Candlelight Wish (17 page)

Twenty strides later his hand closed over her wrist. “Miss Caldicot,” he said, his breath coming heavily, “you are behaving in a ludicrous manner.”

“I am?” she cried, spinning to face him, unleashing her outrage at last. “Do you really think it is ludicrous to try to preserve my reputation?”

“Is that all that is worrying you?” his own vexation relaxed. “My dear girl—”

She turned on her heel and started walking once more. She didn’t want to hear his explanations or excuses. She simply wanted to escape from him, from this whole dreadful day. The chill breeze sent the ends of her thin shawl waving and she shivered. Surely she wouldn’t have to walk the whole distance back to London. There must be a farm where she could get help. Or barring that there would be another village soon. She shrank from the inevitable explanations, from the fact that she carried but little money with her.

She could still hear him behind her. For how long would she have to endure this pursuit before she convinced him she had no intention of returning with him? She should never have encouraged his advances, never led him to believe she might be willing to accept a
carte blanche
. She’d been so certain this high-ranking nobleman must be Xanthe’s answer to her wish.

The sound of an approaching carriage caught her attention and for a moment her hopes soared. Only the vehicle came toward her, not headed for London. She moved over to the side of the road, not wanting to add being run down to her list of grievances for the day.

The carriage, a gentleman’s curricle pulled by a pair, slowed as it approached then the horses eased from their trot to a walk then a stop. The bay horses. The familiar bay horses. She transferred her gaze to the driver and met the relieved gaze of Sir Miles Saunderton. He smiled, a warm comforting expression and Phoebe had to fight the absurd desire to burst into tears.

“I see I’ve found you at last,” he said quite unnecessarily. “We’d feared there’d been an accident when you didn’t return. Are you safe?”

“We are quite all right, Saunderton.” Rushmere glared at the new arrival.

“I am glad to hear it.” Miles regarded the marquis with a steady challenging gaze that held more than a hint of deadly steel. “A high-perch phaeton can be dangerous. I would consider it a very grave matter if anything unpleasant befell Miss Caldicot.”

Rushmere flushed. “You need not concern yourself for her safety.”

“No.” Miles held his gaze. “Not now at least. Miss Caldicot, may I offer you a ride back to your godmother? She is, needless to say, most concerned for you.”

He picked up something from the seat and held it out to her. Her pelisse, Phoebe realized with a rush of gratitude. She cast the flimsy shawl she had worn for the excursion to Hampton Court onto the seat of the carriage and donned the warmer garment against the growing cold of the approaching night. Now if he’d only brought a rug and a hot brick she would be quite in charity with him.

As soon as she had fastened her buttons he held out his hand and Phoebe grasped it, accepting his aid as she climbed into the curricle. Easy, compared to the high-perch phaeton, a vehicle she sincerely hoped she never laid eyes upon again. She settled at his side and already he drew a rug from beneath the seat and spread it across her legs. She snuggled into it.

Miles took the ribbons in both hands. “Good evening, Rushmere,” he said and gave his horses the office.

Phoebe glanced down at the outraged marquis. “Thank you, my lord, for a-a most interesting day,” she said, her tone icy. And with that she lapsed into a fuming silence as Sir Miles turned his equipage and headed back the way he had come.

They drove without speaking for some little time while the awkwardness of the situation struck her. She and Miles had barely spoken a civil word to one another over the last few days. Their last real encounter in fact had been a raging argument in which he had told her to stop meddling in Lucy’s affairs. And now here he was, meddling in hers—and she could only be profoundly grateful that he had. Still it made the situation a trifle sticky. With an effort, she managed, albeit stiffly, “I have not yet thanked you for coming.”

He spared her an amused glance. “I imagine you have done much the same for Lucy on more than one occasion.” He sounded unconcerned, as if journeying some nine miles with horses already tired from the original expedition were of no account.

“Nevertheless I am grateful,” she said, unbending a little.

