Sleepless in Scotland Page 3

Phoebe thought the mention of her bodyguard’s name might put Captain Bell’s mind at ease, and she was certain that Duncan would not reveal her secret if her inquisitor decided to track him down.

  The captain gave no indication of either knowing or not knowing the man, but he called up to the driver and gave him the address.

  Phoebe waited until the carriage rolled down the street again.

  “I went to the Vaults tonight because I’d heard rumors about the gentleman that I was seeing.”

  “So he’s a gentleman?”

  “Not in my eyes. Not after tonight,” she said, continuing to speak quickly to take away his chance of asking questions. She knew it was easy to be caught in your own web of lies once you began spinning it.

  “The worm is an opium addict. He intended to use me and my fortune. I heard some rumors, and I came tonight with Duncan to confirm them. And it’s the truth. I saw him in that horrid place. Not that I walked in there myself, but I saw him from the curtained entrance. Then I sent Duncan in to inform him that any correspondence between us was finished. I wanted him to know that I’ll not be receiving him in the future. I shall not be accepting any letters from him, and I’m not interested in any excuses or tales of woe. There will be no communication of any sort. Done. Finished. And I’m relieved. So relieved.”

  She brought a fist to her lips, pretending to calm her unsteady breath. Phoebe wished she were a better actress. Still, perhaps he’d be empathetic enough to allow her some grace by changing the subject.

  “What happened on top of the stairs?” he demanded in the same hard tone. The man was positively a Torquemada.

  At least now she could tell the truth, and Phoebe was thankful for that.

  “I was waiting in the passageway for Duncan to come out of that place and escort me back to where I belong. Suddenly . . .” Phoebe paused, realizing the consequences of speaking the truth. A woman chasing after an assailant, armed only with a walking stick.

  He would think her imprudent, at the very least, and possibly insane. And Phoebe would have to agree with him. Also, she had no doubt he’d insist on taking her back to Baronsford this moment. And again, she wouldn’t blame him. What she’d done was foolhardy. But she had no regrets. She would do it again.

  “Suddenly?” he asked. “If your purpose is to keep me in suspense, it’s working.”

  Phoebe sat up and straightened her coat, deciding what she could say. “Suddenly a man grabbed me from behind and dragged me like a sheep into the shadows. He held a knife to my throat.”

  She touched her neck where the knife wound still stung. She held her fingers to the light coming through the window and stared at the smear of blood.

  “The deuce! The blackguard cut you.” His hand closed around her wrist as he moved directly across from her. “Let me see.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to object but lifted her chin and quickly untied the cravat.

  Amusing. Awkward. Mildly embarrassing. She couldn’t summon quite the right words to clarify the feeling rushing through her at the sensation of her legs tucked between his, her head tipped back while Captain Ian Bell leaned close, inspecting and touching the sensitive skin of her throat.

  “I’m fine. I believe he only nicked me,” she managed to say, fighting a delicious shiver as his thumb brushed one last path down to the top of her collarbone.

  “Who was he? The man who grabbed you?”

  Her skin felt cold when he released her and sat back. He remained seated across from her.

  “I never had a good look into his face.” She’d fought him with all her strength, but there was nothing about him that she could describe, except his evil spirit. “It was dark, and the attack happened so quickly. But he was about my height. Perhaps a bit taller. He was quite strong.”

  “What else?”

  She frowned as the confrontation played out again in her mind. He was dragging the lad somewhere when she’d reached them.

  “I think he had a destination in mind. Someplace nearby. And the way he wielded the knife, I can’t help but think he’s used it before.”

  His stony gaze turned to the window and the dark houses they were passing, and Phoebe scolded herself for saying too much. She had without doubt reminded him of his sister’s murder. The muscles along his jawbone twitched.

  From the moment she’d opened her eyes and recognized him, she’d been trying to make up stories that would satisfy his questions and curiosity. Now, with Captain Bell’s attention directed somewhere else, she studied him.

