Page 24 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

Chapter Seventeen

T he morning after the Widows' Council, Phoebe woke to the sound of someone moving about in her kitchen. For a moment, panic flared—had the enemies found her already?

She padded downstairs in her wrapper to find Archie standing at her stove, fully dressed despite the early hour, stirring something that smelled remarkably like porridge.

"Good morning," he said without turning around. "I hope you don't mind—I thought I'd make breakfast while you were sleeping."

Phoebe blinked, still not quite awake. "You can cook?"

"I can make porridge, toast bread without burning it, and brew tea that won't poison anyone. Years in India taught me the basics of survival." He glanced over his shoulder with that crooked smile. "Though I should warn you, my culinary skills are rather limited."

"More than mine were when I arrived here," Phoebe admitted, settling into a chair at the kitchen table. "I've learned quite a bit about domestic management in the past weeks."

"Have you? I remember you once tried to make biscuits and somehow managed to set the kitchen garden on fire."

"I was twelve!" Phoebe protested, laughing despite herself. "And it was only a small fire."

"Small? Your cook needed Smelling salts, and the gardener threatened to quit."

"Well, I've improved considerably since then." She watched him move around her kitchen with surprising competence. "India changed you."

"In some ways." He brought her a bowl of porridge, perfectly prepared and still steaming. "In others, I'm exactly the same boy who used to climb trees with you and get lectured about proper behavior."

As they ate, Phoebe found herself studying this older version of her childhood friend.

He was broader now, more solid, with calluses on his hands that spoke of actual work rather than just leisure.

There were lines around his eyes from squinting in foreign sun, and a scar along his jaw that definitely hadn't been there before.

"How did you get that?" she asked, gesturing toward the scar.

His hand went to his jaw automatically. "Disagreement with a business rival in Bombay. Turns out he preferred knives to negotiation."

"Archie!" Phoebe set down her spoon. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't." His expression grew serious. "I learned to be more careful after that. More aware of danger, better at protecting myself and what matters to me."

Something in his tone made heat rise in Phoebe's cheeks, and she quickly looked away. "Well. I'm glad you're more careful now."

After breakfast, Archie insisted on washing the dishes while Phoebe dressed for the day. When she came back downstairs, she found him examining the cottage's windows and doors with the focused attention of someone assessing security.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure this place is as safe as it can be," he replied, testing the strength of a window latch. "These locks are good, but I think we could add some additional security measures. Nothing obvious, just... precautions."

"Archie, the Widows said?—"

"The Widows are brilliant, and their plan is working perfectly," he interrupted. "But that doesn't mean we should be careless about your immediate safety here."

Phoebe watched him work, noting the careful, methodical way he checked each potential entry point. "You really have changed."

"Have I?"

"The Archie I knew was impulsive, reckless. Always jumping first and thinking later."

He straightened, meeting her eyes. "The Archie you knew never had anything truly precious to protect."

The words hung between them, loaded with meaning that made Phoebe's heart skip. She cleared her throat. "Would you like to see the gardens? I've been maintaining them myself, and I'm rather proud of the progress."

"I'd like that very much."

They spent the morning wandering the cottage grounds, Phoebe pointing out improvements she'd made and plants she'd learned to tend. Archie listened with genuine interest, asking questions that showed he remembered her childhood love of growing things.

"You always said you wanted a garden of your own," he remarked as they examined her herb patch. "Something your mother couldn't rearrange to suit her preferences."

"Did I?" Phoebe knelt to pull a few weeds. "I'd forgotten that."

"I remember everything you ever told me about your dreams," Archie said quietly. "The garden, the cottage by the sea, the library full of books you'd actually chosen yourself. You wanted independence even then."

"And you supported those dreams, even when they seemed impossible for a woman of my station."

"They weren't impossible. They just required... different circumstances than we expected."

Phoebe sat back on her heels, looking around at the lavender fields, the cottage, the life she'd built for herself. "I suppose they did."

That afternoon, Archie appointed himself her handyman, fixing a squeaky hinge, adjusting a loose board on the front steps, and generally making himself useful around the cottage.

