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Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife
Michelle Styles
His unexpected bride… Wealthy landowner Simon Clare shuns Northumbrian society. With his son gravely ill, the last thing Simon needs is an interfering woman assuming command of his household and nursing young Robert – no matter how sensuous her figure, or how tempting her luscious lips. Phoebe Benedict knows what it is to struggle, and finds herself drawn to the badly scarred recluse.Despite his tough exterior, she knows that Simon is a father who yearns for his son to recover – and a man who misses the tender embrace of a woman…


‘Will you be silent?’ His hands gripped her shoulders. The heat of him burnt through her clothes. ‘Or do I have to stop your mouth?’

‘Someone has to say these things.’ She stared at him. His mouth was inches from hers. He swooped down and claimed her, branded her. Phoebe stilled as warmth pulsated through her, searing her with its fierceness. His lips called to something deep within her, turned the warmth into a raging inferno.

The kiss lengthened, deepened. Her lips parted and he feasted, devoured her like a starving man. This was no gentle persuasion or chaste kiss, but the sort of kiss a pirate captain might bestow. Plundering and taking. His arms went around her and held her body against his. Her breasts were crushed against his chest. Her melting softness met his body. His lips trailed down her throat as he entangled his fingers in her glorious hair. Held her there.

The mantel clock chimed the hour, bringing them back to reality. He stepped away from her, a stunned look on his face.

‘Miss Benedict… I…’

Phoebe looked at him, turned on her heel and fled.
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch. Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas by Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

Author Note

You may have met Simon Clare in A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY. In fact, he and his son Robert very nearly took over his sister’s book. The events in this story happen several months after the events in A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY. The book is a stand-alone story, but does revisit the world I created. Hopefully you will enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If you are interested in the early development of railways, Steam and Speed: Railways of Tyne and Wearfrom the Earliest Days by Andy Guy is a thoroughly useful book. And, if possible, I would recommend a visit to the Beamish Open Air Museum and a ride on the Pockerley Waggonway. Another great joy of writing these books was rediscovering the Literary and Philosophic Society in Newcastle. Its largely unchanged reading rooms date from 1825, and they have the original prototype of George Stephenson’s safety lamp in a case.

As ever, I love getting reader feedback via post to Mills & Boon, through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com/
IMPOVERISHED MISS,
CONVENIENT WIFE
Michelle Styles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Pam Brooks. Because, as E. B. White said in Charlotte’s Web, it is not often that someonecomes along who is a true friend and a good writer.Pam is both.
Chapter One


