Revealed (50 page)

His words had been a promise. That night, long after Phillippa had fallen into fitful sleep, he slipped in through the gardens and crept into her house, into her bedchamber. She felt his warm, strong arms surround her, holding her as she slept. She woke up groggily, only to feel a gentle kiss on her lips. “Shhh . . .” Marcus whispered. “Sleep now.”

So she snuggled into his embrace, and knowing she was safe, she slept deeply, peacefully.

But when she woke in the morning, he was gone.

U
PON opening her eyes, Phillippa, deeply confused as to her whereabouts, was greeted by the unusual sight of Mariah Worth, sitting by her bed.

“Good morning,” Mariah said cheerfully. She was wearing visiting attire, a smart teal costume with an adorable hat perched on her head that Phillippa would have admired if she hadn’t been so startled.

“Tell me, Mrs. Benning, do you have any sisters?” Mariah asked, sipping a cup of tea from the tray at her elbow.

Bewildered, Phillippa shook her head no.

“Neither have I. I have six brothers, mind you, likely why I’m so good at running herd over Graham’s family,” Mariah continued blithely, “but I have to imagine that this is something sisters would do: Wake each other up in the morning, bearing tea. Take care of each other.”

Phillippa suddenly remembered how she got where she was and scanned the room, but she found its only male occupant was Bitsy, who hopped up on the bed, turned thrice, and settled into the covers beside her. “Marcus . . .” she managed to croak out, her voice a harsh whisper.

“Don’t try to speak,” Mariah soothed, standing to smooth Phillippa’s hair. “Marcus told us of your ordeal last night, and I must say you are either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave—I like to think the latter.” She smiled. “Well, I came right over. You need some rest, and I’m here to make sure you get it.”

“But—the Ball . . . Totty . . .” Phillippa rasped again, her throat a raw length of fire.

“Mrs. Tottendale quite agrees with me,” Mariah said in a tone that brooked no argument. “She’s downstairs arranging all the flowers that have arrived and fending off all your callers—until you’re ready. As for the Benning Ball, its over a week away, is it not?”

Phillippa nodded and truly hoped she had time to add Mariah to the guest list without her knowing she was ever off it.

“If you like, I can help you with the preparations . . . but if not, I understand. I do not have nearly your good taste—”

Phillippa immediately shook her head, croaking, “No, you—can help.”

Mariah gave a relieved smile, and patted Phillippa on the hand. Phillippa, for her part, was not used to ceding control in most situations, and certainly not over something as large as the Benning Ball. But because she was so awfully tired, because she could still feel the frightening heat of of those flames, she felt almost thankful that Mariah had come to help. She felt cared for.

“Now, the doctor has been sent for—just as a precaution. Why don’t you sleep until her gets here?” Mariah said softly.

“Mariah, I’m sorry—”

But Mariah simply cut her off. “What on earth for?” she stated, tucking the sheets around Phillippa again.

For being cruel. For considering herself above anyone else. For not recognizing a good friend when she saw it.

But instead of straining her voice with an explanation Mariah didn’t want to hear, Phillippa simply smiled in her exaustion, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Its what friends do,” Mariah replied with a wink.

Four days passed.

Four long, arduous days, and no word either of or from Marcus. The doctor had visited. He promised that Phillippa would be fine, her throat sore from inhaling so much smoke, and prescribed quantities of honeyed tea and a minimum of conversation.

Phillippa let Mariah and Totty mother her, the former forcing tea down her gullet and the latter fluffing her pillows as she brought in food to be sampled and chosen for the Ball. Phillippa still had no idea what she was going to do for her Ball’s main event, but she was happy to have Mariah assist in the small details. Indeed, it was rare for Phillippa to be fussed over in this manner; her own mother was not the fussing kind. It was curious. It was vaguely annoying. But more than anything, it was comforting.

Flowers were delivered by the cartload from every conceivable personage. They filled the parlors, drawing rooms, breakfast room, and hallways. Callers, too, a few of which might even have cared about Phillippa’s welfare. Nora visited exactly once, her mother in tow. She had never been very adept at handling serious matters, a quality that made her a scathing society gossip but not particularly selfless. Mrs. Hurston came by, too, surprising Phillippa with her tears and useful suggestions for throat-soothing medicines. Totty and Mariah sat by her side as well-wishers, gossips, and the plain morbidly curious paraded by, each fawning over Phillippa, seeking her attention.

If she wasn’t so tired, so anxious, she’d be preening.

Half of society turned up at her doorstep; the other half left cards. All except the one she wished most to see.

Phillippa concluded he must have important affairs of state to deal with, debriefing by Fieldstone and the like. He would not stay away forever, surely. She would wait for him to send word, to call. She would do so with perfect patience, she decided.

That is, until she received one last visitor.

“I must say, Phillippa, you are the topic of everyone’s conversation,” Broughton said, upon taking his seat on the pink settee in Phillippa’s front drawing room. It was late in the afternoon—so late, in fact, that the rest of Phillippa’s callers had left to prepare for their various evenings out. Phillippa suspected Broughton had chosen the hour specifically. He wanted them to be alone.

“If you hadn’t already been the Queen of Society, you are now,” he said, lazily crossing his legs at the ankles, perfectly at his ease. “Everyone is saying you saved Wellington’s life or some such thing. I will say, however, that now that I know you’ve been helping the Crown, it explains your behavior so much better.”