  The touch of grey in his sideburns showed how much he’d aged since the last time she’d seen him. It was the day of Sarah’s funeral. His mother had been absent. He’d looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and she’d wanted to reach out to him. There was so much she’d wanted to say about Sarah, about the lost friend who’d been like a sister to her. But she couldn’t. Phoebe had realized whatever words she said, they would be about her own loss. And though her emotions were raw, she couldn’t allow herself to fall apart while he was nobly struggling to retain his own composure.

  On that miserable winter day, while the skies shed tears of grief over the young woman’s life, Captain Bell barely acknowledged the scores of people attending. He was distant, unapproachable. He was very much the same now.

  Phoebe recognized Heriot Row as the carriage rounded a corner. They were only a block away from the town house.

  She reached out and touched his hand, drawing his attention back to her.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the residence.

  “Please believe that I learned a lesson tonight. And I will never, ever do such a foolish thing again.” She had no desire to return to the Vaults. That was the truth. But as far as going after an assailant in a similar situation, Phoebe had little control over what she would do.

  A footman emerged from the house and ran down the steps to the carriage. Phoebe sent her rescuer one last look. “I don’t know when we shall see each other again. But please know that I am forever indebted to you.”

  As the footman opened the door, Ian climbed out and offered her his hand.

  “I shall see you in less than a fortnight, Lady Phoebe,” he told her. “At Baronsford.”

  Her foot slipped on the step, and she would have gone down on her face if Ian hadn’t held her up.

  “A fortnight?” she asked, realizing she sounded like a fool.

  “At the ball your family hosts,” he said gravely. “I’m suddenly inclined to accept their gracious invitation. I believe that will provide the perfect opportunity to pay my respects and speak with your family.”

  * * *

  The impenetrable mist, suspended like a wet shroud, pressed into the doorways and sills of grey stone buildings, barely visible along the wide street. For any soul unfortunate enough to be abroad on a night like this, there was no escaping the wet, oppressive chill. It settled thick and damp on the skin, leaving its bitter scent of primeval ash and decay. It soaked through clothing, seeped into flesh, settled into bone, a cold reminder of the dark and endless fate that claims all.

  In the light of day, one might think that moments like this gave birth to tales of Grendel and his kind, of monsters that rose out of swamps and lakes and oceans to destroy and to devour. The stuff of poets and false heroes, safe beneath a shining sun.

  But tonight, no sun shone to chase away fears. No moon hung in the sky. No stars dotted the firmament. Tonight, death was more than a story, more than a dispirited feeling, more than a cold, unsettled sensation. Tonight, in the shadows of South Bridge in the city of Edinburgh, death was a living presence, a cold and heartless predator. A serpent, coiled and motionless. Watching. Waiting.

  He stared from the darkness as the captain carried his prize to the carriage. The interloper who’d muddled the purity of his kill. Lucas Crawford, standing outside the carriage, looked in his direction. He melt
ed farther into the shadow. He’d had the boy in his grasp. Another lamb to slaughter. He felt his knife ready to enter the flesh. But the boy escaped. Because of him.

  Him? Not him. Her.

  A surprise, for a moment. But the clothing was only a disguise. He saw her face.

  Cold rage coursed through him. Like a she-devil, the woman fought him, attacked him, forcing him to release his kill.

  The boy ran, as if he could escape him. No one escaped him. He had a destiny that he must fulfill. All those lost souls called to him. Vengeance, they cried. Kill.

  His gaze focused on the carriage. The street, so empty and silent. They were not moving. Perhaps she broke her neck falling down those steps. It was dark, but he saw her face. Did she see his?

  He held up the knife, the blood still on his blade. The smell of it filled his lungs. A few more steps and it would have been over. He could have killed them both.

  Meddler. Anger pulsed through him.

  “And you, Captain Bell. Hunting in the shadows for some faceless creature. What do you imagine I am? What do you envision when you dream of these Vaults? You don’t even know how close you’ve been. How close. Turn her out. Leave her in the street.”

