Friends and Foes (14 page)

Philip’s expression soured—he could feel his lips turn down in a frown. She still planned to hold on to her “correspondent”? She hadn’t seen the error in her judgment? What was wrong with her!

“I . . . would you . . .” Sorrel stuttered. “Would you help me?”

Now she wanted help?
Now! After all the times she’d ripped him up over his attempts to assist her? She’d rebuffed him severely for even the simplest offers in the past. She’d estranged her own brother just that afternoon.

“Sorrel Kendrick?” he scoffed, his frustration taking control of his tongue. “Sorrel Kendrick, who
never
needs or wants help? Sorrel Kendrick, who can do everything on her own?”

“I—” She seemed to squirm.

“I believe I have promised you many times not to offer you assistance of any kind,” Philip reminded her, making his way to the library door. The woman infuriated him! Her “correspondent” probably offered her plenty of assistance. She probably readily accepted it. So let
him
help her! “I am a man of my word, Miss Kendrick.”

“You would leave me here?” The shock in her tone could not be mistaken.

“A war tactic,” Philip replied with a slight bow. “An incapacitated enemy is easier to defeat.”

“Touché,
Lord Lampton.
” Sorrel turned her gaze back to the shelves in front of her. “You have finally claimed a victory, it would seem. You employ rather underhanded strategies, I hope you realize.”

“Including a belief in strategic retreats,” Philip added with a triumphant grin. “Good night, Miss Kendrick.”

He saw her cross her arms defiantly in front of her and felt certain she was glowering.

Let her stew,
he thought. Perhaps she’d emerge from their latest battle less prideful and less stubborn. Infuriating woman!

Correspondent,
indeed! A voice in the back of Philip’s brain whispered he had overreacted. Philip ignored it and stomped off to his room, wishing he’d never left London in the first place.

He’d lain on his bed for two hours, cravat, jacket, and boots discarded, shirttails untucked, staring up at the heavy, tapestry bed curtains. Sorrel had conceded defeat. He’d emerged from a confrontation the victor. So why did he feel so dissatisfied?

She had every right to a “correspondent,” every right to as many suitors as she chose to have, of whatever class she was willing to consider. The fact that
he
thought she ought not to settle for less than a gentleman did not factor into the equation, though she deserved better.

Philip supposed he felt disappointed that Sorrel hadn’t used her obvious intelligence, that she apparently held her own significance so cheaply. She ought to have chosen . . . better.

But none of that was any of Philip’s concern. Was it? Logically, no. But no amount of logical arguments had driven the situation from his mind. He
was
concerned.

An almost frantic knock on his door broke his repetitive thoughts.

“Come in,” he called.

Fennel Kendrick stepped inside, his eyes wide, his face decidedly pale.

“What is it, Poppy?” Philip swiftly got to his feet.

“We can’t find Sorrel.” Fennel’s words rushed out. “Marjie went to check on her, but she wasn’t in her bedchamber. She hasn’t been to bed yet. She left the sitting room a couple hours ago. She ought to have been in her room.”

With a few long strides, Philip reached his door. “She wasn’t in your mother’s chambers?”

“No. Nor Marjie’s.”

Philip tugged Fennel along with him as he made his way down the corridor toward the stairs. “Any idea where she might have gone?” Philip asked, his own heart beating a bit faster. He wasn’t usually so easily alarmed, but Fennel’s near panic had instantly unnerved him.

“No.” Fennel’s voice cracked on the word. “She’s at the start of more fevers. What if she’s ill somewhere?”

“Calm down, Poppy.” Philip stopped at the head of the stairs, trying to form a strategy. “Who else knows she’s missing?”

“Only Marjie and Mother and I. Mother didn’t want to bother the house. I couldn’t think of what to do, and Marjie’s too overset to undertake it. I needed help!”

“You did the right thing.” Philip laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder. The poor boy was trembling.

“We have to find her. The fevers can be bad when they are so close together!”

Philip’s mind ran frantically. Sorrel was not irresponsible. She wouldn’t have simply wandered off, not even in a fit of pique, though she’d obviously been quite put out by their battle earlier. Philip went over that encounter in his mind. Had she been upset enough to stalk off and sulk somewhere? He’d have plenty to say to her if she had. Worrying her family like this!

“Has anyone checked the stables? You’ve said she’s fond of horses.”

“She wouldn’t go now,” Fennel answered, emotion still high in his voice. “Not with your horse in there.”

“Devil’s Advocate?” Philip furrowed his brow. “Why would he keep her out?”

“He’s too much like—” Fennel stopped abruptly. “He reminds her of another horse.”

