Friends and Foes (13 page)

Catherine offered an obligatory smile at the pun. Her gaze, however, returned to Sorrel, and Catherine looked concerned. Philip’s attention returned to his seat partner, as well, pale but peaceful in her sleep.

She really is beautiful,
he admitted to himself yet again.

“It is a shame she dislikes you so much.” Crispin seemed to grow contemplative.

There was no safe answer to that statement.

“Sorrel does not dislike Philip, at all,” Catherine said.

Philip begged to differ. So did Crispin, which wasn’t encouraging in the least. There were many evidences of Sorrel’s feelings. Crispin took it upon himself to list them. After five or six examples, Catherine stopped him.

“She does
not
dislike him.”

“Have you been listening to anything I have just said?” Crispin replied a bit critically.

Catherine’s lips pressed together, and her face blanched slightly. Feeling decidedly out of his element, Philip looked away from the suddenly tense couple and found himself watching Sorrel instead. She seemed to be shivering. Philip pulled her blanket more snugly around her. The movement pulled her partly from her slumber, and those sleepy black eyes gazed up at him.

Lud, he hoped she really didn’t dislike him.

“How are you feeling?” Philip whispered.

Sorrel didn’t answer beyond a feeble smile, her eyes slowly closing again. Her head bobbed once before resting against his shoulder. The faint scent of limes wafted through the air. Philip quite suddenly hoped the journey to Kinnley took longer than anticipated. A true dandy would have objected to the crease that Sorrel’s head would leave on his jacket sleeve. Philip didn’t give a fig about wrinkles.

“For mortal enemies, you two are terribly cozy,” Crispin said with a raise of his eyebrow.

Philip bit back a laugh. “Only because she is asleep,” he said. “And unless you want to spend Christmas fussing over my funeral, I suggest you not mention
this
”—he motioned with his head toward Sorrel—“to my ‘mortal enemy.’”

Catherine looked between Philip and Sorrel then back at her husband, and with the slightest exasperated shake of her head, she looked away from them.

“Please don’t be angry with me, my love.” Crispin reached for Catherine’s hand but was denied.

Philip silently encouraged his friend—interfering would mean moving, and, quite frankly, Philip had no intention of so much as shifting his weight.
Limes,
he thought with a smile.

“You know I am a bit of an idiot at times.” Obviously Crispin had experience apologizing. “You can always throw me in the lake when we get home.”

“Or poison your tea,” Catherine answered, as though that were the most logical conclusion in the world.

“Hmm . . .” Crispin looked ponderous. “The tea.” He nodded for emphasis. “It is too cold for the lake.”

Catherine turned her face back toward Crispin and studied him a moment. Crispin appeared the very embodiment of contrition. Philip barely managed to hold back a laugh. Catherine exhibited no such self-control.

“I never can stay mad at you, Crispin.”

“Something I am grateful for daily.”

The journey continued silently after the reconciliation. Crispin and Catherine sat snugly near one another, his arm draped affectionately across her shoulders as she leaned securely against his side. The two could have posed for a portrait—they made such an idyllic scene.

Philip himself sat beside a stunning, dark-haired beauty and didn’t dare move lest she awaken and beat him senseless for being within touching distance.
It is a shame she dislikes you so much.

Yes. A deuced shame.

Waking up with her head resting quite intimately on Philip Jonquil’s shoulder was not an entirely unpleasant occurrence, which worried Sorrel greatly. Perhaps her repeated fevers were beginning to affect her brain. The way her wits went begging when he smiled at her as she awoke disturbed her more than anything. What was the matter with her?

“I guess I fell asleep,” Sorrel said lamely, for some reason not yet lifting her head from its rather comfortable position.

“You have been asleep for more than an hour,” he replied quietly. “And I am happy to inform you that you do not snore.”

“That is a relieving thing to hear.” Sorrel couldn’t help a chuckle.

“Crispin, on the other hand . . .”

