To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Read online

Phoebe swallowed and tried to concentrate on the question as the carriage thudded into another pothole.

  “I thought you didn’t approve of me, t-that you thought I was dreadful and a terrible nuisance.”

  He gave a choked laugh.

  “You are dreadful and a terrible nuisance,” he said, but with such warmth that it did not sound like an insult. “I never meant to feel this way for you. I knew you thought me too old, too dull, that I would never be your choice, that you would never want me but… but you….”

  His voice quavered with emotion and Phoebe felt as if her heart would explode with anticipation if he did not finish the sentence, but then the carriage lurched sharply to one side, throwing them to the right. Max hit the side of the carriage with a thud that made him groan, and Phoebe tumbled against him. He held her tight to her until everything went still.

  “Phoebe?” he said, his panic audible. “Phoebe, are you hurt?”

  Phoebe blew a tumble of curls out of her face and shoved her bonnet back up. “No. I’m fine,” she said, though in truth she was shaken. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, a broken axle would be my guess,” he said sourly.

  “What wretched timing.”

  He laughed then and she looked down at him and smiled, a little embarrassed to discover she was almost lying on top of him.

  “It was wretched,” he agreed. “We shall speak of this again, though. Very soon, yes?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He reached out and touched her cheek, and she covered his hand with hers. Max let out a shaky breath and then laughed again, wonder in his eyes. Phoebe marvelled at it, never having thought Max would look at her that way. Max? Good heavens.

  “Princess?” Jack’s worried voice came from outside as he wrenched the door open.

  “I’m fine, Jack,” she said, taking the hand he offered her and clambering out of the carriage with difficulty, hampered by her voluminous skirts. “Are the horses hurt?”

  “No, thank heavens. Just the blasted axle. This bloody road is a disgrace.”

  Phoebe smoothed her rumpled skirts and watched with admiration as Max climbed out, noting—perhaps for the first time—how very athletic he was. How had she been around this man so often and never noticed him, never really seen what was right before her eyes?

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Sign said, Saint Etienne au Mont,” Fred said, jerking his head. “And we passed an inn not half-a-mile back. Reckon we’d best see what can be done there, for we ain’t going on till that’s repaired.

  Phoebe stared at the broken axle with dismay. “Oh, drat it, and we were so close behind him.”

  “Don’t worry, love. We’ll not let him get away from us.”

  She looked to Max, feeling a burst of warmth at the endearment he gave her. She nodded.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Well, Jack, Fred, if you would be so good as to stay with the horses and our belongings, we will walk back and send help at once.”

  “Right you are, Princess,” Jack said affably as he and Fred set about unhitching the horses.

  Chapter 11

  Dear Aunt Helena,

  Thank you so much for the lovely new journal you sent me. I seem to get through them at quite a rate, so it was excellent timing as I have only a few pages left in the one I have.

  Please, Auntie, will you speak to Papa when you next come? I have told him I am old enough to learn to drive now, and reminded him he taught you at the same age. He refused and said it was bad enough having to chase his sister all over the countryside and he was in no hurry to pursue his daughter in the same manner. Whatever did he mean by that, do you think?

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Helena Knight from The Lady Elizabeth Adolphus.

  9th April 1827. La Villa Desvaux, St Etienne au Mont, Pas-de-Calais.

  It was a pleasant walk through woodland on the way back to the inn, if windy, the scent of the sea, salty and fresh, buffeting them as they walked. Max could not take his eyes from Phoebe and wished he dared recommence their conversation at once. He still could not believe that she had lifted her skirts to show him her garter. There had been nothing calculated in her actions, he knew that, even if she had admitted to wanting to drive him just a little bit mad. Just a little bit. He smothered a hysterical laugh. Good Lord, she could have had him dancing on a string for months by now if she’d only known. Except Phoebe would not do that to him. She was too honest. Honest enough to say he had shocked her, but that it had been a nice shock.