End of January 1814—Ladywell, Northumberland

‘We have arrived, miss.’
Snow swirled around the Honourable Phoebe Benedict as she alighted from the carriage. Not the soft downy flakes of her Cotswold childhood, or the coal-flecked ones of London, but hard biting snow with a wind to match, the sort of snow that crept into the bones and lingered. Phoebe peered through the veil of white. The house rose up in front of her—grey, stern, without a hint of candlelight to welcome her.
For the first time since she’d started this journey, her optimism vanished and the nerves coiled around the pit of her stomach, waiting to strike. She was truly alone here, without friends or family. Phoebe gave her head a decisive shake, banishing all thoughts of failure back to that dark and lonely place. She would demonstrate to all her family and acquaintances that she was capable of more than visiting and pouring endless cups of tea.
‘Are you going to take this…this creature with you, miss?’ the coachman asked, reaching into the carriage and withdrawing a wicker basket. He looked at it with distaste as the ‘creature’in the basket gave an angry cry.
‘Yes, of course.’ Phoebe took the basket and peeped under the cloth at the scrawny kitten. A pair of green eyes blinked up at her before the cat let out another ear-piercing yowl. She hated to think about what could have happened if she had not spotted it lying beside its dead mother, friendless and alone. ‘I refused to leave the creature to die in the cold of the inn, and I am hardly likely to leave it now.’
‘I have no idea what Mr Clare will say about a cat.’ The coachman grimaced slightly. ‘The big house doesn’t have any, like. No pets whatsoever now that Miss Diana…I mean Lady Coltonby…has left with her terrier. I should have said at the time, but I just wanted to get on with the journey. Mr Clare is not going to like it.’
‘Cats are a useful addition to any home.’ Phoebe tucked the basket under her arm. She would find a way. How could anyone turn a helpless kitten away? Simon Clare’s sister, Diana, Lady Coltonby, was the epitome of grace and charm combined with practicality. Her brother was bound to be the same. He would see the necessity of keeping a cat, if he did not already possess one. ‘They help to keep the mice down and only ask for a saucer of milk and a warm place by the fire in return.’
‘You are braver than I. The master doesn’t take kindly to his will being crossed. I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘Once Mr Clare understands the situation, I feel certain that he will be amenable.’
‘I say nothing.’ The coachman shook his head gloomily. ‘Mr Clare gave me orders to return with Miss Diana or not to come back at all. Mayhap we should have stayed in London.’
‘Lady Coltonby specifically sent word.’ Phoebe juggled the basket with her large portmanteau and withdrew a letter. ‘She assured me that this would suffice. Lord Coltonby agreed. Mr Clare wants help with his son. I am here to provide it. It is a sensible, practical solution to the problem.’
‘I just wouldn’t want to cross him, not on account of a kitten that was likely to die anyway.’ The coachman tapped the side of his nose. ‘You ain’t seen him in a temper, miss.’
‘One must do one’s duty as one sees it. One’s destiny is not written until it is lived. Something had to be done.’ Phoebe looked towards the house again and knew she had to believe the words. This was about more than saving a kitten. She had to face Simon Clare and break the news that his sister would not be returning to Northumberland as he demanded. Mr Clare had to accept the inevitable.
A blast of freezing air drove the snow into Phoebe, hitting her like a thousand pinpricks, making her stagger back. With one hand she clasped her bonnet, and, with the other, the basket and portmanteau. Slowly she struggled towards the house. The door crashed open. A tall dark figure stood silhouetted as he held a lantern aloft. Great arcs of yellow illuminated the white of the driving snow. ‘Is that you, Diana? You took your time. Come into the warmth at once, you will catch your death in this perishing cold.’
‘Miss Phoebe Benedict. The Countess of Coltonby sent me in her stead.’ Phoebe started forwards, but the snow brushed against her skirt, weighing her down, making her footsteps heavy, as if even the weather had decided that this was a bad idea. ‘I have a letter.’
‘John, Diana is there, isn’t she?’ The man’s voice held a note of impatience. ‘I sent you to bring back my sister, not some stranger off the wayside.’
‘No, Mr Clare, I brought this one on your sister’s expressed instruction. Miss Diana sent her with her best wishes. It ain’t my fault.’
‘Throw her back at once.’ Mr Clare lowered the lantern. Phoebe put her hand to her mouth, unable to stifle a gasp. The light suddenly highlighted a black eye patch and a scarlet burn that covered half the man’s face. His hair was far longer than fashionable, flowing ragged about his shoulders. She had thought to meet a model of urbanity, but Mr Clare bore a closer resemblance to a wild savage. ‘I sent for Diana. She is the only one who can help! I do not have time to waste on strangers.’
He began to swing away. In another moment, the door would be closed, and her chance gone, all down to her weakness and indecision. She would have to go back cap in hand to her sister-in-law and admit that she had failed and had been utterly wrong to try. Phoebe tightened her grip on the basket. Impossible after the scorn the Dreaded Sophia had poured on Phoebe’s head when she had explained her determination to save James from his fate. And how could she condemn her stepbrother to life in a debtors’ prison because a man’s appearance shocked her into inaction?
Phoebe squared her shoulders and looked directly at Mr Clare, willing him to keep the door open. ‘Lady Coltonby sent me. I have a letter from her in my portmanteau explaining.’
‘The devil she did. Who precisely are you?’
‘Phoebe Benedict.’ She made sure her words were clear and precise. Said it slowly so that he could understand. ‘I am Lord Coltonby’s second cousin.’
‘And why in the name of all that is holy should Diana send you? Why should she wish to foist you on me? My sister should know her duty. When you have finished gawping at me, you may go.’
Phoebe winced, hating that he had seen her bad manners.
Whatever had happened to the man, it was not his fault. Nor was it any of her concern. Her concern was with James and the aid that Lord Coltonby would give him because she had agreed to this task. The Benedicts might be poor now, but they would never stoop low as taking charity. There had to be a payment for the favour. ‘I have had experience with scarlet fever. My younger stepbrothers had it several years ago. Lady Coltonby felt I was ideally placed to look after your son.’
She refused to flinch under his gaze and ignored the stubborn downturn of his mouth. She could be immovable as well. She returned his dark brooding gaze, measure for measure. Suddenly something flared in his eyes and she knew she had won a small victory.
‘Miss…Miss Benedict, it is all very well and good, but I sent for my sister. I specifically requested her. Why isn’t she here? Why has her husband sent you? Jenkins! Jenkins! Where is that butler when I need him?’
‘Is there a problem, master?’ A tall man appeared behind Mr Clare. ‘Where is Miss Diana? I heard the coach.’
‘Lord Coltonby has kept her from me and has sent this person in her stead.’ Mr Clare gestured imperiously with his cane. ‘Once again Coltonby has turned my world upside down.’
‘Lord Coltonby told me that I was specifically to inform you that he opposed my coming here.’ Phoebe drew a calming breath. She had worried her cousin was being sarcastic, but now she saw he had known the sort of welcome she might encounter. ‘It was my cousin’s considered opinion you would not allow me past the front door and would waste everyone’s time, pigheaded idiot that you are—his words, not mine. He was most insistent that I say those words to you. I apologise for them.’
‘I know what my brother-in-law is like. I am well acquainted with his way of speaking.’ The scar on his temple throbbed. ‘Continue with the story.’
Phoebe kept her head up and concentrated on the warm enticing pool of light behind Mr Clare, rather than on his thunderous scowl. She did not have the luxury of walking away. There was more than her pride at stake. ‘Lady Coltonby disagreed. She felt you would understand her reason. It was only through her pleading that Lord Coltonby relented.’
‘Ah ha, why didn’t she send her maid Rose? Rose understands the situation. She knows Robert and his escapades.’
‘Lady Coltonby’s reason for remaining in London is not something I would like to discuss during a blizzard. May I come into the warmth?’ Phoebe took several steps forward. Another blast of arctic air drove the stinging snow against her body. Her toes and the tips of her fingers no longer appeared to possess any feeling. He couldn’t be such a monster as to slam the door in her face, not after she had journeyed all this way. ‘Your coachman and I have been travelling almost straight from London, with only brief stops to change horses, and I am near perished. If you will not allow me entrance, Lord Coltonby indicated that I could rest at his house before returning to London.’
‘You had best come in, then. I refuse to give my brother-in-law the satisfaction.’ Simon Clare gestured with his cane. ‘Say your piece. In the morning, you may return to London and inform Coltonby that I require my sister. But I will not have put it about that Simon Clare fails to provide hospitality to Coltonby’s messengers or relations on a night like this!’
Phoebe closed her eyes and willed herself to hang on to her temper. Mr Clare was upset that his sister was not there. She had seen his letter with its bold spiked handwriting and terse demand for his sister to return, but she had also glimpsed the blotch under his name as if he had hurried the words and had been far too worried to let the ink dry properly.
‘I would not like to be in your shoes, miss. The master appears to be in a right royal temper,’ the coachman said in an undertone. ‘I ain’t seen him like this for years.’
‘He has had his expectations dashed.’ Phoebe eyed the man in the doorway whose fury appeared to grow with each breath. ‘He will understand once I give him Lady Coltonby’s letter. He will see the sense in what his sister and I have done.’
‘I will be ready in the morning, miss, early, like. I’d go now but them horses will only be fit for the knacker’s yard if they don’t get some rest.’
‘I refuse to depart without performing my task. I have given Lady Coltonby my word.’ Phoebe fought to keep her voice steady. ‘All Mr Clare has done is to make me more determined.’
‘Like I said, miss, the morning will suit me fine.’ The coachman touched his hand to his hat and began to lead the horses away.
Phoebe straightened her spine and marched towards the house without a backwards glance. But suddenly the bone-rattling coach seemed far more hospitable than the large, grey house.
Crossing the threshold, she closed her eyes for a second, savouring the warmth. Hearing an impatient cough, Phoebe opened them and discovered she was staring into Simon Clare’s furious face. He had been handsome once, but one side of his face bore fierce red marks, and he had a blaze of white running through his hair. He leant heavily on a cane as if his side pained him. Antagonism bristled from every pore as he moved slowly to let her in. Phoebe revised her opinion—not a savage, but a pirate captain, someone who wanted to bend the world to his will.
‘I believe you said my sister sent a letter, explaining her reasons.’ He held out a stern hand. ‘I will have it now.’
The ticking of a large clock filled the silence as she waited for Mr Clare to finish reading. With each ponderous tick, a little more of her easy optimism faded, vanishing until it became the merest wisp. This scheme was not going to work any better than the half-a-dozen plans she had rejected. She should never have attempted it. Mentally she tried to rehearse the words she would use when she returned to Atherstone Court and begged Sophia’s pardon. Her brief moment of triumph and independence was over before it had truly begun.
Phoebe struggled to keep herself upright. She refused to give this pirate captain the pleasure of seeing her burst into tears. She would simply have to pretend; if she pretended long enough, everything might work out. ‘As you can see, Mr Clare, everything is straightforward.’
‘So you say.’ Simon Clare stared at the woman standing in front of him in the entrance hall and attempted to control his temper. Her cloak was fine, but worn, and her bonnet not of the best quality, but her voice held an educated tone. The woman was no demure and downcast servant. Instead she stood there, shoulders back and eyes blazing.
Exactly where had his sister found this woman and why had she sent her when his instructions had been precise? Robert needed someone who would understand. The simple words resounded in his brain. I amunable to come. She is immensely capable. The truth hit him. Diana had refused his simple request. Simon ignored the pulling of his shoulder. The pain behind his eye rose to a blinding crescendo. He had had such hopes. Diana would have instinctively understood what to do with the boy. Once she’d arrived, everything would have gone back to normal. Only now he was faced with some harpy of a cousin. ‘Why did she send you?’
‘Lady Coltonby assured me she had put the details in her letter.’
Simon glanced up at the ceiling, trying to regain control of his emotions. He hated being infirm, hated the indignity of asking for help, but most of all he hated that Diana had abandoned him. Abandoned him for her new husband and the bright lights of London. Even her letter was a single uncrossed sheet. He folded it and put it in his pocket. ‘I must wonder what part of my letter my sister failed to understand.’
‘Your sister indicated that you might be taken back, but you would see the sense of the thing in the end.’ The harpy calmly undid her cloak and her bonnet before handing them to Jenkins as if she were here on a visit rather than on sufferance.
He revised his opinion. Not a harpy at all, but a woman who, despite being past the first blush of youth, radiated beauty. Although her gown hung like a sack, he could see that she possessed a magnificent figure— generous bosom, narrow waist and long legs. His jaw tightened. It was far worse than he had thought. Not a harpy, but some sort of faded débutante from the south. What ever had possessed Diana to send such an unsuitable creature? Had London turned her wits?
‘The sense of the thing eludes me,’ he said as they went in to the drawing room. ‘I will wish to understand precisely the terms on which you agreed to come up here.’
The embers were dying, but the room remained pleasantly warm. The débutante went over to the fire and warmed her hands. The fire tinged her cheeks pink, and caused the golden highlights to stand out in her hair. Definitely a woman who belonged in the ballroom, rather than the sick room.
‘You make no answer, Miss Benedict. What have you agreed with my sister? Why precisely did she send you of all people?’
She tilted her chin and her steel-grey eyes met his. ‘I agreed the terms with Lord and Lady Coltonby. You do not need to worry about being inconvenienced. Or out of pocket!’
‘It is not the money I am worried about. It is the boy’s reaction. He wants his aunt.’ Simon tried not to think about Robert’s increasing bouts of temper and the exhortations of his current nurse. Or the uproar that would ensue when Robert learnt about his aunt. Simon shook his head. Not an hour before he had been counting the minutes until Diana saved him once again, just as she had done when Jayne had died. How wrong he had been. ‘Robert has a forceful personality.’
‘It will be my pleasure to meet him. Your sister spoke fondly of him.’
‘What sort of condition prevents my sister from travelling? Is she ill? At death’s door?’ Simon glared at the woman, ignoring her polite smile. First Jayne and now Diana. How many more people would he lose? Could Coltonby be trusted to look after Diana properly?
‘You may ease your mind. Your sister is well. She is blooming. London agrees with her and she is in safe hands there.’
‘That is not what I am asking and you know it.’ Everything was conspiring against him today—the snow- blown weather, the sputtering fire in the grate of his study, and now his injuries from the accident last autumn were playing up. He wanted to sink down in his armchair, but he refused to show how weak he felt. ‘Tell me the truth. What are you hiding from me? What is wrong with Diana?’
‘The Countess is in a delicate condition.’ She said the words slowly as if speaking to a particularly dim-witted child. ‘The Earl refuses to risk her or her unborn child.’
Diana pregnant? Simon’s head throbbed with fresh pain. He should have anticipated it. Another worry. He tried to put it from his mind. Diana had always been strong. Never ill. She would survive. And yet he found it impossible to fault Coltonby for being cautious. ‘Where is her maid? Robert appears fond enough of her. Surely Diana could have spared Rose.’
‘Lady Coltonby’s maid is about to be wed to Lord Coltonby’s valet and is therefore unavailable. Her brother has just returned to this country. He only has a short leave from the Navy. This scheme was discussed.’
Simon regarded the gilt of the ceiling and regained some measure of control over his temper. Everywhere he turned, there was another excuse, another reason why he must yield and give way. Why he must accept this thoroughly unsuitable woman. ‘I suppose we must all bow in the face of love and romance.’
‘My cousin concurred with me about the solution, considering the Countess’s condition and her maid’s situation. Everyone was agreed that you would see the logic.’
‘Everyone neglected to consult me.’
‘Your letter stressed the urgency. I barely had time to scrawl three lines to my stepmother once the scheme was agreed.’
Simon resisted the temptation to swear long and loud. As if forgoing letter writing to one’s stepmother was somehow akin to his situation. ‘You will be rewarded in heaven.’
‘There is no need to blaspheme, Mr Clare.’
Simon pressed his lips together and held back a few more choice words. ‘And how precisely are you related to the Earl?’
‘As I’ve already mentioned, I am the Earl’s second cousin. Our maternal grandmothers were sisters. The connection sealed the matter. Your sister had no wish for some stranger to look after her nephew. I am not a stranger, but a relation.’ Her lips curved in a placating smile.
Simon tightened his grip on this cane. Same obstinate arrogance as his brother-in-law. Same assumption that they ruled the planet and all must give way. He did not need arrogance; he needed help with Robert. ‘Let me see your bare hands.’
She held out a delicate hand, long fingered and smooth without a callous or blemish. ‘I have no fear of work.’
Simon resisted the urge to ask if she had ever lifted anything heavier than a china tea pot.
‘What sort of qualifications do you possess? My son has had scarlet fever. The worst has passed, but he remains weak. He will require proper nursing, not someone to wipe his brow with eau de cologne.’ Simon refused to think about the nights he had spent by his son’s bed. Silently he cursed the school for not noticing, and then sending him home in a cold carriage. Whatever happened, Robert would be educated elsewhere. And he refused to think about the other problem, the tendency Robert had begun to exhibit. It had to be temporary— the boy would return to his old self in time. Diana would have brought him back.
‘Your letter did indicate the nature of the illness. It was what made Lord Coltonby adamant. I know how to run a sick room, quite probably better than your sister.’
‘An unusual accomplishment. I would have considered dancing lessons or water colours to be more your forte.’
‘My father was a viscount, and my mother the daughter of a baronet, but that does not preclude me being able to nurse.’ Her chin angled higher and her tone became more clipped. ‘One does what one must and I need to support my family, regardless of my parentage.’ Her mouth became thin, but her gaze did not waver. Simon felt a glimmer of respect rise within him. Angrily he dampened it down. ‘My stepbrother James requires a commission in the army. I happened to be at Coltonby House, seeking advice, shortly after your letter arrived. It seemed the best way. Lord Coltonby will help my brother and I will assist you. One cannot accept charity, Mr Clare.’
‘And why does your family not assist your stepbrother? Surely you have male relations capable of the task. Why does he seek to hide behind petticoats?’
Simon was gratified to see Miss Benedict glance down at the floor. Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks and for the first time in their encounter her poise appeared shaken. She rapidly recovered.
‘My eldest brother died a year ago. His carriage turned over on the way to visit me. There is no one else, no one else who cares.’ She plucked at the lace on her collar. ‘He left a wife and a son who will never know his father. It is my sister-in-law Sophia who is head of the family now, and she…she has other concerns.’
Simon pursed his lips. The undercurrent to her words was obvious. The sister-in-law had quite rightly decided to stop the allowance of some feckless aristocrat. It was admirable in a way that Miss Benedict wanted to help her brother. But he doubted that she was the right person for Robert. Even Robert’s current nurse had problems and she had arrived with a string of recommendations and references. All he had to do was find the right words to refuse Miss Benedict’s assistance.
Just then an earsplitting yowl emanated from the basket as it rocked on the woman’s arm. She immediately started to make cooing noises to whatever creature lay under the cloth and the din subsided.
‘What in the name of all that is holy is that?’
‘A cat.’ Her cheeks had the grace to develop a slight pink tinge. ‘Little more than a kitten, actually. I discovered him at our stop near Catterick. The poor thing was mewling its head off beside its mother. The innkeeper wanted to drown him.’
‘And you decided to save its life. How saintly.’ Simon stared at the basket. ‘What are you planning on doing with this cat?’
‘All the kitten wants is a bit of milk and a warm corner in which to sleep.’ Her voice was low and she appeared to be talking to his boots. ‘A chance to live.’
‘Are you prone to picking up stray animals that happen across your path, Miss Benedict?’ Simon raised one eyebrow, intrigued. She knew he was about to dismiss her and she was trying to distract him.
‘I will let you know when I discover the next animal in dire need.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Surely your heart has been touched by this animal’s plight, and you will not refuse him shelter.’
‘It has been claimed that I have no heart.’
‘Having met your sister, I find that impossible.’
Simon gritted his teeth. He would allow Miss Benedict to stay the night, but in the morning, she would have to go. Back to Coltonby with a warning—he had managed thus far on his own and did not need to depend on the kindness of strangers. There would be no need to trouble Robert.
‘Master, Master!’ The upstairs maid’s frightened voice echoed from the hallway, interrupting him. ‘It has started again! Worse than ever. Mrs Smith says to come quickly.’
‘Stop that unholy racket!’ Simon thundered, ignoring Miss Benedict’s questioning glance, and the maid’s wails ceased. Simon tilted his head as a better solution occurred to him. If Miss Benedict saw Robert in this state he had little doubt that she would flee on the first coach, cat and all.
‘I am sorry, truly I am, but young Master Robert is being impossible. He has heard the carriage and swears that it will be her ladyship.’ The maid had burst into the room without knocking. ‘And now Jenkins has told Mrs Smith that Miss Diana is not here after all. And the nurse refuses to go back in. Not after what he did to her the last time. He is the very devil incarnate. Mrs Smith says that I must come and fetch you. I am not to take no for an answer. You must see your son.’
Simon raised his eyes to the ceiling. The day had descended from awful to disastrous. There was no telling what measures would be required to restrain the boy.
‘Mr Clare, are you going to introduce me to your son?’ Miss Benedict stood there, her face composed and her shoulders relaxed. ‘I believe he is awake. He will want to know that his aunt is well.’
Simon felt an overwhelming urge to join Robert in screaming. Miss Benedict was standing there, so calm, so smug, so certain that she could control Robert. Last time it had taken two footmen and the nurse to get the laudanum down his throat, and even then one of the footmen had ended up with a black eye.
Miss Benedict wished to meet Robert? Very well. Let her. Let Coltonby’s saviour fall at the first hurdle. He doubted that she would last five minutes before she began bleating for the coach. He would delight in writing to Coltonby and explaining the spinelessness of his cousin.
‘Miss Benedict, you may accompany me to the sickroom. Robert has set his heart on his aunt returning.’
‘But what is it that you want me to do?’ She crossed her arms. ‘I have never met the boy.’
‘You are my sister’s emissary. It falls to you to explain why she has declined to return.’ Simon bit out each word.
‘To me?’ Miss Benedict had the grace to look wary. ‘But surely the explanation should come from you, as his parent. I will wait here.’
‘No, from you.’ Simon glared at the woman—in his mind, he consigned her to a dark place. ‘You can explain to the boy why the one person in the whole world that he wants to see is not coming. We will deal with your cat later. I do hope you have a strong constitution, Miss Benedict.’
Chapter Two


