my usual parlor if you will serve dinner and breakfast in my chamber.”

“It’s a right good idea, and will make my missus much happier.” Mr. Ormsby drew his bushy gray brows together. “For I have to tell you she’s been a mite worried about you a-comin’ with this crowd in town. I’ll have my son, Jamie, get your maid from the carriage, then he’ll take your lay’ship and Miss Fitchley to your room.”

Phoebe smiled grimly. The innkeeper’s arrangements were the best she could do. “Thank you, Mr. Ormsby.”

Once settled, Phoebe paced the large chamber. “What bad luck.” She glanced at Rose. “I hope you don’t mind sleeping on that trundle bed.”

Rose pulled the lace curtain aside and gazed out the window of their second story room. “I’ll make do, my lady. Look at that crowd. They’re setting up the tables outside for them.”

“Rose, please stand back so no one can see you.” Phoebe rubbed between her eyes. “We do not wish to encourage visitors at our door. At least half a dozen gentlemen—and ne’er-do-weels—must have seen where we are. Oh, this is so aggravating.”

Phoebe stopped pacing to consider the pugilist match responsible for the overcrowding. She really would have liked to see the bout. “I wonder who is fighting. It must be Figg or someone like that, to account for this many people. I do wish ladies were allowed to attend those types of events.”

“My lady.”

“I know I cannot.” Phoebe paced again. There were so many things ladies could not do—especially unmarried ladies—it was frustrating.

Mrs. Ormsby, a plump, cheerful matron of indeterminate age, knocked and called through the door. Phoebe opened it and greeted her.

The older woman’s face was flushed with pleasure and the crimped, graying curls under her mop cap bounced as she took one of Phoebe’s fingers.

“My lady, I’ve come to see about yer dinner. I have a nice clear soup, and a capon I’m roasting for ye. It’s garnished with a rosemary sauce, just as ye like it, removed with French beans and mushroom fritters. Cheese and fruit are for your dessert. Miss Fitchley”—Mrs. Ormsby turned to Rose—“we was looking forward to having ye dine with us. I can have one of my sons escort ye down, if it would suit ye.”

Rose glanced at Phoebe.

“You go have your dinner as you usually do,” Phoebe said. “Just because I am confined to the room doesn’t mean you need be. I shall go on tolerably well.”

Her maid smiled. “My lady, if you don’t mind, I’d rather remain here with you.”

Phoebe sighed softly. She didn’t want to ruin Rose’s fun, but was relieved she wouldn’t have to spend the evening by herself. “If you are sure that is what you want to do, I cannot say I will be unhappy for the company.”

Rose remained firm in her desire and Mrs. Ormsby bustled back out of the room.

By the time Phoebe washed and re-dressed, dinner had arrived. In addition to the dishes discussed, a bottle of good red wine had been sent.

The landlady returned after dinner. “Miss Fitchley, it was a good thing you decided to stay with her ladyship,” Mrs. Ormsby said, as she cleared the dishes. “I’ve all my sons servin’ outside, and in the tap as well. I won’t allow my girls out amongst those men. For gentlemen I will not call them, even if some of ’em be quality-like.”

Rose smiled sympathetically. “I don’t envy you, Mrs. Ormsby. I am quite happy to keep my lady company.”

Nodding, Phoebe said, “I quite agree with Rose—I don’t envy you at all. What a lot of noise they are making for us to be able to hear it up here.”

“If it was
only
noise, my lady, that I have to worry about,” Mrs. Ormsby said with an arch look, “but I won’t say more on that head. I shall wish ye a good night.”

Marcus Finley arrived at the White Horse Inn with his friend Robert, Viscount Beaumont, who had reserved rooms there. Marcus found chambers across the street at the Red Unicorn. They met later to dine in a private parlor Marcus hired.

“Quite good ordinary they have here.” Robert sat back in his chair, crossing one highly polished boot over the other. “The brandy is as good as any I’ve had. Must be French, though I don’t wish to know how the landlord came by it.”

Marcus grinned. “Yes, it’s very good and probably smuggled.”

Silence fell for a few moments, then Robert sat straight up in his chair. “Marcus, my boy, I saw the most beautiful gal I’ve ever seen in my life at the White Horse.”

Marcus lounged in his chair, lifting a brow in inquiry. Robert was known to be a favorite with the many disenchanted matrons of the
ton
.

“And where did you find this paragon of nature?” Marcus asked in a languid drawl. “In the tap?”

“No, no, my boy, not a game-pullet. Not at all. She was
a lady
.”

Marcus raised his quizzing glass and regarded his friend more closely. “Married?”

“No. Put that thing away, you know I don’t like it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with me.
She is a well-bred, unmarried lady
. Beautiful, I tell you. Tiny. Has a good figure, quite a neat ankle, and the most gorgeous gold-red hair. Perfect in every way.”