  His heart was still beating too fast, invigorated by hope, by her words, her touch, and by that wicked red ribbon. He knew he must not get ahead of himself. If he moved too quickly, he might scare her off, but God knew he’d waited this long just to be noticed, so he’d wait as long as she needed, as long it took for her to come to him as he longed for her to do.

  As if she had heard his thoughts, she looked up at him and smiled, and the familiar sensation of having the breath knocked out of him made him feel dazed with happiness.

  To his regret, they discovered La Villa Desvaux was before them too quickly for Max to take advantage of that sunny look. They entered the courtyard of the large, busy posting inn, where a huge carriage, called a diligence, was being overloaded to the point of madness. An extremely large lady carrying a bird in a cage was being helped inside, much to the dismay of those already settled, and Max counted no less than sixteen passengers, four of them on the roof, and enough baggage and trunks to make the thing look like a disaster waiting for a place to happen. He only prayed they could repair his own carriage in a timely manner, for that mode of transport did not recommend itself.

  The Villa itself had once been an elegant building but was now a little battered about the edges. The painted green shutters were peeling, and the place had an air of shabby gentility that it was holding onto by its fingertips. Chickens scratched about in the courtyard's dirt and two mangy dogs fought over a bone, only to be ushered out of the way by an impatient groom. The clientele seemed to be a mixed bag, and Max guided Phoebe inside with a little trepidation. Cursing himself for not having paid greater attention during French lessons as a boy, he resigned himself to speaking English until the manager’s grasp of the language ran out and Phoebe had to step in. Even her beauty and what he expected was a charming accent—it certainly sounded charming to him—could not sway the fellow.

  The manager shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “He says all his staff are busy and we’ll have just to wait until someone can be sent to help,” Phoebe said when she turned back to Max, her frustration apparent.

  “Je suis désolé, monsieur,” the man said, not looking the least bit sorry.

  “Monseigneur Ellisborough,” Phoebe corrected, giving his title which, naturally, made all the difference as the fellow bowed low and exploded into a volley of incomprehensible French.

  Max sighed, wanting nothing but to be alone with Phoebe and to return to their conversation, and feeling too impatient to endure anything else. He levelled the manager with a hard look before reaching for his coin purse. Setting down a generous sum, he held the man’s gaze. “Deal with it.”

  This was a language the manager understood with no problem at all.

  Suddenly everything was not only possible, but not the least trouble in the world and they were shown at once to a private parlour, assured that help would be sent to their servants and refreshments brought at once, whilst their room was made ready. Max’s frustration only grew as a seemingly inexhaustible number of servants trotted in and out, cleaning down the tables and bringing wine and ale, bread and cheese, and little dishes of aperitifs.

  Just as he thought perhaps they might have five minutes peace, a ruckus began in the yard outside. Phoebe got to her feet and ran to the window.

  “Good heavens,” she said, kneeling on the padded bench beneath and giving him a rather tantalising view of her shapely ankles.

  “What is it?” he asked, distract
ed by the tussle between his honourable self and the one who was still dreaming of red silk ribbons.

  He fought to look away, and lost the battle with a sigh of resignation.

  “A fight at any moment, I think,” Phoebe said, turning back to look at him.

  Max cleared his throat and wrenched his attention to her face. “Then you’d best come away.”

  Phoebe frowned at him. “Whatever for? Besides, I think I recognise that fellow. Do come and see, Max.”

  Max did as asked and peered out of the grimy window. “Good heavens. That’s Viscount Kline.”

  “There, see? I knew I recognised him. I met him once or twice in town the year I came out, and I remember Lord Rothborn arguing with Jemima when she insisted they go to his wife’s funeral.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Max retorted. “Why on earth would they? She nearly ruined Rothborn’s life, not to mention Lady Rothborn’s.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Yes, but Jemima said they should go, for Lord Kline’s sake. I felt she had rather a soft spot for him, having been married to such a vile woman for so long. Oh, Max, look, he will get thumped at this rate. We must help.”

  Before Max could either agree or demur, Phoebe was halfway out the door. Hurrying after her, Max took hold of her hand and towed her to a halt.

