“I am perfectly well now,” Louisa assured her. “Now, into bed.” Louisa urged her to stand and pulled back the bed cover, practically pushing Phoebe inside in her eagerness to see her sleep.
Phoebe climbed in, but reluctantly, pulling the covers up to her neck stiffly and struggling to snuggle down into the bed. Louisa tucked a warmed bedpan under the covers then moved a candle to Phoebe’s bedside. Just before she blew it out, Phoebe held out a hand above the covers.
“Oh no, keep it lit for a little longer,” she pleaded, unwilling to see the room swathed in darkness just yet.
“As you wish, my lady,” Louisa said with a sad sort of smile before tapping her hand in reassurance. “You do not need to be scared anymore. They are taking us far away from London, and far away from the Viscount. He won’t be able to find you here.”
I wish I could believe it.
“Good night, Louisa,” Phoebe said softly.
“Good night, my lady.” Louisa padded toward the door and left, closing it softly behind her with the latch. The moment she was gone, Phoebe lifted the covers over her head, even with the light of the candle keeping her company, she felt lonely and isolated in the room.
“I will never really be free of him, will I?” she whispered to herself under the covers. She knew that no matter how long she fought for this divorce, Graham was not going to give up battling her. He’d set Hayward’s house on fire in desperation to scare her back home. It was always going to be the way now, she knew it.
She was unsure how long she stayed awake, but it had to be for hours, as she kept tossing and turning, completely incapable of finding any kind of comfort in the cot bed, though it had far more to do with what was on her mind that the state of the bed. More than once did she pull down the covers to look at the candle, and she could see the flame burning down the wax, until soon there was just a small nub of wax in the brass holder.
She fixed her eyes on the candle and found them slowly drifting closed, at last sleep was finding her, drawing her into its deep depths.
Phoebe could feel herself dreaming. There were no words, and not much happened in the dream, but there were lots of pictures. She was back at the duke’s estate, riding with Francis as she had done on her first day atop Cantante. Then she was in his house, having dinner with him. Finally, she was in the drawing room, where he had knelt before her and kissed her, showing her what a kiss could be like.
There was a sound. The thud made the dream vanish and Phoebe’s eyes shot open.
She searched for the candle, but the light had gone out. All she could just about make out in the darkness was the curling tendril of smoke seeping away from the candle wick, suggesting it had either burnt itself out completely, or…someone had blown it out.
Terrified it was the latter, she pulled back in the bed, trying to push herself as close as possible toward the wall and away from the room. Her eyes danced about the place, trying to readjust to the darkness that was lit by the tiniest slither of moonlight that bled through the gap between the curtains.
Nothing moved and there was no other sound beyond Phoebe’s own stuttered breathing. Then there was a second thud. Her head darted to the side, angling toward the sound. A shadowy figure began to move across the room.
Phoebe scrambled back in the bed, trying to sit up as the figure walked toward her, hulking and slowly approaching her.
“No, no, go away,” she said hurriedly. She opened her mouth, about to scream and call for Louisa, for anyone who could be close enough by to hear her, but the figure leapt toward her.
In the darkness she couldn’t make out their face, but she felt their hand latch over her mouth, clamping her lips shut and preventing her from making any sound beyond a whimper against their palm. She wriggled against the grasp, trying to be free as his other hand came up and grabbed her wrists, taking hold of both of them. She bit his hand, forcing him to release her for just a second.
“Graham, let me go!” she shouted, but the hand came back over her mouth, muffling her cries before she could make any other sound.
“No, Phoebe. It’s me.”
That is not Graham’s voice.
Chapter 27
Francis was dreaming, there was someone in his room. He rolled over in the bed, trying to peer through the darkness and ascertain to himself that it truly was a dream. Then something moved toward him, shadowed in the moonlight coming through the window.
Something was lifted into the air, a chair perhaps, ready to be brought down on Francis’ head.
“No!” Francis bellowed the word and rolled away, narrowly missing the chair striking his head. He fell onto the floor the other side of the bed and reached for his bag.
In the bottom of the bag, he’d brought something he hoped he would never have to use – his pistol. Yet as his hand reached for the pistol, he heard the person in his room lift the chair again. Unable to have the time to grab the weapon, Francis rolled away for a second time and jumped to his feet.
This time, the chair shattered across the floor into pieces, giving Francis the brief moment that he needed to jump away. He grabbed one of the pieces from the floor and hurled it at his attacker, who promptly squealed and reared back.
Francis rushed to the window and flung back the curtains entirely, in the full moonlight he had a perfect view of his attacker, with the same ponytail on his head that he had observed the night he had chased someone out of his estate who had then struck him.
“Lord Ridlington,” Francis said with fury in his tone as the Viscount snatched another piece of the broken chair off the floor. Francis didn’t have time to say anymore, as the wood was thrown at him, and he had to dodge it. He rounded the small settee that had been in his room and ran for the door, but as he flung it open, he heard the click of a pistol.
The sound was something he knew well enough after all these years and he froze in position in the doorway.
