Revealed (31 page)

Bitsy had the upper paw in this instance, for unlike his owner, he was a prime judge of horseflesh. And indeed, he happily wriggled free of Phillippa’s embrace and trotted over to the black beast’s stall, rose up on his hind legs, and greeted her.

Phillippa trod carefully over to the horse, who was looking at Bitsy in bemusement, careful not to get her Madame Le Trois silk flounced skirts muddy from the stable dirt.

“Would you like a bit of hay?” Phillippa asked, as she picked a handful out of the bundle at the stall’s door.

The black beast took it eagerly, licking Phillippa’s hand with her sticky tongue for more.

“Ew!” Phillippa cried. “That is quite enough”—a quick glance at the top of the stall gave her the beast’s name—“Letty. Your manners are quite deplorable. You would eat Bitsy if I offered her to you, wouldn’t you?”

At that, Bitsy stopped preening for Letty and cowered behind Phillippa.

Phillippa was about to laugh out loud—for the first time that day—when behind Letty, through the stall, into the interior of the stable, she saw someone move.

She would have thought nothing of it if she hadn’t recognized the paunch and whispy blond hair of Lord Sterling.

Ducking down quickly, Phillippa hid her body beneath Letty’s half door, muddy skirts be damned. But try as she might to hear anything, she couldn’t from her current crouched position.

Slowly, she brought her head up, inching her eyes above the door. There she was greeted by Letty’s long, wet nose.

“Drat it all!” she whispered. “Letty, move!”

After a gentle shove, Letty obliged her, affording Phillippa a view of Lord Sterling and someone else.

It was someone she didn’t recognize. She couldn’t see much of him, for much of him was blocked by Sterling’s girth and height. But she saw a slight frame, light hair. Blond? Maybe light brown? He was in a brown coat—broadcloth, she guessed, but she couldn’t be sure—and a straw hat that marked him as one of the local farmers. She was unfamiliar with most of the locals, but she made an educated guess that Lord Sterling, whose country estate was far to the north, would be unfamiliar as well. Was this truly a local farmer, or was it someone who merely presented himself as such to get into the Hampshire Races?

The stranger turned to the side; he had a satchel on his back. He and Lord Sterling spoke in low voices, and Phillippa would be damned if she could hear anything above a low murmur. Should she move closer? But how and where? Oh, if only Marcus were here!

Frustrated, Phillippa kept her efforts focused on watching the man she didn’t know. Memorizing what features she could see and his movements. In fact, she was so intent on the stranger, she almost didn’t catch it when Lord Sterling unloaded the satchel from the stranger’s back, and after a moment or two of rummaging inside, he walked to the left and—

Suddenly, Phillippa was once again assaulted by the cold wet of Letty’s nose.

“Letty!” Phillippa whispered furiously. Her view was blocked; she had lost sight of her quarry. “Letty, move!” she said again, pushing against the black beast’s neck.

But Letty did not wish to move. And since this was the second time the forthright blond woman had felt it necessary to push against her, she decided to make her point vocally.

Letty danced back, whinnying high as she did.

Phillippa ducked down low, beneath the half door of Letty’s stall again, praying fervently that the noise would go on unregarded. After all, Letty was a known resident of these stables; it was perfectly within her rights to neigh and prance.

She remained motionless, grasping a wiggling Bitsy tight in her arms, barely daring to breathe.

Five seconds passed.

Then another ten.

Slowly, Phillippa exhaled, and then, loosening her grip on Bitsy, dared to bring her head above the stall door’s line.

The figures were farther away now, close to the main doors of the stables. Backlit as they were by the afternoon sun, Phillippa could barely tell which figure was Lord Sterling and which was the stranger. They were still speaking, but there was no hope of hearing anything. Maybe she could follow them once they left, “accidentally” meet Lord Sterling on a path, and get a good look at his friend so she would have something to say to Marcus.

Just then, Bitsy, who had heretofore been far too silent, took the opportunity afforded by his recently reinflated lungs, and barked.

And Phillippa saw the two heads turn in unison toward her.

She ducked quickly, but to no avail.

“Who’s there?” she recognized the booming tenor of Lord Sterling’s voice. Then a shuffling of feet on hay and the creak of the stable doors.

Not a moment to lose, Phillippa picked up Bitsy and dashed around the corner of the building. Holding the dog tight again, she used a hand to muzzle her precious Bitsy and dove behind a row of water barrels lined up next to the stables, kept cool in the shade of a chestnut tree and the shadow of the structure. She was thin, she could fit. Her only hope was that the stout Lord Sterling wouldn’t think to look there.

She lay on the ground, the wet, packed earth behind those barrels, one hand muzzling Bitsy, the other muzzling herself. She willed her breath to slow down from the deep gasps that followed quick movement. But as she heard the footfalls of two men, she stopped breathing altogether.

“I’m telling you I saw someone,” Lord Sterling said, his voice alarmingly close to Phillippa’s hiding place.

There was a pause, a muffled shuffling of feet, a wariness prickling across Phillippa’s skin.

Those footsteps were getting closer.

Then, a voice she didn’t recognize. And, it turned out, a voice of reason.

