After Peter left, Slade folded his hands behind his back and shot her an expectant smile. But then after glancing at their immediate surroundings, a shadow of disapproval crossed his features.
“Doesn’t your employer provide you with an escort?”
“I always have an escort for Lady Bolingbroke’s errands, a footman this time, currently tending to the horses at the stables.”
He seemed to consider her answer then his gaze turned direct. “And for personal errands?” A hint of concern in his tone.
Phoebe gave a half shrug. “I hardly ever need one. Many times, I come into town with a few of Bolingbroke’s staff on ourtime off, and after errands we travel back in a group.” Phoebe paused, warming at his concern, then added, “For example, on the thirty-first of the month, three of us are going to the Saint Michael’s church fair, for my birthday.”
“The thirty-first? That’s your birthday?” A pained expression darkened his brow.
Phoebe was taken aback, concern squeezing her chest. What would cause such a stark reaction in him? “I know the thirty-first is also the day ofSamhain, but?—”
Slade shook his head. “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to cause any concern. It’s only that I … I once knew someone whose birthday was the same day.”
Her entire body stilled, then she blinked at him even as coldness brushed her spine. At that moment, Phoebe would have staked all the darkest secrets of the Whig Party, the English Government and the Royal Army put together that Slade was referring to Sylvia. She regretted unknowingly broaching the topic of his former betrothed and causing him distress. And she would be damned to hell, for she was jealous of a dead woman.
Phoebe had been but a few feet from Sylvia once, years ago, when Egan and her parents had taken her for new clothes in Portree. Egan had pointed Sylvia out to Phoebe as Slade’s betrothed even though they’d never actually spoken to each other. Sylvia had had that perfect clear porcelain skin, with big sparkling cinnamon brown eyes, in a perfect oval doll’s face that seemed to have a perpetual genuine trusting smile. Phoebe had already been enamored of Slade and seeing how flawless Sylvia was had made her green-eyed over the other woman ever since.
His expression shuttered, as if he wished to change topics. “Since your escort is currently taken up with tending to the horses, might I accompany you for the remainder of your errands?” he said.
Her spirits lifted. As gallant as ever, despite her faux pas. “All that remains is for me to grab the latest copy of theDaily Courantbefore I head back, and I would welcome the company,” Phoebe said.
The gossip columns had recently reported on the Jacobite rebel raids in Claigan village in the Scottish Highlands conducted by the English redcoats. Phoebe was certain Bolingbroke’s men were responsible for the raids. What else were Bolingbroke’s minions up to?Always keep your eyes and ears peeled,Falcon had said.
Phoebe and Slade began a leisurely stroll in the direction of the coffee house to procure the gossip columns when Slade eyed her with concern. “How have you been since the footman’s accidental shooting?”
“Quite well, thank you. And Ludlow is recovering, thanks to your quick thinking,” Phoebe said, to which Slade gave a gracious inclination of his head.
As they made their way down the sidewalk, the foot traffic around them pushed them close enough together that his gleaming riding boots brushed the edges of her skirts, the action strangely intimate.
Then Phoebe’s eyes fell on his holstered pistol, the beautiful design on its butt so masterfully engraved she had an intense urge to do a test fire. But how to get Slade to allow her to fire his pistol without divulging she’s a proficient trained by the Movement? “Is it difficult to learn how to shoot with a flintlock pistol?” she said.
His lips pursed as they both sidestepped a group of cackling men dressed like sailors. “It depends on how proficient you want to be. Why do you ask?”
“Will you teach me?” she said. And braced herself for his response which she was certain would be not only oppositional but reprimanding as well.
He stopped walking and stared at her in utter surprise and bewilderment. “Whatever for?”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned back to look at him, determination settling in her stomach. “I assume you are much safer when able to take care of yourself, having defensive skills or a weapon. I realize it’s highly unorthodox and extremely unladylike, but I long for a bit of that secure feeling.” She was fully prepared to beg if he refused.
Slade shook his head, gesturing with an open palm for her to continue their walk as he himself resumed. “One does not need to learn to shoot to feel secure,” he said, his tone adamant.
Phoebe swallowed down her mild annoyance. “No, one does not. But working in the house of a general—which is stocked with all types of arms, I might add—and coming into Birmingham at least once or twice a week on errands for Lady Bolingbroke, it would be prudent on my part to think of security. Why just last week two drunken sailors coming out of a pub nearly knocked us over?—”
Slade stopped his stroll, his green eyes glinting with alarm even in the day’s pale light. “Were you accosted?”
She stopped as well and rushed to assuage his alarm, while her insides warmed at his concern. “No. No, it was an innocent mistake for which they begged our pardon. But what if their intentions had been nefarious?”
Slade’s face tensed. “Although I find it shocking you are implying you wish to carry a firearm, your observation about working in Bolingbroke’s household is well noted.”
Derision and danger brewed in his expression. Did he not like General Bolingbroke? Weren’t they comrades-in-arms? Well, she supposed someone like Bolingbroke inspired anything but camaraderie.
“Very well, I’ll teach you how to shoot,” Slade said, the words coming out determined.
CHAPTER 9
Phoebe’s fingers curled around the wooden grip of the pistol, her pointer finger on the trigger. She raised her right arm straight out and pointed at the target about eighty feet away. The ball had already been rammed down the front of the barrel, the charge powder loaded in the pan and the pistol cocked. Falcon’s voice rang in her head.Practice makes progress.She couldn’t tell Slade she was already a proficient markswoman. If she had, she would have had to reveal why.