“You’re certain that would be enough to keep her away?”

Fennel nodded with conviction. “She was nearly killed by a large black horse,” he said quietly, pensively. “Yours is so much like Diablo Negro. Sorrel has avoided the stables ever since she saw him.”

“She had a run-in with the Black Devil?” Philip knew the infamous stallion’s reputation well enough to understand Sorrel’s discomfort at any memory of that horse.

Fennel nodded uncomfortably and pointed briefly at his right leg. Philip tried for a moment to decipher the strange gesture before the message became all too clear. Sorrel’s leg. The notoriously dangerous Diablo Negro. The “unfortunate incident.” Sorrel had been kicked or, more likely yet, trampled by the great black beast. That probably would be enough to keep her at a distance from Philip’s mount. Devil’s Advocate had been named, in part, for his sire: Diablo Negro.

“So not the stables,” Philip conceded. Fennel watched him with an alarming intensity that spoke volumes of his concern. “When was the last anyone saw her?”

“In the sitting room. She left a couple hours before everyone else, saying she intended to retire.” Fennel rubbed his hands in agitation. “Marjie had been making a big fuss over her, and I think Sorrel just wanted to get away. It
was
rather embarrassing,” Fennel admitted, “all the ado Marjie made. You’d have thought so too if you’d been there.”

“I was in the library,” Philip explained offhand. Sudden realization grasped his chest. He’d seen her in the library, probably
after
she’d left the sitting room. “She was in the library when I left,” he said aloud.

“She might still be there,” Fennel said hopefully. “Sorrel has fallen asleep at home reading in Father’s old study.”

“I’d bet a monkey that’s where she is,” Philip said.
Sulking,
he added silently. “Come on.”

They made their way down the staircase and toward the closed doors of the Kinnley library. If Sorrel wasn’t inside, Philip was going to strangle her. Lud, if she
was
inside, he was going to strangle her. She ought to at least have had the decency not to worry her family. But—his thoughts returned to Ipswich—how much concern could she have for her relations if she meant to foster a relationship with a man decidedly below her station in life?

Philip threw open the library doors and glanced around the dim room. Sorrel’s walking stick still leaned against the bookshelves where it had been earlier. The same thin, yellow leather-bound book she’d held in her hand lay discarded beside it. He did not see Sorrel.

“Devil take that woman,” Philip muttered, trying to choke down the sudden panic he felt. He’d been entirely sure she’d be in the library still. Now he was beginning to worry.

“Over there.” Fennel pointed toward the fireplace.

Sorrel sat on the floor, her arms and head lying haphazardly on the seat of the deep-blue sofa. Her eyes were closed, and she kept perfectly still.

“I think she’s asleep,” Fennel said as he rushed to her. “Sorrel?” he asked almost pathetically. “Sorrel?”

She opened her eyes a sliver but closed them almost immediately. Fennel placed a hand to her forehead, then breathed a sigh of obvious relief. He turned back to look at Philip. “No fever.”

“Go tell Miss Marjie,” Philip said. “I’ll rouse the prodigal sister and bring her up to her bedchamber.”

“Thank you.” Fennel jumped to his feet and ran from the room.

Philip moved purposely to the sofa, emotions warring inside: relief that she’d been found and seemed well, mingled with anger that she’d worried her family. Something almost painfully heavy settled in his chest.

He knelt on the floor beside Sorrel. Her eyes opened once more, the lids wearily heavy.

“And what do you have to say for yourself, Miss Kendrick?” Philip asked, trying to rein in his feelings.

She looked up at him, a little paler than he remembered her being. “
Now
will you help me?”

“What?”

“I hate asking for help, Philip.” She little more than whispered. “Please don’t make me beg.”

“I . . .”

“I have admitted defeat. What more do you need me to say?” Sorrel rubbed unabashedly at her right leg, her eyes pinched in what could only be described as agony. “I am certain you would have taken tremendous delight in watching me crawl like an infant across the floor trying to find something to pull myself to my feet with, but I am too weary and too pained to keep trying.”

“Crawled . . . ?” Philip’s eyes darted back to the abandoned book and walking stick then returned to Sorrel leaning rather helplessly against the sofa. “You mean . . . earlier . . . you truly could not get up?”

“Would I have asked for assistance if I did not absolutely require it?” Her voice broke with barely concealed emotion.

“I didn’t realize . . .” Philip’s insides twisted with shame. He’d actually left her sprawled helplessly on the floor.

“I have swallowed my pride. Will you please overlook your dislike of me long enough to help me rise off this cold floor?”

