Slade threw his friend a cheeky grin. “A little of both.”
CHAPTER 7
Phoebe woke before dawn in the dark in her modest bedchamber at the manor. The morning air was chilly as she stepped from under the counterpane. She shivered in her night rail as she turned up the Betty lamp on the nightstand, next to her favorite volumes of Voltaire and David Hume, between whose pages she’d hidden the Jacobite pamphlets.
She picked up a quill and started penning a missive on the status of her reconnaissance mission in Caesar Cipher. Phoebe used Falcon’s special concoction of milk ink to write the body of the missive, then she signed it Hawk—her code name in the Movement. The writing, when dry, was invisible to the naked eye and could only be revealed using heat.
Afterwards, Phoebe donned serviceable attire, collected her letter to her mother, plus Lady Bolingbroke’s mail, procured the services of one of the manor’s footmen as escort and made her way into Birmingham’s city center. As always, her mother expected her home for Phoebe’s birthday, and still believed she was staying with an old friend from Ayr Academy.
The stench of waste and horses fused with food from a nearby bakery tickled her nose as she stepped into the RoyalMail hours later. The slate-gray sky and crisp autumnal air magnified Birmingham’s congestion. An energetic city filled with smoke and commerce. It wasn’t a place like on the moors of the Scottish Highlands where you’d find yourself alone, in broad daylight, yelling for help until hoarse.
After posting her letters and Lady Bolingbroke’s, she picked up a package sent from Falcon’s assistant, which she was sure contained the finely crafted pair of three-inch metal prongs she’d ordered from the Movement, needed for breaking in undetected to Bolingbroke’s desk.
Her thoughts then shifted to Slade. And she cringed for the hundredth time at her overreaction under the willow tree six days earlier. Her cheeks heated. Fear was ingrained in her. It controlled her, changed her behavior. She couldn’t have helped it.
First, always learn their habits and routine,Falcon’s voice sounded in Phoebe’s head as she strode down the street, avoiding a smelly pile of refuse. Lady Bolingbroke was spending the day with Mistress Capnell, her friend and fellow gossip monger. And Bolingbroke was in his study where he always was, except on Thursdays when tupping the laundry maid, capricious Swindlehurst. Phoebe was certain proof of Bolingbroke’s unsanctioned activity was in his desk drawer, which she’d gotten a glimpse of by chance while speaking to the housemaid.
As Phoebe crossed the street, she stopped short upon noticing a sprawling two-story wooden building across the street with signage readingHortons Gunsmithpainted in bold black and gold letters. Was this Slade’s Hortons? Her heart lurched forward, and indecision gurgled in her belly. Should she say hello? Phoebe’s mind was made up when she saw Slade’s familiar dark figure, head and shoulders above the rest, exiting Hortons accompanied by a man of average height with unruly brown hair.
Phoebe made her way across the busy street toward him, sidestepping an oncoming carriage with squeaky wheels, at the same time Slade turned in her direction. He halted his stride, his friend following suit.
Slade was devastatingly appealing in the crisp gray uniform of an officer for the Royal Scots Greys, much like he’d worn at the manor, his open-front gray surtout coat giving him an air of military command. He moved like a natural leader, tall and arresting, grabbing the attention of all around him, especially the women. Slade seemed oblivious to the two women passing him and his friend, their eyes lingering on Slade a breath longer than propriety allowed. Slade’s companion wore a pale waistcoat, matching shirt and dark breeches topped off with a cedar-brown woolen jacket.
A holstered flintlock pistol hung casually off Slade’s hip instead of a rapier this time. How secure he must feel with it, a comfort she herself had been unable to experience since the moors.
His cool gaze flicked up from the hem of her dress to her face with such intensity and imperious authority her heart gave a sudden jolt and she felt what it must be like to be a soldier under his colonel’s command. When his eyes landed on her face, the side of his mouth tilted up in a devastating smile, making her lower body clench. Perhaps he’d forgotten how awkwardly she’d ended their last meeting.
CHAPTER 8
“What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to Birmingham?” Slade asked Phoebe.
Phoebe had made it a point to dress in drab colors for the past seven years, never wanting a man to take notice of her ever again. But for some reason, her nondescript gray dress and dark woolen coat topped off with a plaindormeusesbonnet made her self-conscious under his explorative eyes.
“Errands for my employer,” Phoebe said.
As Slade introduced his friend, Peter Horton, the gray light of day accentuated the chiseled lines of Slade’s jaw and cheekbones, which had grown more angular and harder since they were children. He was more self-assured, confident and controlled now, most likely picked up in the military.
Phoebe smiled at Peter, who gave a gallant bow in her direction. He was fully half a head shorter than Slade.
“How do you do, Mistress Dunbar?”
Peter’s pleasant expression, marked in his well-disposed features, drew a sense of affability and friendship from Phoebe. As this did not happen often—never in fact—she took it to heart.
“A pleasure to meet you, Master Horton. I take it you are a gunsmith?”
“Indeed, I am. And how do you know our colonel here?” Peter threw a cursory glance in Slade’s direction.
“Slade fostered with my older brother Egan at the MacDonells’ Invergarry Castle in the Scottish Highlands when they were lads,” Phoebe said.
“Then you and I must speak at length. Even though I have known the colonel here for six years, I know next to nothing about him.”
“It would greatly please me to?—”
“Don’t you have an appointment?” Slade cut in, his expression superior and laconic as he eyed Peter. Peter, appearing unperturbed, reached into his waistcoat and retrieved a silver pocket watch.
Peter clicked the device open then gasped. “The meeting with the Gun Trade Association is about to start. I must dash. Enchanted to meet you, Mistress Dunbar. I look forward to our next encounter.”
He inclined his head towards her and Slade, his features taking on a warm and unassuming smile.
