Scandal and Miss Smith
by
Julia Byrne


Julia Byrne lives in Australia with her husband, daughter and two
overgrown cats.  She started her working career as a secretary, taught
ballroom dancing after several successful years as a competitor, and
presently works part-time in the history department of a Melbourne
university.  She enjoys reading, tapestry, and playing mahjong.

SCANDAL AND

MISS SMITH

Julia Byrne

Recent titles by the same author:

RAVENSDENE'S BRIDE

MISTRESS OF HER FATE

MILLS & BOON

For my father, in loving memory You were always there for me The best
of fathers

The best of friends

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!f you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
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the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.  All Rights Reserved including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  This edition is
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purchaser.

MILLS & BOON and MILLS & BOON with the Rose Device are registered
trademarks of the publisher,

First published in Great Britain 1997

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 ISR

Julia Byrne 1997

ISBN 0 263 80381 3

Set in Times 10 on !09 pt.  by Rowland Photypesetting Limited Bury St.
Edmunds, Suffolk

04-9710-81694

Printed and bound in Great Britain by BPC Paperbacks Limited,
Aylesbury

Chapter One

"Thanks to your lordship's unwarranted and selfish reluctance to assume
the sacred charge laid upon you three years ago, I have been forced to
take matters into my own hands.  Not without considerable
inconvenience, I might add."

There was no reply.

Phoebe would have been surprised if an answer had been forthcoming,
since she'd addressed her strictures to the portrait of a long-dead
Deverell that was hanging over the mantelpiece in the library into
which she had been ushered ten minutes ago.

She knew the gentleman immortalised by Lely was a Deverell.  He
possessed the same raven-black hair, lean,

aristocratic countenance and ice-cold sapphire eyes that characterised
every generation of Deverells.  Phoebe studied the portrait with a
jaundiced eye and decided she had become.  rather tired of that
particular combination of colouring and feature.  The occasional blonde
or redhead would have broken the monotony somewhat.  It might at least
have infused some badly needed warmth into the family bloodlines.

Unfortunately, Deverells bred true, no matter what new blood was
introduced into the family.  In fact, they had probably looked exactly
like the gentleman in the portrait when they had crouched over fires
and worn mammoth skins.  Doubtless the mammoths had been

rendered easy prey by the same piercing, basilisk stare that arrowed
down at her from the painted canvas.

Phoebe had had a great deal of experience with that stare.  And with
Deverells in general.  Which was why she was busily rehearsing the
opening lines of a speech destined to be delivered to her employer, the
Honourable Sebastian Alexander Deverell, newly created--for services to
the Crown that were of an unspecified and mysterious nature--Baron of
that name.

The reason for the creation of a barony to grace the younger son of an
old, distinguished family whose present head was an Earl was only the
latest mystery surrounding Deverell.  Despite the rumours abounding in
the ton, Phoebe knew' next to nothing about the man.  According to
family lore, he had sailed off to India at a young age and had remained
there for several years, after which he had travelled throughout the
East, engaging in whatever shadowy activities had resulted in his new
title.

At any other time, Phoebe might have found such highly rewarded
patriotism reassuring.  Even comforting.  Quite conducive to a measure
of peace of mind, in fact.  But comfort, peace of mind and other such
necessities for a well-ordered existence had vanished from her life the
day Deverell's aunt had hired her to take up the position of governess
to his orphaned nieces and nephew.

Two years of living on the edge of disaster had ensued; the minions who
were supposed to answer her queries and lend assistance when required
failing dismally to do either.  Nor had the trenchant letters she had
been sending post-haste to Deverell since his return to England three
months ago elicited a more satisfactory response.

The only alternative, as far as Phoebe could see, was a verbal
assault.

Her attack on the gentleman in the portrait was not the first such
speech she'd rehearsed.  She had begun the practice a week ago, when
she'd reached the conclusion that she either handed over control of the
younger members of the family to their uncle and guardian, or presented
herself at the gates of Bedlam in a state of babbling witlessness.

The opening lines of her speech had rapidly become less civil as her
meeting with Deverell loomed closer, with the result that, after a
journey to London fraught with adventures of nightmarish proportions,
Phoebe was feeling extremely uncivil.

Not to say desperate.

She quelled that last thought immediately.  Dramatic emotions such as
desperation were no help at all when dealing with Deverells.  One had
to remain calm and in control of oneself.

Phoebe lifted a hand to her head to assure herself that she still
appeared calm and in control of herself, even though her stomach
persisted in performing such acrobatic feats as somersaults.

Her old-fashioned bonnet seemed to have remained in place.  Its
nondescript fawn hue did not show her light brown hair, brown eyes and
fair complexion to advantage.  That knowledge, borne in on her when
she'd inspected her appearance prior to leaving Grillon's Hotel for
Deverell's town house, had caused a pang in her secretly fashionable
heart.  She had sternly suppressed it.  Governesses were expected to
look plain and un-remarkable.  They were supposed to fade into the
background.

In this case, she reflected, casting a glance at her surroundings, such
a task would not be difficult.  Her severe chocolate-brown pelisse not
only matched the bookshelves lining most of the wall space, but also
blended in rather well with the commodious sofa and armchairs grouped
in a cosy arrangement about the fireplace.  If she sat on one, she
would probably disappear altogether.

A rueful smile curved her lips as she ran one gloved hand over the back
of a nearby chair.  Clearly, one of the rumours about Deverell was
true.  He appeared to

have made a fortune in India.  The rich brown leather beneath her
fingers was the finest Cordovan, heavy drapes of dark gold velvet, tied
back with brown and gold silk tassels, framed the long windows, and the
floor was covered by an exquisite Oriental rug into which her
half-boots sank to a positively decadent degree.

The rug wasn't the only object of beauty in the room.  Jade statues and
antique urns loomed from pedestals or from behind glass-fronted
cabinets; a heavy globe on a gold inlay and ebony stand graced the
corner near Deverell's solid mahogany desk; and on the desk itself,
illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, a graceful Psyche held aloft a
branched candelabra.

Phoebe found herself staring at the sculpted figure with fascinated
interest.  Its creator had not believed in covering the female form in
anything but the flimsiest of draperies, but what struck her was its
setting.  The flowing lines of the statue were so fragilely feminine, a
waterfall in pure white marble, frozen forever in time, that it should
have looked out of place in such a darkly masculine room.  The fact
that the statue looked perfectly at home on the desk raised some
equally interesting questions about its owner.

She frowned and returned her gaze to the painted visage above her.  The
saturnine features reminded her that she was not here to be distracted
by statues.

"On.  the contrary," she informed the portrait sternly, "I am here to
condemn your lordship's utterly incomprehensible behaviour in the
strongest possible terms."

"How very unfortunate," drawled a deep male voice from the doorway
behind her.  "The third Earl was notoriously profligate, but
condemnation a hundred and fifty years after the event seems a trifle
unfair.  Even for him."

Phoebe spun around with a startled gasp.  And went completely still.

The gentleman standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the door
knob, black brows raised in faintly mocking enquiry, was unmistakably a
Deverell.  The height, the careless arrogance in his stance, the
midnight-dark hair were all as she had expected.

What startled her wits into temporary paralysis were his eyes.  Instead
of the hard sapphire orbs she had anticipated, she was transfixed by a
glittering aquamarine gaze that was as changeable and mysterious as the
sea; blue one moment, green the next, shot through with shards of
gold.

She had never seen eyes like them.

"Miss... Smith, I believe," he murmured, coming into the room and
pushing the door closed behind him.

The latch slid home with a decisive little click that succeeded in
snapping Phoebe out of her trance, She opened her mouth.

"And this," he continued, eyeing her attire, 'is, I presume, Lord
Pendleton's idea of a disguise."  One black brow went up.  "Dear me.  I
must have sounded more than normally disapproving if he thought my
tastes ran to buttoned-up Puritans."

Phoebe felt her mouth drop open further.  She blinked.  "I beg your
pardon, my lord?"

"Ah, but the voice is very good."  A lazy smile curved Deverell's mouth
as he came closer.  He began to walk around her, circling her slowly
while he made a comprehensive sweep of her person from her bonnet to
the tips of her brown suede half-boots.  "Melodious and refined, with
just a hint of provocative huskiness.  Pen is to be congratulated."

"What...?  Pen ... who?"

Phoebe shook her head in an attempt to recover her senses.  It was not
easy.  Trying to keep track of Deverell while he circled around her was
making her positively dizzy.  So was the sudden breathlessness she was
experiencing at his close Proximity.  She couldn't understand it.  She
was used to Deverelis staring down at her.  They did it all the time.
But this particular example of the species was rather taller than the
rest.

And larger.

He finally came to a halt directly in front of her, but Phoebe's
relief that he'd stopped moving was short-lived.  Up close, he towered
over her.  And, she noted with some annoyance, she couldn't even see
past him to the door.  Far from rejoicing in the slim willowy build of
the rest of his family, Deverell looked as if he'd spent his years
abroad engaging in hard physical labour.

His shoulders were intimidatingly broad and the excellent tailoring of
his coat of dark blue superfine did nothing to disguise the formidable
proportions of the body beneath.  Tightly fitting buckskins adhered
faithfully to the long, powerful muscles of his thighs, and his top
boots appeared to be on the extremely large side.

His size was not the only difference, Phoebe saw, as her bemused gaze
travelled upwards to rest on the strong planes and angles of his face.
Polite society would have deemed him handsome, but, allied to that
powerful build, on him the chiselled Deverell features took on an edge
that sent visions of medieval knights and crUsading warriors flitting
through her mind.

There was nothing romantic about the visions.  The warrior studying her
with a coolly assessing intelligence gleaming in his blue-green gaze
was straight off the battlefield.  There was no obvious gore, but the
classical nose looked as if it had been broken at one time, and a small
scar curved around the angle of his jaw.  Two deep grooves were carved
on either side of his mouth, and while its thin, almost cruel, top lip
was familiar, the lower one was disturbingly sensual and strangely
compelling.

Phoebe gazed up at it and felt a very odd tremour somewhere deep inside
her.  A medieval warrior.  As fierce in love as in battle.

"Miss Smith?  Are you quite all right?"

"Uhh..."  Phoebe wrenched her gaze upward and encountered a sardonic
gleam that had her straightening her spine with an almost audible snap.
"Oh.  Yes.  Of course I am, my lord.  Urn ... you were saying?"  She
could have sunk through the floor.

"Lord Pendleton," he repeated dryly.  "He is to be congratulated.  When
he told me about the latest establishment catering to a gentleman's
every whim, I confess it held no appeal for me.  But I do believe, my
dear Miss Smith, that you could change my mind."

"I could?"  Phoebe searched vainly for the rapidly unravelling thread
of the conversation.

"My fantasies don't run to the peculiar or overly exotic," he explained
when she frowned.  "On the other hand, there was no need to get
yourself up as a governess.  I hate to disillusion you, but, as a
disguise, it is really quite hopelessly inadequate."

"Disguise?  But..."

"And couldn't you have come up with a more diverting ... er ... nom de
boudoir, than "Smith"?"

Shock hit her heart like a small velvet fist.  Her breath caught; Her
knees wobbled.  She forgot about medieval warriors and the strange
statements issuing from Deverell's lips.  She even forgot her speech.
One thought,

and one thought alone, reverberated inside her head.  He didn't believe
Smith was her name!

But he couldn't know... She had used Smith for several years.  He
couldn't possibly know... "Smith is my real name, sir," she managed at
last, hoping the warmth staining her cheeks was not too visible beneath
her bonnet.  It seemed to be but a faint hope.  The critical assessment
lingering in his eyes sharpened abruptly to a knife-edged interest that
set her babbling.  "And I do not have the least idea of what you are
talking about.  Clearly I have come to the wrong house.  Although, when
I asked for Lord Deverell, your butler did not so much as blink.
However, if you would kindly direct me..."

"Oh,.  you're in the right house," he murmured.  "So there's no need to
continue the charade."  He took a step closer, his gaze narrowing
further when Phoebe promptly

retreated.  "But surely you're not going to run away.  Did Pendleton
send you here only to have you vanish after you'd proven his point? How
very disappointing.  I can provide several inducements for you to stay,
you know."

"Stay?  Point?"  Phoebe took a deep breath and decided she was dealing
with a lunatic.  "Sir this has gone on long enough.  If you are indeed
Lord Deverell, which I doubt, you obviously belong in Bedlam.  Of
course, it is quite possible that I made my way there this morning and
am experiencing some sort of delusion.  In which case you are another
inmate, which does not surprise me in the least.  However, you do not
appear to be overly irrational, so perhaps you would be kind enough to
fetch someone in authority so the mistake may be rectified."

The intent look vanished from Deverell's face.  He laughed softly.  A
low growl of amusement that sent a series of nerve-tingling ripples
down Phoebe's spine.  She couldn't have said why, but that deep purr
sounded distinctly dangerous.

"I Can assure you, Miss Smith, that you're not presently in the
madhouse.  A Deverell's house is often unconventional, but madness
hasn't overtaken the family.  At least, not yet.  Now perhaps if we
start--'

But the word family had a galvanizing effect on Phoebe's senses.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she launched into a diatribe
that bore no resemblance whatsoever to any of her rehearsed lectures.

"Well, madness may not have overtaken the family, sir, but it is about
to overtake me if I do not receive a more satisfactory reply to my
petitions than mealy-mouthed put-offs from your man of business, and
injunctions to use my own judgement from your secretary."  Her voice
rose.  "Not to mention the total absence of any reply from you!"

She levelled a finger at him before he could elaborate.  "You, my lord,
are about to take charge of your nephew and nieces whether you want to
or not.  I have had enough!"  She shook her finger vigorously. 
"Enough, I say!  Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Deverell said mildly, eyeing the finger waving back and
forth in front of his chest with great interest.  Phoebe flushed and
lowered her hand.  He brought his gaze back to her indignant
countenance, made another thorough survey of her costume and a smile of
unholy amusement crept into his eyes.  "Ah-ha.  You're that Miss
Smith."

Heat almost lifted her bonnet off her head.  "Further-more, my lord,
while you may consider the behaviour of your family to be
unconventional, others may find it scandalous, shameless and downright
shocking.  And at whose door will the blame be laid when scandal
erupts, as will surely happen if nothing is done?"  Infuriated anew at
this rhetorical question, she abandoned finger-shaking and began to
pace.  "At the governess's door, that's whose!  Well, I will not have
it, my lord."

She turned at the window, skirts flying.  "I have my future to think
of.  My living to earn.  I will not tolerate the situation a moment
longer!"  She fetched up abruptly in front of him and returned his look
of amusement with a ferocious glare.  "Do you understand me, sir?"

"Well, I didn't at first, but I think I'm beginning to see a glimmer of
light."

"I can't tell you how reassuring I find that information.  Perhaps,
now, you will refrain from circling me, weighing me up and looking me
over as though ... as though I was a horse for sale at Tattersall's!"

"I shall refrain immediately, Miss Smith.  Believe me, even in those
hideous clothes, the last thing you resemble is a horse."  He
grinned.

The sudden change wrought to his stern features momentarily halted
Phoebe in her tracks.  She could, however, see nothing remotely
contrite in the expression.  "I do not resemble anything other than
what I am.  Really!  I cannot imagine what you must have been think
re

She broke off, staring at Deverell as a dreadful suspicion filled her
mind.  A muscle quivered near his mouth once and was ruthlessly
stilled.

"Oh, my goodness!"  Her eyes flew wide.  Her reticule fell from
suddenly nerveless fingers.  "Lord Pendleton ... establishment ...
gentlemen's whims.  You thought ... Oh, my goodness!"

This time her knees did buckle.  Fortunately for her dignity, Deverell
seized her arm before she actually hit the floor and steered her over
to the sofa.  Phoebe sank onto it without a murmur, her stunned gaze
fixed on his face as he sat beside her.

"You thought...?  You really thought...?"

He raised a brow encouragingly.

With a heroic effort, Phoebe plastered a hideously bright smile onto
her face.  "Goodness me, my lord, no doubt you thought I had met Lord
Pendleton at some function or another, although I must tell you that
I've never been to London before and-'

"No, don't spoil it," he murmured, smiling back at her.  "You've no
idea how refreshing it is to meet a female of practical sensibilities
who neither feigns ignorance nor goes off into exaggerated hysterics at
the mention of a gentleman' s... ah ... conveniences."

"Conveniences!"  Her smile vanished.  "But I am ignorant.  That is, I
am not precisely acquainted with-- Ohh!"  She blushed wildly when he
burst out laughing.  "Oh, you are quite shameless, my lord.  How dare
you discompose me like this!  I can only suppose you are mad if you
mistook your nieces' governess for a ... a..."  "Barque of frailty?"
She glared at him.  "Bird of Paradise?"

Phoebe arose in her wrath.  Before she could annihilate her tormentor,
he rose also and took her hand in a strong clasp.  Her breath promptly
deserted her.  She stared at the long fingers wrapped around her own
and wondered wildly if she was embroiled in some demented sort of
nightmare.

"Miss Smith, I do most sincerely apologise for not immediately
remembering who you are.  Please allow me to explain.  You see, my
friend Lord Pendleton decided to enliven what he refers to as my
"deadly boring existence" by challenging me to fault the ... er
gentility of some females of his acquaintance.  I was expecting the
first one this morning and--'

"The first one?  Good heavens!  How many--?  I mean ... oh, no!"  It
was a wail of despair.

His aquamarine eyes gleamed with silent laughter.  "Aha.  I was right.
A female of practical sensibilities.  How could it be otherwise when
you've been out in the world earning your living?"  Then, as her face
turned stormy, "But before you apostrophize me as being quite beyond
the pale, Miss Smith, please recall that parading Incognitas through
the house was Pendleton's idea, not mine."

Phoebe was having trouble recalling her own name, let alone any ideas.
Never had she been assaulted by so many emotions at one and the same
time.  Shock, outrage and dazed disbelief jostled about in her brain
until she could scarcely think.  Not to mention the uneasy feeling
engendered by Deverell's remark about earning her living.  Just what'
sort of a living did he think she'd been earning?

Several pithy words on the subject rose to her mind.  Unfortunately,
before she could utter them, she made the mistake of looking up. Wicked
humour still gleamed in Deverell's eyes--and, to her horror, Phoebe was
seized by a wild and irresistible urge to laugh back.  She choked
instead.

"This is a nightmare," she finally gasped, snatching her hand from
Deverell's as if he were the devil incarnate.  Her fingers felt all
warm and tingly.  The circumstance only added to her agitation.  "I
can't possibly be standing here conducting such an improper
conversation with you, my lord!"

"A very proper attitude for a governess, Miss Smith,

 but quite unnecessary at the moment.  As I said a minute ago, I
prefer your frankness."  He cocked a quizzical brow at her.  "Nor can I
believe that you haven't attracted a gentleman's attentions before,
even under more conventional circumstances."

Phoebe sank back to the sofa as if her legs had turned to water. "Well,
yes, but..."

These were attentions?  They were certainly unlike the attentions she
had indeed attracted before---they had caused her to lose two previous
posts, but I don't understand why," she almost wailed.

"Then you don't spend a great deal of time studying a mirror," he said
softly.  "I find you ... intriguing."

Her eyes widened before her gaze went to the large gilt-framed mirror
hanging on the opposite wall.  The drab reflection staring back at her
made her wonder again about his sanity.  "Me?"

He smiled.

Annoyed at the startled squeak that had emerged from her throat, Phoebe
scowled back at him.  Sir, your existence must indeed be boring if you
find anything to intrigue you in your wards' governess.  Nor did I come
here to discuss-- What are you doing?"

The demand was uttered in an even higher squeak as Deverell resumed his
seat and, without so much as a by-your-leave, captured her chin with
one large hand.  He turned her face towards him, his grip gentle but
quite inescapable.

"I see you're now determined to throw the governess at me at every
turn," he murmured, his slow survey of her features causing her heart
to leap into her throat.  It stayed there, fluttering.

"Why is that, I wonder?  Do you hide behind her, Miss Smith?  Is that
why you disguise yourself in colours that dim your own?"

"C-colours?  I'm as colourless as this costume, sir."  He raised a
brow.

"I ... I mean ... everything's brown."  She gestured helplessly.
"Bonnet, hair, dress, pelisse.  Even my shoes.  Brown, brown, brown."

"You forgot your eyes," he said, gazing straight into them.

Phoebe swallowed.  "They're brown, too," she whispered.  "Plain,
ordinary brown."  And she couldn't tear them away from his.  He's
casting a spell on me, she thought.  Some exotic, eastern spell that
made her wonder if she was drowning.  Drowning in a deep blue-green
sea.  She could scarcely hear him over the rushing in her ears, but his
words stroked over her nerves like warm silk over bare flesh.

"Plain?  Ordinary?  With those long lashes?  Oh, no, Miss Smith.
There's fire within."  His mouth curved lazily.  "Amber flames that
could singe a man if he wasn't very careful.  And when you remember
propriety the fire darkens and goes still, waiting behind a haze of
smoke, hiding secrets."

"S-secrets?  No, I... That is ... we should both remember propriety
right now, sir."

He ignored this feeble attempt to distract him.  "And while you may try
to imitate a brown wren by your costume, your hair is every shade of
fawn and sunlight and honey ever imagined."

"Oh, my good-- I mean ... how very poetic, my lord, but---'

"As to the rest, your complexion is flawless, your mouth a perfect bow
that defies the governess no matter what words she utters, and--he
turned her head to the side '---although that little chin is nothing
less than determined, your profile is really quite exquisite.  No, Miss
Smith, to the discerning observer you are anything but plain and
ordinary."

She was now also anything but calm and in control.  Deverell's low,
caressing tone made her feel flushed all over.  She had never had such
things said to her.  She should not be listening to them now.  But
protest was

the last thing on her mind.  On the contrary.  She wanted to hear
more.

It was shocking!  It was scandalous!  It was horrifyingly delicious.

"My lord..."

"Relax, Miss Smith," he said, his tone suddenly so curt that she
started.  He removed his hand.  "I didn't mean to alarm you."

Phoebe took a steadying breath and realised she hadn't been breathing
for what felt like several minutes.  "I am not alarmed," she informed
him, sounding distinctly rattled.

"No?  I suppose that's why you just lost every vestige of colour in
your cheeks."  He got to his feet with a rather abrupt movement and
crossed the room to a small table on which reposed a crystal decanter
and several glasses.  "Stay there.  I'll pour you a restorative.  And
perhaps, in future, you might be more cautious about.  calling on a
bachelor without escort of maid or footman."

"Maid!  Foot--'

The terse words stunned her into silence for as much as ten seconds.
Then enlightenment dawned.  She stared at Deverell's back and didn't
know whether to succumb to outrage or relief.  Had he said all those
shockingly exciting things to her merely to teach her a lesson?  Who
did the man think he was?  Her guardian?

She eyed him for a moment longer in fulminating silence and then
decided it was safer to let th matter drop.  Something told her a
protest on the grounds that she was a mature woman of four-and-twenty,
and a mere governess besides, would go unheeded.  And lesson or not,
Deverell's description of her had left her decidedly unsettled.  She
had never met anyone like him before in her life.

Not even another Deverell.

Frowning, she watched him pick up the decanter and a glass and realised
she was holding her breath again.  The delicate vessels looked in
imminent danger of shattering in the grip of those big hands.  But the
only sound that disturbed the stillness was the polite plink of liquid
against crystal.  Everything remained intact.

In fact, the only things in danger of shattering, Phoebe discovered,
were her nerves.  It was not a reassuring thought.  Her frown deepened.
Why had this particular Deverell so easily overset her composure when
the others had not succeeded in doing so?

It was not the outward differences in him.  The superficial contrasts
of eye-colour and a more powerful physique might engage the interest
momentarily, but surely not fluster one.  They didn't explain the
fluttery sensations still lingering inside her, or the fact that she'd
forgotten every precept of proper behaviour and modest demeanour that
had been drummed into her head since childhood.  Good heavens, she had
even forgotten her speech.  Calmness and control had been things of the
past.  It had been Deverell who Phoebe stopped right there, eyes
widening as the flickering candle flame of puzzlement in her brain
roared into a sudden blazing inferno.  Stunned, she raised a hand to
her face, her fingertips brushing the place where Deverell had held her
captive for those few heart-stopping seconds.  She could almost feel
his touch there still, the steely strength in his fingers, the careful
restraint of his hold.

He was a man in complete command of both his physical power and
whatever emotions lay hidden behind the glittering colours of his eyes.
The emotions were there, almost palpably intense, but controlled by a
force of will she'd never before encountered.

The notion was enthralling.  Utterly, insidiously, enthralling.

Control and restraint were, as Phoebe knew only too well, completely
foreign concepts to Deverells.  Although they were all dissimilar in
personality, they shared one trait; no matter what mood they were
indulging in at any given time, they could be counted on to indulge
it

 to the hilt.  A Deverell who understood control, therefore, was
something of a rarity.

She had just reached that interesting point in her ruminations when the
object of her study turned and met her gaze.  It was like taking a hit
from one of the prizefighters Gerald was always talking about.  All the
breath seemed to leave her lungs.  She watched Deverell start towards
her and was shaken by a most unaccountable desire to leap to her feet
and flee.

Why hadn't she seen the powerful restraint in him before?  It was in
the way he moved, with a lithe, predatory grace that was riveting.  It
was in the firm line of his mouth, and the piercing assessment in his
eyes.  She was reminded once again of a medieval warrior-one who was
deliberating the chances of storming a citadel.

Phoebe shivered, then gave herself a mental shake.  Fanciful nonsense,
she scolded herself, as he bent to scoop up her abandoned reticule on
his way across the room.  He hadn't really looked at her as if he
intended to discover every one of her secrets.  Those unusual eyes
appeared so light and piercing only because his face was tanned; a
legacy of his years in India, no doubt.

Her head jerked up as she realised Deverell had closed the distance
between them and was standing beside the sofa.  He was watching her
from beneath half-lowered lashes and, as her eyes met his, she wondered
abruptly if he'd ever been like the others, and if so, what price he
had paid to acquire that cool veneer.

A very high one, she decided, and shivered again.  She knew then the
real difference that set him apart from his family.  This man had
looked danger in the face--and survived.

And to think she had come here to lecture him.  Phoebe blinked.  What
on earth was she about?  She had come here to lecture Deverell.  She'd
been lecturing Deverells for two years.  True, they seldom paid any
attention to her homilies, but she'd never let one intimidate her
before.

Feeling as if she was seizing her wits with both hands, she took the
glass he was offering her, placed it firmly on the small fluted table
beside the sofa and rose to her feet.

"I am not in need of a restorative, sir," she stated in her sternest
governessy tones.  "And it is past time we returned to the purpose of
my visit.  I can understand you delegating the care of your wards to
others while you were out of the country, but that circumstance no
longer applies."

Deverell's brows shot up.  He glanced down at her discarded brandy,
aimed a narrow-eyed look at her face that rivalled the portrait above
them for sheer intimidation, then tossed her reticule onto the sofa.

"Perhaps you should sit down again.  Miss Smith.  Something tells me
this is not going to be a short visit."

"Did you expect it to be?"  Phoebe resumed her seat, waiting with
primly folded hands while Deverell seated himself opposite her.  The
dangerous stare had gone, she was thankful to see.  Now he just looked
annoyed.  For some reason she found the expression unexpectedly
reviving.

"Since your mind seems fixed on my wards, yes," he said, leaning back
and crossing one booted foot over his knee.  He rested his elbows on
the arms of the chair and sent her a faintly menacing smile over the
tops of his steepled fingers.  "However, let us get business out of the
way first, by all means.  Don't think I'm not happy to make your
acquaintance, Miss Smith, but if you wanted to complain about the
brats' behaviour, wouldn't a letter have been less trouble than a
journey from Sussex?"

"Less trouble for you," Phoebe retorted, feeling better by the minute.
"And I did write you a letter.  Several letters!  In fact I have sent
you eight letters in the past three months!"

Deverell frowned.  "Ah, yes.  I recall.  I had to pay for them."

"Well, if you'd extended me the courtesy of a reply to the first one,"
she pointed out, 'you would not have been put to the expense of
receiving the other seven!"

"You mean I wouldn't have been put to that expense if you'd accepted my
secretary's initial reply," he shot back.  "Mr.  Charlton attends to
all the correspondence from Kerslake Park.  I'm sure he wouldn't have
been so remiss in his duties as to ignore your reports."

She ground her teeth.  "Oh, yes, he replied, my lord.  No doubt as
instructed by you, with more useless injunctions to use my own
judgement.  If I'd used my own judgement, sir, I would have abandoned
your charges months ago.  The only reason I didn't is because 1
expected you to visit Kerslake Park shortly after you returned to
England."

"Good God, did you?  Why?"

"Why?"  She stared at him in astonishment.  "They're your brother's
orphaned children, sir.  Surely the smallest degree of family
feeling--'

"Miss Smith, I have no family feeling.  You'd best know that now,
before you get carried away on this tide of sentiment.  As for my late,
unlamented brother, I imagine he took even less interest in his
offspring than I do."

"But--' Quite nonplussed, Phoebe found all her well-rehearsed arguments
deserting her.  She had been prepared for reluctance on Deverell's
part, but his outright indifference to his nephew and nieces managed to
deflate her wrath before she'd fairly got started.

The thought of her probable future if she remained in her present post,
however, had her rallying.  Reminding herself that she needed
Deverell's co-operation, she tried a sympathetic smile.

"Well, I know that family relationships are not always felicitous, sir,
but---'

"Yes, I imagine you've encountered several examples of infelicitous
family relationships in the course of your career, Miss Smith.  The
sorry details of which were no doubt recounted to you by the males in
the situation."

Her mouth fell open.  A second later she blushed hotly.  "That has
nothing to do with the case," she stated, resisting the urge to wriggle
under his unnervingly penetrating gaze.  "I was referring to my own
family, sir.  I, too, was orphaned at a young age and had to---' She
stopped dead.

"Please go on, Miss Smith.  You had to--?"

The enquiry was delivered smoothly, but Phoebe found herself gripping
her hands together.

"Your aunt, Lady Grismead, was given all the relevant information about
my background when she hired me," she finally replied after a taut
little silence.  She felt another blush burn her cheeks and silently
cursed both Deverell and the strange effect he was having on her.  "The
point I wished to make, sir, was that my relatives were always
punctilious in their duty, and, if I am independent now, it is because
I wish to be, not because of any neglect on their part."

His brows snapped together.  "You can hardly claim my brother's
children are neglected, Miss Smith."

Phoebe swallowed.  It was quite impossible, of course, but the
temperature in the room seemed to have fallen by several degrees.

"I am not claiming any such thing, sir, but there is more to caring for
children than providing them with servants to see to their physical
needs.  Besides, Gerald and the girls are hardly children anymore
and--'

"There are also others apart from the servants living at Kerslake
Park," he interrupted curtly.  "If I recall, my Uncle Thurston can't be
dislodged short of a volcanic eruption, and isn't there some sort of
cousin to chaperon the girls?  Clara,.."

"Miss Pomfret," supplied Phoebe.  "Yes, she's there, but I have to tell
you, my lord, that Mr.  Thurston Deverell left before I took up the
position of governess.  He is presently residing in Harrogate."

"Harrogate?"  To Phoebe's relief, the ice in his eyes

 was replaced by genuine, if irritated, surprise.  "What the devil's
he doing there?"

"According to Miss Pomfret, he said Harrogate was the most distant
watering-place from Sussex he could find, and that nothing would induce
him to set foot in Kerslake Park again while his nephew's whelps were
in residence."

"Good God!"

"Precisely, my lord."  She smiled with grim satisfaction at finally
eliciting a proper response.  "Since you care nothing for your family,
you are obviously unaware that Gerald is turned eighteen.  In fact, he
will be going up to Oxford at the start of the Hilary Term, but how
long he remains there is quite another matter.  The boy is
uncontrollable.

"As for Theodosia and Cressida, they will be presented next Season and
will no longer require a governess.  However, i have no intention of
remaining in charge for so much as another day, sir, let alone several
months,

SO--'

"So you came up to London to tender your resignation, Miss Smith.  Is
that it?"  He uncrossed his legs and leant forward to fix her with a
smile of relentless determination.  His voice lowered to a note that
made the smile seem positively benign.  "That is most unfortunate.  You
see, I have no intention of accepting it."

"In-deed?"

Her minatory tone had surprise and then narrow-eyed speculation
replacing his smile.  Phoebe was rather pleased to see the rapid
changes of expression cross his face.  For one dizzying minute she
might actually get the upper hand with a Deverell.

With that delirious thought in mind, she delivered her coup de grace.

"I'm afraid you will have no choice, sir, when Grillon's Hotel sends to
ask what you intend doing with your unchaperoned wards."

Chapter Two

His Wards were in London?

Sebastian stared at the small, triumphant figure opposite him and
decided that Miss Phoebe Smith was in need of a sharp set-down.
Unfortunately, she did not appear to be the type of female to stay down
once she'd been set there.  She hadn't even looked overly alarmed when
he'd been waxing lyrical about her disturbingly lovely face.  More than
a little stunned perhaps, but not overly alarmed.  He'd had to put that
word on it to put some distance between them.

Keeping his hands busy hadn't been a bad idea either.  Sebastian
frowned.  He wasn't accustomed to needing an excuse to draw back from a
woman.  An experienced hunter, he knew the advantages of retreat, but
it had always been an orderly manoeuvre, carefully planned and
executed.

It had never been necessary to employ the strategem because he'd been a
breath away from thrusting his fingers into the silky fawn and gold
mass coiled primly at the nape of her neck, and finding out if freeing
her hair from its tight confinement would have a similar effect on the
passionate little creature held in check by the governess.

To make matters worse, he was finding the governess just as appealing.
She was so delightfully disapproving.

The thought was unexpectedly pleasant.

Sebastian's frown vanished.  The challenge of melting that disapproval
into sweet feminine surrender would, he mused, prove far more
interesting than exposing Pendleton's high-flying ladybirds for the
rapacious harpies they were.  It might even ease the restlessness that
had been plaguing him lately.  A restlessness not even his sculpting
could alleviate.

He would need to move slowly, of course.  The delectably disapproving
Miss Smith was not a complete innocent, even if she did look as if she
was scarcely out of the schoolroom herself.  She'd known precisely what
he'd been talking about when he'd mistaken her for a Cyprian, and she'd
been within.  an Ames' ace of sharing the humour of the situation with
him.  But she had obviously survived an unpleasant experience or two,
hence her attempt to render herself as unattractive as possible.

It would be his pleasure to change her mind.  Not to mention her
wardrobe.

Unfortunately, before he could implement the various schemes for Miss
Phoebe Smith's re-education that were flitting through his brain, he
had to put an end to her foolhardy intention of giving him her notice
and disappearing from his life after leaving his brother's brats on his
hands.

That thought was not so pleasant.  And, he reflected, eyeing her
grimly, the cause of it did not even seem to realise the danger she was
courting in threatening him.  Certain matters would need to be made
clear right from the start.

Such as who was in charge.

Sebastian rose and walked over to the fireplace to prop one broad
shoulder against the mantel.  He folded his arms across his chest and
fixed his visitor with a disapproving frown.  It wasn't a difficult
task.  He was experiencing a quite irrational surge of frustration at
the thought of the three objects in his path.

"Do you mean to tell me you went to the unnecessary expense of bringing
my wards to London with you' he demanded.  "That action was rather
improvident, Miss Smith.  If my memory serves me correctly, Kerslake's
estate is almost under the hatches."

His quarry looked annoyingly pleased with herself.  "Oh, there was very
little expense involved, my lord.  We came on the stage."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her.  The glare that had been known to
cause grown men to quail seemed to have little effect.  "You travelled
on the common stage?  Unescorted?"

"Well, of course."  Phoebe bristled.  She had never heard that the
British population in India still lived in the dark ages, but perhaps
she'd missed something.

"Really, my lord, you have some very antiquated notions of what is
proper, do you not?  I am not a green girl, and though it may be the
custom in India for ladies to be chaperoned at all times, there is
nothing improper in my calling on you on a matter of business, nor in
travelling up to London by stage.  And, as I keep on telling you, your
wards are no longer children.  Gerald is perfectly capable--'

"Yes?"  he prompted when she fell silent.

Something in the silky anticipation in his tone stirred her temper.

"I was going to say, my lord, that Gerald is now of an age where he
would be considered an adequate escort.  That is, if he had any notions
of responsible conduct.  But I'm sorry to say that notions of
responsibility and proper conduct have never entered his head.  That
journey, sir, is an experience I. do not intend to repeat.  In fact, it
is a matter for astonishment to me that we're all alive to tell the
tale."

"That bad, was it?"  he said with a mocking smile that made Phoebe
grind her teeth.  "Let it be a lesson to you, Miss Smith.  I suppose
Gerald wanted to tool the horses.  Driving a yellow bounder is the
ambition of every would-be young whip."

"No.  Gerald did not want to tool the horses," she

 retorted through clenched teeth.  "He was perfectly happy with the
guard's yard of tin, until the other passengers wrested it from him
before we were all rendered quite deaf!  It was Theodosia who drove for
several miles, my lord.  At the gallop!  On a particularly winding
stretch of road!"

His expression turned ironic.  "Well, you appear to be in one piece so
I assume she didn't land the coach in a ditch.  Be grateful."

"Grateful!"  Phoebe bounced to her feet in her indignation.  "For
heaven's sake, sir, how can you dismiss Theodosia's reckless behaviour
with such unbecoming levity and yet take me to task for not bringing a
maid--?"

She swallowed the rest on a startled gasp as Deverell unfolded his
arms, straightened and began to stalk towards her.

Phoebe sat down rather hurriedly.  The action didn't halt his progress
in the least.  He leaned over her, propped one large hand on the back
of the sofa and his other on the arm, caging her between them, and
pinned her to her seat with a distinctly menacing stare.

"There is one difference in the consequences of those actions, Miss
Smith, that I shall take great pleasure in demonstrating to you at a
later date.  As it is, unless several other members of Polite Society
have taken to posting about the country in stagecoaches, I hardly think
the knowledge that Theodosia drove one will be braited abroad.  I
suggest you put the epiSOde behind you."

"I would be happy to do so," she managed, refusing to be cowed, 'but
that is not all."

It was all she was capable of for the moment, however.  Phoebe stared
up into the dangerous glitter in her captor's eyes and tried to remind
herself that she was used to the Deverell glare.  The reminder did
nothing to calm her suddenly tumultuous pulse.

