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Authors: Michelle Diener
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rattled the doors to make sure they were secure and frowned. “I feel uneasy about this.”
Phoebe tried to smile at him, but the thought of that gun, pointed straight at Wittaker, the way he’d scooped her up and put himself between her and her assailant….
Her legs felt a little weak and she sat down harder than she intended on the arm of a chair.
Lewis kept his gaze on her as he lifted his hand to ring the bell to the kitchen. Before he could tug it, the sound of someone on the front doorstep had them both turning their heads.
“My aunt back from the ball?” Phoebe suggested.
Lewis all but ran from the room to the front door in his haste to pass her into her aunt’s care. A moment later she heard the low rumble of his voice, surprisingly deep in a man as slight at he was, and then the squawk of horror from Aunt Dorothy.
The sound of her aunt’s distress helped her get a hold of herself. The little collapse of a moment ago was the only weakness she would allow.
“My dear! Lewis says…” Her aunt gave a cry at the sight of her, and Phoebe belatedly remembered her dress. “You’ve been manhandled!”
“Only pushed out the way, and tripped over my own skirts,” Phoebe told her. But she thought of the way the intruder had behaved when he’d seen her, the way he had lifted the gun.
Even in the weak light of the moon, there had been a focus on his face, a practised air about him as he’d taken aim at her down the sight.
It was the way he reacted. As if he’d come across her fortuitously. As if killing her was the reason for his being there at all.
She shivered.
If the Duke of Wittaker had not been with her, she would be dead.
“Look at you. How calm and brave.” Aunt Dorothy put an arm around her and gave her an affectionate hug. “Lucinda would be having hysterics by now.”
Phoebe was able to manage a real smile at the thought of her cousin Lucinda in this situation, and the tight squeeze of fear on her chest relaxed its hold. “I don’t feel brave. Just lucky. And ready for bed.”
She wondered what Wittaker had meant by seeing her later. She was not going back out into the garden to hang about for his return. He could see her tomorrow. In broad daylight.
That was, if he survived his chase with the intruder. Although she couldn’t doubt he would.
She had seen the hunter in him, the almost eager way he’d taken after the man.
He didn’t like to be bested. And from all accounts, especially at the gaming tables and the duelling field, he seldom was.
That part of his reputation, at least, was true.
When she finally sent her aunt to bed, and her maid had helped her undress, she stood beside the bath Lewis had organized and unpinned her hair, running her hand over the back of her skull where Wittaker had cupped her head, and then trailing her fingers down to the skin of her neck where the smooth warmth of his inner wrist had touched her.
As she sank into the hot water, she thought again of the way Wittaker had lifted her up and stood between her and a loaded gun.
She would tell him about the petition Sheldrake had sent her.
She owed him that much.
She owed him, in truth, her life.
* * *
James could hear the rasp of his quarry’s breath as they came out of Upper Berkley Street, across Edgeware Row and onto a bowling green, which James belated realized was situated in the fields above Hyde Park.
It would be deserted this time of night.
The man realized it a moment later himself, stopped and turned, pistol waving in his hand. “Stop.”
James didn’t give him the time he needed to catch his breath and aim, though, he ran straight at him. He saw the intruder’s face waver between disbelief that someone would be mad enough to come at him when he held a weapon, and fear.
Fear won and he spun and ran again, with James much closer than before.
“Let up, mate.” The man reached the low stone wall at the far end of the bowling green and leapt it. His words came out hoarse and
Phoebe tried to smile at him, but the thought of that gun, pointed straight at Wittaker, the way he’d scooped her up and put himself between her and her assailant….
Her legs felt a little weak and she sat down harder than she intended on the arm of a chair.
Lewis kept his gaze on her as he lifted his hand to ring the bell to the kitchen. Before he could tug it, the sound of someone on the front doorstep had them both turning their heads.
“My aunt back from the ball?” Phoebe suggested.
Lewis all but ran from the room to the front door in his haste to pass her into her aunt’s care. A moment later she heard the low rumble of his voice, surprisingly deep in a man as slight at he was, and then the squawk of horror from Aunt Dorothy.
The sound of her aunt’s distress helped her get a hold of herself. The little collapse of a moment ago was the only weakness she would allow.
“My dear! Lewis says…” Her aunt gave a cry at the sight of her, and Phoebe belatedly remembered her dress. “You’ve been manhandled!”
“Only pushed out the way, and tripped over my own skirts,” Phoebe told her. But she thought of the way the intruder had behaved when he’d seen her, the way he had lifted the gun.
Even in the weak light of the moon, there had been a focus on his face, a practised air about him as he’d taken aim at her down the sight.
It was the way he reacted. As if he’d come across her fortuitously. As if killing her was the reason for his being there at all.
She shivered.
If the Duke of Wittaker had not been with her, she would be dead.
“Look at you. How calm and brave.” Aunt Dorothy put an arm around her and gave her an affectionate hug. “Lucinda would be having hysterics by now.”
Phoebe was able to manage a real smile at the thought of her cousin Lucinda in this situation, and the tight squeeze of fear on her chest relaxed its hold. “I don’t feel brave. Just lucky. And ready for bed.”
She wondered what Wittaker had meant by seeing her later. She was not going back out into the garden to hang about for his return. He could see her tomorrow. In broad daylight.
That was, if he survived his chase with the intruder. Although she couldn’t doubt he would.
She had seen the hunter in him, the almost eager way he’d taken after the man.
He didn’t like to be bested. And from all accounts, especially at the gaming tables and the duelling field, he seldom was.
That part of his reputation, at least, was true.
When she finally sent her aunt to bed, and her maid had helped her undress, she stood beside the bath Lewis had organized and unpinned her hair, running her hand over the back of her skull where Wittaker had cupped her head, and then trailing her fingers down to the skin of her neck where the smooth warmth of his inner wrist had touched her.
As she sank into the hot water, she thought again of the way Wittaker had lifted her up and stood between her and a loaded gun.
She would tell him about the petition Sheldrake had sent her.
She owed him that much.
She owed him, in truth, her life.
* * *
James could hear the rasp of his quarry’s breath as they came out of Upper Berkley Street, across Edgeware Row and onto a bowling green, which James belated realized was situated in the fields above Hyde Park.
It would be deserted this time of night.
The man realized it a moment later himself, stopped and turned, pistol waving in his hand. “Stop.”
James didn’t give him the time he needed to catch his breath and aim, though, he ran straight at him. He saw the intruder’s face waver between disbelief that someone would be mad enough to come at him when he held a weapon, and fear.
Fear won and he spun and ran again, with James much closer than before.
“Let up, mate.” The man reached the low stone wall at the far end of the bowling green and leapt it. His words came out hoarse and
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