“Come on,” the stranger said, “you’ll be missed.”

The footsteps started to recede. Still, it was an eon before Phillipa felt safe enough to move. When she did, inching her head up from behind the barrels, and seeing only the long, retreating forms of Lord Sterling and the stranger, she breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Once the men moved beyond the horizon, she got up off the ground.

And then she moved with all possible speed, one desperate thought running constantly through her head.

She had to find Marcus.

Of course, she had to change her dress first.

Well, the Grecian-style Madame Le Trois walking dress was in total disrepair; she simply could
not
appear in public like that without raising questions about what she had been doing and seriously damaging her reputation.

She snuck into the Hampshires’ manor using the servants’ entrance and was immediately ushered to her room using a back passage that deposited her almost directly to her door. After a quick look in the mirror, she discovered that not only was her dress in a state, but so was her hair. Even with her ladies’ maid working with all possible speed, she still was not presentable for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

By then, Phillippa’s imagination was running wild. Who was the stranger? What had been in the satchel? If Marcus was right, and Lord Sterling was involved, why?

The minute her maid finished the final touches on her hair, she shot out of the chair and was out the door.

She had spied Marcus walking away from the races, but to where? Where was she to start?

His rooms, she thought, were as good a place as any.

Hampshire House was, for all its modern remodeling, constructed in the Elizabethan era, and therefore as a tribute to the Virgin Queen had been built in the shape of a capital
E
. Bedrooms lined the second and third floors of the outside prongs—the east and west wing, respectively—while family rooms filled the middle prong and state rooms (including the formal dining room and ballroom) occupied the long, connecting spine of the house.

Phillippa’s rooms were in the east wing. Marcus’s rooms she knew were in the west. Although where in the west wing was a bit of a mystery.

Simple enough, she told herself. The house was built on easy lines to follow, and once she was in the west wing, she would . . . well, she would figure out that part when she came to it.

But as Phillippa walked briskly through the corridors, turning left here and right there, she quickly found herself lost in the maze.

“Where on earth . . .” she said to herself as she put her hands on her hips and began retracing her steps.

Doubling back through the rich mahogany hallways, Phillippa was counting off doors when she heard a clipped, bored voice.

“My brother says your memory is faultless—but apparently not your sense of direction?”

At the end of the empty corridor stood Byrne Worth, leaning heavily on his cane. The setting sun streamed through a nearby window, turning his black hair to flame, but still his sunken face and compressed mouth bespoke nothing but contempt.

“Coming or going?” he asked, clipping short his words as if he had no time to be bothered with her.

“I’m looking for your brother, Mr. Worth,” she replied, her tone as imperious as she could manage. And Phillippa Benning could manage imperious very well indeed. “Pray, have you seen him?”

“Not for a few hours,” Byrne drawled, an eyebrow going up as he spoke. “He told me he was going to lie down for a while.” Byrne motioned to a nearby doorway. “He was up late last night, you see.”

Phillippa shot Byrne a frostbitten smile, as she made for the door he had indicated. But despite the need for a cane, Byrne Worth proved he could move when he needed to, taking two quick steps and then blocking the door with the silver-headed cane.

“You wouldn’t wish to disturb him, I’m certain,” Byrne said.

Phillippa looked Byrne dead in the eye as she spoke. “I need to speak to him.”

“Is it important?”

His voice had dropped the clipped coldness, just barely, letting Phillippa see the concern that was there. But only for a moment.

“You can tell me, I’ll let Marcus know,” Byrne continued, his voice cool as steel again.

She could. She could tell Byrne, it was an option. But did she dare risk it? Marcus said he knew about the Blue Raven, and for whatever fracture had occurred between the brothers, it was obvious that Marcus trusted him. But she knew implicitly that Byrne did not trust her. More to the point, she got the strangest sense that he didn’t even like her, let alone respect her. Would he believe her when she told him what she saw?

Before she could come up with an answer to her dilemma, her dilemma was unceremoniously interrupted.

“I say, Phillippa, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Turning around, she saw Broughton and a few of his cronies at the end of the hall, the races having ended for the day, obviously.

Turning back to Byrne, she saw the smallest, cruelest smile pass over his countenance.

“Or are you just playing a mean game?” he whispered. Then, with a clipped bow, he disappeared into the room he had just barred her from, closing the door in her face.

Recovering quickly, Phillippa whirled around and with a saucy smile, greeted Broughton.

“I’ve been looking for you, of course.” Honey dripped from her words.

She watched as Broughton’s friends shot him smirks, as they disappeared into their own chambers. Broughton came up to her, took her hand.

She looked up into that deliciously wicked face, the blond hair and tanned skin gleaming with the exertions of a day spent outdoors.

Mr. Byrne Worth thought her capable of playing a mean game. Well, truth be told, she was. And the Marquis of Broughton was about to find out how mean. She had a score to settle with him and a sparring match to win.

They had business to discuss.

At dinner that evening, Broughton sulked. And moped. And sent her looks of hot anticipation. And then sulked some more. Well, after he had made her wait up all night for the privilege of not being called upon (whether or not he was a welcome guest), now it was his turn.