  Today was the day. He needed to kill and he would. For all of them.

  The captain spoke to his valet, who relayed the command as he climbed up top. What was the word he said?

  Baronsford.

  The driver called to his team to walk on, and the carriage began to move south along the bridge.

  “You’ve slipped from my reach. From my blade of destiny. From immortality. For now.” The mist swirled and the carriage disappeared. “Baronsford. Very well. I’ll find out who you are. I’ll find you, meddler.”

  In the distance a mad hound barked at the night and then grew silent. The Vaults behind him beckoned.

  Another lamb awaited.

  Chapter 3

  Twice a year the grand ballroom at Baronsford opened its magnificent doors to the public. With its vaulted ceiling rising a full two stories above the dance floor, its classically framed doors and windows, its ornate gold-leaf decorations, and its carved figures of Roman deities peering out from their arched niches, the huge Palladian-style room welcomed the family’s guests from all over England and Scotland.

  Most of those attending would never have guessed that for the rest of the year, this same great room had been used by generations of Pennington children as they played makeshift games of bowl and nine-pins, blind man’s bluff, and shuttlecock. And the narrow, marble-railed gallery high above, supported by Ionic columns set into the walls, had provided a wonderful place to run races on rainy summer days.

  Today, however, an orchestra was seated there, above the open doors, and the melodious sounds of Handel filled the room. The waltzes would come later.

  Phoebe’s attention was not on the orchestra, nor on the great vases overflowing with flowers, nor on the tables filled with refreshments. She barely spared a glance at the assembled partygoers in their finest gowns and evening clothes, moving across the wide floor with its mosaic design of the gold, white, and grey marble tile. Phoebe’s eyes were fixed on the entrance door between Jupiter and Venus, and the anxiety clutching at her stomach wouldn’t ease its grip.

  She and her sister Millie were standing by the open doors leading to a veranda, and behind them the setting sun spread golden rays across the rolling fields beyond the gardens. But she wasn’t interested in that either. She was watching only the late arrivals trickling in.

  Then, at the precise moment the musicians paused between movements, a crystal cup crashed to the floor nearby, causing her to jump.

  The two women turned to see their brother Gregory gliding quickly toward Ella, his newly acquired six-year-old daughter, who was pointing an accusing finger at the shattered pieces of glass and the red punch that had spattered her white party dress and slippers.

  With a word of thanks to a footman who had leapt into action to clear the mess, Gregory scooped Ella up and, after a brief whisper to the little girl, they both turned to the gathering, smiled and bowed. From across the room, the sound of the earl’s gruff laugh broke the silence, and the music began again.

  “This is why I love our family,” Millie said proudly. “We are never boring.”

  As Gregory came by them with Ella still in his arms, the younger sister asked if he needed help. The little girl shook her head.

  “Shona laid out two dresses for me,” Ella told them in a confidential tone that could be heard on the far side of the ballroom. She nodded toward Gregory. “Gag told her to.”

  “I can’t imagine what made me think to do that,” he said with a wink at his sisters.

  As he started for the door, Phoebe turned her attention again to the entrance. Maybe he wasn’t coming, she thought hopefully.

  The majority of the guests had already arrived, but a stir by the door drew everyone’s attention. As the butler announced the arrival, Phoebe couldn’t help but smile with pride as her older sister Jo, married just the day before, swept into Baronsford’s ballroom with an air of quiet confidence that was so new to her. Coming through escorted by her handsome husband, Captain Wynne Melfort, and her new stepson, Cuffe, Jo smiled and greeted well-wishers as they moved directly toward the receiving line.

  “She looks beautiful,” Millie said, sighing happily. “Imagine. A second chance at love after so many years.”

  “Heartwarming,” Phoebe replied.

  “Captain Wentworth is a good man, but I’d say he’s lucky to have her.”

  She agreed. “And no shots needed to be fired this time around.”

