“Of course, dear. That nice boy Johnny sent up a pot without my asking.” Her mother made a stitch, a wonderful sign, which caused Phoebe’s shoulders to relax a fraction. “Such a nice boy, though I admit I miss Sally’s crushed-mint tea.”
Phoebe did as well. But having their three servants here would have unduly complicated matters. Keeping six people hidden was far harder than three. So she had gained their servants temporary employment with a friend in the country. A friend who could be counted upon to make them permanent retainers if the worst were to occur.
“I believe that if you are going to continue this present course, Phoebe, that we would be wise to involve Johnny further. I think he would be willing to help and keep quiet. He kept mumbling about your biscuits.”
Phoebe smiled faintly. “They are nice folks here.”
“You’ve never minded a little rough talk either.” Her mother pinned her gaze on her without missing a stitch. “I told your father nothing good would come of taking you to the warehouses and docks on business.”
“Christian was always permitted to go, I hardly thought it fair.”
“Your brother is a man.”
Phoebe ignored the strain on the “is.” As each day drew to a close, it became harder and harder. “He was a boy at the time. And that hardly mattered to me. Mary Wollstonecraft states definitively—”
“You know I cannot argue with you about such things.”
“A decided advantage for me,” Phoebe said lightly. “On the other hand, I never fare well in arguments with you concerning manners or fashion.”
Though they agreed on one thing concerning those topics. No mourning wear. Not yet. Phoebe couldn’t bear the thought of it, and she knew neither could her mother.
“When Christian returns, I will have him argue that point with you,” Mathilda Pace said. Christian was simply still at Cambridge, not yet home for break. Neither of them had ever spoken of it aloud, yet both of them clung to the illusion, the mental deception.
For Christian was not at Cambridge.
“And though you befuddle and prevaricate, I want to know of this Merrick. I should meet him tomorrow.”
Phoebe hummed without answering and thought of three different ways to prevent such an occurrence.
“The only things I have firmly wrenched from you is that he doesn’t have the beady eyes and crooked nose you amused yourself with anticipating.”
Phoebe pictured the man’s sharp, straight features.
Her mother moved her embroidery to the side table. “And that he is not hulking and terrible.”
“No, lean and tight.”
And easy to kiss.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed for a second. “And that you are far too interested in him.”
“He is very interesting.”
That shiver . . . the way he looked at her sometimes. . .
“Hmmm . . .” Her mother gave a quick look to her father, who was frowning over his next move, then looked back to Phoebe, scooting forward in her seat so that they were physically closer.
Phoebe pushed aside strange thoughts on what she wanted from Andreas Merrick and let part of her tenseness loosen, leaning into her mother as well. Safety. Security. Love. Even with the fractures that always threatened lately, she still had her family. If only Christian were here as well.
Her mother touched her hand. “We have chosen our roles and paths. I have allowed this to occur. And I know you, Phoebe. I can see that you are setting your sights. As much as you wish it, I do not forget when you attempt to misdirect me.” No, it was a blessing and a curse in this specific instance that her mother was not the forgetful one of the Paces.
“It would be silly for me to set my sights on anything here, Mother.” She attempted a light tone. “But we can stay for as long as we need, I believe.” She had read it there for that split second. In the deep well that was Andreas Merrick, there was something there that spoke of interest. Reticence, vulnerability, and strength. Secrets and plans. “And he can find Christian—or determine what happened to him. He has the resources. All I need to do is give him the proper incentive.”
Unfortunately, if she promised never again to show her face near him, he would probably leap on the opportunity. Though she forgave herself the thought that . . . maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it would be the opposite. Given time. Maybe.
“Though I wish I could rein you in as I used to be able to before your father . . . became ill . . .” Her mother swallowed. “I must console myself with the knowledge that you have always had good instincts about people.”
Phoebe didn’t speak for a moment, but as the constant worry in her mother’s eyes shifted to something far more focused on her, she found her tongue. “Andreas Merrick is an intense man, but ruthlessly fair.” It was what everyone said of him, but she often wondered if ruthless and fair might mean different things to him than they did to her. “Quick-witted and decisive. A good decision maker.”
Her father mumbled suddenly, moving a backgammon chip.
After a quick visual check to make sure her husband was fine, and that his mutter didn’t signal something dire, her mother pressed closer to her, fatigue showing in the cast of the candlelight. “Though I understand your reasons for being here and doing all of this . . . Heavens, sweetie, I understand your reasons . . . I can’t lose you too.” Fierce desperation was in the depths of her eyes. “If we lose everything, so be it. I can’t lose you too.”
“You won’t,” she said softly, touching her mother’s hand again, refusing to entertain the possibility that it might be a lie. To reveal to her mother that she was in far deeper than she had planned. “We will be safe here.”
She didn’t care what Andreas Merrick verbally professed. He wouldn’t allow anything harmful through those doors while they were here. She had read it there in his intense gaze.
“Christian . . .” Phoebe stared at their touched hands instead of gazing at the worried face, so similar to hers. “And our craftsmen. And just to know . . .”
“I know. I
know.
” Her mother turned her hand under hers, gripping upward, a tiny bit of the misery hidden beneath the depth of her mother’s outer strength showing through.
They stayed that way for long moments. The clink of the chips, as James Pace played backgammon against himself, was the only sound in the room.
“The new salts for Father—”
“Will still be there. We can wait a few weeks. We will stick together.”