The heart-rending wails hit Phoebe as she mounted the stairs—pitiful wails to make any adult wince with pity, pleas for his aunt to come upstairs. But with each new piercing sound, Simon Clare’s face became more stonily resolute and the maid only appeared concerned that her evening had been interrupted.
‘Who is Mrs Smith?’ Phoebe asked.
‘Robert’s nurse.’ Mr Clare stopped and a wry smile crossed his face. ‘Surely you do not expect me to leave Robert under the care of a scullery maid, or perhaps lying on his own, unattended? Mrs Smith came highly recommended from Lady Bolt. She has excellent references. But Robert wants his aunt.’
Excellent references. Phoebe’s heart sank. Had she entirely misjudged the situation? She had been positive that his letter had asked for a nurse. ‘It would appear that I have made a mistake.’
‘It would appear to be the case, Miss Benedict. And you may explain the situation to Robert.’

Another loud, long echoing plea issued from the room. Phoebe’s heart squeezed. How would he react when she explained about his aunt? Would he understand any better than his father? And then what?
She glanced at Mr Clare’s stern back. His coat twitched as if he knew she would get her words wrong. Suddenly she wanted to rush down the stairs and demand to be returned to London. But that would be admitting failure.
Phoebe allowed herself three steps of panic and then regained control. She knew why she was here. James deserved his chance in the army. A friendship with the Earl of Coltonby was not to be underestimated. Who knew where it might lead not only for James but for Edmund as well? She owed it to her stepbrothers. After all, she bore some responsibility for their predicament.
She took another step and knew there was more to it. She had seen the tears in Lady Coltonby’s eyes and knew how torn she was between her love for her nephew and her need to protect her unborn child.
‘Miss Benedict, I am waiting. Unless of course you want to give up before you have begun.’
Phoebe gathered her skirts in her free hand and marched up the final few stairs. ‘Quit before I have begun? Never!’
‘Well said, Miss Benedict. I hope you will not have cause to regret those words.’
He flung open the door. Phoebe stifled a gasp. The single guttering oil lamp threw shifting shadows on to piles of broken toys and dirty linen, and an overturned bowl of congealed brown liquid oozed on the floor. A freezing wind blew through an open window as a young boy with only a few shreds of hair on his head stood screaming on the bed, his hands clenched around the rails of the iron bedstead. Phoebe shivered slightly and fought to keep her stomach from churning as all around her the echoes of his cries rose. How could anyone with an ounce of compassion in their body permit this to happen? Where was this misbegotten nurse who had been hired?
She glanced up at Mr Clare, but his face had become even more set, harder and more forbidding.
‘Robert, be quiet this instant! You will do yourself injury!’
‘Aunt Diana. I want Aunt Diana.’ A tear trickled down the boy’s face as he rocked back and forth. A terrible squeaking from the bed combined with the wailing to create an unholy din. ‘She is here! I heard the coach! You promised!’
‘Stop this racket!’ Mr Clare thundered. ‘Immediately, Robert Clare! You are ten, not four! Behave yourself, boy!’
The boy stopped his screaming so abruptly that the silence seemed unnatural. Everything appeared suspended in time as if she had inadvertently stepped into one of the panoramas at the Exeter Change. The scar on Simon Clare’s face stood out bright red against the paleness of his cheek. His hands curled tightly as if he was making a supreme effort not to hit the wall. His son’s pleading face was turned towards him.
Her stomach knotted. She felt helpless standing there watching the scene, but her voice refused to work.