Heat and terror and excitement swirled around her in a strange
kaleidoscope of blues, greens and golds.  She felt like a moth, drawn
helplessly towards the flames, but before she could decide what to do
about such a perilous situation, Deverell's brows met in a dark scowl
and he jerked upright as if she'd struck him.

Startled, Phoebe jumped a good three inches off the sofa.  She was
immediately furious with herself.  Her only consolation was that her
host didn't seem any happier.  Still scowling, he turned, strode back
to his chair and sat down.  When his eyes met hers she could have sworn
she heard the clash of steel.

The reverberations seemed to echo in the silence for several seconds.
Determined not to lose the contest, Phoebe continued to glare at him
until, slowly, gradually, she became aware of a new element in his
frowning gaze.

Surprise.  Puzzlement.  As if she'd managed to startle him.

Then, as her gaze wavered, as she felt uncertainty shake her resolve,
the intent frown vanished and his mouth started to curve.

"I believe you were about to continue the tale of your perilous
journey, Miss Smith."

The gentle reminder was all she needed to reanimate her wrath.  The
spate of words jammed in her throat spilled.  forth in a rush.

"Other members of Polite Society might not notice a young lady driving
a stagecoach, my lord, but some of them--gentlemen to be precise---do
attend prize fights.  I expect your response to the knowledge that
Theodosia prevailed upon Gerald to interrupt our journey so she could
also attend one, to elicit a more satisfactory response than a
metaphorical pat on the head!"

He seemed to consider the matter.  "I doubt it," he finally pronounced
judiciously.  "For one thing, I hardly think Theodosia was entirely
truthful if she told you she attended a mill.  She may have given you
the slip with that intention, but females are not admitted to such
events."

"That circumstance, sir, had been anticipated.  She dressed in some of
Gerald's clothes."

He smiled soothingly.  "Well, in that case, you have nothing to worry
about."

"What?"  For a moment Phoebe could only stare at him.  "That might have
been true had nothing untoward occurred," she finally gasped.  "But,
although I don't like to be put into the position of having to tell
tales, in this instance Gerald led his sister into danger.  Apparently
someone in the crowd took offence at a remark she made and an
altercation started, in the course of which her cap fell off.  She was
unmasked immediately.  According to Gerald, it was only Theo's
punishing left that enabled them to escape."

He raised a brow in surprised approval.  "Sounds as if she gave a good
account of herself."

Phoebe could hardly believe her ears.  "Is that all you have to say?"
she all but shrieked.

"Calm yourself, Miss Smith."

"Calm myself?  Your niece takes part in a common brawl and I'm supposed
to calm myself?  Theodosia may be utterly ruined!  What if someone
noticed the fracas and recognised her?  The Deverell features are not
exactly unremarkable, you know."

"Yes, there's no need to glare at me as if I'm responsible for the
Deverell features.  I assure you, they've been a source of considerable
irritation to me, also.  But to put your mind at rest, I doubt if
anyone of influence was present at an obscure mill held in a small
country town.  Be assured, however, that I will instruct Gerald that,
if he wishes to reach a respectable old age, he won't take his sisters
to any mills on your way back to Kerslake."

"I do not intend to return to Kerslake," Phoebe declared in a voice
that shook with the effort of holding onto her temper.  "So the
enormous effort of instructing Gerald will not be necessary."

"Sarcasm does not become you, Miss Smith."  "Perhaps you'd prefer to
hear the details of Cressida's elopement instead," she suggested, not
moderating her sarcastic tone one whit.

"Not particularly.  But I can see you're going to enlighten me
anyway."

"I certainly am," she declared in a tone as menacing as anything a
Deverell could produce.  "Let us see how much amusement you derive from
the information that Cressy ran off last week with a man from a company
of play actors."

He looked thoughtful.  "Not a great deal, I should think.  Especially
if you expect me to go after the runaways."  His eyes gleamed.  "You
see, I'd be obliged to disappoint you, Miss Smith, and I have the
distinct impression you don't take disappointment silently."

"Disappoint-- You mean ... your own niece..."  She swallowed the other
disjointed utterances trying to escape her lips and made a grab for her
rapidly disintegrating wits.  "Then how fortunate that I don't have to
suffer a blow of such magnitude," she said with spurious sweetness. "No
doubt you'll be overwhelmingly relieved to learn, my lord, that
Cressida was returned within twenty minutes of her departure."

He burst out laughing.  "Twenty minutes?"

Phoebe glared at him.  "Apparently she spent that time describing their
future life to her suitor.  The knowledge that Cressy intended to join
him on the stage was enough to cause him to turn his gig around,
restore her to her family and flee."

"Hmm.  I can see how that circumstance would overset you.  You probably
thought you were getting rid of one of the brats."

"Getting rid of..."  She stopped, dragged in a badly needed breath and
tried again.  "Have you no proper feeling, sir?"

"I believe I've already answered that question, Miss Smith."

"But you must have some family sentiment," she cried, waving a hand
wildly towards the portrait she'd been addressing earlier.  "You've got
one of them on your library wall."

He glanced briefly at the painting.  "Ah, yes.  Another black sheep,
But as you discovered for yourself, he doesn't talk back.  Believe me,
that's the only reason he's been permitted to take up residence
here."

"Good heavens!"  Brain whirling, Phoebe sagged limply back against the
sofa.  "This is beyond belief."

He grinned.  "Why don't you take a sip of brandy?  It might help."

The suggestion brought her upright again.  "I do not need any brandy,
sir.  What I need is for you to pay attention to me."

"Oh, I'm paying attention, Miss Smith, I'm paying attention.  You've no
idea how much I'm learning."

She glared at him suspiciously for a moment, then decided to ignore
that obscure comment.  She was probably better off not knowing what he
meant anyway.

"Fortunately, no harm was done on that occasion," she said.  "However,
the same cannot be said for some of Gerald's latest pranks."

"Gerald?  I thought we'd disposed of him."

"I am referring to the events that occurred last Saturday evening, my
lord.  Gerald and his friends tied flags to all the toll-gates and
signposts in the vicinity of Kerslake Park so that everyone for miles
around saw them when they went to church the next morning."  The memory
had her shuddering.  "It was the outside of enough.  Every proper
feeling was offended.  In fact, poor Miss Pomfret swooned away as soon
as she saw the first one."

"Well, my opinion of Cousin Clara's good sense was never high," he said
dryly.  "But what caused such an excess of sensibility?  Were they
French flags?  Navy flags denoting an outbreak of yellow fever,
perhaps?"

She set her teeth.  "Where would Gerald get hold of French flags, sir?
Or flags used by the Navy, come to that.  They were--'

There was an uncomfortable pause.  Phoebe knew she was blushing but now
that she was launched on the tale, there was really nothing to be done
except continue.  With extreme caution.

"It was not the flags themselves," she finally muttered, 'but what they
were made of."

Deverell regarded the rosy hue washing over her face with fascinated
interest.  "Dear me.  You positively alarm me, Miss Smith.  I must
insist that you put me out of my suspense immediately.  What were the
flags made of?."

"Well..."  Phoebe began to feel rather desperate.  "They were lacy."

"Lacy?"

She nodded.

He'waited.  He was probably capable of waiting until the proverbial
crack of doom, she thought despairingly.  Or until she became frozen
where she sat.  Her spine felt so stiff she wondered it didn't snap in
wo.  She took a deep breath and was careful to address his cravat.
"They were ladies' unmentionables, sir."  "Ladies'...unmentionables?"

Her gaze whipped back to his.  Drawers," she snapped, goaded.

"Ah."  His grin held pure male wickedness.  "In that case, Miss Smith,
the real question is, how did Gerald get hold of so many ... uh ...
items of intimate apparel?"

"I don't care how he got hold of them, sir.  Nor did I ask.  Gerald is
not, strictly speaking, in my care.  Not that anybody bothered about
that little fact when the local magistrate became involved," she added
bitterly.

"The magistrate became involved in the unmentionables?  '

Phoebe scowled quite ferociously.  "Sir, you will oblige me by not
mentioning the unmentionables again.  Fortunately, the father of one of
the boys made sure they were removed.  The entire episode, however
regrettable, was, on the whole, regarded as a prank.  Perpetrated by
boys with nothing better to do with their time."  "Quite harmless, in
fact."

Phoebe had a quick vision of the usual serene village

churchyard enlivened by carriages and gigs full of shrieking, moaning
and swooning females, and had to bite her lip.

"Some people might consider it so," she agreed carefully, unwilling to
perjure herself any more than was necessary.  When his lips twitched,
she rallied herself and frowned reprovingly.  "What is not so harmless,
my lord, is the consequence of Gerald joining a gang of dissatisfied
tenants in poaching from their landlord, and then marching on the man's
house when several were caught and arrested."

"Good God!"  The amusement in his eyes was replaced by sheer masculine
disgust.  "Don't tell me Gerald was caught.  What a clunch."

"A clunch?"  All desire to laugh vanished from Phoebe's mind.  "A
clunch?  Does nothing make an impression on you, sir?  We are now
talking about a criminal action!  Do you wish to see your nephew
shipped off to the AntipOdes in leg-irons?"

He shrugged.  "It didn't do me any harm."

She gaped at him, utterly speechless.  Seconds passed.  Phoebe's gaze
fell on the glass of brandy set before her.  Without a thought, she
snatched it up and gulped down a healthy dose in the manner of one in
dire need of revivification.  She nearly choked as liquid fire hit the
back of her throat, but at least the shock restored her voice.

"You were shipped off to the colonies in leg-irons?"  she squeaked.

He studied her rather enigmatically for a moment, then rose and walked
over to the mantelpiece again.  He thrust both hands into his pockets
and leaned against the cool marble.  "It wasn't quite as dramatic as
that, Miss Smith.  The leg-irons were a figure of speech, and some
parts of India are quite civilised."

"Oh."

"And in justice to my father, I must tell you that in those days I was
what is commonly referred to as a hell-born babe."

"Oh, my goodness."

He smiled faintly.  "I'm surprised you haven't heard the tale."

"No."  She shook her head, still dazed.  "Only that you'd gone to India
several years ago."

"Fifteen to be precise."  Something she couldn't decipher flickered
briefly in his eyes.  "A long time."

There was not a lot to be said about that.  But as Phoebe looked at the
faintly bitter set to Deverell's mouth, she felt impatience seep out of
her to be replaced with an odd sense of empathy.  Fifteen years.  He
must have been very young, she thought.  Not much older than Gerald
perhaps.

"Well," she began on a calmer note, "I must say that sending a boy to
the far ends of the earth seems somewhat drastic.  No doubt you found
it quite upsetting at the time, my lord, whatever you may say now,
which is all the more reason for you to ensure that a similar fate
doesn't befall Gerald.  I'm told he was not a robust child.  Indeed,
that was why he's been taught by the local vicar all these years.  Miss
Pomfret wished to protect him from the rig ours of school and--'

"Cousin Clara is an idiot," he interrupted, not mincing matters.
"School would have given Gerald some discipline.  It's plain to see
he's been allowed to run wild at home.  The girls, too."

Phoebe briefly considered pointing out that they were talking about
Deverells and not more amenable mortals, then dismissed the notion.  It
would be difficult to win the argument when her opponent was a Deverell
who had achieved self-control under what she strongly suspected had
been extremely harsh conditions.

"Yes, well, that is what I've been telling you," she pointed out.  "I
regret having to admit defeat, my lord, but it is no use blinking at
the facts.  I cannot afford to be involved in a scandal--and so far it
has only been

by the merest stroke of good fortune that scandal has been avoided.
Your wards need a stronger hand than mine.  They need a man's guidance.
They need a man's authority.  They need--'

"Yes, yes."  He held up a hand.  "Please spare me the rest of the
clarion call, Miss Smith.  The plight of my orphaned wards leaves me
singularly unmoved.  As I told you before, I have no intention of
accepting your resignation."

Phoebe's sympathy vanished as swiftly as her earlier desire to laugh.
"Well, I do not intend to argue with you any further, my 1or&
Especially as nothing I say has any effect."  She rose to her feet.
"You may collect your wards from Grillon's or wait until the hotel
sends a cry for help, as I assure you they will.  Unless you intend to
imprison me--'

"An interesting thought."

"I am leaving," she finished, pointedly ignoring this blatant
provocation.  "Perhaps you would be good enough to instruct Mr.
Charlton to forward the requisite recommendation to Mrs.  Arbuthnot's
Employment Registry.  Good day, sir."

Snatching up her reticule, she started towards the door.  "One moment,
Miss Smith."

The command was so soft that for a moment Phoebe wasn't certain she'd
heard it.  She paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

Deverell stood before the fireplace, his powerful frame seeming to take
up all the available space.  His eyes were narrowed and glittering, and
intent on hers.

"Did all your previous employers provide you with a character?"  he
asked very gently.

Phoebe's lips parted on a shocked little intake of air.  By what
diabolical twist of logic had he thought to ask that home question? she
wondered nervously.  And how was she to answer it without tripping
herself up with a lie?

"I have had only three previous employers, my lord.  The first, an
elderly lady to whom I was companion, died quite suddenly.
Unfortunately, she was the last of her family, but the parish vicar was
kind enough to write a letter of recommendation for me."  "And the
others?"  She was silent.

"I thought so," he murmured.  "Tell me, Miss Smith, what are your
Chances for immediate employment when you have only one recommendation
that is second-hand and several years old?"

A rather unpleasant hollow sensation made itself felt in the pit of
Phoebe's stomach.  Lifting her chin, she turned fully to face him. "Are
you threatening me, my lord?"

"I was under the impression it was the other way around," he said
drily.  "No, Miss Smith, I'm not threatening you, but it occurs to me
that we would both benefit from ... re-negotiating the terms of your
employment."

The hollow sensation increased.  Phoebe stood as if glued to the floor,
conscious of a strange tightness in her throat.  Ridiculous, she
thought.  Utterly ridiculous, to feel a pang of disappointment so sharp
it suspended her voice and caused a hot prickling behind her eyelids.
This had happened before, Why would Deverell be any different to-the
other males of her acquaintance?

"You mean you would benefit from blackmailing me," she managed at
last.

He shook his head.  "When you know me better, Miss Smith, you'll
discover that I never waste time with blackmail or threats.  I'm merely
pointing out the' possible consequences of your abandoning your
responsibilities without proper notice.  Although," he added when she
opened her mouth to protest, "I understand why you did it."

She shut her mouth again.

"Come."  Deverell held out a hand and smiled at hera slow smile that
seemed to tempt and beguile even as it pulled her already taut nerves
tighter.  "Won't you sit

down again, Miss Smith?  The solution seems perfectly logical to me. I
have no experience in looking after youths or girls.  You need a
stronger hand to back you up.  Why don't we pool our resources?"

"Pool our resources?"  Taken completely by surprise, Phoebe could only
stare at him.  Her thoughts scurried in several directions at once. Had
she misjudged him?  It appeared she had, and yet there was a disturbing
stillness in the way he watched her that reminded her forcibly of a
hunter waiting for its quarry to make a false move.

But what would become of her if she obeyed the instincts urging caution
and walked out of the house?  She had already left two positions under
a cloud, and had only obtained this present post because Lady Grismead
had been so desperate to obtain a governess that she hadn't been fussy
about a lack of recommendations.

On top of that, there was the unpleasant fact that she would forfeit
half a year's pay if she left at once--no small sum when her future was
so uncertain.  And underlying everything, hovering in the back of her
mind, was an insidious desire to stay.  She didn't want to leave.
Especially now.

Well, of course not, Phoebe assured herself, hurriedly consigning that
last thought to oblivion.  It was quite natural to want to stay.  She
had lived with her charges for two years.  She was, despite everything,
quite fond of them, even thinking of them sometimes as the younger
brother and sisters she'd never had.  Given that, she could at least
listen to what Deverell had to say.  If she didn't like it, then she
could leave.

Bolstering herself with this practical advice, she took a small step
forward.  The next one was a little easier.  But when she resumed her
seat on the sofa, she perched right on the edge with her reticule held
like a shield in front of her.

"I'm not going to bite you, Miss Smith," Deverell said, sitting down
and crossing one leg over the other.

Feeling foolish, she blushed.  "I will pay you the courtesy of
listening to you, my lord.  Although, I should warn you that even the
prospect of applying for a position without the proper references is
less daunting than whatever disaster your wards may inflict upon us at
any moment."  '

"Then we shall have to ensure that disaster doesn't strike us.
Fortunately, I don't anticipate any trouble knocking Gerald into
shape."  He returned her startled gaze with a bland smile.

"Er ... no.  I mean, I trust you're speaking metaphorically, my lord.
Gerald indulges in his pranks from boredom, I think, not from any
serious defect of character."

He didn't appear convinced.  "I daresay.  Is boredom Theodosia's and
Cressida's excuse also?"

"Very likely, sir.  They were hoping Lady Grismead would present them
this year, but she still has her own daughter to establish, so the
event was put off."  She frowned.  "I'm afraid they didn't take the
delay at all well.  In fact, if their antics continue, they might ruin
their chances before the Season even commences."

"I doubt it.  They're twins, aren't they?  Identical twins?  Knowing
Society's constant greed for anything out of the ordinary, they'll
probably take London by storm, whatever their antics."

Phoebe was about to debate this cynical assessment of the situation
when Deverell continued.  "However, perhaps they might feel more
inclined to accept a companion Miss Smith, rather than a governess."

"A companion?"

"Yes.  You could take them about London, do a little shopping.  No
doubt my aunt knows other young ladies who have left the schoolroom,
but won't be presented until next spring.  They must do something with
their days."

"Yes," she said slowly, struck by the notion.  "Quite a lot, I expect."
She nodded, considering.  "It might work.

Theodosia and Cressida are only seventeen, after all, and if Lady
Grismead could be prevailed upon to introduce them to other girls in
the same situation..."

"There will be no difficulty about that, I assure you."  She regarded
him doubtfully.  "If you say so, my lord.  But I must still warn you
that Cressy and Theo are not overly given to obeying my instructions or
listening to advice."

"They won't need to obey your instructions, Miss Smith," he stated
gently.  "They will obey mine, or find themselves banished to Kerslake
and faced with the prospect of relying on their brother's generosity
when they make their come-out next year."

"But Gerald has nothing to be generous with," she protested.

"Precisely.  I, however, do."

"Oh, goodness."  Phoebe gazed at him with a certain amount of
appreciative awe.  A second later, she couldn't suppress a wry smile.
"More of your "possible consequences", sir?"

The swift, slashing grin that crossed his face sent a wholly unexpected
and not altogether unpleasant shiver down her spine.

"I'm glad you approve, Miss Smith.  Consider, also, that our plot has
the added advantage of removing any burden of blame from your shoulders
should disaster strike despite our efforts.  Mine are broad enough to
withstand the blow."

Phoebe's gaze fell to the shoulders in question.  She was about to
agree that 'they were certainly broad enough to withstand several
blows, when the Voice of caution intervened once more.  She quickly
rearranged her features into an expression of sober contemplation.

"Your proposition does seem to have some merit, my lord."

"I would, of course, make the exercise worth your while," he
murmured.

Her spine stiffened immediately.  "The remuneration paid me by the
estate is more than adequate, my lord

"Adequate by today's standards, perhaps.  But future awaits you when
your days as a governess are over?"

Phoebe suppressed another shiver.  This one was definitely unpleasant.
Genteel circumstances was the lot of retired governesses unless they
were fortunate enough to receive a pension from affectionate and
graceful former pupils.  Genteel circumstances was euphemism for
grinding, relentless poverty.

She reminded herself that such a dismal prospect still a long way off.
"I suppose that depends on !  provident one is during one's years of
employment,

"A courageous answer, Miss Smith.  But it takes account of illness or
accident or any one of a number of circumstances.  On the other hand,
if you accept offer, I would settle a sum of money on you sufficient to
ensure your future financial security."

She frowned thoughtfully.  "That sounds like a g deal of money, sir."
"I can afford it."  Yes, but could she?

It was tempting, Phoebe mused.  A large sum of money would, if she
wished, enable her to open her own academy for young ladies.  It would
banish the ever-present spectres of uncertain employment, unpleasant
employers and grim old age.

It would also put her under a considerable obligation to a man who, in
the space of one short hour, had caused her to experience more baffling
emotions than she'd felt before in her life.  And none of them had
anything to do with safety or security.

Phoebe took a firmer hold on her reticule.  She we think about that
later.  "I appreciate your generous o!  my lord, but I must decline."

His eyes narrowed.  "You insist on leaving?"

"Oh, no.  No, you misunderstood me.  I would Ilke stay, but I must
insist on receiving no more than

 usual remuneration for a companion."  She glanced away, unable to
meet the sudden frowning intensity in his eyes.  "You don't have to
bribe me, sir.  Despite everything I said earlier, I do care about your
wards."

"Yes," he murmured after a moment's silence.  "That was perfectly
obvious from the start."

Startled, her gaze flashed back to his.

"As for payment, Miss Smith, shall we see how our arrangement works
out?  Naturally your living expenses will be included.  And," he
continued smoothly, 'a more suitable wardrobe.,"

Phoebe's jaw dropped.  "Wardrobe?  Certainly not!"  "Why not?"  he
countered at once.  "Recollect that maids and footmen and the like are
provided with their working clothes.  You can't expect to accompany my
wards around town in your present attire.  This is London.  They'd
probably refuse to be seen with you."

"Well, that is just too bad!"  Affronted, she glared at him as if he
was personally responsible for her drab costume.  "I can make up one or
two gowns myself if you consider it necessary, but---'

He shook his head in gentle reproof.  "Not good enough, Miss Smith.
You'll need morning dresses, carriage dresses, evening dresses---'

"Evening dresses?"

He ignored this startled interjection and began ticking off items on
his fingers.  "Possibly a riding habit, a pelisse, gloves, bonnets'

"But I already have--'

"Half-boots, slippers, reticules, a fur muffin winter is coming on, you
know shawl for evenings at home,

a warm dressing-robe, stockings--'

"For goodness' sake, sir!"

"And--' a gleam of sheer devilment came into his eyes '--last but not
least, we mustn't forget unmentionables."

"Ohh!"  Phoebe leapt to her feet.

He laughed and rose also, uncoiling from his chair with a lithe,
unexpectedly swift movement that caused her to take a quick step back.
Just for a moment, the sheer threat of his size rolled over her like a
swamping wave.  She'd never considered herself a delicate creature,
Phoebe thought, shaken.  It was a considerable shock to discover she
could feel so small and vulnerable.

"Calm yourself, Miss Smith.  I was only teasing you.  Reprehensible, I
know, but you were looking so outraged, the temptation was
irresistible."

"Try harder to resist it!"  she retorted, still grappling with hitherto
unknown sensations.  When he burst out laughing again, she ordered
herself to stick to the point.  "Sir, you must know it would be quite
improper for you to provide me with such a wardrobe."

He grinned down at her.  "What about a modified version?"

"A modified version?"  she repeated weakly.

"Why don't we compromise, Miss Smith?  I'll leave it to your discretion
to decide on a suitable wardrobe, as long as I have final approval of
your purchases."

"That isn't a compromise," she protested indignantly.  "And--'

'"You could regard it as a loan if you insist."

"A loan?"

"When your tenure as a companion is over, you could return the
garments."  He smiled blandly.  "They could be donated to a worthy
charity."

"Well, I..."

Oh, goodness, surely she wasn't going to accept.  She was certain it
wasn't the wise thing to do, but her mind was quite unequal to the task
of summoning any further protests.  She was positively exhausted.
Arguing with Deverell was worse than facing a combined assault by his
wards.  And surely if the clothes were merely loaned... If only he
wouldn't watch her with those wickedly challenging eyes.  If only the
expression in the blue-green depths gave her some hint as to what sort
of bargain she

 would be entering into.  Despite having infuriated her earlier, he
now seemed quite sincere.  Even reasonable.  The only trouble with that
was, in her experience, Deverells were only reasonable when they wanted
something.

But that 'something' was merely to have her take his wards off his
hands.  Wasn't it?

Oh, dear, her imagination was running away with her.  All she had to do
was make it very clear to Deverell that she wasn't accepting anything
from him that could be misconstrued.  Well, not accepting anything
permanently.

"You're looking quite torn, Miss Smith," he murmured, breaking into the
myriad thoughts spinning around in her head.  "Is it such a difficult
decision?  Perhaps you'd like a written guarantee that your ... er ...
uniform will be forfeited at the end of our arrangement."

"What I'd like," she stated, desperately gathering her wits for a final
rally, 'is a guarantee that you won't--' He tilted his head slightly
and waited.  "That there will be no--'

He raised a brow in polite enquiry.

"That I won't have to--'

He put her out of her misery.  "That you won't have to listen to the
sorry details of infelicitous family relationships, Miss Smith?"

"Ohh.  Yes."  Phoebe's pent-up breath escaped her in a long sigh of
relief.  Why, Deverell or not, he could be perfectly gentlemanly.  What
on earth had she been worried about?

"No doubt it is immodest of me to mention such things," she confided in
a relieved little rush, 'but Inly wished to make it perfectly clear
that my acceptance of a temporary wardrobe does not mean I will be
amenable to the distasteful advances that always seem to follow such
sorry details."

A slow smile began in his eyes and crept to the corners of his mouth.
"Miss Smith, you have my word of hot our that if I am ever tempted to
pester you with the sorry details of my family relationships, they will
not be followed by advances of any kind."

"Thank you, sir."  Phoebe rewarded him with the first real smile she'd
felt like in weeks and held out her hand.  "In that case, I accept your
offer."

Something fierce flared in his eyes.  Shaken once more, Phoebe almost
withdrew both acceptance and hand.  Before she could, Deverell's strong
fingers closed around hers.  For an instant she felt as if her entire
body was captured, enveloped by heat and strength, then he gave her
hand a brief, business-like shake and released her.

Phoebe ordered her heart back to its proper place.  She'd been
mistaken.  She had not been captured.  Deverell had not looked
predatory, merely pleased.  Her fingers were not tingling, merely warm.
And the rest of her merely felt limp with relief that the interview was
over.

"Good," he said briskly.  "Now, the only question remaining, Miss
Smith, is where you're going to reside."

Chapter Three

"Far be it from me to agree with anything Deverell might say, my dear
Miss Smith, but in this particular instance I must admit he is right.
It would be highly inappropriate for you to live in his house.  Highly
inappropriate."

Lady Grismead, her tall, commanding figure resplendent in
sable-trimmed, violet silk, made the statement in her usual manner--as
one pronouncing an immutable law.  The fact that she was seated in the
largest chair in the parlour at Grilloh's Hotel reinforced the image of
royalty deigning to address the peasants.

As did her ladyship's appearance, Phoebe reflected, nodding obediently.
Despite gaining weight in her middle years, Lady Grismead was dressed
in a fashionably high-wasted pelisse that, ruffled to within an inch of
its life, emphasised an expanse of bosom that took imposing and
majestic to new heights.  A matching violet turban rested upon hair
that was still rather defiantly black, and her Deverell eyes had lost
nothing of their hard sapphire snap.

Phoebe had felt the effect of those eyes already.  Having apparently
received a note sadly lacking in details from Deverell yesterday
afternoon, Lady Grismead had arrived at Grillon's at an hour far in
advance of the usual time devoted to morning calls, for the express
purpose of inspecting her young relatives.

They had not passed muster.  As a result of a shopping trip when they'd
been left to their own devices yesterday, Theodosia and Cressida were
garbed in scandalously low-cut, bright gold muslin gowns that, thanks
to a deficiency of undergarments clung to every curve.  Their matching
bonnets were adorned with a wealth of multi-hued feat hem that
threatened to seriously endanger the eyesight of anyone in the
immediate vicinity.  Had they been inhabitants of the establishment
patronised by Lord Pendleton, the clothes would have suited
admirably.

Lady Grismead had taken one look and sent the twins upstairs to
change.

Gerald had been likewise banished for permitting his sister's to
purchase gowns totally unsuited to their youth and station, not to
mention his straitened pocket.  He was also instructed to remove the
Belcher handkerchief knotted carelessly about his throat and to replace
it with a cravat more suited to assisting his sisters' companion in her
forthcoming house-hunting expedition.

To Phoebe's utter astonishment, the trio had obeyed, meekly filing up
the stairs with no more protest than a few muttered grumbles.  She
could only suppose they'd been momentarily overwhelmed by an older,
more intimidating version of themselves.  When Lady Grismead took
command, Phoebe expected her victims felt much like a blade of grass
facing a lawn-roller in the hands of a determined gardener.  One simply
bowed to the inevitable.

She had done so herself.  As soon as her charges were out of sight, it
had taken her visitor less than five minutes to learn the details
omitted from Deverell's sorry excuse for a note.  Much to Phoebe's
relief, no word of blame had crossed Lady Grismead's rather thin lips.
Obviously, the events which would have horrified lesser families were
water off a Deverell's back.

Her ladyship, however, was not ready to depart.  She fixed Phoebe with
an interrogatory stare and continued declaiming on the matter of where
she should reside.

"Had Cousin Clara come with you, it would, of course have been a
different matter."

Dragging her fascinated gaze from the lorgnette bouncing about on Lady
Grismead's ample bodice whenever she drew breath to speak, Phoebe hast
ned to reply to the implied query.

"Miss Pomfret feared the journey would be too much for her health,
ma'am."

Her ladyship raised a delicately arched eyebrow.  "The truth, if you
please, Miss Smith."

"Well ... I'm afraid nothing would persuade Miss Pomfret to have
anything to do with Gerald after the ... er ... unfortunate episode
with the flags.  In fact, even as we started off, she was laid out on
the floor in the hall, drumming her heels and screaming, because he'd
tried to persuade her to accompany us."

"Clara is a fool.  Always was," stated her ladyship, unwittingly
agreeing with Deverell for the second time in as many minutes.  "More
of a Pomfret than a Deverell from the day she came into the world.  Of
course, she's only a cousin in the third or fourth degree, so what can
one expect?"  Clearly this was the only allowable excuse for Miss
Pomfret's behaviour.  "However, that is neither here nor there.

"I am astonished, Miss Smith, positively astonished, that Deverell has
permitted his wards to remain in London.  Had you applied to me, I
would have advised most strongly against your plan.  You are not
familiar with the metropolis, and as I am fully engaged in taking
Pamela about--'

"I hope Miss Grismead is enjoying the Little Season," Phoebe interposed
in a vain attempt to stem the tide.

"Whether or not Pamela enjoys herself is not the question, Miss Smith.
This is her Last Chance."  The words were emphasised with ominous
foreboding.  "She is five-and-twenty and not a single eligible
gentleman has she encouraged in all these years."

"Miss Grismead has not formed an attachment to any of her suitors,
ma'am?"

Her ladyship bent a severe frown upon her.  "What has that to say to
anything?  You don't suppose I married Grismead because I had formed an
attachment to him, do you?"

"Well..."

"Foolish sentiment," dismissed her ladyship.  "I accepted Grismead's
offer because he was in possession of a comfortable fortune and he
never argued with me.  You may have noticed, Miss Smith, that we
Deverells like our own way."

"Er ... yes, ma'am."

"Unfortunately, Pamela takes after me," continued Lady Grismead,
sublimely unconscious of any irony in the statement.  "And who must she
now decide to marry but a poet.  A poet, Miss Smith!"

"Oh, dear."  Phoebe could readily understand her ladyship's concern.
"Poets are usually impecunious."

"That is not the problem.  The problem is he wishes to be impecunious:
Something about suffering for his writing, or some such fustian.  He
has cast off his family!  His exceedingly wealthy and well-connected
family.  Can you imagine that, Miss Smith?"

"Well, actually--'

"Of course you cannot.  No sensible person could.  I have told Pamela
that her father has been instructed to accept the next respectable
offer made for her hand, whether she likes it or not."

"What did she say to that, ma'am?"

"That she would rather starve in an attic with her Norvel than feast
with anyone else.  Did you ever bear such nonsense?"

"Well, as it happens---'

"You can see, Miss Smith, why I have no time to devote to Cressida and
Theodosia.  Whatever Deverell may try in the way of bribery and
blackmail," she finished darkly.

 Phoebe's eyes widened.  "Deverell tried to bribe you, ma'am?"

"He had the temerity to remind me that Grismead's investments have
suffered several losses over the years, and the possible consequences
to Pamela's chances should such a fact be made known."

"Possible consequences?  Oh, my goodness!"

Lady Grismead eyed her with grim approval.  "I don't wonder at your
shock, Miss Smith.  And I know I may rely upon your discretion.  After
all, Kerslake's estate has suffered the same setbacks.  It is too bad.
Poor Grismead has had the entire responsibility for all our finances
while Deverell was off making that disgusting fortune of his.

"And now he is rude enough to bribe me with the offer of a new wardrobe
for Pamela to distract a possible husband from her die-away airs, as he
put it.  How heartless!  Pamela is delicate.  She always has been.  But
one cannot expect a man to understand anything."

Phoebe's mind balked at the thought of anyone in possession of a
Deverell parent being delicate.  Fortunately, while she was racking her
brains for a soothing answer, the door opened to admit Gerald and his
sisters, with the news that Mr.  Charlton was that moment stepping out
of a hackney and requesting the driver to wait.

"You are inspecting houses with Mr.  Charlton?"  demanded Lady Grismead
before Phoebe could respond.  "Upon my word, what does Deverell think
he is about to send an inexperienced girl and his secretary to choose a
suitable house?"

"I'm sure Mr.  Chadton will be very helpful, ma'am," Phoebe murmured,
refraining from reminding her ladyship that she had not been considered
inexperienced when she'd been hired.  She turned to inspect her
charges.

Both girls were now properly attired in cambric walking dresses of
gentian blue that suited their ebony locks and sapphire eyes to
perfection.  Being possessed of the aristocratic Deverell features and
height, they were striking rather than conventionally pretty, and as
their uncle had remarked yesterday, identical in every respect, even to
the way they dressed; the single outward difference being the jaunty
epaulettes ado ming Theodosia's slim shoulders.  Only the most alert
observer might note from this small distinction that the twins
possessed very different personalities.

"Besides, what do we need with a fashionable house, Aunt Ottilia?"
demanded Theo with a distressing lack of respect.  "It's not as if
we're going to be giving stupid dances and parties."

"Yes.  We don't really need a house at all," put in Cressida.  "I, for
one, would be happy in lodgings as long as they're within easy reach of
the theatres."

"I'm sure we'll find something to suit everyone," Phoebe intervened
hastily before Lady Grismead recovered from her shock at being so
addressed and actually heard what was being said.

"Well!  This is a come-about."  Gerald stared at his sisters in the
liveliest astonishment.  "You've been moaning to Phoebe for months
about missing the Season, and now you say parties are stupid.  Girls!
Featherbrained ninny hammers

Cressida sent him a pitying look.  "We wanted to come to London,
Gerald.  The Season was only an excuse."

"Yes, anyone who Wasn't a ninny hammer would have seen--'

"That will do, Theo."  Phoebe stood up in the hope that the gesture
would lend her some authority.  Interrupting Deverells engaged in
combat was no easy task.

She had to admit, however, that the combatants made a riveting picture,
Gerald's resemblance to his sisters, who were only a year younger,
often causing strangers to mistake them for triplets.  They usually
caused a sensation wherever they went, although Phoebe had long ago
discovered how very disconcerting it could be to see three mirror
images every time she turned around.

No wonder she'd been struck by Deverell's unusual aquamarine gaze.

She pushed the surprisingly vivid memory hastily out of her mind. She'd
already told herself she'd been quite wrong about his eyes.  The strain
of the interview had no doubt affected her normally sensible judgement.
His eyes were probably plain green.  Or perhaps hazel.  Yes, hazel was
a nice, non-threatening colour.

Feeling exceptionally pleased with this conclusion, she returned her
attention to the battle now being waged in acrimonious undertones.

"Cressida, stop arguing with your brother.  Gerald, perhaps you would
step outside and tell Mr.  Charlton we shall be with him directly.  I
expect Lord Deverell has asked him to draw up a list of suitable houses
and--'

"How typical," stated Lady Grismead in the satisfied tones of one who
could have predicted the outcome had anyone thought to consult her.

Phoebe forgot her squabbling charges and flushed guiltily at having
ignored her ladyship for several minutes.  "I'm afraid I said much the
same thing, ma'am, when Deverell suggested Mr.  Charlton's escort.

"Did you, indeed, Miss Smith?"  A rather thoughtful look crossed her
ladyship's face.  "And what was Deverell'S reply?"

"He said I should be grateful for whatever assistance he chose to
give."

"Hmm."  Lady Grismead appeared to consider the statement for a minute,
then come to a sudden decision.  She glanced at Phoebe's brown pelisse,
shuddered, but stood up as one determined to sacrifice good taste for
the sake of duty.  "I shall accompany you, Miss Smith."

"Oh, ma'am, I wouldn't have you put yourself out for the world.  I'm
sure between the five of us--'

"You don't expect the children to aid you in your endeavour, do you?"
Ignoring the lightning-bright glares being aimed at her by three pairs
of eyes, she gathered up her reticule and sable stole.  "No doubt Mr.
Charlton is an excellent secretary, but what does a man know about
choosing a house?  Besides, my carriage will be more comfortable than a
hackney.  Come along, now.  Standing about chatting will not solve the
problem of where you are to live."

Having had the last word to say on the subject, her ladyship sailed out
of the par lout in much the same manner as Boadicea going into battle.
Only the spear and chariot were missing.

"You know what the problem is, don't you, Deverell?"

Lord Pendleton tossed aside the newspaper he'd been reading and lounged
back in his chair at White's Club.  "You wish they'd hurry up and serve
breakfast?"  "No, damn it!"

Sebastian looked up from the sheaf of papers he was perusing and
frowned.  "As a matter of fact I do know what the problem is, Pen, so
you can save yourself the trouble of telling me."

It was clear Lord Pendleton intended to ignore this sage advice.  He
ran a hand through his already fashionably tousled brown locks and bent
stem hazel eyes upon his friend.

"You're too accustomed to women falling all over themselves trying to
please you.  I dare say it has its advantages, but a man needs a little
spice occasionally.  Not to mention intelligent conversation."  '

"I hope you're not referring to the succession of light skirts who
called yesterday.  I wager the only time they show any signs of
intelligence is when they're assessing the value of a piece of
jewellery As for gentility-'

"And there's another thing," Pendleton interrupted.  "Your tastes are
too nice."

Sebastian snorted.  "Good God, Pen!  You're not so desperate for a
ladybird that you consider the denizens of Madame Felice's
establishment suitably entertaining, are you?  Set up a widow as your
mistress if you want

gentility, intelligence and reasonably priced entertainment."