“If you can refrain from catching a chill for another quarter of an hour we will come to an inn where I have already bespoken several hot bricks.”

“Oh!” A gasping chuckle escaped her. “You are bent upon making me beg your pardon for every unkind thought I have ever harbored against you.”

“Well, if one tends to be of a managing disposition, one ought to put it toward a good cause.”

At that she actually laughed, something she could not have imagined doing half an hour before.

They arrived at the inn a short time later and while the bricks were placed about her feet the innkeeper himself handed her a steaming mug of mulled wine. This she sipped as the horses trotted briskly out of the yard and resumed their journey to London. “I was right,” she murmured as her eyelids began to droop. “It is well sprung.” And with that she settled back in surprising comfort and allowed the strains of the day to fade away.

She roused some time later to the realization she had fallen asleep. The horses had slowed and now they turned through a narrow gate. She sat up and discovered she had been using Miles’ shoulder as a pillow. “I beg your pardon,” she began then broke off her apology. “Where are we?” she demanded, eyeing the illuminated windows of a manor house at the end of the drive.

“Westerly Place. The home of Mr. and Mrs. Pershing,” he told her, his voice soothing. “No, I am not abducting you. Your godmother is here. We felt your arrival in Half Moon Street under these circumstances might give rise to unpleasant gossip. So you will attend a very small dinner party here and then you and Lady Xanthe will return to your home in your own carriage. There will be no hint of impropriety attached to the evening.”

“That,” she said after a moment, “sounds like your managing again.”

“
Mea culpa
,” he agreed, his amusement sounding in his voice.

“There are times,” she said as one admitting to an unwelcome truth, “when a bit of managing does not come amiss. But how did you know I needed rescuing?”

He cast her a sideways glance as they drew up before the house. “I guessed. Forgive me but Rushmere can be rather obvious at times.”

“And I can be rather thick-witted” she said in a very small voice.

“Not that I have ever seen.” He jumped down and came around to her side. “But I should have to say it was your own uneasiness in his company that alerted me to the possibility that his intentions might prove to cause you some little difficulty this night.”

“A-a little,” she admitted. She accepted his hand and he helped her to alight.

A groom ran up from a path leading around the corner of the house and Miles handed the bays over into the man’s charge. He turned back to Phoebe, offering her his arm. “When you did not return within an hour of our own arrival I thought it best to set out in search of you.”

“And to involve my-my godmother in your scheme?”

“She was quite delighted with it, I assure you. Kept humming to herself.”

“Humming?” Phoebe demanded, her gaze narrowing. “Now I wonder what she was up to?” But as she added this last in an under voice, Miles might not have heard.

The front door swung open as they approached and he led her up the stairs and into a small but elegantly appointed entry hall. Phoebe barely had a chance to look around her before she found herself facing a footman who waited to relieve her of her pelisse and bonnet. Freed of these garments, she allowed Miles to escort her across the hall and into a salon.

An elderly couple sat side by side on a sofa before a hearth and Xanthe sat in a chair facing them, sipping from a wineglass. The sweet smell of almonds and lemon filled the room, stirring Phoebe’s hunger. Her relief at seeing her godmother faded beneath a burning desire for the answers to a few questions but she held these in check while Miles introduced her to her host, a small rotund man with thinning white hair and twinkling blue eyes and hostess, a spare woman with silvery hair and the sweetest expression Phoebe had ever beheld.

“And now, my love,” said Xanthe, “we must make you more comfortable. If you will excuse us?” She directed a brilliant smile toward the others and swept Phoebe from the room.

Phoebe cast a glance over her shoulder at Miles then followed her godmother, determined to have a few words with her in private. As soon as the housekeeper had shown them to a bedchamber, ascertained they had all they needed and taken her departure, Phoebe rounded on Xanthe. “What have you been about?” she demanded.

“With Rushmere?” Xanthe did not pretend to misunderstand. “Not a single thing, my love.”

Phoebe blinked at her. “But it was because of you he paid me such attentions. Why else would he look at me?”