A gust of wind rattled through the room bringing with it a flurry of hard stinging snow, breaking the spell.
‘Who opened the window? The room is freezing.’ Simon struggled to contain his temper. The window had been opened to the elements. Against his expressed orders. Windows were to be kept tightly latched at all times. He had been very clear on that. Every one of the staff knew the order. It could only have been one person. The blackness of his nightmare was complete. ‘Robert, did you open this window?’
Robert slowly shook his head as he hugged his arms about him. ‘I am cold. I want a fire!’
Simon slammed the window shut and threw a bucket of coal on the fire, before he turned towards the boy. ‘Somebody must have! Windows do not magically fly open!’
‘I…Ihavenoidea.’ Robert’s teeth chattered as Simon eased him back under the covers. ‘It just opened! When I woke, I was cold.’
‘My orders are quite strict on the matter! No window is to be opened!’ Simon struggled to hang on to his temper. Memories of the last time he had discovered a window open like this assaulted him. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t you, Robert?’
‘It wasn’t me!’ Robert looked up at him with injured eyes.
‘If not you, then who?’
‘Mrs Smith did,’ Robert mumbled, ducking his head. ‘She did it, because I was naughty.’
‘Mrs Smith? You will have to do better than that, Robert. Mrs Smith is a trained nurse. I cannot abide a
liar. Who threw the beef jelly on the floor?’
‘Hate beef jelly. Particularly when it is cold.’
Behind him, Simon Clare could hear Miss Benedict make a little tutting noise in the back of her throat, judging him and finding him wanting. His humiliation was complete. And Robert had been exposed as the liar the nurse had said he was. Why had his life come down to this?
He glared at Mrs Smith, who had come into the room with a superior expression on her face. She was the fifth nurse he had hired for Robert. ‘Did you open that window against my expressed orders?’
The woman looked uncomfortable, but did not speak. The back of Simon’s neck prickled.
‘I did, sir,’ Mrs Smith said finally. ‘I thought the cold air would calm him. In such cases—’
‘Balderdash. I have no wish to hear about other cases and theories. You disobeyed me!’ Simon fought to retain a leash on his temper. For once Robert had not been lying. Did the foolish woman not realise what damage she could have done? The nurse cowered slightly as if she expected to be beaten. He heard Miss Benedict’s sharp intake of breath. Simon sighed. When had he ever had a servant beaten? He might shout, but it was beneath him to discipline his servants in that fashion. He was no boorish aristocrat who gave way to his passions.
‘But…but…please, sir, it was the only way. He was yelling something fierce. I thought it would shock him back to his senses. He threw beef jelly at me.’
‘Never, ever disobey me again!’ Simon banged his cane down on the floor. ‘In fact, get out of my sight and pack your bags!’
‘You need not ask me twice. No amount of money would make me stay and look after that…that monster of a child!’ The nurse turned on her heel.
He shook his head in disgust. Yet another staffing problem to deal with.
The pain in his head grew, throbbing and blotting out everything. He gave his head a shake and with an effort forced the pain to recede.
He thought that once Diana arrived, everything would get easier, and he could dispense with the nurse. But instead he had been landed with a former débutante and Robert was becoming more unmanageable by the day.
He refused to even think about what the doctor had said about how Robert’s mind could be affected by the illness. He wouldn’t let it happen. Robert would get well. He wanted his boy back.
‘I want Aunt Diana. I heard the carriage.’ Robert’s green eyes blazed defiantly as he banged his hand against the iron bedstead. ‘Aunt Diana! Aunt Diana!’
‘And this is the way you behave? Creating a mess like this? To get attention? You would make your aunt cry.’
‘Mr Clare,’ Miss Benedict said in a soft voice, as if he had done something wrong.
‘I want my aunt!’
‘You have shamed me, Robert. Truly shamed me.’ Simon shook his head. ‘When this is cleaned up, then we will discuss your aunt.’
Robert closed his mouth, attempted to draw a breath and failed. As Simon watched in horror, the boy’s limbs and face began to jerk uncontrollably.
A small noise came from Miss Benedict behind him in the doorway. Simon wanted to tell her that this was not the Robert he knew.
‘Stop that, Robert! You can control yourself if you want to. Concentrate, boy!’ A surge of fear swept through him as Robert gave no indication that he had heard. He wanted to do something for the boy. He wanted to prevent what was coming next. ‘Cease that noise this instant!’ He put a hand to his head and whispered, ‘Please!’
‘Shall I get the footmen and the rope, sir?’ The maid peeped out from behind the door. ‘It is the way I had to do it last night when Mrs Smith refused to help. The boy will not take his medicine. It is more than a body should have to deal with. Like Mrs Smith said—he should be sent away to one of them hospitals.’
‘Are ropes really necessary? The boy seems frightened enough,’ Miss Benedict asked in a clear voice, breaking through Simon’s desperation. ‘Does he have to be tied down?’
‘I am trying, Papa. I can’t seem to stop.’ The boy’s limbs began to move of their own accord, jerking and dancing. A ghastly parody of the boy he knew and loved.
‘You must stop, Robert. Or else you will leave me with no choice…’
‘I am trying, Papa.’ Robert struggled to contain his movement but the jerking and rocking only increased. ‘Truly I am.’
Prior to Robert’s illness Simon had considered the accident when his travelling engine had exploded to be the most frightening experience of his life, but now he knew it was far more dreadful to watch Robert suffer this torment. Robert raised two trembling hands. The night shirt fell away from his wrists and the red welts from last night were clearly visible.
Simon winced, hating the necessity of restraining the boy. He had no other choice. Robert had to take his medicine. It was a fight for Robert’s soul, but it did not mean that he had to like the method.
The boy’s breath rattled again, an awful sound. Simon cursed his own useless arm. Once he would have been able to administer the medicine himself, but no longer. ‘Bring two footmen. Quickly!’
He heard the maid’s footsteps hurrying down the hall. He forced his hand to pick up the beef-jelly bowl, heart sick at his own failure. Behind him Robert’s wailing rose and fell.
‘I wish to speak with you, Mr Clare. In the corridor.’
‘Is there some new problem, Miss Benedict? Has the noise disturbed your kitten per chance?’ A bitter laugh escaped his throat. ‘If you will excuse me, other matters are more urgent.’
‘We need to speak.’ Her eyes became rapiers. ‘Now, Mr Clare, before you make a big mistake.’
He looked down at her, tempted to brush her aside. The avenging angel with the flawless skin and disapproving beestung mouth, so righteous in her indignation, so sure in her clipped tone of voice—what did she know about his fears? Or how the laudanum appeared to return Robert to his former self for a few hours? He knew what Mrs Smith thought and what the four nurses before her had thought.
All he wanted was for Robert to get well. A great weariness descended over him. Every particle of his body ached. He hated this. He would loathe himself afterwards, but it was the only way to get Robert to take his medicine.
‘As you wish.’ Simon ran his hand through his hair and waited. He had had such hopes when the carriage had arrived back, but now all he had was an interfering, meddlesome woman. He did not need to be told that tying down his son with ropes was wrong. With her disapproving look and crossed arms, Miss Benedict failed to understand that he was doing the only thing he could to save his son. Robert had to take the medicine whether he liked it or not.
‘I highly doubt that Robert has done this on purpose.’
‘He tries to avoid the laudanum. The nurse was right. The boy has become ungovernable.’ He forced a ghost of a smile. ‘And it is entirely my fault.’
‘You are taking the nurse’s word. The woman who opened an invalid’s window during a blizzard! She could have given him lung fever! How could you have allowed such a creature in this house?’
Simon clenched his hands. What other new great insight could Miss Benedict give him?
Miss Benedict clamped her mouth shut, but her eyes burned with an even greater intensity. ‘You should have checked…’
‘I note you do not offer any references of your own. You ask me to take you on trust.’

‘I can certainly do a better job than that…that slattern!’
‘The footmen have already been called.’
‘Listen to my plan.’ Phoebe forced her voice to be calm. She had to get through to this man. The boy was in trouble. She could see his blue lips and uncontrollable shuddering. This was no act of defiance or a wish to get attention. This was something else entirely. ‘He may not be to blame.’
Mr Clare’s face blazed with a barely controlled fury, but she stood her ground and refused to flinch.
‘Do you not think every way has been tried? Tried and failed? I have had experienced nurses. This is no tea party, Miss Benedict. This is real life. The boy must take his medicine or risk dying.’
‘But not that way! It is cruel and is making matters worse! We need to speak if I am to help the boy.’
A faint sardonic smile touched his lips. ‘I am rather busy at present. If you disagree with my methods, you know where the door is.’
‘You will listen to me.’ Phoebe ground the words out. ‘Will you tie me down as well or will you listen to what I have to say!’
Mr Clare glanced at the boy and his face appeared to soften momentarily. Phoebe silently pleaded that somehow her words had penetrated, that he would finally agree to listen.
‘You have five minutes, Miss Benedict, to explain yourself.’ His quiet words filled the room. ‘After that, my coach will return you to your home.’
Phoebe blinked. He had agreed! Tension flowed from her shoulders, leaving her weak and giddy.

Mr Clare led the way into the hallway as she heard Robert’s sobbing increase, but the squeaking of the bed slowed. The fit was ending. She gave one hurried glance, but saw that the boy appeared to be coping. She carefully closed the door.
She looked Mr Clare in the face and sought to find the concerned, loving parent, rather than the stern savage who had greeted her at the door.
‘That boy is far from being mad.’ Phoebe crossed her arms and met his intense gaze. ‘He is frightened beyond measure. The threat of ropes and being forced to take the medicine is making matters worse. He had already begun to calm down when the medicine was mentioned. Yes, he is excited, but—’
‘What do you suggest should be done with him?’ Mr Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘He bit Mrs Smith two nights ago. I saw the teeth marks on her arm. Others have tried to tell me that it is my duty to send him to the madhouse. But not Robert! Not while I have a breath in my body!’
Tiredness made Phoebe’s mind clumsy, but she fought against it. All she knew was that tying the boy down was wrong. He was a frightened little boy in need of understanding. He had had scarlet fever, not brain fever. ‘Did she say why he had bitten her? Did anyone see it happen? She went against your wishes about the window.’
Mr Clare’s face took on an even more ruthless demeanour, became even more piratical. She suspected that he longed for a plank so that she could be ordered to walk it. ‘She attempted to give him his laudanum. And I saw the bite.’

‘Perhaps the nurse tried to force it down his throat— against his will. He reacted in the only way he had left.’
‘He must do as he is told, Miss Benedict.’ Mr Clare regarded her with disdain. ‘All of us must do things in this life that we dislike, but we do them. It has been explained to Robert, several times.’
‘Have you ever had medicine forced down your throat, Mr Clare?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters a great deal.’
The air crackled between them, replete with some raw elemental emotion. His hard look intensified. Phoebe resolutely refused to turn her gaze away as the heat between them threatened to sear her. Suddenly he turned his face. The breath exited her lungs with a whoosh.
‘My stepbrothers never had to be tied down when they had scarlet fever, not even the youngest, and he contracted rheumatic fever,’ she said quietly. ‘I think the nurse has frightened Robert badly.’
‘Your stepbrothers were not Robert. If he will not take his medicine, measures must be taken.’ Mr Clare’s mouth became a thin white line. ‘Is that all you wished to speak me about? Your time is nearly up.’
‘Have these fits been happening long? Did he ever have episodes like this before she started to care for him?’ Phoebe asked quickly, seeking to regain the upper hand. ‘Your sister never said that he suffered from any affliction. Did the fever cause this?’
‘They started within the last few weeks. Just before Mrs Smith started or just after.’ Mr Clare ran his hand through his hair. ‘Then this started happening—these fits of madness. I knew Diana was my last chance. Robert’s cries were unbearable.’
Phoebe pressed her lips together. Thank goodness Lord Coltonby had seen the sense of it and had prevented his wife from travelling. This sickroom was the last place where Lady Coltonby should be.
‘Have you had the doctor in? What does he say?’ Tiredness made her head fuzzy, blocking her thoughts.
‘Doctor MacFarlane says that only time will cure him. It is out of our hands.’ Simon Clare crossed his arms and gave her a dark brooding look. ‘Robert must be nursed here.’
Robert was not mad. It was his illness. He had contracted rheumatic fever. It had to be. It bore all the hallmarks of what Edmund had had. St Vitus’s dance. Phoebe paused, unclear how best to proceed. Then she decided that she would simply have to say it, tell Mr Clare the worst. But hopefully, once he knew, then he would stop using the ropes. It had to work.
‘My youngest stepbrother, Edmund, contracted rheumatic fever after his bout of scarlet fever. His limbs and face would shake and move. Our doctor called the condition StVitus’s Dance. It affected his heart, not his mind.’
‘And how does he fare now?’ Simon Clare’s hoarse whisper echoed down the corridor.
‘He can run as well as any man, better than most. He has finished his last term at Oxford.’ Phoebe could not resist a note of pride creeping into her voice. Of all of her stepbrothers, Edmund was the one she felt closest to. He made her feel as if she was not an outsider, as if he truly cared about what happened to her. ‘He hopes to join one of the Inns of Court soon and train to be a lawyer. Hardly the actions of an imbecile.’
She forced her gaze to meet Mr Clare’s green one, felt it bore down into her soul as if he were searching for something. Every inclination in her body told her that he would yell and storm, but she kept regarding him, refusing to flinch. He looked away.
‘Is it not an affliction?’ Mr Clare’s voice was a husky rasp. ‘Will Robert recover? Will he return to his old self? Do you promise me?’
‘I have every reason to hope Robert will recover as well. He looks so much like Edmund,’ she whispered. ‘It may take a long time, but there is hope. You do not need to use ropes. He must be kept calm. Please let me try. Your sister believed I could help.’
‘You have seen him at his worst and have not run. It is more than several of the maids were able to stand. Perhaps Diana’s judgment was not misplaced.’ The colour drained from Simon Clare’s face, but his shoulders straightened. ‘What do you propose?’
‘Keep him quiet. Speak to him gently. Reasonably. He looks to be an intelligent boy.’ Phoebe forced her voice to be calm and matter of fact. Excitement surged through her. She had this one chance to prove her worth. ‘He is not to be put under any undue stress.’
‘But he needs to take his medicine. I refuse to allow him to become a little savage. I refuse…’ His voice tailed off in exhaustion.
‘Allow me to handle this. I will get him to take the laudanum.’ Phoebe said the words with far more confidence than she felt. ‘Allow me to prove that I can nurse Robert. If I can’t, I will leave in the morning and you can hire another nurse with references.’
‘You have ten minutes.’ He held out his hand. ‘And, Miss Benedict, he must take his medicine.’
Phoebe swallowed hard and touched her fingers to his. They curled around hers for an instant, warm and strong. A pulse went up her arm and she rapidly withdrew her hand. ‘It will be enough time.’
Silently she prayed that her words were true.
Chapter Three