Pendleton cocked a brow.  "Is that what you're planning to do?  I
would've thought a high-flying Society wife who knows the rules would
suit you better.  God knows, there's plenty of 'em.

Sebastian's eyes went cold.  "I never conduct my liaisons with married
women."

"Dare say you're wise," Pendleton agreed, making haste to retreat from
a suddenly precarious position.  "Not but what half of London isn't at
it.  Well, we'll have to think of something else.  Not widows, though."
He shook his head and added darkly, "Expectations.  Before a man knows
it, they want a ring on their finger."

Sebastian thought briefly of the pretty young widow with whom he'd
enjoyed a discreet arrangement until a week ago.  She, too, had had
expectations but, fortunately, she'd had the wit to see that he wasn't
going to meet them and, with his good wishes for success, had turned
her attention to a rich, elderly banker whom she'd recently met.

Not so fortunate Was the gap her departure had left in his life.  Pen
was right about one thing.  He'd become too accustomed to the gentle,
softly spoken women of the East, who were trained from girlhood in the
arts of pleasing a man.  The hard-eyed, grasping courtesans and bored
ladies.  of the ton filled him with nothing but distaste.

Trying to impress that fact upon his well-meaning friend, however, was
no easy task.

"Don't think I'm not grateful for your ... er ... altruistic interest
in my affaires, Pen, but--'

"Well, I have to do something," Pendleton muttered.  "If it hadn't been
for the sound investment advice you've been giving me over the past
couple of months, I wouldn't be in a fair way to recovering the family
fortunes.  Probably be waiting for breakfast in the Fleet.  If they
serve it there, which I doubt,"

Sebastian grinned.  "You'd have to send out for dinner, too."

"Yes, it's all very well to laugh, Deverell, but I was getting pretty
desperate, I can tell you.  Seems to me the least I can do is return
the favour."  He intercepted a quizzical look and couldn't help but
grin back.

"I'm not giving up, you know, just because we've eliminated wives,
widows and ladybirds.  There's still one other possibility.  Wedburne
told me only the other day about a little governess he's set up in a
cosy house in St.  John's Wood.  All perfectly discreet, and the poor
girl is so grateful to be rescued from a life of teaching other
people's brats, she's as happy as a cat with cream."

Sebastian's grin vanished.  "You may oblige me, Pen, by contriving to
forget about my current lack of a mistress.  The situation is very
temporary, I assure you."  He proffered the papers in his hand with
something of a snap.  "What's more important is this new shipping
prospectus.  Read it!"

Pendleton's instincts for self-preservation finally took the hint.  He
forgot about mistresses or the lack thereof and, rather in the manner
of a rabbit diving down a rabbit-hole, buried his nose in the papers.

Just as well, Sebastian reflected.  He did not want to discuss the
possibilities of making a governess his mistress.  It was a little too
close to the intention he'd all but formed yesterday.  An intention
that, since then, was making him increasingly uncomfortable.  And he
wasn't precisely sure why.

He'd lain awake last night, his hands folded beneath his head as he'd
stared at the shadowy ceiling, and had reminded himself that Miss
Phoebe Smith was no innocent young girl.  Not only had she known what
he was talking about when he'd mistaken her for a Cyprian, the little
minx had almost succumbed to curiosity on the subject of numbers before
respectability had got the better of her.

She'd also been earning her own living for several

years; had been clearly accustomed to dealing with the male of the
species; and had seemed totally impervious to the threat of his
displeasure.  Instead, she'd been only too ready to lecture him on his
shortcomings.

Obviously Miss Smith did not subscribe to the generally accepted view
that governesses 'were seldom seen or heard outside the schoolroom.

But as soon as he'd convinced himself she was not without experience,
he'd remembered the quick succession of emotions that had fled across
her face when he'd momentarily intimidated her into silence.  His
satisfaction at the shock and startled feminine awareness in her eyes
when he'd loomed over her had instantly coalesced into an almost
uncontrollable urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

The rome of his desire had stunned him, but it hadn't been nearly as
startling as the suspicion, when her defiance had shattered into an
utterly unexpected vulnerability, that she hadn't been as experienced
as he'd thought.

And the doubts, once insidiously planted in his brain, had proceeded to
roll other pictures past his eyes.  The starched-up costume that had
gone far beyond subdued dressing.  The ruthless restraint she'd used to
bury the laughter in her eyes.  The delicate colour that had tinted her
cheeks when he'd commented on her name, and again when they'd touched
on her past.

The contradictions had intrigued him.  The image of her delicately
etched profile had stirred the artist in him.  And the memory of
graceful movement and suppressed energy had aroused a damned
inconvenient urge to discover the soft curves and slender limbs hinted
at beneath the hideous clothes.  To know how she would look, how she
would feel in his arms, when freed of the restraints imposed by the
governess.

All in all, he had not spent a restful night.  Had the problem been
caused by any of the other women he'd had under his protection over the
years, he would have taken immediate steps to eradicate it.  However,
he'd doubted Grillon's Hotel would take kindly to admitting a
short-tempered male into a lady's bedchamber at three o'clock in the
morning.

No, the situation called for more subtlety than that.  And at that
point, suddenly, inexplicably, plotting to free Phoebe of restraints
and himself of frustrating nights had made him... Yes, damn it ...
uncomfortable.

Sebastian frowned.  He wasn't used to feeling protective about a woman.
Blast it, he wasn't even sure just what sort of protection she needed.
That flicker of vulnerability might as easily have been surprise; she'd
certainly recovered her sharp tongue fast enough.  He could assume she
was innocent and abandon the chase, only to find Miss Phoebe Smith
enlivening the existence of some other gentleman who was presently
lacking a mistress.

Expecially as it seemed half the males in London were going about
setting up governesses in cosy cottages.

What madness had made him agree to let his wards remain in town?  He
should have bundled the whole crowd back to Kerslake--forcibly if
necessary---and found another widow.  One who didn't come with
complications.  But no.  He'd watched shock, defiance and doubt chase
each other across an exquisite countenance and had proceeded to
outsmart himself.

And now it was too late.

She was here.  Or rather, out there.  Looking at houses.  With his
secretary.

With a barely suppressed snarl that startled awake an elderly Viscount
who'd been snoring comfortably nearby, Sebastian surged to his feet,
scattering papers all over the floor.

"I'll see you later, Pen," he announced, as his friend glanced up, jaw
dropping in surprise.  "I've just

remembered some urgent business that needs my immediate attention."

He was out of the room and striding towards the street before Pendleton
could do more than gape after him.

Phoebe was feeling extremely frayed around the edges.  She was also
beginning to question the wisdom of coming to London.  If yesterday and
today were anything to go by, she would be laid low with nervous
exhaustion before the week was out.

And she didn't even believe in nervous exhaustion.  At the moment, the
only thing keeping her from emulating Miss Pomfret's farewell
performance was the calm presence of Mr.  Charlton.  For some reason,
the three Deverells had taken an instant liking to their uncle's quiet,
fair-haired young secretary, while he in turn seemed to be thoroughly
fascinated by Theodosia.  He had scarcely taken his eyes off her all
morning, but Phoebe was too distracted by Lady Grismead to worry about
the possible ramifications of this new development.

After listening to her ladyship criticise every aspect of the house
they were inspecting, as well as the previous four houses they'd
visited, two of which in Phoebe's opinion had been perfectly suitable,
she was more than ready to put an end to the entire business.  But
first, she had to locate her charges, who seemed to have vanished in
three different directions.

"I say, Phoebe, Aunt Ottilia, this is the best place yet."  Gerald's
voice, wafting down from above, caught her attention.  She looked up to
see him leaning perilously over the railing at the top of the
staircase, the upper flight of which descended to curve sharply around
a small half-landing before continuing down to the hall.  From Gerald's
appearance, Phoebe could only deduce he'd been exploring an attic so
far removed from civilisation it had never seen a broom or duster.

"It has the oddest little rooms up here, and look at this capital
bannister."

Before Phoebe could ask why they should look at a perfectly ordinary
bannister that was clearly too broad for grace or beauty, a door
leading off the half-landing was flung open wit ha crash.  Cressida
stepped forward to the balustrade overlooking the hall, hands clasped
at her breast, gaze uplifted.

"O, shut the door!  / and when thou hast done so, / Come weep with me;
/ past hope ... past cure ... past help!"  '

"Upon my word!"  Lady Grismead stared upward as if she'd never seen her
great-niece before.  "What on earth is the child talking about?"

Cressy has a decided liking for drama, ma'am," Phoebe began.
"Especially Shakes--'

The rest of her explanation was destined to go unheard.  With what she
could only consider to be typical Deverell delinquency, Gerald chose
that moment to launch himself on a life-threatening descent to the hall
using the bannister he'd just been extolling.  At the same time, his
sister flung out her arm in a dramatic gesture worthy of Mrs.
Siddons.

Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut as the inevitable sounds of collision
rent the air.  She opened them in time to see Gerald skidding onwards
while Cressida, describing several turns at high speed, reeled sideways
into the cupboard from which she'd emerged.  She landed on the floor in
a dishevelled but extremely vocal heap.

"You horrid little toad!"  she shrieked.  "You did that deliberately."
Picking herself up, she rushed forward to continue her tirade just as
Theodosia, following Gerald's example, whizzed around the angle of the
staircase.

Another outraged shriek ricocheted hideously around the hall as
Cressida was sent flying again.  The sound had scarcely died away when
it was followed by the quiet closing of the front door and a firm
footfall.

Phoebe, still standing frozen with the expectation of

broken limbs or worse, had her back to the door, but everyone else
suddenly assumed the appearance of stunned mutes.  Even Lady Grismead
was struck dumb.  She stared past Phoebe, her eyes almost starting out
of her head in astonishment.

"Good heavens!"  she exclaimed at last.  "Deverell!"  By the greatest
exercise of self-control, Phoebe resisted the temptation to close her
eyes again and pretend she hadn't seen her charges risking life and
limb in front of their guardian.

She turned and smiled brightly.  "Oh!  Good afternoon, my lord."

Deverell's cool gaze swept over the scene in front of him.  "Miss
Smith," he acknowledged.  "Good afternoon, Aunt.  Edward, would you
mind telling me why you appeared to be standing ready to catch my niece
instead of preventing her from a hoydenish activity guaranteed to
distress her companion?"

There was another dumbfounded silence while everyone digested this acid
request.  Then a rueful smile crept into Mr.  Charlton's grey eyes.

"I'm afraid I was not in a position to do anything but stand by, sir.
Your niece was too quick for me."

Theodosia tossed her head.  "I don't see why Gerald should have all the
fun just because he's a boy.  It wasn't in the least bit dangerous."
Having obviously been aware of Edward Charlton's interest all morning,
she turned to him with a brilliant smile.  "Was it, Mr.  Charlton?"

Phoebe resigned herself to witnessing another victim fall prey to
Deverell manipulation.

"I dare say you enjoyed yourself," Mr.  Charlton said quietly,
surprising her.  "But perhaps it wasn't quite as harmless a prank as
you suppose, Lady Theodosia."

To Phoebe's further surprise, Theodosia seemed to accept this mild
rebuke without a blink.  She beamed at her new admirer.  "Oh, how
clever of you to guess who I am.  No one can ever tell Cressy and I
apart.  How did you do it?"

"It wasn't difficult."  He smiled back at her.  "There really are
several clues."

"I'm happy to hear you say so, Edward," Deverell put in with some
asperity.  "Since you'll be in charge of my wards for the rest of the
day."

"What?"  Phoebe looked up at him, startled.  It wasn't a wise thing to
do.  She discovered she hadn't been wrong about his eyes, after all.
There was nothing in the penetrating aquamarine gaze focused on her
face that could be described as either nice or unthreatening.

"You and I have some shopping to do, Miss Smith," he informed her
before she could recover the breath that had mysteriously disappeared
from her lungs.

He turned to his aunt.  "And you'll be wishing to go about your
business, Aunt.  In fact, I can't think why you're here in the first
place."

"Well!  Upon my word, Deverell!  If this is the sort of ungrateful
manner you expect will reinstate you in your family's affections, you
sadly mistake the matter.  As for your note yesterday--'

"If I ever had any such expectations, madam," Deverell bit Out in a
voice abruptly edged with the chill of an ice-tipped wind, 'they were
forgotten years ago."

Lady Grismead's already indignant colour rose.  "That was your own
doing, sir."

"Was it?"  Deverell said cryptically.  "You may be right, Aunt, but in
any event, I don't intend to debate the matter with you.  I've arranged
for any bills you incur at Cecile's to be forwarded to me, if you wish
to take Pamela there for some new gowns."

From the tight-lipped set of Lady Grismead's mouth, Phoebe fully
expected her to toss Deverell's offer back in his face.  Practicality,
however, won over outrage.  Her blue eyes flashing angrily, she turned
on her heel and waited in imperious silence for Mr.  Charlton to open
the front door.

"Thank you for your advice this morning, Lady

Grismead," Phoebe ventured, hoping to smooth a few ruffled feathers.

Her ladyship paused at the top of the front steps and looked back.  "I
hope I know my duty, Miss Smith.  You and the girls may call upon me in
a day or two.  I shall send my carriage for you when I have your
direction.  Good day."

"Well, really, my lord," Phoebe began as the door closed behind Lady
Grismead's rigid back.  "How could you--?"

"Does anyone care about me?"  demanded Cressida from the landing above
them, her throbbing tones completely drowning out the rest of Phoebe's
lecture.  "Does anyone care that I could have broken every bone in my
body?  Does anyone care that--?"

"Stop ranting and come down here!"  ordered Deverell in a voice that
made everyone jump visibly.

Cressida blinked at him, her mouth open in shock.

"Here!"  thundered Deverell, pointing at the floor in front of him.

"For heaven's sake, my lord," Phoebe protested in an agitated
undertone, "Cressy is not a recalcitrant puppy."

"You will kindly stay out of this, Miss Smith.  You wanted a strong
hand.  You're getting one."  "Yes, but---' He ignored her.

"Thank you," he said when Cressida, still stunned, obeyed.

Theodosia and Gerald moved at once to flank her in a show of unity that
raised Deverell's eyebrows.  All three stared at their uncle with
varying degrees of resentment, rebellion and curiosity, but in Gerald's
eyes Phoebe saw the dawning of the boy's half-reluctant, half-cautious
respect for an older, more powerful male.

She swallowed her instinctive desire to intervene and waited.

"Now," Deverell began in the tone of one addressing troops, 'you will
accompany Mr.  Chadton and you will oblige him by not engaging in the
type of activities that brought Miss Smith to the point of resigning
her post."

Three pairs of astonished blue eyes turned towards Phoebe.  The trio
then looked at each other, communed silently and shook their heads.

"You must be mistaken, sir," Gerald said, appointing himself spokesman.
"Phoebe wouldn't leave.  Why," he added ingenuously, 'we've done far
worse things since she came to Kerslake than we ever did when the other
governesses were there."

"Yes, one left after only two days," Theodosia added helpfully.

Cressida, still brooding, contented herself with a baleful nod.

"Indeed?  Am I to understand that only Miss Smith's strong sense of
duty has withstood all your attempts to be rid of her?"

"Oh, no!"  Gerald looked shocked.  "We'd never want to get rid of
Phoebe.  We like her."

Touched, Phoebe smiled.  "Thank you, Gerald."  Deverell slanted a
brief, amused glance down at her.  "Good.  Then it shouldn't be too
much of a hardship to comport yourselves in a manner she would
approve."  He let that sink in and turned to his secretary.  "Give me
the keys to this house, Edward, and then take my wards away.  They can
visit the Exeter Exchange or some such attraction."

"What's at the Exeter Exchange, Uncle Sebastian?"  Phoebe saw Deverell
wince.  "For God's sake, Gerald, don't call me Uncle Sebastian," he
said with so much disgust in his voice that Gerald grinned.  "Sebastian
or Deverell will do.  As for the Exeter Exchange, they house an
exhibition of wild beasts there.  You should feel perfectly at home."

"Wild beasts!"  Cressida shrieked, as her brother chuckled at this
sally.  She clutched at her sister and lowered her voice dramatically.
"Did you hear that, Theo?  He's going to throw us to wild beasts!  Our
own

uncle!  Oh, wicked, wicked world that condones such a dastardly
act."

"Try to contain your transports of delight," Deverell ordered
sarcastically, eyeing his niece with disfavour.  "Even I draw the line
at inflicting you upon helpless wild animals."

Incensed at this cavalier reception of her performance, Cressida
straightened and resumed scowling.

"I'm sure between the two of us, your brother and I will be able to
protect you from an untimely end, Lady Cressida," Mr.  Charlton
soothed, handing over a bunch of keys to Deverell.  He cast a laughing
glance at his employer as he did so and moved forward to open the front
door again.

"Oh, Mr.  Charlton!"  Phoebe exclaimed, belatedly remembering the main
business of the day.  "The second house we looked at--'

"Leave it to me, Miss Smith," Edward Charlton called back as he was
swept through the doorway on a small tidal wave of Deverells.

"Oh, dear."  Phoebe gazed anxiously after the departing expedition.  "I
do hope they don't contrive to lose him."

"It's-far more likely he'll wish to lose them," Deverell retorted.
"Gerald and Theodosia seem comparatively rational, but what the devil
is wrong with Cressida?"

"Well..."  Phoebe turned back to him with a rueful smile '...I'm afraid
she is much addicted to melodrama, sir.  I think that's why her actor
held so much appeal for her."

"Hmm.  Her heart doesn't appear to be irrevocably broken."

"Oh, no."  Phoebe laughed.  "Mr.  Corby's unromantic behaviour in
returning her to Kerslake and then driving away faster than when they'd
departed quite tore the scales from her eyes.  She discovered that,
away from the stage, he was really a very ordinary young man.

"In fact," she added thoughtfully, "I'm not even sure he knew he was
eloping until Cressy embarked on their excursion to the village
carrying a large bandbox.  Of course, I may be wrong.  When Gerald
dashed out of the house waving a duelling pistol, Mr.  Corby didn't
wait around to explain."

She thought Deverell might appreciate the picture she'd evoked of
Cressida's actor fleeing the scene of his short-lived betrothal, but
although he did indeed glance down at her, his smile was rather
perfunctory and his gaze returned almost immediately to the open front
door.

The prospect of a quiet street in a genteel neighbour-hood was pleasant
enough, but, watching him, Phoebe had the strangest feeling Deverell
was seeing something else entirely.  Something far distant, she
thought, in time and place.

Only when the silence was broken by the rattle of carriage wheels on
the road outside, did she venture to speak, instinctively softening her
voice.  "What is it, my lord?"

He half-turned his head as if, for a moment, though hearing her, he was
still in that faraway time and place.  "I beg your pardon, Miss Smith.
It was nothing.  Merely, I was remembering..."

Remembering a pair of tiny, doll-like Deverells gazing up at him with
identical solemn blue eyes from their cradles, and a little boy
scarcely out of leading-strings who had pestered to be taken up on his
uncle's favourite hunter for a ride, and the unexpected pleasure it had
given his younger self to grant the treat.

Sebastian shook the memory aside and looked down at the gently
enquiring expression on Phoebe's face.  She couldn't read his mind, of
course, but in the luminous golden brown glow of her eyes he saw
something that looked very like understanding.

He frowned, the deeply rooted wariness that had seen him return to
England relatively unscathed raising its head like an animal scenting
the air.  "You were right yesterday, Miss Smith," he admitted curtly.
'l hadn't

considered the fact that Gerald and the girls are no longer
children."

"A quite understandable misapprehension, my lord.  They must have been
little more than babies when you left."

There was a faint coolness in her tone as though she'd sensed his
withdrawal and responded in kind.  Sebastian found himself regretting
the change even as he told himself Miss Phoebe Smith sensed far too
much.

And yet, he'd almost told her of those long-forgotten memories, was
conscious, still, that the impulse to let her draw closer, to allow her
inside the invisible barrier of his de fences lingered.  Even the
legacy of rage and pain left over from a past that would forever remain
unresolved, seemed, in her presence, to have faded to a faint echo.

"Yes," he said slowly, 'the twins were still in the nursery.  You know
my sister-in-law died while they were quite young?"

Her wide gaze searched his for a moment.  "Miss Pomfret told me."

He nodded.  "Perhaps things might have been different for them had she
lived.  She was ... gentle.  Far too gentle to cope with my brother.
Theirs was an arranged match and very--'

He broke off, suddenly realising where the conversation was going.  And
then couldn't help laughing in rueful acknowledgement.  "Infelicitous,
Miss Smith.  But don't worry.  I won't bore you with the sorry details
thereof."

His smile was returned with a brilliance that made him blink.  "Your
sentiments do you credit, my lord, but you musn't think your wards have
suffered from not remembering their mother.  The situation seems to
have had the effect of making them closer, perhaps, than other
siblings."

Sebastian hadn't been thinking any such thing.  The wildly conflicting
sensations aroused by Phoebe's smile simply didn't allow room for
extraneous thoughts.  On the one hand, he wanted to disabuse her mind
of the naive assumption that he'd ever entertain such mawkish
sentiments, while at the same time protect her from that knowledge. The
warm approval in her eyes was surprisingly sweet.  He could have basked
in it for a very long time.

Unfortunately, her smile also aroused a shockingly fierce urge to sweep
her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs where he could bask in
private.  His resistance wasn't helped when the loud striking of a
clock in the adjoining drawing-room reminded him that they were
completely alone in the house.

"Yes, well, I shall bow to your superior judgement in such matters,
Miss Smith," he said, turning on his heel and striding purposefully
towards the front door.  There was still a rather imperative point to
be established, damn it.  md he'd made her a promise.  "Shall we go?"

Phoebe blinked.  Really!  What had caused such a snappish reply?  Just
when she was feeling quite in charity with the man, he turned around
and behaved in a manner that was totally incomprehensible.  As if she
hadn't put up with enough from Deverells today.

Elevating her small nose, she sailed past the door he was holding open
for her.  "As it happens, my lord, my judgement in such matters may
indeed be relied upon.  I have had a great deal of experience with
Deverells, you see.  Despite their various foibles and faults, they do
care about each other."

"I shall have to take your word for that, too, Miss Smith," he
retorted, locking the door behind them.

His true opinion was only too plain.  Phoebe levelled her brows at him.
"It is surely obvious, sir.  Look at Lady Grismead's kindness in
accompanying me this morning."  For some reason, this remark elicited a
savage scowl.  "Good God!  You don't really believe she came along out
of kindness, do you?"  Taking her hand, he clamped it down on his arm
and began striding down the street.

Almost whisked off her feet, Phoebe had perforce to follow.  She
didn't make the mistake of reading anything gallant into the gesture.
If she snatched her hand away, she was quite certain Deverell would
simply continue walking.

That realisation, however, did nothing to lessen the stunning impact of
sheer male power in the steely muscles beneath her fingertips, or
distract her from the tension emanating from her escort.  It was so
forceful, she wondered the air about them didn't crackle like one of
the new electricity machines she'd read about.

And suddenly, without knowing precisely why, she felt an urgent need to
have him believe her, to have him see his family as she did.

"Well, perhaps not kindness exactly," she temporised.

"But certainly Lady Grismead wished to be helpful."  He sent her an
impatient glance.

Phoebe frowned right back at him.  "You seem to forget, sir, that she
cared enough about Gerald and your nieces to take over the hiring of a
governess when all Miss Pomfret's candidates left, one after the
other."

"Yes, you have me there, Miss Smith.  Since my aunt had the good sense
to engage you in the first place, I suppose I'll have to forgive her
for dragging you all over London."

"I'm sorry if I appear sadly wilted," she retorted, incensed all over
again.  "But I could hardly refuse Lady Grismead's offer.  And it
wouldn't have hurt you to have shown a little gratitude.  This isn't an
easy time for her, you know.  Your aunt is extremely concerned about
Miss Grismead."

"Understandable," Deverell allowed with a sardonic curl to his lip. "My
pea-brained cousin seems to spend her time either swooning, drooping or
languishing."

"Well, it doesn't help to have you pointing out "possible
consequences"," Phoebe scolded, warming to the subject.  "How could
you, sir?  Poor Lady Grismead is probably living in fear of having it
known that their circumstances are severely reduced."

He shrugged.  "It's none of my concern if my aunt chooses to lose sleep
over the matter.  I'm quite sure you don't intend to spread the news
abroad and nor do I."

"I didn't for a moment think you had any such intention, my lord,
despite what your note might have implied.  But does Lady Grismead know
that?"

Deverell stopped short in the middle of the footpath, the look he cast
down at her almost making her gasp aloud.  For one infinitesimal
instant, bitterness, violent rage, and the shadows of years-old pain
seethed like a sea-witch's cauldron in the blue-green depths of his
eyes before vanishing beneath the frozen surface.

"She should," he bit out.  And stepped away from her to hail an
approaching hackney.

Phoebe stood motionless as the driver reined his horse in at the curb.
She was scarcely conscious of breathing.  Never had she seen such
raging emotions in a man's eyes.  Nor the icy implacability that had
followed.  The Deverell stare was a benevolent gaze by comparison.

A warrior, she remembered, with a small inward shiver.  The trappings
of civilisation were in place, even elegantly in place, she thought,
eyeing the snowy folds of his cravat and the superb tailoring of the
coat covering those broad shoulders, but underneath was a warrior.
Hard, powerful, and dangerous.

Her mind whirled with questions as Deverell handed her into the hackney
and seated himself opposite her.  For long time no one spoke.  Phoebe's
gaze remained riveted on the stem lines of Deverell's profile,
illuminated by a pale September sun as he stared out of the window at
the passing scene.  His brows were drawn together in a frown, and she
was startled by an impulse to reach out and touch him.

Was it because she'd caught a glimpse of invisible scars?  she
wondered.  A warrior, yes, but alone.  A law

unto himself.  She suspected he'd been alone for a very long time.

"How did you know we've been all over London?"  she finally asked
softly.

Deverell shifted his gaze from the cab window to her face.  "I had a
copy of Edward's list of houses," he said.  "And followed you."  He was
silent for a heartbeat and then a wry smile touched his mouth.  "When I
learned my aunt was with you, I thought you might need rescuing, Miss
Smith."

"Oh ... no, I..."  Feeling oddly shy, she glanced away.  Then humour
came to her rescue and she smiled back at him.  "Do I really look so
wilted, sir?"

He shook his head, reached out and took her hand.  "I'm sorry," he said
very soberly.  "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.  I
frightened you."

"Not at all, my lord."  Phoebe lifted her chin, but her heart was
racing.  His hand felt very warm and strong wrapped around her smaller
one.  She suddenly noticed how much room he was taking up in the
hackney.  He was so big, so close, she could feel the heat from his
body.  Perhaps that was the reason her pulse was jumping about beneath
his fingers.  "As I pointed out earlier, I am quite accustomed to
Deverells."

He smiled faintly at that and released her.  "Some of us are less easy
to control than others, Miss Smith," he murmured, and returned to his
contemplation of the street.

With that enigmatic remark echoing in her ears, Phoebe did likewise.

The rest of the short drive passed in a not-un companionable silence.
All was not serene, however, inside her head.  No matter how diligently
she ordered herself to take heed of Deverell's warning---if warning it
had been, her brain refused to co-operate.  It was too busy grappling
with another problem.

Deverell's indifference to his family had not been reigned yesterday in
order to amuse himself by teasing her-an explanation that had occurred
to her once or twice since their meeting.  Though his wealth put him in
a position of some power, he was indeed estranged from them.

And she was very much afraid that she wanted to hear every sorry detail
of the infelicitous circumstances surrounding the rift.

Chapter Four

Half an hour later, the dangers of listening to sorry details had given
way to the dangers of temptation--in the form of the loveliest pelisse
Phoebe had ever beheld.

Modish, high-wasted, with shoulder-puffs and a neat upstanding collar
fashioned to frame her face like a small ruff, its soft ivory hue was
beautifully set off by the delicate gold-scalloped trim on collar,
puffs and hem and a row of tiny gold buttons marching down the front. 
A large sable muff and a jaunty ivory bonnet, sporting gold ribbons and
a sable-tinted plume, completed an ensemble that was both elegant and
feminine.

And totally impractical, Phoebe told herself firmly.  She took one last
look at the transformation reflected in the mirror in Madame Cecile's
fitting-room and shook her head in genuine regret.

"Oh, but, ma'mselle, the fit, it is perfect.  And see how the trim
brings out the gold in your hair."

Bustling about, twitching a fold into place here and stroking a sleeve
there, Madame Cecile paused long enough to inspect the curls she had
insisted on freeing from their usual tight knot at Phoebe's nape. "Such
pretty hair, but ma'mselle must have been out in the sun without a
bonnet or parasol."  The plump little modiste clucked in disapproval.

"No, it's quite natural," Phoebe murmured, marvelling that soft
ringlets framing her face could make her eyes appear so dark and large.
And oddly vulnerable.

She frowned.  She wasn't entirely certain she approved of vulnerable.
"The pelisse is very beautiful, madame, but--'

"Ah, you think the ivory too pale, perhaps?  Not every lady can wear
such a colour, but with ma'mselle's eyes and complexion--' Cecile broke
off with an eloquent gesture.  "But come," she insisted, beginning to
prod Phoebe gently towards the outer room of the shop.  "We will show
milord Deverell.  He will decide."

"What does he know about fashion?"  Phoebe grumbled as she was
propelled through the curtain separating the two rooms.

"Enough to know what pleases me, Miss Smith," Deverell replied, turning
from his contemplation of the street beyond the window.  Something dark
flashed in his eyes before his gaze travelled over her from her bonnet
to the tips of her tan suede half-boots.

Phoebe had time to be thankful the late hour meant 'they were the only
customers in the shop before he very slowly reversed the procedure.

"And the vision of you in that pelisse definitely pleases me," he
murmured in a soft growl that sent a series of tiny shivers rippling
down her spine.

She stared back at him, wondering if her imagination was suddenly
running riot or if the light aquamarine of his eyes really had darkened
to a deep sea-green.

Impossible, she told herself hastily.  It was only because he was
watching her so intently.  She wished he wouldn't.  She wished he had
waited outside.  She wished he looked ludicrously out of place
surrounded by gowns and fabrics and fashionable feminine knickknacks.

It was as if an extremely large predator had somehow found his way into
a chamber full of dainty treasures, she thought crossly.  But instead
of appearing in the least uncomfortable with his surroundings Deverell
conveyed the distinct impression that if the shop had been filled

to overflowing with breakable objects, he would prowl among them
without so much as brushing a single one.

The image of incredible masculine strength under such powerful control
set off another ripple of sensation, this time from her throat to her
knees.

"Is not ma'mselle a beauty, milord?"  Cecile crooned, lovingly curling
the sable plume so that it brushed Phoebe's cheek.

She started at the touch and sternly ordered her throat to unlock and
her knees to cease trembling.  From the gleam in Deverell's eyes she
knew she was about to have the same argument that had ensued with every
other article of apparel she'd been shown.  She needed her wits about
her.

"The pelisse is lovely, sir," she agreed.  "For a young lady of
fashion.  Not for a companion."

"Miss Smith, my nieces will be young ladies of fashion once they're let
loose in here with my purse.  Their companion most definitely cannot
look like a dowd in comparison."

"Mais oui," confirmed Cecile, nodding vigorously.  She cast a
mischievous glance at Deverell.  "Milord is very right; He usually is,
ma'mselle."

"Is he?"  muttered Phoebe, noticing this little byplay.  She hadn't
been much surprised to find that Deverell was on terms of friendship
with his secretary.  But a modiste?

A second later the likeliest explanation Occurred to her.  She promptly
blushed bright scarlet.

"The pelisse is really, how you say, not fussy, ma'mselle," Cecile
began, hurrying to avert customer embarrassment.  She fluttered her
hands expressively.  "Most suitable.  There are no ruffles, no bows or
frogging."

"It isn't that."  Phoebe sighed.  And seeing genuine puzzlement on the
modiste's face, she launched into an explanation in French, hoping to
make the situation clearer.

It only took her seconds to realise she'd made the situation much
worse.  Cecile was now looking positively blank.

Exasperated, she turned to Deverell, only to see him wheel hurriedly
towards the window.  He seemed to be fascinated by a high-perch phaeton
drawn up on the opposite side of the street, but there was a suspicious
hint of movement about his shoulders.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him.  "The plume," she stated very clearly,
'will have to go."

"Plume?  Go?"  Cecile appeared more puzzled than ever.

"Plumes are provocative.  Companions are not.  At least, they're not
supposed to be.  My lord, will you kindly look at me when I'm
addressing you."

"My apologies, Miss Smith.  I thought you were still arguing with
Cecile."  Deverell turned, his eyes brilliant with barely suppressed
laughter.  "Am I to understand that you've decided to bow to the
inevitable?"

Phoebe glared at him.  "That's what we blades of grass have to do."

He raised an eyebrow.  "I beg your pardon?"  "Nothing, sir."

He grinned wickedly.  "If you say so, Miss Smith.  Cecile, remove the
plume and send it along with the other packages.  One of the girls may
wish to have it."

"Oui, m'sieur.  What shall I do with ma'mselle's old pelisse?"

"Send that along, too," Phoebe instructed with another minatory frown
at Deverell.  "This one is only being loaned."

Shaking her head over the vagaries of customers, Cecile directed her
minions to obey.

"And I still say this pelisse is highly impractical," Phoebe added when
she and Deverell were once again seated in a hackney and bowling along
towards Grillon's.  "Whoever heard of wearing a white pelisse in
winter?"

Deverell lounged back in his corner of the cab and

regarded her with lazily smiling eyes.  Apparently, getting the better
of her by purchasing several gowns for her use had put him in an
indulgent mood.

"There's no need to create problems, Miss Smith.  When the weather is
inclement, you will naturally instruct your footman to send for yOUr
carriage."

"Carriage?  Footman?  Oh, my goodness.  Servants.  I'll have to--'

"You will have to do nothing.  Mr.  Charlton already has the matter
well in hand."

"Oh."  She mulled that over for a minute.  "Mr.  Charlton seems to be
an excellent young man," she observed at last.

"He also has political ambitions and has already attracted the notice
of an influential sponsor, so you may cease worrying about his obvious
attraction to Theodosia.  In a few years, if he's still of a like mind
and she's unattached, he'll be perfectly eligible."

"Good heavens, sir.  Do you ever miss anything?"

"Very little, Miss Smith."

"Yes, well..."  She eyed him narrowly.  "Not all of us are blessed with
your powers of observation, my lord.  Would you mind telling me what
you found so hilarious about me trying to communicate with Madame
Cecile in French?  I am accounted quite proficient in the language, you
know."

"You may well be, Miss Smith.  Cecile, however,

is not."

"Not?  But she spoke with an accent."

Deverell threw back his head and laughed.  The sound bounced around the
hackney for a full minute before he managed to control himself.

"Well?"  Phoebe demanded when his laughter faded to intermittent
chuckles.  When chuckles seemed to be the only answer forthcoming, she
scowled even more ferociously.  "I am, of course, delighted to afford
you so much amusement, my lord, but I am still waiting for an
answer."

"Miss Smith," he said, grinning.  "You are a delight.  Madame Cecile, I
regret to inform you, started life as Sally Mutworthy.  After advancing
by way of the streets toer ... more salubrious places of employment,
she became the mistress of a French emigre from whom she picked up an
accent and the odd phrase or two."

"Oh.  I see.  And th--?"

She stopped, appalled.  Good heavens!  She had been about to succumb to
a scandalous urge to enquire about the next step in Cecile's career.
And if Deverell had had anything to do with said step.  She must be
going mad!

"No, Miss Smith," he said smoothly.  "I've tossed some business Sally's
way, but by the time I made her acquaintance she was already
well-established in her new profession."

Phoebe felt herself blushing again.  Now he was reading her mind.  This
was what came of challenging a Deverell.  She should have known
better.

"Oh.  I mean ... I am not surprised, my lord.  She has excellent taste.
One could purchase an entire wardrobe there.  In fact, we seem to have
done so.  How am I ever going to find the time to wear all those
clothes?  We will have to--'

He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers, successfully putting an
end to her babbling.  Phoebe stared at him, transfixed, her fingers
quivering once beneath his touch before she went very still.

Gently, slowly, he wrapped his fingers around hers until she could feel
her own pulse fluttering madly against his palm.  His eyes, glittering
in the shadows of the hackney, gazed straight into hers for a long long
time.  Then he raised her hand to his lips and held it there.

Phoebe jerked back immediately, her breath catching on a small startled
gasp.  He must have felt her resistance but he ignored her struggles,
his gaze continuing to pin hers.  Then he nodded once;' lowered her
hand and released it.

"You really are innocent, aren't you?"  The words were spoken with
absolute conviction.

Her lips parted.  "Well, yes.  I mean ... that is to say..."

"No, not ignorant.  Innocent, Miss Smith.  There's a difference."

"If you say so, my lord."  She could scarcely get the words out.  Her
heart was beating somewhere in her throat and she felt as breathless as
if she'd run all the way from Kerslake to London.  "But what has that
to do with shopping ... or anything?"

"Quite a lot, Miss Smith."  He Sat back in his corner of the hackney,
his' gaze going to the window, eyes narrowing as he stared out at the
gathering shadows of late afternoon.  "Quite.  A. Lot."

Phoebe looked down at her tingling hand and tried to restore order to
her wildly disordered senses.  The task took an inordinate amount of
time.  Clearly, something had put a swift and comprehensive end to
Deverell's mood of amused indulgence.  She couldn't imagine what it
was.

The only explanation that occurred to her was that he'd been testing
her in some way.  Perhaps he wanted to make sure his nieces' companion
was a woman of high moral standards.  Although after yesterday's
confrontation, she was rather inclined to resent any need for
confirmation of the fact.

But then, if he'd been testing her, why was he now looking so grim? No,
she amended, studying him cautiously from beneath her lashes, not grim
precisely.  More brooding, as if someone had just presented him with a
totally unexpected and not altogether welcome solution to a puzzle.

There was no need to puzzle over what she should do next, however. This
time she had no intention of asking for enlightenment.  It was
definitely safer to remain silent.  Very silent.

Several days later, Phoebe followed her charges through the gates of
Hyde Park, and decided it was quite possible she would survive the move
to London after all.

