His Lady Midnight

His Lady Midnight

A Regency Romance

Jo Ann Ferguson

For Bruce Todd

For more reasons than I could ever list

One

It was a night perfect for subterfuge. The moon was lost behind clouds, and the wind-driven rain blurred the few lights along the docks. By the wharves, the ships strained and creaked, eager to be on their way along the Thames and out to sea. Distant church bells sounded the hour as the poor huddling in the city's hovels tried to sleep while the
ton
gossiped and frolicked with flirtations through yet another early spring night.

The only thing missing, Lady Phoebe Brackenton decided, was one of London's notorious smoke-filled fogs. That was all to the good because the fog was seldom her ally on these nights when she was found where no one would guess she might be. Frightened people who were being given a second chance at the life they thought was forever lost could slip and hurt themselves on a mist-dampened wharf. They could become lost all too easily, she had learned, risking their lives and hers. And those who sought to halt her could sneak up on her before she even knew they were nearby.

A shadow crossed in front of her carriage. She no longer flinched each time someone came close. In the five years since she had embarked on what others would call madness and what she considered her obligation, she had learned that panic was her worst enemy. It threatened her more than the severe laws of England, which sent petty criminals, many who broke the law simply to provide food and shelter for their families, to the far side of the world to Botany Bay and the other penal colonies. Fear could betray her to the very judges who had no compassion for people who would be separated from their families for the rest of their lives, because few would be able to afford the passage home to England at the end of their sentence.

“All is ready, m'lady,” came the voice she had been waiting to hear.

She nodded, not correcting Jasper who knew better than to use her title here on the wharves. Again she ignored the fright taunting her. Even if a Charley chanced to hear, most of the night watchmen along the docks could be bribed if they were sober enough to take heed of her and her allies.

“How many tonight?” she asked as she pulled her ebony cloak more tightly around her. The Season had only begun, so the chill of winter still clung to the night here by the water.

“'E was able to get an even dozen out 'fore the cap'n took count of 'eads.” Jasper's pride swelled through his voice.

She smiled. Twelve was a lucky number. They could easily fit twelve people in the closed wagon waiting behind a stack of barrels only a few paces along the wharf. Finding a place for them to hide later might be a problem, but she had faced worse challenges since she had embarked on this dual life. It had begun the day she had learned about the fearsome fate of a young man from the church whose living belonged to her family. He had been caught poaching on a neighboring estate and had been sentenced to seven years' transportation to the Australian penal colonies. She had found a way to smuggle him off the ship bound for Australia and then obtained him a job far from the shire. There he would stay in exile for the seven years of his sentence, but he could return to his family at the end of the time.

“Thank you, Jasper,” she said, dropping two packets into his hand. One was for the ship's crewman who had risked his life to help. The other was Jasper's. He would arrange for the escaped convicts to be taken to sheep farms in Exmoor that were always looking for workers and never asked any questions. “Can you be back here in a fortnight? The
Trellis
is supposed to be sailing by then.”

“I shall be 'ere, m'lady.” He clamped his hand over his mouth and rushed away.

Phoebe hit the side of the carriage with the flat of her hand. It turned away from the river and rushed back toward Mayfair. Her coachee, Sam, had taken to this type of ruse with the same skill he brought to driving. If she had not had these excellent allies and her determination to help these people, she might have surrendered to her panic long ago.

She clasped her fingers, which were atremble. Whispering a prayer that, once again, they would escape detection, she took a deep breath, then another to slow her rapid heartbeat. To own the truth, she wished she could say tonight's excursion had been her last, but she knew that was not so. Until the laws of England were changed so the sentence reflected the breadth of the crime, she could not halt helping those who needed her.

Lights glittered into the carriage, and Phoebe smiled. They had returned to Mayfair where the dark was unwelcome. The countess's house was as bright as if a thousand stars had settled within its windows. A single footman stood on the walkway, for the guests had all arrived hours ago. Lady Beterley's soirees were as de rigueur as a night at Almack's for those who wished to be counted among the elite of the elite.

Shrugging off her ebony cloak, Phoebe smiled when the footman opened the carriage door. She accepted his hand as he helped her to the walkway and nodded when he asked her if the fresh air had helped settle her stomach. With a smile, she reminded herself that she had not lied to the kind man. Her stomach had been roiling like a pot of soup in the hour before she slipped out of the party. Serenity, in her case, was only skin deep.

As she entered the foyer that was eye-wrenchingly bright with its dozens of candles reflecting off gilt and painted friezes, Phoebe glanced toward the glass hanging at the foot of the stairs leading up to where voices and music flowed together. Except for wilted feathers on the
eau de Nile
turban that matched her gown with its fashionably high bodice and ruffles at the hem of both her sleeves and her skirt, she looked no different than when she had left this gathering. A ride about Hanover Square to take the air would have left the feathers drooping too, so nothing about her should betray where she had been.

She turned to rush up the stairs and collided with something as unyielding as the side of a ship. When she rocked back, broad hands caught her shoulders to steady her.

“I am so sorry, sir,” she said. “I failed to look where I was going, and …” Even knowing she was showing a want for sense, she could not halt herself. She stared up at the man in front of her.

