His Lady Midnight (8 page)

Alfred nodded. “I do not doubt that, my lord.” He walked back to check the horses.

Galen watched his coachee for a long minute. Alfred thought Galen had lost every bit of sense he had ever possessed. The coachman could be correct. Leaving Town and his responsibilities on this madcap race to protect Phoebe had been the most absurd thing he had ever done, but he still could not see, even looking back at the events, how he would have done anything differently. He could not have handed her over to those men who were chasing her.

He slipped his arms beneath Phoebe and gently lifted her from the carriage. Shifting her against him, he cursed under his breath as the toe of her shoe struck his knee even as his motion created a new cascade of pain from his accursed elbow. He shook his head when Alfred turned to ask him a question. Waking Phoebe now would create another flurry of questions that he was too tired to answer.

Galen realized how exhausted Phoebe must be when she did not wake while he spoke to a round, dark-haired woman who greeted him at the door.

“Ah, the poor lamb is deep asleep,” cooed the woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Chester, the innkeeper's wife.

He nodded.

“Come this way,” Mrs. Chester said. “I have a lovely room that will be just perfect for you.”

When Mrs. Chester opened the door, Galen gave her a quiet request for some food to be prepared for them and also to send out a mug of ale and a plate to Alfred. The innkeeper's wife smiled so broadly that Galen had the suspicion she wanted to pinch him on the cheek as if he were a lad.

He went into the room, taking care that neither Phoebe's head nor her feet struck the door frame. The room was simple, the furniture spare. Candles burned on the small tables set beneath the window. He gave the chamber only a cursory glance as he walked to the bed.

His breath burned beneath his heart, which seemed to be pounding through every inch of him as he imagined carrying her into his own bedchamber where the bed was wide and draped in green velvet. Looking down at her face softened in sleep and resting against his shoulder, he thought of how it would be to hold her through the rest of the night. The slow rise and fall of her breasts brushed against him, and her fingers rested against the center of his chest. He wanted them touching him far more intimately as he sampled every bit of her.

Galen came to his senses from the enchantment she had woven around him even while asleep. Angrily, he berated himself. Phoebe Brackenton was not a harlot who promised a night's entertainment in exchange for the proper payment. She had set aside her life of wariness to trust him. He could not betray her at the very first opportunity.

Yet he was unable to keep himself from looking at where her gown had drifted back to reveal her lithe legs encased in silk stockings. He cursed under his breath and forced his gaze away from that enticing view. Instead he stared at the hard chair by the hearth. At least one of them had a chance to get a good night's sleep.

He placed her gently on the bed. She murmured something he could not understand as he removed her shoes. He was glad to see her ankle was not swollen. Pulling the covers over her, he bent and brushed her tawny hair from her face. When he kissed her soft cheek, her light breaths of sleep caressed him, urging him to taste her lips.

She was such a contradiction. A child-woman. Winsome and sensual, delightfully laughing and haughtily chill, braver than anyone he had ever met and yet frightened by her own passions.

“Sleep well, Phoebe,” he whispered as he took the pillow from the other side of the bed and picked up a quilt waiting on a rack. He tossed them both onto the hard chair before blowing out the candle. He closed the door and locked it behind him, knowing she would haunt his dreams tonight. Even as he walked down the steps to deal with a matter that could not wait, he was hoping that he was in hers.

That was madness, he knew, but everything seemed a bit off-kilter now. And he was relishing it more than he had anything since … since his brother had taken ill, and Galen had been consumed by the task of making sure his brother did not do something so stupid again.

Had Carr been found and taken home? Galen wished he knew the answer to that. If his brother lingered in the low taverns along the Pool, Carr was guaranteed to get himself in such a pickle he might not be able to extricate himself from the situation.

Galen kneaded his aching elbow as he walked to where Alfred was sitting on the ground by the carriage. The coachee wiped foam off his mouth as he took another deep drink. When Alfred started to come to his feet, Galen motioned for him to remain where he was.