Marcus’s fingers tightened around his glass. Robert’s conquests were legend, but they didn’t extend to well-bred innocents. A terrifying thought began to fill Marcus’s mind. It couldn’t be Phoebe. She was at Cranbourne Place.

He fought to keep his face calm, his gaze focused on his friend. “Who is this lady, do you know?”

“Yes, got my groom to ask one of the ostlers. Stupid fellows, those ostlers, giving out that kind of information,” Lord Beaumont ruminated, definitely on the go. “Yes, now that I think on it, I believe I shall have a word with the landlord. The servants ought not be giving that sort of thing out.”

Marcus tapped his fingers on the table. “Her
name
, Robert?

“Her name?” Marcus repeated and waved an impatient hand to encourage his friend to continue.

“Oh, yes,” Robert finally said. “
Lady Phoebe Stanhope
. Heard of her of course. Never seen her before. Don’t, as a rule, attend those types of events. Not much for the Grand Strut you know. Must avoid the matchmaking mamas. M’grandmother’s been after me to marry. Lady Phoebe is a devilish good-looking gal. I may have to make a push.”

Marcus fumed. Lady Phoebe. His
Vision
. Friends or no, he would be damned if he’d let Robert anywhere near her.

Marcus poured another brandy and deliberately turned the conversation to the fight the next day. Shortly afterward, he realized that if he did not get Robert back to the White Horse, his chances of seeing the match would be slim.

Marcus summoned his groom, Covey. “I must help Beaumont to his chamber. Lady Phoebe Stanhope is here. Find out what the devil she’s doing in Littleton at a time like this.”

Frowning, Marcus added, “I cannot think of a more uncomfortable position for her to be in. She must be the only lady of quality here.”

Afterward, Marcus helped his friend across the street and up the stairs of the inn, to his room where he handed Robert to his valet.

“Henley, try to make sure that he’s in the taproom by eight o’-clock. I want a good place in which to watch the fight.”

The valet bowed. “Yes, my lord, I shall do my best.”

As Marcus turned to leave, someone began pounding on a door at the far end of the hall. From the almost unintelligible words of love coming from the young blood attempting to lay siege to the chamber, it appeared the young man was in his altitudes, and he’d found Phoebe. At least Marcus didn’t think the idiot would be reciting bad poetry to anyone else. Damn.

Much to his disgust, Marcus recognized something of his own prior behavior toward Phoebe in the drunken young man. With long strides, Marcus quickly covered the distance to her door. Taking the other man by his coat collar, Marcus picked him up, and shook him. Hard. In a low, fierce growl, he said, “You, my lad, are leaving with me now, and you will not return to bother this lady again. If you do, I shall take great delight in breaking every bone in your body.”

Through the fellow’s alcoholic haze, he tried to focus on his tormentor. Marcus received a grim satisfaction at the fear in the blood’s eyes. Marcus slowly lowered the younger man until his feet touched the floor, then Marcus guided the buck down the hall to the stairs and out the front door, handing him over to one of the ostlers still on duty.

Marcus scowled. “Take this fool, and do not allow him back in the inn.”

The ostler eyed Marcus cautiously. “But, my lord, he’s stayin’ here.”

He fixed the ostler with a cold, hard glare. “I don’t give a damn where he is staying. He was bothering a female guest.
You
will not allow him back in the inn, or you’ll answer to me.”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll put him in the barn.”

As the ostler started off, Marcus asked, “Where’s the landlord?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

Marcus scowled as the ostler hurried off with his charge. When his groom, Covey, called out, Marcus glanced over.

“What did you discover?” he asked curtly.

“Seems as if it were just bad luck, my lord, her la’ship being on her way to London. Stays here a lot she does. She was supposed to have arrived next week but came early.”

“Did her servants tell you anything?”

“Close as clams. Don’t tell no one nothin’. Got the information from one of the ostlers. She’s travelin’ with a groom, coachman, and maid.”

“Those damn ostlers talk too much,” Marcus responded savagely, striding back to the inn and to the hall outside of Phoebe’s chamber. If the innkeeper couldn’t protect her, he would.

Phoebe had remained calm, her small Manton-made pistol in hand, and had listened as a man with a deep, very definitely cultured voice with a strong note of command, firmly ordered the male beating on her door to stop and leave. She thought she had heard something about breaking bones and grinned at the remembrance. His threat must have worked.

The pounding had stopped immediately. Then two pairs of feet, one firm with a long stride, the other stumbling, made their way down the hall to the stairs. After a long silence, Phoebe sighed with relief, then whispered to Rose, “I believe we’ve been saved, but I wonder by whom?”

“I don’t know, my lady, but I’m glad someone did.”

Rose returned to her cot, and moments later Phoebe heard soft breathing.
How did Rose drop off to sleep like that?