Potent Charms (21 page)

"Phoebe," Stephen said on a sigh. "You're talking about
an old man you just met who might be responsible for this
very mess. You're also rambling."

"It helps me think of something other than what I am currently doing, which right now is somewhat unappealing. I'm not in the habit of seeking ghosts in the middle of
the night." She paused. "Anyway, one evening, on his way
to the kitchen, on the lower floor of the south wing, Wibolt
saw Augustus carrying a box while he smoked a pipe and
whistled. He disappeared directly into the wall of family
portraits in the west wing. Do you think that passages connect various parts of the manor?"

"Possibly." He tapped a panel one last time. Nothing
seemed out of the ordinary, but bother, someone had come
into this room. And he didn't believe in ghosts. At least not
the kind that rose from the dead. He rubbed his fingers
back and forth across his mustache. "Well, raise a bloody
breeze."

Phoebe crossed to the window seat, balanced on her
knees and peered into the night. "Whyever would someone
be up and about on a night like this, anyway?"

"Hmmm." Stephen pondered the same question. He lit
another candle, found a single crystal decanter on a small
table, removed the brass stopper, then sniffed and smiled
delightedly." 'Tis something we shall discover sooner or
later."

Lightning ripped across the sky. The sight of Phoebe's
nightclothes pulled taut over her derriere brightened
Stephen's mood faster than the anticipated brandy. After
filling two glasses, he joined her on the window cushion.
Another white light flashed outside, causing Phoebe's skin
to practically glow.

The cream silk nightgown and robe clung to her body,
accentuating the curves Stephen had already imagined and
memorized. Her red hair fell in waves down her back. She
was temptation in its purest form. It was easy to imagine
her naked beneath him, the rain pounding on the windows
as he offered her his body heat. He would remove her
clothes bit by bit, starting with the tiny pearl buttons, then ease his way to the shoulder nearest him. Using his mouth,
he'd work his way toward her breast. He watched her
tongue lick a drop of brandy from the corner of her mouth.
Lord, he wanted to devour her.

Her eyes, softened by the alcohol and the late hour,
gleamed with something akin to adoration. It was the kind
of look that assaulted a man's heart, willing him to believe
all things were possible. Even escaping gypsy curses and
tortured pasts. Damn and blast, he thought, shaking his
head, what was he thinking? She was beginning to plant
impossible dreams in his head, and it frightened him to his
very core. He shifted to the edge of his seat and crossed his
arms and legs. "Don't look at me like that."

"I beg your pardon?" Phoebe asked. She was startled by
the brusque tone of Stephen's voice.

"You heard me. Wielding that come-hither expression
that incites men to ponder impossible things, turning them
into blithering idiots. Only my frustration, which is your
fault, makes me susceptible. If you were any other woman,
you would be flat on your back right now, regardless of the
consequences."

Phoebe watched Stephen move across the room with the
animal grace she had come to appreciate. His movements
were more agitated than normal, stemming from an inner
restlessness she didn't comprehend. "It seems I arrived at
the play after intermission."

He uttered a terse response from the doorway, his face
concealed by shadow. "Do you intend to carry on with
your preposterous plan?"

Trying to determine the reason for his mood shift, she
answered slowly, cautiously. "I have no choice."

"Give over. The task you now face is impossible."

Phoebe recognized the truth. She'd thought of nothing
less since she arrived here, since she'd finished a meager
meal of potatoes and what she thought was ham cooked by Mrs. Potter, who flinched whenever a noise echoed elsewhere in the house; a meal served on chipped earthenware
plates by Wibolt, who had worn a tattered livery. Marsden
Manor was a hangman's noose about her neck. She kept
her voice cheerful, almost flirtatious. "To which task do
you refer, sir? It seems I have many these days."

"You have three weeks left to find a husband. Add this
monstrosity of a home and your chances of making a
match that won't make your life a living hell are slim."

"Granted, my task is more difficult."

"Humph," he snorted sarcastically. "Exactly what manner of man do you think to marry? Will you lie to him?"

