Candlelight Wish (15 page)

Rushmere gave his horses the office and Lucy, who had been scanning the street, called, “Are we not to wait for Simon?”

“Ashby is picking up Miss Brookstone,” Rushmere told her. “They’ll join us in the park.”

“Simon is driving Hanna?” Lucy stiffened and turned to Miles. “I thought Mr. Dauntry would bring her.”

“Ashby spoke up more quickly.” Her brother waved the phaeton ahead.

“I thought Simon wished to ride beside us.” A note of petulance crept into her voice.

The vehicles separated, making conversation between them impossible and Phoebe cast an uncertain glance at the marquis, searching for an opening gambit. At last she tried, “Miss Saunderton assures me that all my former pupils would be quite green with envy if they knew you had driven me in your famous carriage.”

He spared a rapid glance from his mettlesome team and the smile he flashed her could only be described as seductive. “I am gratified that you are pleased.”

What she really was, she reflected, was simply hanging on. It took every ounce of her concentration to keep her balance with any degree of credit as they jostled and bounced over the cobblestones. And there was Lucy, riding quite at her ease, she noted with a touch of envy. In fact Sir Miles’ carriage bore every appearance of being exceptionally well sprung and his pair of gleaming bays looked to her to be sweet goers. Dash might be all the crack, but it all too frequently had its drawbacks, as well. Perhaps she should change vehicles with Lucy to give the girl some practical experience with that fact.

Once they had maneuvered themselves into the flow of wagons and carriages that filled the street, Rushmere relaxed his attention from the difficult task of controlling his trio and addressed a flirtatious remark to Phoebe that brought warm color to her cheeks. Before long he had set up a flow of teasing lighthearted comments that were a trifle too warm for her taste. The uneasy suspicion crossed her mind that a gentleman would not speak in so free and easy a manner before the lady he desired to make his wife.

At last they pulled through the gates of the park and with a sensation of relief she spotted Charles Dauntry on his rawboned gray trotting toward them. He reached the phaeton and swept his curly beaver from his head, his eyes smiling as he greeted her. But before Phoebe could do more than say “Good morning”, Rushmere’s leader skipped sideways and with a curt word of excuse he set them cantering ahead, leaving Dauntry to join Miles and Lucy.

As they swept past the curricle she saw that Lucy now drove the bays under her brother’s expert guidance. “How kind of him,” Phoebe exclaimed, pleased by this sign of sibling harmony. “She has been longing to handle the ribbons.”

Rushmere’s lip curled. “That is all very well if one does not mind risking one’s cattle to such inexperienced hands. But then Saunderton never has had much flair in his driving.”

Miles might not indulge in the neck or nothing style favored by the marquis but that did not signify a lack of ability. If anything it indicated good sense. But she refrained from voicing that thought out loud. After all it was not her part to defend that exasperating managing man.

By the time they had completed their second round they found that Ashby and Hanna Brookstone had arrived. Charles Dauntry walked his horse beside their curricle and whatever he said sent Hanna off into a fit of the giggles from which she seemed to be having trouble recovering. Ashby, grinning broadly, waved at them. “We’re all here,” he called.

Phoebe glanced about but saw no other vehicles. “I thought you were inviting others,” she said. “I know Wolverhampton had planned—“

“Familial duties have claimed him, I fear.” Rushmere didn’t sound in the least disappointed. “And as for the others, I changed my mind.” He directed that smile at her that her former pupils had found so devastating. “I didn’t want to be distracted from you.”

Phoebe had ample time to digest this comment for the journey to Hampton Court took them almost two full hours. Rushmere complained about the slowness of the pace but as this was primarily set by the antisocial behavior of his own leader he could blame no one but himself. For most of the time he drove in silence, his attention entirely taken up by his team, which left Phoebe time to wonder at Xanthe’s schemes. If Rushmere intended to make her an offer it would be soon. But the question of “if” had begun to intrude itself into her mind.

