Under An English Moon (2 page)

“Hold there, fellow,” he said as he slid off the horse’s back. He ran a hand down Sebastian’s leg, and the horse shied away at his touch.

“Have a care there, old boy,” Reggie soothed. “It seems you have sprained your leg, Sebastian. It is my fault. I should have taken more care.” He patted the horse’s neck and looked around. What Sebastian needed was a proper poultice on his leg, a task Reggie could entrust only to Gerry.

With a sigh, he turned the horse around. “Let us return home then, Sebastian. Gerry will tend to your leg, and I will attempt to tend to my father—though I may well be sleeping in the stable with you this night if Father has anything to say in the matter.”

As Reggie led the horse back down the road toward home, he looked up at the moon once more.

“I am going to America, Lady Moon. Nothing will stop me. I feel my destiny awaits me there...whoever she may be.”

As if in answer, the moon shimmered overhead, casting a radiant glow around him. Reggie, staring at the brilliant sight, mistepped and tripped in one of the ruts. He felt himself falling.

Chapter One

Phoebe Warner left the large office building on East 53rd Street which housed her employer, Sinclair Publishing, and strolled down the street toward her apartment only a few blocks away. She had worked late that night, and the moon was high in the sky, surprisingly visible between the tall skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. She eyed it with appreciation—bright, white, the perfect sphere of a full moon. The apartment she rented at an outrageously low price from her wealthy, jet-setting cousin, Annie, didn’t have a balcony, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to see it from the apartment. It seemed too perfect to waste. She wondered if she should snag a cup of something warm at a local sidewalk cafe just so she could enjoy the rare sight of the moon.

Phoebe thought not. It was late. All she wanted at the end of a long hectic day at work was to take a warm bath, turn the television onto the twenty-four-hour Romantic Movies Channel, and savor a soothing glass of wine. If one of the movies was based on the novels of her favorite author, I.C. Moon, so much the better, she thought with a grin.

Sadly, Hollywood didn’t use I.C. Moon’s books for films anymore. The five books that had been turned into movies were done in the early sixties in black and white, and the Romantic Movies Channel showed them sporadically. She heartily wished someone would do a remake of any of the movies, just to see how they might look in color, or what current actors they might choose for the parts. Which up and coming British actors would they choose for the dashing heroes and heroines? She recalled that some of I.C. Moon’s heroines were American though.

Phoebe had fallen in love with I.C. Moon’s work a year ago when she’d landed a dream job at a publishing house in New York. Her job as copy editor at Sinclair Publishing was often exciting and demanding, occasionally tedious, but always rewarding, and she had worked on the re-release of several of I.C. Moon’s books over the past year for the current market of readers of classic romances. At some point along the way, she’d fallen in love with the idea of England, of the Georgian and Regency eras, of old-fashioned courtship and romance. She hoped to visit England one day—to see I.C. Moon’s English countryside. Someday...when she had enough money saved.

Phoebe reached the door of her building in fifteen minutes and greeted the doorman. Oh, to be rich like Cousin Annie! Nothing in her hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska, had ever prepared her for a doorman.

“How was your day, Tim?” she asked the short, stocky man dressed in a gray suit who faithfully manned the door five days of the week. In the year that she’d been living in her cousin’s apartment, she’d only seen him take Christmas Day off and the weekends. The night doormen alternated, but Tim was always there.

“Good, Miss Warner. How about yours?” He held the door open for her.

“Long, but good.” Phoebe smiled and moved toward the mailboxes.

“Have a nice evening, Miss Warner,” Tim called out as he let the door close.

“Thanks, Tim,” she said over her shoulder. She opened her mailbox to find it empty. Nothing new there. The mail consisted of either bills or nothing.

The elevator around the corner from the mailboxes took its sweet time arriving as usual, and Phoebe climbed aboard and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor. The image of the moon still lingered with her, and she wondered again if she would be able to see it from Annie’s living room window. Maybe.

The elevator was no quicker going up than it had been coming down, and Phoebe rolled her eyes impatiently as the numbers above the door showed the elevator’s slow progress. She finally reached her floor and headed down the ruby red-carpeted hallway to the end unit.