Phoebe bit her lip. “We won’t be able to keep Father’s condition a secret from Mr. Merrick for long. We were lucky father was lucid when we moved in here. You aren’t prepared for—”
“Neither are you.”
Phoebe paused, accepting the truth of the statement. “No.”
Her mother gave her hand a squeeze. “Without Christian as a barrier, we won’t be able to keep your father’s condition a secret in Bath this year either.”
She nodded. “And Mr. Merrick will discover it immediately if he presses to see him.” Phoebe looked away, unable to put the request into words. She hadn’t had to worry about it before the building was secured—as they had
had
to stay out of the eye of any patrons below. Phoebe had been using the gray wig even when she ventured down the back stairs to the kitchens.
“We will stay in the rooms. Your father is a sly beast,” her mother said with no small amount of exasperation laced with fondness. And sadness. “He would probably cause a revolt if we let him out.” She gave Phoebe a penetrating glance. “And you wish me to avoid meeting Mr. Merrick.”
“Yes.”
Her mother nodded. They had banded together in equal roles when James Pace had begun his steady decline. But it was still tenuous at times, the conflicting desires to be a daughter, a mother, a partner, or a friend.
“If he meets you, it would seem strange for him not to meet Father too. There is a better chance of keeping him from both of you through joint excuses.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Phoebe, truly?”
“Yes.”
“And not just your fascination with him?”
“No, though there
is
something captivating about him,” Phoebe admitted. “A hook and a draw.”
A shiver under such a stark, unbending façade.
The hand around hers tightened more. “He is not a broken chair you can fix, Phoebe. Nor a lamb without a mother that needs you. He is said to be a very dangerous man.”
“I know that,” she scoffed, but it emerged a trifle weak. “And I don’t intend to ‘fix’ anyone. But Christian trusted him enough to formulate plans surrounding him. Christian wouldn’t be duped.”
They had discussed a partial plan at one point before Christian had disappeared. It had concerned gifting part of the company to Andreas Merrick in order to secure his help. Christian had planned to speak with him. Her intuition said that choice had been correct.
Her mother’s entire body issued a sigh.
Phoebe was secure in her mother’s love, but she had no illusions that her mother would ever think she had a greater head for decision-making than Christian, her elder child by a mere ten minutes of birth time. “Christian would not. And Charlotte Chatsworth did just marry into the family, so the Merricks mustn’t be as bad as the gossip once said.”
Phoebe refrained from commenting, relieved beyond measure that her mother
had
never seen nor met Andreas Merrick yet—some of his physical similarities to the high-ranking members of the
ton
aside, the aura he carried was far more deadly and powerful. When her mother finally did see him, Phoebe would have a fight on her hands to continue to meet with him.
Though Phoebe was confident she’d be able to bring her around. Necessity dictated it if nothing else.
“At least with all of us here together, your life will not be completely ruined if someone finds out where we are staying.”
“Or I could always marry him,” Phoebe answered lightly.
Her mother stared at her for long moments. “I misheard you, dear.”
Phoebe hadn’t gotten this far without investigating every avenue. “It would take a lot of convincing, but I believe I could put forth some sound arguments.”
It wasn’t so much confidence as pure determination that drove her in life. When things were hard, she exerted whatever effort was required to succeed.
“I, you . . . you can’t marry him.”
Phoebe thought for a moment. “I believe that a parson would hear us.”
“That is not what I meant,” her mother said, furiously, strangely, out of sorts.
A sound from her father, bless him, took both of their attention. “Could tell. Recognized the look,” he mumbled.
Phoebe welcomed the distraction and hurried over to him. “Father?”
“Ack, woman, you are ruining my concentration.” He waved her hand away. Phoebe was used to the absent gesture, but the pang never grew less.
“I will never forgive myself if this brings you to ruin, Phoebe,” her mother whispered from where she still sat. That she was worried about things far more dire than her daughter’s ruination went without being said.
“There will be nothing to forgive, Mama,” she said as brightly as she could manage, moving a corresponding piece on the board across from her father when he didn’t object. “Andreas Merrick is not remotely interested in me as anything other than a novelty or business contact. Besides, it is not as if I’m risking the match of next season.”
Or risking pain of death. She had promised to stay in the confines of the building, and she would do so. She didn’t back out of promises, and her mother knew that.
“Phoebe, you know that if you—”
“I know. I am merely being amusing, Mother.”
Though they both knew she wasn’t. Every season had proven lovely and comfortable up until her father’s decline. But she was the type of girl that people flocked to for support and good humor and eccentricity, not the type who made hearts flutter with desire. And no man of the
ton
had made
her
heart flutter yet. Or else she would have done something about it.
Besides, she had had other things to worry about during the seasons. Before her family had . . . accepted . . . that James Pace was not quite the same as he’d once been, he had been taken in by an increasing number of fraudulent schemes and invested in a number of shady and defunct investments. They had accepted his excuses, blaming too much stress and work. It had still taken two long years before people had begun to doubt his legendary business acumen. Christian and she had concealed the situation as much as they could.
Hiding Father away broke her heart every day. But with Christian gone, there was nothing they could do otherwise. No one listened to two women over a respected man. They were ripe pickings for someone with Parliament’s ear. They would be “compensated,” then shuffled out of the company James Pace had built.
She could marry. It was always the first solution on every lip. But she was not without eyes and sense to see what could and
did
happen. If she chose incorrectly, her husband could easily have her father committed. Could take everything from their family, simply and easily.