Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (9 page)

She eyed him
sympathetically. This time her emotions were genuine. “Your pride and honour
are holding you back.”

He turned
his back to her. His voice was cheerful when he said, “Can you see someone like
me becoming the Earl of Devon? Being responsible for an estate and human lives?
My brother has been groomed since the moment he was born. He is the heir.”

“Are you
afraid?”

“Yes, I am
afraid of becoming the earl and living a life of utter boredom until my dying
day.”

“But why do
you want to stay here at the Blackthorne Mansion? It can’t be amusing. You
don’t know any of us, and surely you have friends all over England?”

He sighed
and came and sat down next to her. “I did tell you to ask me anything.”

She nodded.

“It has to
do with my last occupation. Before I was summoned to England by my father, I
was apprenticed to a Pirate.”

“A pirate?”
Celine asked intrigued.

“Yes,”
George replied. He took out a cigar and lit it.

“And before
that what did you do?”

“I was in
partnership with a highwayman,” he said, smoke curling out of his mouth.

“Was his
name Jimmy?”

“No, not
the Falcon. How do you know the Falcon?”

“Penny
knows him well. I met him during the wedding. Nice fellow.”

“I see. I
was working with a highwayman who you may know as the White Tiger. I had to leave
when I realised that too many highwaymen were sprouting up all over England and
the magnanimity of the job had become diluted. I then became an apprentice to
the Black Rover.”

“Good
lord!”

“Have you
heard of him?”

“No, but he
sounds frightening.”

“He is
intimidating. Six feet five inches, long black hair streaked with silver which
is constantly whipping around in the roaring ocean wind. His jet black eyes are
like the darkest part of the night, and his fine velvet clothes always smell
like the freshest and finest fish in the ocean.”

The two of
them became silent out of respect for the Black Rover.

He cleared
his throat and continued, “He has a mother. She sails with him. She is an
excellent cook or so I heard from the Captain. The crew calls her Sordid Sandy.
She owns a large treasure chest filled with recipes that she has collected over
the years. I stole one.”

“Stole
what?”

“A recipe.”

“You did
not.”

“I did.”

“You
couldn’t have.”

“Are you
trying to annoy me?” he asked testily.

She shook
her head, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did
you steal a recipe? If you had to steal something, then shouldn’t you have
pinched something more exciting, like say … a jewel filled treasure chest or a
solid gold statue, that sort of thing?”

George
leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. His head tilted
slightly to the right while his eyes took on a faraway expression. “It was a
beautiful cloudless night.
The Desperate Lark
sat bobbing in the sea a
few miles off the coast of England. The black flag with skull and bones had
been replaced by a cerulean flag depicting a fig leaf. We were once again in
the guise of rich merchants, the blood washed away from the decks and the
treasure buried in a faraway land—”

“Lord
Elmer, kindly come to the point,” Celine cut in.

George
glared at her. “Fine. My faculties were impaired by alcohol. I was intoxicated
and my cranium was fogged up. I was befuddled, foxed, pickled. In a word …
drunk.”

“I see.”

“It was
Belcher’s fault. We shared a cabin. He encouraged me to drink a fair amount of
dark rum. The result was that I found myself crawling into the Black Rover’s
mother’s room, opening her treasure chest and grabbing the first bit of paper I
laid my hands on. The next thing I recall was waking up in the kitchens with a
treacle bread recipe clutched in one hand, covered in flour, wearing only a
shirt and no breeches.”

“You could
have sneaked back in that night and replaced it.”

George
nodded. “Except that I received a letter from my father that morning. He wanted
me back in England. He said my mother was ill and I like a blooming fool
believed that old rusty guts. I left immediately and only recalled the recipe
once I was in a carriage oscillating my way to my father’s house. I realised
Belcher is a bootlicker and at the first opportunity he would have told the
captain about the theft. I know the captain, and he is normally a patient man
unless it concerns his mother.”

“Men are
often wary of their mothers,” Celine agreed.

“Wary, my
dear? Captain Rover is not wary of his mother. He is terrified of her. In her
presence he becomes a booby, a looby and a betwattled mopsey. Which is why I
quickly changed directions and made my way to Lord Adair’s house. Captain Rover
knows where my house is and who my friends are, whereas Lord Adair is a distant
enough relation, and his residence is well protected on account of his own life
being in constant danger. I knew I would be safe with him. Once at Lord Adair’s
residence, I learned the real reason my father wanted me back. The rest you
know.”

“I see. Lord
Adair had to leave on the king’s business and the duke is supposed to be in the
country with Penny. No one knows that you and the duke are related, and hence
Blackthorne is the safest place for you to hide.” She sucked on her bottom lip,
“And is that why cooks are disappearing all over England?”

“Yes, the
pirates are trying to get the recipe back.”

“What will
happen if they catch you?”

“Well, I
dared to steal from the Captain’s mother and that in The Desperate Lark’s book
means violent death.”

“How violent?”

“Starting
from my big toe they will burn me inch by inch until they reach the top of my
head.”

“Egad!”

“Precisely.”

“I could
almost believe you.”

“I am not
lying,” he said fumbling around in his pocket. He took out a fish hook, twine
and a pair of pink drawers. He quickly shoved the last item back into his
pocket.

“It is a
bang up tale. Just like the story about your two stepmothers,” she remarked,
“but this time I shall not be bamboozled.”