The fire had gone out, Philip suddenly realized. The bare floors were probably deucedly cold. She’d been down there for two hours. He did not need to hear the request again. In less than a heartbeat he lifted her up onto the sofa.

“May I have a blanket?” she asked before Philip had a chance to voice the apology quickly forming in his head.

Dash it! The woman was freezing. How could he have been so mutton-headed? Philip crossed immediately to the window box and pulled out a blanket he knew from experience would be there. He’d not managed to utter a single word by the time he’d wrapped it around her shoulders.

Her eyes darted to him, her mouth set in a firm line. Philip saw unshed tears gathering in her eyes.

“Sorrel, I am so sorry.” He could not recall being so angry with himself in a very long time. “I should have . . . I know you enough to realize . . . Blast it!” He threw his hands up in self-disgust. “I can’t even apologize correctly. What a muddle I am making of everything.”

“I would like to go to sleep,” Sorrel said quietly. “Will you help me to my room, please?”

Philip took a calming breath. She spoke with so little emotion, despite the obvious pain and disappointment in her eyes. “Of course,” Philip replied, realizing with a great deal of frustration that he’d seriously undermined her trust in him. A budding friendship had slowly been forming between them. Perhaps something more than a friendship—he’d very nearly kissed her in the carriage, after all. In one act of utter stupidity, he’d lost that.

“I do not think I can walk,” Sorrel warned.

“I would not expect you to endure two flights of stairs, Sorrel. Saving you from that agony is the least I can do considering my role in all of this.”

She did not deny his culpability.

Silently deriding himself for being a thoughtless cad, Philip lifted Sorrel from the sofa, one arm under her legs, one supporting her back. She placed her arms rather cautiously around his neck. Sorrel winced as he adjusted his hold. Philip felt his jaw tighten, knowing he’d contributed to that pain.

What kind of a gentleman was he, after all? He’d been defaming an unknown man in Ipswich for not being good enough for Sorrel, and he himself had been far from considerate.

“You won’t tell Marjie, will you?” Sorrel asked quite unexpectedly.

“That I left you incapacitated on the floor of the library?”

“That I couldn’t get up on my own. If she finds out, I’ll have her trailing me around like a nursery maid.”

“What would you suggest I tell her instead?” Philip asked, taking the steps as smoothly as he could manage. He noticed Sorrel’s expression tighten in pain with every jostle. “She knows you were in the library all this time.”

Sorrel let out a breath of frustration. “I don’t know. I would like to retain what small amount of dignity I have left. If she thinks I am entirely helpless, she’ll—”

“Treat you like a child?” Philip finished for her, slowly beginning to understand Sorrel’s family struggles. Miss Marjie did have a tendency to treat her sister like a toddler. Her
older
sister. And Fennel had the unhappy tendency to give her orders as well, and he an Eton lad.

Philip felt Sorrel lean against him a fraction more. For a woman he’d sworn he disliked, he rather appreciated the feel of her in his arms, which only added to the guilt gnawing at him.

“We could tell her you fell asleep,” Philip suggested, continuing the conversation in the hope of keeping his mind off her closeness. “The most capable of adults have been known to do that.”

“How do you plan to explain our current position?” Sorrel asked, her voice growing quieter, more groggy. Was she falling ill?

“I will tell her I insisted on carrying you,” Philip replied, hoping Sorrel was merely sleepy. “She knows enough of my stubbornness to believe I would.”

“You won’t tell her I couldn’t even stand up?”

“May my cravats wither if I breathe a word of it.”

He heard the tiniest of laughs from Sorrel. “A strong oath for a dandy,” she whispered, her head fully resting against his jaw.

“I fear I am not dressed the part at the moment.” Philip took the steps more slowly, though hardly acknowledging his halted pace.

“You look far more handsome when you aren’t hiding behind all that pomp,” Sorrel said, her words slow and heavy with fast-approaching sleep. “I don’t believe you are truly a fop underneath it all.”

“You would be correct, my dear.” Why he had admitted that, Philip couldn’t say. Perhaps he felt safer considering Sorrel’s nearly asleep state. Perhaps, for the first time in more than five years, he needed someone to know what he really was.
Who
he really was.

Oh, he was tempted to turn around and carry Sorrel right back to the library, to keep her in his arms a while longer, especially with her peacefully quiet and not attacking or contradicting him at every turn. But that was foolishness and Philip knew it.

Tomorrow would bring back his logical side, and he’d look back on the night and laugh at his own folly, right after he gave himself a firm talking to for being a thoughtless cad in the first place.