Potent Charms (20 page)

Pressing on the bridge of his nose, he paced before the
fire, then stopped and placed one hand in his pocket, the other on the mantle. "Is there any particular order in which
you wish me to address your questions?"

"It's late. I'm tired, wet, just a little bit disappointed and
fresh out of patience. If you didn't happen to notice, Marsden Manor is my very own personal setting for a Shakespearean comedy of errors. I already have my ghost. All I
need are three witches and a fairy or two."

"Calm down. You're becoming hysterical."

"Hysterical?" She finally allowed herself the laughter
that had threatened for the last half-hour. "Perhaps I am,
and if I am, it's my choice, and given the circumstances, I
feel mighty justified. I don't appreciate your high-handedness right now."

"Pardon me. I have no designs on managing your life for
you, although I'd likely do a damn good job. I thought you
might like a bit of time to think things through. Your house
is tumbling down about your ears. You seem to be broke.
Your staff is horrifically old, possibly incompetent, complete dolts or liars and thieves. I haven't decided which."

She drummed her fingers on the desk. "I realize something is amiss."

"Amiss? Hah! As to the wanderings of your dear
departed relative, we'll deal with that issue if and when he
arises. As to the staff, I desire a decent meal and a decent
bed. I do not mind paying for them."

"I don't have extra funds to be hiring people right now. I
can cook, as can Nanny Dee, and I've certainly made my
share of beds."

Bracing his feet apart, he placed his hands on his hips.
"You won't act as my servant. Do you understand?"

"And I won't have you paying my bills."

"Consider it a gift."

"Making me indebted to you. Hah. Mistresses accept
gifts."

"Phoebe, you're beginning to upset me."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "And I imagine-"

Nanny Dee sailed into the room, effectively bringing an
end to the dispute. A tantalizing aroma filled the library as
she set a tray laden with warm tea and bread on the lone
table. "There is something mighty strange going on in this
household. I met this man too old to be breathing who told
me I could leave the kitchen right this minute. I gave him a
piece of my mind and I reckon he won't be bothering me
no more. I thought he might fall over then and there. He
was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin'
chairs. I don't trust that man. Not one little bit." She propelled onward, allowing no one a word. "Now, Miss
Phoebe and I are going to see about our sleeping quarters.
I hear they have a nice room in the west wing suitable for
yer lordship. We'll be takin' a suite in the east side."

"That is, if you think we mere women can find our way
there?" Phoebe sarcastically added.

Stephen practically growled. He plastered a bland look
on his face. "Be my guest. Since you women," he emphasized the word, "seem to have things under control, I shall
take my feeble man's mind in search of Winston and Elizabeth."

Stephen silently maneuvered down the back servant's
stairs leading in the general direction of the kitchen. The
single tallow candle, which produced a faint sheeplike
odor, tormented his nostrils. After what some might call
dinner served in the library, he had lain awake thinking
about Phoebe and her inheritance, staff included, when he
heard the soft fall of footsteps outside his door. He swore
he'd smelled pipe tobacco as well. He knew Winston was
tucked in bed with Elizabeth, so he had immediately followed.

Reaching the lower floor, he peered around the doorway,
looking in both directions. Nothing stirred. As he listened
for any noise, he thought again of Phoebe and her newest
predicament. Marsden Manor was a disaster, the amount of
money required to restore the place astronomical, not to
mention the odd collection of servants.

Regardless of his need for a title, a man would have to
be a supremely self-sacrificing fool to invest funds in this mausoleum. With no additional financial support and a
coastline of cliffs unsuitable for use by most sailors, Marsden Manor had little future, which made Phoebe's task to
find a husband near impossible. His proposal made even
greater sense now than it did before.

Odd, but he found no joy in her current state of affairs.
He knew, as surely as he knew himself, that regardless of
all his warnings, she still hoped he would marry her. Not a
chance. He'd already killed two wives. He refused to add
Phoebe to the list.

The image of his first wife came to mind. Emily had
been so damn trusting, so easy to please. She had wanted a
balcony added to the original structure of Badrick Manor,
joining her room to his. She'd asked for so little, he'd
gladly seen to the arrangements. The balcony had become
her favorite place to sit, to read and enjoy the morning sun.
If only he had known.

Both Emily and his child had died while he sat in the
comfort of his study, sipping a brandy and reading the
bloody newspaper. They'd fallen to their deaths while he'd
pondered the coming races at Ascot. His first marriage and
its abrupt conclusion seemed a lifetime ago, yet to this day,
the pain struck like a dagger to his heart. He clenched his
fist around the candle. Lord, why couldn't his past stay
buried?

A door creaked and a dim light glowed down the hall
near what he'd learned from earlier explorations was the
old music room. The flame of his candle flickered. A cold
rush of air brushed his body. He barely contained his
excitement. The culprit sneaking about would soon be
caught dead to rights. He crept forward using every bit of
stealth he could muster and peered inside. Hard to believe,
but the room was empty.

"Damn," Stephen muttered. Cursing a second time
because it improved his mood, he froze when he heard the light fall of footsteps. Didn't anyone in this bloody household sleep? He sneaked over to the arched doorway.

An apparition, cloaked in white and suspiciously familiar, tiptoed toward him. Much to Stephen's surprise, when
the ghostly figure whacked her toe on a loose floorboard,
she swore like a sailor on shore leave.

Within two long strides, he gripped her wrist and
whirled her about. Before she could scream, waking everyone else, he covered her mouth with his hand. "Are you out
of your mind? What the devil do you think you're doing?"

Phoebe twisted her head to the side and whispered furiously, "Me? You scared the very wits out of me."

"Answer my question."