Inside, she dropped her oversize bag holding her gym clothes down onto the console table just inside the doorway, and she crossed the large living room to pull back the curtains and look out.

There it was! The moon—round, glowing, proudly preening high in the sky. Phoebe wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t remembered having a view of a full moon from the window before now. Of course, the taller buildings across the street blocked much of the sky. Was the moon in a particularly unusual position that night?

What she wouldn’t give for a telescope. Binoculars! Phoebe trotted across the dark living room to her bedroom, stubbing her foot on the coffee table along the way. Cursing and flipping on the lights, she limped to her closet and rummaged around on the top shelf for her small binoculars, used only two times for Broadway shows.

She returned to the living room, switching the lights off along the way so she could see the moon better. The binoculars, though not strong, magnified some of the moon’s craters, and she perched on the windowsill and studied them for a while. Hardly an astronomer, she had no idea which shapes were the “seas” one heard of, but that didn’t matter. She considered herself fortunate to be able to see anything on the moon beyond the naked eye. Surely I.C. Moon had never had the privilege of seeing the moon so close for all that she wrote so many books featuring moons...and charming Georgian men. Phoebe sighed. What she wouldn’t give to find a Georgian-era man of her own.

Which reminded her—a warm bath, television, and hopefully a black and white I.C. Moon movie was what she wanted. Leaving the curtains open to allow moonlight to shine into the living room, she set the binoculars down on the sill and turned away from the window to head for her bedroom and bath.

“What the—!” Phoebe cursed as she stubbed her toe again, this time on something much softer but larger than the coffee table. She hopped around in pain and regained her balance before peering down to see a large shape lying on the white carpet. It muttered and attempted to rise. A man!

Phoebe screeched and jumped out of his way to run for the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She locked it and waited, holding her breath. A quick scan of her room reminded her that she’d left her bag—with cell phone—by the front door. No help.

“What the deuce!” she heard the man say. “Where am I?”

Phoebe said nothing but pressed her ear to the door.

“Madam! Madam!” he called out. “Are you there? I cannot see. Where am I?”

His voice was unexpectedly appealing, deep and resonant, the accent British. British? A British intruder in her apartment? Didn’t he have apartments in his own country to break into?

“Madam, please assist me. I mean you no harm. I saw only a glimpse of you as you ran past, but I know you are in there...behind that door.”

His voice seemed to come closer, and Phoebe backed away from the door. She heard a thump, and he let out a curse.

“Oooff! What is this infernal piece of furniture? Madam, I have injured myself on this table of yours. If you do not wish to assist me, could you at least direct me to a candle so that I may see more clearly? Or perhaps the door? I promise you, Madam, I am as worried about my presence here as you are.”

Phoebe almost laughed, but she suspected it would quickly turn into hysteria if she let it out. Was he serious with that accent? And the formal dialogue? He could be straight out of one of her favorite I.C. Moon books.

She gasped at the sound of his voice just on the other side of the door.

“Madam, my name is Reginald Hamilton. I am the eldest son of the Earl of Hamilton. I truly mean you no harm. Truly. Please at least tell me where I am.”

“You’re in my apartment, that’s where you are, buddy,” Phoebe barked. “I have a bat and, if you try to come through that door, I’ll bash you with it.” Phoebe promised herself that if she got out of this, she would get a bat.

“I assure you, Madam, I have no intention of bursting through your doorway.”

He sounded insulted. Phoebe touched the doorknob. What was he doing here? What did he want?

“Are you a friend of my cousin, Annie Warner?” Phoebe asked. If he hadn’t broken in, that could be the only explanation. In the first month of her stay in the apartment, a strange woman had let herself in with a key Annie had given her. They had scared each other half to death with their mutual surprise, and a quick call to Annie in Cannes had cleared the matter up. It did seem though as if her cousin might have handed out more than one key. Phoebe had promised herself at the time to have the place rekeyed, but she hadn’t had any trouble since.

“Annie Warner? No, I am not acquainted with this person. Your accent, Madam, it sounds...American. Are you American?”