Perching on the step to the carriage, Galen looked around to be certain no one else was nearby. He smiled when Alfred held up the mug. Galen took a drink and handed it back to his coachee.

“When you get back to London, have clothes for Lady Phoebe sent to Thistlewood Cottage,” Galen said.

“Where is that, my lord?”

“Don't worry about that. Deliver her things to Sir Ledwin Woods in Kensington High Street. He will know where to send them.” Galen bent toward his coachee and lowered his voice. “Say nothing to Sir Ledwin about what is in the box or by whom it will be received. Let him know only that I want the box brought to Thistlewood Cottage.”

“I will say nothing to Sir Ledwin. Should I be as reticent to Lady Phoebe's servants?”

“Her servants? Why would you be speaking with them?”

Alfred reached under his mud-splattered coat. “She gave me this note to be delivered to—”

“By Lord Harry, I know she has more sense than a goose, but she is trying to prove me wrong!” He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was clear reluctance in Alfred's voice as he handed the single sheet to Galen.

Slipping the folded page beneath his own coat, Galen sighed. “I know you feel you are breaking a promise you made to the lady.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let me make a promise to you. I promise that this note will be delivered as it should be. It cannot be taken to her house by someone who can be connected to me, for that might undo all we are trying to do. Whatever you do, do not go near Lady Phoebe's house yourself. Make sure that the request for her clothes is handled without anyone being the wiser. You can trust her butler. I believe she mentioned last night that his name is Johnson. Be certain the request is handed only to him. It would not be in her best interests if some other man found out where she is just now.”

“Some other gentleman?”

“I would not call him a gentleman.” Galen chuckled, knowing that was the truth. He had not recognized the man with the churlish sailors, for the night had concealed the man's face as completely as it had Phoebe's. He had tried to connect the man's voice with someone he knew but had failed. Mayhap the fine-talking man had just been a more cultured thief-taker.

Thief-taker! If the Bow Street Runners were in pursuit of Phoebe, she must be doubly wary. Those chaps had a way of finding the most cunning criminals. No, the man could not be a Bow Street Runner, because the sailor had called him “Cap'n.”

“Ah, I understand,” Alfred said, bringing Galen's attention back to his man. “The chap must be a varlet to create all this trouble for my lady.”

“He is trouble, that is for certain.” He looked up as a drop of rain struck him. Dash it! He needed to make Alfred understand the gravity of the circumstances they were in. “That is why I want you to have the request for her things delivered to Lady Phoebe's house by someone who cannot be connected to me or to her.”

“It won't be easy.”

“I trust that you will find a clever way to accomplish this.”

Alfred scratched the back of his neck and took another drink of his ale. “As you wish, my lord. I shall try.”

Galen stood and walked back toward the porch of the inn, ducking his head into the rain that splattered the yard. Alfred thought he was queer in the attic to be making such requests. Mayhap if he had taken Alfred into his confidence right from the start … Impossible! Better to let his coachee believe that Phoebe was fleeing an overly amorous lover than for anyone else to know the truth.

“Is everything as you hoped it would be, sir?” asked the innkeeper's wife, who must keep a close eye on the door and her guests.

“Yes.” He did not slow his stride as he walked past the public rooms to where he had left Phoebe sleeping. Then he turned and went back into the cozy room where the innkeeper, a ruddy-featured man, was pouring ale into tankards.

Taking one, Galen nodded to his host and took a deep drink. He carried the tankard to a table in the corner farthest from the hearth, not wanting to intrude on the cards that were being played in front of it. One of the trio of men called out, asking if he wanted to join them.

“No thank you, friend,” Galen replied.

The man shrugged and bent back over his flats. He tossed a coin onto the pile between the three men.

Galen sat and opened the note. Phoebe's handwriting was not as neat and precise as he had expected. Then he realized that she must have written it in the carriage while he was slumbering. Even though the letters bounced across the page as the carriage had along the road, he could pick out the words easily.

