Page 24 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

P hoebe’s ears rang. Jones lay face down, one slack arm pinning Bolton to the stones. She rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him, putting a hand to his shoulder. His skin was pebbled with cold, his eyes closed. “Jones! I haven’t killed you, have I?”

Her words sounded muffled as if her head were swathed in cloth. Her hands shook.

Jones rolled over onto his back, sliding off Bolton. His eyes remained closed. The left side of his face was scraped and bleeding. He smelled of the river.

She searched his chest and arms for a wound. Nothing, but there was blood on his wet trousers below the knee. “Are you shot?” she asked. She could not judge her voice. Had she shouted or whispered?

His eyes opened and met hers. At the look of astonishing gladness in those eyes, she made a small, awed intake of breath. He smiled. His lips formed words she couldn’t catch. Then he reached for her hand and took it in his. “You aren’t hurt.”

She shook her head. But his thumb found the gashes in her palm. His brows contracted, his expression dark. “Only my hands,” she said.

He pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her scraped palm. With his kiss, something tight in Phoebe eased. She let go of fear. The forward rush of time stopped. Here and now the kiss was possible. They were not a lady and a detective. They were partners as they had been briefly in the dance. Nothing could touch them. They had acted for each other.

After a moment he stirred, and tried to sit up. “Is Bolton shot?” he asked, once again the detective trying to take charge. “The bullet ricocheted. I think it hit flesh.”

With her free hand to his chest, she pushed him back against the stones.

Bolton groaned and stirred. Phoebe’s ears opened. Voices and running footsteps filled the alley. Men rushed by.

Wenlocke stood above them. He reached down and removed the pistol from Bolton’s hand. “Jones is unhurt?”

Phoebe nodded. She and Jones were not alone after all. She ought to be doing things. She ought to be brisk and efficient, but she could not move. She wanted to sit forever, holding her detective’s hand, letting the world go by, while her heart thundered in her chest, her blood raced in her veins, and a wordless prayer of gratitude hung on her lips.

“Thank you, for saving our Robin,” Wenlocke said. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, turned, and began to issue orders. Two constables appeared, seized Bolton by the arms and legs, lifted him, and began to drag him away, his cool, disdainful voice complaining and threatening.

Her cousin Henry’s voice sounded confused and distressed. “See here, man,” he cried. “I am Lady Phoebe’s cousin.”

Wenlocke handed Phoebe a greatcoat that smelled of Henry’s cologne. “Here, put this around Jones. Keep him down, but get him warm.”

Phoebe complied. The act of tucking the coat around him brought some order to her shaking limbs. She stopped and realized he was watching her with an amused expression on his damaged face. “Don’t think you can keep me down for long,” he said.

“Phoebe!” Henry’s shout made her turn. “You’re unharmed.” He extended his hands to her, and lifted her to her feet.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said. “I owe you so much. If you had not come, I would have been completely at Bolton’s mercy.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Bolton was the count, our friend.”

Phoebe took a breath. She had briefly thought Henry was part of Bolton’s scheme, but she could see only confusion in his troubled face. “Bolton is the count, but not a friend. He is the man behind Andrew’s disappearance.”

Henry blinked, a sign that he was thinking, working something out. “Is Mary in danger? I must go to her.”

Again, Phoebe paused. “You must,” she said, giving his hands a squeeze. “But I fear she may be disappointed. They were planning to… escape to Paris together.”

She had shocked him. An utterly uncomprehending look crossed his face. “Mary, my sister Mary, going to Paris with that man, in that way!” He shuddered. “Makes no sense. She is Great-Aunt’s helper. She manages all our affairs.”

Phoebe nodded. “Yes, she does, but I don’t think she likes doing it very much. I think she wanted a different life.”

“A different life?” The idea was plainly incomprehensible to Henry. Then another thought occurred. “Oh no,” he said. “She can’t stick me with Serafina. She can’t. I won’t let her. Phoebe, pardon me, but I must go. These fellows seem to have everything in hand here. Wenlocke is a good sort. Has a fine town coach here. You’ll be taken care of. Tell Jones, he can keep the coat. River stink, you know.” He shuddered again.

