Potent Charms (11 page)

"I'm usually a tad more tactful, but I really do need to
know. Did he murder them?"

"Of course not."

Thank goodness, thought Phoebe. She should have
trusted her instincts all along. Stephen was not capable of
murder. That meant there was a logical reason for all the
rumors. "However did Emily die?"

"It was some sort of accident shortly after Emily birthed
the Badrick heir. Stephen found her and the baby dead in
the nursery. Or was it the bedroom?" She chewed on the tip
of her finger.

"What of Louisa? Hildegard said she left Stephen and
died as a result."

"Actually, I believe she fell down a flight of stairs one
night. I'm sorry I'm not much help. I was in the country at
the time and Stephen refuses to speak of it."

"Hildegard also mentioned a curse."

"Lud. Stephen speaks even less of that than his two dead
wives."

Phoebe recognized Elizabeth's reluctance, unsure if she
truly knew so little or whether she protected Stephen. Thus
far, most of the information made Phoebe wonder even
more about Stephen's past. She pressed on. "Surely you
have more accurate information than my aunt."

"It has something to do with his great-grandfather and a gypsy woman, who cursed the Badrick men and their marriages."

"Does Stephen actually believe that malarkey?"

"When I was eight, Stephen showed me this lock of hair
with ribbons in a trophy case. He said it was his heritage. I
know his father believed it and became a bitter, nasty man.
As for Stephen, if you live with unhappiness day after day,
year after year, a part of you comes to believe anything
even if you are otherwise an intelligent man." Impatiently
throwing up her hands, Elizabeth added, "Whether the
curse exists or not, he believes both women would be alive
if not for him."

"Phooey. Do you believe in the curse?"

"I do know that no family deserves so much unhappiness. Perhaps I disbelieve because I wish the best for
Stephen." Elizabeth twirled the handle of the parasol
between her palms. "Since we seem to be speaking so
openly, will you tell me something?"

"If I can."

"Do you love him?"

Hiding her hands in the folds of her blue linen skirt,
Phoebe once again considered the question she had asked
herself the last few days. "Can you love someone you
barely know?"

The way Elizabeth waved her hand led Phoebe to
believe she found the question ridiculous. Her eyes became
dreamlike and her smile turned languid. She looked every
bit the woman in love. "The moment I saw Winston I
wanted to meet him. After three dances, four glasses of
punch and one game of whist, I was madly in love."

Phoebe tried to define her feelings. She remembered the
immediate kinship she felt for Stephen when they met in
Wyman's study, the warmth that settled in the pit of her
stomach, caused by a simple flash of his dark eyes, the
heart-stopping reaction to their first kiss, the disappoint ment when he said he would never marry. No man had ever
made her pulse beat so erratically or invaded her dreams as
he did. "I find the man wildly attractive and equally aggravating. He's arrogant and secretive, kind and intelligent.
He creeps into my mind throughout the day and night. I
love his eyes. Heavens, I even find myself thinking about
the way he says my name." She clasped her hands in her
lap. "Would I be a fool to try and win his heart?"

"I hope you will try and succeed, but I must be candid.
Stephen will resist. No matter how hard you try and even if
you succeed in making him love you, I cannot guarantee
you marriage. He's bloody stubborn about that. If he does
marry you, there is no guarantee he will allow himself to
love you. Yet, if you're able to break the iron band about
his heart, and he allows himself the luxury of happiness, he
would give you the world." Grinning, Elizabeth relaxed
against the seat. "In fact, I will help in whatever way I can.
Winston is hosting a country party in two weeks. Of
course, Stephen will be there. You can spend the entire
weekend proving to the man that you would make the perfect--"

Before Elizabeth could finish her sentence, the two
women slid forward in their seats as the carriage abruptly
stopped. Traffic had come to a complete halt. In the middle
of the road, tied to a wooden cart laden with trinkets and
food, sat a haggard old mule. A young boy, no more than
six or seven, tugged at a long rope, trying his best to coax
the animal into moving. The gathering crowd, dismayed
and delayed by the obstinate animal, hurled insults and
solutions to the problem. A man with arms the size of platters kicked the animal while shouting obscenities at the
boy. "Lands alive, doesn't that fool know that mule can't
carry all that weight?"

