His Lady Midnight (5 page)

“There is no portrait of me in my town house. The only picture is at the house in the country.”

He nodded. “We shall send a message from the first coaching inn to have it destroyed immediately.”

“My father had it commissioned for him just before he died, and—”

All amusement left his voice as his gaze caught hers again. “I never had the honor of meeting your father, but I cannot help but believe that he would rather have it destroyed than have you dead.”

She stared at him as he turned to look out the window. Mayhap she was not the one who was queer in the attic. One minute, Galen Townsend was treating this like a game arranged for his private amusement. The next, he was as serious as a judge pronouncing sentence. Even if he were mad, he was the only ally she had now.

Four

Galen grumbled as a hand shook his shoulder. He would have Roland's head for interrupting his sleep. By Jove, his valet should know better than to wake him when it was not yet light.

His nose twitched. When had Roland taken to wearing such a light cologne? His valet usually smelled of strong soap. This scent delighted every breath he took, urging him to draw in slow, deep ones and fall back into dreams as fragrant. Something struck his face. A woman's bracelet? What was happening?

“Galen! We are stopping!”

That
delicate voice was definitely not Roland's, for his valet rumbled like a frog.

“Galen!”

He opened his eyes further. Had his dream been given life? What better way to wake than to find a beautiful woman slanting toward him, her lips soft and inviting him to kiss them? As his fingers sifted up through luxurious golden curls, he smiled.

A hand slapped his, and he yelped.
This
was no dream!

“Galen, will you stop jesting?” Impatience filled the soft voice. “We are slowing. Do you know why?”

“Slowing?” Galen pushed his head up and discovered he had fallen asleep against the wall of his carriage. A cramp in his neck would remind him for hours to come how stupid he had been to fall asleep here. Baffled for a moment, he tried to recall why he was here instead of in his comfortable bed. Rubbing the back of his neck as he peered out the window, he said, “We are approaching a village, Phoebe.”

“You cannot be thinking of stopping.”

He stretched his arms, straining cramped muscles. When she yelped and knocked away his arm, he said, “I can see that you are not going to be a good conspirator.”

“Conspirator? I have no wish to conspire with you.” She huddled into herself. “I want to go home and turn back the clock so that tonight will never happen.”

“A wish I am certain we all have wished one time or another.”

Phoebe looked past him toward where a single light burned in one building in the midst of the village. “But never have I worried that because of what I have done someone might have been killed.”

“You said your friend was able to flee.”

“Yes, but—”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “You can do no more now.”

“I know.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Galen opened the door. He smiled when he saw that the lone light was set in front of a church. Mayhap Phoebe's luck was about to take a turn for the better.

“Wait here,” he said.

“For what?” Phoebe asked, but Galen was gone so swiftly that she was unsure if he had heard her question.

She fisted her hands on her lap. She should be grateful to him for coming to her rescue. She was! Yet, he seemed to treat the whole of this like a special sport devised for his diversion. It was no game, for people's lives depended on her.

A shudder ached through her. Not only the lives of those on the ships, but now Jasper's and hers.

Closing her eyes, she sighed. Faulting Galen for thinking this was some sort of grand adventure was silly when she had begun it with the same giddy excitement he had now. Then, she had believed that her small efforts would persuade the country's leaders to see the foolishness of the laws that banished someone to the far side of the world for shooting a single rabbit.

Five years had passed, and everything remained the same, save that she might have endangered those who had trusted her the most. Would she ever think with her head instead of her heart?

“Phoebe?”

At Galen's voice, she looked up. Her face must have revealed her thoughts because in the dim light from the lantern hanging by the front door of the church she could see his smile vanish.

He put his hands over hers. “Stay as brave as you have been until now,” he said.

“I am not certain if I have been brave or simply foolish.”

“I doubt if anyone with a bit of courage has not wondered that once or twice.”

Phoebe let him hand her out from the carriage. “If your plan is to leave me here and return to London, let me say I believe you are wise.”

“Leave you here?” His brows lowered, adding to the roguish strength of his face. “Why would you think I would do something so untoward? I told you that I would take you to Thistlewood Cottage where you will be safe.”

“But you were seeking your brother near the Thames. I know you must be anxious to assure yourself that he is unharmed.”

“I am more anxious to see you safely out of Town where you may hide from those who are chasing you.” He pulled off his cape and settled it on her shoulders. Drawing up the collar so it curved along her face, concealing her features, he smiled. “You have trusted your allies, Phoebe. Now you have to trust me.”

Phoebe hated the tears that welled into her eyes. She was no wet-goose, but his kindness threatened to undo her completely. “I appreciate this more than I can say.”

“Then do as
I
say.”

Taken aback by the abrupt change in his tone from gentle to gruff, she nodded. She put her hand on his arm that jutted toward her. When he patted her fingers, she wanted to smile. Her face was too rigid with fear. Why had they stopped here? She wished she had some idea of what he was planning.

Phoebe bit back her questions when he led her around the church toward a small house at the back. She was curious how he had seen it here in the darkness. Mayhap he simply had guessed the pastor's house must be close to the church. He strode up onto the front porch and rapped on the door as if it were the middle of the day. He did not stop knocking until the door was thrown open.

A woman, her nightcap askew, stood in the doorway, trying to hold a candle and close her wrapper at the same time. “Is there an emergency?” she asked.

Galen did not smile. “May we come in and speak of our business in private? I do not want others to overhear.”

“That is unlikely at this hour.” The woman stepped back. If she took note of Phoebe's stiff feet almost tripping her as she entered the low threshold, she did not react. Her sleep heavy eyes were aimed at Galen. They widened when he edged into the narrow circle of candlelight, standing between the woman and Phoebe. “Why are you here, sir?”