“For your own sake, child. I had no hand in that.”

Phoebe sank onto the edge of the bed. “I thought it was your doing. I thought you offered him to me as the answer to my wish.”

Xanthe settled beside her, taking her hand. “I only offer opportunities, my love. Only you can provide the answers.”

“I-I see.” A wry smile tugged at Phoebe’s lips. “To think I set my cap at him simply because I felt I had to. I was so afraid of ruining the opportunity you gave me. Only it wasn’t him at all.”

“It could be anyone, my love, whomever your heart leads you to. Or it could be no one. It is entirely up to you and what you truly desire.”

Phoebe rose and paced across the floor. “I want Thomas to finish his education,” she said after a long couple of minutes.

“Very admirable,” approved Xanthe. “But that has nothing to do with what you want for yourself.” Phoebe stopped and stared at her and Xanthe smiled that mysterious smile. “You have never given that aspect sufficient thought, have you, my love?”

Phoebe found she had no answer for that.

Xanthe’s eyes gleamed. “Shall we join the others now?”

“I have to change my—” Phoebe began only to break off as she looked down at her gown. The crumpled muslin of the day had vanished to be replaced by a low-cut evening gown of amber colored silk decorated with only a single ruffle at the hem. She turned to the mirror that hung above the dressing table and discovered that her hair now hung in heavy ringlets from a knot at the crown of her head while wispy tendrils framed her face. A strand of amber beads clasped about her throat.

“Magic,” said Xanthe with a note of smugness, “can certainly be useful, can it not?” She rose took Phoebe’s arm and led her toward the door. “As long as you remember it cannot solve every problem.”

They descended the stairs to find Miles and the elderly Pershings still in the salon, surrounded by papers that on closer inspection proved to be musical scores. As they entered Miles came to his feet, his gaze resting on Phoebe with a look she couldn’t quite fathom. It left a warming glow in her though. Almost at once a portly butler of kindly aspect announced dinner and they crossed the hall to the dining room, a small apartment furnished with comfort rather than grandeur in mind. Phoebe liked it at once.

She took the seat Miles held for her. As he settled at her side she looked up at him and said softly, “Thank you.” He touched her hand, a fleeting contact but the smile that accompanied it filled her with an unexpected contentment.

A nosegay of violets erupted into the air before her and their petals cascaded down to her plate, vanishing before they touched the china. She looked up quickly and saw similar petal showers falling over the other members of the party. Xanthe met her accusing gaze with a mischievous wink and the petals reappeared, swirling upward to burst into iridescent particles as they collided with the ceiling.

The strains of a string quartet sounded in her mind.
Xanthe humming
?
she wondered but her godmother addressed her hostess, her attention apparently far from music. The magic though continued. Even the candles seemed to burn with a warmer hue, casting a rosy-golden glow over the table, the courses presented by the butler and the wine that sparkled in the crystal glasses.

Talk centered around music, of Mr. Pershing’s search for a viola of exquisite quality, of the discovery of a new musical score arranged for a quartet, of altering favorite arrangements for fewer instruments as so very few people really enjoyed sitting down to an evening of serious music these days.

In the midst of this Mrs. Pershing turned to Xanthe. “Do you by any chance play? So foolish of me to hope, I know but it has been so very long.” She blinked wide hopeful eyes.

“By happy chance,” said Xanthe, her eyes brimming with mischief, “Sir Miles mentioned we might indulge ourselves this night. I have brought my flute with me.”

Mrs. Pershing radiated joy. “And Miss Caldicot? Can we hope that she too is musically inclined?”

“She plays the pianoforte,” Miles assured his old friend. “Exceptionally well, I might add.”

This accolade startled Phoebe but she had no time to dwell on its unexpectedness. Already the eager Mrs. Pershing rose from the table, not allowing the gentlemen to linger over brandy but ushering them to the music room where she took a violin lovingly from its case. Her husband turned to his viola and Miles bent to examine the cello that stood in a corner, wrapped in protective cloths.