They were settled in a pleasant house in the fashionable area around
Grosvenor Square; Theodosia and Cressida had already struck up a
friendship with another pair of sisters whom they'd met while shopping
with Lady Grismead; and apart from such minor domestic upsets as
Cressida scaring the wits out of the housemaid with a rendition of Lady
Macbeth's most bloodthirsty speech, and Gerald falling asleep on the
back doorstep after an overly-convivial evening with a new
acquaintance, life had been relatively peaceful.

True, she was experiencing some moments of concern over Gerald's
suddenly busy social calendar, but, in an abrupt reversal of her
original plan, Phoebe was determined not t apply to her employer for
assistance unless it became absolutely necessary.

Her decision had not been influenced by his odd behaviour at their last
meeting.  Well, not entirely.  After a period of calm reflection, she
had come to the conclusion that Deverell had indeed been testing her.
After all, she'd come to her post without proper letters of
recommendation--which only went to prove that he was not so uncaring of
his wards as he appeared.

Unfortunately, this happy exercise of logic had been overturned as the
days passed.  Not only had Deverell failed to call upon them at their
new abode, he hadn't even sent to enquire as to how they were settling
in.  The omission had at first surprised, then disappointed her.  Both
reactions had given her a rather nasty jolt.

It was fortunate, she'd told herself sternly, that she'd been so
summarily reminded of his indifference to his family.  Otherwise, she
might have been in danger of changing her mind about him.  Or of
thinking about him several times a day.

Phoebe frowned.  She had finally succeeded in putting

Deverell out of her mind, and she was not going to let him sneak back
in now.

"Phoebe, look!  Several ladies are riding in the Park.  It isn't fair
that Deverell has permitted Gerald to purchase a horse while we have to
walk."

So much for keeping Deverell out of her head.

"I don't think your style of neck-or-nothing would suit Hyde Park,
Theo," she said, studying the riders trotting sedately up and down the
Row a few yards to their right.

"I don't know why we have to walk here at all," Cressida grumbled.  "I
wanted to visit the theatres."

"Mr.  Charlton kindly escorted us to the theatre the other night,"
Phoebe reminded her.

"Yes, and it was all very exciting, but I want to act."  Phoebe
suppressed a shudder.

"Gerald says he's going to buy a phaeton.  Why can't I have a phaeton,
too?"

"I'm going to be the greatest dramatic actress the world has ever--'

"Ladies can drive just as well as gentlemen, you know."

"I'm sure once Mr.  Kemble hears me, he'll---' "There's Gerald now,"
Phoebe interrupted hastily.  She waved with enthusiasm.  It wasn't easy
fielding complaints and unsuitable ambitions; Gerald had appeared in
the nick of time.  "And see," she continued, 'he's on foot, as we are.
Who's that with him?"

"I think it's Mr.  Filby," Theodosia said, momentarily diverted.  She
studied Gerald's friend with a critical eye as the two young men
approached.  "Geraldsays he's all the crack, but if you ask me, he
looks like he belongs in a Fair."

Cressida giggled.  "What do you think will attack him first, Theo?  The
points of his collar or that bunch of flowers he has in his
buttonhole?"

"Hush," commanded Phoebe, not feeling greatly inclined to share her
charges' mirth.  Mr.  Filby had been the gentleman who had deposited
Gerald on the back doorstep at an ungodly hour two nights ago.  Adoring
his rather plump person with every extravagance of male fashion, which
included a waistcoat of palest rose embroidered with blue and purple
unicorns frolicking in an improbable forest of greenery, didn't
predispose her to alter an already unfavorable opinion.

"Phoebe!"  exclaimed Gerald.  "We're devilish pleased to see you.  Some
enterprising rogue is selling ices over there by the hedge.  Has a
deuced clever box with ice beneath to keep them frozen.  Dare say it'll
melt 'before long, but Reggie and I thought we'd sample a few.  Only
trouble is, we can't hold more than two at a time.  Oh, forgot!  You
haven't met re' friend Filby.  M'sisters and Miss Smith, Reggie."

This offhand introduction made Phoebe wince.  Mr.  Filby apparently
shared her view.  After favouring each twin with a polite nod precisely
calculated for young ladies not yet out, he bowed low over the hand she
felt obliged to offer him.

"Reginald Filby at your service, ma'am.  Very happy to make your
acquaintance.  Told Gerald he should present me, but didn't mean him to
do it in such a shambling fashion.  Feel I should apologise."

Phoebe retrieved her hand.  "Please think nothing of it, Mr.  Filby."

"Well, actually," he contradicted, still apologetic, 'must think of it.
Can't have the Earl of Kerslake going about flinging careless
introductions right and left.  Not the thing.  Been trying to give him
a few hints, but he ain't one to take advice, is he?"

"Indeed, Mr.  Filby."

Her agreement seemed to cast Filby into deepest gloom.  "Told him so
the other night when he kept drinking Blue Ruin," he said dolefully.
"Told him better stick to ale.  Told him he'd regret it."  He shook his
head.  "Seems to be the sort of thing a fellow has to learn for himself
though.  M'father warned me, too, when I was

Gerald's age, but did I listen?  No.  Sick as a cat for two days."

He continued to look so downcast about this apparently unavoidable male
rite of passage that Phoebe couldn't help smiling.  Her disapproval
quite melted away.  Clearly, Gerald had managed to reach a state of
disgraceful inebriation without any assistance.

"Fortunately, Gerald seems to have recovered a great deal sooner, sir,"
she said, instinctively dispensing comfort.

He cheered up somewhat at this.  "Amazing powers of recuperation," he
agreed.  "Even woke up long enough to tell me the way to the garden
when we couldn't rouse your butler."  He lowered his voice and leaned
closer.  "Thought you might prefer him on the back doorstep rather than
the front, ma'am."

"Very considerate of you," Phoebe approved, hiding another smile.

"No need to fear Gerald might become addicted to the bottle, though.
Told me he wasn't going to touch the stuff again.  Seems to be more
interested in ices now."

This ingenuous observation proved correct.  Phoebe looked around to
discover that while she and Mr.  Filby had been chatting, Gerald and
his sisters had descended upon the ice-vendor's cart and were arguing
about how many ices were needed to quench the apparently hideous thirst
engendered by strolling in the park on a mild September afternoon.

Phoebe sighed.  She was about to step forward to do her duty when a
sudden tingling between her shoulder blades made her turn her head. She
found herself gazing straight into Deverell's glittering aquamarine
eyes as he stood watching her across a stretch of lawn.

Her heart tripped.  Her breath caught.  Every nerve in her body pulled
taut as if awaiting a signal to stand or flee.  He was still several
yards away, but the impact on her senses of his intense masculinity was
enough to suspend every faculty.

It was his size, she told herself, more than a little frantically as he
started towards her.  She'd forgotten how big he was.  How powerfully
built.  Really, there was something not quite civilised about such raw
masculine strength, and yet all the politely behaved, medium-sized,
civilised males within view promptly faded to insignificance.

"Good God, it's Deverell!"  announced Filby.  "Wonder what brings him
here?  Never walks in the Park.  Rides sometimes.  Very handsome black.
Temperamental, though.  Wouldn't like to throw a saddle over him
m'self."

Phoebe experienced a strong desire to order Mr.  Filby to cease
chattering.  It was very distracting when she was trying to recover her
wits.  Never had she had such a reaction to a man's sudden presence.
Her senses seemed to have become almost unnaturally acute.  Her
heartbeat thundered in her ears; the scent of newly clipped grass stung
her nose.  Even the breeze took on an almost tangible form.  She could
have reached out and touched it as it brushed her cheek in passing.

It was all most unsettling.

So was the intent gaze Deverell subjected her to when he reached
them.

He inclined his head slightly.  "Good afternoon, Miss Smith."

Fortunately for her scrambled wits, he didn't wait for an answer. After
taking in her new cream muslin gown worn with a frilled spencer of
bronze silk shot with green, he shifted his attention to her
companion.

"Filby, isn't it?"  he enquired with a distinct lack of cordiality.

Filby promptly bowed with the flourish of a born Tulip.  "Your servant,
sir."

Deverell merely looked at him.  "I hear you've put my nephew's name up
at your club."

"Oh, that.  Yes."  Mr.  Filby smiled happily, apparently under the
impression he was being thanked.  "No trouble at all.  Do Gerald good
to acquire a little polish.  One's

always a bit raw when one first comes to Town.  Dare say you remember
how it was, my lord."

"No, I don't."  The words fell into the balmy afternoon like
hailstones.  "I didn't acquire those particular memories."

"Oh."  For a second Mr.  Filby looked taken aback, then whatever he'd
heard in the way of rumours seemed to stir in his brain.  "Oh, yes.
Yes, indeed, sir.  Quite so."  He subsided, clearly crushed by the
suspicion that he might have committed a social solecism.

"How very kind of you, Mr.  Filby," Phoebe said warmly, finally
recovering her voice.  She bestowed a beaming smile upon him.  "I
assure you Lord Deverell is most grateful to be saved the exertion of
doing the same thing."  She turned a look of heavy meaning on her
employer.  "Aren't you, my lord?"

He raised a brow.

Phoebe glared at him.  This was too much.  Not only was Deverell making
mincemeat of her wits after ignoring her---no!  Ignoring his wards for
the better part of a week, he was also being rude to the one gentleman
who had taken Gerald under his wing.

"Pay no heed to him, sir," she advised, turning a smile that had more
than a suggestion of gritted teeth about it on the unfortunate Mr.
Filby.  "He's a Deverell.  They can be exceedingly difficult at
times."

"Er..."  Filby cast a wary glance from her smile to Deverell's face and
began edging backwards.  "Yes.  Urn ... that is, dare say you wish to
consult with Miss Smith, sir.  Be happy to assist by walking with your
nieces.  Take a toddle around the lake, you know.  Your very obedient
servant, ma'am."

He retreated at speed, scurrying towards the shelter of the crowd about
the ice-vendor's cart.

"Well!"  Phoebe turned on Deverell, ready to deliver a pithy lecture on
the subject of manners.  She encountered a scowl that reminded her of
their almost silent parting some days ago.  Obviously his mood hadn't
improved in the interim.

'"Difficult", Miss Smith?"  he queried before she could start.

"Exceedingly," she repeated with relish.  "Not only that, sir, but you
will have to cease this habit you've developed of lobbing your wards
off on to others.  First it was Mr.  Charlton the other day, and now
poor Mr.  Filby."

"Poor Mr.  Filby?"  His scowl darkened.  "He didn't look to be in a
particularly unfortunate position a moment ago.  In fact, you both
appeared to be enjoying a most enthralling conversation."

Phoebe blinked.  "Enthralling?  Mr.  Filby was good enough to set my
mind at rest about G--I mean, about a certain matter, sir, and--'

"You mean about Gerald drinking himself under the hatches two nights
ago at Limmer's."

"Oh."  The wind of righteous indignation whooshed out of her sails.
"You know about that."

"Yes.  And about Gerald applying to Edward as to how to hire a box at
the theatre.  Did you expect Edward to pass the matter over to me, Miss
Smith?  He was only too happy to join your party under the guise of
assisting Gerald with the arrangements."

This barrage of information undermined Phoebe's wrath still further. "I
was referring to their excursion to the Exeter Exchange the.  other
day," she said in weak accents.  Good heavens!  First Deverell pulled
her nerves in two different directions; now her mind was being jostled
to and fro as well.  Had she misjudged him yet again?

"I have been a little concerned about Gerald," she admitted, sending
him a fleeting sidelong glance.  The rather grim line lingering about
his mouth made her feel positively guilty.  "But Mr.  Filby, at least,
seems harmless enough.  '

"Fiiby's all right," he said impatiently.  "Good family, comfortable
fortune which he doesn't show any signs of

wasting.  Gerald won't come to any harm with him--unless he tries
emulating Filby's taste in clothes, of course.  Then he'll have me to
contend with."

Not sure if he was jesting, Phoebe tried a tentative smile.  It seemed
to have about as much effect as a pin striking steel armour.

"Er ... quite so, sir.  And if you've been keeping an eye on him--'

"I know what Gerald's been doing, Miss Smith.  I haven't been dogging
his footsteps."

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to, but--'

Before she could clarify the matter, a young, male voice hailed her
from the Row."

"Good afternoon Miss Smith.  Capital day, isn't it?"  Deverell
called.

Phoebe couldn't see his expression, but her youthful acquaintance
suddenly changed his mind about stopping to chat.  Giving a hasty wave,
he rode on, scarcely giving Phoebe enough time to call out, "It
certainly is, Lord Bradden," before he departed at a fast trot.

"His mother," she informed Deverell succinctly when he turned back to
her, 'is your aunt's closest friend.  We met them at Lady Grismead's
yesterday."

For all the notice he took of this statement, she might as well have
saved her breath.  His eyes glittered down at her from beneath frowning
black brows.  "I permitted my wards to remain in London for one reason
only, Miss Smith.  That reason was not dictated by duty mawkish
sentiment or any of the other dozen reasons you can doubtless come up
with.  Do you understand me?"

"I understand you're in no mood to be even marginally polite, sir.  To
me or to anyone.  No wonder Gerald displays such a lamentable want of
conduct, if this is the sort of example set by other male Deverells.
However, if you expect me to believe that you permitted your wards to
remain in London because I threatened to leave, you will be sadly
disappointed.  A mere governess would have no influence on you, my
lord."

"You'd be surprised, Miss Smith," he said grimly.  "Come on, let's
follow my wards and that idiot, Filby, around the lake.  I want to talk
to you and if we continue to stand here, every fool in London will feel
free to interrupt us."

"The graciousness of your invitation leaves me breathless, sir.  Or was
it a summons?  Whichever, I decline.  I refuse to walk about Hyde Park
with a man whose face resembles a thundercloud."

To her utter astonishment, a reluctant smile started to dawn through
the tempest.

"Miss Smith," he said, shaking his head, 'you have a talent for
confounding me at every turn.  Does nothing intimidate you?"

"Is that what you were trying to do?"  she countered, deftly dodging
the question.

His smile turned rueful.  "Believe it or not, no."

"Oh, I see.  You only wished to terrify poor Mr.  Filby and Lord
Bradden."

He narrowed his eyes at her.  "Why do I have the feeling you're
enjoying this?"  he asked with a faint hint of menace.  "You know I
won't dismiss you and you're making the most of it, aren't you?"

Phoebe smiled sweetly up at him, suddenly realising that, despite his
terse speech of a moment ago, she was enjoying herself.  It was no
doubt reprehensible of her, and extremely improper behaviour for a
governess, but sparring with Deverell was positively exhilarating.

She was about to continue the exercise when, without any warning
whatsoever, he seized her by the arm and yanked her behind a stout
oak.

"What in the world--?  Will you kindly explain why I am being
manhandled in this fashion, my lord?"

"It's Pendleton, driving his new greys."  Deverell seemed totally
oblivious to her indignant splutterings.  "If we're fortunate, he
didn't see us, but if he hails me, for God's sake don't tell him you're
a governess."

She stared at him.  "Have you run mad, sir?  I am a governess."

"Not any more.  Now you're a companion."

"Well, of all the-- What has that to say to anything?"  When he didn't
answer, Phoebe made a concerted effort to gather her scattered wits and
tried again.  "I thought Lord Pendleton was your friend."

Deverell spared her a quick glance.  "He is."

"Well!  If you go to these lengths to avoid conversing with your
friends, I'm surprised you favoured poor Mr.  Filby with any discourse
at all."

His gaze snapped back to hers before she'd finished, his eyes fierce,
glittering, and this time wholly focused on her face.  Phoebe felt a
jolt in the pit of her stomach; whether it was caused by fear,
excitement or both, she wasn't sure.

"It was a near-run thing, if you must know, Miss Smith.  Filby may
consider himself fortunate that I didn't pound him into the grass."

"Pound him---' Her voice failed her entirely.  Then returned with a
vengeance when his lips curled in a smile of diabolical satisfaction.
"You have run mad."

"Very likely.  Ah, Pendleton's gone.  Let's get the devil away from-'

"Miss Smith!  I say, Miss Smith!  It is you!  How happy I am to see you
here."

"Good God!"  muttered Deverell.  He sent an exasperated glance past her
shoulder.  "How many more of your acquaintances are going to waylay
us?"

"Well, if we hadn't been hiding from your--' Phoebe turned on the words
and felt her lips freeze in mid-speech.  Wild notions of dashing around
to the other side of the tree darted through her mind.  Failing that,
she would have been happy to dive into a flower bed and take her
chances with the insect population.

The gentleman standing before her was the last person she wished to
see.  Tall and extremely thin, with a long neck and slightly hunched
posture that had always put her forcibly in mind of a depressed crane,
the soberly clad individual stood regarding her with a half-hopeful,
half-anxious expression on his rather cadaverous face.

"Tobias Toorobes," he announced, looking rather more hopeful than
anxious when she didn't immediately disclaim any knowledge of him. "The
curate at Upper--'

"Oh, yes, Mr.  Toombes, I remember.  How ... how very surprising to see
you here."

Toombes broke into a pleased smile that revealed a row of very white,
tombstone-like teeth.  "I came up to Town to see my esteemed patron,
Lord Portlake," he confided in a hushed tone such as he might have used
at a burial.  "I was, if you recall, Miss Smith, in London on a similar
errand two years ago when that dreadful sc and--'

"Yes, indeed," she interrupted quickly.  "I did request the vicar to
convey my farewells."  Aware of Dcvcrcll beside her, listening to every
word, she racked her brains for something else to say---preferably in
the way of another farewell,

Nothing particularly clever occurred to her.  Especially when Toorobes
took her hand in a bony clasp.

"How very like you, my dear Miss Smith," he intoned, pressing her
fingers painfully.  He lowered his voice.  "That you would think to
send a farewell at such a time.  I was never more shocked in my life to
hear what had befallen you.  what you must have suffered!  Mr. 
Dorridgc told me the entire story, but I know you could not have been
at fault, whatever ill-natured gossip may say."  "Well..."

"If there is anything I can do for you.  Anything at all..."

"You're a little late," Doverell interposed in a voice that sent
Phoebe's heart leaping into her throat.  Suddenly noticing that Toombes
still held her hand, she snatched it back.

"Oh, my goodness, how very rude of me.  My lord, may I present Mr.
Toorobes, the curate of ... urn ... that

is to say ... thank you so much for your kindness, Mr.  Toombes, but
I'm employed by Lord Deverell now as governess to his nieces.  No, not
governess.  I mean companion.  Yes, companion.  Isn't that right, my
lord?"

Deverell raised a brow.  "You seem to be somewhat confused about the
matter, Miss Smith."

"Yes, well, these things can get very confusing, can't they?"

"So it seems."

"My lord."  Toombes was bowing with great ceremony.  "Please allow me
to apologise for approaching Miss Smith in this unorthodox manner.  My
surprise at seeing one whom I thought had been cast friendless upon the
world--'

"Where did you say you were from?"  Deverell interrupted with blunt
despatch.

Phoebe groaned silently and raised her eyes heavenward.

"Upper Biddlecombe, my lord.  I am the curate there, but thanks to the
kindness of my most illustrious patron, Lord Portlake, I am shortly to
be presented with the living."  He turned to Phoebe and bowed even
lower than before.  "Miss Smith, may I be so bold as to ask if I may
call upon you to discuss such a momentous change in my circumstances?

I--'

"Oh, Mr.  Toombes, I wouldn't wish to delay your're rum for the world.
Think of your parishioners, sir.  How they must be missing you.
Besides, I feel it would not be proper in me to be entertaining
visitors at my place of employment."

"Oh, dear.  Yes, yes, you are right, Miss Smith."  Toombes looked
momentarily discouraged at this setback, but then bared his teeth again
in a very determined smile.  "But I shall be in Town for a few days and
shall hope for another chance meeting.  Do you walk in the Park every
day?"

"No, she doesn't, Toorobes, so don't bother lying in wait."  Deverell
took Phoebe's arm in a firm grip.  "Shall we continue on our way, Miss
Smith?  We have a great deal to discuss.  I'm sure Mr.  Toorobes will
excuse us."

"Oh, certainly, my lord, certainly."  Toorobes started bowing again,
then realised he was bowing to empty air.  "I shall look for you again,
Miss Smith," he called plaintively as she was marched away.

"Don't even think about looking back," Deverell ordered, as she went to
do just that.  "He's an obnoxious mushroom who doesn't need
encouragement."

"I was merely trying not to be rude," Phoebe retorted, trying instead
to think of a way to avoid the questions rattling almost audibly in the
air around her.  After one glance at the implacable determination on
Deverell's face, she decided escape was the only solution.  She could
always come back for the tWins when she'd got rid of him.

"And speaking of rudeness, my lord, I have had enough of it for one
day."  She tried to yank her arm free.  "Our discussion will have to
wait."

"Oh, no, Miss Smith.  You're not slipping through my fingers that
easily."

She yanked harder.  "I'm not trying to slip," she muttered through
clenched teeth.  "I'm trying to wrench."

He Stopped walking, brows lifting as he glanced down at his long
fingers wrapped about her arm as if only now noticing the strength of
his grip.  She was released immediately.

"My apologies, Miss Smith."  He frowned at the way she flexed her arm.
"Did I hurt you?"

Deciding she was still in one piece, Phoebe patted herself down in the
manner of a small, ruffled bird.  "Of course not, my lord.  What is a
bruise or tWo?"

He winced.  "Yes, I deserved that.  I'm sorry, Miss Smith.  It was
certainly not my intention to hurt you."  His mouth tWisted.  "Strange
though it may seem, manhandling women is not something I do on a
regular basis."

Phoebe looked up at him, surprised, all notions of

escape arrested by the oddly bitter note in his voice.

"That doesn't seem strange to me at all, sir," she said quietly.

His gaze rested rather frowningly on her face.  "Thank you.  It's no
excuse for my lamentable manners, but I've had an extremely busy and
frustrating week."

He'd had a bloody awful week, Sebastian amended silently.  And having
the cause of it looking up at him with big, searching eyes wasn't
improving matters.

So far, he had not discovered one single fact about Phoebe that he
didn't already know.  And as if that wasn't frustrating enough, images
of supple slenderness, a sweetly curved mouth and deep brown eyes that
glowed with golden lights one moment and held shadowed secrets the
next, were invading his dreams with increasingly detailed frequency.

"At least you haven't been busy on your Wards' behalf, my lord. Nothing
disastrous has happened.  Yet."

Her words came to him through the fog of his thoughts.  "Depends what
you consider disastrous," he muttered.  He knew what was disastrous.  A
man in dire need of replacing his last mistress because he had no
intention of seducing an innocent girl who was, in a sense, under his
protection, only to find himself utterly indifferent to every eligible
candidate he'd encountered in a week of intensive hunting.

That was disastrous.

"Well, I suppose we can overlook Gerald becoming intoxicated," Phoebe
continued, her mind clearly on more elevated calamities.  "Mr.  Filby
seems to think it won't happen again, and since Gerald is now too
occupied to indulge in foolish pranks and isn't wealthy enough to be
lured to those dreadful gambling houses one hears of, what else is
there?"

Sebastian regarded her broodingly.  "Women."

She blinked at him.  "Women?  But Gerald hasn't met any women.  Except
for the twins' friends, of course, and he's shown no interest in them.
It's just as well, really, since he'll be going up to Oxford soon."

Sebastian clenched his jaw and prayed for patience.  "Then we have
nothing to worry about, do we, Miss Smith?"

Tilting her chin, she glared at him.  "There is no need to bite my head
off, sir.  It was you who wanted this discussion, if you recall."

"That is perfectly correct.  There are, however, more subjects of
interest than my wards."

Her glare immediately turned mutinous.  And defensive.  And wary.

Sebastian watched the succession of emotions flicker across her face
and clamped his teeth shut on a blistering curse.  Wonderful!  Now he'd
scared her into total silence.

Damn it, he hadn't lost his temper, or even let it slip, in fifteen
years, but as soon as he'd called on Phoebe, only to find himself
obliged to follow her to the park where she seemed happy to chat with
every second male in the place, his vaunted self-control had
disintegrated 'under a cannon blast of sheer primitive
possessiveness.

He'd been behaving like something out of a cave ever since.  Such
behaviour was not likely to win Phoebe's trust.  And if he was to
discover the source of the shadows in her eyes, her trust was
essential.

Leashing the primitive beast inside him that strained to tell her what
he intended to do and then set about doing it, he offered her his
arm.

"On the other hand, Miss Smith, your devotion to duty is just what one
would expect of you.  Shall we go on?  I believe my wards can't be too
far ahead of us."

She eyed him with such a combination of suspicion and scepticism on her
expressive little face that Sebastian's sense of humour got the better
of him.  He smiled.

The peace-offering wasn't returned.  She accepted his ann, still in
silence, and started walking again, eyes front.

Swallowing this set-down, Sebastian matched her pace while he
considered various strategies.

The silence continued.

"Capital day," he remarked at last.

Her lips twitched.

"Obliging of Filby to take the girls off our hands for half an hour."

She pursed her mouth into a prim bow that made him want to kiss her
witless.  That necessitated a few seconds in which to regain his
control.

"Unfortunate name for a curate," he observed after a moment.

She choked.

"Especially with those teeth."

Phoebe broke into giggles.

Sebastian felt himself start to grin like an idiot.  "That's better,"
he said.  "I thought I'd terrified you into permanent silence, Miss
Smith."

"Very unlikely, I'm afraid, my lord."  She sent him a droll look.
"After two years with Deverells, I'm beyond terror.  Besides, I could
never be terrified of you."

The expression that flashed into Deverell's blue-green gaze mirrored
her own surprise at the confident statement.  But it was true, Phoebe
thought, bemused.  She had no trouble believing Deverell could be
dangerous.  He was perfectly capable of making her extremely nervous.
But she knew, beyond any doubt, that she would never be truly afraid of
him.

"I'm pleased to hear you say that.  Miss Smith," he said, almost
purring the words.  A gleam came into his eyes that caused a sudden,
and, she feared, belated resurgence of caution.  "In that case, I'm
sure you won't mind clarifying a small point for me.  Where the devil
is Little Puddleton, or wherever Toombes' unfortunate flock resides?"

"Upper Biddlecombe," Phoebe mumbled.  She searched for a distraction
and had to concede defeat.  "A very obscure village in Dorset, sir. You
wouldn't know it.  Dear me, how did we ever wander so far from the
subject of your wards?  What was it you wished to discuss?  Gerald's
hectic social schedule?  The fact that Mr.  Charlton is calling almost
every day?  Or--'

"Why don't we start with the dreadful scandal that apparently rocked
Upper Biddlecombe two years ago?"  he suggested smoothly.

Phoebe promptly stumbled over her own feet.  When she glanced up,
steadied by the steely support of Deverell's arm, she encountered a
smile that could only be described as one of fiendish anticipation.

'what dastardly crime did you commit, Miss Smith, that caused you to be
cast friendless upon the world?"

Chapter Five

"That remark, sir, was a gross exaggeration."  Phoebe shifted her gaze
to a clump of rhododendrons and affected a tone of airy unconcern. "You
may have noticed that Mr.  Toorobes tends to speak in flowery
periods."

When this defence elicited nothing more than polite but relentless
silence, she scowled up at him.  "It's true I was dismissed from my
last post, but it was due to a most unfortunate misunderstanding."

' Deverell's smile took on a faint edge.  "It usually is.  Who
misunderstood whom?"

She sighed.  "I'm afraid the squire's son forgot he was expected to
offer for my employer's eldest daughter and ... er..."

"Offered for you instead?"

"It was not the same sort of offer," she said primly.  "But even though
I told Mrs.  Dorridge I had no intention of listening to any offer, and
had not encouraged the young man in the slightest, she had made up her
mind that I was a scheming, ambitious, unscrupulous-- Well, I won't
repeat the rest."

Despite the warmth of the sun, Phoebe shivered slightly when she
remembered the last hideous interview with her enraged and threatening
employer.  Sensing the sharp glance Deverell gave her, she lifted her
chin.  "Anyway, it's all in the past now.  I can't offer any proof of
my innocence, of course, but'

"You don't need to, Miss Smith," he growled.  "You're so damned
innocent you shouldn't be allowed out except on a leash."

"A leash!  Well!  Of all the--'

"What did you do to discourage the lout?  Suddenly start dressing like
a dowd and refuse to speak to him?"  She swallowed the rest of her
protest.  "Er ... yes."

"Exactly as I thought.  You little goose, didn't you realise he'd
immediately take that as a challenge?"

"Indeed?"  She had realised, of course--too late.  "Perhaps you can
tell me what else I could have done, my lord."

He immediately disarmed her with a crooked smile.  "Not a thing," he
admitted.  "I'm sorry, Miss Smith, I wasn't being critical, but I
suspect it wasn't the first time a disaster of that nature had befallen
you.  Am I right?"

Phoebe blushed.  "I wasn't dismissed from the position prior to that,"
she stated with great dignity.  "I resigned."  He looked down at her.
"Because?"

"Because the master of the house decided he wanted an extra mistress,"
she muttered.  She winced at the indelicacy of the statement, but then
decided if there was anything capable of shocking Deverell, she, for
one, would be mightily surprised.  A thought occurred that had her
rallying.

"In any event, my lord, what is the use of me finally learning a lesson
and dressing unbecomingly from the start, only to have you over setting
the scheme?"  "There's a slight difference, Miss Smith."  "Oh?  What,
pray?"

"You now have a watchdog."

A surprisingly thrilling little tremor shivered through her.  The
sensation was Oddly disturbing.

"I would be grateful if we could avoid any more animal metaphors," she
said faintly.  "First I need a leash, now you're a watchdog.  I'm
perfectly capable of looking after myself, my lord.  Or I would be if
you'd leave my wardrobe alone."

"I think we're beginning to argue in circles.  But since we're
discussing your wardrobe, would you mind telling me what happened to
the flounces on that gown?"

"Flounces?"  Phoebe's brain whirled dizzily as she tried to follow this
leap in the conversation.

"That dress had flounces on the hem when it left Cecile's."

"Good heavens, my lord, I had no idea you took such a ... a keen
interest in ladies' fashions."

He smiled down at her, the glinting light in his eyes causing another
of those strange little fris sons of half-nervous excitement to shimmer
through her.  She wasn't sure why.  His smile wasn't exactly wicked. It
wasn't exactly threatening.  It wasn't exactly ... well, she didn't
know what it was ... exactly.

"If you must know," she said, hurriedly pushing the question aside, "I
removed the flounces for the same reason I had that plume removed the
other day.  Flounces are frivolous."

"Good God!  Flounces are frivolous.  Plumes are provocative.  I had no
idea a companion's life was so hedged about by rules and restrictions.
What do you do for fun and excitement, Miss Smith?  Sleep?"

Phoebe elevated her nose.  "I read novels, my lord.  Or I used to," she
amended, abandoning dignity for the truth.  "Since residing with your
wards, I've discovered that drama of some description seems to occur on
a daily basis.  The experience has taught me that I much prefer a
quiet, uneventful life.  Constant excitement can be extremely wearing,
you know."

"Wearing?"  His voice dropped to a deep, husky note that made her feel
as if she was suddenly enclosed in darkest velvet.  "Yes, possibly. But
what about excitement in small doses, Miss Smith?"

"S ... small doses?"

He smiled lazily.  "Well, to begin with."

"For instance, was I wrong earlier when I guessed you enjoyed turning
the governess on me?"

"Ohh."  Phoebe blushed and silently berated herself.  Goodness, for a
minute there she'd thought... She hurriedly consigned what she'd
thought to oblivion.  "I see you've found me out, my lord.  What can I
do but confess?"  Stiffening knees that had gone weak with relief, she
smiled confidingly up at him.  "Perhaps I enjoy talking with you, sir,
because I'm secure in the knowledge that you won't make any undesirable
advances towards me.  You see, I've never had that freedom before."

There was a very odd silence.

"I hope I haven't taken advantage," she queried, suddenly anxious.

"Uh, no, Miss Smith."  Sebastian eyed her rather curiously.  "Yes, I
did promise not to pester you with the undesirable advances that follow
sorry details of infelicitous relationships, didn't I?"  He must have
been mad.  "I take it you didn't consider the episode in the hackney
the other day to be an advance?"

"Oh, no.  I know you were only testing me."  "Testing you," he repeated
carefully.

"Naturally you wished to be sure that your nieces' companion was a
respectable female."

He stared at her, fascinated.  "Naturally."

"Well?"  She looked up at him with a quizzical smile.  "Weren't you?
Testing me, that is."

Sebastian gazed down into guileless brown eyes and had to fight a
sensation of drowning.  God, a man could lose himself in those warm
golden depths and not even notice until it was too late.  He must be
losing his mind.  Thanks to that idiotic promise, Miss Phoebe Smith had
just managed to completely flummox him.  A state of affairs that he
couldn't recall ever occurring before.  Obviously, unsatisfied desire
was a more serious problem than he'd supposed.  First he'd lost
interest in other women; now he was losing control of the situation.

"You could say it was something along those lines," he murmured at
last, completely incapable of disillusioning her.

"I thought so."  Phoebe pushed aside a sharp little twinge of
disappointment.  Really.  What foolishness.  She had no reason to feel
disappointed.  Deverell had turned out to be more understanding than
she'd supposed.  He'd believed her innocent of any wrongdoing even if
his remarks on the subject were less than polite--and he even seemed
somewhat protective.

Not that she needed protecting, Phoebe told herself hastily.  But just
once in a while-only for a few minutes, of course--it was a nice, warm
feeling to have.

"Thank you for believing in me," she continued earnestly.  "I've always
dreaded anyone fn ding out about ... well, what happened.  Most people
tend to blame the governess in such cases, and there's really nothing
one can do.  Protests only make it worse."

"You may not be able to do a great deal, Miss Smith; however, should I
ever encounter the squire's son from Lower Fiddleton, he will apologise
to you immediately or be torn limb from limb.".

Phoebe giggled.  "Upper Biddlecombe, my lord.  Oh, dear, I suppose I
should tell you that violent retribution is not the answer, but I must
confess I would have found it rather satisfying to have planted him a
facer, myself.  Do I have that right?"

He slanted an amused glance down at her.  "You do.  I take it Gerald
has sullied your ears with boxing cant.  How improper."

"I believe you're teasing me, sir.  No doubt you consider me overly
proper, but governesses must be forever mindful of decorum.  We have
our reputations to think of, you know."

"Indeed you do.  So was it after the episode in Little Muddlecombe that
you changed your name to Smith?"

Phoebe stopped walking so abruptly her hand fell from Deverell's arm.
This time she felt no inclination to correct him.  The soft, totally
unexpected question sent shock racing through every nerve-ending.  Her
mind went blank.  Her lungs constricted.

"I ... I don't know what you mean, sir.  My name is Smith.  I told
you..."  Her voice dried up.

Deverell took her hand in a warm clasp, but made no move to walk on.
"Haven't I shown you that I can be trusted with the truth, Miss Smith?"
he asked very gently.  "I am no fool, you know.  Indeed, it would be
plain to the meanest intelligence---'

"My lord," she interrupted, shaken immeasurably by his sudden
gentleness.  She hadn't expected it.  Hadn't known he was capable of
it.  And yet... But even as an image of the sculpted Psyche in his
library flashed before her mind's eye, even as the bitterness in his
tone when he'd apologised for bruising her echoed faintly in her mind,
words that would keep him at a distance were tumbling from her lips. '!
don't know what has given you the impression that-- In short, sir, I
can only repeat that Smith is my name.  That is the truth."  And it
was, she comforted herself.  More or less.

His intent, searching gaze held her captive for several seconds longer.
"Then I can only apologise for upsetting you, Miss Smith."  He released
her hand and drew back.  "Shall we catch up to my wards?  I believe
they're just ahead of us."

"By all means, sir."  It was all the answer Phoebe could manage.  The
slight coolness in Deverell's tone caused her throat to close up and
her eyes to sting.  The sudden sense of loss was piercing, a sharp pain
in her chest, but what else could she have said?  She'd made a promise
of her own, and even though the promise had been forced, surely it had
still to be honoured.

While her beleaguered brain was struggling with this ticklish question,
they overtook the small animated party ahead of them.  To her mingled
distraction and relief, Phoebe was instantly surrounded by Deverells
wanting to indulge in such diverse entertainments as a visit to a

bookshop to purchase political treatises on the rights of women, and
an excursion to Astley's Amphitheatre to see the equestrienne displays.
Cressida was suspiciously quiet, but Phoebe was too beset to worry
about this unusual state of affairs.

As they made their way back to the Stanhope Gate, where Mr.  Filby took
his leave of them, she made sure there was always someone between
herself and Deverell.  It was a depressingly easy task.  He seemed to
have the same intention.

Phoebe felt so ridiculously low by the time they were standing in the
street again that she didn't even raise her voice in protest when she
heard Gerald pestering his uncle to take him to Jackson's Boxing
Saloon.

"Perhaps some time next week, Gerald," Deverell said brusquely as he
turned towards her.  "Miss Smith, thank you for a most instructive
afternoon."  He took the hand she held out before she thought better of
it.  "No doubt we shall meet again soon."

"No doubt," she agreed, avoiding his direct gaze.

He raised her hand to his lips, dropped a kiss into her palm and
released her.  "By the way," he said softly, 'have your abigail sew
those flounces back on your gown before we do."

He turned and was more than halfway down the street before Phoebe
managed to get her mouth closed again.

It was Cressida who brought her back to earth.  "What abigail?"  she
asked.

Phoebe made a concerted effort to pull herself together.  It wasn't
altogether successful.  Her mind seemed suspended in the moment when
Deverell had dropped that casual kiss into her palm as if ... as if...
"Your uncle has a very odd notion of companionS, Cressy," she managed
at last, abandoning any attempt at rational thought.  "I expect he
meant the girl Mr.  Charlton hired to assist the housemaid.  Come now.
We'd better go home before everyone wonders why we're all standing
about in the street."

"You don't need me to escort you home, do you, Phoebe?"  Gerald started
edging away along the street.  "Think I'll take a look-in at the
Pigeonhole.  Fellow I met at Reggie's club took me there last night.
Interesting place.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Perhaps we can go to
Astley's."

"Astley's?  Well--'

But Gerald was already out of earshot.

"Oh, dear," Phoebe said again, gazing after him.  "The Pigeonhole.
Well, that sounds like a nice, harmless place.  Perhaps they serve
ices."

"Never mind about Gerald."  Theo seized Phoebe's sleeve and gave it an
urgent tug.  "I want to go to Hatchard's on our way home, Phoebe.
Edward says they have an excellent selection of political treatises on
all sorts of subjects, and--'

'"Edward"?  Oh, dear."