Johnson
,

The situation with my latest call has taken a turn for the worse. I trust Jasper found his way back to the house and that you have had him tended to. Do not worry on my behalf. I am fine. I will return to London as soon as the situation with my most recent call eases enough to allow that
.

Galen grinned wryly. If he had not known better, he would have guessed, upon reading this, that she had done nothing worse than commit an unforgivable
faux pas
at some assembly. She was now a master of duplicity.

Yet she possessed an innocence that contrasted with the deception she was perpetuating with this note to her butler. He finished the rest of his ale, wadded up the note, and walked to the hearth. Throwing the note onto the fire, he smiled. He had promised that the note would be delivered as it should be. And this was where it belonged.

Galen went to the room he had rented. Pulling out the key, he unlocked the door as quietly as he could. He did not want to wake Phoebe, for she had spent too many hours without sleep. He stifled a yawn. During the hectic swirl of the Season, he had often gone a couple of days before he sought his bed. He had not guessed that sitting in a carriage, constantly looking over his shoulder, would leave him more exhausted than forty unbroken hours of playing cards at his club.

He swore under his breath when a pain rushed up his arm from his elbow. If he had let Alfred help him bring Phoebe in here this evening, he might not have reinjured it. That was his reward for playing a hero. But at least she had stayed lost in her dreams.

Pulling off one boot, then the other, he cursed again when the familiar motion brought on the all-too-familiar flare up along his arm. He set them at the foot of the bed. One slipped from his hands and struck the floor sharply. Straightening, he looked over the footboard, hoping he had not awakened Phoebe.

The bed was empty.

Where was she?

“Are you looking for me, Galen?” came a sleepy voice from the corner.

He lit the candle and frowned when he saw Phoebe propped up in the chair, her feet tucked beneath her and her hand beneath her cheek as it had been in the carriage. He gasped, unable to halt himself. Was she bereft of her wits? “What are you doing
there
?”

“I thought you would sleep better on the bed. After all, you slept on the floor last night.”

“But you are—”

She frowned at him. “Galen, I appreciate your gallantry, but I need you wide-awake and able to do what you must to make sure we reach this haven you have promised me. Do not use the argument that, as a gentleman, you should endure all the discomfort.”

“It is a gentleman's obligation.”

“You have obligations enough without me adding to the weight of your burdens.”

“What does that mean?”

She sat up and looked at him through sleep-heavy eyes. “That, since he almost died, your brother is—”

“My brother?” His eyes narrowed as his brows lowered. “It seems that you have listened to gossip more than you led me to believe.”

“Nonsense. I listened to Alfred.”

“Alfred? What else has he spoken to you of beyond the weather and the conditions of the horses … and Carr?”

Drawing her feet up onto the chair again, she stated, “You should not accuse either me or your coachman of gossiping.”

“Then how did you know about Carr?”

“I may not gossip, Galen, but I cannot avoid hearing it. Half of the Polite World is agog with his adventures in the lowest taverns. The other half is amused by how you are trying to halt them from continuing.”

“Amused?”

She did not lower her gaze. “You must have heard the poker-talk as well.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I would rather not.”

“It is the least you could do.”

Phoebe flinched at his acidic tone. She had not intended to send Galen up into the boughs, but her tired brain had not kept her from saying what she should have not. “Yes, it is, I suppose.”

He sat on the bed, facing her. “Enlighten me.”

“It is said that you are a prime rake.”

“That is about me, not about my brother.”

Phoebe stood, wishing she could shake him and get him to lose that cool expression that suggested he was as heartless as some
on dits
suggested. “Galen, I do not like repeating gossip.”

“Then speak it but once, and I shall listen.”

For a moment, she hoped he was hoaxing her, but she saw he was not. “Very well. I heard it said at Lord Litten's house last week that you watch over your brother more closely than an old tough guards her young charge.”

“And?”