All pretenses evaporated. She leapt from the window
seat, her night robe whipping behind her as she advanced
on Stephen. "How dare you? I intend to be frankly honest.
If he wants his title, he'll have it. If he wishes to never set
one foot here, fine and dandy. Don't you think I understand
my circumstance? Do you think me a feather-headed pea
brain with no scruples? I assure you, I am made of sterner
stuff. I've worked before and I'll do so again if I have to,
but I'm bound and determined to keep Marsden Manor
even if I use one room at a time. Lands alive, it's not as if I
need forty-eight rooms."

She shoved her hands into her pockets before she could
do something stupid. Violence would accomplish nothing.
She stomped from the music room, took four steps and
exhaled, trying to purge her mounting frustration and
anger. She whirled about. "I told myself I would not have
another outburst like the one earlier today. Can't you even
see the possibilities here?"

Joining her in the hallway, he said, "To be perfectly
frank, no."

"That's because you're a man. You dream with logic and
your pocketbook. Women dream with their hearts."

"It's a damn good thing we do, else the world would be in financial ruin. At least tell me why? You never saw this
place before today."

If she convinced him of the importance of this place, he
might at least understand her determination. She walked a
bit, knowing he followed her. Three beautifully carved
panels lined the hallway. She stopped beside one, allowing
her fingers to drift along the dusty curves of the lifelike
fruits and flowers draped with flowing ribbons. "Lordy, I
know there's a lot to be done, but my mother was born and
raised here. She loved the sea, the hills. She kept a miniature painting on the dresser in her bedroom. When I was
young, I'd sneak into her room and imagine myself living
here. It seemed like a fairy castle, a safe haven, the perfect
place for a princess to live and wait for her prince to
come."

"Don't expect a prince to come unless he has two thousand pounds and a hearty appetite for discomfort, disorganization and bad food. Besides, I hardly expect you'll
find a prince amongst the candidates sniffing after you and
your title like mangy curs."

"Oh, you..." she bit back a scream. "It must be a
blessed thing to be a man and rule the world. To have so
much money you can do whatever suits your fancy and
never worry if you'll have enough to pay your bills,
whether or not you'll arrive home to find your property
sold from underneath you. Believe you me, Marsden
Manor will be mine. No one will take it from me except
myself. My actions will determine the consequences."

An unearthly shriek pierced the darkness. Any thoughts
regarding Stephen's stubborn behavior evaporated with the
eerie silence that followed. Phoebe slapped her hand to her
chest. "Dear heavens. What was that?"

"Stay behind me," Stephen ordered. "No matter what.

He didn't need to ask twice. He whisked her behind him,
locking her hand in his as they ran down the hall. Stopping beside the wood bannister, they froze, listening, their rapid
breathing the only sound. Another shrill cry echoed off the
bare walls.

"The cook," Stephen cried. Evidently, the earlier activities were only the prelude to tonight's events. Splendid. He
might never sleep. By the time they reached the cook's
quarters, an eerie silence lingered. Stephen frowned. The
door, slightly ajar, opened easily. Mrs. Potter lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, her face ash-gray. A broom
lay at her feet.

Phoebe's nails pinched his hand as her grip tightened.
"Do you think she's dead?"

Moving quickly, Stephen pried his hand loose and
placed two fingers beneath Mrs. Potter's nose. "She's
fainted."

"Whatever happened?"

"We shall have to wait for her to wake," he said as he
lifted the cook to the bed. "See if you can find another candle. I don't suppose you have smelling salts, do you?"

Giving him an expression that clearly said she found the
question insulting, Phoebe found a rag and a small bowl of
water on the nightstand.

"Sweet Delilah, what was that?" Dee cried as she sailed
into the room, Hampson right behind.

"The cook screamed," answered Stephen.

Dashing into the room hand-in-hand next were Elizabeth and Winston. They might have served tea for all the
blasted commotion. "For the love of Mary, who was murdered?" Winston asked.