"I don't know why you bother with those pamphlets, Theo."  Cressida
frowned at her sister.  "You only annoy people when you quote Mary
Wollstonecraft all over the place.  The theatre is where people listen.
I'll sway thousands.  Millions.  I'll be famous.  I'll--'

"Oh, dear."

"We're going to Hatehard's, Cressy.  The theatre can wait."

Taking charge in a manner strongly reminiscent of Lady Grismead,
Theodosia took hold of her sister and started off in the direction of
Piccadilly.

Feeling quite incapable of protesting, Phoebe followed, only vaguely
listening to the argument which continued unabated.  The words
'persecuted' and 'suffering' wafted to her ears, but whether in
relation to thwarted theatrical ambitions or oppressed females was not
clear.  Nor was she inclined to enquire.  She wondered if Hatchard's
had a nice, quiet room set aside for customers who badly needed peace
and solitude.

She devoutly hoped so.  It seemed to her that every

time she encountered Deverell she needed a period of calm reflection
in which to recover.

The following morning, Phoebe found herself in possession of all the
peace and solitude she could have desired.  The breakfast table,
usually a popular and lively place, was entirely devoid of Deverells.

Since the butler had been summoned from Kerslake Park along with a half
dozen or so other servants, and had been with the family for years,
Phoebe had no hesitation in questioning him about this departure from
the normal.

"The young ladies have gone out, miss," he said in answer to her
query.

"Already?  But it's scarcely nine o'clock.  Did Gerald go with them,
Thripp?"

"No, miss.  I understand his lordship is still asleep."  Thripp pursed
his lips and allowed himself a small frown of disapproval.  "Master
Gerald ... I mean, his lordship, did not retire until dawn."

"Dawn!  Well, I suppose we should let him sleep.  Did the twins say
where they were going?"

"Not in so many words, miss, but Lady Cressida mentioned something
about being thrown out into the snow."

Phoebe gazed towards the window in astonishment.  Beyond the open
casement, bordering green lawns and gravel paths, gaily coloured autumn
blooms nodded in the sunshine.  "But it's the middle of September."

"Precisely so, miss."  Thripp's tone lowered to a note of heavy
foreboding.  "Her ladyship may have been rehearsing."

"Rehearsing!"  She looked back at the butler in dismay.  "Oh, no!  The
theatres!  She wouldn't!  Would she?"

Thripp had no trouble following these horrified utterances.  "That I
Couldn't say, miss.  But I did happen to notice that Lady Cressida was
dressed rather strangely."  "Dressed rather-- In what way?"

"She wore a cloak, miss, and was heavily veiled.

Before she lowered the veil, however, I caught a glimpse of her face."
Thripp paused for effect before continuing in a voice of doom.  "I
couldn't be sure, miss, but I think her ladyship's countenance was
painted."

"Painted!  Oh, my goodness, they have gone to the theatres.  For
heaven's sake, Thripp, why didn't you stop them?  No, never mind," she
added when the butler turned a look of reproach on her.  It was no use
chastising Thripp.  He was elderly and not overly blessed with
quickness of wit.  "I know they wouldn't have listened.  I'll have to
go after them at once.  Send the footman out to summon a hackney, if
you please, while I fetch my Pelisse and bonnet."

"Yes, miss.  Shall I send a message to his lordship?"  Phoebe
hesitated, trying to push aside her worry so she could think.  "No, let
him sleep.  There aren't that many reputable theatres in London.  I'm
sure I'll find the girls quite quickly."

"I hope so, miss, but I was referring to Lord Deverell."

"Lord Deverell!  No!  Good heavens, no!  He is not to be told about
this.  Do you hear me, Thripp?"

Inured by long association with Deverells to al arums and starts of a
similar nature, Thripp merely nodded obediently and left the
dining-room.

Phoebe took a moment to finish her coffee on the principle that she'd
need the sustenance, before dashing upstairs to fling on her old
pelisse and her bonnet.  No doubt Deverell would object to her attire,
but this wasn't the time to be fashionable.  When she ran downstairs
again, a hackney was at the door.  She wasted no time climbing into it
and directing the driver to take her to Covent Garden.

Thripp stood on the front doorstep as she was driven away, looking
mournfully after her.  Phoebe wished his expression was a little more
encouraging.  She also wished she had some company.  Even Miss
Pomfret's presence would be preferable to sitting alone with her
worried thoughts, but although Deverell had summoned

Cousin Clara to Town with the servants, Miss Porefret, in a rare
Deverell-like display of defiance, had taken refuge in her bed, citing
nervous prostration and thus delaying her arrival.

Still, she wasn't seriously worried, Phoebe assured herself.  After
all, Theodosia was with her sister, and they would probably have to
wait to see the managers of the various theatres.  She would soon catch
up with her charges.

But she did not catch up with them.

Three hours later, footsore and weary, Phoebe stood in a tiny
malodorous court in the middle of a maze of streets and decided it was
time to take stock of her situation.

It was not good.  For one thing she was exhausted.  She had called
first at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, where she'd learned that her
charges had been turned away by a charming but discouraging Charles
Kmble, who had recently taken over as manager from his famous
brother.

Undaunted, she had then repaired to the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
where, according to Mr.  Alfred Bunn, the manager, the twins had
received a lecture on the impropriety of young ladies of quality
seeking a career on the stage.  Disinclined to believe they had taken
this to heart, she had proceeded to the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, by
then wondering why managers couldn't think of anything more original in
the way of names for their playhouses.

Apparently they couldn't think of anything original in the way of
lectures either.  Her charges, it seemed, had received similar homilies
to Mr.  Bunn's at the Haymarket, the Lyceum and the San Pareil.

"And I'll tell you what else they heard at the other theatres, miss,"
Mr.  Scott of the San Pareil had added.  "The young lady's acting
skills are rather too limited to tragedy and she won't take direction.
I'm sure she does very well in amateur theatricals, but even if her
station in life didn't prohibit her from the public stage, she wouldn't
suit."

"Do you think she might have abandoned the scheme?"  Phoebe had asked
hopefully.

But to her dismay, Mr.  Scott had no such good news to impart. Cressida
had declared her intention of applying to every theatre in London.

"And some of them, miss, ain't what you'd call genteel," Mr.  Scott had
called after her.

Phoebe had just discovered precisely what he'd meant.  After visiting a
succession of lesser playhouses whose productions, while of an inferior
nature, were at least respectable, she had finally been confronted by a
bevy of scantily clad females rehearsing a very odd-looking tableau.

And the owner of the theatre, a rather oily individual, had seemed to
think she was looking for employment.

After ascertaining that the man had not encountered any twins that
morning, Phoebe had fled.  Unfortunately, she had not taken note of
where she was fleeing.  And now, she realised, looking about her with a
shiver, she was quite alone and completely lost somewhere in the
labyrinth of courts and alleys surrounding Covent Garden.

No, not quite alone, she thought, glancing quickly over her shoulder.
There was no one in sight--indeed, the rickety buildings surrounding
the court appeared utterly vacant, their windows, darkened by the grime
of years, reminding her unpleasantly of so many empty eye-sockets--but
she was being watched.  She felt it.  The scrutiny of innumerable eyes
was palpable, like a chilling brush of air across her skin.

The accompanying silence was even more unnerving.  There had been
noise.  She remembered a child's wail, quickly hushed; the clatter of a
tin somewhere in an adjacent alley; a slow creak that might have been
the

closing of a door.  But now silence hung over the small court like a
shroud.

Phoebe frowned and took a firmer hold of her reticule.  This would not
do.  She couldn't stand here dithering all day while hair-raising tales
of the crime abounding in large cities chased one another through her
head.  She would find a shop somewhere and ask for directions.

Two exits led from the court.  An archway beyond which she could see
another smaller, dingier court, and a narrow alley.  She couldn't
remember running along the alley on her way here, but it looked the
more promising of the two.

She had taken no more than a single step towards it when a door banged
open directly behind her."

Phoebe squeaked and whirled about, her heart in her mouth.

A gentleman--yes, unmistakably a gentleman-stepped into the open, a
slim ebony cane tucked under one arm while he drew on his gloves, quite
as if he was preparing for a stroll in the Park.

She blinked.  Once.  Twice.  And still couldn't believe the evidence of
her eyes.  In fact, so unexpected was the sight of such gentlemanly
elegance in these mean surroundings that several seconds passed before
she realised that he, too, was staring as if unable to believe his
senses.

When his expression registered, she found herself stepping back a pace,
her initial hope that here was someone who might help her receiving a
severe jolt.  The frozen rigidity of his features was out of all
proportion to their encounter.  He seemed shocked beyond measure; as if
he gazed upon the utterly impossible rather than the startling and
unusual.

Had there been anyone else in the court, she would have instantly
turned to them, no matter how unsavoury and ruffianly their
appearance.

Phoebe took a shaky breath and told herself not to be foolish.  There
was no one else, and at least he was a gentleman.

"I ... I wonder if you could help me, sir."  Her Voice trembled and she
stiffened her spine.  "I was trying to find the ... the Market."  Yes,
that would do.  She could take a hackney from there.

The gentleman frowned at the sound of her voice, his pale, almost
colourless blue eyes narrowing on her face as he came closer.  "You're
lost?"  he asked, his voice oddly hoarse.  "Who are you?"

Phoebe shifted uneasily.  "Yes," she said, ignoring his second
question.  "That is, I left the Birdcage Theatre by a side door and
must have taken a wrong turning somewhere and..."

She let the words trail off.  The strange expression of shock had gone
but the gentleman was now staring at her in a way that put her forcibly
in mind of a collector savouring the imminent possession of a rare
specimen.  She wanted to shrink into herself, and yet the stranger
hadn't threatened her in any way.

But even as this reassuring thought occurred to her, his gaze travelled
over her drab costume in a manner that suggested he was coming to some
accurate conclusions about her circumstances.

"You must have come from the country," he murmured.

Phoebe took another step back, tales of simple country girls lured to
places of ill-repute and never heard of again promptly darting through
her mind.  "If you wouldn't mind directing me to the Market," she said
firmly.  "I would be very grateful.  This neighbourhood is not exactly
comfortable."  And nor are you, she added silently.

"The Market.  Yes."  His gaze returned to her face and lingered,
seeming to study each individual feature.  "How very extraordinary are
the machinations of fate," he murmured, and smiled.  Quite a pleasant,
unthreatening smile.  She didn't know why she shivered.

"Sir..."

Yes.  Yes, indeed.  The Market."  His smile turned faintly chiding.
"This is no place for a young lady.  Most reckless of you, my dear, to
venture away from the main thoroughfare."

Phoebe was too busy straining her ears at a faint noise to object to
his familiar mode of address.  Had that been a shuffling footstep over
to her left?

"But first--though I feel introductions are hardly necessary--perhaps
we should observe the niceties.  Viscount Crowhurst at your service,
Miss ... er... "Smith," she said briefly, scarcely listening to him.
Yes, that had been a shuffle.  The feeling of being watched grew
stronger, as though the watchers had pressed closer, or perhaps there
were more of them.

Her companion seemed to have no awareness of danger at all.  "Smith,"
he repeated slowly, thoughtfully.  "Ah.  Yes.  Yes, of course.  It
would be.  And you were looking for a theatre, my dear?"

"Not precisely.  Sir, I'm sorry if I seem impolite, but

I'm employed by Lord Deverell and--'

' Deverell?"

The name exploded in the air with such force that Phoebe jerked back
instinctively.  For a moment she could only stare, her mind reeling
beneath the flash of sheer hatred in Crowhurst's pale eyes before he
swiftly lowered his lashes.

She shook her head, unable to believe what she'd seen.  Surely she was
mistaken.  Infuriating though Deverell could be, he could hardly arouse
such bitter enmity in three short months.

"I'm companion to his nieces;' she ventured, beginning to feel rather
like someone groping her way through an impenetrable fog.

Crowhurst raised his eyes to hers again, his expression impassive now
but watchful.  "Is that so, Miss Smith?"  He seemed to dismiss the
statement with a gesture.  "Well, that shouldn't present us with any
problems.  I don't know how it comes about that Deverell has abandoned
you in this sorry neighbourhood, but I hope you'll allow me to escort
you--'

He was cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps ringing on the
cobblestones of the alley.  Already stunned speechless by Crowhurst's
assumption that Deverell would abandon a woman in an area patently
worse than sorry, Phoebe barely had the wit to turn, heart pounding, as
she braced to confront whatever new danger was about to show itself.

A heartbeat later, Deverell strode into the court, a black scowl on his
face, his fists clenched, and an expression in his eyes that gave
Phoebe a glimpse into the hell awaiting anyone who crossed him.

She had never seen a more welcome sight in her life.  Ignoring the
waves of lethal menace emanating from him, she flew across the court as
if her feet had grown wings.  "Oh, my lord!"

He caught her, his hands tightening almost brutally around her
shoulders.  For an instant she thought he was going to pull her closer,
to pull her into his arms and hold her.  The impression was so strong
she cried out, stunned by the intense longing that swept through her
for him to do just that.

And then it was gone.  With a stifled oath he swung her to one side,
leaving his right hand free.  Before she could blink he drew a pistol
from his pocket and levelled it with one smooth motion.

Immediately a sense of movement rippled through the court.  There was
still no sign of life, but it seemed to her that the invisible watchers
took a collective step back.  "A wise precaution, my lord."

Crowhurst strolled over to them, his cane swinging gently from one
hand.  "But the people here know me and have a certain respect for my
own weapon."  The cane was swung again before being tucked under his
arm.

"Sword-stick," said Deverell, nodding.  He lowered the pistol to his
side but kept it in plain sight.

"Yes.  One doesn't venture into these streets unarmed unless one is a
fool.  Or ignorant of the dangers," he added, glancing at Phoebe. "Your
er ... nieces' companion, I believe."

Deverell's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, quite so.  I was about to offer my assistance, but it now appears
unnecessary.  I'm Crowhurst, by the bye.  I believe we met at the
Waterbrooks some weeks ago."

Phoebe gaped at him, astounded by the unctuous civility.  She must have
been mistaken a moment ago.  No man could look like that--so filled
with hatred one minute and then able to hide it so completely the next.
And yet, there was something... "I'm obliged to you," Deverell said
shortly, reclaiming her attention.  "I'm sure you'll understand that my
thanks must necessarily be brief."

"Of course."  Crowhurst turned to Phoebe, his pale eyes boring into
hers before she could avoid his gaze.  "I shall look forward to meeting
you again, Miss Smith.  Please be assured that I will not say a word to
anyone.  About ... anything."  A faint smile curled his lips.  He
inclined his head, then turned and walked away.

Without so much as a glance at her, Deverell stepped back into the
alley, drawing Phoebe with him.  Dazed, her mind in a state of
suspension, she stumbled after him down the lane way Across another
court.  Along an alley so narrow the upper storeys of the houses almost
met overhead.

Whispers hushed through the air behind them.  She caught a glimpse of a
face, pale, furtive, before a door was slammed shut.  A pile of refuse
appeared at her feet.  She dodged it, then blinked, startled, when they
stepped onto a wider street lined with shops and coffee-houses and
light struck her eyes.

A hackney was waiting at the curb, its driver leaning down from his
perch to peer anxiously into the gloomy tunnel from which they'd
emerged.

"Ah, there ye be, gov'nor.  I was getting' a mite worried.

The rookeries ain't no place for the likes o'ye, even if ye are a sight
larger than most.  I see ye found the young lady."

Deverell's pistol vanished into his pocket as smoothly as it had
appeared.  He yanked open the door of the cab, stuffed Phoebe
unceremoniously into it and climbed in after her.  "Park Street," he
said curtly to the driver and slammed the door shut.

She suddenly realised he hadn't addressed one word to her since he'd
come upon her in the court.  One swift glance at his face told her why.
He was furious.  Savagely, relentlessly, furious.

Chapter Six

Silent, deadly, his rage lashed through the interior of the hackney,
filling the small space until the air felt too heavy to breathe.

A fine tremor vibrated through Phoebe's limbs.  The thought of
explaining the situation was almost impossible.  This was no mere fit
of male annoyance.  Deverell's brief moment of gentleness yesterday was
as distant as the stars, nor was there any hint that humour would come
to her rescue.  If the rigid line of his jaw was anything to go by,
only the most formidable control was keeping his fury leashed.

She did not, however, have a lot of choice.  Deverell's nieces were
still missing, and she was too anxious to remain silent.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Phoebe lifted her chin.  "Theo and
Cressy...?"

"Both at home."

"Oh, thank goodness!"  Relief coursed through her, making her sag lira
ply back against the squabs.  She straightened immediately.  His voice
had been as chilling as the frigid depths of the ocean, but in his eyes
blue lightning flashed across the raging sea-green surface.

"I know you must be very angry with them, my lord, but--'

"Angry with them?"

"Yes, and it's perfectly understandable, but please don't be too harsh
with them.  Remember, Theo and Cressy are not used to being disciplined
or checked in any way and--'

"You think I'm angry with them?"

"Well..."  She blinked at him, suddenly wary.  "Aren't you?"

A sound that could only be described as a snarl erupted from his
throat.  "This may come as a surprise to you, Miss Smith, but at the
moment the thought uppermost in my mind is not the twins'
transgressions.  It's you I'm going to strangle.  As soon as I get you
alone."

"Me!  But--'

"What in the name of God did you think you were doing, chasing after my
nieces in that reckless fashion?  You should have notified me
immediately.  But no!  You'd rather put yourself in danger because you
didn't bloody well think first!"

"There is no need to swear at me," Phoebe said, tilting her chin still
further.  She promptly lowered it again when the lightning in his eyes
seemed to leap straight out at her.  He looked as if he might strangle
her there and then.  It was probably not wise to offer any inducement.
Such as unrestricted access to her throat.

"And I did think," she muttered.  "In fact, I was doing quite well
until that dreadful man at the Birdcage kept pestering me to join his
tableau."

"You went into the Birdcage?"  The words were enunciated with ominous
precision.

"I went to all the theatres.  And since they were situated on
relatively busy streets, I didn't see anything rash in my doing so.
Besides, I was in a hackney most of the time."

"God-damn it, The Honeypot isn't on a busy street and you didn't drive
there in a hackney?

The cab slowed down.  "Everythin' orl right in there, guy' nor the
driver enquired, poking his face through the hatch.

"Keep driving!"  Deverell roared.

The man vanished.

Phoebe scarcely noticed that the pace picked up considerably.
"Honeypot?  What Honeypot?"

"That theatre where you met Crowhurst," he snarled.  "How did you get
there?  Fly?"

"Good heavens!  That was a theatre?"

Deverell eyed the stunned expression on her face and half-raised his
clenched fists.  "My God, I ought to give myself the pleasure of
strangling you now.  It would be extraordinarily satisfying."

"Oh, no, I beg you will not," Phoebe said hurriedly.  She eyed his
fists until he lowered them, then tried an appealing smile.  "Only
think of the scandal, sir."

This attempt at diverting him didn't have quite the result she'd hoped.
He ground his teeth audibly.

"You think the discovery of your stabbed or strangled body in one of
the most dangerous parts of the city wouldn't have caused a scandal?
You little idiot!  Even the girls had enough sense to avoid such
places."

"They did?"  Phoebe's jaw dropped.  "You mean I searched for
hours..."

Her defiance collapsed like a deflated balloon, taking her voice with
it.  She sagged back against the squabs again, torn between outrage and
thankfulness that her charges were safe.  "Where did you find them,
sir?  How did you find them?"

Deverell sent her a look of grim meaning.  "After your visit to Covent
Garden, Charles Kemble realised who the girls were and immediately
despatched a message to me.  I caught them at the Parisian, only to be
informed that there was still another female running around loose.
Edward took the twins home while I began the search for you.  Of
course, if I'd known you preferred the company to be found at the
Birdcage and its ilk, I would've saved myself the trouble."

Phoebe grimaced.  "You must know I wasn't there by choice."

"Then why the devil didn't you send for me the instant you knew what
had happened?"  he yelled.

Shaken, knowing she was in the wrong but too overset to admit it, she
yelled right back.  "I didn't want to bother you!"

"Not bother me?  You came up to London for the express purpose of
bothering me, Miss Smith.  Why have a change of heart now?"

"Ohh... I..."  Phoebe felt tears flood her eyes and turned her face
away at once, horrified.  Her swirl burst of temper disintegrated as
abruptly, as if Deverell had struck her.  And yet his question was
entirely logical.  She had to answer.  She mustn't let him see... She
mustn't let him know she'd been nervous about meeting him again, when
she didn't know precisely why.

"I thought I would find the girls quite easily," she finally managed,
clenching her hands until her nails dug into her palms.  She risked a
glance at him from beneath her lashes and saw that his savage
expression hadn't abated one bit.  "I'm very sorry you've been put to
so much trouble, my lord."

"God damn it, Phoebe, don't you dare apologise."

"What?"  She gaped at him, hastily blinking back another threatening
tear.  "Why not?"

"Because I'd be obliged to forgive you and you're not getting off so
easily."  His eyes narrowed abruptly on her face.  "Damn it, are you
crying?"

She gave a surreptitious sniff.  "Of course not, sir.  Why would I be
crying when everything has turned out all right in the end?  I am
merely tired."

He continued to eye her rather narrowly for a minute, then said in a
milder tone, "I'm not surprised.  Perhaps next time you'll think twice
before embarking on such an ill-considered action."

"Yes, well, I dare say such a situation will not occur again."  She
blinked away the last traces of moisture, thankful that both his rage
and her tears seemed to have passed.  Now if she could only get her
insides to stop

quaking.  "What do you intend doing with your nieces, my lord."?"

"I haven't decided, although locking them away somewhere for an
indefinite period has a certain appeal."

"They'd only break out," Phoebe warned him.  "Besides, Lady Grismead is
giving a dance party for them tomorrow afternoon.  They can't possibly
cry off at such short notice."

"A dance party.  To which you're taking them."  "Well, of course."
Hoping this information wouldn't start another outburst, she summoned
up an expression of earnest appeal.  "Dance parties are quite
unexceptionable, sir.  Only very young girls who are not yet out, such
as Lord Braddon's sister and Lady Yarwood's daughters, will be
attending.  It gives them an opportunity to practise various dances.
Naturally, if there's a waltz, Theo and Cressy will be partnered by
their brother."

"If you can get him out of bed in time."

She thought it prudent to ignore that remark.

Deverell continued to study her somewhat grimly for a moment.  "Lady
Yarwood?"

"Yes, do you know her?"

He shrugged.  "We've met.  I believe Crowhurst is some sort of
connection of hers."

"I doubt if Lord Crowhurst will be present at a party got up especially
for young girls, sir."

"He'll find a way to be there if he discovers you'll be attending."

"What?"  Phoebe's jaw dropped.

"You heard me."

"I heard you, sir, but I don't understand your meaning.  I'm sure Lord
Crowhurst was merely being polite when he offered his assistance
and--'

"Polite be damned.  My arrival was the last thing he desired.  You'd
have seen it yourself if you hadn't been busy fleeing to me as if I was
your last hope."

"Oh-h-h!"  Heat stung her cheeks, staining them a bright scarlet.  "I
didn't... He wasn't..."

"You did and he was.  He wants you, you little fool.  Even in that
ridiculous disguise."

"I wondered when we'd get around to my clothes," she muttered.  When
Deverell gave a derisive snort, she straightened her spine.  "I'm not a
complete idiot, my lord.  I mentioned your name almost at once in case
Lord Crowhurst thought I was alone and friendless in London.  Although,
as it happened, he was a perfect gentleman even before I told him I was
employed as your nieces' companion."

"A fact he didn't believe for one minute until I confirmed it."

Phoebe frowned.

"Don't bother trying to recall the words.  The situation didn't call
for any."

"Oh, I see," she retorted, stung to sarcasm.  "It was one of those male
rituals that we females consider incomprehensible."

"You don't need to comprehend it, Miss Smith.  Just stay away from
him."

"I have no intention of encouraging Lord Crowhurst," she declared.
"However, if I happen to see him again I can hardly cut the man dead
when he offered to help me out of an extremely uncomfortable
situation."

Deverell's eyes narrowed again, but this time he didn't say anything.

Feeling as if she'd at least managed to uphold rational womanhood by
having the last word, Phoebe shifted her gaze to the window.  They were
almost home, she was thankful to see.  She would be glad to seek the
sanctuary of her bedchamber where she could recover her composure away
from rebellious' wards and furious guardians.

However, as they swung into Park Street, a glimpse of a nursemaid and
her two small charges staring agape at a passing dandy nudged another
thought to the forefront of her mind.  She remembered Crowhurst's odd
familiarity and frowned, glancing across at Deverell.

He, too, was staring at the passing scene.  Or, rather, scowling at
it.  The worst of his rage might have dissipated, but the hard line
about his mouth and the deep furrow between his brows didn't invite
polite conversation.  It was probably unwise to continue with the
subject of Crowhurst, but the question in her mind was strangely
insistent.

"My lord?"

His gaze snapped to hers.  "What?"

She winced at the bitten-off syllable.  "I was wondering... Is there
anyone in London who ... looks like me?"

"I shouldn't think so, Miss Smith.  I suspect you're unique."

Phoebe didn't make the mistake of taking that as a compliment.  Her own
temper stirred.  "I mean," she enunciated through set teeth, 'do I
resemble anyone closely enough to invite comment?"

Her insistence deepened his frown, the gem-like glitter of his eyes
turning sharply interrogative.  "The answer is still no, Miss Smith.
Why?"

She shook her head.  "It's probably nothing, but when I encountered
Lord Crowhurst, he gaped as if be couldn't believe his eyes and I--'

"It's more likely he couldn't believe your recklessness.  Or his good
fortune."

She let that pass.  "No, it was more than that.  I think you're wrong
about Crowhurst, sir.  The way he spoke to me, it was almost as if he
knew me.  Or ... thought he did.  It was really quite odd."

"The only odd thing about this entire episode, Miss Smith, is that I've
managed to keep my hands from your throat.  Don't press your luck.  If
you wish to remain unscathed, you will give me your word of honour that
you'll refrain from dashing off unaided if this sort of situation
occurs again."

"Well, if you lectured the girls the way you've been lecturing me, I
shouldn't imagine--'

The trapdoor opened a cautious crack.

"We're in Park Street, guvnor.  Which house is it?"  Devereli's mouth
compressed at the interruption, but he glanced out of the window.  "You
can set us down here," he ordered as a familiar door came into sight.

Thripp was standing on the front doorstep precisely where she'd left
him hours ago, holding a bouquet of flowers.  As Phoebe stepped down
from the cab, she found herself entertaining the wild thought that the
butler had been standing there so long someone had planted the flowers
on him.

Obviously she was going mad.

"These were just left by a Mr.  Toombes, Miss," Thripp informed her in
mournful tones.  "There is also a note."  He handed it over.

"Oh, no."  Phoebe eyed the note with dismay before thrusting it into
her pocket.  "How on earth did he find out where I live?"

"If his patron is Lord Portlake, it'd be easy enough to make
enquiries," Deverell said after paying off the hackney.  He glared at
the colourful array in Thripp's hands as if the flowers might house
particularly noxious bugs.  "Thripp, I want a word with you."  Grasping
Phoebe by the arm, he marched her into the house.  "But first I'll
speak to my wards.  Where are they?"

"Mr.  Charlton has them under guard in the drawing-room, my lord."

"Under guard!  Good heavens, Thripp."  Phoebe bent a reproving frown
upon the butler.  "The girls are not felons.  I'd better see them at
once."

She took a step towards the drawing-room, only to be brought up short
by Deverell's long fingers tightening around her arm.

"You're not seeing anyone at present, Miss Smith," he pronounced, using
his hold on her to steer her smartly in the other direction.  Phoebe
found herself confronted by the staircase.  "Is Gerald up yet,
Thripp?"

"I'm not sure, my lord."

"Go and check.  You may inform him that if he isn't down here in five
minutes, I will personally see to it that his exit from his bed is
immediate and unpleasant."

"For goodness' sake, sir, Gerald is not to blame for this morning
activities."

"The speech I intend to make to my wards," Deverell said as Thripp
departed on his errands 'will be made only once.  And you don't need to
hear it, Miss Smith.  You may retire to your room."

"Retire to my room?"  Completely forgetting that she wanted to do
nothing else, Phoebe stared at him, incredulous.  "Well, of all the
arrogant decrees.  Retire to my room!  I'm surprised you're not
ordering me to bed without my supper!"

He looked down at her, eyes narrowing until only a glittering
aquamarine sliver was visible between the midnight-dark lashes.  His
voice went very soft.  Very soft and very gentle.  "An interesting
punishment, Miss Smith.  I shall keep it in mind.  Rest assured,
however, that should I resort to such methods, supper will be
served."

Phoebe's mouth fell open in shock.  At least she thought it was shock.
It was difficult to be sure when Deverell's precise meaning seemed to
be lost somewhere in the swirling fog invading her brain.  His words
said one thing, but his eyes Before she could recover her thought
processes, he brought both hands up to cup her shoulders and draw her
around to face him.

"Now," he said in quite a different tone, 'do I have your promise that
you'll let me know the instant one of my wards goes off on some
hare-brained start?"

Promise?  She couldn't even think.  Surely he hadn't meant that he was
going to serve But that thought, too, shattered when his hands closed
more firmly around her much smaller frame and he drew her closer.  At
least her upper body moved closer; her feet seemed glued to the floor.
Phoebe stumbled and almost collided with Deverell's chest.
Instinctively her hands lifted to steady herself and she gasped aloud
at the contact.  Beneath the fine fabric of his coat he was rock-solid,
as hard as the most fiercely tempered steel; but warm, and intensely
alive.

"Your promise, Miss Smith," he repeated in a voice so low anyone
standing more than three feet away wouldn't have heard it.

"Well, yes ... I suppose... That is ... not all their starts are
hare-brained, sir.  At least..."

"No."  He moved his hands inwards.  Very gently, inch by slow inch, his
fingers smoothed up her throat to cup the back of her head, Using the
slightest pressure of his thumbs, he tipped her face up until her gaze
was caught by his and held, chained by the intent, wholly focused power
of those light, glittering eyes.

"No hesitations.  No conditions.  Your word of honour, Miss Smith."

"My lord, this is most..."

The words vanished on another gasp as his fingers widened, moving
gently against the sensitive flesh of her nape.  If she'd had the
breath, she would have accused him of trying to intimidate her again,
except that she wasn't intimidated in the least.  Her acute awareness
of the formidable strength in those big, powerful hands made her shiver
helplessly, but the shivers weren't induced by fear.

Her gaze fell to his mouth.  It really was a beautiful mouth, she
thought distractedly.  Utterly masculine, hard, fierce, and yet
passionate.  And so close.  Another inch or two and his breath would
bathe her lips.  An inch closer than that and they could almost'
Promise me, Phoebe."  "Yes," she breathed.

His hold tightened.  For a fleeting instant she could have sworn a
faint tremor passed through his fingers to the flesh heating beneath
his touch.  Then he stepped back, releasing her slowly until his hands
fell to his

sides.  Bemused, she followed the movement, watching his fingers curl
into fists so tight she saw his knuckles turn white.

"There," he said, his voice intriguingly husky, 'that wasn't so
difficult, was it?"

"Oh!"  Suddenly realising he was' no longer holding her, Phoebe grabbed
for the stair-rail.  What on earth had Deverell done to her?  She
couldn't remember when she'd last taken a breath.  Her head was
spinning.  Her throat felt tight.  She feared she might actually
swoon--an action she'd always considered as idiotic as it was useless.
Now it seemed not only a real possibility, but rather more useful than
she'd suspected.

With an enormous effort, she dragged in a breath and focused her eyes
on his cravat.  "If you don't mind, my lord, I think I'll ... retire to
my room.  I feel quite ... quite..."

"An excellent idea, Miss Smith.  You must be exhausted."

"Exhausted.  Yes.  Yes, that's it.  Exhausted.  Good day, sir."

"Until tomorrow, Phoebe."

"To--' Her gaze lifted to his.  It was a good thing she was still
hanging onto the stair-rail, she thought.  Because the blue and gold
flames blazing in his eyes threatened her senses all over again.

"There's no need to look so alarmed," he said softly.  "I intend to see
how my wards comport themselves.  One taste of me looking over their
shoulders and there shouldn't be any trouble for a few weeks."

"Oh.  Trouble.  Yes.  I mean, no.  I mean ... a very sound notion, my
lord."

With a sudden burst of energy, induced by sheer panic, she relinquished
her grip on the stair-post, turned and fled up the stairs.

Sebastian watched her go, aware of a fierce elation roaring through his
veins.  The force of it startled him.  He barely managed to stop
himself letting out a primitive yell of triumph.  He felt as if he'd
just taken a giant step forward in the pursuit of something elusive,
and yet in definably precious.  Something he wanted ... no, needed to
possess.  A need that until yesterday he'd put down to physical
desire.

But physical desire did not account for the other emotions he'd
recently encountered.  The discovery just now that his delectably
disapproving Miss Smith was not indifferent to him was, in fact, the
only bright spot in a morning that had seen him reel helplessly from
violent rage to raw fear and back again.  Emotions he hadn't felt since
he was nineteen.  He had not enjoyed the experience then, and he liked
it: even less now.

Damn it, that little wretch.  had played absolute havoc with his
control yet again.

But now ... ah, now, he understood why.  If he hadn't been so
distracted by his strange possessiveness yesterday he would have seen
it then.  He hadn't even known he'd been waiting, but from the moment
he'd stood, watching Phoebe across a swathe of lawn, and realised that
the softness, the sweetness, the gentle glow haunting his dreams were
as real, as enticing, as the strength and humour and intelligence
shining in her eyes, he'd known.  This was the one.

Sebastian stared at the now empty staircase and thought back.  Had he
sensed it from the tone of the letters Edward Charlton had mentioned?
he wondered suddenly.  The writer's name hadn't stayed with him, but
had he known, somewhere deep inside himself, that Phoebe would come up
to Town to confront him if no one replied to her missives?  Known and
waited because he had no intention of returning to the scene of his
banishment?

He shrugged inwardly.  It didn't matter now.  She was his.  The one
woman with whom he wanted to share his life.

It wouldn't be that easy, of course.  Because of his own shadows--and
because he suspected her heart

would follow where she trusted--he wanted her belief in his honour
before he won her heart.  And the trust of such a wary little creature
would be hard-won.  One wrong word or move and she'd probably assume he
was going to offer her a carte blanche.

She would also be only too ready to throw that promise he'd made her in
his face.

A slow, rather anticipatory smile curled Sebastian's lips as he turned
away from the stairs and strode across the hall to the room where his
wards awaited him.  Phoebe hadn't realised it yet, but contained in
that promise was a giant loophole.  And he was going to make sure she
slipped right through it straight into his arms.

His smile grew as he wondered what his delectably disapproving Miss
Smith's reaction would be if she knew he was about to change the terms
of her employment yet again.

Quite some time elapsed before Phoebe found herself recalling the oddly
mislaid fact that Deverell was her employer.  Her strange forgetfulness
was extremely' worrying.  For the first time in her adult life,
emotions and physical sensation had completely taken over her
well-ordered mind.

And she didn't know what to do about it.

Restless, she rose from the chair where she'd been sitting, waiting for
her senses to return to something resembling normal, and walked over to
her dressing-table.  She hadn't even removed her bonnet, she saw,
gazing at the solemn-eyed image staring back at her through the glass.
Thoughtfully, she did so, tossing the drab brown hat aside.  Her hair
was a mess.  Several tendrils had been freed from their severe knot
when Deverell had touched her nape, his hands so big and powerful and
warm and a rush of shimmering heat flowed through her, turning her
knees to water.  Phoebe sat down rather suddenly, nearly missing the
rose brocade stool in the process.  She righted herself, glaring at her
reflection as she did so.

This was ridiculous.  She was going to put a stop to it immediately.
The first thing to do was face the truth.  She was strongly attracted
to Deverell.  It was no use denying what was perfectly obvious. 
Despite all the lectures on the evils of unbridled passion she had
received nearly every day of her childhood, she suspected she could
have felt very unbridled indeed if Deverell had been intent on passion
rather than promises.

Unfortunately, no great illumination resulted from an inordinate number
of minutes spent in wondering why she was so powerfully drawn to him.
His flashes of humour appealed to her; she was curious about the
restraint she sensed in him and the shadows briefly glimpsed beneath
the glittering surface of his eyes, but those qualities would hardly
turn her brain to mush and the rest of her to trembling blancmange.

No, it must be a case of intense physical attraction.  She'd been
warned to guard against unseemly urges often enough by her family not
to know that ladies were capable of such urges, even if she'd never
experienced the phenomenom until now.  After all, Deverell was
different to every other man she'd ever met.  For all she knew, that
was all it took.

Or perhaps it was merely a resurgence of her girlish tendencies towards
romance, also deplored by her relatives.  Or the fact that she'd rather
foolishly come to think of her charges as the family she'd always
wanted but would probably never have.

"But the Deverells are not my family," she told herself sternly.  "In
fact--' remembering the note in her pocket and frowning thoughtfully
'--unless someone of humble station, such as Mr.  Toombes, offers for
me, marriage is not likely to be my lot in life.  And since I wouldn't
accept someone like Toorobes anyway, the only romance I'm likely to
encounter is between the pages of my books."

No argument came to mind to refute that unassailable

logic.  Phoebe ordered herself to forget romance and concentrate on
the real problem: how to cure herself of such an unsuitable
attraction.

Her first impulse was to insist that Deverell accept her immediate
resignation, but no sooner had the notion occurred to her than she was
overwhelmed with dismay.  So little did she want to leave, that for a
moment she found her traitorous mind entertaining the hope that if Miss
Grismead was still unmarried by the start of the next Season, Deverell
might need her to stay longer.

"And what good will that do?"  she demanded scornfully of her
reflection.  "You might find your employer interesting--well, all
right, fascinating," she amended as her image frowned in disapproval of
this mild description.  "But nothing can come of it."

"Are you sure?"  asked an insidious little voice that seemed to come
out of nowhere.  "He said you intrigue him and he can be quite charming
to you."

Phoebe stared at the glass, wondering if her mirrored self had actually
spoken or if she was losing what few wits she had left.  Not that it
mattered; there wasn't anyone around to hear her talking to herself.

"He said that only once, and I'm not at all sure he meant it," she
argued.  "As for charm, well, you know what Deverells are like. They're
perfectly capable of using charm if they think it'll work. Look at the
way he extracted that promise from me."

"But he didn't have to use charm.  You'd have promised anyway."

