Phoebe swallowed, recalling the warmth between them and Dr Kapoor’s wary smile. It was so far removed from her knowledge of accepted social unions, and yet she was sure she was correct, in the same way she was sure he’d glimpsed her inner turmoil. Her lips parted to remind him that, as a gentleman, he had so many more avenues for escape than she, but he was already gone – leaving a glacial highwayman in his place.
Phoebe inhaled tightly.
‘I cannot help but believe that deep down, you know I am lost.’
His words hung on the air between them as she focused on his cravat, its folds as precise as ever. Then the dance brought them together, and his warm fingers interlaced hers briefly, sending a shiver that divided and chased across the entirety of her tense body.
‘I apologise for my earlier attentions, Miss Fairfax,’ he murmured. ‘I see now that they were entirely inappropriate. And while I cannot bring myself to regret them, I hope in time’—his gaze flickered past hers momentarily—‘that you will learn to … forgive them.’
She stole a glance up, a million thoughts racing, but then he too was gone, leaving the earl in his place, puffed-faced and purple.
Phoebe danced on, feeling oddly breathless, and never more grateful than when the last few notes of the dance spilled out over the floor. She sank into a curtsey, conscious that the rest of the guests were watching as the earl proffered his arm in a way that made his favour decidedly clear.
‘Please do excuse me, my lord,’ she murmured, ‘I am a little overcome … and in need of some air.’
The words tumbled out of their accord, and if the earl was surprised by her sudden indisposition, he was just as swiftly distracted by the herd of ambitious mamas the moment she turned.
‘Be my guest,’ she whispered, as she fled the room.
Phoebe took the wide Bath-stone steps two at a time, only slowing when she’d climbed three stairwells, and the noise of the music had receded to a distant blur. Then, finally, she allowed herself to step off the plum-velvet carpet and into a shadowy corridor lined with oil paintings. She exhaled heavily, recalling the night she’d been surrounded by the viscount’s family portraits in Ebcott Place, and how it had been the start of something she barely understood at all.
Slowly, she stepped along the corridor, savouring its quiet solitude after the scrutiny of the dance. The first two portraits were of the viscount’s mother and grandmother, the next were a series of mini paintings of his deceased father, surrounded by horses and dogs, and finally there was a portrait of the viscount with his siblings, in the gardens of Damerel Place.
Phoebe stared, trying to match the relaxed young gentleman in the portrait with the proud highwayman she’d left downstairs. He was standing behind his brother, who was seated beneath a flowering magnolia tree, while a young child with golden curls played at their feet.
‘Which explains the swing,’ she muttered to herself, peering closer. There was no mistake, it was the same lonely swing she’d discovered in the garden that evening, and the child looked no older than three or four years of age.
For a few moments she stared at their same intelligent brow, quizzical eyes, and impossibly high cheekbones – before a muffled cough suddenly disturbed the quiet.
Startled, she peered down through the silent murky corridor, her chest thumping. The last thing she needed was to be discovered by one of the servants, or even the viscount himself. He’d already insulted her this evening – she could only imagine his reaction, or the story he might tell Aurelia, if he believed her snooping in private family quarters. The thought was beyond mortifying, so she did the only thing she could think of doing, and slipped inside the nearest room.
Phoebe closed the door softly and waited. The room appeared to be a family bedchamber and particularly warm, and for a few moments she was content to hide and gather her thoughts. It was only when it had been quiet for some time, that she heard the cough again, and this time it was much closer. Carefully, she peered around a small entrance hall to glimpse a well-stoked fireplace, a small four-poster bed, an armoire, and a dresser. It was clearly a child’s bedchamber and, frowning, she ran her gaze from the thick eiderdown, to the roaring fireplace, to the tightly closed window on the opposite wall.
‘Are you looking for something to steal?’
Phoebe caught her breath as she spied a head full of golden spiral curls, just visible above the eiderdown.
‘Perhaps a little time,’ she smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t suppose you have any of that lying around here, do you?’
Two dancing blue eyes joined the golden spiral curls.
‘I have too much of it in this bedroom,’ the child grumbled, before coughing again in a way that stirred old memories for Phoebe.
In a heartbeat, she was beside her, sitting her up and rubbing her back in a way that always helped Josephine. However, this child was much younger, eight or nine years at most, and the cough showed little sign of abating.
Alarmed, Phoebe looked round for any of the tonics or tinctures she’d used with Josephine over the years, but her bedside glass was empty, and the child was already gulping for breath.
‘Do you have any medicine? Can I call for your nurse?’ Phoebe hushed, recognising the warning signs of a lung seizure.
But the child only clung to her, and struggled for breath in a way that filled Phoebe with mounting fear. She looked into her face; at her reddened cheeks, laboured breath, and scared eyes, and knew she had to act. Her sister had suffered with bronchospasms long enough for her to know how swiftly she could deteriorate.
Swiftly she scanned the room again, looking for anything with which she could improvise, and found herself staring through the window at the spring sky. In a blink, she was seven years old again, and watching Harriet hold Josephine close to the nursery window, praying the moorland air would work its magic. As it had, so many times. She glanced down at the child and knew there was no time to waste. This may not be Knightswood, and she wasn’t their dear old nurse, but the principle had to be the same.
Jumping to her feet, Phoebe ran across the room, and tried to force open the old window but it refused to budge. She whirled frantically, looking for anything that might help, until her gaze landed on the fire poker. Without hesitating, she snatched it up and drove it into the window with all her strength. There was a moment’s silence, before it fractured like a giant spider’s web and then it fell away, letting a stream of fresh air fill the room.
‘Come on!’ she exclaimed, running back to the bed, and scooping up the semi-conscious child.
She wheezed something unintelligible, her lips already blue-grey, and Phoebe’s alarm intensified. She’d watched Josephine suffer too many times not to know the signs of a severe attack, and this child was so young. Swiftly, she ran towards the window, and turned her towards the evening air.