  “Let me deal with this,” he said sternly.

  She rolled her eyes at him, but blessedly did not argue and Max carried on, striding over to the impending bout of fisticuffs.

  “Kline?”

  The man turned, a look of irritation in his eyes, which cleared on seeing Max. “Ellisborough? That you? Good heavens! Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Is there some kind of trouble?” Max enquired politely.

  “Yes, there is, dash it. This damned imbecile says I haven’t paid my wife’s bill, but I don’t have a wife anymore, thanks be to God, and yet the villain won’t have it.”

  “How curious.”

  Max eyed the large fellow—who had been dispatched to face the viscount and deal with the discrepancy—with misgiving. He got the impression this argument had been raging for some time and the chap was a hair’s breadth away from losing his temper.

  “Le homme est pas marié,” Max said in his best French, to which the big man growled something that did not sound encouraging, and spat on the ground.

  “Oh, Max, do let me deal with this,” Phoebe said, pushing forward and standing between Kline and the Frenchman before he could stop her.

  The viscount’s eyes grew wide and warmed considerably, an expression of delight on his face as he regarded Phoebe. Even the Frenchman looked rather dazed.

  “Phoebe!” Max muttered, trying to drag her back before she started a fight of a different variety.

  She glared at him and folded her arms. “Max, you are a man of many talents, but your French is horrible. Leave this to me, if you please.”

  Kline gave a startled bark of laughter and grinned at Max.

  “You lucky devil,” he murmured.

  Max could only hope he was right.

  ***

  Phoebe eyed the Frenchman and Viscount Kline with a little trepidation. Both were large men, and she did not much want to get between them, but the violent atmosphere had already dissipated somewhat, so perhaps she could sort this out and avoid bloodshed.

  “Please, could you describe the viscount’s wife?” she asked the fellow.

  At this, the man’s eyes took on a rather wicked expression and he did as she requested in rather too much detail. Phoebe blushed.

  “What the hell did he just say?” Max demanded, pushing forward.

  Oh, good Lord.

  “Nothing!” Phoebe said in a rush, placing her hands flat on Max’s chest and pushing back, which was a rather useless if illuminating endeavour. He didn’t budge in the slightest. Goodness, but he was solid. Fighting to keep her mind on the problem at hand, Phoebe looked up at him, pleading in her eyes. “He wasn’t speaking of me. I asked him to describe Lady Kline and… and he seems to think she’s, er… extremely attractive.”

  The viscount brightened considerably at this news.

  “Really?” he said with interest. “Then I must insist on making her acquaintance.”

  Phoebe returned her attention to the Frenchman, who growled a response.

  “Oh dear, she’s taken the diligence and is on her way to Abbeville.”

  Kline snorted. “It’s all a hum if you ask me. The fellow is just trying to extort more money from me.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t think so, he says she signed the register and you’re welcome to see it. She was here two days and left this morning.”

  She turned back to the indignant Frenchman and gleaned as much extra information as she could manage.

  “He says the lady told him her husband had been delayed, but would pay her bills on his arrival. She’s going to Paris. He says you can’t miss her.”

  “Indeed, I shan’t,” Kline said, frowning in puzzlement. “What the devil is going on?”

  Phoebe could not explain, having no idea, but she returned once more to speak with the Frenchman. She explained that Lady Kline had died nearly two years ago, and that the viscount did not know who the lady in question was. This produced such a volley of injured feeling from the poor fellow at having been so duped that Phoebe turned pleading eyes on Max. It was not his job to sort out this mess but she did not know who else to turn to as Kline was so obviously angry about the situation.

  “Oh, dear, Max.”

  Max sighed and nodded, and she beamed at him before explaining that Lord Ellisborough would pay the woman’s shot for her.

  “I say, what’s he grinning about?” Kline demanded, suspicious now.

  “Oh, I told him Lord Ellisborough would pay, just to keep the peace,” Phoebe said in a rush. “The poor man was going to give himself a nervous collapse if he kept on. I understand the manager is his uncle. He’s rather a stern fellow and would take it out of his wages.”

