His Lady Midnight (3 page)

“Get out of here, m'lady, before they take it in their minds to give chase.” Pushing himself to his feet, he pulled a strip off the bottom of his shirt. He wrapped it around his leg. “They didn't get a good look at you, and—”

“Someone's back 'ere!” The bellow rang through the low ceiling of the stable.

Jasper pulled her out through the door and shoved her in one direction along the alley as he ran in the other, vanishing within a pair of steps into the fog. Phoebe wanted to call after him, but another shout from the stable sent her racing into the labyrinth of the riverside alleys.

Tonight had gone all wrong from the onset. First, she had not been able to find a way to sneak away from the duke's musicale. Everyone in attendance seemed determined to speak with her and ask her opinion of the evening's entertainment. That problem seemed like only an irritation now as she hurried through the foul passages between the houses. Shouts followed her, spurring her feet until a twinge in her side became a knot of pain.

She leaned back in the shadows and tried to listen for sounds of pursuit. Nothing, but she knew the fog could deaden noise and make it sound as if it were coming from a completely different direction. Holding her breath, she listened again. She heard shouts from within a house and the clatter of horseshoes on broken cobbles. Straining, she sought the hushed whisper of the river edging past the wharves. She needed to go in that direction, and she was not sure where exactly the river was. None of these alleys were straight.

As she pushed herself away from the filthy wall, she glanced back the way she had come.
Stay safe, Jasper
. It was a simple prayer, but it was the best she could do when she was so scared and her sides ached.

Quickly Phoebe discovered she was utterly lost. All hopes of finding her carriage were dashed when she emerged onto a street that was lit by a single lamp. A stench, almost as foul as the odor of the unwashed sailor, filled every breath. She peered at a sign hanging in front of a tavern, The Little Lost Lamb. She had never seen this place before. Looking both ways, she tried to decide which direction led to the river and which to Mayfair.

Had they been betrayed? Was that what Jasper had been about to say when they were forced to flee?

She trembled at the very thought. For five years, there had been rumors of her work. She had heard them herself among the
ton
, but she had acted no more interested in them than in the Prince Regent's latest peccadillo. She had hoped that would put an end to the speculation that the laws of England that transported people for inconsequential offenses to Botany Bay were being circumvented with the help of a member of the
ton
who could afford to pay bribes to buy silence.

Someone must have decided to offer even more gold to loosen a few tongues. She must think about what she would do next, but first she had to get back to Grosvenor Square and send someone to find out if Jasper was all right. Of one thing she was certain. He would never betray her to the authorities, for it had been his younger brother she had first saved from being transported.

Phoebe stared as she turned a corner, then smiled as she saw a bulky shape appear out of the wafting fog. A carriage! Was it hers? No, its wheels were painted a bright green that even the dim light could not disguise. It was a gentleman's carriage, built for speed. And it was just what she needed.

Not pausing to ease her curiosity about why a gentleman would be in this disgusting place at this hour, she kept to the shadows. She did not want the coachman to see her. The thought of leaving a gentleman here while she borrowed his carriage to get back to Grosvenor Square bothered her, but she would find a way to apologize. No doubt, the gentleman would be so glad to avoid speaking of being down here by the Thames that he would forgive her if she said nothing of where she had found the carriage.

When she was sure the coachman could not see her, she threw open the door and climbed in. Hitting the side of the carriage with the flat of her hand, she gripped the window as the coachman whipped up the horses. She had no idea where they might be heading, but, for the moment, that did not matter. All she cared about was betwattling her pursuers and returning to the duke's musicale before anyone noticed she was no longer among the guests.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the seat.
Stay safe, Jasper
. The plea repeated itself over and over through her head. He had risked his life to protect her, and she hoped that, even now, he had found his way to her carriage and Sam was taking him to Grosvenor Square where Jasper's wound could be tended. Mayhap she should go there herself. No, she needed to return to the duke's gathering so, if questions arose, she could honestly say she had been in attendance for most of the night.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me where we are bound?”

As the voice emerged from the other side of the carriage, Phoebe grasped the edge of the seat. She turned and stared at the shadows, which moved and became a man's silhouette that was as dark and mysterious as his voice.

A voice that was familiar, but whose was it? She hoped it was someone she could trust. Yet whom could she trust now? The authorities might be seeking her, if those sailors had been sent there by the government to trap her. She could not jump to conclusions. Too much was unknown. She must not panic. She must not.

“Do you have no answer for me, my lady?”

Although she still could not guess who might be sitting beside her, his features lost in the night, she said, “Forgive me. I had no idea anyone else—that is—”

“I understand, Lady Phoebe.”

“Do you?” She wondered how she had betrayed her identity when she could not guess his. Then she guessed he had seen her illuminated by some faint light when she entered the carriage. Next time, she must be more careful. Oh, she hoped there would never be another set of disasters like this night's.

“Of course.” He leaned toward her, and his face was lit by a streetlamp they passed.

Phoebe wanted to groan with despair. Lord Townsend! She should have guessed only a man of his ill repute would leave his carriage sitting in plain view on such a despicable street. Had he been waiting for someone? Heat climbed her face as she wondered if she had intruded on an assignation. She shook aside the thought. Galen Townsend's reputation was not pristine, but she had never heard his name connected with a Cyprian. That, in retrospect, was odd, but she had no time to consider that now.

When she did not answer, he went on, “Of course, I understand. You did not expect anyone to be a witness to your crime.”

“My crime?” The skills that had become instinct over the past five years kept her voice even and her hands from shaking. She had no idea how much he could discern in the darkness. She wished she could see more, so she might gauge his expression and decide how best to extract herself from this predicament.

“Of trying to abscond with my carriage.”

“Oh, that crime.”