"He didn't know that."

This gave her reflection pause.  Phoebe took advantage of the lull to
point out a few facts.  They weren't particularly pleasant, but
experience had taught her they were correct.

"Whether or not Deverell could ever be attracted to me doesn't matter.
I'm his nieces' companion.  And we know, what happens when gentlemen
develop an interest in governesses and companions.  Marriage is not the
first thought that pops into their heads."

"Very true.  But it might be the second."

Phoebe gaped at the temptress in the mirror.  "Have you mn mad?"  she
demanded.  "It wouldn't be the third.  Or even the fourth, fifth or
sixth.  I have absolutely nothing to recommend me as wife to a man of
Deverell's standing.  Not only that, but if any gentleman were to offer
for me, I'd be obliged to tell him my real name and why I changed
it."

Her reflection pursed its lips.  "A Deverell wouldn't care about that
old scandal."

"How do you know?  You're not even sure precisely what happened."  She
considered that.  "Nor am I. Besides, there are other matters to take
into account.  If I recall correctly, Deverell's barony is not a landed
title.  If he does marry, he's sure to choose an heiress to a large
estate."

Her reflection could do nothing but nod in reluctant agreement to this
statement.  Phoebe found the response so disheartening she immediately
ordered herself to cease such an idiotic conversation.

How on earth had she got onto the subject of marriage anyway?  She was
supposed to be effecting a cure, not slipping further into fantasy.
Instead of wondering what attracted her to Deverell, she might be more
profitably employed in compiling a catalogue of his less appealing
qualities.  There were sure to be plenty.  He was a Deverell.

This exercise, once started, proved reasonably successful.  By the time
she'd reached the end of a list that included arrogance, unjustifiable
threats of strangulation and dictatorial tendencies, and had added the
suspicion that he deliberately set out to addle her wits--quite
unnecessarily---every time they met so he could have his own way, she
felt a good deal better.

Quite able to return to her duties, in fact.

When a knock sounded on the door a short time later, she had even
changed into one of the gowns Deverell had provided for her.  The sot
amber-coloured jaconet muslin skirts hushed gently about her ankles as
she crossed the room to answer the summons.

She wasn't very much surprised to find the twins standing in the hall
outside her room.  What did bring a startled exclamation to her lips
was the evidence that Theodosia had been crying, not her more dramatic
sister.

"May we speak with you, Phoebe?"  Theo asked in uncharacteristically
subdued accents.

Phoebe blinked at her to make sure she'd got the right twin.  Although,
since Cressida's made-up face put her forcibly in mind of a badly
constructed rainbow, it was difficult to be mistaken.

"Yes, of course, Theo."  She stepped back so the girls could enter.
"Oh, dear, I did ask your uncle not to be too harsh, but I can see he
ignored me as usual."

"It wasn't Uncle Sebastian," said Theo, hovering around Phoebe as
though she feared her companion was going to collapse at any moment.
"We knew what he was going to say.  Can we get you anything, Phoebe?  A
mustard plaster?  One of Dr.  James's Powders, perhaps?"

"Dr.  James's Powders?  A mustard plaster?  Why on earth...?  Cressy,
why are you holding on to me?  I'm not about to swoon."

"Are you sure?"  Cressida queried, peering at her intently.  "Perhaps
you should lie down.  Do you have any smelling-salts?  Is there
anything we can do for you?"

"We'll even do your mending," Theodosia offered.  "Should we dust the
ornaments?  Would you like me to arrange some flowers?"

"Perhaps we can make you some gruel."

"Yes.  You could sip it in bed."

"Do you want us to read an improving sermon or something?"

"In improving sermon!"  Phoebe gaped at Cressida as if she'd lost her
wits.  "Has everyone run mad today?  I can't believe your uncle even
knows that improving sermons exist.  Sit down and tell me precisely
what he said."

This command appeared to throw Theodosia into a pit of despair.  She
plunked herself down cross-legged on Phoebe's bed and propped her chin
in her hands.  "Nothing we didn't expect," she said dolefully.  "We
should have thought of the consequences.  We should have known you'd
come after us.  Why did he have to be inflicted with fluff-brained
females?"

"Actually, he said pretty much what Edward said," Cressida added.
"Except for that last bit."

"Edward?"  Phoebe glanced quickly at Theodosia.  "I see."

Theo sent her a look of earnest appeal.  "We're truly sorry, Phoebe.  I
mean, we would have apologised anyway, because Uncle Sebastian told us
to, but we really mean it."  She turned to her sister.  "Don't we,
Cressy?"

Cressida nodded.  "We didn't think our going to the theatres would put
you in danger, Phoebe."

"I wasn't in that much danger," Phoebe demurred, deciding to accept
this rather ingenuous apology in the spirit in which it was offered.
"In any event, nothing untoward happened, so we'll say no more about
it."

She fully expected the twins to bounce back to their usual exuberant
selves after this speech, but instead Cressy sat down next to her
sister and the pair proceeded to stare dismally at nothing in
particular.

"Has your uncle forbidden you to go out?"  Phoebe queried after a
moment, unable to think of anything else that would cast her charges so
thoroughly into gloom.

"Oh, no," Cressida said vaguely.  "He didn't even threaten to send us
back to Kerslake, which we quite expected him to do."  She glanced
sideways at her sister.  "It was Edward."

"Oh.  Well, I'm sure he won't remain angry for long, Theo."

Theodosia sniffed.  "It isn't that, Phoebe.  Edward was quite calm
about the whole thing.  But he said if women wanted to be given more
rights and independence, then we had to be prepared to accept
responsibility also, and ... and be worthy of those rights.  And ... he
was right."

"Yes, he was," Phoebe said gently.  "But nobody expects you to
understand that immediately, Theo.  Goodness, at your age most girls
think only of gowns and parties, not of rights and responsibilities."

"She only did it for me," Cressida muttered.

"You see, Phoebe, Cressy needs something to do.  I have my interest in
the rights of women--Edward and I have the most fascinating
discussions, you know---but Cressy isn't like me.  She needs something
different

"But acceptable," Phoebe responded, smiling ruefully.  To her relief,
this drew faint smiles in return.  Dealing with contrite Deverells was
an interesting experience, but it was also somewhat disconcerting.  She
should have known, however, that the twins would take even contrition
to extremes.

"I really did want to be an actress," Cressida said wistfully.  "But if
there was something else..."

"Why not try writing drama?"  Phoebe said, struck by sudden
inspiration.  "You know you've always enjoyed the Gothic novels I
borrow from the circulating libraries.

I'm sure you could write one just as interesting."  Cressida looked
doubtful.  "Do you think so?"

"Of course I do.  What's more, your uncle isn't likely to take
exception to the scheme.  Especially if you write under a nora de
plume."

"I suppose I could try it."

"You could make Uncle Sebastian the villain," Theo suggested darkly.
She scowled.  "He certainly has the temper for it.  Edward was just as
cross, but he didn't threaten to strangle us and throw our bodies into
the Thames."

"Oh, goodness!  Is that what your uncle threatened to do?"  Phoebe
thought of her own encounter with Deverell's temper and was stunned by
a sudden return of her earlier gloom.  She'd known he wouldn't really
carry out his threat to strangle her, but the fact that he'd made the
same threat to the twins made her wonder if, in his mind, she belonged
in the same category.

Not only another fluff-brained female, but a nuisance.

A troublesome duty.  A responsibility he didn't want.  The thought was
positively depressing.

"That wasn't all," Cressida added.  "He said that if anything happened
to you, we'd find ourselves on a ship to the Colonies so fast we
wouldn't know where we were.  Can ladies be shipped to the Colonies,
Phoebe?"

"He didn't mean it, silly."  Theodosia frowned at her sister, but a
moment later her frown took on a rather thoughtful aspect.  "But you're
right.  Uncle Sebastian did seem more worried about Phoebe than about
us."  She looked at her companion.  "Isn't that strange?"

"Quite extraordinary," Phoebe agreed glumly.

Her mood hadn't lifted by the time Thripp announced that dinner awaited
them.  As far as she was concerned, the only reason for Deverell's
concern was that he would have felt in some way responsible if his
nieces' antics had led to her being harmed.  And since she'd been the
one to put him in that position in the first place, it was no wonder he
wanted to strangle all three of them.

Unfortunately for her low spirits, there was no diversion to be found
at the dinner table.  The girls were still contrite, and Gerald looked
as if he hadn't slept for several weeks.  Phoebe was quite sure she
could detect early signs of dissipation in his heavy-eyed countenance.
Something else for her to worry about.

All in all it was a very subdued party who adjourned

to the drawing-room and began a lacklustre game of Speculation.  The
tea-tray was brought in and ignored.  Nobody argued when Phoebe decreed
an early night was in order.

Chapter Seven

Fortunately for her equilibrium, a reasonably sound sleep did much to
restore the balance of Phoebe's mind.  She arose betimes, having
convinced herself that her usual calm good sense had been overset
yesterday by worry about her missing charges.

As for her strange attraction to Deverell: well, she had simply
mistaken the novelty of enjoying a man's company--secure in the
knowledge that he wasn't going to make any unwanted advances--for a
stronger attraction.  And she had to admit, annoyingly large and
dictatorial though Deverell might be, there was something rather
reassuring about those qualities when one found oneself in a
potentially dangerous situation.

All she had to do, therefore, was maintain a polite and proper distance
and avoid dangerous situations.  Especially where gentlemen were
concerned.

With this resolute goal in mind, she launched an assault on the gown
she intended to wear to the dance party that afternoon.  Unfortunately,
thanks to the lectures she gave herself all through the exercise, she
didn't remember Tobias Toombes's note until after a light luncheon had
been consumed.

She was just in time to avert disaster.  Mr.  Toombes had apparently
decided that the violence of his feelings outweighed the tricky
question of his calling on her at her place of employment.  He had, he
wrote with a

determined hand, a matter of crucial importance to his physical and
mental well-being to discuss with her.  He would do anything in pursuit
of a favourable outcome.  He was sure her celestial sweetness would
lead her to forgive his disobeying her veto on visits.  If not, he
would be happy to crawl to her on hands and knees in pursuit of this
worthy cause.

Since Phoebe had never given him any reason to suppose that the
well-being, physical or mental, of a gentleman who waited for fate to
throw her in his path again was of the slightest interest to her, this
very pointed note sent her into a frenzy of activity.  Her charges were
pushed and prodded out of the house a good half-hour before they were
due to leave for Lady Grismead's--and a mere ten minutes before the
hour appointed by Toombes for his visit--and told that a walk to the
Grismead residence would do them good.

The walk was not one of unalloyed pleasure.  She didn't know from which
direction Toorobes would come and at every corner expected to be
confronted by the sight of him crawling pathetically towards her, bony
hand outstretched.  No such hideous vision assaulted her eyes, however,
which left her free to lend an ear to Gerald's complaints that he'd
wanted to try out his new phaeton, while her mind pondered ways and
means of avoiding both Toombes's impending proposal, and Deverell's
company.

She needn't have worried about Deverell.  When they were ushered into
Lady Grismead's drawing-room, there was no sign of him among the crowd
of chattering damsels and the male relatives they had coerced or
cajoled into accompanying them.

So much for keeping an eye on his wards' behaviour, she thought,
irrationally annoyed by this evidence of neglect.  She'd spent the last
half-hour rehearsing a very cool, proper little greeting and he wasn't
even here to receive it.

Then, as her eyes met those of a gentleman standing on the other side
of the room, her emotions underwent an abrupt about-face.  Elegantly
clad in a plum-coloured coat and pale pantaloons, his hand resting
lightly on the back of Lady Yarwood's chair, Crowhurst stood watching
her with the fixed stare that had made her want to shrink into the
background yesterday.  The effect hadn't diminished overnight.

"Ah, Miss Smith.  At last.  Now we can begin."  Lady Grismead,
resplendent in steel-grey silk, descended upon them, cutting off all
retreat.  "You will be happy to play the pianoforte," she informed
Phoebe.  "So much easier to practice the steps of a dance when there is
music."

"Yes, ma'am," Phoebe agreed, abandoning at birth any hope of leaving
her charges in Lady Grismead's care and making her escape.  "And I must
apologise for our lateness.  We took a wrong turn and walked a little
out of our way."

"A little?"  muttered Cressida, handing her bonnet into the tender care
of a maid.  "More like miles."

"You walked?"  Her ladyship frowned.  "Extraordinary.  I am an advocate
of genteel forms of exercise, Miss Smith, but one cannot consider
wandering, lost, about the streets of London to be anything but
unsuitable."

"Worst; than that," Gerald grumbled.  "I wanted to try my new
phaeton."

Phoebe quelled him with a look that would have done credit to a
Deverell and bent her mind to the task of placating her hostess.  "No
doubt we'll soon learn our way about, ma'am.  Goodness, I see you have
quite a crowd.  One would think it the crash of the Season."

She scanned the room, her eyes widening when she recognised several
familiar faces, Edward Chadton and Lord Bradden among them.  "Gerald
has even impressed Mr.  Filby into service.  How did you acquire so
many partners for the girls?"

"My parties are always successful," pronounced her ladyship in a tone
that would have given pause to any party considering failure.  "Even a
simple dance party.

All it takes is organisation.  Organisation, Miss Smith.  Next time
you walk, consult a map.  The pianoforte is behind you by the window.
You may begin as soon as you are ready.  Tbeodosia, Cressida, come with
me."

Left summarily alone, Phoebe made her way to the pianoforte, wondering
if a visit from Toombes wouldn't be preferable to an afternoon spent on
tenterhooks, after all.  If Deverell ever discovered Crowhurst was
here, she'd never hear the end of it.  As for Crowhurst, himself,
though he showed no signs of approaching her, his pale, unwavering gaze
was extremely disconcerting.  She could only hope the aRe moon would go
off without incident.

For a while her hope seemed justified.  With a great deal of laughter
from the ladies and instructions from the male contingent, the dancers
took to the floor, twirling their way through country dances, the
quadrille, and even a waltz, those ladies not fortunate enough to be
partnered by brothers or cousins pairing off with each other.

It was when the butler appeared with refreshments that the afternoon
disintegrated with positively startling rapidity.  Before she could
rise from the piano stool, Phoebe found herself besieged by males.

"Miss Smith--' Lord Bradden gazed at her with the earnest expression of
a puppy anxious to please '-may I fetch you a cup of tea, or a glass of
lemonade?"

"Miss Smith, do try one of these salmon patties."  Mr.  Charlton's
smile was a trifle strained.  He leaned closer under the guise of
offering her a plate.  "Do you think Lady Theodosia seems rather quiet
today, ma'am?  I'm concerned that I may have been too harsh
yesterday."

"I say, Miss Smith, you must be fixed to that stool by now."  Mr.
Filby, a blinding vision in bright yellow pantaloons, a white satin
waistcoat embroidered with gold hummingbirds, and a gold brocade coat
of startling cut and hue, bowed with a flourish.  "Care to take a
toddle around the room with me?  Loosen up a bit, you know."

"If anyone could toddle after being trampled upon by one's partners,"
drawled a gentleman on Phoebe's other side.  "You positively astound
me, Filby."

At the sound of the light, mocking tone, Phoebe froze.  She didn't know
why, but quite suddenly she felt extremely cold.

Crowhurst must have had the same effect on Deverell's secretary.  Mr.
Charlton glanced across at the older man, his fine grey eyes hardening.
"Miss Smith, I don't believe you've met Lord Crowhurst," he said, his
voice heavy with meaning.

Crowhurst's lips curled.  "Oh, Miss Smith and I are old friends," he
contradicted easily.  "I was, in fact, hoping to see her today.  Allow
me to congratulate you on your playing, my dear Phoebe.  But I know you
have many talents."

A strained silence fell on the group.  Phoebe suspected that one glance
at her face would be enough to inform the others that Crowhurst was
lying, or at least exaggerating, but none of them, she realised, was a
match for the older man's cool assumption of friendship.  Lord Bradden
was far too young; Mr.  Filby, though three or four years older than
Gerald, was still no match for a man close to Deverell in age; and
Edward Charlton, while looking grim, was clearly aware that a public
challenge might place Phoebe in an awkward position.

She was aware of it herself.  Rising to her feet, she prepared to do
the only thing possible.  Abandon the field.

"Allow me to escort you to the refreshment table," Crowhurst said,
immediately divining her purpose.  His gaze slid over her, lingering on
her throat.  The square neckline of her gown was quite respectable, but
Phoebe had to resist a swift urge to tug it upward.  "That is, if you
insist on cruelly abandoning your admirers, my dear."

"I do," she stated, feeling a flush of annoyance stain her cheeks.
"Furthermore, sir--' She was pulled up short by the abrupt change of

expression that flashed across Edward Charlton's face.  Alerted, her
gaze flew to the doorway.

Deverell stood in the aperture, broad shoulders filling out a coat of
burgundy superfine, long, powerful legs clad in breeches and top boots
one hand stuffed into his pocket, the other clenched by his side, and a
scowl on his face that would have quelled the most besieged malden
looking for rescue.

Phoebe's heart did indeed trip and start to race.  All in all, Deverell
did not look like her idea of a gallant rescuer.  In fact, she wouldn't
have been surprised to learn that the hand clenched in his pocket was
wrapped around a pistol.  And yet, despite the ugly expression in his
eyes as he stared at Crowhurst, despite the hard, unrelenting line of
his mouth, she didn't feel quelled in the least.

Her lips parted as though she would call to him; she even took a step
forward, as though pulled towards him by an invisible chain, before she
recollected herself.

Oh, goodness!  What was she doing?  If anyone noticed ... if he ever
suspected... And he wasn't even dressed for the occasion.  It was just
like him to arrive in riding clothes when... Her thoughts scattered
like wraiths in a mist.  Phoebe's heart almost stopped completely when
Devirell's gaze flashed from Crowhurst to her face and the menace in
his eyes disappeared.  A slow smile curved his hard mouth.  A rather
pleased smile.  It had the very peculiar effect of making her legs feel
as if they were suddenly made of jelly.  When he started towards her
she had to put a hand on the pianoforte to steady herself.

"Good afternoon, Miss Smith.  I trust I find you well?"  Deverell took
her free hand and bestowed a brief kiss on the inside of her wrist.

Phoebe nearly sank back onto the piano stool in a boneless heap.

"For goodness' sake, my lord," she expostulate ding a strangled
whisper.  "What on earth do you think you are about?  Riding clothes!
And you should be greeting your aunt and Lady Yarwood, not-- Oh, dear,
now I have five gentlemen..."

She glanced distractedly about her.  Filby, Lord Bradden and Mr.
Charlton weren't paying the least attention to her incoherent
stutterings.  They were too busy goggling at the hard-edged looks being
exchanged by her infuriating employer and Crowhurst.

Images of snarling, sword-wielding warriors instantly presented
themselves to her beleaguered mind.

"Oh, my goodness.  My lord, don't you think you should greet your aunt
before you ... before you...?"  "Before I what, Miss Smith?"

With considerable effort she summoned up a glare.  "I don't know, sir,
but Lady Grismead is your hostess and---'

Deverell laughed softly and glanced down at her.  "Who do you think is
footing the bill for this little gathering?  If I greet my aunt, she's
likely to go off in a fit of apoplexy that I dared show my face here to
remind her of it."

Fortunately for Phoebe's frazzled wits, she was spared the need to
answer this irreverent statement.  A lady of about he own age, a cap of
feathery black curls and a pair of sapphire eyes proclaiming her
Deverell heritage, chose that moment to drift into the room in a cloud
of palest blue muslin.  Scurrying behind her was a thin, gnome-like
little gentleman of sparse hair and harassed when who, Phoebe deduced,
could only be Lord Grismead.

"There!  Now your uncle and cousin have arrived.  Will you kindly take
me to Lady Grismead, sir?"

"Are you sure you wish to be caught in the middle of a confrontation
between Deverell and his aunt, Miss Smith?  I'm reliably informed that
it isn't a comfortable position in which to be."

Phoebe stiffened as Crowhurst's mocking tones smote her ears again.
Really!  Didn't anyone have any manners

these days?  There was Deverell treating his family as if they didn't
exist, and now Crowhurst apparently felt quite at liberty to intrude on
a private conversation whenever he heard one.

Momentarily forgetting that contact with Deverell had a highly
unsettling effect on her senses, she touched his arm lightly.  He
promptly tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"There will be no confrontation, sir," she informed Crowhurst in her
coolest tones.  "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have neglected my
duties long enough."

The three younger men, who until that moment had been giving an
excellent imitation of exhibits in a waxworks, came to life with a
collective start.

"Most obliging of you to play the pianoforte for us, Miss Smith," Lord
Bradden said earnestly.

Mr.  Filby bowed.  "Your servant, ma'am."

Mr.  Charlton aimed an absent smile at her, then turned anxious eyes on
his employer.  "Sir, you did grant me leave of absence this
afternoon."

"Yes, Edward, I remember."  Deverell bestowed a benign smile on the
trio that had them all blinking like astonished owls.  "Please continue
to enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.  I'm sure the other young ladies will
be only too pleased to assist in the endeavour."  He led Phoebe away,
pointedly excluding Crowhurst from the request.

"Well!"  After one glance at Deverell's expression, Phoebe valiantly
assumed the bright tone of one praising a diligent pupil.  "That went
off quite civilly."

"Strive for the intelligence I've come to expect from you, Miss
Smith."

She abandoned approval with unprecedented speed.  "Except for the
glares you and Crowhurst were exchanging, of course.  Would you mind
telling me what that was all about, my lord?  Yesterday you were
obliged to him."

"Yesterday I had more pressing priorities than feeding Crowhurst his
own sword-stick.  As for today, you know damned well what it was about.
I warned you about Crowhurst.  Now are you convinced he wants you?"

"There is nothing more annoying than a person who says I told you so,"
stated Phoebe, nose in the air.  "Lord Crowhurst certainly has a very
odd manner, but even though he behaved in that detest ably familiar
way, it seemed ... I don't know ... almost natural."

"It is natural, you little goose.  The sort of naturalness designed to
fluster innocents like you by forcing an intimacy that doesn't
exist."

"I don't mean that," she said impatiently, "It was just as I told you
yesterday.  He spoke as if ... as if he really believes he knows me
well.  Do you think he might be a little unbalanced?"

"A convenient explanation," Deverell said grimly.  Then, quite
unexpectedly, he started to smile.  "But I must say, my little
innocent, you gave him a most delightful set-down."

"Set-down?  What--?"

His eyes glinted down at her.  "You touched me.  Of your own free will.
And that, my proper.  little governess, was done perfectly
naturally."

Phoebe promptly snatched her hand from his arm.  "Obviously, a
gentleman's mind exists on quite another plane than that of a lady,"
she said severely, conscious of the hot colour sweeping into her
cheeks.  His little governess, indeed!  She might be little compared to
a Deverell, and no doubt the same applied to being proper, but she
wasn't his!

It was strange how that realisation made her feel quite alone all of a
sudden.

"A lower plane," she clarified, shaking off these useless maunderings.
"I merely requested your escort, my lord.  And, I might add, I would
not have needed to do so if you hadn't been glaring at Crowhurst as if
you were about to call him out."

"If what Edward discovered for me this morning is

more than rumour, Crowhurst needs whipping rather than a chance on the
field of honour."

"Good heavens!"  Phoebe's eyes widened.  "You've been asking about
Crowhurst?  Whatever for?"

"I prefer to know my enemies, Miss Smith."

"But Crowhurst hasn't done anything to you."  She tilted her head,
considering that statement.  "For that matter, he hasn't done anything
to me."

"He shows every sign of pursuing a lady who is under my protection,"
Deverell said with soft menace.  "He is a man whose reputation with
women is not that of a gentleman.  Have you forgotten precisely where
you met him, Miss Smith?  The Honeypot isn't a theatre that caters to
the usual' crowd of playgoers."

"Oh, goodness!"  Phoebe came to an abrupt halt near a bay window where
several young people were engaged in animated conversation.  "No, I
suppose not.  Well, if the manager stages plays like that very peculiar
tableau-'

She stopped, glaring, as Deverell started to grin.  "Yes'you may well
laugh, my lord, but I found nothing amusing in having to talk my way
out of a career as a sea-nymph!"  She thought back and shuddered.  "As
far as I could tell, their costumes consisted of fish scales painted on
muslin and wrapped around their legs and very little else."

"Nothing else, I expect," Deverell said, a wicked light in his eyes.
"But although that creature at the Birdcage deserves a good thrashing
for insulting you, Miss Smith, I can't fault his taste.  You would make
a delightful sea-nymph.  Not for public edification, of course."

"Not for-' Under Deverell's amused gaze, Phoebe struggled valiantly to
recover her powers of speech.  "No, of course not.  As if I would...
Oh, goodness me, what am I saying?  Really, my lord, this is a most
improper conversation.  I can't think how... Kindly remember where we
are, sir."

Good advice, she thought distractedly.  She hadn't even remembered to
keep a polite and proper distance.

Or to avoid perilous situations.  Actually, now she came to think of
it, perilous situations and Deverell seemed to go hand in hand.
Immediate rescue was imperative.

"Dear me, where is Lady Grismead?  Ah, over there on that sofa.  If
you'll excuse me, sir, I'll--'

"In a moment."  Deverell prevented her escape by the simple expedient
of taking her hand in a gentle and totally unbreakable clasp.  He
contemplated their joined hands for a moment, then lifted his gaze to
her face.  All traces of wicked amusement had gone, leaving his eyes
intent and wholly serious.

"I don't know what Crowhurst said that annoyed you," he began.  "But
next time you encounter him, Miss Smith, cut him dead.  Letting
yourself bandy angry words with him Will only whet his appetite."

This instruction--from one who took a fiendish delight in bandying
words with her at every turn--incensed Phoebe so much she said the
first thing that came into her head.

"Indeed, sin In that case, I shall expect you to follow your own
advice."

"What the deuce does that mean?"

"It means that I expect you to support my statement to Crowhurst that
you will not pick a fight with your aunt."

His eyes took on an unholy gleam.  "What if she picks one with me?"

"Then I will expect you to conduct yourself in a manner Worthy of your
position, my lord."

The gleam disappeared.  "In that case, Miss Smith, I wish to claim
another concession.  An answer."  He glanced quickly around the room
then bent until he could speak directly in her ear.  His voice lowered
to a soft growl.  "Where the devil is the chemisette that belongs to
that dress?"

"Oh... Wellml--' Phoebe stuttered to a halt, her mind going unnervingly
blank.  Oh, heavens!  What was he doing to her now?  Just because
Deverell's mouth was two inches from her cheek was no reason to shiver.
If

anything she felt extremely warm--another reason why tiny shivers had
no business chasing themselves around in her stomach.

"Yes?"  he purred, straightening.

"You know very well where it is," she retorted, recovering her wits
with the safety of a respectable distance.  "The chemisette was very
frilly so I took it off.  However, before you say anything else, my
lord, I intend to sew the wretched thing back on as soon as I return
home."

His mouth curved in a slow smile.  "Oh, I don't know.  We wouldn't want
to make a hasty decision, Miss Smith.  That peach colour is really
quite delectable against your skin.  And it would be a crime to hide so
graceful a throat."

"Graceful!  Yesterday you wanted to strangle it!"  she squeaked, torn
between indignation and the shivery sense of excitement still rippling
through her.

"Yes," he said, laughter, and something more intense, glittering in his
eyes.  "But, you see, I would have strangled you very, very gently,
Miss Smith.  You wouldn't have been hurt at all."

Phoebe nearly choked without the assistance of any hands around her
throat.  Before she could recover her breath to annihilate her
tormentor--always supposing she could think of a lethal enough response
in a matter of seconds he fired another question at her with a speed
that left her brain reeling.

"And while we're on the subject of yesterday, what did Toombes
want-?"

This was too much.  Phoebe drew herself up to her full height and,
ignoring the risk of a cricked neck, stared Deverell straight in the
eye.  "Nothing that concerns you, my lord.  You may be right about
Crowhurst, although he hasn't-- But that is neither here nor there.  If
Mr.  Toorobes has any intentions towards me, you may be sure they're
honourable.  And that is the last concession you are going to wring
from me.  I am going to sit with your aunt and you, sir, will behave
yourself."

Snatching her hand free, Phoebe turned on her heel only to be brought
up short by Deverell's voice, still soft, still amused, but with
something beneath the gentleness that set her spine tingling.

"Remind me to tell you, Miss Smith, that you are not my governess. That
is to say, you are not the arbiter of my behaviour."

She would not answer.  She would treat all such remarks with dignified
disdain.  She would take refuge in the small alcove behind Lady
Grismead and, what was more, she would take great pleasure in composing
a letter of application for the post of companion to an elderly lady
who possessed no male relatives, no male friends and no male
acquaintances.  And as soon as she found this mythical person she
would' Ah Miss Smith!"

Lady Grismead, one imperious finger crooked in Phoebe's direction,
promptly put a spoke in this particular wheel.

"You may sit with us," she commanded as one bestowing a great favour.
"Lady Yarwood wishes to compliment you on your playing.  And I don't
believe you have met dear Pamela."

Meeting dear Pamela was not high on Phoebe's list of desirable treats,
but after exchanging polite greetings with Lady Yarwood, an attractive,
fair-haired matron in pale chartreuse silk, she found herself turning
to Deverell's cousin with an alacrity she told herself had nothing to
do with the fact that he'd followed her and was greeting his aunt.

Fortunately, Miss Grismead showed every promise of living up to her
reputation.  Draped limply over a small sofa, she managed a wan smile
in response to her patenifs introduction that would have led the
uninitiated to suppose she was in the last stages of a fatal decline.
Phoebe was not of their number.  There was a determined

set to Miss Grismead's lips that looked all too familiar.

"You play delightfully, Miss Smith," Lady Yarwood said, smiling kindly.
"But you must be quite exhausted.  Do come and sit down.  Ottilia tells
me you're an excellent governess, but your charges are safely occupied
with the other young people at present, so you may relax for a
moment."

"Miss Smith is most conscientious," Lady Grismead stated, shifting her
steely-eyed gaze from where Deverell was now conversing with Lord
Grismead to her friend.  "And very properly behaved.  I was pleased to
see, Miss Smith, that you did not linger among the gentlemen.  No doubt
they were only being polite, but a lady in your position must always
guard against attracting a certain type of attention."

"Er--yes, ma'am."

"Isn't that correct, Aimira?"

"It certainly is."  Lady Yarwood looked anxiously at Phoebe.  "Please
don't take this amiss, my dear, but I thought you seemed a little
distraite.  I hope Lord

Crowhurs didn't say anything improper."

"Oh.  No, ma'am.  That is..."

"Forgive me if I seem inquisitive," Lady Yarwood murmured, apparently
taking Phoebe's hesitation for embarrassment.  "But you must know that
before my marriage I, too, was a governess: I know how very
uncomfortable one can be made to feel on occasion.  Really--' she
turned to her hostess '-I can't imagine why Adrian would put himself
out for us today.  He doesn't call above two or three times a year, but
there he was just as we were climbing into the carriage; when I told
him where we going, he at once offered his services.  Of course, Amabel
and Caroline were positively in alt, but I think it very odd."

"What does he want?"  asked Lady Grismead in accents of grim
foreboding.  "That is the question you must ask yourself, Aimira.  When
a man offers to assist his family, you may be sure he wants something
in return."

Only the greatest exercise of self-control stopped Phoebe from glancing
at Deverell to see if he'd heard this cynical pronouncement.

"Well, he did say he'd come to seek information," Lady Yarwood
continued, 'but that since he was going to attend your party, it might
turn out to be unnecessary.  It seems very odd to me.  How did he know
it might be unnecessary before he'd made his inquiries?"

Both ladies turned to contemplate the subject of this question as if an
answer was to be found writ large on his countenance.  Phoebe followed
the direction of their gazes.  A faint ripple of unease drew her brows
together when she saw Crowhurst talking to Gerald.  Not that there was
anything wrong in that, of course, but judging by the expression of
eagerness on Gerald's face, Crowhurst was putting himself out to be
pleasant to the younger man.

Phoebe frowned again, annoyed at the instant suspicions wafting about
in her mind.  This was what came of listening to Deverell.  Even if
Crowhurst had nefarious intentions towards her, Gerald would hardly
help in the endeavour.  He might be young, but no one had ever accused
a Deverell of being a fool.

Reflecting darkly on the influence one particular Deverell seemed to be
wielding on her calm, well-ordered mind lately, she brought her
attention back to the conversation that had resumed next to her.

"Not that I know anything against him, Ottilia, because you may be sure
if I did I wouldn't have accepted his escort, Yarwood's cousin or not.
But it can't be denied that since that unfortunate affair fifteen years
ago, Adrian has suffered from very strange moods."

"So I've heard."  Lady Grismead frowned portentously.  "I am not one to
encourage maudlin behaviour in anyone, Aimira, and in a gentleman it is
particularly displeasing.  One cannot deny, however, that the effect
upon a young man of an unsuitable liaison is to be deplored by all
persons of character.  Especially," she added with a darkling glance
behind her, 'by their unfortunate families."

This time Phoebe turned her head before she could stop herself.  It
couldn't have been clearer that Deverell, also, had been involved in an
unsuitable liaison in his youth.  He was utterly still, the expression
in his eyes as he stared down at his aunt as cold and deadly as the
unfathomable depths of the ocean.

Phoebe found herself clasping her hands together, almost in
supplication.  Oh, dear.  He was going to take Lady Grismead's comment
as condemnation.  She wondered if he'd heard even a hint of the concern
and regret in her ladyship's voice.

Her mind whirling with conjecture, conscious of an odd little ache in
the region of her heart, she gazed up at him, silently pleading with
him not to retaliate with a scathing response.

As if he sensed her gaze, Deverell turned his head.  The cold
expression vanished.  And in its place dawned a light she
recognised---and yet still couldn't name.  The same light, she realised
with a tiny jolt, that had puzzled her in the Park.

Her brows Lit as she gazed up into the aquamarine eyes gleaming down at
her from between midnight-dark lashes.  The touch of wickedness she
recognised.  And amusement--as if his aunt's strictures, though
annoying, hadn't truly enraged him.  But the disturbing gleam held
something else.  Something warm, and... She didn't know.  And wasn't
sure why her ignorance bothered her.  In another man, that warmth alone
would have rendered her wary, but Deverell had promised not to pester
her with attentions.

And she trusted his word.

Why did that thought make her feel, so low?  Why, in fact, was she
feeling inexplicably confused about so many questions at once that her
thoughts seemed to be scurrying back and forth like extremely busy
mice?  Whatever had happened to Deverell in the past whether the
unfortunate liaison had led to his banishment or not--was none of her
business.  But... Not only Deverell but Crowhurst, too, it seemed, had
been involved in an unsuitable liaison years ago.  Was that the real
source of the enmity between the two men?  Had they been entangled with
the same woman?  But they'd only been introduced a few weeks ago;
Crowhurst had said as much in that horrid little court.

Phoebe blinked, suddenly realising she was still staring over her
shoulder at Deverell, and that the smile in his eyes was beginning to
reach his mouth.  That same pleased little smile that had curved his
lips earlier.

Dismayed, she whipped her gaze to the front and addressed the first
person she saw.

"I believe you take a keen interest in poetry, Miss Grismead.  Have
you--?"

The rest of Phoebe's question lodged it her throat as the conversation
between the two older ladies ceased as abruptly as if a door had
slammed shut.  From the corner of her eye, she saw Deverell's shoulders
begin to shake with silent laughter.

Oh, how like him!  She had just sunk herself beneath reproach and he
had the temerity to laugh.

"Pamela has more practical interests than poetry," stated Lady Grismead
in quelling accents.  Passing over Phoebe's flushed countenance, she
cast a gimlet-eyed glance behind her.  "Isn't that so, Grismead?"

Lord Grismead jumped- like a startled rabbit and looked more harassed
than ever.  "Oh.  Yes.  Yes, indeed, my dear.  Mathematics, for
instance.  Really, she is quite--'

"A lady does not profess to understand complex mathematical equations."
Her ladyship's tone dared anyone to contradict her.  "It is not a
talent valued by gentlemen."

"Oh, I don't know, Aunt."  Deverell bestowed a brief glance of approval
on his cousin.  "When the bills start rolling in, Norvel might be
grateful for Pamela's talent with figures."

"Well, as to that, Sebastian, nothing has been arranged, you know."
Lord Grismead blinked several times, his resemblance to a hunted rabbit
becoming more pronounced than ever.  "That is, there has been no formal
announcement or--'

"You will oblige me by changing the subject, Grismead.  There will be
no announcement until Mr.  Hartlepoole comes to his senses.  And even
then, the outcome is by no means certain."

This provoked a response from an unexpected quarter.  Miss Grismead,
who until then had been watching the other occupants of the room as if
their very animation was too much for the depleted state of her health,
abandoned her air of exhaustion.

"Dearest Norvel is coming to see you tomorrow, Papa, and if you don't
immediately send an announcement to the Gazette, it will be the meanest
thing!"

"Now, my dear, you know Mama and I must think of your future, which is
not likely to be felicitous if you're forced to live in penury.  Nor is
this precisely the time or place--'

"I don': care."  Miss Grismead pouted prettily, but there was a steely
light in her blue eyes.  "If you don't send an announcement to the
Gazette, then I will."

"But, dearest, females don't send notices to the Gazette."

"Well, I'll send it somewhere else then."

Lord Grismead goggled at his daughter.  "Somewhere else?  But--'

"Silence, Grismead.  I will deal with this."

His lordship subsided, his demeanour that of one long accustomed to
being crushed between two determined Deverells.

Phoebe could' only sympathise.  On the other hand, she mused, his
lordship must have known the fate in store for him.  A/er all, he'd
married a Deverell.  Perhaps he'd expected his wife to give birth to a
Grismead.  But no.  True to form, she'd produced a Deverell.  Really,
he'd been foolish to think otherwise.  If she married into the family,
she'd expect to produce a Deverell, too, and Oh good heavens!  Had her
mind run completely mad?  How could she possibly marry into the family?
The only Deverell of suitable age wasHer mind seized before she could
finish the thought.  Phoebe stared straight ahead of her, very much
afraid that her countenance was taking on a distinct resemblance to
Lord Grismead's.  With an additional element of stunned stupefaction.

Mercifully, before anyone could notice her sudden paralysis, several
ladies arrived to collect their various offspring.  Suddenly the
drawing-room was all bustle and confusion.  She could only be grateful
for the small reprieve.  At the moment, she seemed to have no con se
ious control over herself at all.