By the time they approached their destination Phoebe longed for nothing more than to climb down from the carriage. Once she returned safely to Half Moon Street, she vowed she would never again subject herself to so uncomfortable a journey. Rushmere possessed a very dashing curricle, she had seen it in Queen’s Square on several occasions. What had ever possessed him to drive this contraption instead?

Rushmere glanced toward her. “We are about to enter the outer green court,” he informed her.

Dutifully Phoebe opened eyes she had closed against the queasiness caused by the swaying carriage. Expanses of impressive lawns stretched out around them which she duly admired. Then they reached the bridge that allowed them to cross the moat and they were passing through the magnificent gateway while the hoofbeats of their horses echoed back to her. Rushmere drew up before the palace’s brick facade with its buttresses and gilded vanes and liveried servants poured forth from the doorway, taking charge of the party that clambered out of the vehicles lining up behind them.

Phoebe, faced with the precarious climb down from her perch, hesitated. She looked toward Rushmere but that gentleman had his back to her, speaking with a man who bore all the appearance of being a secretary with an army of royal servants clustering in his wake. Nor did the groom have time to spare for a petite young lady trapped atop the swaying equipage. He had already gone to the head of the lead horse and stood talking to it in soothing tones. She was on her own.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel and Sir Miles smiled up at her. “Stranded?”

She could think of nothing polite to say in response. She did not enjoy feeling quite so foolish. Having no choice, she permitted him to help her find unstable footing to lower herself a foot or two. But as she swayed he caught her about the waist, lifting her easily from the carriage and setting her gently on the ground. For one long moment they stood with his hands cupped about her waist. A strange troubled expression flickered in his eyes as he released her.

She stepped back, oddly breathless and managed a husky, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, his tone tight as if pleasure were most assuredly not the emotion he had experienced from their contact.

Rushmere ended his conversation, turned and saw her. “Ah, Miss Caldicot. Shall we proceed?” He gestured toward the other members of their party, gathering them together before their guide, then withdrew a pace.

The gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Jennings then launched into a history of the house. He began with its origins in the Twelfth Century as a small manor in the hands of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, went on to cover its acquisition by Thomas, Cardinal Wolsey in 1514 and ended with its inevitable passage into the hands of Henry VIII when Wolsey fell out of royal favor. Then the tour began in earnest and Phoebe, on Rushmere’s arm, wandered through a regular rabbit warren of halls, state apartments, bedchambers, drawing rooms, staircases and courtyards. Walls and ceilings alike boasted paintings and carvings, and panelings were pointed out with pride. A bewildering array of tapestries met the eye and everywhere she looked she encountered more statuettes and porcelains. At last they entered a hall that Phoebe suspected they had visited before—their first stop perhaps?—and Mr. Jennings turned to face them with welcome news.

“You will find refreshments set up in the gardens,” he declared in the tone of voice of one concluding a lengthy task.

Rushmere thanked him, requested he convey his respects to a number of august personages and led the way outside.

She’d been wrong, Phoebe realized. They had not entered by this hall. At least they had not entered by this door. They now faced gardens, acres of greenery, formal flower beds, fountains and pools. Lost in admiration, Phoebe trailed along after the others to where linen-spread tables heaped with covered platters and dishes stood on an expanse of lawn, attended by no less than half a dozen liveried servants.

Phoebe partook sparingly of the innumerable succulent dishes, her mind in a whirl. Had Xanthe arranged all this or had Rushmere, alone and uninfluenced, planned the outing? She couldn’t tell what to make of his manner which varied from the flirtatious to the inattentive. She found it disconcerting, quite putting a pall over what might otherwise have been a delightful afternoon.

Ashby and Hanna Brookstone finished their meal and strolled off to enjoy the fifty acres of grounds. Lucilla followed them with her frowning gaze then returned her attention to her serving of raspberry fool but showed no pleasure whatsoever in the delicacy. An angry gleam showed in her eye that fascinated Phoebe. Under cover of a discussion between the other gentlemen at the table, Phoebe joined the girl.