"No one. Cook fainted," added Phoebe. "Like you, we
heard the scream all the way in the library, came running
and found Mrs. Potter in a dead faint."

"Oh, dear," murmured Hampson, his face rigid.

"Here, give me that," said Dee, grabbing the rag from Phoebe and crossing to the felled cook. While dabbing the
woman's brow, she shot Stephen a questioning glare. "You
wanna tell me exactly why you two was up and about in
the middle of the night?"

Stephen decided this was the perfect time to exert ducal
authority. "Not particularly."

"Do you want to tell me?" Elizabeth asked as she studied Stephen and Phoebe's faces for any signs of mischief.

"No," Stephen snapped.

Evidently realizing there was no immediate threat to the
household, Winston leaned against the bedpost, a grin tugging at his lips. "Would you like to tell"

"Oh, good grief," Phoebe mumbled, right after she
stepped on Stephen's toe with the heel of her foot before he
could say something rude. "We heard noises and were
investigating. That's all."

"It seems Wibolt is the only one missing from this little
party," Winston said, knowing Stephen likely wondered the
same thing. "Where do you suppose he might be?"

"I believe he is still abed," answered Hampson, standing
a good inch taller while shoving his hands deep into the
pockets of his flannel robe.

Mrs. Potter sputtered, gasped twice and snapped awake.
Obviously still panic-stricken and dazed, she reached for
the handle of the broom. "Is...he...gone?"

Stephen patted her hand, reassuring her all the while.
"Who?"

"His lordship." She raised a finger toward the corner.
"Standing there at the foot of me bed, big as life. Scared
me near to death, he did. I'll never be able to cook a decent
meal again."

Stephen refrained from mentioning that Mrs. Potter
didn't seem to know how to cook as it was, but felt that
now was probably not the best time to criticize her culinary abilities. She was still shaking like a banner in the breeze.
"I assure you, Lord Marsden made no appearance tonight.
You had a dreadful dream, that's all."

"Hah. I told Mr. Hampson I'd cook, but I won't be
spending me nights here no longer."

"Shhh," Stephen cooed. "Certainly an intelligent woman
like yourself knows better than to believe in ghosts. In
either case, you can share Miss Rafferty's room for the rest
of the night." He looked to Phoebe, who nodded. Shifting
to the foot of the bed, Stephen addressed the group. "It's
settled. Elizabeth, please help Mrs. Potter gather her
belongings while Winston and I check a few things. Go
along, Phoebe. We'll muddle through this mess tomorrow."

Judging from the looks Dee exchanged with Stephen,
Phoebe wished she'd left the room five minutes earlier. She
needed no lecture, no warning, no interrogation. Not from
anyone. Not tonight. Stephen had provided enough for her
to think on.

"Come on, child. Back to bed," said Dee.

Without an ounce of energy to argue, Phoebe simply
turned on her heel, heading for the stairs. Phoebe swore
she could hear Dee's mind silently spinning with questions. "Speak your peace. Otherwise, you'll toss and turn
all night, which will only keep me awake." Phoebe glanced
over her shoulder. "But before you do, I'll tell you this.
Nothing happened. At least not what you suspect."

Dee matched Phoebe's steps, taking the stairs briskly.
She clasped Phoebe's hand and squeezed. "I know that,
Sweet Pea. I'm just testing the man's mettle."

Phoebe chuckled over that revelation, which didn't surprise her one little bit. Yawning, she removed her robe,
climbed onto the lumpy straw mattress, pounded a spot
here and there, finally gave up and lay down.

Humming, Dee pulled the cover all the way to Phoebe's
chin. "Why so glum?"

"Dee, I'm trying, truly I am, but it's difficult to even find
the rainbow this time, let alone the pot of gold. However
will I find a decent man to marry me with this place as my
inheritance?"

Dee stroked Phoebe's curls from her forehead as she had
done so many times before. "Don't count yourself out,
Miss Phoebe. Miracles, big and small, happen everyday.
Go to sleep, child. Things will look brighter in the light of
day."