To Dance until Dawn (Girls Who Dare Book 12) Page 8

  Candlelight illuminated the space enough for him to see the easel that had been set up to display a painting, though no painting sat upon it. A muffled sound of despair caught his attention and Max’s breath snagged in his throat as he saw Phoebe, gagged and bound.

  “Phoebe!”

  He rushed to her and tugged the handkerchief from her mouth. She sucked in a breath.

  “Oh, Max, thank heavens,” she said, her voice shaky and uncertain and quite unlike herself.

  “Phoebe, love, what happened? Who did this to you?” Because as soon as he knew, he would murder them with his bare hands.

  “Alvanly,” she spat in disgust as he moved to untie her. “Oh, Max, he’s stolen the painting.”

  “What?”

  Max tugged the last of her bindings free and stared down at her.

  “It’s true,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “And it’s all my fault. Max, I’ve been such a stupid fool.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said, desperately wanting to pull her into his arms and hold her tight, but knowing that he could not. “He’s a sly, lying bastard. I knew he was up to something. I should have done more… I should have stopped him,” he cursed, winding the ropes up in his distraction and stuffing them in his pocket.

  Phoebe gave a huff of laughter. “Oh, how angry I was with you when he told me you’d warned him off, but you were right all along. I ought to have listened to you instead of being so pig-headed, and now…well, I suppose I am well served.”

  Max stilled, a little stunned by her words, but he had no time to enjoy the moment as she continued, her voice despairing.

  “Oh, what a wretched mull I’ve made of everything, and it is my fault, Max. I picked the lock. He’d never have got in here without me.”

  Max stared at her, wondering why he was surprised.

  “You… picked the lock,” he said faintly.

  She nodded, her bottom lip trembling. “That grubby little painting is worth a fortune, and now I’m an accessory to a crime, and there will be such a scandal, and Papa… Papa….”

  Her voice quavered.

  “No,” Max said, shaking his head. “No, there won’t be. I’ll make it right, I promise.”

  “Oh, Max,” she sobbed, and to his astonishment and delight, threw her arms about his neck.

  He couldn’t move for a moment, couldn’t breathe, and then his brain gave him a swift kick and told him not to be such an idiot and he put her arms about her, holding her tightly, just as he’d wanted to.

  “I’ll make it right,” he said again, the words whispered this time.

  She gasped and looked up at him, her eyelashes spangled with tears. Max’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes falling to her lips.

  “My lord!”

  They both leapt about a foot in the air as Mrs Manning’s voice rang out. Turning, they saw they had an audience. She had obviously brought the first swathe of guests to view her astonishing find.

  Max surged to his feet, keeping hold of Phoebe’s hand but moving to shield her from the gawking eyes about them.

  “Forgive me, Mrs Manning,” he said, doing his best to look like a man interrupted in a romantic interlude—which he was desperately hoping he had been. “I… I know we ought not be here, but I needed somewhere private to… to ask Miss Barrington if she would be so good as to marry me. Thankfully, she has made me the happiest of men and agreed, but I do apologise for trespassing so.”

  He heard Phoebe’s gasp of shock behind him and squeezed her hand hard, praying she’d keep her mouth shut.

  “Ah,” Mrs Manning said, her eyes growing misty as she looked upon them, a murmur of interest rippling through the crowd. “How terribly romantic.” And then her gaze moved to the empty easel and one hand went to her throat. “The painting!” she cried, rather theatrically in Max’s opinion. “Where is my painting?”

  She swung back to stare at him, and at Phoebe, who was clutching his hand as tightly as she could.

  “Painting?” Max replied, hoping he could be as inscrutable as Phoebe’s father. He’d seen Montagu in action and knew how impenetrable a mask he could wear. Please, God, make it convincing, he prayed, as he lied through his teeth. “There was no painting when we entered, Mrs Manning, just that empty easel. I assumed you would bring it in when you were ready.”

  “But the door,” she said, as the murmurs and gasps spread, becoming louder. “The door was locked.”