Ten minutes to get Robert to trust her enough to take his medicine quietly. She had made a bargain with the devil. But it did give her a slim chance. Phoebe pushed open the bedroom door as the wails started again. Her legs threatened to give way and her stomach knotted. Her easy words to Mr Clare echoed in her head. She could get this frightened child to take his medicine. She ` gave a half-smile and wondered why it was so easy to say things, but so difficult to actually achieve them.
She placed the wicker basket down at the entrance and willed the kitten to stay there. She would not need the ropes. All she had to do was to believe. A calm firm voice and slow movements—the same way she had captured the kitten earlier in the day. The same way she had nursed her stepbrothers.
At her approach, Robert stopped crying and regarded her with eyes that were too large for his face. His entire body went still. Behind her, she was aware of Mr Clare’s looming presence, watching her every move, doubting her ability. It irritated her that she was intensely aware of every little movement he made—the fierceness in his eyes, the way his fingers curled into a fist, the warning hunch of his shoulders. She stopped, turned back and shut the door with a decisive click.
‘Who are you?’ Robert shouted. ‘Go away! I want my aunt!’
‘Robert, your Aunt Diana sent me in her place. I have a message for you.’
‘A message?’ Robert tilted his head to one side. ‘What sort of message?’
A breath escaped Phoebe’s lips. She had his attention. Everything would turn out fine. She made her voice sound sing-song, unhurried, easy and light as if it did not matter that time was sliding through her fingers. ‘Your aunt is very sorry. She wanted to be at your side, but she can’t come.’
‘Who are you?’ His face was a reflection of his father’s except his eyes seemed to dominate his shrunken face.
‘Phoebe Benedict. I am to look after you until you get well. I have come all the way from London at your aunt’s request.’
‘I want my aunt! I miss her.’ A small hand scrubbed at his eyes. He looked all of about six, instead of the ten that Lady Coltonby had said he was.
‘She is…going to have a baby. Soon you will have a little cousin to love and cherish.’ Phoebe looked directly at the boy. Her entire being tensed. Would he go into another fit? And then what would happen? Why had she made such a rash promise? ‘They would not let her come. She wanted to, very much. You must believe that, Robert. She told me to tell you that she loves you and wants you to get well.’
‘I miss her.’
‘And she misses you too. It is why you must be a good boy and get well.’
Phoebe pressed her hands together and willed him to stay quiet and to trust her. She resisted the temptation to brush the sweat from the back of her neck and simply stood there, hands outstretched.
‘Are you going to tie me up?’
‘No ropes.’ She held out her hands and showed him they were empty. She bent down so her face was level with his. ‘I don’t believe in tying boys up.’
‘Me either.’ Robert gave a decided nod as his limbs began to convulse again. ‘But I don’t like this either.’
‘You need to relax and the spasms will ease.’
‘What is happening to me?’
‘You are ill. You need to rest. Your body wants to get well.’ Phoebe kept her voice soothing. ‘Take a deep breath, Robert. In. Out.’
‘I can’t catch my breath. It frightens me. Really frightens me.’ His eyes swam with tears. ‘I want to live and not go to hell like Mrs Smith said I would.’
‘Your body will find it easier if you are quiet.’ Phoebe cast her eyes upwards and wished she could throttle the nurse. What was Mr Clare thinking when he hired her?
Robert closed his eyes. The trembling and jerking in his limbs subsided slightly. Phoebe risked another step towards the bed, willed him to keep calm. She touched his forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. Cool and without fever. The worst had passed, but Robert would need a long time before he recovered his strength. Phoebe lifted her hand from his forehead and stared at the wallpaper. A mixture of anticipation and misgiving filled her.
She had written to her stepmother that it would be for a few weeks at most. She had never considered that the time might run into months. Months. Maybe her presence would be missed. Maybe they would realise they missed her and how much she tried. She wanted them to be proud of her, to feel that she was part of their family, instead of part of the furniture. She had given her promise and she would see that this boy became well. She paused. As long as she could get him to take his medicine.
‘Why did you do that?’ Robert asked, bringing her back to the present.
‘Because I wanted to see if you had a fever.’
‘And do I?’ Robert screwed up his face. ‘I have had such strange dreams. I want them to go away. They frighten me.’
‘The doctor has left something to keep the fever and the dreams away.’ Phoebe reached for the medicine bottle.
‘What are you going to do?’ Robert rubbed his shaking hand across his eyes.
‘I am going to give you something to drink. It will make you feel better. A little sleepy, but better.’
‘I don’t want any medicine. Nasty.’ Robert pulled a face. ‘I won’t take it. I won’t!’
‘Robert!’ Mr Clare’s voice echoed throughout the room as the door came open. His footsteps resounded on the floor and Robert’s eyes grew wide again.
Inwardly, Phoebe cursed and willed Mr Clare to the devil. She had gone too quickly, she knew that, but little time remained. She could get Robert to take his medicine if only Mr Clare would be quiet. ‘It will help. I promise you that. It helped my youngest brother when he was ill like you.’ Her tongue flicked over her lips. ‘Shall I tell you about Edmund? I started looking after him when he was a boy about your age.’
‘I want my aunt. She won’t make me drink anything!’ The boy’s voice started to rise again. ‘Aunt Diana! Aunt Diana!’
‘Miss Benedict!’ She heard Mr Clare’s warning sound behind her.
‘My time is not up! You promised!’
She spun around and nearly collided with his hard chest. Behind him, two footmen stood with ropes dangling from their fingers.
‘No!’ Phoebe put out her hands and placed her body between Robert and the men. ‘I won’t let them pass. He will take it! Give him a chance! Give me this one chance!’
‘Stand aside, Miss Benedict! He must take his medicine. You had your chance and failed. My only consolation is that I was correct in my assessment.’
‘Ten minutes. I want ten minutes.’
‘You can see what Robert is like.’ Mr Clare nodded towards the bed. ‘Why are you intent on making him suffer?’
‘You are frightening him. Please let me try again. You didn’t give me ten minutes.’ Phoebe glanced at Robert. His mouth was set mutinously as his eyes flickered between them. ‘What harm will a few moments do?’
‘Miss Benedict! No one defies my orders in this house!’
‘Mr Clare! Someone should!’
She stood toe to toe with the man, aware that with one sweep of his arm she could be brushed aside. But she refused to allow her gaze to waver. Each breath she took seemed like an eternity.
Finally he bowed his head and took a half-step backwards. ‘Very well, a few moments. One more chance.’
‘I rescued a kitten earlier today,’ Phoebe said, speaking rapidly and praying that her words would provide a distraction. She kept her eyes trained on Robert, but every particle of her body was alert to Mr Clare’s movements. ‘Would you like to see it? Shall we see if your cries have made him wake?’
Robert’s mouth closed and he lifted a thin shoulder. Phoebe ran to where she had placed the basket and opened the cover. Despite the uproar, the kitten had gone to sleep.
Carefully she carried the basket over to the bed. The kitten gave a loud purr, but did not open its eyes. Robert put his fingers to his lips. ‘It’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him.’
Phoebe replaced the cover and placed the basket beside the bed.
‘He’s sleeping now. It would be a shame to disturb him. Shall I let him sleep here? We must be very quiet, the kitten has had an exhausting day.’
‘I will try, truly I will try, miss, but it is hard. Sometimes …’ He closed his eyes and his face became stiff with concentration. Phoebe forgot to breathe. ‘Will the medicine help me to be quiet?’
‘It helped my brother. Truly it did.’
‘Then I will take it…for the kitten’s sake. He looks tired. And sweet. I have always wanted a kitten.’
‘Good boy.’ Phoebe glanced back over her shoulder at where Mr Clare stood. He lifted one eyebrow. With a trembling hand she poured the liquid on to a spoon and held it out to Robert. He made a face, but swallowed it with one gulp.
‘Is the kitten for me? As a gift?’ Robert asked, wiping his hand across his mouth. ‘I have never had a cat before. We used to have a dog, but…he went with my aunt.’
Phoebe gave a slight laugh. ‘Cats can never be given. They choose their owner.’
Robert pursed his lips and nodded. His brow knitted together, but he remained quiet. ‘That makes sense.’
‘He is a wee thing and his mother has just died. I wanted to protect him. He is quite a lively thing when he is awake.’ Phoebe kept her voice light as she knelt beside Robert. The storm appeared to have passed. Somewhere her prayers had been answered.
‘My mother died as well. We can be friends, the kitten and I.’ He paused and his bottom lip trembled. ‘Will you protect me? I am not ready to go to heaven or to the other place. Mrs Smith says that I will burn for ever in the torment.’
‘Who says that you will die?’ Phoebe looked at him, shocked. How much had he heard of her whispered conversation with Mr Clare? How much about his condition did he know? ‘Did your papa tell you that? Or the doctor?’
‘They thought I was asleep—Mrs Smith and Gladys, the maid. I will go to hell because I am wicked through and through.’
Phoebe heard a growl behind her, but she held up her hand, stopping Mr Clare from speaking. She had to do this.
‘Sometimes you only think you hear things and really you are dreaming. It is best not to think on such things.’ Phoebe grasped Robert’s hand and his fingers folded around hers. ‘Shall I look after you for a little while? Your aunt would like that.’
‘You do not smell of barley water or peppermints.’ Robert’s lips turned up and he gave a tiny laugh. ‘And you have a kitten. I have often longed for a kitten. Do you think it might choose me?’
‘There is no accounting for kittens, but when you are stronger, I will introduce you.’ Phoebe did not dare to glance at Mr Clare. She could feel the heat of his gaze from where she knelt. Maybe he had learnt his lesson. He wouldn’t dismiss her as some silly woman who did not know how to run a sick room. ‘And you will only get stronger if you keep taking your medicine.’
‘Did…did my uncle say anything before you left? Did he send any message?’ His shoulders tensed. ‘He is not disappointed that I have had to come home from school, is he? I had promised him that I would stay at school, but they sent me home.’
‘Your uncle did indeed give me a message.’ Phoebe strove to keep her voice light. ‘He said that if you were to get well and strong, then he’d see about teaching you to drive a carriage, regardless of what your dear papa says.’
She ignored the outraged growl behind her.
Robert collapsed back against his pillows and all the tension eased out of him. ‘I want to get strong again. All my puff seems to have gone. The littlest thing appears to bother me.’
‘My cousin strikes me as a man who keeps his word.’
‘Uncle Brett does.’
‘And I will work with you to get you strong again.’ Phoebe gritted her teeth. Mr Clare would have to eat his words. She believed that she had proved him wrong. She would do all in her power to get Robert strong enough to drive carriages, with or without Mr Clare’s consent.
‘I will.’ Robert’s lashes fluttered closed. ‘I like you, Miss Benedict, you and your kitten.’
She watched him for another moment as his lips turned up into the sweetest smile and sleep claimed him. She pulled the blanket up to his chin and tiptoed out. A small glow of triumph filled her. She had succeeded. She could do this. This really would be a new beginning. All her debts would be paid and her stepbrothers would get the start in life that her father would have wanted them to have.
‘Very neatly done,’ Mr Clare said softly from where he stood watching her. ‘You seem to have a knack, Miss Benedict. It took Gladys and two strong footmen three hours to calm him last night. And the maid before her only lasted until Robert tossed a bowl of porridge at her. My words to you were hasty and ill thought out.’
Phoebe tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She longed to say that she had told him so, but she would be magnanimous in her victory. He would never know how deeply his remarks had wounded her. ‘One learns a lot about boys and their ways when one has three stepbrothers. The so-called nurse did far more harm than good.’
‘She will be gone by morning light. I shudder to think what she nearly did…what she nearly had me believe. Her references were excellent.’
‘No doubt sent by people who were pleased to be rid of her!’ Phoebe wiped her hands on her gown. ‘I will need to freshen up and then there is the question of the boy’s care. We should discuss this downstairs, away from Robert.’
Mr Clare caught her elbow, stopping her progress. ‘It would appear my sister was correct to send you. You will work admirably if you wish to stay.’
‘There is no need to apologise.’ Phoebe attempted to ignore the sudden flood of warmth on her cheeks. ‘It must have come as a huge shock.’
‘I never apologise, Miss Benedict, for stating the truth. In this instance I was mistaken. I judged you too harshly.’
‘The important thing is that Robert is now sleeping.’ Phoebe clung on to the remnants of her temper.
‘Shall we quarrel about that as well?’ A smile touched Mr Clare’s face, transforming it. ‘I fear my sister will have misled you. My temper has become far shorter since the accident. I do assure you, Miss Benedict, that my bark is worse than my bite. Above all else, I want Robert to get well.’
‘Hopefully, there is a room near Robert’s where I can store my things.’ All the exhaustion from her long journey returned, crashing over her in one great wave. All she wanted was a warm bath and the welcoming embrace of clean sheets, but these would have to wait until Robert was better. She knew her duty. Phoebe stifled a yawn. Even the armchair in Robert’s room would be welcome after the hard springs of the coach.
‘I refuse to allow you to start tonight. You have just arrived. Someone will watch over him.’
Someone? Gladys, the upstairs maid? Did she dare risk another confrontation? Phoebe forced her body to relax. She had to be content with her small victory. He might decry arrogant aristocrats, but Mr Clare was without a doubt one of the most pigheaded people that she had ever met.
She willed a smile to cross her lips. Her time in the ton had taught her how to be polite to the rudest people. ‘Robert’s health is more important, Mr Clare. I want to hear if he cries out in his sleep.’
‘Very well, if you wish.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Jenkins, put Miss Benedict’s things into the little room next to Robert’s rather than in Miss Diana’s old room. She appears determined to look after him. You will be able to hear Robert if he cries out.’
‘Your sister entrusted me with his care. I gave her my promise.’
‘How much did my sister tell you about this house?’
‘Very little. There was not time. Speed was of the essence according your letter.’ Phoebe kept her voice steady. ‘I expect I will learn the house rules as I go on.’
‘There is one request I must make of you, Miss Benedict.’ His face became stern. ‘Onnoaccountspeak to Robert about his mother.’
‘Why ever not?’ Phoebe’s eyes widened and she wished that she had questioned Lady Coltonby more closely about the precise nature of the situation. What had this boy’s mother done before she died?
‘I have no wish to encourage morbid fantasies. His mother is dead and that is the end of the matter.’
‘But—’ Phoebe stared at the man. Surely he had seen the hunger in Robert’s eyes when he mentioned that his mother had died. She knew what it was like to be alone and motherless. She knew what it was like to be without a family. Did Mr Clare?
‘That is the one charge I make on you.’ Mr Clare inclined his head. ‘I have agreed reluctantly to my sister’s scheme, but I will have the rules obeyed in my house.’
‘I will take it under advisement.’
‘You will obey my orders.’
‘If I had obeyed your orders, Robert would now be tied to his bed. Or, worse, in a madhouse. Robert is seriously ill and has been treated badly.’
Mr Clare opened and closed his mouth and his scar became a livid red. A small thrill of satisfaction ran through Phoebe. She enjoyed seeing the barb hit home. It might make her wicked, but she felt Mr Clare deserved it.
‘You speak very boldly.’
‘I fight for those who need it. And I will fight for Robert.’
‘Then I must be grateful that you intend to do that.’ Mr Clare gave an imperious nod and turned away down the hall.

