“What do you want now?”
His voice was as unpleasant as it always was when he was on guard, his posture just as tight. She wondered if he was bothered by anyone’s seeing him like this, or if it were she specifically.
Her hand was already reaching forward to smooth over the raised marks when she realized what she was doing and dropped it back to her side.
“I wanted to wish you a good sleep,” she said softly, all thoughts of speaking of the next day and confirming her suspicions wiped away.
He said nothing for a long moment, hands folding his shirt, shifting things around his bag—the actions shifting the muscles beneath his skin. “And now you have.” The words were no more kind, but she thought that maybe his tone lacked just a bit of its edge.
“No, not yet.”
He warily looked at her over his shoulder, body stiff. Every night for a week she had kissed him on the cheek before turning in for the night. But she had always flitted away, back to her own room, a floor away from his office.
Here, there was no leaving. The beds less than a dozen paces from each other.
She almost pulled back into her room. Her first official act of cowardice. But then she moved forward with purpose.
He kept his back to her though his visible eye tracked her closely. Again the odd thought presented itself that there was something
telling
about that. He always kept people in full view.
She touched his shoulders and pulled her fingers lightly over a few braided scars at the back. It was entirely inappropriate—beyond inappropriate and entering into condemnable really—and yet she couldn’t help herself. It was a form of possession that made her touch one of them with her lips.
His muscles were steel beneath her touch as he quickly looked away.
Part of her wanted nothing more than to turn him toward her. To touch, and kiss, and soothe him. To make him totally surrender to whatever lay between them. The other part of her knew he wasn’t ready. And she wasn’t going to push.
“Good evening, Mr. Merrick.”
Yet.
His profile showed a mixture of expressions as he stared straight ahead, away from her, but he nodded sharply, the rest of his body still clenched tight.
Her hands shook as she undressed quietly back in her own room. She could not deny it—she was becoming irreparably entangled. And what he would ultimately do with the net, she did not know.
H
e heard her all night. She wasn’t a loud sleeper, but he was well used to listening for every sound in his environment, especially in an environment that was not his own. The sound of movement on bare sheets or a dream-induced sigh made him . . . uncomfortable. Made him feel the urge to toss and shift.
She had touched him. She had looked at his repulsive scars and pressed her lips to them. Soothing and steady. Unfaltering and unshakable. That was Phoebe Pace.
He needed her gone more than he ever had. And yet his fingers clutched an invisible cord, fingernails gripping his palm, as if it would hold her to him.
He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable when the sky lightened. There was little on which to assuage his black mood, for she rose quickly at his knock against the open frame between them.
He didn’t watch her rise, unwilling to see her sleepy-eyed and rumpled.
“We need to be gone before the light takes hold,” he said, already turning to leave.
She was quick to pack her things and dress, and she stood patiently waiting, eyes looking through a crack in the drape to the courtyard beyond, when he walked through the connecting door five minutes later.
He stopped, watching her for a moment. She looked . . . wistful. Innocent.
What was he doing here? With her? There was the possibility that he would bring direct danger to her if he was spotted. Better for him to have sent someone else—or three—with her.
But he had known he was going to accompany her as soon as she voiced the request. Unavoidable. Inevitable.
Especially considering where she was going. Things were moving quickly, in another direction, away from him, and all he could hope to do was to control the casualties that would result.
He wouldn’t let Phoebe Pace be a casualty. And wasn’t that just a damn thing. He wondered when she would get around to asking him directly about her brother. She had to know he knew almost everything that happened in London, even with Roman absent from the city.
She had to suspect he knew exactly what had happened to her brother and what players had been involved.
He saw it sometimes. The trust in her eyes. Fragile and easily broken with just a few simple words. Warm lips pressed to his body would be exchanged for tears and betrayal.
“Ready?” she asked, drape closed again, cloak and hood drawn up as he’d been castigating himself.
He nodded, taking her case. He avoided contact with the two men lingering in the common room and strode to the waiting carriage, lifting her up and in. Their baggage was latched and secured by the driver.
They were clomping down the courtyard path a minute later. He watched through the window until they were well out of town. Not followed. It was possible someone had been posted ahead of them, though. Smarter. They wouldn’t exit the carriage until they finally reached Dover. Three more changes, and they would be there.