  “No,” Max said again, shaking his head sadly. “No, it was not. I… I did see Baron Alvanly, though. As we came up the stairs, I saw him hurrying down. He’d come from along this corridor. Perhaps he might have seen someone?”

  “Oh, the thief!” Mrs Manning cried, and then gave a little moan of despair before she swooned rather deftly into the arms of her latest paramour.

  She was swept away as the cries of outrage began in earnest and pandemonium ensued. Max turned back to Phoebe.

  “Come quickly,” he said.

  She nodded, and they made their way back through the crowds and down the stairs, hurrying towards the front door. On the way, they heard the story spread through the crowd ahead of them.

  The painting… stolen… a tryst… Ellisborough and Montagu’s daughter… Alvanly a thief… In on it together? Surely not!

  Max shut his ears against the gossip, all too aware of how a story could spread and grow and morph into something else. He concentrated on Phoebe’s hand in his, guiding her through the crowd until they burst outside into the cool evening air. They hurried on, down the road to the waiting carriages until Phoebe spotted her driver. The fellow had always given Max the urge to check his pockets, and he’d never understood why Montagu had kept such an obviously villainous fellow in his employ. He looked more likely to hold a carriage up than drive one, especially with the big ruby glinting in his ear. So, when Phoebe let go of his hand and ran to the man, flinging herself into the old rogue’s arms, Max was momentarily bereft of speech.

  “Oh, Jack, Jack,” she cried, sobbing against the big devil’s chest.

  “Princess? What is it?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing upon Max. “Did this bastard hurt you? ’Cause if he did, I’ll tear his bloody head off!”

  Max stilled, quite convinced this was no idle threat.

  “Oh, no…. Don’t be silly, Jack, Max would never hurt me. It’s my fault, as usual. Oh, but this time I’ve really done the most awful thing and I’m in such a fix!”

  Jack gave Max one last suspicious glance before turning his attention to Phoebe.

  “Spill it,” he commanded. “I can’t fix nowt if I dunno what the problem is.”

  “It’s Baron Alvanly. He tricked me into picking a lock for him, and now he’s stolen a painting from Mrs Manning and it’s worth a fortune. The wretch tied me up, but Max came and found me, but then everyone came in and saw us, and Max lied to save me. He said he’d proposed and now the p-poor man must marry me, and you know I’ll make him miserable, Jack, and…. Oh, you must help me sort it all out!” she wailed. “We must go after him, at once, and get that wretched painting back, and then I can tell everyone the truth, and it won’t be so bad.”

  Jack sent Max a curious look before getting back to the matter at hand.

  “Where does he live, this Alvanly cove?”

  “Ryder Street.”

  Jack nodded. “That’s just a few minutes away. Jump in, then,” he said, gesturing to the carriage. “Doubt he’ll be there, but we might figure out where he’s scuttled off to and catch him up.”

  Phoebe lost no time in doing as he bade her, and Max got in behind them.

  “Who is he, exactly?” Max asked, wanting desperately to demand why it was she had said poor Max, and why she thought he’d be miserable if she married him, but sensing this was not the time.

  “Who? Oh, Jack?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Did Papa never tell you?”

  Max shook his head and Phoebe smiled. “Flash Jack was sent to murder my father by my Great Uncle Theodore. J
ack was a highwayman then and dreadfully wicked, but Papa persuaded Jack he’d be better off working for him instead of Uncle Theodore, and so he switched sides. He’s been with us ever since.”

  Max stared at her. “Your father hired the man who was sent to kill him?”

  Good God. He’d known Lucian could be as cold as ice when the situation demanded it, but that… that was….

  “Oh, Jack’s a sweetheart really,” Phoebe said, making Max feel as if his eyes were out on stalks. The huge villain who had threatened to rip his head off was a sweetheart? “You know what they say about a poacher turned game keeper? Well, that’s Jack. He’d lay down his life for Papa, I know he would. And for me,” she added softly.

  Max considered this. “And the fact that you can pick a lock?”