A soft noise woke Phoebe from where she slumbered on a narrow cot. It took a few moments to work out where she was. She forced her muscles to relax as she realised that it was not Atherstone Court and she would not have to see her sister-in-law today.
She listened again, hoping against hope that Robert was not about to experience another fit. The noise appeared to have stopped. She nodded and forced her breathing to come easy.
She was safe here. No men would come knocking at the door, demanding money for unpaid bills, no stepmother would look at her with injured eyes when she suggested economies. No sister-in-law to roll her eyes when Phoebe suggested starting a dressmaking or millinery shop, rather than sinking slowly into the mire of impoverished gentry.
Here, she was giving James a chance. He had not asked for Father to go walking on the frozen Thames. He had not been the one to refuse to join him on that stroll, preferring to stay at home and trim a bonnet. She knew who bore that guilt. And he had not caused Charles to take the corner too fast, overturning his carriage on his way to mediate a dispute between her and Alice. She trusted that Lord Coltonby would do as he had promised. Then there would only be Edmund to worry about. She hoped all of them understood the sacrifices she was making and why. Far too often they seemed to take her feelings for granted. Phoebe pushed away the thought. They were the only family she had and belonging to a family was important. She would keep her mind only on the good things, the way forward.
She’d concentrate on the little boy and his heartless parent. Imagine having your only child looked after by a creature like that and in such conditions. It was not as if they lacked money. The whole house screamed money, but it lacked love and tenderness. It lacked a heart.
The noise sounded again. It appeared to be halfway between a sob and a wail. Phoebe’s heart sank. She did not want to think about confronting Mr Clare at this hour.
She wondered if Mr Clare had been true to his word. Robert could be alone in there or with someone as unfeeling as that miserable maid. She refused to let that happen. The boy needed help.
In the moonlight, Phoebe fumbled for her shawl and wrapped it around her body. She lit a candle and held it aloft as she tiptoed over to the door that separated her from Robert. She opened the door slightly, but kept to the shadows.
Robert appeared to be asleep, but a figure knelt at the side of the bed, head bowed, one arm stretched out on the coverlet.
She raised the candle higher, trying to discern who was there. The too-long hair and finely moulded shoulders could only belong to one man. Simon Clare. For confirmation, she spied the cane lying by the side of the bed. She started to tiptoe out when she heard a hoarse whisper.
‘Let me take his place. Please…I will do anything. Punish me, not him.’
Phoebe put her hand to her mouth. She had inadvertently intruded on this man’s grief. How she could have thought him heartless? A sudden fear gripped her. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Clare? Is Robert…?’
At the sound of her voice, the quiet groans ceased. He lifted his head. His white shirt was open at the throat, revealing his golden skin. In the darkness, his face had become all shadows and planes, but she could clearly see how handsome he was. He was no monster, but the personification of masculinity.
‘Robert is asleep. All is well, Miss Benedict.’ His voice held a singular raw note.
‘That is good to hear. I…I heard a noise.’
‘I regret having disturbed you.’
‘You…that is…Iamalightsleeper. Years of practice with my stepbrothers, I am afraid.’ She gave a small shrug and felt the shawl starting to slip off her shoulder. Her hand clutched it tighter about her.
‘You looked after them.’
Phoebe wet her lips. ‘Someone had to. My stepmother was not maternal and the maids were unreliable, even before my father died.’
‘How good it is that someone cared.’
He stood up, seeming to fill the room. His gaze slowly travelled down her body, then back up to her face. She clung on to the thin shawl, aware suddenly that she was dressed only in her nightgown; her hair flowed over her shoulders and her bare toes peeped out. Hurriedly she smoothed her gown, and covered her feet. She wished that she had thought to wear a cap. Her hand shook slightly, causing the wax to drip on her wrist. She stifled a cry.
‘You should be more careful, Miss Benedict. Wax burns.’
‘I will be fine.’ Phoebe attempted to ignore the searing pain.
He took a step towards her. ‘Let me inspect it. There is little that I do not know about candles and burns. My father was a tallow merchant to begin with.’
She stayed still.
‘Surely you are not afraid? Not the brave Miss Benedict.’ His voice mocked her.
Phoebe held out her arm. ‘It is but a small burn.’
‘Let me be the judge.’ His fingers encircled her wrist, lightly touching the spot. They were cool against her skin, but sent a strange trembling ache through her. Then abruptly he let go. ‘You will live.’
‘Hardly anything in the grand scheme of things, you see.’ Phoebe tried to keep her gaze away from his face and the way the candlelight turned his skin golden.
‘I know you think me unfeeling, Miss Benedict, but I do want what is best for the boy. I want him to get well.’ His voice rippled over her like smooth thick velvet.
‘There are other ways.’ She breathed and took a step backwards. ‘Ways that are kinder. Ways that treat the patient like a human and not an animal.’
‘I realise that now. I wanted my boy back. I want him well and whole again. You do not know how much it pains me, Miss Benedict, to see him like that.’
‘He will get better, but you need to look after yourself as well.’ Phoebe made a small gesture. She hated to think about how he had sacrificed his own bed to sit there. And how she had condemned him before without understanding. ‘Your injuries must pain you. Night air will not be good for them. I will sit here if you like. I have had my sleep and feel refreshed.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Benedict,’ Mr Clare said, turning back to the bed, settling down once again. ‘Your watch will begin in the morning.’
She had been wrong. Wrong about so many things. Mr Clare was complicated. He did care about his son, but why did he wish to pretend otherwise?
Phoebe lowered the candle and closed the door, trembling. The bed creaked slightly as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She willed her body to relax, but thoughts kept racing through her brain. The image of him standing there holding her wrist, shirt open at the neck, appeared to be scorched on her eyelids. She screwed up her eyes tight and bid the vision to be banished but her wrist continued to tingle from his touch for a long time.
Chapter Four