Philip’s words pulled Sorrel’s eyes away from his handsome profile and across the carriage to Crispin and Catherine. The couple slept quite unabashedly in a cozy embrace, her head fitted snugly beneath his shoulder, his arms wrapped possessively around her, the carriage blanket covering them both.

Just as Sorrel silently declared the scene alarmingly perfect, a nasalized buzzing filled the vehicle’s interior. Her eyes widened, then her lips twitched, followed by a laugh bubbling dangerously near the surface. She looked up at Philip, and all self-control dissipated. His laughter quickly joined hers. Neither Catherine nor Crispin stirred.

“Poor Catherine.” Sorrel chuckled. “How does she put up with it, I wonder.”

“That is simple enough, Sorrel.”

She turned her eyes back to him, looking up into his face. “Is it?”

He nodded, his gaze resting on her. “She loves him.”

Sorrel couldn’t look away. This man, who could anger her like no one else she knew, held her spellbound as the carriage flew smoothly over what must have been extremely rough road.
She loves him.
He’d spoken with so much authority and conviction and . . . something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Wistfulness, perhaps? Or longing?

Philip, it seemed, believed firmly in love. Sorrel distrusted the entire emotion. Her parents had never cared for one another, let alone shared any more tender feelings. She had no experience with love.

“How can you tell she loves him?” Sorrel regretted her question almost immediately. If ever she were in a more vulnerable situation, she couldn’t recall it. She’d left herself entirely exposed to this man who thought of her as his enemy.

She expected a stinging reply. A set down. Laughter. Something. Philip answered with silence and a look of intensity she found unsettling.

“I suppose there is no guaranteed way of knowing one person’s feelings for another.” Philip’s gaze never faltered. Sorrel’s breathing grew more labored. “Instinct, I suppose.”

“You have an instinct for ascertaining a person’s feelings?” Would he mind explaining hers? Sorrel couldn’t make heads nor tails of the sensations tying her in internal knots.

“Generally I am quite good at it.”

“Generally?” Was it her imagination or had Philip moved closer to her? Was that even possible? She sat inches from him as it was.

“Lately I seem to be . . .” he had definitely moved his head closer “. . . losing my touch.”

“Are you surrounded by so many mysteries, then?” He was so close her breath fluttered the golden hair falling across his forehead.

“I . . .” His eyes flickered across her face, as if he were searching for something, a look almost of confusion marring his handsome features. “Sorrel . . . I . . .”

A sudden snort made Sorrel jump.

Across the carriage Catherine whispered, obviously half-asleep yet, “You are snoring again, darling.”

Crispin answered by shifting his position, without awakening nor releasing his wife, and he promptly settled back in.

Sorrel turned her gaze back to Philip, wondering how he interpreted the cozy scene playing out across from them. He, however, had not looked away from
her
. She felt terribly conspicuous under his scrutiny.

“Are you truly growing ill again?” he asked with a quiet determination, pushing her back from him enough to make a visual assessment of her.

Sorrel opened her mouth to deny the charges, but the lie died on her lips. She shrugged then nodded. “I was a little achy this morning.”

“Why in heaven’s name did you make this trip if you are not well?”

“I had to,” she insisted. “It was of utmost importance.”

“Surely whoever you were shopping for would far prefer to see you well than to receive whatever present you went in pursuit of.”

“I did not buy anything, Philip,” Sorrel said. It was the perfect opening to talk with him about Dr. Darrow and the operation. “I went to . . . to see someone.”

Philip seemed to stiffen at her explanation. “Really?” His tone grew suddenly quite cold. “A . . . friend?”

Sorrel shook her head, confused by his displeased expression. “Someone with whom I have been . . . corresponding.”

He seemed to scrutinize her. “Was your ‘correspondent’ all you hoped he”—that word seemed to come out as a question—“would be?”

Dr. Darrow hadn’t precisely been brimming with good news, but the visit hadn’t been an entire waste. He’d offered her hope, something she’d been sorely short of the past two years. “Yes, I suppose he was.”

