For most of the meal, Phoebe attempted to ignore not only the pulsating virility of the man sitting next to her but the seamless way his beautifully rugged hands cupped his wine glass or gracefully held the knife and fork.
Phoebe finished her meal and turned all her attention to dessert. With a great degree of reverence, she scooped up a spoonful of the plum pudding, eying its rich, moist texture withan anticipatory sigh. As a connoisseur of plum puddings, she could tell, even before the spoon touched her tongue, it was going to be perfect.
When a burst of delectable flavors exploded in her mouth at the first bite, an unwitting guttural moan escaped her throat. She swallowed then glanced around. Had anyone taken note of her indulgence? Slade alone eyed her, his gaze penetrating, and his body as stiff as a board. She glanced at his plate. Why hadn’t he taken dessert?
Phoebe indicated the dessert in her plate. “Would you like to try it?”
Slade shook his head and returned his attention to the remnants of food on his own plate.
After the meal everyone sat companionably with each other and sipped their wine. Phoebe was pleased that Slade and Peter didn’t insist the ladies drink tea and leave the men to finish their wine separately, as custom dictated.
Lucia set her empty goblet down and eyed Phoebe. “My father is great friends with the local magistrate in Birmingham, and I think I should have him look into your former employer’s questionable behavior. They must have done something dreadful, if it forced you to leave so abruptly … are you up to speaking about it?”
Phoebe almost choked at the unexpected question. She quickly gulped down the wine she’d been sipping. Everyone straightened and eyed her, waiting for an answer. Falcon’s voice slammed into her awareness.Don’t ever get caught off-guard; stay in control.
She steeled herself and cleared her throat. “Admittedly, it’s an intolerable and unpleasant story, one I think would be quite upsetting to discuss now lest we all suffer painful indigestion,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, of course you are correct,” Lucia said, looking slightly chastised.
Slade considered her, his expression inscrutable. His eyes stayed on her, making her want to shift in her seat, but he then tipped his head back and finished his own wine.
On the morning of the next day, Lucia’s maid Martha, a mostly gray-haired and quiet motherly sort, arrived with Lucia’s packed bags for her stay at the Lodge. Then Lucia insisted they visit Birmingham to pick up any additional incidentals Phoebe had left at her employers’ home in her haste to depart.
After a two-hour ride in a sleek black Hanbury carriage, they arrived at the jewelry quarter in the vibrant city center of Birmingham. The footman hopped off the back to assist the ladies down.
Phoebe managed to purchase two readymade gowns despite Lucia’s criticism for their utter lack of fashion. And while Lucia was occupied with jewelry perusal, Phoebe slipped away next door to the Royal Mail. She posted a missive to her mother and paid an exorbitant sum for an express missive, which she’d written in code, to be sent by messenger to Falcon. For the past eight weeks, she’d had three sources of funds—an allowance as a lady’s companion, a stipend from her father and a discretionary allowance from the Movement. Now she was mindful that just two sources remained.
Phoebe guided their walk away from places Lady Bolingbroke or the manor staff would patronize. After the spider poison had worn off, what had Bolingbroke done? If anything. Slade had instructed the lodge’s stable hand to return the horse Phoebe had taken from his stable. Therefore, as far as horse theft was concerned, she was innocent.
As the three women exited a store and turned the corner, Lucia stopped short, Martha almost colliding with her.
“Why, it’s the colonel!” Lucia pointed across the street.
Phoebe’s gaze followed where Lucia pointed, her eyes widening. It was easy to spot the dark, familiar figure among other passersby, for Slade was head and shoulders above many. Slade, who appeared deep in thought, had stepped out of an office building. The sign on the awning above him readHarbert and Company, Private Inquiry Agents.Why would Slade require a private inquiry agent?
He’d left the lodge this morning before she’d even awoken.
Lucia waved with vigor at Slade but then stopped and dropped her hands when a boldly dressed beauty in a rather loud orange caracojacket ran up to Slade and threw her arms around his neck. Phoebe’s body went rigid. It was difficult not to notice the capricious Swindlehurst even from this distance. Why was she hugging Slade as if they were more than friends? The notion solidified when Swindlehurst placed a bold kiss on Slade’s lips. The heat drained from Phoebe’s body. Had Swindlehurst refocused her attentions from tupping the general to targeting Slade?
Slade, who hadn’t noticed them, returned Swindlehurst’s hug and seemed surprised by her kiss. The scandalous gesture by the maid, however, didn’t seem to bother him in the least. And why would it? A kiss from Swindlehurst’s perfect lips wouldn’t be a hardship for any man to bear.
“Who is she?” Lucia said in a surprised tone.
“Omelia Swindlehurst. She’s a laundress from the manor,” Phoebe said.
“From your former place of employment? But why would she behave in such a scandalous manner towards the colonel?”
Why indeed. Although Phoebe could venture a few guesses, she shrugged in response. She had trouble understanding why the sight of a woman in Slade’s arms sharing a hug and a brief pressing of lips had the effect of making her stomach roil. Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes away from Slade and Swindlehurst.
“Well, I don’t like her. She’s too … too bold and her outfit far too audacious to be respectable,” Lucia scoffed. Lucia gently touched Phoebe’s arm. “I am sure she’s just a friend of the colonel.” Her voice sounding far more consoling than Phoebe was comfortable with.
Phoebe schooled her features. “Oh, I’m sure she is. And even if she isn’t, well it’s no concern of mine … ours, that is. We should be on our way.”
“Of course, my dear. Lead the way,” Lucia said.
Phoebe stepped into the closest coffee house, intending to pick up the latest copy of theDaily Courant. She wasn’t sure why something inside her was sinking.
CHAPTER 22