‘Can I name the kitten now?’ Robert asked before Phoebe had even fully entered the room the next morning.
‘The kitten belongs to me…for the moment,’ Phoebe replied carefully, easing her way around the piles of discarded clothing. The sick room in bright sunshine was even more dismal than the night before. It was a wonder that Robert had survived at all amidst this squalor. It was a crime that the nurse had been allowed to behave in this fashion.
‘He likes it here.’ The kitten chased a dust ball across the room.
‘Yes, but he will like it better once the room is tidied up. And it is for your father to decide if the kitten stays.’
‘Papa doesn’t care.’ Robert’s lip trembled. ‘He told Mrs Smith that if I couldn’t be kept quiet, I was better off dead.’
‘Mrs Smith had a singularly overactive imagination.’ Phoebe disentangled the kitten from the curtain. ‘I would hardly be here if your father wanted you to die.’
Robert pursed his lips, thinking. ‘He never notices anything that I do right. He only notices when I am naughty.’
‘And you want him to notice you.’
‘Well, he is my papa. It is proper. I know that I must have done something wrong. A long time ago, he used to spend time with me. He used to draw me things like carriages…then he stopped. He even sent me away to school when I did not want to go.’
Phoebe closed her eyes and counted to ten.
‘Robert, your father does care…’ Phoebe paused. She refused to lie, but the boy seemed desperate for his father’s love. Why was it that people who did so little, commanded so much? It hurt that James and Edmund always took her stepmother’s part, that they did not see all that she had done for them. ‘He wrote to your aunt and asked for help. She sent me and I will ensure you get better.’
‘If I get better, will Papa like me?’ Robert asked in a small voice. ‘Will he let me keep the kitten?’
Phoebe swallowed hard. It would be easy to become attached to this motherless boy. She could well remember her own childhood and how everything had gone wrong once her mother had died. How she had wanted her father to smile again, and how he had only done so once he had married Alice. She gave her head a small shake. Her time was limited here and she could not afford to become attached to the boy. ‘The important thing is to get better, and you will get better faster if all this mess is cleared up.’
Robert wrinkled his nose and flopped down amongst the pillows. ‘Don’t like clearing up. I am too weak.’
‘Then you are too weak to name the kitten.’ Phoebe crossed her arms. ‘This room will be cleaned up and kept that way. I run a tidy sickroom. And you, young man, need fresh bed linen and a clean nightshirt.’
Robert shrugged a thin shoulder. ‘After that, can I name the kitten?’
‘We will see, but I think it can arranged.’
Robert’s face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I hope the kitten can stay for ever…and you as well, Miss… Benedict. Can I call you something different? One of the masters at school was called Mr Benedict and he used a cane. He was particularly cross when he found my frog in his inkstand.’
Repressing a smile, she said, ‘you may call me Miss Phoebe if you like.’
‘Yes, that would be good, Miss Phoebe.’
Phoebe turned her face away and busied herself with tidying the toys and the discarded papers. Robert would be very easy to love indeed.

Simon jammed his arm through the black superfine coat, and heard the material tear. He swore. Ponsby, his valet, said nothing, but handed him another coat. Simon gritted his teeth. ‘This time, man, hold the coat properly.’
‘As you wish, sir. I will see that the coat is mended.’
‘Ponsby, the shaving water was cold this morning.’
Ponsby made no reply, but merely gave a correct bow. ‘I will endeavour to have it warmer next time. Yesterday it was too hot.’
Simon ran his good hand through his hair and grimaced. He refused to stoop to the indignity of quarrelling with his valet. But this morning, every little thing pricked at his temper.
He hated the accusation in Miss Benedict’s eyes that he had been somehow at fault for the state of Robert’s room. His only mistake had been to trust that misbegotten nurse. Next time, he would know better than to ask Lady Bolt for her recommendation. And now he was stuck with a débutante as a nurse. A débutante with all her high-handed ways and a kitten. Exactly what he didn’t need.
What had Diana been thinking when she’d dispatched Miss Benedict? Matchmaking? Simon rejected the idea instantly. Diana knew his feelings on the subject of remarriage. She would never dream of sending such a person.
He pursed his lips. It was quite possible the suggestion had come from Miss Benedict. He would not put it past her. She would learn that he was not the marrying sort. Jayne had cured him of that for ever.
Unbidden, the image of Miss Benedict rose in his mind with her nightgown swirling softly about her ankles and the faint scent of stephanotis and lavender rising like a cloud around her, her face lifted towards his with her lips softly parted. He frowned and made a sweeping gesture with his good arm, banishing the image. He would never stoop so low as to make a guest in his house, a gently bred lady, his mistress. He was better than that. Even the thought appalled him, and yet the image lurked in the back of his mind. He made another effort to clear it.
His hand knocked the shaving bowl, sending a stream of dirty water onto his dressing table. With impatient fingers, he righted the thing and dabbed ineffectually at the spreading foam and mess. He bellowed for Ponsby, but the valet did not appear. Simon gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts.
The sooner Miss Benedict departed, the better.