“A gentleman, then?”

“No.” Sorrel wondered at the question. Dr. Darrow was a surgeon, not a gentleman, per se, but respectable just the same. This conversation was not going the way she would have expected.

“Was the visit worth the risk?” Philip shifted his gaze to the growing darkness outside, a sudden distance between them that was not entirely physical.

“I am not sure yet.” Why did Sorrel get the impression they were not both having the same conversation?

“Yet?” He snapped his head back to regard her in amazement. “You plan to continue this . . .
correspondence?
”

“Certainly.” Why shouldn’t she? If Dr. MacAslon could help her, Dr. Darrow would be the surest way to secure his services.

“
Certainly
.” Philip’s jaw seemed to tighten as he turned away again. “Your family will object, you know.”

“They probably will,” Sorrel conceded. Mother would object to the inconvenience. Marjie would object to the pain. Fennel would object to the risk. She’d simply have to find a way to convince them.

“But you plan to persist?”

“As far as I can see, it is the only option I have.”

“Blast it, Sorrel. I took you for an intelligent woman, not a fool.”

“You think it rash of me to grasp at what few straws I have left? A person has to have hope.”

“Hope, yes. But not desperation!”

His words cut her to the core. “I did not think it so farfetched as all that,” she muttered, beginning to feel the cold of winter seeping into her bones once again.

“It is utter nonsense.” Philip crossed his arms against his chest, his jaw set in determination.

So he thought her a fool, too? He certainly wasn’t the first. She doubted he’d be the last. Still, his thorough thrashing of a strategy she had been quite seriously considering pursuing hurt horribly.

Philip had been one of the few people she’d encountered since her “unfortunate incident” who took her seriously, who saw past the broken bones and deformities. But he found her daft just like so many others. How could she possibly hope to convince her family to go ahead with a somewhat risky surgery if the one man she’d thought might stand as her ally found her plan so ridiculous?

Sorrel tucked herself into the corner of the carriage and closed her eyes. Perhaps the idea of trying to fix what remained of her had been daft, after all. She ought to simply accept what she had become and resign herself to the pain.

The sights and sounds of her childhood flooded over her with alarming speed and clarity as she sat silently. She truly was falling ill again. Only in her fevers did she relive a time of life she’d much rather forget. She could see Fennel’s downcast expression, hear her father’s harsh words of criticism directed at her, feel the pain his words had inevitably inflicted. At one time, she’d looked to him, hoped he’d prove an ally. That hadn’t worked out either.

Her trip to Ipswich, it seemed, had been for naught. She’d accomplished little but sore joints, a faster onset of symptoms, a less-than-promising interview with Dr. Darrow. Follow those insignificant experiences with a spirit-dampening conversation with a gentleman who had the unnerving ability to break down her carefully erected defenses, and Sorrel had to admit to herself that the entire trip had proven little better than worthless.

Life was slowly draining every ounce of hope she had.

*   *   *

So, General Sorrel had a “correspondent” in Ipswich, did she? Philip paced the length of the library one more time. That didn’t bother him, he silently declared. Hadn’t even crossed his mind since they’d returned to Kinnley late that afternoon. Hadn’t entered his thoughts in the two hours since dinner. Not at all. He rapped his knuckles on the oak writing desk as he passed.

She’d gone to see this bounder despite his not being a gentleman, despite knowing her family would object. Sorrel was intelligent, fiery, independent. Why the devil would a woman like that settle for some low-class lout!

“Ol’ Rob might not have had much for us, Philip, but there’s no call for getting furious about it.”

Philip had almost forgotten Garner’s presence in the room. “I am not furious.”

“I have never seen you so discomposed,” Garner said. “The Foreign Office won’t expect miracles. There is no possible way to know when or where Le Fontaine’s next exchange will take place. We simply cannot do it.”