  Phoebe bit her lip, her hands gripped tightly together in her lap, mortification glinting in her eyes. “Yes, Jack taught me, but you must not blame him. He only did it in case I was ever in trouble, and I was never supposed to use it for such a thing as this. Really, it’s not his fault, Max, it’s all mine. Oh, well you know that, don’t you? It’s always me, after all. It’s just the sort of reckless, stupid thing I would do,” she said, sounding so dejected that he wanted to hold her to him again, and would have done if the carriage hadn’t halted.

  “We’re here!” she said, scrambling for the door before he could say another word.

  Max had little choice but to hurry after her.

  Chapter 7

  Dearest Prue,

  I’ve just heard the wildest rumour. One of our acquaintances was at Mrs Manning’s this evening, and we bumped into them on our way home from a neighbour’s dinner party. The story is so far-fetched I can hardly credit it, except part of it is about Phoebe. There was some garbled story about a stolen painting which I could not make head nor tail of, but they also said she’s to marry Ellisborough?

  Is it true? I can hardly believe it.

  May I ask Eliza if she would like to go shopping with me this week? I saw the most darling little bonnet that would suit her wonderfully well.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin, from Mrs Minerva de Beauvoir.

  7th April 1827. Baron Alvanly’s rooms, Ryder Street, London.

  Max watched, feeling as if he’d tumbled into some extraordinary dream, as Jack picked the lock to the front door of Alvanly’s rooms, sending his equally disreputable looking companion who went by the name of Fred, around the rear to check the devil didn’t leave by the alley that ran along the back of the houses. Both men were armed with pistols and cudgels and Max was disconcerted to discover Phoebe did not bat an eyelid at them breaking and entering.

  “Stay here,” he commanded her, following in after Jack.

  “Not on your life,” she retorted, surprising him not a bit.

  Max sighed. “Fine, just stay behind me.”

  He took a tight hold of her hand to make sure she had no choice as they moved quietly into the house. It was soon abundantly clear that Alvanly had been prepared to leave. Max cursed and raised an eyebrow as Phoebe muttered something similar under her breath, but he did not consider remonstrating with her. It would not endear him to her and, in the circumstances, she was entitled to relieve her feelings.

  “Princess,” Jack barked, waving a crumpled bit of paper he’d taken from an overflowing wastepaper basket. Alvanly might have had time to prepare for his midnight flit, but arranging housekeeping had clearly not played a part in his plans. “Lookie here.”

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “A timetable for the steamboat. Reckon the blighter is off to France.”

  Max groaned. “Of course. He’ll sell the painting in Paris. He’d know his reputation would be shredded here so he’s burnt his boats, but he could live well on the proceeds. Damnation, but the devil will evade us.”

  “That he won’t,” Jack growled. “I’ll go after him. If I ’ave to turn Paris upside down and inside out, I’ll get the painting back, Princess. My word on it.”

  “Oh, no, Jack. At least,” Phoebe added. “Indeed we will, but you cannot go alone. You don’t speak a word of French, and I’m fluent, thanks to all those wretched lessons Papa made me take. And, after all, I made this mess. I think I ought to clear it up.”

  Jack snorted and shook his head. “You reckon I’d take you along? You’re queer in your attic, little lady, that’s what you are.”

  Phoebe crossed her arms, a mutinous expression on her face that Max recognised all too well. “This is all my fault, Jack. I will go, with or without you, but I promised Papa that I’d keep myself safe, so I’d much rather it was with you.”

  “Your father will string me up by my… never you mind whats! No. No. I won’t have it, Princess.”

  Max watched, thoughtful as the argument flew back and forth between them. He stuck his hands in his pockets and discovered the rope that Alvanly had tied Phoebe up with. The bastard. He drew it out, wondering how it had gotten there, and a small slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Max picked it up and stared at it, an odd feeling in his chest.

  Do something out of character.

  Max would never do something as reckless and idiotic as chase a villain halfway across France in search of a stolen painting in company with an unmarried young lady and an ex-highwayman. Never in a million years. He was too sensible for such nonsense. Too level-headed.

  Too… dull.