He glanced across the space. Her eyes were closed, and she leaned against the seat. He didn’t think she had meant to fall asleep. But he had heard her restless sleep as well. Perhaps he would get a room on the outskirts of the city. Let her rest for a few more hours before she sought . . . her contact.
His nails curled into his palms. He wondered if this disease she had brought upon him would be cured at the end of this endeavor. He hoped so.
In the meantime, he had to weigh the risks. He had been provided with the perfect opportunity to shore up any talk on the docks. But it meant he would have to leave her unguarded. He should have brought one of the others with them. Made the other man ride on top with the driver regardless of the gossip that would result within the ranks.
He had already tipped part of his hand to the other occupants of his building though. What difference did a further show make? Only his stubborn resistance said otherwise.
P
hoebe jolted as the carriage pulled to a stop. She had been thinking of marked skin and warm lips and her utter inability to choose the correct words to keep the skin under her fingertips.
She stretched her cramped limbs. Oh no. Dreaming. “How long was I asleep?”
“You made it through two stops without waking.”
“This is our last then?” She pushed fully upright, clearing the lingering sleep from her mind and trying to read the expression on his face, the tone in his voice. She wondered—a bit mortified—if she had been snoring or sleeping with her mouth agape.
“Yes.”
She picked at the blanket over her—had she placed it there?—and ground her jaw back and forth as inconspicuously as she could to see if it felt as if it had been open for two hours. She held on to her embarrassment. Easier than dealing with the unease that had developed between them. “When is your brother due back?”
The question was out of the blue, and she knew she had taken him by surprise though he covered it well. For a moment she wasn’t sure he’d answer.
“Soon.”
“That is quite vague. Soon might be tomorrow or a month from now. How do you define soon?”
“I define it as a period of time in the near future.”
She smiled. “How do you define difficult?”
“By your presence.”
She grinned fully, delighted to feel the tension dissipate. “Now you are just flattering me for no reason.”
He grunted.
“On the contrary,” she said, as if his grunt had been a worded response. “It was most flattering.”
He stared at her.
“What? Did you think I wouldn’t figure out how to interpret your grunts? It is like listening to a conversational gambit with a thousand different meanings.”
He recovered quickly, as always, scowling. “Why would you think it flattery?”
“You have defined something by my presence. Which means you have noticed me quite keenly. I take that as flattering.”
His eyes narrowed. But then she knew he wouldn’t like that particular explanation. It left him too wide open.
“I find you difficult. Not adorable.”
“I think I am quite shocked to find you using the word ‘adorable’ in a sentence.” She waved a hand. “Next thing I know, you will be petting puppies in the street.”
“You are the one with the odd canine fetish.”
“They make me happy with their silly doggy grins.”
His stare was flat.
She simply smiled more. “Mr. Wiggles seems taken with you.”
“It tried to urinate on me the other day. I prefer not to be ‘taken’ by something like that.”
Phoebe pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to help herself. But the image was too much. Her laughter spilled around her fingers.
She counted it as a victory that his shoulders didn’t tighten. Indeed, he almost looked . . . relaxed.
Perhaps he was loosening toward her? Perhaps the kiss last night had not been a mistake? Hopefully. And if so, she planned to exploit such a development.
A small voice in her head persistently reminded her that one of these nights she might prod him too far. She didn’t know what would happen to her carefully laid plans then.
V
isiting Edward’s house on her own had been easier than she had anticipated. Andreas had ridden in the carriage with her, but when they had arrived, he stayed inside, saying that the vehicle would be waiting up the street when she was done with her appointment.
She wondered what he was going to do in the interim.
The game tightened around her.
Under the cover of her hood, Phoebe handed the butler a folded card with a handwritten note inside. “I realize this is unusual, but Edward Wilcox will see me should you give him this.” She kept her voice low.
The butler, a man she did not know, looked at the folded slip of paper, then back to her covering cloak. Probably trying to deduce if she was a woman “in the way” seeking compensation from his employer. Or some street cat. She kept her posture stiff and sure. A moment later, the butler acquiesced, shutting the door and leaving her on the porch. She wasn’t affronted. He couldn’t trust that while he was speaking to his employer, she might not make off with the silver, after all.
