Claimed by the Rogue (2 page)

Snarling sent her spinning about. Belinda let out a gasp and leapt off the bed. The sisters’ gazes met and then fell to the rose-patterned carpet. Pippin stood on all fours, the very picture of pride, Phoebe’s wig locked within his jaws.

“Naughty Pippin, give it over
now
,” Belinda demanded, wagging her finger beneath the black button nose to no effect.

“I’d rather say you’re the naughty one. You’ve been baiting him the entire time.” Phoebe reached down to pull the thing free, but Pippin had his back arched, his ears pinned and the wig wedged between his canines. The resolve reflected in his chocolate-brown eyes assured her he was not yet prepared to relinquish his prize. Straightening, Phoebe blew out a breath. “You know he cannot be trusted with hair. Like as not he thinks it’s another animal.”

Belinda shrugged. “It’s not my fault he’s so badly behaved. You’re the one who’s spoiled him.”

Spoiled—if that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, Phoebe couldn’t say what was. She fixed Belinda with her best imitation of their mother’s glare. “He is as well behaved or better than certain bipeds I know. He may attack hair but at least
he
holds his whining to a minimum.”

As if sensing he was no longer the center of attention, Pippin dropped the wig and hopped up onto the four-poster. Black lips pulled back in a yawn, he subsided onto his side, his brown and white head dropping like a stone to the fringed pillow.

Belinda stooped to pluck up the sodden, mangled mess. “Ewww.” Pulling a face, she dropped the ruined wig as if it were a hot coal.

Phoebe shook her head, which would remain wig-free for the evening. “Oh, bother it! I shall simply have to be a blonde Mary Queen of Scots.”

A sharp rap outside the chamber barely preceded the brass doorknob’s turning. Signaling Belinda to silence, she kicked the wig beneath the ruffled duster just as the door opened and their mother marched inside.

Fixing on a faux smile, Phoebe folded her hands and straightened. “Mama, how splendid you are.”

She nudged Belinda, who piped up, “Indeed, Mama, you look a picture.”

A picture, indeed! Wearing an elaborately teased and curled red wig and heavy face powder and rouge to portray the Tudor queen, Elizabeth, Lady Tremont sailed toward them, brocade skirts swishing.
 

“Phoebe, whatever can you be thinking to stand about woolgathering when your guests will be arriving at any moment?” Her scowl, fixed on Phoebe, threatened to crack the patina of face paint.

Phoebe paused, searching for an excuse that would skirt blaming both adorably spoiled dogs and peevish little sisters.
 

Before she could, Belinda broke in with, “Mayhap I could go below and greet them…that is, until Phoebe finishes dressing.”

Their mother shifted to Belinda, her gaze narrowing. “How many times must I tell you that you may not appear at evening events until your come out?”

Belinda’s face fell. “But Mama—”

“No buts.” Lady Tremont cut her off with a sharp look. “Now off with you. Your governess informs me you have lessons yet to finish. No man wishes to marry an ignoramus.”

“Yes, Mama.” Belinda shuffled toward the door, her ordinarily proud carriage slipping.
 

Though mere moments ago Phoebe had felt like throttling her sibling, seeing Belinda so dejected had her ready to do battle. She waited for the door to close before starting in with, “Really Mother, an ignoramus? That was beyond harsh. She only wants to be included. Why not allow her downstairs for the first hour at least? It would mean so very much to her and it
is
my engagement ball.”

“Stuff and feathers,” Lady Tremont snorted, nostrils flaring as though the suggested breach of propriety had released a noxious odor into the room. “I won’t have it said I allowed Belinda to run amok
too
. No man wants a wilding for a wife.”

Phoebe was well aware her mother considered her to be a black sheep and yet the implication that she might have harmed Belinda’s chances hurt. “An ignoramus and a wilding—good gracious, what a pair Belinda and I are! Poor Mama, to be saddled with such derelict daughters hardly seems just.”

Lady Tremont sniffed. “Really, Phoebe, your sense of humor grows queerer by the day. I suppose it’s no wonder given the low company you keep at that horrid hospital.”
 