“I will, Henry, thank you. Go to Mary.”

He strode off, and Phoebe turned back to Jones. He was on his feet, Henry’s greatcoat around his shoulders, Wenlocke at his side.

“Where’s Bolton?” His eyes snapped with alertness now.

“Constables from H Division are taking him to the magistrates at the Leman Street Station.”

“And the cane? Has it been collected as evidence?”

“I have it. Now, can we get you and the lady back to Wenlocke house? There’s a worried child who deserves to see his sister.” Wenlocke turned to Phoebe. “Will it suit you to go straight to your brother, Lady Phoebe? We can tend wounds as well at our house as yours, I think.”

“Yes, please.”

*

At Wenlocke House, they went straight to the children and crowded into a small plain, but comfortable anteroom. Whatever fear Phoebe had of appearing scraped and dirtied, vanished in an instant. She saw them and was glad of her torn skirts and disheveled appearance.

“Phoebe!” Andrew hurled himself into her arms and squeezed her in a fierce hug. Tears, mad tears of joy, welled up and spilled over, washing away a year of grief and despair and self-blame. Her chest heaved with sobs. He was skinny, his body atremble, and he smelled oddly like shoe blacking, but he was whole and alive. He endured his sobbing sister’s hold for a good minute before he squirmed and pulled back. She dashed the tears from her eyes.

Then she saw the girl, standing frozen by the fire, her large dark eyes wary, her hands clenched in a threadbare black shawl, thin legs disappearing into mens boots.

“Phoebe,” Andrew said, “this is Aggie. She’s my sister now, too.” The girl did not want to move, but Andrew put his arms around her shoulders and propelled her forward. The girl’s eyes flashed a question to someone behind Phoebe, and Phoebe sensed Jones’s presence and his reassurance as the girl allowed Andrew to bring her closer.

“Hello, Aggie. I’m Phoebe. Thank you for taking such good care of Andrew.”

“Aggie and I,” Andrew said, “think this is the best house ever. They have really good cake and good fires and no bad men.”

“High praise,” Phoebe said. “I’m glad you like it. Do you still want to come to Marchmont House?”

“If Aggie can come,” he said solemnly.

“Do you want to?” Phoebe asked the girl. There was a little turn of the head so that the right ear faced Phoebe, and she feared the girl’s shyness would prove too great. “You could give us a try at least.”

“Oh,” said Andrew. “She’ll come. I told her about Trajan and the milk woman in the park, and Mrs. T’s cakes, and Papa’s treasures.”

“Andrew, you must let her answer for herself,” said Phoebe.

He looked as if he would challenge her, this little brother who had been lost in London for a year, but then he turned to Aggie.

“Phoebe’s nice, isn’t she, Aggie?” His voice coaxed. “I told you she would be. And you’ll like it there.”

The girl extended her hand to Phoebe and opened her palm. Nestled in the grime was Andrew’s Roman coin, the one that came with the message. Phoebe had last seen it on Jones’s desk. She didn’t quite understand how it had come back to the girl, but she understood that the offering was one of trust.

She put out her own hand to receive the coin, and Andrew pointed to it. “Phoebe, why is your hand bleeding? Did the bad man find you?”

“He did,” she admitted. “But Cousin Henry, and Wenlocke, and… Jones were all there to stop him.”

“Oh, if Jones was there, you were all right. Now, Aggie, make up your mind.”

The girl smiled, her face transformed by it into a sober, wintry prettiness. Her smile grew broader, and she gave Andrew a punch on the shoulder. “’e likes to ’ave ’is way, ’e does, but oy’ll come, if ye’ll ’ave me.”

“We will, Aggie,” Phoebe said.

Andrew leapt in the air. “Yes. Do we get to go in the big coach again?”

*

Phoebe did not get away another minute with her wounded hand. A smiling nanny appeared to care for the children, and Phoebe and Jones were led into the hall. There was no time to speak with him and say all that her grateful heart needed to say. The duke took Jones in hand with a comment about the river, and Phoebe was led by the duchess to a lovely room, and settled comfortably, to have her hand tended to.