Only half a minute passed before the door opened again. “Mr. Wilcox will see you.”
He led her through the halls to a study, a long sweep of arm motioning her inside. The door closed behind her.
But it wasn’t Edward Wilcox standing there. It was Henry.
The Honorable Henry Wilcox, heir to Viscount Garrett, was already standing and striding over to her. She kept herself from stiffening only with effort. She had the sudden thought that Andreas Merrick was going to be very displeased with her.
“Miss Pace,” Henry said softly. “What are you doing here?” He tried to peer into her hood.
There was nothing she could do except to work out a new strategy as she went.
She motioned to the drapes, and he walked over and drew them. She pushed back her hood as the room darkened, and he was forced to light a lamp. She looked around the room, noting that although there was a lot of furniture, there was thankfully no good place for another person to hide.
She seemed to be adopting more of Andreas Merrick’s quirks. But they were useful tools in this odd and dangerous game she now played.
“Mr. Wilcox. I had thought Edward was in residence.”
“He is out, surveying the fields at the edge of town.” He gripped a paperweight on his desk without looking at her. “I heard about what is planned for your father. Why didn’t you come to me immediately?”
She watched the tense set of his shoulders and the constriction of his lips. She had, at times, been slightly leery of Henry. He was usually friendly, but there was a darkness to him too, buried beneath a fine veneer of civility. There had been whispers that his mother had gone mad after giving birth to Edward. That she had alternated between rage and desolation for over a year. Some people even whispered that she had killed the eldest child in that time.
The Paces hadn’t known the family then, not until the viscountess was over her disturbance. But Phoebe wondered what that time had been like for nine-year-old Henry, especially with a father like Lord Garrett.
She moved toward him. “This is silly. I haven’t even greeted you properly.” She gave him a firm hug, which he returned.
“How are you?” he asked, pushing her back and examining her for a moment.
“I am well. Better than expected. Hopeful. As to why I didn’t come to you immediately, you know why I did not.”
His lips tightened. “I do. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. The whims of our fathers forever cast shadows on our actions. Therefore, we must look to the light.”
“For you, there is light. Your father made mistakes that weren’t even of his rational choice. For me, there is unending darkness.”
She squeezed his arm.
He shook himself from his daze and pointed at the small set of armchairs around the fireplace. “Please sit.”
She did. The room seemed smaller and more intimate with all of the furniture overloading it.
“I thought you were at Fairhaven,” she said. She would have made alternate plans otherwise.
“I was. I arrived here last night. I had planned to be there two weeks more.” His voice held a bit of wistfulness. He leaned forward, his arms crossed over his knees. “Not that I am unhappy to see you, but why are you here? The timing is . . . concerning. You risk much.”
“Yes.” She withdrew a folder. “I couldn’t risk getting in touch with either of you using other methods. And I knew neither of you would sign these papers without seeing me.”
He looked at the papers in her hands. “What are you plotting, Miss Pace?”
She shook her head and handed him the papers.
He flipped through them, checking the standard clauses and phrases, nodding as he went. He stopped at the last page and stared at the name over the third signature line for a long moment. “I believe we need to have a chat, Miss Pace,” he said at last.
“We are overdue on a great many topics of conversation.”
He continued to stare at the paper, eyes not seeking her out. “Do you know who you are signing your company, and our investments, over to?”
“Yes.”
He finally looked at her, eyes serious and dark. “What game are you playing, Phoebe?”
“I am playing no game, Henry.”
He watched her, searching her face for something. “Are you truly guileless in this, or is trickery involved?”
“It is no trick, no deception.”
“No? What do you know?”
“I have mere suppositions.” Such as the shape of a nose, the set of a chin. Though the number of features that were dissimilar were too many to count. It could be that her imagination had finally run wild, but she had a feeling—to the good or bad—that the evidence wasn’t just in her mind’s eye.
“Is he here?” He cast his eyes around the room, looking into the shadows cast by the furniture. Henry suddenly looked much older than his thirty years. “Have you set me up for death, Phoebe? And Edward? Edward is innocent.”