"He probably thought to take advantage of all the people
attending the race."

Phoebe watched with growing trepidation as the owner,
a heavy leather whip in his hand, stomped toward the boy.
Tears fell down the lad's cheeks as he boldly jumped
between the mule and the man, accepting the blow
intended for the animal. The image of Nelda, a young slave
back home, taking an undeserved lash, crept into Phoebe's
mind. The pain Phoebe felt when she herself stepped in the
direct path of the next blow surfaced as well.

Fury gnawed at her stomach. Without another thought,
she climbed from the carriage, racing to the boy's side
before a second blow fell.

"Phoebe!" Elizabeth yelled from the carriage before
hopping down to follow.

With one elbow balanced on the pommel of his saddle,
Stephen slapped his leather gloves across his thigh.
"Where the devil do you suppose they are? They should
have arrived a good fifteen minutes ago."

Winston squinted against the glare of the sun reflecting
on the water. "It pleases me to see you in a state of anticipation, something I have not witnessed for a very long
time. It gives me hope."

Stephen crossed his arms, unwilling to slip into a debate
on a subject his friend had attempted to broach for the last
hour. "Stow it, Winston."

"Is this the manner in which you entice all those women
to your bed?"

"What women?"

"Precisely," Winston grinned, obviously satisfied he'd
found an opening. "Since you practically live the life of a
hermit and a monk. Perhaps if you softened that acerbic
exterior of yours, you might not scare people away so easily." Shifting his eyes to Stephen, Winston added, "Including Miss Rafferty."

Growing more restless, Stephen began to pace, stopping now and again to survey the arriving curricles. "Let me
worry about Phoebe."

"I intend to. I simply offer my assistance, my flair for
diplomacy and negotiation should you desire it. How will
you explain your illustrious ancestry? Phoebe's bound to
hear a rumor or two or three."

"I imagine Elizabeth, whose machinations rival yours,
disclosed all she knew which thankfully is little the
moment she and Phoebe were alone. She'll be thrilled to
have been a part of what she deems the greater plan. My
future."

"True. She does like to meddle."

Stephen briefly glanced at Winston, ready to remind his
friend of the proper roles between men and women. What
was the point? His friend was hopelessly in love. Stephen
scanned the road and field once again. Frowning, he fisted
his reins in his hand and, with a natural ease, swung onto
the back of his horse. "Stay here. I'm going to ride back
and see if I can find the ladies. Perhaps Cosgell got himself
into trouble."

Keeping a tight rein on the stallion, Stephen slowly
threaded through the crowd. Thank heavens he sat a horse
rather than a carriage. After half a mile or so, the narrow
road became less congested. When he rounded the bend,
he witnessed chaos at its pinnacle. Stalled carriages were
everywhere. At the center of the commotion was a mule
that looked as though he belonged at heaven's gate. Scattered fruit littered the ground. A cart on the verge of losing
the balance of its wares tilted precariously on one wheel.
Lord Albuld, a pompous philistine, made a ribald comment
to someone near the mule, which elicited chuckles and
additional comments from the spectators.

"Thank you, sir, but I do not recollect asking your opinion in the matter. Kindly mind your own business."

The voice definitely female set the hairs on the back of Stephen's neck straight on end. He nudged Cavalier
closer to the fray only to discover Phoebe, a leather whip in
her hands, standing between a man twice her size and a
small boy who had practically buried himself between her
skirts and the mule. What the devil was the fool girl thinking? She could be trampled, or beaten, let alone disgraced
in front of half the peers of London, who were occupying
themselves by placing bets with one another from their
carriages. And the brute of a man stood ready to attack.

Lord, she needed a keeper. Anger like a fever seeped
into every fiber of his body. He closed his eyes for a
moment, exhaled deeply, and tamped down the fear and his
brewing temper. Slipping from his horse, he strode forward. Elizabeth, standing nearby, twisted her handkerchief
in her hands. He should have known she would be close at
hand. When she noticed his arrival, she had the audacity to
wave. Unbelievable. Damn it to hell, both women needed
keepers. Where the devil was the driver, Cosgell?