“Here is
the recipe,” he said pulling out a yellowed parchment.

She glanced
at the title ‘Treacle bread for ye when a cobra or a scorpion has bitten thee
in the fleshy part of—” She stopped reading.

“Do you
believe me?”

She pulled
the maps towards herself and ignored him.

“It is your
turn now. What are you trying to do?” he persisted.

“Nothing.”

“You
promised to tell me.”

“Yes, if
you told me something honestly.”

“I was
honest.”

“Pooh,” she
said, waving him away.

“What the
devil,” he cursed in anger. “You cannot pooh me. No one dares to pooh George
Irvin.”

“Pooh,” she
repeated, hiding her smile behind a large map.

“Would you
like this back?” he asked politely.

She looked
up and found one of her letters once more in his possession. Her smile
vanished, “Give it back, Lord Elmer. This is not amusing.”

“I will
give it back but first apologise.”

“I am
sorry,” she said.

“Good, now
tell me what you are doing?” he asked gesturing towards the desk.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Stop being
childish and give me back my letter.”

“Not
childish. I simply get what I want, even if I have to use dishonest means.”

“And you
wonder why I don’t trust you.”

He grinned
cheekily. “Now tell me everything.”

She glared
at him.

A dimple
appeared in his cheek.

He had an awfully
infectious smile. She ordered her own features to behave and remain frozen in
an expression of annoyance.

He waggled
his eyebrows suggestively.

She gave up
and smiled. He already knew enough to ruin her. He might as well learn the
whole of it. “I have nothing much to tell. I am trying to find Philbert.”

“He is
lost?”

She nodded
unhappily, “He told me he had to leave for London to find his fortune. He
couldn’t marry me at the time because he had no money. And then a year ago his
letters stopped arriving.”

“Perhaps he
lost interest in you?”

“No, I
don’t think so. And it is very horrid of you suggest such a thing. He could
have written and been honest and said that he no longer wanted to see me.”

“So you are
trying to find him. Didn’t he tell you where he lives?”

“No, he
did. I told him I understand all his poems, so he told me the clue to the place
where he is staying in London is woven into the last poem that he had sent me.
The trouble is I cannot decipher it. It is unlike his other poems.

“Which
poem?”

“This one.”

“This is
not a poem. This is a splotch.”

“A
painting,” she corrected.

“A splotchy
painting,” he agreed.

“He was
branching out into creative poetry. He wanted to paint his poems.”

“What does
that mean?

“How am I
to know? I am not a poet.”

“So this
awful painting is the only clue you have?”

“Yes, and
it is not awful.”

“I don’t
think he wants you to find him.”

“Don’t be
ridiculous.”

“He has
done his best to make things complicated.”

“He has a
very sensitive deep soul.”

“More
likely he is a handsome, brooding emaciated poet with a questionable soul. A
woman is bound to fall for such a fellow.”

“He is not
thin. In fact, he is fleshy and not handsome at all. He has spots on his face
and thinning hair.”

“A fat
poet? Whoever heard of such a creature?”

“Oh, go
away.”

“I won’t.
What’s his name? It may be easier to discover his whereabouts.”

“You want
to help me?”

“Yes. A
poet who paints his location and calls it poetry and a lovelorn girl who sets
out to find him in a strange city. It is a sort of thing that intrigues me.”

“I suppose
there is no harm. His name is Philbert Woodbead.”

“A fat ugly
poet called Philbert Woodbead?” he enquired.

She nodded.

“You are
bamming me.”

She shook
her head.

And that was
when he laughed.

“Dorothy,
stop teasing Gunhilda.” Celine pulled her sister out from under the table. “You
cannot keep running away every time you have lessons. And the housekeeper
informed me that your bed sheets were covered in soot. Were you trying to climb
up the chimney?”

“Madame?
The dinner—”

“Ah yes,
Miss Cornley, Lord Elmer will be joining us for dinner again. In fact, he is
going to remain with us indefinitely.”

“Is he
really?” Dorothy brightened. “Can I have dinner with him?”

“You know
Sir Henry will never approve. Don’t pout. You can meet him in the evening.”

“I would
like that,” Dorothy said. Her shoulders straightened and she ran a hand through
her hair. “How do I look?”

“Like an
imp.”

“Can I wear
my pink velvet?”

“Why, where
are you going?”

“I shall
ask George to walk with me in the oriental garden.”

“Don’t be
so forward, Dorothy. Address him as Lord Elmer, and you are going for a walk
not a ball. You will look silly wearing the pink velvet. Wear your brown
paisley.”

“I don’t like
brown.”

“Blue
spotted?”

“Oh,
alright,” Dorothy replied sourly. She raced up the stairs yelling for Gwerful
to come and do her hair.

Celine
turned back to the waiting housekeeper. “I am sorry, Miss Cornley. Where was I?
Oh yes, sprinkle some tea leaves and rose powder on the carpets in the Jade
Room. And can you request the house steward to meet me in the garden. I need to
discuss the menu. Perhaps we can have some Gumballs, boiled fish, sugared
plums, cheese wigs and a few peacock pies—”

“Amy,”
George called out.

“My name is
Celine, Lord Elmer,” Celine said briskly. She nodded a dismissal to the
housekeeper.

“Amy,” he
repeated more firmly, “what are you doing?”