Phoebe found herself watching him work, admiring the competent way he handled tools and the careful attention he paid to even small details.

"You don't have to do all this," she said as he repaired a loose shutter.

"I want to." He didn't look up from his work. "I like taking care of things that matter to you."

"Archie..." she began, then stopped, not sure what she wanted to say.

"I know," he said softly. "You're not ready to think of me as anything more than a friend. I'm not trying to push you, Phoebe. I just want to be useful."

"You are useful. More than useful." She handed him another nail. "You're... you're good company."

"High praise indeed," he said with a grin that made her stomach flutter in a way she absolutely did not want to examine.

They were sitting on the front steps sharing a late afternoon tea when the sound of approaching carriages made them both tense.

"The servants," Phoebe realized, relief flooding through her. "Mr. Crane said they'd arrive today."

Three carriages pulled up in front of the cottage, and Phoebe watched with growing amazement as her new household staff emerged. There were more of them than she'd expected—at least a dozen people, all wearing the serious expressions of trained professionals.

The first to approach was a woman of perhaps forty-five years, tall and efficient-looking with sharp eyes that immediately assessed both Phoebe and Archie with obvious suspicion.

"Lady Smalling," she said with a perfect curtsy. "I am Mrs. Crawford, your housekeeper. We received word from Mr. Hartwell that you required household staff."

"Yes, thank you for coming so quickly." Phoebe stood, suddenly feeling awkward about the informality of her afternoon. "I should explain?—"

"My lady," Mrs. Crawford's voice held a note of warning as her gaze fixed on Archie, "perhaps we should speak privately about household arrangements."

Archie stepped forward, his posture subtly protective. "I'm Lord Lytton. I'm here to ensure Lady Smalling's safety."

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as the assembled servants—footmen, maids, a cook, and what was clearly a groom—all focused their attention on Archie with expressions ranging from suspicious to openly hostile.

"Lord Lytton," repeated the man who was obviously the head footman, a broad-shouldered fellow with graying hair and scars that suggested military service. "And what gives you authority over Lady Smalling's safety?"

"Thomas," Mrs. Crawford said quietly, and the man subsided, though his suspicious gaze never left Archie.

Phoebe could feel the tension building and quickly intervened.

"Perhaps we should all go inside and discuss the situation properly.

Mrs. Crawford, would you join us in the sitting room?

Thomas as well, and..." She looked around at the other servants.

"I'd like to meet everyone, but perhaps the senior staff first? "

A few minutes later, Phoebe found herself seated in her own sitting room feeling oddly like she was facing a tribunal.

Mrs. Crawford, Thomas, her stable hand and driver from the north, the cook (Mrs. Mills), and a stern-looking woman who'd been introduced as Mary, her lady's maid, sat arranged in careful formation while Archie stood near the window, clearly ready to defend her if necessary.

"I should explain the situation," Phoebe began. "Lord Lytton is an old friend who arrived just as I learned the truth about my late husband's... activities. He's here by my invitation and with my full trust. "

"Begging your pardon, my lady," Thomas said carefully, "but we were told you were in potential danger. Part of our job is protecting you from anyone who might wish you harm."

"Anyone," added Mrs. Crawford meaningfully, "who might want to take advantage of your situation."

Archie's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to take advantage of anyone. I'm here because Lady Smalling needs protection, and I have the resources to provide it."

"Do you now?" Thomas leaned forward slightly. "And what qualifies you to protect our lady?"

"Thomas," Phoebe said sharply, "Lord Lytton is my guest and my friend. You will treat him with appropriate respect."

"Of course, my lady. But respectfully, we've been charged with your safety by Lord Smalling himself. We take that responsibility seriously."

Phoebe felt a stab of emotion at the mention of Robert. "I understand your loyalty to my late husband, and I honor it. But you serve me now, and I've chosen to trust Lord Lytton with my safety."

Mrs. Crawford studied Archie with calculating eyes. "Perhaps you could tell us about your own qualifications, my lord? Your experience with... security matters?"