  “Well, that’s dashed kind of you,” Kline said a little stiffly, “But I can pay my own bills.”

  Phoebe was extremely pleased to hear this, as Max ought not have to pay and the last she’d heard Kline was in financial difficulties.

  “But she’s not your wife,” Max pointed out.

  “No, and she’s not yours, by God,” Kline retorted, laughing. “But it’s my name she’s bandying about. Speaking of wives,” the viscount added, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Max hesitated, and Phoebe understood his difficulty. It was one thing to go about with his wife in France, among people who did not know them, but Viscount Kline was a part of their world.

  “I’m Lady Phoebe Ellisborough,” Phoebe said, holding out her hand to the viscount before she could think too much about what she was doing. “We have met before, actually, though it was years ago. I was Miss Barrington before we married.”

  She slipped her arm through Max’s, and blushed as she saw the delighted look in his eyes.

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” she added, wondering how she dared.

  “So I see,” Kline said, looking between them with amusement.

  Phoebe ignored his knowing look and carried on. “We were on our way to Abbeville ourselves, as it happens, but our carriage met with an accident and so we’re stuck here.”

  “Well, that’s bad luck,” Kline said, and she decided she liked the big, bluff fellow. He was ruddy and blond, in his mid to late forties, and looked to be a man who preferred to smile than frown. “But there’s plenty of room in my carriage and, as it seems I must away to Abbeville in pursuit of a wife I didn’t know I had, you are most welcome to accompany me.”

  “Oh,” Phoebe said, rather delighted by this offer. “Oh, how splendid, thank you. Isn’t that splendid, Max?”

  She turned to discover that Max looked a little less than enthusiastic about the idea, but he smiled politely.

  “Splendid,” he agreed,
meeting Kline’s eyes.

  A rueful look passed between the two men, leaving Phoebe a little uncertain, but they seemed amicable at least, and it meant that Alvanly could not get too far ahead of them. Not to mention they had a mystery to solve now.

  All in all, Phoebe thought the journey was going marvellously well and was just the adventure that Max had wished for.

  Chapter 12

  Dear Matilda,

  I was so sorry not to see you before you left town. We will be home ourselves next week. I hope you will come and visit. It’s an age since we saw you all at the Priory.

  And ought I offer felicitations? I hear Phoebe and Lord Ellisborough have married. It was all rather sudden, so I am praying it was a love match and that Phoebe is happy. I believe Ellisborough to be a thoroughly decent and kind-hearted man—so handsome too! He was dreadfully unwise in choosing his first wife, who was a dour and serious creature, but then he was so incredibly young too. I hope they have made a splendid match. Much love to you all.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu, from The Right Hon’ble Lady Jemima Rothborn.

  9th April 1827. Montreuil sur Mer, Pas-de-Calais, France.

  It was almost dark by the time they reached Montreuil-sur-Mer—some thirty miles from Abbeville—and the charming Hôtel du France, where they would spend the night. Max knew Phoebe was dismayed not to have journeyed to Abbeville itself, but the fictitious Lady Kline had the advantage of an entire morning’s travel and they would not catch her so easily.

  Max was not in the best of tempers himself, which he fully acknowledged was his own fault. It had been a long and rather tedious journey from his point of view, watching Phoebe and Viscount Kline—or Charlie, as he insisted they address him—getting along like a house on fire.

  Which was fine, obviously.

  Kline was a likeable fellow and very amusing. Despite his rather dreadful reputation, he was in fact not the libertine he was purported to be. Max knew, and well understood, that an unhappy marriage had driven his behaviour. In the two years since his wife had died, Kline had sobered up, sorted himself out, and was doing his best to be respectable. Max admired him for it. He just wished he’d go off and do it elsewhere. He wanted to be alone with Phoebe so badly that his nerves were jangling and, despite his best efforts, his temper was fraying. The faintly amused, pitying looks Kline sent Max at intervals did not make him feel any better.