A maid brought a basin of warm water and a pile of cloths. The duchess drew a chair close to Phoebe, and invited Phoebe to lay her hands on a little table between them. The duchess’s air of cheerful, unruffled serenity prompted Phoebe to take a deep breath and calm her mind.

Things were happening too fast. Phoebe wanted to slow time down, to take the full measure of each moment. The conversation in Wenlocke’s coach had been between the gentlemen about the case, about the evidence against Bolton, and the steps necessary to secure a trial. Jones, wrapped in Henry’s greatcoat, had kept himself a little apart from Phoebe.

“You don’t want to catch my river stink,” he had said.

Gently, the duchess peeled away Phoebe’s ruined gloves and rolled up the cuffs of her sleeves. Then she laid a warm compress in each of Phoebe’s palms and closed the fingers around the soft damp cloth.

“Wenlocke says the stones you threw likely saved our Robin from a beating and worse. We are grateful. Not that Robin isn’t utterly strong and capable. He is what the pugilists call handy with his fives . Am I babbling?” the duchess asked. “Robin is quite a favorite of mine.”

“Robin?” Phoebe could not help asking. Our Robin. The duchess claimed him.

The duchess smiled and reopened Phoebe’s hands, removing the soiled compresses. She laid them aside and examined the scraped palms, her fingers lightly touching Phoebe’s. Deep dull red streaks the color of sooty bricks marked the heel of each palm.

“Let us soak these hands a few minutes. You will want to get the grit out of your wounds so there is no chance of infection.”

The duchess rose in a brisk rustle of skirts and offered Phoebe a thick towel. “Spread that over your lap.” When Phoebe spread the towel, the duchess set the copper basin in place. Phoebe paused. It was frivolous to think that the water would wash away the kiss Jones had placed in her palm earlier. Jones was somewhere in the grand house, not far away. She would see him again. She lowered her hands into the basin. The water stung at first, but the warmth was soothing, too.

“There,” said the duchess, merry eyes twinkling. “You are quite the captive audience. I spend so much time listening, you see, that I welcome a chance to talk. You asked about Robin’s name?”

Phoebe nodded.

“They are the duke’s men now, but when they were boys, living on the rooftops, he gave each of them a bird’s name. Robin was the youngest, probably younger than your Andrew, when Wenlocke found him.”

Phoebe’s mind spun. What had Wenlocke said in that cordial mocking voice that goaded Bolton? The moment had been so full of peril, she had not attended to the details of the story he was telling about another heir, who was not a bastard. Now it seemed important, but her mind could not summon the details. She hoped the duchess would say more.

“Can you bear a bit of soap and a soft brush?” the duchess asked.

Phoebe smiled and gritted her teeth. The duchess lifted one of Phoebe’s hands and filled it with the foam of a delicate, citrus-scented soap. She applied the brush in small circles. Phoebe was used to Mrs. K’s brisker ministrations.

“What led… Robin to join the police?” she asked. She puzzled briefly over the fact that he had not shared his bird name with her.

“Oh,” said the duchess. “One of the duke’s brothers, Sir William Jones, worked with Peel to establish the force. Robin greatly admires Will. Then, too, I think, Robin has a… craving for justice. He is determined to be a credit to the force. The work quite consumes him.”

The duchess laid aside her brush, lifted Phoebe’s hands from the water, and set aside the basin to inspect the damage. The cleansing had removed the blackened look of the wounds. Phoebe’s palms were pink again under the red scratches. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “We do not mean to impose on you.”

“It is no imposition. As I said, we are grateful to you. And very happy to be a part of your brother’s recovery. His friend Agnes seems to have protected him, as Wenlocke once protected his friends. You see,” she said, “the duke and I know something of being separated from our brothers.” She touched a small beribboned pin on the shoulder of her dress.

The duchess dusted Phoebe’s hands with basilicum powder to prevent infection and wrapped them gently in gauze. “That should do until you see your own physician.”