  A broken engagement, a duel at dawn between their brother Hugh and Wentworth, and sixteen years later the couple had found each other again. More than once over the past few days, it had occurred to Phoebe she might be better off if she gave up writing for the newspaper and instead penned a romantic novel about her sister Jo and Wynne. Their story certainly had all the elements.

  Phoebe’s eyes once again swept over the heads of the assembled crowd toward the entry door. It was too early to feel any real sense of relief, but Captain Bell had not yet made an appearance.

  Perhaps he changed his mind, she prayed. Or was delayed on some governmental business in Fife. Or was set upon by a gang of highwaymen.

  I should have hired a gang of highwaymen. A weak smile tugged at her lips.

  Not far from the ballroom door, their mother and father greeted guests with Grace and their brother Hugh beside them.

  Lyon Pennington, Earl of Aytoun, and Hugh, Viscount Greysteil, were doing their best to appear cordial, but Phoebe knew neither one really enjoyed the formalities of the ball. The annual Summer Ball and Christmas Assembly were an institution at Baronsford, and the family would continue the tradition. In spite of the dreadful injuries that nearly killed their father as a young man, she was certain he’d be leading his beloved wife onto the dance floor soon enough.

  “You can now breathe,” Millie teased when the last guests were announced, and the receiving line broke up. “You are safely back again in your family’s arms. Perhaps Captain Bell decided no intrusion was necessary.”

  Phoebe nodded hopefully. Though she trusted her sister implicitly, she hadn’t wanted to worry her with all the details of the attack and her intervention in the Vaults. She only told her she’d gotten separated from her bodyguard and fallen down a flight of stone steps in the darkness. Captain Bell had found her. He was so upset by Phoebe being there that he’d threatened to expose her adventure to the earl. But that was all Millie knew.

  That same night, Duncan had turned up at the family’s town house, looking terribly distraught. He was sick at the thought that she was lost or injured, or worse. It did little to relieve him when she informed him of everything that occurred.

  In fact, Phoebe didn’t think she’d ever seen the Highlander as enraged. He was quite clear that he didn’t see her actions as compassionate and brave. She’d acted recklessly and
stupidly. He threatened never to accept a job with her again.

  By then, her headache had improved somewhat, and she gave him her word that she would be far more cautious in the future. When Duncan’s temper had cooled, Phoebe told him she’d had to reveal his name to Captain Bell. And she trusted him not to say anything about her profession if he were approached by the man.

  An elderly couple who were friends of the family paused to comment on the success of the ball, chatting with them a moment before moving on.

  “I hope you’re giving up on that horrid Leech person as a source,” Millie said in low voice when they were gone. Her sister knew all about him. She served as Phoebe’s first reader for every article before she sent her work on to her editor at the Edinburgh Review.

  “I can’t,” Phoebe whispered back. “He has solid proof I need for the column. When Duncan confronted him, he reiterated that he has irrefutable documentation. And I believe him.”

  “But you won’t go back to that terrible place, will you?” Millie asked.

  “No more going to the Vaults.”

  “Where will you meet him?”

  “Someplace much safer,” Phoebe assured her. “He needs the money I’ve offered. Now I know why. Still, once I get back to Edinburgh, I’ll have Duncan make the arrangements.”

  The two sisters watched Hugh and Grace dancing for a moment, and Phoebe was relieved to see her parents deep in conversation with their oldest friends, the Earl of Stanmore and his wife.

  “You know, perhaps it’s time you told Father what you’re doing. If you do it, then you have nothing to fear from . . .” She stopped, and Phoebe realized her sister was staring at the door.

  She turned to look, and her heart sank. Captain Bell was standing in the ballroom, and their gazes locked over the crowd. Heads turned to him, and a wave of murmurs swept through the room.

  Even for those who knew nothing of the tragic circumstances surrounding his family, Ian Bell cut a dashing figure and drew the eyes of those around him. With the exception of his impeccably white cravat, he was dressed all in ebony from top to toe. His black brocade waistcoat of satin was buttoned high with a collar that framed the angular lines of a stern, handsome face.