Suddenly the mule shifted his weight, jostling Phoebe
and the boy. With the urchin tangled in her skirts, she
stumbled to her knees. The peddler lunged forward, his
muscled arm outstretched. A hush fell over the crowd.
Stephen charged, ready to protect Phoebe at all cost.

With agility uncommon to most women and enviable by
most men, Phoebe pressed to her feet, snapping the whip
near the peddler's left ear at the same time. Stunned,
Stephen stopped dead in his tracks. Surely his mouth hung
open. The whoops and hollers from the audience jarred
him into action.

Three long strides placed him behind Phoebe. He said, a
distinct chill to his words, "I don't believe the lady wishes
the boy, or the mule, to be whipped."

Phoebe whirled about, the anger lining her face diminished by her astonishment. "Lord Badrick."

He even detected a bit of relief. Not for long, he thought. "Miss Rafferty." He nodded coolly yet said nothing else,
knowing this was not the time to offer the lecture scalding
the tip of his tongue. "Move to the carriage."

"I must see to the boy first." She bent to check the
wounds on the lad's arm, clucking and cooing like a nursery nanny.

The peddler cleared his throat. His barrel chest puffed
with indignation. "Hold on a minute. That lady owes me an
apology and some blunt. She done ruined me animal and
me wares."

If humanly possible, darts could have flown from
Phoebe's eyes as she stood to face the man, her hands
fisted at her waist, her right toe tapping at a rapid pace.
"Why you good-for-nothing-bully. If I weren't a lady, I
would"

"Give 'em hell, miss," yelled a man from a nearby carriage.

"Five pounds says he plants a facer on the lady," cried
another voice.

Another fellow held a note high in the air and
announced, "Five pounds says Lord Badrick plants a facer
on the chap, then plants a facer on the lady."

A flurry of renewed betting consumed the audience as
Phoebe searched for the men who uttered the offensive
suggestions. Stephen glowered at one of them, who had the
good sense to close his mouth and sit down. Satisfied by
that reaction, he leaned within an inch of Phoebe's face
and whispered, "I suggest, most adamantly, that you hie
yourself away from here and climb into that bloody carriage before I do something we both regret." He waited as
she gasped, her eyes rounded, her face flushed.

Evidently feeling safe enough to step forward, Elizabeth
tugged on Phoebe's arm. "Come along. I recognize that
tone of voice. This is not the time to discuss anything. He's
quite angry with us."

"Not just angry, Elizabeth," Stephen snapped. "I'm
bloody furious."

"Well, I never," grumbled Phoebe. "What of the boy?"

"I will see to him."

She seemed to consider something of great import, then
nodded. Proudly squaring her shoulders, wearing her dignity like a cloak, she mumbled and sputtered as she followed Elizabeth to the carriage. A portion of the
assembled group groaned, disappointed the show had
ended without additional violence. They'd likely lost their
wagers. Others cheered as she passed. Every now and
then, when someone spoke directly to her, she stopped,
smiled cordially then moved on. Some bloody gent,
pleased with the outcome of the fiasco, even kissed her
hand. Money was quickly exchanged between those perverse enough to have placed bets on the incident, and men
righted the cart, moving it from the center of the road,
allowing traffic to disperse.

When Stephen deemed Phoebe to be a safe distance
away, he turned his attention back to the peddler. "Are you
of the habit of beating women and boys?"

"She interfered where she had no business."

Stephen's blood still boiled. He wanted nothing more
than to pummel this churl for placing the blame on Phoebe.
However, this particular play needed no additional scenes.
Gritting his teeth, he turned to the lad. "What's your
name?"

"Niles, sir."

Kneeling on one leg, Stephen softened his voice so as
not to scare the young boy who shifted his weight nervously from leg to leg. "What happened, Niles?"

"Me and me mum helps Jakes from time to time when
we needs the money. We need it real bad now. Me sister is
sickly. Me mum cooks and Jakes peddles what she makes,
but it's me mule. Angus got tired and Jakes beat 'im. That lady stopped him from urting us. She's an angel, she
is."

"Yes, she is. Now, listen well. Go to Number Twelve
Park Lane. Ask for Davelman. Tell him Lord Badrick sent
you. Send for your mother and sister. Stay there until I
return. Do you understand?"