  Phoebe thought to set him free from his promise to marry her. She did not want him to marry her. She thought him old and boring and….

  “We’ll all go.”

  There was a silence so profound it rang in his ears. Both Phoebe and Jack stared at him, mouths agape. Well, at least he’d surprised them.

  “Phoebe, you cannot travel alone, no matter that Jack is there to escort you. You have no maid, no one to accompany you, but if you were in company with your husband—”

  “Oh, Max!” Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement, and such a look of admiration that his heart gave the oddest little flutter in his chest. “Do you mean it. Truly? You’ll come with us?”

  Max quailed as he considered Lucian’s wrath when he discovered what he’d done. Well, faint heart and fair maidens and all that….

  “I will.”

  Phoebe squealed and threw her arms about his neck for the second time that night, kissing his cheek. “How marvellous you are, and I do know I don’t deserve it, but thank you, Max!”

  For just a moment he basked in the glow of her approval, and then he caught sight of Jack’s expression. He looked as if he’d returned to the idea of ripping Max’s head off.

  “Now, wait just a minute, lord,” he said, his voice deep and forbidding and enough to make all the fine hairs on the back of Max’s neck stand on end. “You ain’t married.”

  “No,” Max said, glaring at the man. “But I have told the ton I proposed, and Miss Barrington accepted. That is a binding agreement. I am honour bound to marry her now and, I assure you, I am a gentleman. If there were time to marry her before we left, I would, but the day we return I will make her my wife, and you may shoot me dead if I fail to do so.”

  “Oh, may I?” Jack rumbled, something dark and daunting glittering in his eyes. “Well, that’s right nice of you. Reckon I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Reckon we will,” his companion, Fred, echoed, earning himself an irritated glance from Jack.

  “Oh, Jack, do stop growling at Max and trying to frighten him. The poor man is helping me, and not for the first time. Really, I have been the most unrewarding friend to him, yet he never fails to step in. He hasn’t even scolded me yet, and I know I roundly deserve it. You may scold me later, Max,” she said kindly, reaching to take his hand. “Only I do feel we ought to hurry.”

  Max swallowed down the bubble of laughter that was threatening, fearing he might sound a tad bit hysterical.

  “Yes. Later,” he managed, nodding gravely. “Jack, you best go via my home so I can pack and
get funds enough for such a journey. Phoebe can’t go home without having to answer a great many questions, so we shall have to buy her what she needs on the way.”

  Jack returned another dark look, which Max met unwaveringly. After a long moment, Jack grunted and returned to the carriage. Max felt he’d passed a test. He sighed, and turned to discover Phoebe watching him.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, anxiety glinting in her eyes, which shone silver grey in the moonlight.

  Max smiled and nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Why?” The word was almost whispered, and he felt the answer was important to her, so considered his words with care.

  “I think perhaps I should like to have an adventure.”

  A smile dawned on her face, bright as sunlight, dazzling him. “Really?”

  He nodded, certain now that he was telling the truth. “Really.”

  She watched as he held his hand out to her, and Max felt a burst of happiness surge through him as she gave him hers. Phoebe looked up and Max laughed, bubbling over with everything he felt. God, this was insanity, utter madness… and he would not miss it for the world.

  ***

  By the time Max had packed, soothed the ruffled feathers of his indignant valet, whom he felt it prudent to leave behind, and arranged funds enough for the journey, the first touches of daylight were staining the night sky.

  Phoebe dozed in the carriage, curled up on the seat opposite him, his greatcoat draped over her for warmth. Max wondered at her ability to sleep, for he was alive with anticipation, with excitement, with… his conscience shouting at him, louder and louder with each moment that passed. He was about to take Phoebe on a journey with him which would leave her utterly ruined. That she must marry him now, or she’d be ruined anyway did not seem to quiet the voice that told him he was being a reckless fool. That voice was quite eloquent about the reception he would get from Lucian when they returned home. Both he and Phoebe had written letters to her parents, and Max had made many promises in his, which he prayed might be enough to stop the marquess from slicing him up one tiny sliver at a time.