Even considering the source, the barb stung. Phoebe had begun volunteering at the London Foundling Hospital for something to do, as a reason to rise, bathe and dress in a world that no longer held Robert. Helping to put a smile on the face of a formerly forlorn boy or girl had proven the very best medicine for her grieving heart. Her tutoring and fundraising work had catapulted from a crutch to a raison d’être
.
 

“Quite, Mama. Fraternizing with orphaned children is terribly shocking, is it not? Can frequenting brothels be far behind?”
 

Even her mother was wise enough to admit defeat upon occasion. Turning the topic, she dropped her gaze to Phoebe’s throat and scowled. “Must you wear that trifle tonight of all nights?”

Phoebe covered the padlock-shaped locket, Robert’s parting gift, with a protective hand. “It is not a trifle to me, Mama,” she said, throat thick.
 

Indeed, it was one of the few mementos she had of her first and still only love. That Robert’s drowned body likely still wore the mate bearing her miniature might seem morbid to some, but the notion had brought Phoebe comfort even on her darkest days. She only regretted that there hadn’t been time before he sailed to have him painted as well. Instead she’d made do with a lock of his hair.
 

“It is
silver
,” her mother hissed as though the metal was something foul. “A lady should never lower herself to wear less than gold.”
 

The locket was summarily removed and whisked away. Brisk strides carried her ladyship to the dresser atop which Phoebe’s rosewood jewelry case sat. Without asking, she lifted the lid, dropped the maligned locket inside, and rifled through the velvet-lined compartments. An “Ah ha” announced she’d located the object of her search. She closed the case and whirled about, the heavy gold chain bearing Aristide’s betrothal gift, a ruby ring set in gold filigree, resting in her gloved palm.

She stepped behind Phoebe, their full skirts battling for space. “You really must find a moment to have this fitted so that you may wear it properly.”

Ornate and unwieldy, the band swam upon her finger. Handsome piece though the betrothal present was, Phoebe had never cared for it. Or perhaps it was what it signified that she didn’t care for—giving herself to a man other than Robert.
 

For now, she settled for a dutiful nod. “Yes, of course, Mama.”
 

The gold chain, another gift from Aristide, was heavy upon her breast, the ring resting just above her cleavage. A snap announced the clasp’s closing.

Her mother crossed to Phoebe’s front. Features relaxing now that she had won her way, she cupped Phoebe’s chin. “You are fortunate, my darling. You have been spared spinsterhood and given a rare and precious second chance to lead a normal life as a wife and mother. Cease mooning for a man who never came close to worthy of you and instead count your blessings: a titled fiancé who adores you, a house filled with guests to celebrate your engagement and a mother who has labored tirelessly all these many years to see you happily settled.” She dropped her hand and stepped back. “Now put on your wig and come downstairs before your guests arrive. Aristide awaits you.”

Phoebe opened her mouth to confess the wig’s ruin and then clamped it closed. What would be the point? “I shall be but a moment more.”

Seemingly satisfied, Lady Tremont turned to go. Watching her depart, Phoebe fingered the ruby. Though she quite liked rubies, this particular gemstone never failed to bring chills skittering the span of her spine. Resolved, she reached both hands behind her. After several tries, she got the clasp open. Freed, she carried the chain and ring over to the dresser and dropped the lot inside the case.

I may marry, Mama, but I shall do so on my terms.

Yes, she must ford into her future but doing so need not mean that the past be buried entirely. Robert and their love would always hold a permanent place in her heart. Considering the momentous step she was poised to take, she needed to feel as though she carried a part of him with her. Putting his padlock locket back on, she almost fancied he was near enough to watch over her.
 