To think of marriage and... To think of marriage at all!  Really, she'd
reminded herself only yesterday to put aside girlish dreams for the
reality of her life, but here was her well-ordered mind dashing down
forbidden paths two days in a row.

What she needed was distraction.  Immediately.  The Grismeads were no
help.  Father and daughter were still arguing about impecunious poets;
while Lady Grismead was fare welling her guests.  Nothing would induce
her to speak to Deverell again until she had her wits about her.  That
left Lady Yarwood.

And, suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Excuse me, ma'am."  Thanking Providence for the timely notion, Phoebe
turned to Lady Grismead's friend.  "I can't help but wonder what sort
of woman would trifle with a young man's affections.  From the point of
view of a governess of boys Gerald's age, of course," she added
mendaciously.  "The lady who caused Lord Crowhurst such pain, for
instance.  What did she look like?"

Fortunately, Lady Yarwood didn't appear to find anything odd in this
request.  She smiled and answered

readily enough.  "I never saw her, my dear.  The affair took place in
the country.  A fortuitous circumstance, I've always considered, for I
believe she was already married and several years older than Adrian.
Only imagine the scandal if such a liaison had been carried out under
the eyes of the ton.  As it is, her identity remains a mystery to this
day."

"I see."  Phoebe pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"In any event, it's long forgotten now."  Lady Yarwood smiled again and
patted Phoebe's hand in her friendly fashion as she prepared to depart.
"I do hope you'll bring the girls to visit Amabel and Caroline one day,
Miss Smith.  Please don't think they must wait until Ottilia is
available.  You are very welcome."

"I'm sure Miss Smith appreciates your concern, cousin."  Crowhurst
approached, a faint smile on his thin lips.  "It must be a great
comfort to her to encounter one who was once in her ... er ...
position.  Are you ready to leave?  Not that I wish to hurry you, of
course, it is just that one has so many engagements."

"Then you should have said so, Adrian," Lady Yarwood returned, with
what Phoebe could only consider to be great self-restraint.  "I will
fetch the girls immediately."

Phoebe watched her ladyship cross the room, then turned a look of
displeasure on Crowhurst.  "Were you trying to embarrass your cousin,
sir, or me?"  she demanded, too annoyed to remember Deverell's
instructions regarding the Viscount.

His smile held a touch of spite.  "You must pardon me, my dear Phoebe.
A petty remark, wasn't it.  But, you know, it was very naughty of you
to go off with Deverell: And quite unnecessary."

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Oh, I think you do.  You escaped me once before, my dear Phoebe, but
not a second time."

Seeing her eyes widen, Crowhurst seemed to realise he might have gone
too far with that remark, because he wiped the unpleasant sneer from
his face and replaced it with a smile.  As far as Phoebe was concerned,
the change wasn't an improvement.

"I don't believe I've given you leave to use my name, sir," she
retorted.  "I was grateful yesterday for your offer of assistance, but
I would prefer you to address me COrrectly.  '

His voice lowered to a sibilant whisper.  "Are you saying you want me
to use your surname, Phoebe?  Oh, no."  He shook his head.  "I don't
think so.  Not here.  No, I don't think you'd like that at all."

And with his mouth still curled in that sly smile, he bowed and walked
away, leaving Phoebe with a mind once more whirling with surmise and
conjecture.

None of the possible explanations for Crowhurst's enigmatic remarks
were reassuring, but she wasn't, she saw, to be allowed the luxury of
brooding over them now.

Lady Grismead, having despatched the last of her guests, returned to
the drawing-room and the attack.  Apparently considering Deverell and
his charges capable of seeing themselves out, she commanded her now
weeping daughter to adjourn to the morning-room.

Adding heartrending wails to her repertoire, Pamela obeyed.

Under the awed gazes of her younger relatives, her ladyship, undaunted
by the rapidly increasing volume of the performance, prepared to
follow.  She paused with her hand on the doorknob and swept the room
with a basilisk glare.

"It is all very well for Pamela to say she has a talent for managing
finances," she stated sternly.  "So has Deverell.  But have we seen any
advantage from it?  Pray tell me that."

No one was foolhardy enough to volunteer an answer.  Indeed, since her
ladyship swept out of the room on the words, Lord Grismead hard on her
heels, Phoebe was not certain if she'd expected a reply.  The question
did,

however, set up a new train of thought in her mind.  She was seizing
on it with an eagerness that bordered on the desperate when Deverell
planted himself in her line of vision.  He appeared to be torn between
annoyance and amusement.

"I have to say, Miss Smith, that infuriating though our charges may be
at times, they at least refrain from performances guaranteed to shatter
the ears of anyone in the immediate vicinity.  Are you ready to depart?
Since my esteemed uncle has chosen to add his mite to the melodrama
being enacted across the hall, there's nothing to stop us.  Let's
escape while we can."

Phoebe was in no mood for flippancy.  The past few hours seemed to have
been filled with one disaster after another.  And they could all be
laid at the doors of the gentlemen involved.

She turned to their interested audience and took a leaf from Lady
Grismead's book.  "Gerald, you will oblige me by escorting your sisters
to your uncle's carriage and waiting for us there.  I presume your
carriage is downstairs, my lord?"

He raised a brow.  "Since I gave my coachman instructions to meet us
here at four o'clock, it had better be."  He nodded to Gerald, who
reluctantly withdrew with his sisters, then winced as several
despairing shrieks reverberated across the hall before the door was
closed again.  "Do you have any further orders, Miss Smith?"

Phoebe regarded the sardonic lift of his brows and glared at him.  "If
your aunt is correct in saying you're a financial genius, my lord, it
would better become you to assist your family than to make fun of them.
It seems to me that Miss Grismead is sincerely attached to her poet
and--'

"If Nermal, or whatever his name is, really wishes to marry Pamela," he
shot back, 'he'll cease this idiotic notion he has of cutting himself
off from his family for no good reason."

"But that is precisely what I mean!"  she exclaimed.

Pleased at his ready understanding, she momentarily forgot her other
tribulations.  "I knew you would comprehend the matter perfectly, my
lord.  First of all, you could give Lord Grismead a nudge in the right
direction.

Financially, I mean, and then you could speak to--' "Have you lost your
mind, Miss Smith?"

"No, of course not.  Only think.  It's much more likely that Mr.
Hartlepoole will listen to someone who really was estranged from his
family for years.  You could tell him how very uncomfortable it is."

"You have lost your mind."

Grappling with details, Phoebe waved this away as one absently brushing
aside a bothersome insect.  "Really, I'm surprised I didn't think of it
before.  Just think how relieved and happy the Grismeads will be.  It
will heal the rift beautifully and--'

"I wonder if my aunt has a blue powder in the house."  "Very likely.
Now, would it best if you--'

"Yes, I believe you're right.  Blue powders must work on Pamela,
otherwise the neighbours would be forever complaining.  Now, if I can
only prevail upon my aunt to spare one, I'm sure you'll soon feel more
the thing."

That got through.  Phoebe ceased contemplating the brilliance of her
scheme and bent a severe frown upon him.  "You seem to forget, sir,
that your aim is to have your aunt take charge of Theo and Cressy as
soon as possible.  She won't oblige you in that until Miss Grismead is
suitably married.  And if the only impediment is Mr.  Hartlepoole's
intransigence, then the sooner he is convinced of the foolishness of
his actions, the better."

She didn't expect this admonition to be greeted with exclamations of
delight, but the abrupt narrowing of Deverell's eyes sent a tingle of
alarm down her spine.  He went very still.  The stillness of a predator
about to spring.

"Do you know, Miss Smith, I'd forgotten how anxious you are to leave
us.  How very remiss of me.  However,

in case you're considering ways of escape, you may disabuse your mind
of the notion that Toombes is a likely prospect.  He'd drive you mad
within a week."

Phoebe's mouth fell open.  "Well!  Really, my lord.  This time you go
too far!  What I do about Mr.  Toombes is none of your business,
although escape certainly has a definite--'

"Damn it, Phoebe, as your employer I have a right to know if you're
considering accepting an offer from Toombes!"

His outburst momentarily stunned her into silence.  Phoebe took a deep
breath, contemplated the grim line about Deverell's mouth and decided
she'd better answer.

"No, I am not!"  she exclaimed, goaded.  "Not that I expect him to take
any notice of me," she added disagreeably.  "Like all men, he doesn't
listen to anything he doesn't want to hear."

Without a word, Deverell grasped her by the elbow and marched her over
to the door, snatching up her pelisse from a chair near the piano where
she'd placed it earlier.

"You won't be required to say anything, whether or not Toorobes wishes
to hear it," he grated through set teeth as he propelled her down the
stairs.  "From now on, Miss Smith, you will refer any offers, of any
kind, from any gentlemen, to me.  Is that perfectly clear?"

Phoebe clenched her own teeth.  "Perfectly," she muttered.  And refused
to say another word all the way out to the carriage.

The Grismeads' butler looked enviously after them as they exited
through the front door while the sounds of battle continued unabated
from the floor above.  Phoebe found herself in entire sympathy with
Miss Grismead's piercingly uttered desire to send a notice to the
Gazette at once.  She would very much like to place an advertisement
therein herself.

For the mythical male-free, elderly lady she'd imagined earlier.

Chapter Eight

Several days later, Phoebe had not changed her mind about the
advantages of a household free of gentlemen.  In fact, she told
herself, robbing salt into the wound, if she'd remained at Kerslake,
she could have looked forward to such a household once Gerald was
settled at Oxford.

But no.  She'd insisted on bringing Deverell's wards to London and look
what had happened.  Instead of alleviating all her problems, she now
had a whole new set to worry about.  All of which had to do with males.
She never seemed to be rid of the creatures.  Coming down the stairs,
she bumped into Mr.  Filby on his way up to haul Gerald from his
slumbers.  She tripped over Lord Bradden in the drawing-room.  Mr.
Charlton appeared to have taken up residence in the library.  Only the
sounds of Mr.  Toombes's measured tones wafting into the morning-room
prevented a disastrous encounter in the hall.

She couldn't even take comfort from the fact that Crowhurst hadn't
called.  Instead, he was bombarding her with flowers that came attached
with invitations to dinner at a discreet coffee-house at a time of her
choosing.  As if he had only to ask!

Her bedchamber was the only place where she could be guaranteed any
peace and privacy.  And even that seemed to have been invaded by
memories of her last

encounter with Deverell.  For some strange reason, she was constantly
beset by a desire to tell him that she wasn't at all anxious to leave
his employment.  It was very odd.  Why should she care if he'd taken
her helpful suggestions the wrong way?  It was just like him, she'd
fumed, pacing up and down in front of her mirror, to be the only
gentleman to make himself scarce precisely when he was needed to oust
the others.  Typical Deverell behaviour.

Rallying her spirits with that stricture.  Phoebe tried valiantly to
oust him from her mind.

Her efforts had not been crowned by any great success when she ventured
cautiously into the dining-room in anticipation of breakfast two days
later.

She immediately perceived another problem.  The room was mercifully
free of gentlemen, but it was too empty.  Phoebe eyed the vacant places
at the breakfast table with foreboding.  They did not augur well.

When Thripp tiptoed into the room after her and carefully placed the
coffee-pot on the table, her uneasiness increased twofold.  One glance
at the butler's face aroused the unpleasant suspicion that another
breakfast was about to be rendered hideous by disclosures she would
rather not hear.

Phoebe fortified herself with a mouthful of coffee and braced for the
worst.  "Don't try to break the news gently, Thripp.  Tell me at once.
Where are they?"

Thripp shook his head.  "That I couldn't say, miss, but I doubt the
young ladies have gone to the theatres."  "Well, that's a relief.  I
think.  What makes you say so?"  "They prevailed upon his lordship to
lend them his new phaeton, miss, which they would hardly do if they
intended to pay frequent visits to theatres."

"Gerald lent them his phaeton?"  Phoebe contemplated her empty plate
While she mulled over that bit of news.  It wasn't reassuring.  Theo
was an excellent driver, but this was London.

"So I understand, miss.  And very smart they looked, too, in their
greatcoats."

"Greatcoats!"  Her head jerked up.  "Greatcoats?  Thripp, ladies don't
wear greatcoats."

"Well, as to that, I couldn't say, miss, but greatcoats they were. With
capes," he added helpfully.  "Several capes.  And large brass
buttons."

A variety of nerve-racking pictures chased one another through Phoebe's
head.  She didn't like any one of them.

"I don't suppose you managed to see what they were wearing under the
greatcoats, Thripp?"  she asked, hoping against hope that her sudden
suspicions were too wild to be true.

"Nothing you could take exception to, miss," responded Thripp, quite as
one who was an expert on suitable fashions for young ladies.  "Very
pretty gowns, I thought.  Blue and yellow stripes."

Phoebe's suspicions took a giant stride towards certainty.  Several
remarks passed by Theodosia on the subject of female drivers echoed
ominously in her head.  Oh, why hadn't she taken more notice of the
twins' activities over the past few days?  It was no use only now
recalling hurried forays to the shops, and several meetings with other
young ladies, conducted in hushed voices and accompanied by excited
gigglings.

Distracted by the possible reasons why Deverell had formed no part of
the male invasion, not to mention Gerald's increasingly haggard
countenance, she'd been only too relieved that the girls were happily
occupied.  And now... "Thripp, go upstairs and tell Gerald if he isn't
down here in five minutes his exit from his bed will be even more
unpleasant than what Lord Deverell had in mind for him."

Thripp's countenance immediately fell into its usual mournful lines.
"His lordship has not as yet returned home, miss."

"Good heavens!  Where is he?"

"I couldn't say with any accuracy, miss, but his lordship has been
very flush with the ready--' Thripp coughed discreetly behind his hand
'--I beg your pardon, miss, I'm sure.  That is to say, very well-heeled
lately.  If you kc my meaning, Miss."

"Oh, my goodness!  Do you mean Gerald has been gambling?"

Thripp looked cautious.  "I believe his lordship has taken quite a
liking to a place called the Pigeonhole."

"The--Pigeonhole!  Of course!  Pigeons!  For the plucking.  Oh, how
could I have been so foolish, so neglectful?"  Abandoning all thought
of breakfast, Phoebe leapt to her feet.  "I'll have to see Deverell
immediately.  Thripp, go and summon a hackney, and then send the
footman out to search for Gerald.  I don't care where you find him or
what he's doing.  Tell him he's needed at Lord Deverell's house at
once!"

Wasting no more time, Phoebe dashed out of the room.  She was still
chastising herself several minutes later as she leapt into a hackney,
pelisse half-buttoned and bonnet askew.  What a dreadful mess she'd
made of everything.  She'd known what she was dealing with but, too
busy brooding over Deverell, she'd forgotten the schemes his wards were
capable of concocting.

On the other hand, Dcverell was supposed to be applying a firm hand.
He'd told her he was keeping an eye on Gerald.  What was he about, to
let an inexperienced boy throw money around in every gambling hell in
town?  And who had given Gerald the money in the first place?

She hadn't reached any satisfactory conclusions when the hackney
arrived at Deverell's townhouse.  Paying off the driver, Phoebe ran up
the steps and wielded the knocker with violent force.  The door was
opened by a startled butler.  Phoebe raced past him into the house as
if pursued by demons and demanded its master.

"His lordship is Upstairs, Miss Smith," intoned the guardian of the
door in frigid accents.  "I will see if he can Be Disturbed."

"Good heavens, does everyone in London spend half the day abed?"  she
cried.  "Tell his lordship he'll be extremely disturbed if he doesn't
come down here immediately.  His entire family will be disturbed.  The
whole of Society will be disturbed.  In fact--'

"What seems to be the problem, Miss Smith?"

The calmly voiced query did not come from the butler.  Phoebe looked
up--and felt her throat seize in mid-sentence.  Not that she didn't
have plenty to say, she tried to remind herself, but it was, she
suddenly discovered, impossible to deliver a tirade when its recipient
stood two floors above her, dressed only in breeches, top boots and a
shirt that, with sleeves rolled up and half-unfastened, exposed a good
deal of tanned throat and powerful forearms dusted with a covering of
dark hair.

Phoebe swallowed and wondered why the sight of Deverell interrupted in
the process of dressing for the day should have the very peculiar
effect of suspending every faculty.

He stepped forward to the head of the stairs, a faint smile curving his
lips.  "Won't you come up, Miss Smith?"

"Come up?"  She repeated the words.  That is, her lips moved.  She
still seemed incapable of uttering a sound.

"You obviously have news of great moment to impart.  Dawby, would you
be good enough to bring some tea up to the studio for Miss Smith?"

Her gaze still fixed on Deverell, Phoebe moved towards the stairs as
one in a trance.  "Oh, no, Nothing, thank you.  I----'

She started to climb, her breath growing shorter with each step.  It
was no use telling herself the stairs were particularly steep.  It was
the way Deverell watched her that was rendering her both breathless and
witless.  She was too far away, at first, to see the expression in his
eyes, which were shadowed anyway by the downward sweep of his lashes,
but when she reached the landing there was no mistaking the intensity
of his gaze.

Unable to meet it, she looked at his throat instead and found herself
instantly transfixed by the pulse beating there.  And lower still, just
where his shirt was fastened was the veri est hint of the same dark
hair that covered his forearms.

Phoebe felt a shiver ripple through every nerve in her body.  She tried
to tell herself that Deverell wasn't the first male she'd seen in a
state of dishabille.  She'd once come upon Gerald completely
bare-chested when he'd been swimming in the stream at Kerslake.  But
somehow it wasn't the same.  Gerald was a stripling, a boy.  Her only
reaction had been to order him to don his shirt before he encountered
Miss Pomfret and sent her into a fit of the vapours.

Deverell, on the other hand, was all adult male.  At least a foot
taller than her, broad and solid across the shoulders, all powerful
muscle and sheer primitive masculinity.  And she felt a shockingly
primitive urge to draw closer, to lift her hand to his chest, to feel
the strength and power she'd felt once before and could now see.

Oh, dear, such urges were definitely unseemly.  Extremely unseemly. 
And it didn't help that she could feel Deverell's intent gaze on her as
if he was about to do something unseemly.

Completely unnerved, Phoebe whirled about and scurried through the
nearest open doorway.  Sheimmediately froze, squeezing her eyes shut.
Oh, heavens!  This was worse.  She was probably in Deverell's
bedchamber!  What was she to do now?

She didn't stop to contemplate her options.  Spinning about, eyes still
tightly shut, she dashed back towards the hallway and cannoned straight
into Deverell.

Heat enveloped her instantly.  If he hadn't grasped her arms, she would
have collapsed in a heap right there at his feet.  The thought was so
shocking, she didn't realise he continued to hold her a mere inch away
until his breath stirred the curls at her temple.

"Did the sight of this room startle you so much, Miss Smith?"

Phoebe took a deep breath and opened her eyes.  The triangle of his
open shirt met her gaze; feathery black hair almost tickled her nose.
She swallowed, wrenched her gaze upward and met a wry, heart-shaking
smile that was totally unlike the fiendish grin she'd half-expected. 
"I ... that is..."

Her voice was a mouse-like squeak.  She dragged in another breath and
tried again.  "I shouldn't be here, my lord."

Something glittered in his eyes behind the smile.  She felt his hands
tighten very carefully.  "This is precisely where you should be," he
murmured.  And turned her around.  "Look."

Phoebe obeyed, and then blinked as light and space bombarded her
senses.  They weren't standing in Deverell's bedchamber after all, but
in a room that appeared to her astonished gaze to be filled with items
of statuary in various stages of construction.  Several finished pieces
stood on pedestals against one wall, and in from of her stretched a
long bench covered with a liberal coating of whitish dust and holding
an array of tools whose purpose she could only guess at.

"Oh, my goodness."  Blinking again, she glanced down at the long
fingers still wrapped about her upper arms.  They, too, wore a coating
of dust.  She transferred her gaze to his face.  "You're a sculptor, my
lord."

He continued to hold her for a moment longer, looking down into her
face.  He didn't appear to be put out by her discovery, she thought. Or
annoyed that she'd invaded his privacy.  Rather, his eyes held a
watchfulness, an almost wary stillness; every emotion carefully
hidden.

Then as her awareness of him, warm and solid against her back, set her
pulse tripping, he released her and moved away to a table holding a
porcelain basin and

ewer.  Pouring some water into the basin, he began washing the dust
from his hands.

"It's merely a hobby.  I started years ago, whittling pieces from wood
to pass the time."

"Pass the time?"

He threw her a sidelong glance 'from beneath half-lowered lashes.  "It
can be rather tedious waiting in the mountain regions of India for
bandits to show themselves."

"Oh."  So her initial assessment of him as a warrior had been
accurate.

Unable, for the moment, to do anything except ponder that point, Phoebe
watched him withdraw his hands from the basin, shake them and reach for
a cloth that lay folded nearby.

Big hands.  Powerful hands.  The hands of a warrior.  And, she mused
wonderingly, remembering the candelabra in his library, hands capable
of creating delicate beauty.

"The Psyche," she murmured, then blushed, recalling the statue's
paucity of civilised clothing.

"Guilty, I'm afraid."  The corners of his mouth curled upward.  "I hope
she didn't shock you, Miss Smith."

Phoebe valiantly fought back a hotter blush.  "Of course not, my lord.
Your Psyche is formed quite in the classical mode.  A most accurate ...
er ... rendering of the ancient Greek, um... That is to say... She
subsided when Deverell tossed the cloth aside and strode towards her, a
distinctly amused light in his eyes.

"Are you feeling overly warm in here, Miss Smith?  There are a lot of
windows, and it is a particularly sunny day.  Perhaps if you were to
move out of the direct light--'

"I am not overly warm," Phoebe retorted, recovering somewhat under this
goad.  She assumed her primmest posture and levelled a disapproving
frown at him.  "It is just--I'm not in the habit of conversing with a
gentleman who hasn't taken the trouble to don his coat before receiving
visitors."

"But I didn't know you intended to visit," he returned inarguably.  He
stopped in front of her and subjected her to a swift examination.  "And
I hardly think your strictures are fair, Miss Smith, when you appear to
have flung your clothes on in some haste yourself."  The words were
followed by a slow smile.  "In fact, your bonnet is listing quite
dangerously to the left.  If you'll allow

Phoebe just managed to prevent a startled gasp, escaping her lips when
Deverell's fingers brushed her throat.  She stood still, every muscle
rigid, as he placed her bonnet at the proper angle and began retying
the ribbons.

He was obviously going to take his time about the task.  She wondered
why her heart seemed determined to leap out of her chest; why she
couldn't breathe; why the feel of Deverell's fingers, warm and hard
against her bare flesh made her nerves quiver like harp strings
recently struck.  He was only touching her neck, for heaven's sake.

But then he rested the backs of his fingers against the pulse beating
wildly in her throat and she ceased thinking at all.  A strange melting
lassitude made her legs go weak and her insides dissolve.  She wanted
to lean on him, to feel his arms go around her, supporting her, holding
her.

Oh, dear, this was beyond unseemly urges.  She was crossing the line
into unbridled passion.  And it was dangerous.  Her family had been
right to warn her.  Instead of raising her voice in protest, she could
only gaze, mesmerised, into those half-narrowed, intensely glittering
eyeS, and picture his hands, fashioning, moulding smoothing over the
feminine contours of the statue he'd created.

No, not just picture them.  Feel them.  On her.  Even though he hadn't
moved an inch.  She trembled once, violently.  Then, with an
incoherent

whisper, wrenched herself away and fled to the other side of the
room.

She found herself confronted by an array of statuary and at once began
babbling.  "Good heavens, my lord, you have been busy!  Marble, wood,
clay.  You're certainly versatile.  What a very interesting Statue of a
child.  It looks just like..."

The spate stopped abruptly as her mouth formed a silent job' of
surprise.  "It looks just like Gerald," she finished slowly, turning to
face him.

But Deverell was no longer watching her.  He stood before the bench,
fists thrust into the pockets of his breeches, apparently deep in
contemplation of the block of ebony wood in front of him.

"It is Gerald," he said curtly.  "As I remember him.  Always pestering
me for a fide."

Eyes wide, Phoebe stared at the unyielding line of his shoulders and
wondered uneasily what had brought about the demise of all traces of
devilishness.  He'd spoken so tersely, so dismissively.  It could be in
response to the possibility of her remarking on his work.  She hoped
so.  It was bad enough that her nerve-endings still felt as if they
were simmering under some invisible source of heat.  If Deverell knew
how shockingly she'd reacted to his touch, she would be forced to leave
him.  And... She didn't want to.

"I see," she managed, and turned to the statue again.  Blindly, at
first, her thoughts in a turmoil.  But then her vision, strangely
blurred, cleared, and she did see.  More, perhaps, than Deverell
realised, she thought, distress and embarrassment forgotten in the
wonder of discovery.

She studied the upturned marble face, the chubby outstretched arms, and
felt something move deep within her.  A little child wanting to be
lifted, and yet there was something in the way the arms reached upward,
something about the face... Then she shifted slightly---or perhaps the
angle of the light changed--and the child's features seemed to alter,
to harden, to show hints of the man he would one day become.  And in
that moment, Phoebe knew, with absolute certainty, that it was Deverell
reaching out; that he was innocent of whatever scandal had seen him
banished from his home; that he'd been hurt, terribly; was still hurt,
by that banishment.

"You're very talented, my lord," she murmured, hearing the huskiness of
repressed tears in her voice.  She cleared her throat, hoping he hadn't
noticed, trying desperately to think of something else to say.  What
was the matter with her?  Why did this particular man cause these
strange emotions that tempted her to draw perilously close to the
invisible line beyond which lay scandal and disgrace?

But even as the faintest whisper of an answer threatened to creep into
her consciousness, she fought it back.  She didn't want to face the
reasons for her odd behaviour.  She didn't even want to think about it.
Now wasn't the time.  Later she could put it down to overwrought
nerves.  Surprise that a warrior could also be an artist.  Something
she'd eaten.

4ny thing

Right now the only line she was prepared to cross was that of employee
telling her employer precisely what she thought of people who abandoned
their responsibilities "Oh, my goodness!  What on earth are we about?
My lord, we can't stand here chatting about statues.  We must go at
once!  At once, I say!"

Deverell turned to face her, his hands still thrust into his pockets.
His gaze was rather searching, causing uneasiness to flutter again like
tiny moths in her stomach, but his voice held a familiar sardonic
note.

"I am, of course, only too happy to oblige you, Miss Smith.  Not,
however, until I know where we're going and why."

"I'll explain on the way."  Phoebe glanced hurriedly

around the room.  "Where's your coat?  Why is nothing ever where it
should be?  You'll have to send a message to your stables, my lord, and
then--'

"No."

She gaped at him.  "No?"

"No."

"But ... there isn't a moment to lose.  Disaster will overtake us at
any moment.  Think of the scandal, sir!  Think of your nieces'
reputations!  Think--'

"Aha.  So that's the cause of this precipitous visit.  I did wonder if
I was to be called upon to rescue you from the estimable Mr.  Toombes,
or even Crowhurst.  How very disappointing."

"What?"  Phoebe shook her head as if trying to clear her brain.  "What
on earth have they got to do with anything?  I'm here because I think
Theodosia may have started a club for female whips based upon the
Four-in-Hand and--' She glared at him as he started to smile.  "There
is nothing amusing about it, I can assure you."

His smile widened.  "I dare say, Miss Smith.  If I'm amused, it's
because you're a constant source of delight to me.  But surely your
reaction is unnecessarily exaggerated.  Theodosia may have spoken about
a whip club, but she won't get far without a carriage."

"She has a carriage, sir.  Gerald's phaeton.  And while we're wasting
time arguing, the twins are driving to Salt Hill with heaven's knows
how many other young ladies.  Also in carriages."

He shrugged and turned back to the bench to start putting tools away.
"Then, I dare say, if they adhere to the rules of the genuine
Four-in-Hand Club, they'll eventually return."

"Is that all you have to say?"  she cried.  "Didn't you hear me?  I
said they're driving to Salt Hill!  They intend to dine at a public
inn.  Imagine the spectacle they'll present!  Good heavens, most of
them aren't even out yet.  Their parents will never forgive you."

He sent her a look over his shoulder that clearly stated his
indifference to parental disapproval.

"Well, if that doesn't move you,.  my lord, consider the fact that I'll
give you no peace until you agree to accompany me."

"A telling threat, Miss Smith."  His mouth curved wryly as he abandoned
his task to lean casually against the bench.  "You know," he mused
aloud, "I returned to London for some peace.  Strange.  I wonder what
made me think such a commodity could be found here?"

"I have no idea," Phoebe snapped with some asperity.  "Peace is not
something one readily associates with Deverells.  Now, will you send a
message to your stables, sir, or shall I?"

"You realise, of course, that we may be setting off ona futile
enterprise.  Theodosia may be doing nothing more Innocuous than tooling
Gerald's phaeton around the Park."

Phoebe considered the suggestion with a quick up rush of hope, only to
dismiss it.  "I'm afraid not, sir.  You see, I overheard the girls
talking."  She wrung her hands in self-reproach.  "I know I should have
taken more notice at the time, but it all sounded so far-fetched I
didn't think anything could come of it.  Theo was setting out some sort
of rules and regulations.  That they would drive to Salt Hill, just
like the gentlemen's Four-in-Hand Club, in single file at a strict
trot, with no overtaking.

And they'd even wear the same sort of costume."  "Good God!"

She nodded gloomily.  "I am very much blame, my lord.  I'm fully aware
of it.  I can only hope that no one has met with an accident.  If I
recall correctly, only men with a great deal of experience in driving a
team are admitted to the Four-in-Hand Club.  Some even take lessons
from professional coachmen.  Heaven knows what we'll find.  But," she
added hopefully, "I've sent a message to Gerald to meet us here, so
we'll have some help."

"You can't imagine how that reassures me, Miss Smith."

Phoebe hung her head.  "I'm very sensible of the patience you're
exercising, my lord."

"Hmm.  First threats, now remorse."  Straightening, he strolled over to
her and tipped her face up to his with one long finger under her chin.
Amusement, and something that made her breath quiver, glittered in his
eyes.

"Forgive me for saying so, Miss Smith, but you're more than a match for
any Deverell.  I'll accompany you--if only for the pleasure of seeing
you cope with what is sure to be a Shambles if the young ladies are
indeed emulating the Four-in-Hand Club."

Phoebe shuddered, but straightened her shoulders.  "We must save them
from scandal, my lord."

And while she was about it, she'd better do the same for herself, she
reflected, taking a careful step away from his touch.

She was still expounding silently on this theme when Deverell, having
left a message for Gerald with his butler, handed her up into his
phaeton.  The vehicle appeared to be fashioned more for speed than
safety, a sight that heartened Phoebe somewhat.  Deverell might appear
to be less than concerned about the situation, but Clearly he didn't
intend to waste any time.

He had just walked around to climb up next to her, when the clatter of
several wheels on cobblestones had them both turning their heads.
Bowling up the street towards them came a bright yellow curricle drawn
by two chestnut horses.  Mr.  Filby, resplendent in a greatcoat with
wide lapels of the same hue as his carriage, held the reins, and seated
beside him, looking slightly rumpled, was Gerald.

Two or three more curricles, all crowded with young gentlemen, followed
hard on their wheels.

Deverell watched the approaching cavalcade for a moment, then turned a
narrow-eyed look on Phoebe.  "How females did you say were in this
club?"

Phoebe decided it would be prudent to keep her eyes lowered.  "Um ... I
didn't say precisely, my lord, but ... several."

"Several."  He muttered something indecipherable, climbed into the
carriage and gathered up the reins.  "And several of Gerald's cronies
have obviously entertained second thoughts on the wisdom of lending
their various equipages to their sisters."

"Er ... it would seem so, sir."

He continued to eye her for a moment longer, his lips set in a grim
line.  Then, without waiting for Mr.  Filby to come up with them, gave
his horses the office to start.

Followed by the astonished stares of a number of passers-by, two
youthful crossing-sweepers and assorted loungers and trades persons the
procession headed out of Town.

"Don't worry your head about an outbreak of scandal, Miss Smith."

The sound of Deverell's voice, abrupt in a silence broken only by the
rapid rhythm of horses' hooves, shook Phoebe out of the gloomy
contemplation of her probable future that had occupied her for the
first few miles.

They were driving through some rather pretty country, the autumn hues
of the trees and hedgerows painting everything in sight in warm russets
and golds.  The road wound through a small wood enclosing them in a
dim, sun-dappled tunnel.  Birds flew, twittering, between the branches,
seeming to dart from sunbeam to sunbeam.  She hadn't noticed a thing.

"I cannot help but worry, my lord."

"Unnecessary, I assure you.  Thanks to your quick action in coming to
me immediately, we'll overtake the little beasts before they reach Salt
Hill."

When she failed to take exception to this unloving description of the
miscreants, he cast a quick glance at her face.  "And if they're decked
out in identical

costumes, as you say, they'll probably pass for pupils from a young
ladies' academy.  Taking driving lessons," he added helpfully when she
turned a look of scepticism on him.

"Without any teachers?"  "We were delayed."  "How?"

"One of the horses threw a shoe."

"And they went on without us?"

He grinned.  "They're pupils.  They couldn't get their horses to
stop."

Adjuring herself not to respond to that wicked grin, Phoebe returned
her gaze to the road.  "I don't think that will work, sir."

"Why not?  You're already wearing your governess costume.  Again."

When she once more refused the challenge, his voice changed.  "All
right, Miss Smith, let's have it.  What else is causing that line
between your brows?"

Phoebe contemplated ignoring the demand, then decided that delivering
herself of another lecture might keep her mind on her proper sphere in
life.  Despite all her strictures to herself, it still seemed possessed
of a regrettable tendency to dwell on such inappropriate matters as the
way Deverell's mouth kicked up at one corner when he smiled in that wry
fashion, the brilliant intensity of his eyes, the strength of his hands
as he handled the reins with easy competence.

"It you must know, sir, I am extremely worried about Gerald.  If you
didn't notice it before, the merest glance over your shoulder should
tell you how haggard he's looking."

"If you don't mind, Miss Smith, at this speed I'd rather keep my eyes
on the road."

"You told me you were keeping an eye on Gerald," Phoebe pointed out.
"But this morning I learned from Thripp that Gerald is spending night
after night at some dreadful place called the Pigeonhole."

"Hmm.  Gambling hell.  St.  James's Square.  Precisely what one would
expect of a young feel."

"I can see you're beside yourself with worry," she observed with heavy
sarcasm.  "It is not good enough, my lord.  Poor Gerald could fall into
the clutches of evil moneylenders at any moment.  Be cast 'into the
Fleet.

Throw himself into the river!  What will you do then?"  "You've been
reading novels again, Miss Smith."

"If you don't do something," she threatened, sweeping over this
accusation with magnificent disdain, 'then I will.  I cannot stand by
and watch Gerald ruin himself, even if I have to drag him out of that
dreadful place myself."

"If you go anywhere near the Pigeonhole, Miss Smith, or any other hell
for that matter, I'll put you over my knee."

Phoebe's mouth fell open.  The action didn't seem to restore the air to
her lungs.  While she was still straggling with outrage, Deverell
apparently forgot the dangers of driving at speed along a winding road
and looked down at her.

"Phoebe."

He waited until she glared back at him.

"You are worrying to no purpose," he said very softly, and looked
straight into her eyes.

Phoebe could only gaze back, her mind whirling.  She could have sworn a
full minute passed before Deverell released her from the spell of his
gaze.  Even then she could hardly think.  She stared at the ribbon of
road unfurling ahead of them and wondered how one direct look could
deflate her wrath so thoroughly.

No answer seemed forthcoming, but that and every other consideration
was abruptly forgotten when they swept around a bend.

The road ahead, empty of traffic only seconds ago, was crowded and
congested beyond belief.  Horses, carriages and people milled about in
a seething kaleidoscope of confusion and noise.

Trapped in the middle of the turbulent sea of humanity and horses was
a large stage-coach, its driver standing upright on the box, his mouth
opening and closing, arms waving frantically.  Passengers hung out of
windows or shook their fists from the roof.  Since no one could be
heard over the shrieks, shouts and equine squeals that filled the air,
their efforts were useless.

"Oh, my goodness!"  Hands pressed to her mouth, Phoebe stared in horror
at the scene before her.  Even as she watched, one young lady, who had
apparently considered herself competent to drive tandem, managed to
free her carriage from the fray only to have her lead horse turn in its
traces and try to rejoin its' fellows.  She promptly succumbed to
hysterics while her pair exchanged nips and uncomplimentary
pleasantries.  "Oh, my goodness!  This is impossible!"

"I'm surprised you know the word, Miss Smith."  There was a suspicious
tremor in Deverell's voice as he pulled his horses to the side of the
road.  "Here--' thrusting the reins into her hands '--try to keep my
greys from adding to the disaster."

But what--?"

She didn't get any further.  Before the enquiry was fully formed in her
mind, Deverell put his head in his hands and laughed so hard he almost
fell out of the carriage.  If she hadn't been fully occupied in
preventing the greys from backing into Mr.  Filby's curricle, Phoebe
was certain she would have given him a helping push.

"For goodness' sake, my lord, have you run mad?  Don't just sit there
laughing!  Do something!"

He straightened, still grinning.  "Have you run mad, Miss Smith? Anyone
fool enough to wander into that pandemonium will be trampled
underfoot."

"I say, sir."  Gerald appeared at the side of the phaeton, looking as
frantic as Phoebe felt.  "What is to be done?"

"It's your phaeton, I believe."  Deverell turned a look of sardonic
mockery on his nephew.  "You rescue it.  And while you're about it," he
added, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of young gentlemen gathering
about Gerald, 'every one of you had better be prepared to pay
compensation to the coach driver and his passengers.  Unless you want
news of this episode to reach the ears of higher authorities."

As one his audience blanched.

A silence fraught with dismay followed.

"My lord, I don't think Gerald is quite up to this task."  Her hands
still full of reins, Phoebe tried to put as much of a plea into the
words as possible.  She didn't think Deverell would abandon his wards
to their fate, but she wasn't above a little pleading if it got
results.

Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Gerald and his cohorts did
their best to look pathetically guiltless.

Deverell's eyes narrowed slightly.  He glanced from his nephew to
Phoebe then, rising to his feet, leaned over and spoke very softly in
her ear.  "You, my love, are going to be knee-deep in debt to me. Don't
move from this spot."

He sprang down from the phaeton, waded into the fray and started giving
orders.

