Almost a Gentleman (12 page)

He watched her in a sort of daze, immediately captivated by the set of her shoulders rising from her shawl, the bold tilt of her head under that white…

But of course he would wear a turban
. The sudden thought seemed to explode out of nowhere, like fireworks. A turban was just the thing, David realized, to keep his cropped hair—no, he corrected himself,
her
cropped hair—from drawing unwanted attention. For it was becoming utterly, wonderfully clear to him—his body perceiving it while his mind struggled to keep up—that Marston was a woman, no matter how cleverly he (no, dammit—
she!)
managed to go about London disguised as a fashionable, elegant dandy.

A woman. A beautiful woman. The person I've been burning and aching for all this week is a woman.

Never mind why she'd chosen to masquerade as a gentleman. David was sure he'd find that out when he knew her better. For he
would
come to know her, he promised himself; he'd learn every fascinating thing there was to know about her.

He stared at the curve of her neck—how white, how beautiful without a cravat to hide it—as though he were in a dream. No: much, much better—he was waking from a dream.

And so Stokes
—
dear, good Stokes
—
was right about me after all. For I clearly ain't no Nancy-boy
. He felt a sudden strong urge to hug his companion, but instantly thought the better of it.

The two ladies had arrested their walk, scanning the sky, possibly, for signs of any more storm clouds. David froze. In another moment they'd catch sight of him and Stokes up here on the hill. Could she recognize him from that distance? Especially as Stokes removed his big hat and waved it about in what seemed to be a cordial greeting and gesture of frank admiration.

Stokes
! For if David could see the truth so clearly, surely Stokes…

He sneaked a sidelong glance at his companion. But Stokes didn't seem to see a thing.

"'E keeps gambler's hours, I expect, guv'nor, not all fresh and eager like the pretty ladies. But maybe it's time we woke 'im up."

It had been easier than he'd expected, David thought a few hours later, to send Stokes galloping off northward toward the Lake District. The elderly woman at the door of the stone house had been calm, friendly, and quite unfazed by the sight of the bruised, muddy, and altogether ruffianly pair he and Stokes made. Stokes had elected David spokesman: though abashed by his disreputable appearance, David did his polite best to inquire after their close friend Mr. Marston.

The woman had smiled warmly—beatifically, David noted with some admiration. Well, she was only the housekeeper, she said, but she was happy to help any friends of dear Mr. Marston.

Humbug
, David thought.
No one could truly believe that Marston would have anything to do with us, looking as we do this morning
.

The woman prattled on blithely, her trusting manner quite disarming Stokes's intentions to burst into the house and search every nook and cranny for their prey.

Ah yes Mr. Marston, she chirped. Dear Mr. Marston, such a lovely young man, so polite, so well-mannered. And so handsome too, though she herself preferred a more manly sort of man—like her Alf, God rest his soul, gone these five years come Christmas. But the ladies of the house—the two Misses Edgertons—found him a great favorite, and had been sorry to see him leave last night, what's that sir? Ah yes, the time he left. Well, let me think—I'd put on an extra pot of tea, I did, to fortify him for his journey…

Strategy is everything
, David told himself.
And this good woman's strategy is to talk volubly as she can, in order to give the lady in pink as long a head start as possible, while directing all comers in the opposite direction
.

Mr. Marston, the housekeeper confided, had judged that the storm would blow over, and had left directly around midnight, hoping to reach the Lake District by morning.

Stokes nodded thoughtfully. "Left while we was fighting, I expect," he muttered. "Well, we'll find 'im in the Lake District, won't we, guv'nor? For we know the look of 'is carriage, even if 'e's got a bit of a jump on us."

The woman gave another of her beatific smiles. Oh yes, she was sure that a clever pair like them could easily find their friend. But first off, mightn't they care for a spot of breakfast? For she hadn't cleared the sideboard after the ladies' early repast, and there was a bit of ham left, not to speak of some kippered herrings and a spoonful or two of clotted cream…

The only difficulty for David was informing Stokes that he wouldn't be accompanying him to the Lake District. He waited until they'd finished the kippers.

"Wot, a fighter like yerself, guv'nor, giving up when we've got the scent of 'im?"

But the fifty guineas helped, especially since, unlike Baron Bunbury, David was more than willing to pay up front.

"I can't take more time out from my land, Stokes. But I trust you to find him. And—er, not to mention to Bunbury that I've taken you on as my agent as well. He might not like you doing double work, you know."

Stokes had winked broadly. "I'll catch up wi' yer in London, sometime, guv'nor, an' tell yer how it went. But I think we got 'im."

Not yet, David thought. For although his first instinct had been to follow the ladies southward, he'd thought the better of it over breakfast.
He writhes within the coils of his secrets
, Mr. Blake had said.