Outside the Tremont townhouse, Robert handed over his horse to a liveried footman and joined the crowd of masked guests pouring out onto the torch-lit walkway. Carriages clogged the square, the queue backing up traffic to the main road. A ball, a masque, was apparently underway. Witches and warlocks mingled with kings and queens in the throng making its way toward the classically columned entrance. Orchestra music wafted out the open windows, the front rooms lit to a high glow. So much for the poignant private reunion he’d planned. Glancing down at himself, he was suddenly conscious of the mud caking his boots and the road dust clinging to his clothes. Other than the anise he’d chewed on the way over to calm his nervous stomach and freshen his breath, he was scarcely in a fit state for mingling in society.

An older couple dressed in the powdered wigs of the previous century sidled up. “Must we really leave so soon?” the woman whined, her scowl causing the velvet heart-shaped patch below her mouth to droop. “Everyone knows the engagement is to be announced at midnight.”

Engagement! Robert’s heart picked up pace. When he’d left England, Phoebe’s brother Reggie had been a gadabout bachelor and her baby sister Belinda not yet eleven. Then again six years had passed. Either sibling might well be wedding, yet another marker of how much time he’d lost. He cocked his head to the side, straining to hear more.
 

“I can’t abide that crush a moment more, let alone ’til midnight. This damnable wig has me scratching like a hound with fleas.” Pulling off his black felt mask, the gentleman swiped a gloved hand across his sweat-beaded brow.

Plucking at her gown’s panniers, the woman sighed. “Very well, Herbert, I suppose you must win your way. It’s not as though she’s a chit fresh from the schoolroom. Given her age and history, Lady Phoebe should count herself fortunate to have snared any offer at all.”

Phoebe…marrying!
Robert’s heart skidded to a stop.

“To my thinking,” the man replied, “the poor gel’s due for a bit of happiness even if the bridegroom is a Frog.”

A Frog! Phoebe was wedding a Frenchman?

“Aristide Bouchart, Count of Beaumont sounds very grand, don’t you think?” The woman’s approving tone implied it wasn’t a question. “They say he comes from one of France’s ancient lines only his family lost their lands and most of their fortune to the Terror.”

An aristocrat, bloody hell!

“He’s made a good bit of it back—the fortune, that is.”

“By going into trade.” The woman’s shudder sent the flesh of her bared shoulders wobbling like a pudding released from its skein.

The pair paused, eyeing him with open admiration. Edging toward Robert, the man cleared his throat. “Bloody good costume, that.”

The matron nodded. “There’s another pirate within, but he can’t hold a candle to you.”

Another…
pirate
?
 

Since putting into port, Robert had found himself the recipient of similar stares though at first he’d assumed the interest must be directed at Caleb. Now he understood otherwise. From what he’d so far seen riding through the city, men’s fashion had sobered substantially since he’d last seen London. With his scarlet silk, flowing sleeves and broad-brimmed hat festooned with feathers, he must stand out like a peacock—or a sore thumb.

Mastering himself, he found his tongue. “Thank you.” Thoughts churning, he divided his gaze between them. “The only article my…
costume
lacks is a mask. By the time I realized I’d left it behind, it was too late to turn back.” He focused on the man pulling at his periwig. “I don’t suppose you might be persuaded to part with yours? I would of course compensate you for its worth.”

The man shoved the mask into his hands. “My good fellow, I will gladly give it over for the pleasure of never having to wear it again.”

“You are too kind, sir.” Robert accepted the beribboned black felt with a bow. Straightening, he glimpsed the wilted square of vellum in the man’s gloved hand. “The dashed thing is I’ve left my invitation behind as well.”

The husband, Herbert, broke into a broad grin. “In that case, take ours.” Ignoring his wife’s warning look, he added, “Ordinarily I would not think to hand it over to an unknown person, but I can discern from your speech and manners that you are a gentleman of the utmost character and breeding.” Leaning in, he confided, “But I must warn you ’tis hot as Hades in there, a most damnable crush. Are you quite certain you’re up for it?”

Robert tucked the vellum inside his breast pocket. “Indeed, sir, I don’t think I’ve been more ready in all my days.”

Phoebe accepted a glass of iced lemonade from a circulating footman and passed it to her father. “Here, Papa, drink this. It will revive you.”