Her relieved reply was a mistake, she realized, when he asked, “What other crime did you think I meant?”

Tonight she was prepared. She flipped open her fan and wafted it in front of her face, just in case he still could see more than she in the poor light. “Lord Townsend, do not hoax me now. I have had an evening I wish never to repeat.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I believe I just said so.”

“And your word is always the truth?”

“I try always to be honest. Lying is not a habit one should embark on carelessly.”

“You are correct. One lie often leads to another.”

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. She must keep her voice even. “I agree.”

“I'm glad that we are in agreement on the most basic of matters. And I'm sure you'll agree as well that it's time we should spread a bit of light over this murky situation. I know I would appreciate being enlightened about several matters I find baffling.”

Phoebe blinked as Lord Townsend lit the lamp near the roof. Raising her hands to block the sudden burst of light, she wished he had warned her so she might have covered her eyes. Since she had left the duke's townhouse, her eyes had become accustomed to the foggy night.

“What the …?” He grasped her hands.

“My lord, what are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he tilted her hands toward him. She gasped as she looked down at them. Dried blood filled every crease of her palms.

Raising his gaze to hers, he said, “I think, my lady, it is time you told me all of the truth.”

Three

Galen had never seen a face as colorless as Lady Phoebe Brackenton's as she stared at the telltale stains on her hands. He could not begin to imagine why a lady, who should not be beyond the boundaries of the Polite World in Mayfair or Bloomsbury, had rushed into his carriage here by the Pool. And with blood on her hands like Lady Macbeth.

Not just on her hands, for a scarlet patch was drying to a dull brown on the front of her skirt. He frowned. Her cloak must have fallen open so that her gown had come in contact with the blood. But whose blood was it?

His first pinch of horror that the blood belonged to the lady herself had been wrong. She was unharmed. Frightened, yes, but that was understandable in light of the blood splattered on her. Now he wanted an explanation of why she had almost thrown herself into his carriage, interrupting yet another search for his wayward brother. His first inclination to turn the carriage about and continue looking for Carr had dissolved when he had seen Lady Phoebe's terror. She needed him more than his brother did, and being needed instead of being considered a pest was a pleasant change. The circumstances for Lady Phoebe were apparently not at all pleasant.

“My lady?”

She did not answer him even though he pushed aside his cape to put his hand on her shoulder.

“My lady?”

She continued to stare at her hands as if she had never seen them before.

“Lady Phoebe?” He put one finger beneath her chin and tipped it back, bringing her eyes up toward his.

She blinked, but did not speak.

“Phoebe?” he asked softly. “Tell me what happened to you.”

“I must not.” She tried to turn away, but he cupped her chin, keeping her looking at him. “Please, my lord. If you would take me to my house on Grosvenor Square, I would be grateful.”

“And you would be grateful if I were to say nothing of this.”

Her eyes brightened. “Would you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you telling me the truth of what happened to you.” When she started to protest, he put his finger to her lips. Her breath burst out in a gasp of amazement at his brazen action, and he let its softness sift along his skin before he added, “I was waiting for my brother when you commandeered this carriage. I need to know if he is in any danger.”

“I don't know anything about your brother's whereabouts.”

“How do I know if that is the truth?”

“I told you that I always try to be truthful.”

“Then I believe you need to try harder.”

“I have told you all I can.”

“Forgive me, Phoebe, but I don't believe that.” He reached up for the hatch in the roof. Throwing it open, he called to his coachee, “Take us back to the Little Lost Lamb, Alfred. I—”

“No!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “Don't take me back there. I beg you.”

He stared at her fear. It could not have been feigned, but he guessed her tranquility had been. She was afraid of what might be waiting for her back there. As he lifted her bloodstained hand off his sleeve, he guessed she had cause to be.

“Very well,” he said, resisting the yearning to relent when her wide eyes glittered with unshed tears. He raised his voice. “Take us home to Berkeley Square, Alfred.” He closed the hatch.

“But my home is on the east side of Grosvenor Square,” Phoebe whispered.

“I realize that. I realize as well that that fact may be known by the ones chasing you.”

Her face became ashen as she sagged against the seat. For a moment, he thought she might swoon. He hoped not, for he had neither
sal volatile
nor burned feathers to revive her. Then he perceived that his concerns were unfounded. Phoebe Brackenton might be scared out of half her wits, but even half of her wits was more than many people had.

“What makes you think anyone is chasing me?” she asked, her voice again studiously calm.

“You were in a ghastly hurry when you jumped into this carriage.”

“I was thankful that I had found a way to get back to Mayfair.”

“What happened to your carriage?”

She did not hesitate. “I lost it.”

“You lost it?” He laughed lowly. “Forgive me, but that is most amusing.”

Phoebe found nothing amusing about any of this. All she wanted was to get home and put this night behind her. In the morning after she was assured that Jasper had made good his escape and was safe, she would try to figure out how to make sense out of this jumble. Stopping her work was not an option, although she was unsure if Jasper or Sam would concur. There had been close calls before, but nothing like tonight.

If they had been betrayed … No, she could not think of that.

“It is very easy,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap, “to get turned about in the fog.”

“That is true.”

“I had thought the carriage was in one place, and it turned out not to be.”

“So you went looking for it?”

“Yes.”

“That seems a reasonable explanation.” He settled one booted foot on his opposite knee and relaxed against the seat. “However, I believe you are skirting the truth, Phoebe.”

“I don't recall granting you permission to use my given name.”

He wagged a finger in front of her. “You are changing the subject. If you wish to remonstrate with me, remember that I am playing your dashing hero tonight, rescuing you from whatever dragon is chasing you.” Resting his arm on the back of the seat, he smiled. “Unlike you, I find it easy to fall into bad habits, such as using your given name. Why don't you rectify my sin by using mine?”