Philip grumbled an incoherent reply
he
didn’t even listen to. His thoughts were too full of Sorrel, of the picture she’d made leaning against his arm, too full of the idea of her arranging a clandestine meeting with some profligate who certainly didn’t deserve her. If ever a dandy wanted to plant someone a facer, it was then, and he didn’t even know
whom
he wanted to knock down.

“Unless some new information surfaces, I am afraid Le Fontaine has slipped from our grasp again.” Garner sounded almost relieved at his own declaration.

For Philip, the thought of the dirty spy getting away yet again simply added to his list of grievances. He’d all but decided that Le Fontaine would be his last case. He needed to reclaim his life, to hand the reins over to someone with more enthusiasm.

He’d only begun this work with the Foreign Office as a means of helping bring an end to the war he had feared would cost him his brother. With Stanley home safe, if not entirely sound, and more than half a decade of thankless risk-taking under his belt, Philip wanted to be finished. He
needed
to be finished. Le Fontaine, it seemed, didn’t intend to let him.

“Lizzie has invited me to stay through Christmas,” Garner said, breaking into Philip’s thoughts. “I think I might take her up on the offer. In fact, I think I’ll go tell her so now.” Garner rose from his seat and left the room.

Philip nodded mutely and wandered to the library window. Why did his thoughts seem to fly of their own volition to Sorrel? He wondered how she fared after their journey from Ipswich. She should never have undertaken the journey to begin with. Had she grown ill? Philip rubbed his face. It would never do to dwell on her.

As if to mock his determination to turn his thoughts, the library door opened, and the lady herself stepped inside. Philip cursed his blasted high shirt points—he’d had to turn his entire body to see who had entered.

“Oh,” Sorrel said, obviously startled by Philip’s presence. “I am not intruding, am I?”

Philip simply said no then turned back toward the window without another word. A moment of awkward silence passed in which Philip felt sorely tempted to turn back around. Just as the temptation proved almost too great to ignore, he heard the swish of her skirts and the thump of her walking stick as she stepped inside. Her gait sounded more uneven, slower than usual. The thought that she might be in pain sat uncomfortably in the back of his mind. So did the knowledge of her unworthy “correspondent.”

He didn’t turn around.

Every few moments he heard her move. What was she doing? A strange rustling preceded another period of silence. Philip forced his mind to focus on the black night outside. No stars were visible—the sky must be cloudy. Perhaps it would rain more overnight. Or snow.

There. Nearly a minute without a single thought of Sorrel. He was every bit as impartial to her as he’d always claimed. Philip shook his head at his own insistence. A minute of forced reflection on Suffolk’s changeable weather hardly established his disinterestedness.

Not that he needed proof. Sorrel Kendrick was a casual acquaintance against whom he was waging a war. Nothing more. Nothing less. He was entirely impartial. Unaffected. Unconcerned.

“Philip?”

Perhaps not entirely unaffected. The quiet pleading way Sorrel uttered his name made his heart clench in an almost ridiculous way. But, he told himself quite severely,
she
would never know how much she’d cut into his peace.

Assuming his most aloof expression, Philip turned back toward her. She sat quite ladylike on the floor of the library facing the bookshelves, her walking stick leaning against the shelves. She clutched a thin book in one hand with the other hand pressed against the bookshelves.

“Yes?” Philip asked with his haughtiest tone. Let Sorrel see his complete immunity to her.

Her dark eyes flitted to his, an almost nervous expression lurking in them. “I . . . uh . . . seem to have made a . . . miscalculation.” She stumbled over the words, her outstretched hand grasping for a moment at a shelf.

“Is that so?” Was she willing to admit the folly of continuing her connection in Ipswich? Finally acknowledge that he had far more in his brainbox than fluff? Philip looked forward to the admission.

“Yes. You see . . . I . . .” She looked deucedly uncomfortable. She’d be better off without her Ipswich beau, he hoped she realized. She’d made a wise decision. “I found the book I was looking for . . .”
Book?
“But, now I . . . I am having difficulty getting up.”