‘What are you doing, miss?’ the butler asked Phoebe, standing so that her progress down the passageway was blocked.
She tried to balance the assortment of toys and linen in her arms. All morning she had laboured to clean up Robert’s room and not once had Mr Clare appeared or sent word. She had thought surely he would want to know how his son was doing. It was only when she accosted the little under-housemaid that she had been able to find clean linen for Robert.
‘These will all have to be burnt. Bedclothes, curtains and these wooden toys. They will be a mass of infection and germs.’
‘Have you asked the master about this?’ The butler looked down his nose. ‘It was my understanding that he did not wish the young master to be unduly disturbed. Those are some of his favourite playthings. I would hate to think of the fuss the young master will make. You saw what he can be like. And when the young master makes a fuss, the master gets cross. It pains his head.’
‘Do you wish to tell Mr Clare that you have condemned his son to an early grave for a bit of peace and quiet or shall I?’
She stared long and hard at the officious butler. The man lowered his gaze.
‘One of the stable lads can do it,’ he said in an impassive voice. ‘The blizzard appears to have passed and the sun is out. Yes, it can be done as long as you will vouch for it, mind. I won’t have anyone saying it was one of the staff that did it. Mr Clare is not a man to cross and we all value our wage packets.’
‘Thank you, Jenkins. I will take full responsibility for this.’ Phoebe held out her bundle and willed him to accept it.
‘I sincerely hope you do, miss.’ Jenkins lowered his voice. ‘The young master before his illness was lively, but he meant well. We all want him well again. We were ashamed about the mess, but we are all frightened, like.’
‘And, Jenkins, I wish to speak with Mr Clare.’ Phoebe kept her gaze level and prayed that her cheeks would not flame. It was necessary—but would the butler think she was making up excuses? The memory of Mr Clare’s fingers against her wrist rose in her mind’s eye. She banished it and regained control.
‘Is the young master worse?’ Jenkins’s face turned grave and he shook his head. ‘Gladys was predicting such things, muttering darkly as she left. She says the house is cursed, what with the master’s accident and now this. She cannot wait to leave, having done her best for no reward.’
‘No, he is not worse,’ Phoebe replied slowly. She wished she could strangle Gladys and her folk wisdom. ‘I simply wish to send for the doctor, to have him confirm my diagnosis and give me some idea of the latest treatments. Mr Clare’s mind will be more at ease if he hears the truth from a medical man.’
‘The master is like a bear with a sore head today. Try another day.’ Jenkins shook his head. ‘His breakfast came back untouched. It is always a bad sign. Even his valet has gone to ground. I heard Mr Clare bellowing for more hot water only a little while ago.’
‘Mr Clare’s problems with his valet are none of my concern.’
Jenkins tapped the side of his nose. ‘Perhaps it is best to wait, miss, until the air is calmer. I have no wish to lose any more members of staff. You have no idea how difficult it is to find someone suitable. You will learn. The master is not to be provoked. It saves trouble in the long run.’
‘Is Mr Clare generally of bad temper, then?’ Phoebe asked carefully. ‘Both you and John the coachman have mentioned his ire.’
‘He has become more difficult since the accident and Miss Diana’s marriage and her departure to London have only made matters worse. She used to smooth over his upsets. She was in charge of the household, you see. She did all the menus, hired the staff, and generally ran the place. Now all we have is Mr Clare.’ The butler paused. ‘It is best to wait and ask him later. For the sake of all of the staff, if not your own health. The one thing Mr Clare desires above all else is quiet and his orders are to be obeyed.’
Phoebe gritted her teeth. Was it any wonder that this house appeared to be inadequately cared for if the staff were walking around on tiptoes? Mr Clare was the worst sort of tyrant. She wished again that she had quizzed Lady Coltonby more closely on her brother and his household. It had seemed enough that Lord Coltonby was able to help her brother and she was able to do something in return. She had never thought to ask about how difficult this man might be.
She drew a breath and thought of the alternative. He could not be any worse than her sister-in-law—the Dreaded Sophia. Her complaints and tantrums over the slightest flaw or fault had driven Phoebe to despair.
‘Do you think he will see me?’
The butler was silent for a long while. Phoebe’s insides tensed.
‘He is in his study, miss,’ the butler said finally. ‘Where he always is these days.’
‘Did he used to go somewhere else?’ Phoebe tilted her head to one side. ‘I had understood that Mr Clare was a gentleman.’
‘He used to be down at the colliery or on the staiths, but these days he prefers to stay here, seeing as few people as possible. Then he shouts when things go wrong or things are out of place. The house has not been properly cleaned for weeks. It makes for an unsettled life.’
‘You should give your notice.’
‘Mr Clare pays me extremely well, miss, and I gave Miss Diana my word.’
Phoebe lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Her responsibility was to Robert and not to his father. She had to do what was best for him, and not what was easiest for her.
‘I feel certain that once he understands the reason for my intrusion, he will pardon it. He will agree that it is best to act swiftly. Robert must get well.’
The butler inclined his head. ‘Ground floor, second door on the left. You won’t be able to miss it.’
‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ Phoebe straightened her spine and wished it did not feel like she was about to go into battle. ‘Would you mind asking the cook for a saucer of milk? My kitten is a bit hungry. Robert appeared to enjoy watching it chase a piece of string this morning.’
‘That I will, miss. And it is good you stood up for Master Robert.’
Phoebe went down the stairs, heartened at the thought that the staff supported her actions. She started to open the second door when there was no reply to her knock. It was a bit stiff, but gave way when she applied her shoulder to it. ‘Mr Clare, I would like to speak with you.’
A faint light shone through the shutters, but the room was shrouded in dust cloths. A faint dusty dank smell pervaded it; in the corner, a single dried rose lay abandoned.
Phoebe took a half-step inside. A ballroom, rather than a study. She had made a mistake with the butler’s instructions.
She would simply grab the rose and tidy up, the work of a moment. It seemed so sad and lonely there with cobwebs festooning the chandelier. A lonely reminder of some happier time. She half-closed her eyes, imagining what this room must look like when filled with light and people. It must be truly magnificent with an orchestra in the background and the excited chatter. A cloth covered most of the floor, but where it was pulled back, she could tell it was highly polished. Out of the corner of her eye she spied a spinet, its dust cover half off. Phoebe hesitated, looking at the black keys. Some servant had undoubtedly been careless and had left it open.
Quickly she walked over, intending to cover it, but her fingers brushed the keys. A low sound came out and her heart turned over. How long had it been since she had played? Of all the things they had lost, her spinet had hurt the most. But economies had had to be made, even if Alice had at first refused to see it.
Softly she picked out a simple tune, listening to the bell-like quality of the instrument. She closed her eyes, letting the music flow over her, holding her in its embrace.
A door behind her opened, and she froze, hands poised over the keyboard.
‘Ah, Miss Benedict, I fear you have lost your way. This room is never used. What precisely are you searching for? And why did you think you might find it here?’
Her cheeks burned as if she had spent hours in front of a roaring fire. Such a foolish thing to do. To play an instrument without permission.
Mr Clare watched her from the door across the hall with a sardonic expression on his face. He looked so very different from the man she had glimpsed in his shirt sleeves last night. Once again he was the pirate captain, prowling the deck of his ship, looking for people to feed to the sharks.
‘I appear to have mistaken the butler’s directions.’ Her hands smoothed her skirt. Absurdly she wished that she was wearing a colour better suited to her complexion than jonquil. ‘I was searching for your study.’
She left the ballroom without a backwards glance.
‘Indeed.’ He reached out and closed the door with a bang and then turned the key in the lock. ‘Endeavour to remember precisely what your business is. And where you conduct it.’
‘I doubt I will have any need to go in there again.’ Phoebe pressed her hands together, knowing that her cheeks flamed. It had been wrong of her to play, but at the same time it had felt so wonderful to have music flowing from her fingertips again. She doubted that Mr Clare would understand the lure of music. ‘I am here to look after your son, not to attend dances or to play the spinet.’
‘For future reference, my study is across the hall. I trust you will not be lost again.’ His face turned cold.
Phoebe forced her lips into a smile as inside she fumed. She of all people should have known better than to be swept away by such things. Wool-gathering, her stepmother called it. Sophia would sniff and call it something worse. ‘With you to lead the way, how could I be?’
‘Is your tongue often tart, Miss Benedict? You certainly seem to have no fear or hesitation of speaking your mind.’
‘Only when necessary, Mr Clare.’
‘That makes a change.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Here I was thinking you spoke it all the time, and the devil take the hindmost.’
‘It is one of the disadvantages of mixing with my stepbrothers. My tongue has become far too free.’
‘And how many do you have?’
‘Three.’ Phoebe drew a deep breath. ‘I took an interest in my stepbrothers and their well-being. They have had their scrapes, but they have all turned out well. My eldest brother’s carriage accident had nothing to do with his upbringing and everything to do with taking a corner too tightly.’
‘And where was your stepmother? Did she take no interest in her children?’
Phoebe bit her lip. How did one begin to describe Alice, the Dowager Viscountess? Her nerves and her sudden enthusiasms, none of which included her children. Phoebe banished the thought as unworthy. Her stepmother was a good woman in her own way, and it was not her stepmother’s fault that her husband had perished in the way that he had. Phoebe knew where the fault lay with that. And after her father’s death, her stepmother had been incapable of anything but wallowing in self-pity. Someone had to comfort the boys and make sure they were brought up properly. ‘My stepmother is not one of nature’s nurses.’
‘And you are?’ His voice was liquid honey, flowing over her. Seductive and smooth.
Phoebe kept her eyes firmly on the Turkey-patterned carpet in the hallway. Was he mocking her? ‘I have reason to believe so.’
‘How pleasant it must be to have this passion to look after other people. To know what is right for them. Pure arrogance, Miss Benedict.’
‘To make them well, to make them whole again.’ She glanced up into his ravaged face. Her breath stopped. Did he need healing as well? Her cheeks heated at the wayward thought.
‘Nothing will make me well again, Miss Benedict.’ He inclined his head. ‘I charge you to remember that. I have no need of a nursemaid or a helping hand.’
‘I never…’ Phoebe clutched the folds of her skirt, twisting them about her fingers. Rapidly she schooled her features. ‘I am here as Robert’s nurse, not yours. And the only person I will pity is anyone foolish enough to attempt to look after you.’
‘And do the rest of your family also have this passion for sticking their noses into other people’s business? Going into closed rooms?’
‘It…it has been a long time since I have seen as fine an instrument as that spinet, let alone played one. I have begged your pardon. That should be the end of it.’
‘I sincerely hope it is, Miss Benedict. Temptation can be a dangerous thing. As you wish to examine my study, you might as well satisfy your curiosity—I see I will get no peace until you do.’
Phoebe brushed past him and into the study with as much dignity as she could muster. In stark contrast to the shrouded and mummified ballroom, the study burst with light and warmth. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth and the curtains had been drawn back to allow the winter sunshine in. Every surface had paper piled high on it. In one corner a model of a travelling engine stood. Phoebe stared at it, puzzled, but at the sound of rattling papers she turned her attention back to Simon Clare, who had sat down in an armchair.
‘Now that you have seen the study, is that all? Or was there something more than the urge to gawp?’
‘I…I…’
‘You appear at a loss for words.’ Mr Clare stretched out his legs. ‘Surely you are not coming to say that you wish to leave.’
‘No, not that.’
‘Very well. Your visit here saves me the trouble of climbing up the stairs. Precisely why did my sister choose to send you?’ He indicated a sofa. ‘Please sit. Should you remain standing, I would be forced to stand up again.’
Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but then she saw the deep circles under his eyes. The man had spent the night by his son’s bed. Exactly how bad were his injuries?
She sank down on the sofa and kept her hands tight on her lap. Here was her chance to begin anew and to explain why his sister had felt it necessary to send her, why she had to stay and why the doctor should be sent for.
‘Lady Coltonby assured me that she had given a full explanation,’ Phoebe replied, keeping her head up. She was not going to think about the fate that awaited James if she left. Sophia had made it very clear that she was unprepared to help either James or Edmund. In her view, the boys had become men and should be responsible for their own livelihood, but Phoebe knew they would drift without help. Their potential had been cut cruelly short, first by their own father’s death and then by their older brother’s. She had a duty towards them, even if both Alice and Sophia denied it. Families should help each other out.
‘She wrote very little. What are you hoping to gain from this exercise? I do not believe that you came here out of purely altruistic motives. People seldom behave in that fashion. What are you escaping? Or have you been compromised and are seeking a refuge?’
‘How dare you, sir! My reputation is spotless.’
Their gazes warred until he suddenly developed an interest in the carpet. ‘I want to know the sort of woman I have under my roof. False protestations of modesty do neither of us any good, Miss Benedict.’
‘It is not for my sake that I travelled up here, but for my stepbrother James.’ Phoebe leant forwards. He had to understand that she was not doing this for her own gain. James had to have this one chance to make something of his life. Her father would have seen to it that he had a commission, if he had lived. ‘Lord Coltonby has agreed to help James get a commission. Not one of the most fashionable, but a solid regiment with a chance for advancement. I believe it will be the making of him. It was the perfect solution—each of us helping the other’s brother.’
Mr Clare lifted an eyebrow. ‘And why did your stepbrother not make use of the connection before now? Surely he can speak.’
‘My stepbrother is unconnected to Lord Coltonby. I felt obliged to ask. His enthusiasm for the army has happened quite recently.’ Phoebe shifted uncomfortably. She had no wish to go into the details about James’s debts or the need to prise him away from his troublesome companions. He was not feckless, as Sophia claimed, simply young and in need of a purpose in life. The army would give him that purpose. She had counted on Charles to look after James and Edmund, but with his death, there was no one to provide a steadying hand but her.
‘I am certain that had you but asked…Lord Coltonby would have been delighted to help. My brother-in-law is like that.’ The faintest hint of irony laced his voice. ‘He has a great love of organising people and situations.’
‘I…I…’
‘You know I speak the truth. Has Coltonby refused your request?’
Phoebe summoned all her dignity. Mr Clare was being deliberately awkward. One could not ask for favours, one had to give something in return. It was understood. She would never have gone to Lord Coltonby if she had thought otherwise. In any case, she had only gone for advice. That Lady Coltonby had received the letter only hours before her visit was fortuitous in the extreme, a sign that it was meant to be. She had acted decisively because she had to seize every opportunity. She knew how quickly doors could be slammed when you no longer had anything to give.
‘My family does not accept charity. Lord and Lady Coltonby have promised to do all they can for my brother and I will try to help your son. It is a fair exchange.’ Silently she prayed her words would be enough.
‘And who exactly is your family? You say that you are Coltonby’s second cousin, but your stepbrothers are unrelated.’ His voice was cold. ‘Your accent is far too fine for you to have been some poor relation. It oozes London quality.’
‘My eldest stepbrother was the fifth Viscount Atherstone. His baby son is now the sixth.’ Phoebe forced her tongue not to stumble over the name.
‘Your father was the fourth Viscount Atherstone?’ Mr Clare’s eyes narrowed and his body stilled, but there was an alert look to it.
‘Yes.’ Phoebe kept her head up and met his gaze full on. ‘Were you acquainted with him?’
‘We had business dealings many years ago. We were fellow shareholders in a canal. I lost touch with him recently, though. When did he die?’ The words were deceptively casual, but his entire body had become alert, poised.
‘Hediedeightyears ago.’ Phoebe forced her voice to sound calm and prayed that Mr Clare would not enquire into the exact circumstances. There again, he might already know. Was he one of her father’s creditors who had hounded him until he had gone for a long walk on the frozen Thames? The river had given up his body when the ice had melted that spring. Because her stepmother was prostrate with grief, Phoebe had claimed the body. She shivered slightly. No one could ever say if he had intended to fall or had merely slipped.
How could she explain her part? How her father had asked her to go for a walk with him, and she had refused, being more concerned with the trim of a new bonnet? How she had not realised how deep was the state of melancholy that he was in? She bore her responsibility with fortitude. She did not explain her troubles or her duty. She still had her pride.

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