Claimed by the Rogue (25 page)

“Good God, man, that’s a devil of a lot to keep under your hat. You should have come to me earlier.”

Unlike the prideful hellion of six years earlier, Robert took the mild reproof in stride. “Agreed, but first I wanted to be certain. I need to delve into Bouchart’s background. I’m not certain I believe he is who he claims to be. Will you help?”

“I still have a few friends in the War Office. One in particular, the Honorable Bennett Templeton, served in France as an espionage agent during the latter years of Napoleon’s reign as emperor. He might be of some assistance.”

Robert nodded. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Swirling his brandy about the globed glass, Anthony asked, “Tell me, if not an exiled French aristocrat-cum-wine-importer, who do you think he is?”

Robert hesitated. “I suspect he’s a confidence man of some sort—well-spoken, decently educated but hardly cut from noble cloth.”

“I take it you haven’t voiced your suspicions to Phoebe or her family?”

“I spoke to Phoebe earlier, and only in the service of urging her to caution,” Robert admitted. He declined to add that he’d been too preoccupied with seducing her to press his point. Despite how close they’d come to going to bed, he could tell she’d yet to trust him entirely. “As for her family, given my history with Lady T in particular, I deemed it prudent to hold off pending solid proof.”

“Wise indeed,” Anthony agreed. “But for our first order of business, let us put our heads together and devise a plan for getting our visiting mermaid out of the bath—and this house—without alerting all of Mayfair.”

Startled, Robert asked, “How long have you known she was here?”

Anthony shrugged. “From the moment I set foot inside this evening. Templeton isn’t the only one with a background in espionage. In this case I hadn’t far to search for my spy. The butler is, after all, in my employ.”

Robert set his snifter aside. “I’m all ears. What do you suggest?”

“Firstly we call in your sister if she hasn’t already discovered Phoebe for herself. As the last woman I ever brought here clandestinely, she like as not has more than a few ideas on how best to sneak someone out. Only mind she herself insisted upon exiting by way of an upper window. If at all possible, let us try and put Phoebe through an actual door.”

Aristide sat before the fire regarding the crystal shards blanketing the bricks. With only the flames for light, the remains of the shattered decanter and glass looked like freshly fallen snow, crystalline and pure. Still, the destruction had done little to soothe him.

Once again, Robert Bellamy had had the bad manners not to die.

And now because of it, the rogue was likely even more of a romantic hero in Phoebe’s eyes. Since the betrothal ball, Aristide’s sway over her had been steadily slipping.
 

He’d spent all the previous season wearing down the chit’s resistance, and he was not about to withdraw now that his prize was within reach. Nor could he afford to do so. Keeping up the appearance of riches was a costly affair. He couldn’t hold off his creditors indefinitely. Sooner or later, word of his mounting debts would leak.
 

Unfortunately, Bellamy had shown himself to be surprisingly formidable. The horse’s cut cinch had been meant only to injure, but earlier at the market Payne and his partner had been instructed to bring about a more permanent solution. But even hampered by Phoebe, the rotter had managed to foil them. Clearly he had underestimated his foe, a mistake he did not intend to repeat. Rather than risk striking out in the same fashion again, he must find another means of dispatching Bellamy.

Once and for all.
 

Chapter Ten

One Week Later

Seated beside Robert on an empty classroom bench, a chalk slate perched upon her lap, Phoebe was alight with purpose. “If more people could but meet the children and see firsthand how deserving and, well…wonderful they are, I feel certain that we would see a surge in placements, not only apprenticeships but adoptions,” she said in a hushed voice.

She cast a quick look across the room to Lulu and Fiona. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, their heads bent to their slates, they appeared absorbed in working out the mathematics problem to which Phoebe had set them.

Hoping that solving it would occupy them for a good while more, he shifted his gaze back to Phoebe. “It sounds as though you have something in mind.” He leaned toward her, ostensibly to steal a peek at what she’d so far scribbled upon the slate, though in reality it was her warmth and scent and nearness he sought.

“I do,” she admitted, holding it facedown upon her breast. “Why not hold a May Day fair? We can pitch tents and stake a maypole on the hospital lawn and invite everyone in the city to attend, from the Lord Mayor on down.”

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” he said sincerely. Coming of age in the country, he’d celebrated many a May Day in such a festive fashion. “How can I help?”

“Truly?”

Robert suppressed a sigh. One day in the not-too-distant future he swore she would accept his word without question but seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, he acknowledged that day was yet to arrive. “I flatter myself to think my capabilities extend beyond pulling purse strings.”

She sent him a sideways look. “In that case, I accept, though you may regret your offer when you see how much work’s to be done in so little time. We have to engage the performers, arrange for tents lest it rains—and it’s England, so it always rains—ensure there’s sufficient food and drink and—”

“My dearest, darling Phoebe,” he said, torn between amusement and exasperation, “what do you imagine captaining a ship entails if not those very things?”

“Right, sorry.” Picking up the chalk and slate, she released a flurry of scribbling. “We’ll keep some of the area open for picnicking and games, food sellers and various entertainers—jugglers, mimes, strongmen, a soothsayer, perhaps.”

“A soothsayer,” Robert echoed, an admittedly madcap idea taking shape in his mind. “I don’t recall that as being part of the tradition.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s not,” she admitted. “But people seem to enjoy that sort of rubbish, and well, it’s all in good fun as well as a way to bring in additional monies.”
 

“Rubbish, is it? Mind I recall a certain young miss who begged me to take her to the fortune teller’s booth at Astley’s.”
 

It had been the week before he was to ship out. She’d wanted them to have their fortunes read, had all but begged him to go inside that tent with her. At the time he’d fobbed off the notion as absurd and found an excuse not to go. Looking back, he saw the request as sweetly romantic, yet another missed moment he’d surrender an eyetooth to relive.

