“I need to learn how to handle a pistol first and Papa flatly refused to teach me.” She fiddled with a button. “Would you teach me?”
Leaning back, Hugh kept a hand on each of her shoulders. “One day perhaps, but as you yourself just said, you are too young.”
Black eyes dulled and she sniffed.
He recalled Phoebe before her parents’ death – a bright, cheerful girl, inquisitive as hell, and how he wished to see that girl return. But he was also aware that life had, too soon, left its mark upon her; she would never be the same.
But she would be stronger for it. And with a father she could be proud of. A vanquished one. A lauded one.
He’d make sure of it.
“I have to go, Phoebe.”
“I know, Uncle. Take care.” A buss on the cheek and Phoebe dashed off.
Hugh pulled the kitchen door shut behind him and strode through the garden towards the stables where the oldest nag he could find would convey him to St Giles Rookery.
The night was black as chimney soot, the stars and moon concealed by a deep swathe of cloud. A prime night for footpads and–
A dim flicker of light across the lawn caught his eye and he glanced over one shoulder.
The dining room curtain dropped.
Most likely Phoebe, although…