"I couldn't sleep and then I heard someone downstairs."

"So you decided to investigate?" When she nodded, he
dragged his hand through his hair, ordering himself not to
yell. He certainly didn't need anyone else lurking in the
hallways. The woman was like a willful child, always
going where she wanted, when she wanted, with little
thought to the consequences. "That was bloody stupid."

"What about you?"

"I'm a man. I'm supposed to seek out adversaries, protect the woman, the home and all that."

"Nonsense." When all the muscles on his face tensed,
she planted her hands on her hips. "Well, o great defender
of hearth, whatever did you find?"

"The person sneaking around waltzed into the music
room and disappeared. Hardly normal comings and
goings."

Her eyes rounded and she looked from side to side like
someone trapped in a cemetery long after dark. "No need
to fret, Phoebe. I do not believe your ancestor dropped by
for a nightcap. Ghosts tend to walk through obstacles. Our
intruder used a door. He must have slipped by me."

"However did you let that happen?"

He started to answer, then decided to keep his churlish
remark to himself. Given his current mood, he'd likely end
with a blistering lecture on common sense, which she'd
likely resent. Turning on his heels, her hand in his, he
headed back down the hall. "Where is Dee? And don't tell
me she allowed you to sneak down here unaccompanied."

"She never heard me. Once she's asleep, a barnyard full
of roosters couldn't wake her before sunrise."

That little tidbit certainly garnered the full attention of
both his mind and body. Stopping dead in his tracks, he
allowed his eyes to travel down Phoebe's silk-clad body
and back up again. Tiny pearl buttons ran the length of the
robe all the way to her neck, where she'd forgotten to fasten the uppermost three. A touch of delicate pink lace
peeked above the collar. Her hair fell in auburn waves
down her back. He lowered his voice to a purr. "That's not
exactly the wisest thing to tell a man bent on seduction."

She swallowed quickly, yanked the robe tight about her
neck and thrust her pert little nose high in the air. "I assure
you, Lord Badrick, I'll be seduced if and when I decide I
want to be seduced. In all likelihood, that won't happen
until my wedding night."

Stephen merely grunted. He tightened his grip about her
hand, pulling her with him, unwilling to enter into a discussion on matrimony at this hour of the night.

"Wherever are we going?"

"The music room. There has to be something I missed."

"Like Grandfather Augustus."

"Doubtful."

A damp chill had settled over the house like a shroud as
the rain continued to pour. Whispers of cold air from the
cracks in the windowpanes danced about hall, reminding
Stephen he wore only a thin shirt hastily tucked into his
breeches. Phoebe wasn't wearing much more than he did.
Here they were, alone, without the benefit of a chaperone, barely dressed, in the middle of night, and he was leading
her down a dark drafty hallway. He was going mad. "Did
that cook say anything of use?"

"No," she answered regretfully.

"No worries. You'll have time tomorrow to ask Hampson your questions. Here we are."

The music room occupied the back corner of the first
floor. The light from Stephen's candle brought shadows to
life on walls in dire need of painting. A harp occupied one
corner, and a small decanter and several glasses sat on a
table, one lone chair nestled beside it.

Phoebe plucked her hand from Stephen's, stood on her
tiptoes, and peered around his shoulder into the darkness.
"Shouldn't we wait until morning? Lots of sunlight and
all."

He felt her breasts against his back through the fabric of
his shirt. Blast it all, he wasn't a bloody saint. How was a
man supposed to uphold the best of his intentions with her
body parts pressing against him? Delightful body parts. He
pivoted about, prepared to offer her fair warning. Placing
one hand behind her neck, he held her captive. "I'm fairly
awake now. I probably couldn't sleep if I tried. If you wish,
we could revisit our discussion from earlier today. I'd even
be willing to demonstrate a technique or two. Shall we
return to the safety of the library and"

He sensed the fires within her begin to heat. Her eyes
rounded and her nostrils flared. "Ah, hell," he muttered,
then dropped his lips to hers, speaking more eloquently
than with words. Her breath hitched and her pulse raced
beneath his fingers. That was all the invitation he needed.
Without further thought, he molded his body to hers, his
hands plumping the soft globes of her buttocks. Thigh to
thigh with his chest glued to her breasts, he slid his tongue
into her mouth. This was not a timid kiss, but one of fire
and heat, expectation and promise. He removed his mouth from hers to nibble on the mole behind her left ear that
drove him to distraction every time she wore her tidy braid.

She managed to speak between her reedy gasps of
delight. "I don't think this is a very good idea. I mean, we
might not be alone." Circling to the front of him, she
pressed her backside against his front and said, "The least
you could have done was bring a bigger light."

He managed a groan before, out of self-preservation, he
wandered to the nearby wall. She followed him like the
sweet scent of perfume. Occasional warm wisps of air
fanned the sensitive spot behind his left ear. Ignoring the
impulse to drag her into his arms, which would surely lead
to other improper impulses, ones he was trying very hard
to resist, he traced the space above the wooden molding.

"Whatever are we looking for?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. If someone came into this room, they had
to have left by another exit."

"Like a hidden passage? How exciting."

Slowly circling the room, he thoroughly inspected each
wall panel, periodically tapping the wood. From time to
time, Phoebe imitated his actions, but mostly she hovered
at his heels, leaving little space between them, chattering at
a rapid pace.

"Did you know Wibolt's been at Marsden Manor for
three years?" she said. "Hampson has been here forever.
Anyway, Wibolt claims to know nothing about the
finances, only that money was scarce. He mentioned other
people and some nasty woman who used to come and go. I
never quite understood that part. He began to fret something awful when I asked questions about Hampson or
Grandfather, whom he claims he actually saw."