Her gaze shuttered. “That naïve young miss went the way of the smooth-cheeked boy—buried and gone. Now, do you wish to hear more of my May Day plans or do you not?”

“I am all ears. Pray carry on.”

Listening, it was impossible not to get caught up in her enthusiasm—or her smile. She was smiling more and more of late, and Robert was not the only one to notice. Chelsea, Anthony and Reggie had all remarked upon it. Though she’d yet to give Robert any indication that she meant to break off her betrothal, neither had he heard anything further about setting a date. Surely all this sudden smiling must be a providential sign.

Still, life was too short to waste, as well he’d learned. If need be, he would not hesitate to provide Providence with the necessary push.

“This is a terrible idea,” Chelsea said to Robert on May Day morning. Standing behind his chair, she reached down and gave his witch’s wig a testing tug.

Seated at her mirror-topped dressing table, he peered back at her from the plated glass. “So you’ve said a half dozen times. Pass me the spirit gum, won’t you?” Had he not applied the concealing cosmetics himself, he couldn’t say for certain he would recognize the face staring back as his.

She passed him the tiny jar. “Are you certain you should use so much?”

“Certain, no, but otherwise I’m afraid my nose may slide straight off.” He touched a testing finger to the fake nose tipped by a wart bristling with hairs. The costume and novelty shop in Piccadilly had been a treasure trove for disguises. Between it and the colorful cashmere shawls borrowed from his ship’s cabin, his gypsy guise was set. “I want Phoebe and the other fair-goers to think me an old witch woman, not a leper.”

“I thought Uncle Robin was a pirate, not a witch,” Tony called out from his perch upon Chelsea’s four-poster.

Seated beside him, legs swinging over the side, Daphne snapped, “Men can’t be witches.”
 

“If girls can be pirates, then men can be witches, can’t they, Mama?” Tony demanded, clearly determined to sort the current conundrum.

Chelsea heaved a sigh. “To be perfectly precise, men are warlocks, not witches, but as neither exists I shouldn’t fret over the distinction.”

Turning, Daphne reached out and thumped her brother upon the forehead. “See, numbskull, I told you so.”

“Daphne!” Chelsea admonished. “Mind you keep your hands to yourself and cease calling your brother unkind names.” Dropping her voice so only Robert could hear, she added, “By the by, these days that epithet is reserved for Uncle Robin.”

Robert scowled, which did truly dreadful things to the visage meeting his in the mirror. “Are you here to insult me or help me?”

“Oh, very well, have at it.” She handed him the set of wax teeth.
 

“Thank you.”

She shrugged. “What I cannot comprehend is why you will not simply speak the truth to her as yourself.”

“If she knows it’s me, she’ll be on her guard, disputing my every word. Better the sentiment comes through a stranger.” And who better to serve as an impartial messenger than a kindly old woman with purported clairvoyant powers?

Despite their détente, Phoebe had yet to trust him entirely. Since their near bedding in the lodging house more than a week ago, she’d gone out of her way not to be alone with him outside of the school. Even there one of the students or matrons almost always happened in on them. Robert was coming to wonder if those “interruptions” were entirely accidents. Despite his best efforts, it seemed she meant to go through with marrying Aristide. Robert had to do something to turn the tide, and quickly; otherwise Phoebe would find herself leg-shackled for life to a man no better than a murderer.

He opened his mouth and positioned the prop. Biting down, he turned back to her. “How do I look?”

The teeth, tinted yellow and molded into a mismatched and broken configuration, altered the shape of not only his mouth but of his jaw as well. Chelsea’s hand flew to her own agape mouth. “Positively ghastly. If I hadn’t helped you with your disguise, I wouldn’t know you for my own brother.”

Robert smiled or at least he tried to. “That’s the very point.”

“Have you considered what you’ll do if this half-cocked scheme of yours backfires?”

“It won’t.” He stood, adjusting the drape of shawl and hunching his shoulders as though once more bearing broken rocks upon his back. “This will work, Chels. It
has
to.”

May Day saw the Foundling Hospital lawn transformed into a tented fairground, a beribboned maypole set at its center. Phoebe hadn’t seen Robert since the crack of dawn when, true to his word, he’d arrived to oversee the pitching of the food and entertainment tents. He’d left directly thereafter, pleading a pressing engagement to do with the ship that would, most probably, consume the day. Tamping down her disappointment, she’d sent him off with a manufactured smile.
 

These past three weeks, he’d given generously not only of his money but also of his time. Ulterior motives notwithstanding, he’d been a very great help. He did, after all, still have his captain’s duties to keep up. The Swan was apparently out of dry dock and returned to harbor in preparation for loading. In another few weeks, she would sail back to India with or without Robert at her helm.
 

He still awaited her answer. Would she go through with marrying Aristide or would she not? Though she still found his claims about her fiancé to be farfetched—there was as yet nothing to link Aristide to either the severed cinch or the footpads in the market—the prospect of plighting her troth with him seemed less and less appealing. So far he’d spent most of the afternoon in the beer tent lamenting the lack of decent wine. That Reggie was there with him no doubt accounted for the beer man going through more kegs than anticipated.

For now what mattered was that the fair was a success. The event had opened under cloudless skies and coming on twilight, the weather still held and the crowd showed no sign of thinning. At Phoebe’s direction, the torches had been lit. In a little while, the dancing would begin. Meanwhile, the pie man continued doing a brisk trade, his song-and-dance showmanship as popular as the sweet and savory pies he sold off his tray. So far the juggler, the cook’s husband pressed into service, had broken but one set of plates and the clown had made but one child cry. A game of quoits set up on the lawn had drawn men young and old, gentleman and laborer, all eager to test their skill for tuppence a toss.