“Hanna looks delightful in that sprigged muslin, does she not?” And if that didn’t unleash Lucy’s tongue, nothing would.

Lucy stabbed her spoon into the unoffending confection. “What can possess her to flirt so shockingly with Simon? I would never do so.”

“No,” Phoebe agreed. “But then you are probably the only young lady in London who wouldn’t jump at the chance to do so.”

Lucy blinked at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

Phoebe gave a soft laugh. “Have you not listened to the whisperings?”

“What whisperings?” the girl demanded, suspicious.

“That he is a matrimonial prize of the first water,” came Phoebe’s prompt response. “You need have no fear your brother will continue to pressure you into marrying him. Lord Ashby has any number of caps set at him. I have heard several young ladies saying they quite envy you for being upon such terms with him.”

“Really?” Lucilla stared at her but her gaze remained unfocused as if she saw something else entirely.

A footfall sounded behind Phoebe and Rushmere appeared at her shoulder. He smiled, holding out his hand. “Should you care to stroll about the gardens?”

While she accompanied the marquis to examine a formal bed of roses, Dauntry and Miles collected Lucy. Over her shoulder Phoebe glimpsed the three of them heading in the opposite direction, across the lawn toward the Wilderness, an area of trees, shrubs and a multitude of paths. The famous maze, planted during the reign of William and Mary, lay in a corner of that vast area. Phoebe wanted to see it. But most of all, it dawned on her, she did not really wish to be alone with Rushmere.

She looked up and found his gaze resting on her, an unsettling gleam in his eyes. She moved a step away. “You have arranged a delightful day,” she said, keeping her tone light.

He took her hand from his arm, carried it to his lips then replaced it with a gentle caress. “It is not over yet, my dear.”

The look that accompanied that only increased Phoebe’s sense of unease. What else had he planned? She tried to ease away from him but he covered her fingers with his own, preventing her escape. “Will we have time to see the maze?” And this time it was she who led the way, in pursuit of the others.

She spotted Sir Miles in conversation with Hanna and Charles Dauntry near the entrance of the maze. Lucy stood in pensive silence beside them, gazing at the massive hedge. Then the girl turned slowly, scanning the parkland. She stiffened and Phoebe looked in the same direction, in time to catch a glimpse of another person, a man in a scarlet coat.

Lieutenant Harwich. She hadn’t a doubt about his identity. But how had he come to be here? He certainly had not been invited. He must have crept onto the grounds—but with Lucilla’s knowledge or on his own?

Rushmere ran his thumb along the back of her hand. “I should keep you amid the formal beds.”

That jerked Phoebe out of her troubled reverie. She stopped and stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Flowers.” He smiled at her, supremely confident. “They would serve as a more proper setting for you than this Wilderness. You should be surrounded by flowers, delicate ones, violets or tulips.”

She was in no mood to flirt and it took an effort not to tell him so. But by then they had reached the others and Miles cast her a quizzical look, giving her something new to worry about. Should she tell him about the presence of Lieutenant Harwich? Of course she could not be absolutely certain it had been he she saw. For the moment, she decided, she would do best to say nothing.

Hanna, Dauntry and Miles headed into the maze followed by Lucy, who seemed in no hurry. Phoebe started after them but Rushmere held her back, his manner once more that of an attentive host. “Would you care to be given the key to the center?”

“Absolutely not!” she objected. “It would quite ruin the fun.”

“Then I shall leave you for a little to enjoy it. But never fear, I shall return to rescue you after you have become hopelessly lost.” Holding her gaze, he kissed her hand then headed back the way they had come.

Phoebe stared after him for a moment then plunged between the yew walls. She could hear laughter and calls from various directions, indicating that the members of her party had wasted no time in becoming thoroughly lost. Left seemed an unlikely first direction so she turned that way then glanced back at the entrance to memorize how the passage looked from this direction. What she saw though was Lucilla slipping through the exit.