No, David wouldn't impose himself upon her and the pain she evidently suffered. Not until she trusted him enough to reveal those secrets to him herself. He wanted her to
want
to tell him everything.

And she
would
come to trust him, he resolved, as she came to care for him as it seemed he cared for her.

"Yes, Stokes, do come to see me in London in about two weeks." He passed the man a calling card, noting ruefully that he'd just promised to make another visit to the blighted city he hated.

Phoebe smiled at Kate, seated next to her in the carriage. Her two-week-long stay in Devonshire had been restful and blissfully uneventful. It had been good to see Jonathan and his wife Emily, to accompany Jonathan on long country walks through his parish, and even to accept his parishioners' warm, innocent greetings. "Ah, it's Miss Phoebe, is it, and grown so pretty, too"—as though time had stood still and she'd never been Lady Claringworth at all. And indeed, in this sleepy, comfortable corner of the Kingdom it was possible for her to sometimes forget the years that had passed and pretend that she was still the bold, energetic girl she'd once been.

Less pleasantly, she'd shared another of Jonathan's responsibilities. Their mother, who'd always been frivolous and scatterbrained, had fallen into an anxious early dotage and needed constant attention and reassurance. "Are you my sister Betty," she'd ask Phoebe in a distracted voice several times within an hour, "or are you the other one?"

"I'm the other one, Mother," Phoebe would respond, squeezing her hand or straightening her shawl as she led her on a slow circuit of the garden. The name "Phoebe" seemed to have no meaning to Mrs. Vaughan. Happily though, neither did "Lady Claringworth."
Which is an aid to my disguise
, Phoebe would think,
but a cruel irony for

Mother
: before the onset of her dementia there'd been nothing Mrs. Vaughan had enjoyed more than prattling about "my daughter, Lady Claringworth" to anyone who'd listen.

As always, the most precious moments of Phoebe's visits were the evenings in front of the fire with Kate, at Crowden, the seat of the Beverredge family estate. Kate had never married, though many a greedy gentleman had tried to court her—for the property that had been settled upon her.

"But," as she often told Phoebe, "I've been spoiled for a marriage of convenience. I can recognize cruelty, avarice, and disgust all too well, for I've seen it all my life, since I became so disfigured. And I can recognize kindness and devotion too, because of you, dear. My only regret…"

Her only regret was that she'd been the unwitting cause of Phoebe's disastrous marriage. For it had been Lord Beverredge, in grateful recompense for the vicar's friendship to his daughter, who'd supplied the money for Phoebe's dowry when Mrs. Vaughan had dared to ask him for it.

"And
my
only regret," Phoebe would retort, "is that you persist in seeing yourself as disfigured. And not—as
I
see you—as a handsome woman with sparkling green eyes and glossy dark hair, whose only flaw is a complexion that's not what it might have been."

Sadly, this trip had presented Phoebe with an additional regret. For, after some years of trying, Jonathan and Emily had finally conceived a child that would be born next spring. Tactfully, they'd tried not to talk about their long-dreamed-of baby in front of Phoebe; their delicacy made her feel alternately ashamed and grateful, and she knew she wouldn't be burdening them with another visit any time soon.

Kate's closed carriage—the weather had grown too chilly for the barouche—was speeding merrily toward London. Of course they wouldn't go all the way to Town today: they'd stop the night at one of the houses they'd engaged for the purpose of Phoebe's masquerade.

And tomorrow morning, Phoebe thought, Phizz Marston would emerge from the front door, step into his own carriage, and resume his life in Brunswick Square.

To beat snobbish, selfish, fashionable London at its own game
—the game that had destroyed Phoebe and Bryan.

Kate interrupted Phoebe's bitter reverie.

"And so, what did you think of Miss Austen's novel—to my mind her loveliest?"

Phoebe hadn't read many novels since she'd become Phizz Marston; it was a consequence, she supposed, of disciplining herself to think like a man. But she'd allowed herself this one as a vacation treat.

"You're right, dear,
Persuasion
is her loveliest. It's not a book of impetuous youth and innocent hope like
Pride and Prejudice
. It's something better, deeper."

"A book," Kate said softly, "about how a woman deserves to be loved, even if she's past her first youth. If she's true and honest with herself."

Phoebe shuddered. "And if she could bear the risk at this age. As I know that
I
could not."

"Are you certain of that, Phoebe? Perhaps it's only at this age that we're able to face life squarely and know what we really want, like Miss Austen's Anne Elliot."

"Perhaps. Well, I shall keep an eye out for any Captain Wentworths who sail into view. And when I find one I'll send his ship your way."

"Do that, dear, for I've decided to spend some time in London this winter. I shall move into our house in Park Lane before Christmas. It feels as though the painters, plasterers, and drapers have been there forever already. I may have to serve Mr. Marston his first cup of tea among furniture still draped in canvas—if he could be cajoled to visit me among such scandalous disarray."

