She shook her head. “I’m not hurt, but I would like to sit and catch my breath for a moment. I am fine. Please, attend to Ludlow.”
He hesitated for a breath before speaking. “It’s a delight to see you after all these years. I do hope we have a chance to continue our conversation. And I wish you a full recovery from this ordeal. Please, do excuse me.”
He gave her a courteous nod.
She smiled. “Seeing you has certainly been a pleasant journey into the past.”
One he hoped they could continue together. Slade turned and strode towards the approaching vehicle.
The gig pulled up next to them, and a short, stout graying man stepped out from the black transport. Why was it typical for healers to dress in black? Made them look more like undertakers, in Slade’s opinion. He appraised the healer of the situation then assisted him, the second footman, and the steward in relocating the injured man into the manor through the servants’ side entrance.
The housekeeper directed them where to carry the injured footman. They entered a prepared room at the head of a long symmetrical hallway. The servants’ quarters were clean, ornamentally restrained, and modest. After Slade was assured there was nothing else he could do to help, he picked up his coat and asked a maid named Swindlehurst, who smiled rather boldly at him as he exited the room, to direct him to the general’s study.
She gave him directions then added, “if you cannot find him in his study, then you will certainly find him in the library,” she said. Then went on to give him directions to the library as well.
“You are very helpful. How can I repay you?” Slade said, donning his coat.
“You can buy me a drink at the local tavern.” This time her smile was undoubtedly come-hither. He eyed her in a manner not unlike the Greeks must have eyed the Trojan Horse and contemplated it getting them into Troy but he’d have it easier than the Greeks, since his Trojan Horse seemed a talker and the trick would be to get her to give up the secrets. After returning her smile, he dashed off to have a final word with Bolingbroke.
CHAPTER 4
Phoebe sat for some time under the willow tree collecting herself after Slade, the second footman, the steward, and the healer carried an injured Ludlow into the manor. When her knees were less like jelly, she rose and made her way to the rear of the manor, not wanting Lady Bolingbroke to see the blood on her hands or the horrendous state of her dress. She scurried through the kitchens, circumventing the cook and maids, and headed straight for the privacy of her small but neat bedchamber.
Her hands shook and her stomach roiled as she scrubbed the dried blood off with the clean, cool water in a porcelain washbasin using a square of orange-blossom soap. She stood by the dressing stand, staring down at the resulting bloodied water stark against the whiteness of the porcelain. Flashbacks of her washing herself after the moors seven years ago hit her. The old, familiar unclean feeling followed, flooding her with self-disgust. This sensation of being soiled had long since burrowed under her skin, branded her soul, and become a part of her flesh. Certain types of filth couldn’t be scrubbed away.
Phoebe stripped off her blood-stained dress and put it aside for the laundress. The blood had not soaked through to her shiftor petticoat, thankfully. She donned a black dress with a linen lining, a built-in whalebone corset, and flowing skirts. It had a modest white cotton fichu covering her all the way to her neck, just as she preferred.
After putting her hair to rights enough to face Lady Bolingbroke, Phoebe glanced around for theDaily Courant. She wanted to secure the gossip column, along with the hidden Jacobite news pamphlets which Falcon’s assistant had mailed to her. Falcon occasionally sent communications to spies via specially delivered missives or artificial notices placed in theDaily Courant’sadvertisements in code, which Phoebe hadn’t quite finished sifting through.
Recalling she’d dropped the gossip column when Ludlow was shot, she made her way back outside down the pebbled path towards the rhododendron. She’d told Slade she was doing this in the service of a friend. Falcon was formidable, unassuming, and deadly, but friend? She chuckled. As Phoebe approached the rhododendron, she stop short, startled. Standing by the willow tree was Slade MacLean, his arms body width apart, palms resting on the cresting rail of the cast iron long chair, his lean body angled slightly downwards. Taut lines of tension on his forehead didn’t diminish the attractiveness of his features.
His beauty snatched away her breath, like the first time she’d met him years ago. But now he was steelier, edgier, and more dangerous. This man made her heartbeat erratic and her lower belly clench.
He must have sensed her approach, for he turned. He straightened, and his features relaxed. His warm gaze swept down her changed clothes.
“I wondered if I’d still find you here. I thought to bid you adieu before I left,” he said.
She offered him a pleasant smile. “Has your business with the general concluded?” she asked.
“For today,” he said.
Her eyes were drawn to an errant lock of thick, black hair that had escaped his queue. It wavered slightly in the wind, teasing the edge of his earlobe, which didn’t look quite right.
“You sustained an injury during the war?” she asked gesturing to her own ear with a tap of her finger, concern tightening her voice.
The need to run a finger over the uneven lobe, to see if it was as jarring to the touch as it appeared, surprised her.
“Nothing more than a minor wound. I was shot by a French infantryman during my first battle. Took half my ear lobe off. It only bothers me when I am in full gallop. The wind sounds like a screaming ghost,” he shrugged.
“I am sorry you were hurt,” she said, her voice softening, her chest warming at his humor.
Fifteen years ago, they’d shared an easy rapport, one of warmth and young friendship. Could they recapture that ease? As a young girl, she’d told him chivalrous stories of the Order of the Thistle, stories her mother used to read to her at bedtime. And she’d revealed a secret dream of hers to him, of becoming a knight errant who helped the poor Scottish farmers terrorized by the wicked English redcoats. Phoebe was now embarrassed on behalf of her nine-year-old self for such fanciful childhood imaginings. But he’d never once called her silly.
“There wasn’t time to inquire earlier, but I wanted to ask. How is your family? How is Egan?” he said, with genuine interest.
He stepped around to the front of the long chair and gestured with his palm for her to join him. She stiffened. For the past seven years she’d been careful to never be alone with a man. Brutal male strength unsettled her. It had caused her to overreact on countless social occasions over the years. She’d become abrupt with one or two of the younger and bolder manorstaff, warning bells too loud in her head when they’d attempted flirtations. She’d received strange looks in return. But such overreactions had kept her safe.
But this was Slade, her old friend.