The man was uncommonly handsome and uncommonly well known throughout the Polite World. With hair as dark as the cloak she had left in the carriage and eyes only a shade lighter, Galen Townsend, third viscount, had a reputation for appreciating the company of the ladies and the camaraderie of his tie-mates at his club in St. James's. She had heard whispers of how his firmly sculpted face could change from one expression to the next in the midst of a heartbeat, a heartbeat that was sure to gather speed if it were within a woman's breast. Other rumors had not been so complimentary, but she did not believe all that was
on dits
. After all, rumors had often suggested she was about to accept a proposal. One rumor was about a man she had never even met who was reported to have offered for her.

“Steady there, my lady.” Lord Townsend's smile was as scintillating as she had heard. His eyes were warm, not like the cold stare that was whispered about whenever he was not near. “Excuse me for being in such a hurry that I nearly knocked you from your feet.”

“I should have watched where I was going.”

“You should leave that task to the gentlemen who would delight in watching where you go.” He dipped his head toward her. “Galen, Lord Townsend, my lady.”

“And I am—”

“Phoebe Brackenton, if I am not mistaken,” he said with another smile.

“You are not.”

“I am glad, because I would be quite the rogue not to recall the name of the prettiest lady at this assembly, would I not?”

She wished she had a fan, for the foyer was suddenly a bit too warm. It must be because she had been out in the night for so long. Jasper had despaired of the crew ever getting anyone off the ship tonight, and she had wondered if she would take a chill in the gown that was meant for a more seasonable Season instead of the damp cool by the river.

“You are too kind, my lord.” She stepped back, realizing belatedly how close they stood. “And I am being most impolite to keep you from your destination.”

“My destination?”

His puzzlement had a boyish charm that tempted her to smile in return. Mayhap she would have, if she had given his expression any credence. Lord Townsend had been the subject of too many whispered asides for her to believe he was doing anything but hoaxing her.

“You appeared to be in a hurry, my lord.”

“Did I? I thought you did not see me.” He rested one arm on the banister and grinned. “To go unnoticed until one is run into is quite a blow to one's vanity, especially when I am attired in dandy-set style.”

Phoebe was certain he was jesting with her now, because his coat was a sedate navy and his waistcoat and breeches a proper white. Although his cravat was tied with a fashionable flourish, his collar did not reach to his ears in the style the foppish among the
ton
would have chosen.

“Forgive me if I have given you insult, my lord. I should have blamed my own absentmindedness.”

“Or mayhap it was the fact that you were trying to sneak back in here like a child who has tripped his governess the double.”

She pressed her hand to her bodice. Now her heart
was
, as other women had reported after being in Lord Townsend's company, beating like the hooves of a runaway horse. How had the viscount guessed the truth? No, she must not give into panic. He could not know the truth. He simply must have seen her coming through the door. Warning herself to remain calm before she betrayed herself and all those who depended on her, she forced a smile.

“Do not, I implore you,” she said quietly, “tell our hostess that I found the odor of the men's cigars a bit overwhelming even in the ballroom, so I went out to seek some fresher air.”

“Such words will remain locked in my heart forever.” He put his hand over the center of his waistcoat, and she could not help noting the breadth of his chest. When he took her hand, her fingers were dwarfed by his. She sensed the strength in those fingers, but they were gentle as he bowed over them. “I would not think of bringing distress to our hostess or more to you, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Why were words so impossible to find now? Usually she could talk about anything to anyone, but trite words were the best she could do when his earth brown eyes gazed down at her, sparkling as if they were decorated with a heated mist.

“My pleasure, my lady.” He bowed over her hand again.

When a beguiling warmth grazed her skin through her kid gloves, she clenched her other hand by her side. The mere brush of his breath should not have such an unsettling effect on her. Galen Townsend was a prime rake who dabbled in flirtations without thought of the consequences of the broken hearts left in his wake. She knew better than this. She was no lass right out of the schoolroom, who dreamed of a lord sweeping her off her feet with promises of love and marriage. No, her life was different, for it had obligations she could share with no one but her few allies in the night. Certainly, her life had no place for a dalliance with a dashing blade.

Mayhap if Parliament would change the country's appalling laws, she could think of … Was she want-witted? This was Galen Townsend who was filling her head with fantasies as he had too many women before her. They had come to grief, but she would not be the same.

Drawing her fingers out of his, she whispered, “Good evening, Lord Townsend.” She rushed up the stairs before that enticing smile could convince her to be the next air-dreamer to be bamblusterated by his undeniable charm.

Why did the
ton
have to rush back to London before spring arrived? This winter had been colder than most, and it was proving reluctant to let spring return.

As he waited for his carriage to be brought, Galen Townsend glanced back at the countess's house. Lady Phoebe must have been quite overmastered by the smoke, because he had been sure that she had been gone for more than an hour. He probably would not have noticed that fact, except that he had seen her talking to Carr before his brother vanished. Had he and Lady Phoebe gone for a ride without the eyes of a watchdog?

Impossible. Even if Lady Phoebe's reputation was not as pristine as the pearls that emphasized her slender throat, his brother preferred brunettes. Carr might have made an exception for Lady Phoebe, Galen thought with a taut smile, because her hair, blond though it might be, had a lustrous glow that intrigued a man, urging him to touch it to discover if the strands were sunshine warm. With eyes as blue as a sunlit summer sky, she had drawn his own eyes over and over before she took her leave at about the same time Carr had.

Why hadn't he asked her if she had been with his brother? Again impossible. Such a question could have gained him a slap across his face, and it would have been justified. He could not tarnish a lady's reputation simply because he was worried about what his brother would do next to blemish their family's already besmirched honor.