Phoebe smiled.

"He'll allow himself to be cajoled. But only once." She squeezed her friend's hand. "How wonderful, Kate."

And how especially wonderful, she thought, to hear Kate taking an optimistic point of view. Perhaps there
was
a Captain Wentworth somewhere out there for Kate.

For a moment she thought of telling her about Lord Linseley. But what, really, was there to tell besides the fact that she'd met a handsome, decent man who'd attracted her admiration and her desire?

And much as she loved her friend and wanted to see her married, this was one man she wouldn't send her way.

She put her feet up on the seat in front of her. They ached after two weeks of walking without Phizz's boots. Well, she had
that
to look forward to anyway: the pleasure of being well shod and a few weeks of holiday festivities. And the joy of seeing Kate with some regularity—at least as regularly as Phizz Marston could decently visit with Lady Kate Beverredge.

She hugged her pelisse tightly about her and stared at the gray landscape outside the window. Even with the prospect of seeing Kate, the next months seemed very dreary without the hope of meeting Lord Linseley again.

David stood uncomfortably in front of the pier glass in the bedchamber of his London townhouse.

"And so you see, Mr. Marston…" His words trailed off awkwardly.

Damn
, he thought,
it was worse than rehearsing a speech to deliver in the House of Lords
.

Because when he spoke of agricultural politics, he need only speak from the heart. He knew the facts, the people, and the land. He knew everything he needed to say and nothing more.

Unlike
this
awkward situation, where he knew much more than was good for him.

Club gossip had it that Marston was back in Town. Evidently refreshed by his journey, he'd won an impressive pile at Vivien's last night. David intended to call on him this afternoon to tell him that he was under surveillance by an enemy.

Of course, he'd reassure him that, for now at least, the enemy had been cleverly and effectively distracted. Stokes had given up the chase somewhere short of the Lake District, much—as he'd told David yesterday—to Baron Bunbury's displeasure. He'd been sure he'd sighted Marston's carriage, but there had only been two old duffers in it.

"So I believe you're safe from
that
quarter, Mr. Marston," David recited.

Yes, that sounded all right.

"But I learned as well, from your erstwhile pursuer, that you may have other enemies. And so I simply wanted to warn you of this."

Not bad.

"And to offer you my assistance, in the unlikely case that you might need it."

Well, it'll get me in the door to see her, in any case.

And after that? He shrugged his wide shoulders. After that he'd have to improvise.

Mr. Marston's household staff had kept things in splendid order during their master's absence. The tallest vases were filled with brilliant masses of chrysanthemums, all bronze and scarlet. Phizz Marston was fussy about floral arrangements; he liked to use what was seasonal whenever possible. Soon the house would be a jungle of hothouse orchids—a little private rebellion against the boring poinsettias one saw everywhere in December. But right now it was nice to have these last naturally-blooming chrysanthemums.

Mr. Simms and Mr. Andrewes had had a smashing trip. "Wonderful luck with the trout, sir, thank you very much for asking. And we were able to get a bit of a lower rate at the inn, since we shared our catch with the kitchen."

"Excellent, Simms. And the carriage was satisfactory?"

"Very generous of you, sir, to allow us the use of it while you were… elsewhere. We did have a bit of an unexpected encounter…"

"Really, Simms, tell me more."

"… with a large, ruffianly fellow in a big slouch hat. He seemed to expect to see someone else."

"Indeed. How foolish of him. And was he unaccompanied?"

"Oh yes, sir. Quite alone."

"Ah. And you didn't see him… or anyone else… after that one meeting?"

"No, sir. Though we kept a careful eye out during the rest of our excursion."

"Thank you, Simms. And sorry for the unpleasantness."

"Happy to oblige, sir."

She remembered the fellow in the slouch hat. He'd waved to her and Kate from up the hill. She also remembered his companion: he'd had a bit of Lord Linseley in his build and posture, and for a moment she'd let herself imagine…

Stop it
, she told herself. What was important was that once again she'd successfully thrown her pursuers off the trail. Her secret was safe and her masquerade undisturbed.

And it was high time she opened the mail that had piled up in her absence.

She'd received David politely enough, he thought, sitting across from her in her drawing room that afternoon. She seemed nervous, though he wasn't exactly sure why he thought so; if she was surprised to see him, she didn't show it. The meeting must be brief, she regretted to inform him, for she would be receiving her solicitor in an hour.

She'd ordered champagne for herself, and a pot of tea, at his request. Certainly, he thought, he didn't need any intoxicant besides the sight of her graceful, black-clad figure seated on the edge of a sky blue velvet chaise in front of a bank of flame-colored chrysanthemums.