Instead of correcting how she addressed him, Galen said, “I would like to speak with the minister of the church near the road.”

“He is not here. He went to call on his sister in Rochester.” The woman set the candle on a table that had been well polished, for the light reflected back on them. “I am his housekeeper. Mrs. McBlain.”

Galen put his arm around Phoebe's shoulders. When she was about to shrug it off, she realized he was pulling up the cloak's collar, so it concealed the side of her face where the candlelight might reveal her identity.

“Mrs. McBlain,” he replied, “my fiancée and I are in the midst of our journey from London, and I fear that she has ruined her clothes.”

Phoebe glanced down at her gown that was barely visible beneath the thick cape. Dirt was caked to the hem, but no signs of the blood that had stained her gown were visible. Thank heavens, Galen was thinking more clearly than she was. She could have betrayed the truth … again.

“And this was one of my favorite frocks, too,” she said, guessing she should say something. A jab in her side from Galen's elbow sent her breath exploding out in a puff.

When Mrs. McBlain looked toward her, startled, he inched forward again a half step and said, “That is the cost of having a father who does not look kindly upon her plans to marry.” He compressed Phoebe's hand as he gave her a smile that she guessed he meant to be romantic, but she found insipid. The message in his eyes was clear, however. She was to remain silent, so she did not choose the very words that could bring trouble after them.

Mrs. McBlain clearly found his expression quite believable because she replied, “I take your words to mean you are not looking to marry.”

“Not here.” He chuckled. “And the way to Gretna Green is long, so you can understand why I wish my beloved to have something less intolerable to wear than clothes that are dirty and torn. I assume the church has a poor box where there are clothing donations.”

“For a lady of quality?” Mrs. McBlain's eyes became as round as a child's ball.

“Anything clean will do admirably.”

“Simple clothing will be better for our journey,” Phoebe said. Again his elbow poked her, warning her to remain silent. Why had he brought her inside if he had not wanted her to speak? To say nothing was certain to create more questions. She was growing more baffled by the moment. She leaned her head on Galen's shoulder, keeping the cloak's collar high, although she was tempted to put her hands around his neck. All of this simply so she could have a clean dress? This was absurd! In a voice as sweet as treacle, she cooed, “I should have trusted you when you advised me of that, darling.”

Galen made a low choking sound as if she had truly put her hands around his throat and squeezed. His smile did not waver as he drew some coins from beneath his coat and set them on the table. “I assume this donation will be welcome in exchange for a gown for my beloved.”

Looking hastily away, Phoebe wondered how long this charade would continue. She did not like lying to a minister's housekeeper.

“There is a reason for our laws. Folks of good sense heed them.” Mrs. McBlain's expression took on the greedy visage of a cat watching another at a bowl of cream. “The pastor will not be pleased that you are circumventing the laws of England to elope.”

Galen placed more coins on the table. “Surely he will understand that love often leads a young couple to make difficult decisions.”

“So I have heard.” The housekeeper still did not smile.

He set one pound note, then another, then a third next to the coins.

Phoebe bit her lip to keep all her questions unspoken while the housekeeper pocketed the money. When the woman motioned for them to follow, Galen offered his arm again. Phoebe put her hand on it.

“Damn—” He glanced about. “
Dashed
expensive dress from the poor box,” he muttered so only she could hear.

She started to reply, but did not when Mrs. McBlain opened a cupboard door and drew out a drawer within it. The housekeeper lifted out two dresses, holding them up in front of Phoebe, who kept her eyes lowered and the cloak closed around her. One was too long, and the other too short. Tossing them back into the box, Mrs. McBlain pulled another from the drawer.

“This should do admirably,” the housekeeper said. “It belonged to the squire's daughter, who is of a size with you. She gave some of her clothes to the church when she married Mr. Penney and moved to York.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said faintly, for she could not imagine wearing the bright green dress that was decorated with blue lace that was even more garish. She would stand out like a midsummer's night fire on a hill.

“What about this?” asked Galen as he reached past the housekeeper and lifted out a gown of a pink that was barely more than white. The fabric was a simple linen, and the only hint of decoration was a small white bow in the center of each puffed sleeve.

“Yes,” Mrs. McBlain said in a tone that suggested she wished he had not seen it or that she had asked him for a larger
donation
. “That looks as if it would fit you, young lady.”

Holding it up against Phoebe, Galen smiled. “And it looks lovely, my dear.”

Phoebe snatched the dress and folded it over her arm.
My dear!
Galen was relishing this too much. She did not want to be here watching him act like a caper-wit. This was no lark!

When he thanked Mrs. McBlain, Phoebe echoed his words and turned to walk back out toward the carriage. She saw a pair of forms near it, but only Galen's coachee was waiting when they reached it. Mayhap her eyes had betrayed her. As exhausted as she was, for she had not slept well last night in anticipation of going to the Pool before the
Trellis
sailed for Australia, she could not depend on what her eyes were showing her.

She yawned when they reached the road in front of the church. Lamps were now lit in several of the houses on the far side of what she now saw was a small green. Instead of looking at the houses, she turned toward the road leading to London. She wished she could sprout wings and fly back there to discover what had happened after Galen's coachee had applied the whip to the horses.

“You have your allies trained well, I am sure,” Galen said as he came to stand behind her. “Trust them to do what they must until you can get back to London.”

“I must,” she said, not surprised that he could guess the course of her thoughts.

“Trust them or go back?”

“Both.” She faced him. “You lie easily.”

“Quite to the contrary.” He handed her into the carriage. “I prefer honesty in all my dealings. However, I know duplicity is necessary now.”

Glancing toward the houses that were lit, she asked, “Why are we remaining here? Are we going on tonight?”

“Be patient,” he said with another chuckle. “I want to give Alfred some instructions for the next part of our trip.”