“My behavior?” Phillippa asked evenly, stroking Bitsy, who had insisted on staying in the room for this conversation. Her throat was much recovered now, although the doctor still felt it best that she speak as little as possible.

“Running all over the place. Keeping me stepping high, trying to figure out when you’d next deign to meet with me.” Broughton leveled a look at her. “I must say, I did not like it.”

Ah, so he had come to give her notice. Take his leave. Well, Phillippa supposed she deserved it. She did lead him a merry dance.

But then Broughton stood, paced in a manner she assumed was meant to be authoritative. “But I find what I like less is the idea of you in danger. So I have come to the decision that you should marry me.”

Phillippa blinked. Even Bitsy began paying attention.

“I had thought we might develop the kind of relationship where we each retain a measure of freedom. But I’ll have to marry sometime, and it might as well be to the most celebrated heroine of the Ton.” He came and leaned against her pink Louis XIV chair, forcing her to look up at him. “Someone has to keep you safe, Phillippa. Someone should be taking care of you.”

Broughton, his planned speech finished, stood before her expectantly.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Phillippa replied honestly.

“Say yes, of course!” He smiled. “We are perfectly matched, you and I. Think of the headlines, Phillippa. Think of the wedding we’ll have; it’ll be talked about for decades.” He came to sit beside her. “Think of the gorgeous little brats you’ll have; a dynasty to establish. And think of how comfortable and merry you’ll be.”

Phillippa could have laughed. If this offer came two months ago, one month ago, she would have been ecstatic. Everything she’d ever wanted: society permanently at her feet, the most eligible bachelor in London signing up to be her husband. Juicy gossip, gay parties, forever and ever, ad infinitum. The problem was, of course, she didn’t want it anymore.

“Phillip,” she said, turning to him, “is . . . is that all?”

Confusion furrowed his brow. “What else is there?” he asked, smiling nervously.

Phillippa smiled back at him, patted his hand. “Thank you for your offer, Phillip; it is most generous of you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But,” she continued, rising from her seat, “I want different things now.”

“What do you want, Phillippa? I’ll buy you anything you please.” Broughton smiled.

Phillippa sighed. “I want to be loved. Not kept. I’m not meant to be kept.” She shot a look out the window, an eyebrow going up, “And I refuse to be kept waiting any longer for what I want.”

And then, with no other explanation to the handsome, somewhat flat man beside her, she rose and walked out the door.

“What do you suppose this could be?” Lord Fieldstone asked, holding up a charred fragment of paper.

Marcus examined the black-edged flake with an exhausted sigh. He was going cross-eyed on this, reconstructing the surviving bits of paper and schematics pulled out of the remains of Laurent’s flat. They had pushed six of the desks in the main room of the Security section of the War Department together, affording enough room for the laying out of what had been salvaged.

Which wasn’t much.

Marcus stood with Fieldstone, a heart-hardened Crawley, and any other members of the Security section that could be found and recalled to active duty, piecing together the mystery of Laurent’s cryptic remarks about his “other friends within London,” and their plans for the future.

The only member of the Security section in good standing not in the room was Byrne. He had decided to go back to the country. Once Phillippa had left Weymouth Street, Marcus dragged Byrne to Graham’s, where he informed their older brother of the entire story.

Needless to say, Graham had been concerned. Byrne remained silent throughout, and then, once Marcus reached the end of the story, said, “You pulled me out, and I wanted to curse you for it. But I didn’t die for a reason.” As Graham and Marcus put him into the carriage for the long ride to the Lake District, he had made a promise to try to be stronger than his needs, to rejoin life someday. But it was a long road back to humanity, and Byrne had traveled far in the other direction. He said he had to walk it alone.

Turning his mind from Byrne, Marcus inevitably landed on the subject that had infiltrated his mind so completely.
She
was ever present.

Where was she now? Was she entertaining friends, was she eating supper with Totty and the ever-helpful Mariah? Was she out dancing with Broughton? These dastardly thoughts seeped in wherever a pause existed. She was back in her right world, he told himself, and he in his. So he refused to be tortured by his own mind. He had come back into his work immediately, with Lord Fieldstone’s earnest support, and begun digging through Leslie’s desk, yielding little, and the remains of the burned house, yielding less. He had to find something, some information on the other underground operations. A new lead, a new place for his mind to go.

And in time, maybe he would stop thinking of her every second. Maybe one day, he’d not think of her at all. And once she no longer meant anything to him, she’d no longer be in danger. She’d be truly and completely safe.

And he’d be able to sleep at night for knowing it.

“Worth,” Lord Fieldstone cleared his throat, snapping him back to the present.

“Yes, sorry,” he said, squinting again at the charred bit of paper. “Perhaps it’s an architectural drawing. See how these lines—at least I think they’re lines—intersect here?”

“No, Worth,” Fieldstone interrupted, elbowing Marcus to bring his head up. Fieldstone indicated the door. “You have a visitor.”

He knew it was her before his eyes met hers.

She held up her hand in a nervous sort of wave and lowered it awkwardly. “It’s just me,” Phillippa said, her gaze never leaving his. The room held still, as if any movement would shatter the space.