Phoebe heard a strange note in his voice that she couldn’t interpret. Excitement?

“Well, of course, I’m American. You’re not though.”

“No, I am English.”

Yes, he was, Phoebe thought, a twinge of excitement working its way up her spine. An Englishman with a delightful accent. She wondered if he looked as handsome as he sounded. Phoebe caught herself on the edge of opening the door to find out. She gave herself a stern shake and deepened her voice.

“So, what are you doing in my apartment?” she demanded.

“I have no earthly idea, Madam. I remember walking my horse, Sebastian, toward home in the dark, and stumbling on a rut in the road. I have no idea where Sebastian is at the moment.”

“Well, I hope he’s not here. I doubt he’d fit in the elevator.” Phoebe stifled a hysterical giggle. “And exactly where were you when you lost Sebastian?”

“El-e-vator?” he repeated. “I was only a mile from my father’s estate, Hamilton Place, in Bedfordshire.”

Phoebe swallowed hard. Did he mean England? Because she was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a town in nearby Massachusetts. Was he delusional? When, and if she finally opened the door, would she find a man in a red suit and cape, or a crown and an ermine-lined coat?

Phoebe couldn’t resist. She had to know what he looked like. Her instincts told her she was in no danger. He
sounded
harmless. She opened the door a crack and peeked out.

Reginald jumped back as if he expected
her
to attack
him.
He rubbed a hand across his eyes and peered at her in the darkness.

“Miss...?”

“Phoebe Warner.” She spoke through the partially closed door.

“Miss Warner! At last! Please be so good as to direct me to the door leading out of your apartments. I must find Sebastian.”

Phoebe reached around the doorframe with a tentative hand and flicked the light switch on. Several lamps lit the room with a soft romantic glow. Cousin Annie delighted in ambience, if nothing else. No overhead garish lights for her.

Reginald blinked and stared at her.

Phoebe stared back.

“What on earth are you wearing?” she asked. She pushed the door open wider. No, not a red-caped outfit. He wore a historical costume in keeping with his formal speech and English accent.

Reginald blinked before his eyes traveled the length of her body.

“Good gad!” he said before turning his back to her. “I fear I have caught you
en dishabille
, Madam...Miss! Please forgive me.”

Phoebe looked down at her suit skirt and low-slung pumps.

“Ummm...I’m fully dressed, Reginald.” Now she
knew
he wasn’t about to attack her. The back of his neck below thick dark hair was decidedly red. “You can turn around.”

He glanced over his shoulder, dropped his eyes to her legs, and turned slowly. Phoebe noted he averted his gaze as if with effort and kept it on her face.

He bowed at the waist, his gesture catching her by surprise.

“Reginald Hamilton at your service, Miss Warner.”

“So you said,” Phoebe said in bemusement at the gallant, if old-fashioned gesture. She guessed his height at about six feet tall. Broad shoulders supported his greatcoat well. A high-necked silver waistcoat framed his firm jaw line, and a bright white cravat was knotted at his neck. His beige pantaloons suggested long, lean, muscled legs, and his highly polished Hessian boots showed dust around the soles as if he had indeed been riding.

That she knew the terms for his style of clothing was due in large part to the writings of I.C. Moon. The strange man in her living room wore clothes from the Regency or late Georgian era.

His clothing, although delightfully unusual, could not distract her from his handsome face. Thick wavy, almost black hair and long sideburns framed a lean clean-shaven face notable for dark eyebrows over slate blue eyes. He looked to be in his early twenties, close to her age.

“The door, Miss Warner?”

Phoebe blinked. “The door?”

“Yes, if you would be so kind as to show me to the exit? I do not know how I came to be in your apartments, and I apologize. Now, where did I drop my hat?” He turned to study the floor. “Ah! There it is.”

Phoebe wasn’t sure her eyes could get any rounder as she watched him pop a top hat onto his head.

“Where did you come from?” she breathed.

“Bedfordshire?”

“As in England?”

He inclined his head. “Yes, of course, England.”

Phoebe took a deep breath to try to defog her brain, to bring herself back to reality. Or maybe it was Reginald who needed to be brought back to earth.