He tended to do that a lot, Phoebe reflected, struggling with a pair of
edgy horses and even more turbulent nerves.  On the other hand, she
didn't know of anyone else who could cope with a disaster of this
magnitude.  Softly spoken threats and inappropriate, heart-stopping
appelations were a small price to pay, she decided.

Besides, he hadn't meant it.  He'd been infected by the madness of the
moment.  Who could wonder at it?

Chapter Nine

It was well past noon by the time the procession returned to Town, at a
slightly more decorous pace than when it had started out.

Theodosia was the only female still driving.  The other young ladies
sat beside their grim-faced brothers and tried, earnestly or tearfully
according to their wont, to explain that if the guard on the
stage-coach hadn't decided to blow his yard of tin just when Miss
Forsythe was trying to prevent her pair from committing the heinous
crime of overtaking the carriage in front of her, the entire debacle
would never have occurred.

Their explanations fell on deaf ears.  So, too, did Gerald's
dissertation on the matter.  From her seat in Mr.  Filby's curricle,
Phoebe had seen Gerald gesturing and talking all the way home. Deverell
had appeared deaf and blind to his nephew's efforts.

She could only be thankful she'd retained enough wit to shove the
greys' reins into Gerald's hands when he'd emerged, more rumpled than
ever, from the mire, so she could take refuge with Mr.  Filby.

Listening to that Tulip's ambitious plans to start a new fashion of
greatcoats with lapels to match one's carriage was a lot less
nerve-racking than listening to an account of the debt she owed
Deverell.

Unfortunately, her reprieve was not indefinite.  Mr.  Filby, after one
glance at Deverell's countenance as he alighted from his phaeton, very
basely drove off the instant her feet touched the ground.  Phoebe gazed
after the rapidly disappearing curricle and reflected on the general
cowardice of males.

Then she caught sight of Deverell herself, and Mr.  Filby's cowardice
was instantly elevated to the status of strategic retreat.  In fact, it
would, she decided, be wise to follow his example while Deverell was
occupied in directing Gerald to take the reins from his sister, and in
making arrangements for the disposition of his own phaeton and
horses.

Before the thought was fully formed, Phoebe was scurrying up the front
steps and into the house.  If fortune smiled upon her, she might even
reach the safety of her bedchamber while Deverell was further occupied
in lecturing his wards.

Fortune did not feel inclined to smile upon her that day.

"Miss Smith!  I knew you would return.  I knew I would be wise to wait.
Your butler has been trying to tell me----'

"Oh!  Mr.  Toombes."  Phoebe skidded to a stop in the middle of the
hall, and stared at her visitor in dismay.  "Oh, dear, what else is
going to--?  That is, I didn't expect to see you still in Town, sir."

"The gentleman insisted on waiting," Thripp muttered, eyeing Toombes
with disfavour.  "But what's one more gentleman cluttering up the
house?"  He sniffed and prepared to depart to the nether regions.
"London.  I knew how it would be."

The front door opened again.

Phoebe refrained from demanding why, if Thripp had known how it would
be, he hadn't warned her, and braced herself for the addition of yet
another gentleman into the house.  If Deverell could be described as
such.

As she turned, Theodosia and Cressida slipped past her like wraiths. It
was quite a feat, considering they were still clad incongruously in
greatcoats.

Deverell didn't try to slip anywhere.  He took in the

situation with a lightning-swift glance and stopped less than an arm's
length from Phoebe.

"Theodosia, Cressida, the morning-room.  Now."

The twins halted in mid-step.  Clasping each other's hands, they
changed direction.

"And take off those ridiculous coats."

"But, Uncle Sebastian, they're part of the costume of the Two-in-Hand
Club for Lady Whips."

"The Two-in-Hand Club for Lady Whips is now defunct.  Ofjq."

"My lord!"  Toorobes started bowing as though to royalty "No doubt you
are wondering why I am here.  My presence, when you are aware of Miss
Smith's very proper notions on such conduct, has startled you.  One can
readily understand your surprise.  I'm sure you did not mean to speak
so harshly to these poor, innocent--'

This highly inaccurate description of Deverell's nieces came to an
abrupt halt as the coats were removed.  A stunned silence filled the
hall as everyone blinked at the barrage of brilliant blue and yellow
stripes thus revealed.  The paralytic effect was not lessened by the
addition of white cravats decorated with large black spots.

Deverell closed his eyes as if in acute pain.  "I know why you're here,
Toorobes."  Opening his eyes again, he waved his nieces towards the
stairs.  "Go!  I'll deal with you later.  Miss Smith--'

"A wise decision, my lord."  Toombes beamed ferociously.  "I'm sure
after a rational discussion with another gentleman of sensibility you
will be able to perform the sacred duty of directing your wards'
footsteps on to the proper path with patience rather than brutality
and--'

"A rational discussion, Toorobes?"  Deverell's lips curled back, baring
as many teeth as Toombes.  "If you're here to discuss Miss Smith's
future, no discussion will be necessary.  Rational or otherwise."

"If, by that, sir, you mean you have no objection to my intentions, I
am happy to hear you say so.  However--' Toombes glanced at Phoebe, who
was standing, frozen, as one waiting for the sword to fall '--although
one does not like to keep a lady in suspense, I would prefer to make
myself perfectly clear to you."

Deverell narrowed his eyes.  "Clarification is certainly needed on
several points around here.  Very well, you can have five minutes."

"Five minutes!"  Toombes's smile disappeared.  He struck an attitude.
"Sir, it would take me forever to describe the exquisitely elevated
nature of my feelings for Miss Smith."

"Then I trust you will refrain, because when five minutes have
elapsed--'

"My lord."  Bowing to the pressure of the moment, Phoebe tugged
frantically at Deverell's sleeve.  This was no time for such
extravagant luxuries as panic.  She had to take action before Toombes
was laid out insensible at her feet.

"Ah, yes, Miss Smith."  Deverell glanced down at her, a particularly
fiendish light in his eyes.  "I hesitate to behave in such a brutal
fashion, of course, but you may consider yourself banished to the
drawing-room."  "But, sir, I--'

"You heard Mr.  Toombes.  He doesn't want to keep you in suspense."

Toombes beamed again.

"But--'

"The drawing-room is right over here, Miss Smith."  He grasped her
elbow.

"I know where it is," Phoebe muttered through gritted teeth as she was
marched inexorably forward.

When Deverell opened the door for her and showed every sign of
thrusting her unceremoniously into the room, a change of tactics seemed
called for.  She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper.  "My lord,
what are you going to say to Mr.  Toombes?  No doubt you mean well, but
pray remember that, even as my employer, it isn't your place to be
receiving offers on my behalf."

"It's either that or leave you to handle Toombes on

your own.  I'm choosing the lesser of two evils, Miss Smith.  Comfort
yourself with the reflection that you'll now be hip-deep in debt to
me."

Smiling grimly, he propelled her over the threshold and shut the door
in her face.

Phoebe resisted the urge to thump the door panels with her fist and,
muttering, began to pace back and forth across the carpet.  After
several passes, she finally caught sight of herself in the mirror over
the mantelpiece and realised she was still wearing her bonnet and
pelisse.

Removing the garments restored a measure of composure.  Pacing wasn't
going to help.  She needed to decide how she was going to deal with
Deverell when he'd finished with Mr.  Toombes.

She wasn't quite sure how she was going to go about the task, but she
was not going to behave as if she really was hip-deep in debt to him.
She would, of course, be grateful if Deverell managed to rid her of her
unwanted suitor.  She was extremely grateful that she hadn't been left
to cope alone with the abrupt demise of Theodosia's Two-in-Hand Club
for Lady Whips.  But anything else was out of the question.

She absolutely refused, for instance, to allow herself even a hint of a
tender feeling for a gentleman who was so ungallant as to render an
account whenever he was asked to come to her rescue.  Or even when he
wasn't.

Not that the odd little sensations hovering around her heart lately
could be described as 'tender feelings'.  No, no, not at all. Naturally
she'd been deeply touched by the poignancy of the statue she'd seen
that morning.  She admired Devemll for using his talent as an outlet
for his feelings rather than allowing bitterness to ruin his life.  He
also had an appreciation of the ridiculous that appealed to her, and
there was that fleeting sense of protection she'd experienced once or
twice in.  his company, but Phoebe frowned uneasily at the mirrored
reflection in front of her.  Prottion, she reminded herself, wasn't all
she was capable of feeling in Deverell's company.  He seemed to have
the knack of arousing some extremely disturbing, not to say positively
scandalous, sensations whenever he came too close.

She couldn't understand it.

Or didn't want to understand it.

The insidious thought flitted across her mind and was instantly
quelched.  There was nothing to understand.  However unseemly her
urges, she'd observed enough to know that without tender feelings such
Urges didn't last long.  And she'd just finished telling herself that
she didn't have any tender feelings for Deverell so The sound of the
door opening had her mind going blank in a singularly unnerving
fashion.  Every thought, every.  stricture every resolve vanished as if
it had never been as Deverell strode into the room and shut the door
behind him.

Phoebe turned slowly to face him---and was instantly beset by an
intense longing to run to him, to fly straight to the warmth of his
arms.  He looked so big standing there, watching her.  Big and powerful
and, somehow, protective.

Which was really quite ridiculous, she thought distractedly, because he
was the cause of her dilemma.

"My ... my lord."  Somehow, from somewhere, she conjured up a bright
smile.  He mustn't know.  That was the one clear thought in her head.
He must not know.

What, precisely, he wasn't to know she wasn't prepared to admit.

"I've been waiting here on tenterhooks forever.  You haven't strangled
Mr.  Toombes, I trust."

"No," he purred, his lips curving in an anticipatory smile, 'that is a
fate I'm reserving for you, Miss Smith."

For some mason, this response restored a semblance of norma Icy to the
situation.  Threats of strangulation were as nothing.  She was becoming
quite accustomed to them.

"Now, my lord, I know the morning has been ... er... fraught with
strain, but there is no need to lose your temper."

He began to stalk slowly towards her.  "I never lose my temper."

Phoebe's jaw dropped.  "But you just threatened to strangle me.  Not
for the first time, I might add."

"That's right.  And I'm going to enjoy every minute of

She skipped nimbly behind a chair.  "Quite out of the question, sir.
Besides, I know you don't mean it.  Your family might be fooled by such
threats because they're inclined to dramatic utterances themselves, but
you're a great deal more controlled than they are and--'

"If you think that, Miss Smith, you're even more innocent than I
supposed."

The chair began to look rather flimsy.  Phoebe retreated to the far
side of the sofa.  "Nonsense, my lord.  Apart from your outburst in
Covent Garden last week, which was quite understandable, you've always
behaved with perfect control."

"I'm all too aware of that, Miss Smith.  That's another item you can
add to the account."  He moved closer.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, sir."  Phoebe sidestepped along
behind the sofa and measured the distance to a small writing desk.
"Perhaps we should sit down and discuss the matter."

"You seem to be more interested in dancing around the furniture."

"I'm trying to avoid being strangled," she retorted with some asperity.
"It is not a practice I approve of, sir."

He halted his advance and eyed her consideringly.  Phoebe took the
opportunity to dart across to the writing table.  It wasn't as solid as
the sofa, but it was wider.

"You deserve to be strangled," he growled.  "Just what would you have
done if you'd returned here, alone, to find Toombes waiting for you?"

"I'd have sent him about his business precisely as you did."  She
paused and thought for a moment.  "Er ... how did you send Mr.  Toombes
about his business, sir?"

The fiendish gleam came back.  "I told him the truth about your
position here."

"What!"  Phoebe's eyes widened.  "What truth?  My position here is
perfectly respectable.".

"You and I know that, Miss Smith, but Mr.  Toombes, I'm sorry to say,
seemed not to approve of the fact that you've visited me, unescorted,
on two occasions before most people have left their beds.  And when I
pointed out that Lord Portlake, not to mention the worthy parishioners
of Little Muddleford, wouldn't understand how it came about that you
allowed me to purchase your clothes, he--'

"Good heavens!  You didn't have to tell him that!"  Phoebe's voice
soared.  "What did you think you were about?  Are you trying to ruin
every shred of reputation I have left?"  Forgetting her present danger,
she took an agitated turn in the small space behind the table.  "Not
that I care what Toombes thinks of me, but--'

"I am, of course, relieved to hear you say so, Miss Smith."

"Yes, that's all very well," she retorted, coming to a halt so she
could glare at him.  "But what if he goes to Lord Portlake with the
information that you're providing your nieces' companion with her
clothes?"

"Perhaps I should also explain that Toombes left here with the
additional impression that if he so much as lets your name pass his
lips in future, it will be the last thing he'll ever say."

"Oh, my goodness."  Phoebe put a hand to the desk and wondered why,
when she was absolutely certain Deverell would never strangle her, she
didn't have the same assurance about Mr.  Toombes's continued good
health.  "Really, my lord, you can't go about threatening people like
that."

He quirked a brow.  "You did want to see the last of Toorobes, didn't
you?"

"Well, yes, but--' After a futile effort to gather her

thoughts, she abandoned the attempt to bring her tormentor to a sense
of his inappropriate behaviour.  Such attempts were seldom crowned by
success when dealing with Deverells anyway.  "I don't think I wish to
know what you said to the twins," she muttered.

"A wise decision, Miss Smith.  However--' he took a deliberate step
towards her and fixed her with a narrow-eyed stare '--what I wish to
know is why you didn't see fit to inform me that this house is being
overrun by males and that Crowhurst has been sending you notes capable
of making you appear extremely worried, not to say frightened."

"Thripp!"  she exclaimed, flushing.  "Really!  How dare he tell such
tales?  He's as bad as the rest of you Deverells.  I am not frightened
of Crowhurst.  Merely, I

thought if I ignored his notes he would eventually desist."  "Indeed."
He took another step forward.  "And has he?"  "Well..."  Suddenly
realising she was being stalked again, Phoebe scuttled to the end of
the table.  She discovered, too late, that an overzealous housemaid had
placed a chair at an inviting angle' to the desk--right behind her.

In front of her, Deverell loomed.

Phoebe stiffened her spine.  "These things take time, my lord.
Patience.  Resolve."  She raised an admonishing finger.  "One must
stand by one's guns.  Hold the line.  Um..."

"Never mind the rest," he ordered, coming' right up to her.  "Miss
Smith, you and I are going to come to an understanding."

"We are?  I mean..."  She raised her finger higher.  "You must
understand, my lord, that re

"Miss Smith," he interrupted again, very gently, 'if I hear one day
that one of Toombes's parishioners has strangled him in the middle of a
sermon, I will be most understanding.  My understanding, however, does
not extend to you placing yourself in awkward or dangerous situations
with the male half of the population."

Phoebe pursed her lips.  "Well, actually, my lord, I believe the
proportion of population is not quite half and half.  In fact--'

"Obviously words aren't going to do the trick," he muttered.  He caught
her still-raised hand and tugged.

Phoebe squeaked, stumbled, and found herself landing in a disordered
heap against Deverell's chest.  Stunned, she gazed mutely from their
clasped hands to his face.

"Allow me to remind you once again, Miss Smith, that you are not my
governess.  As a matter of fact, at present, you are not anybody's
governess."

"Yes, I know that, my lord, but--'

"And I'm beginning to believe that your talents as a companion are
rather limited.  So far this morning I've been compelled to spring my
horses out of Town, engage on a battleground that would cause
Wellington to blanch, deal with my wards and set an idiot vicar
straight on one or two crucial points.  All without giving vent to the
famous Deverell emotions, Miss Smith."

"Yes, I know that, too, sir, but..."

"Even a controlled Deverell, Miss Smith, has his limits."

"But--'

He circled her waist with his free arm and drew her even closer. Phoebe
tried frantically to remember what she'd been about to say.  She
couldn't seem to think at all.  A shivery sense of excitement was
racing along every nerve-ending.  Her heart fluttered somewhere in her
throat.  Her breathing halted.

She watched, mesmerised, as he lowered his head until their lips were
less than an inch apart.

"And before you remind me of it, Miss Smith, I know this is not part of
our agreement, but keep in mind that no sorry details of infelicitous
relationships have recently crossed my lips."

His mouth closed over hers with devastatingly gentle mastery.

A thrilling, utterly shocking torrent of excitement

poured through her.  Sweet, melting weakness followed.  Every muscle
went limp.  She felt his arm tighten across her back, supporting her,
holding her locked against him.  Heat and strength enveloped her,
wrapping her in a mindless haze of increasingly dizzying pleasure as
his mouth moved slowly on hers.

Her lips parted on a tiny yearning sigh and suddenly the pressure was
no longer gentle.  His mouth was hot and hard and fiercely demanding;
the arm across her back like iron.

He 'stroked his tongue across the tingling curve of her lower lip, but
even as pleasure burst inside her in streamers of heat, Deverell broke
the kiss, jerking his head back so abruptly she felt as if she'd been
picked up and tossed about by a wildly eddying whirlwind, only to be as
swiftly dumped back to earth.  She had to cling to him, her face
pressed to his coat, until the room and her senses stopped spinning.

He held her like that, his arm around her waist, his free hand still
wrapped about her smaller one.  Almost as if they'd been dancing, she
thought dazedly, raising her head at last.

Except that her breasts throbbed where they'd been crushed to the hard
planes of his chest.  She felt unutterably soft and vulnerable and
yielding inside.  And she doubted the fierce expression glittering in
his eyes was to be found in any ballroom.

She drew in a shaky breath, suddenly, overwhelmingly conscious of his
much greater strength, of her own softer femininity, and he loosened
his hold enough to put an inch or two of space between them.  His hand
remained at her waist.  Big and powerful, it burned like a brand
through her gown.

She didn't know why he kept it there.  Fleeing from the room wasn't an
option.  Her legs wouldn't have carried her.

"Well, Miss Smith--' his voice was low, and strangely husky '--at least
I didn't strangle you."

"No."  Phoebe struggled desperately to think, to follow his lead.  If
he could shrug off a kiss, then so would she.  She could collapse
later.  "You showed great ... self-restraint, my lord."

He smiled at that.  A slow smile that made her tremble inside.

"You have no idea, Miss Smith."

"No.  I ... I mean ... am I now out of debt, sir?"

For the first time since she'd known him, Deverell seemed to hesitate.
His gaze shifted to her mouth.  Very slowly he bent his head and
brushed his lips lightly across hers.  "No," he murmured.

And, releasing her, he turned and strode out of the room.

Phoebe was left staring after him, her mind a complete blank.  She
didn't move for several minutes.  Then, quite abruptly, she pet out a
hand and lowered herself to the chair behind her.  Her other hand
lifted to touch her mouth.

What had she done?

The answer was all too evident in the tingling heat and softness of the
lips beneath her fingers.  She had allowed Deverell to kiss her.  She
hadn't raised her voice in protest for as much as one second.  She had
wanted him to kiss her.

That was scandalous enough.  What was infinitely more devastating was
why.

Phoebe groaned and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk.  She
lowered her brow to her clasped hands.  Hiding her face, however, did
nothing to disguise the truth.  The answer could no longer be ignored.
The moment of revelation could no longer be pushed aside to wait until
later.  She had done a very foolish thing.

She'd done the most foolish thing a governess could do.  She had fallen
in love with her employer.

When had it happened?  she wondered, raising her head to stare blankly
into space.  When Deverell had

rescued her in Covent Garden?  At Lady Grismead's dancing party?  When
she'd discovered the statue of Gerald in his studio that morning?

Or earlier, in the Park, when he'd almost tempted her with gentle
persuasion to tell him all the secrets of her past?

"Oh, what does it matter?"  she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and
pacing restlessly to the window and back.  She'd had this conversation
with herself before.  NOthing but disaster could come of such a
situation.  If she had any sense of self-preservation, she would go
upstairs and pack as fast as she was able.

Phoebe stopped pacing and dropped onto the chair again.  It was a
lowering thought to discover she hadn't any sense at all.  Obviously
she was more like her mother than she'd been told, because she was
actually contemplating throwing away everything, including her
reputation, for a love that was unlikely to be reciprocated and could
only lead to scandal and disgrace.

That was if Deverell really wanted her.  Truly wanted her.  He might
have kissed her, but then he'd all but informed her she should be
grateful he hadn't strangled her instead.

This reminder caused a kindling light to dawn in her eyes.  If Deverell
had sworn undying devotion after that kiss it would be one thing.  But
no--typical infuriating male--he'd talked of debts.  She should go
upstairs and pack.  It would serve him right to be left to cope with
his nieces, and Gerald's gambling, and the Grismeads, and Miss
Porefret, because that lady would have to be summoned immediately from
Kerslake.

But even as she rose and stalked over to the door, Phoebe knew she
wasn't going to carry out any revenge.  In fact, she admitted gloomily,
while one part of her mind was busy ordering herself to dash off a
letter to Mrs.  Arbuthnot's Employment Registry, the other half was
issuing reminders that she still had a lecture to deliver to the
twins.

And she really should look closely into Gerald's activities.

Then there was the fact that Miss Pomfret's last letter had contained
ominous mention of the restorative tonic that had failed in its
purpose.

A responsible companion simply couldn't abandon her charges at this
point.

But she would not go to Deverell again.  Oh, no.  If she mentioned
Gerald's troubles to him, there was no saying where the debt would end
up.  Over her head, no doubt.  And until she managed to discover some
sort of cure, she would be all too willing to drown.

Phoebe sighed and opened the door.  For the first time she wished she
knew more about the scandal that had sent thunderous reverberations
echoing through her own family.  She'd known her mother had been cast
off; that her father had become a recluse.  She'd listened for most of
her life to warnings and reproaches every time her behaviour was less
than exemplary.  But she didn't know the hideous details.

Perhaps she should write to her aunt and ask.  Hideous details might
help her avoid a path that could only lead to more scandal and
recriminations.

She was just wondering why that thought should put Crowhurst into her
head, when the front door bell rang with a particularly urgent-sounding
summons.

Still deep in thought, Phoebe absent-mindedly waved Thripp away and
crossed the hall to answer it herself.  She was speedily snapped back
to full attention when Lady Yarwood hurried through the aperture.

"Miss Smith, you're home.  Thank goodness!  I came as soon as Caroline
told me what was afoot.  If only she'd mentioned it earlier.  But
perhaps it is not too late."

"My dear ma'am, please don't fret yourself."  Gathering her wits to
cope with this relatively minor calamity, Phoebe ushered her breathless
visitor into the drawing-room.  "You've come about Theodosia's club, I
expect.  Really, it is too bad.  Those dreadful girls!  I'll summon

them downstairs immediately to apologise for putting you out like
this."

"You mean they're here?  Safe?"  Lady Yarwood sank onto the sofa and
fanned herself with one hand.  "Thank heavens."

"Yes, indeed."  She turned to the butler who had followed them and was
watching her with mournful disapproval.  "You may take that look off
your face, Thripp.  Nobody cares if I answer the door on the odd
occasion."

"What if it'd been Mr.  Toombes again?"  Thripp demanded in sepulchral
accents.  "Or that fellow sending notes?"

"Yes, I'd like a word with you about that," Phoebe retorted.  "Later,
if you please.  In the meantime, you may ask Lady Theodosia and-'

"No, no, don't bother them, Miss Smith."  Lady Yarwood sat up and
straightened her bonnet.  "If Caroline's news was precipitate, I'm only
too happy to hear it."

"Well, as to that, ma'am, if Miss Yarwood was referring to the first
meeting of a certain club for young ladies, she was quite correct.
Thanks to Lord Deverell, however, the first meeting was also the
last."

"His lordship told me to keep an eye on all the gentlemen running in
and out of this house," Thripp declared, Deverell's name apparently
stirring him to animation.  "Just as well, if you ask me.  Someone
should know what's going on around here."

"Yes, well, Lord Deverell already has quite enough to do."  Phoebe
waved Thripp away and sat down beside her visitor."  "It was very good
of you to come, ma'am, but I can assure you that the girls are indeed
safe.  All of them."

"All?"  Lady Yarwood blinked at her in dismay.  "How many were
there?"

"Six or seven," Phoebe admitted, shuddering as she remembered her first
sight of the disaster.  "If it hadn't been for Deverell-- But never
mind that.  You may be thankful, ma'am, that Miss Yarwood had the good
sense not to take part in such an ill-considered romp."

"Believe me, Miss Smith, Caroline is as silly as any young miss with
more hair than wit.  It was only her brother's refusal to lend his
phaeton, and his representations on the matter, that convinced her to
come to me in the first place.  I dashed around here at once."

"Oh.  Well..."  Phoebe hesitated and looked down at her hands.  "You er
didn't think to go directly to Deverell, ma'am?"

"Perhaps I should have done so, Miss Smith, but I do know something of
the strained relations between Deverell and his family.  It occurred to
me that if his interVention was necessary, you Would have more
influence when it came to persuading him to set things right."

Phoebe'felt herself turning pink.  "I ... beg your pardon, ma'am?"  she
asked weakly.

"Perhaps I'm wrong, my dear, but from the way Deverell's attention
scarcely left you the other day--except when he was glaring at any
other gentleman who looked as if he might venture too close--I received
the distinct impression that his interest in you was more than that of
an employer."

"Oh, no.  Surely you're mistaken, ma'am."

Lady Yarwood gave her a thoughtful look.  "I don't think so, my
dear."

"But---'

She stopped, anything as useful as rational thought beyond her.
Tremulous hope, higgling doubt and an awareness of harsh reality
jostled about in her head until she scarce knew what to think.

"Nothing but disaster could come of such an interest," she finally
managed.

"I see you believe you have reason to say so, Miss Smith.  And I must
admit that when Yarwood first showed a hint of interest in me, I was
considerably incensed, having already suffered one nasty experience.

But remember, not all men prey on vulnerable females."

"I dare say not, ma'am, but Deverell has never shown a hint... That
is..."  She blushed fierily as the memory of his kiss returned in full
force.  "Well, that wasn't what I would call a hint," she blurted aloud
before she could stop herself.

Lady Yarwood laughed delightedly.

"Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that."  Phoebe wrung her hands.  "What
I meant was, that Deverell has never said... Indeed, he promised at the
outset..."

Again her words tangled in her throat.  He'd promised, yes, but
suddenly a giant omission from that promise loomed large in her mind.

"Yes, I made it very clear to Yarwood that there would be no
undesirable advances if he wished me to join his employ," her ladyship
said drily.  "It didn't take him long, however, to discover that his
advances Would be far from undesirable to me."

"Oh, dear."  Phoebe wrung her hands again.

Lady Yarwood leaned over and stilled her writhing fingers.  "There, my
dear, I didn't mean to distress you.  I may be quite mistaken in
Deverell's interest.  Although," she added shrewdly, 'perhaps you
should ask yourself if he would have chased after his nieces at Ottilia
Grismead's request."

"He refused to do so at my request, ma'am.  I had to threaten him."

Her ladyship looked amused again.  "I doubt there are many people in
this world who have threatened Deverell and managed to escape
unscathed, Miss Smith."

This remark, though clearly intended to reassure, had the opposite
effect.  Phoebe sank immediately into gloom.

"Yes, ma'am," she agreed sombrely.  "I doubt it, too."  Lady Yarwood
bestowed a last pat on her hand and rose to her feet.  "In any event,
whether Deverell is interested in you or not, Miss Smith, I hope you
know I would like to stand your friend.  If you need assistance or
advice at any time, please don't hesitate to come to me."

"Thank you, ma'am."  Phoebe rose, also, and tried to paste a polite
smile on to her face.  "You're very kind."

"Not at all."  Lady Yarwood gathered up her reticule and moved towards
the door.  "I know precisely how difficult your situation can be.  And
Deverell, unlike everyone else in his family, is a great deal harder to
read than Yarwood ever was."

For the second time that day, Phoebe was left staring at the
drawing-room door while she contemplated her visitor's parting
remark.

It was not, she discovered after a moment of intense examination,
altogether discouraging.  She, herself, knew that Deverell was harder
to read than the rest of his family--and in his dealings with others,
it was perfectly true.  But, she realised with a quick little uplift of
her heart he had shown her several different sides to his nature.
Annoyance, anger, laughter, understanding.

And although she'd always been aware that he possessed the arrogance of
a warrior completely sure of himself, this morning she'd seen the
vulnerability of a boy unjustly banished from his birthright.

This morning she'd looked into his soul.

Had-he meant that to happen?

Phoebe pondered the question for quite some time before she rose and
walked over to the door.  A new decisiveness was in her step.  She
might be more foolish than ever.  She might be putting a rather
desperate sort of faith in Lady Yarwood's opinion.  She was definitely
risking the destruction of her reputation, and the possible devastation
of her heart.

But she knew she couldn't leave Deverell without knowing why he'd
allowed her that glimpse of his soul.

Chapter Ten

Despite the improvement in her spirits, Phoebe did not spend the night
in restful slumber.

For once, Deverell wasn't wholly to blame for this state of affairs.
After Lady Yarwood had left, she had thought to distract herself by
concentrating on her charges, her first task being the delivery of a
stern lecture to the twins on the differences between the freedom
enjoyed by gentlemen of the ton, and that allowed young ladies.

Thee and Cressy had watched her with close attention throughout the
homily, but Phoebe was left with the impression that they had not
listened to a single word.  When she ran into Gerald outside the girls'
bedchamber, however, her vague suspicions were forgotten.  Gerald had
been marched down to the drawing-room and ordered to render an account
of his recent activities.

He had been all reassurance.  There was nothing to worry about.  No,
no, not a thing.  Yes, he had been keeping rather odd hours lately, but
everything was all right and tight.  Anyone would look pale after
spending so much time indoors, but a run of luck had to be pursued.
There was absolutely no need for her to concern herself---and could she
possibly inform him if a minor could draw up a Will?

Phoebe had been so stunned by this mind-numbing question that Gerald
had made good his escape while she was wondering if she'd heard him
aright.

By three o'clock the following afternoon she was still fretting over
the question, and was further thrown into anxiety when Mr.  Charlton
was shown into the drawing-room and immediately demanded to know what
was this nonsense about Gerald needing to draw up a Will before he'd
reached his majority.

"For I don't mind telling you, Miss Smith, that I'm seriously
concerned," he went on, accepting Phoebe's offer of a chair.  "I'm all
too aware that Gerald has been gambling every night for the past couple
of weeks.  God knows what sort of company he's fallen into."

"Oh, dear."  An anxious frown creased Phoebe's brow.  "You don't think
he's been so rash as to accuse someone of cheating, do you, sir?  What
if there should be a duel?  Gerald has never engaged in such a thing in
his life."

"We can only hope not," Mr.  Charlton said heavily.  His tone held out
no hope at all.  "But you know what Deverells are like.  Try as I
might, I can think of no other reason why Gerald would express this
sudden desire to draw up his Will.  It's not the sort of thing he'd
normally consider."

"No."  Phoebe thought for a moment, then cast a fleeting glance at her
visitor.  "I take it, you haven't told Lord Deverell of your
suspicions, sir?"

Mr.  Charlton looked a little self-conscious.  "Er ... no, ma'am.  In
light of yesterday's events, I hesitated to bring Deverell's wrath down
upon Gerald before I have all the facts.  Gerald is very close to his
sisters, however.  Perhaps, if we were to ask them..."

His suggestion was cut off as the drawing-room door opened to admit the
sisters in question.  They greeted Mr.  Charlton with every sign of
pleasure, and had scarcely sat down when Lady Grismead, a wilting
Pamela in tow, sailed into the room.  She did not waste time.

"Never have I been so mortified!"  she declared, sweeping Mr. Charlton
from her path with a puce silk-clad ann as he rose politely. She
appropriated his abandoned chair and fixed her nieces with a
fulminating eye.

Perhaps you can tell me," she began ominously, 'why it comes about that
every young lady in London is this minute explaining chipped paintwork
and dented carriage doors to their fathers."

"Well, Aunt Ottilia, you see--'

"And stripes!  How could you, Theodosia?  If the gentlemen wish to make
fools of themselves by dressing in blue and yellow striped waistcoats,
that is one thing.

Deverells do not emulate such fashions."

"But, Aunt Ottilia, we wore dresses."

Her ladyship shuddered, then proceeded to chastise her nieces in no
uncertain terms.  Her main grievance seemed not to be the fact that
Theodosia had started the Two-in-Hand Club for Lady Whips, but that
she'd allowed incompetent drivers to join the ranks.

Shaking her head at the predictable unpredictability of Deverells,
Phoebe was about to retire to the window seat to wait out the storm
when the door opened yet again.  Gerald and Mr.  Filby strolled into
the room, took one look at its occupants and promptly began to
retreat.

"Gerald!"  Phoebe darted forward, raising her voice to be heard above
the din created by arguing Deverells.

"Can't stop now, Phoebe," Gerald said hastily.  "Reggie and I are on
our way to Manton's Shooting Gallery.  Just stopped in to collect my
pistols."

This statement, delivered in a tone of airy unconcern, was enough to
cause Phoebe to grasp Gerald's coat with both hands and haul him bodily
back into the room.  The thought crossed her mind that had it been
Deverell she'd been trying to haul, the tactic would never have worked.
She instantly dismissed such useless meanderings.  "Just for once," she
told Gerald in minatory accents, 'you can stay here and help entertain
your aunt and cousin.  And I believe Mr.  Charlton has something to say
to you."  She turned to Filby with a determined smile.

"Mr.  Filby, I have been wishing since yesterday to hear more about
your brilliant idea of coat lapels to match one's carriage.  Shall we
sit over there by the window?"

No fool, Filby began to look hunted.  Unfortunately for him, his
manners precluded any other action but compliance.  He followed her to
the window-seat, his demeanour that of one approaching a designated
place of execution.

"See you have quite a crowd," he began with rather desperate chattiness
as Phoebe seated herself.  "Bit hard on the ears, so many Deverells at
once.  Not that Miss Grismead ever says much.  Seems to prefer draping
her-self over the furniture, Always wondered, y'know, if she actually
has any bones."

Phoebe smiled despite herself.  "An interesting theory, Mr.  Filby."

Once had a bet on it at White's," he confided, looking more at ease.
"But no one could think of a way to prove anything one way or the
other."

"Indeed, sir."  Phoebe firmly suppressed the urge to laugh and turned
an uncompromising look on him.  "I believe the Betting Book at White's
is not the only form of gambling enjoyed by some gentlemen."

"Well, if you mean Gerald," said Filby, apparently deciding to take the
bull by the horns, 'no need to worry he'll end in the River Tick.
Inherited Deverell's talent for mathematics.  Never loses."

"Never?"  Phoebe's brain reeled.  She'd been so beset by visions of
Gerald signing away Kerslake Park to some monster who preyed on green
boys from the country, and in despair challenging said monster to a
duel, that she'd never even considered the alternative.

Perhaps Deverell was right.  She had been reading too many novels.

"Soon be rich," Filby added, not without a touch of pride.  "Well,
richer than he is now.  Never seen anything like it.  Figures the odds
before you can say knife.  Wants to repair the family fortunes, you
know."

"Well, I'm sure that's very commendable," Phoebe began, still coping
with this reversal of every plot she'd ever read.  "But, in that ease,
why would Gerald wish to draw up his Will?  And why is he going to
Manton's?"

"Oh, nothing in that.  Everyone goes there.  Well, not ladies, of
course, but..."

"Mr.  Filby, has Gerald accused someone of cheating and demanded
satisfaction?"

He began to look hunted again.  "No, no, nothing of

'the sort.  Other way about.  I mean--' he gasped as one going down for
the last time '--all an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Oh, good heavens!  Then there is going to be a duel!"  "Shouldn't
mention such things to ladies," Filby yelped frantically.  "Only send
you into a it of the vapours."

"Mr.  Filby, it seems to be you who is having a fit of the yap ours but
let me assure that I will immediately join you in the exercise if you
don't tell me everything you know.  Right now!"

Filby blinked several times in an agitated fashion, then capitulated.
"Told Gerald he shouldn't play at the Pigeonhole," he whispered, as if
anyone could have heard him over the voices of Deverells en masse.
"Full of Sharps and Flats."  Heartened by an encouraging nod, he
continued.  "Trouble was, once everyone at the proper clubs realised
how good Gerald was, they'd only play a few games at a time with him.
One thing about Sharps, they always think tonight will be the night
they'll fleece someone, so they continue to play.  But Gerald didn't
get fleeced."

"The Sharp turned into a Flat?"

"Very neatly put, ma'am.  Rather well-heeled Sharp, though.  Didn't
seem too concerned about losing, at first, Usually when that happens
they cast about for another victim, but two nights ago he suddenly
accused Gerald of cheating."

"Oh, my goodness!"

Filby nodded soberly.  "Very nasty business.  Ain't likely a Deverel!"s
going to take that in the face and walk away.  Took three of us to keep
Gerald from beating the fellow to a pulp.  Creech-that's the
Sharp-challenged him at once, and Gerald accepted.  I'm one of his
seconds," he added, sinking into gloom.  "Offered immediately.  Nothing
else to be done."

"Oh, yes, there is something else to be done," Phoebe announced
trenchantly.  "I understand the first duty of a second, Mr.  Filby, is
to effect a reconciliation."

"Already tried it," Filby answered.  "Very obstinate fellow, Creech.
Seems determined to put a bullet in Gerald.  Wouldn't apologise, even
when I pointed out that Gerald couldn't have cheated because they were
playing with the House cards.  Surprised he didn't challenge me when I
said that.  Not the thing at all."

"But did you also point out that Gerald is a minor?  I'm not perfectly
certain about such things, but surely any gentleman would hesitate to
shoot a boy Gerald's age."

Filby shook his head.  "Tried that, too.  Creech told me he'd never
withdrawn from an affair of honour and he wasn't going to start now."

"You mean this dreadful creature has fought duels before?"  Phoebe
gazed at Filby in dismay while hideous visions of Gerald's lifeless
body being carted into the house flashed through her mind.  "Then
there's nothing else for it.  Gerald will have to go to Deverell."

Filby so far forgot himself as to sink his chin into his cravat. "Won't
do it, ma'am.  Suggested it m'self, but he refused point-blank. Seems
Deverell likes to go about strangling people.  Doesn't sound too likely
to me.  Haven't heard of any corpses lying about, for one thing, but
Gerald seemed very certain."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, of course Deverell doesn't strangle people,"
Phoebe exclaimed, quite exasperated.  "Although, after this, he'll
probably make an exception in Gerald's case."

After this unanswerable conclusion, a rather melancholy silence
descended upon them.  Phoebe tried vainly to think of a way to extract
Gerald from his obligations without involving Deverell in yet another
disaster.  Mr.  Filby appeared to have sunk into a mindless torpor.

"You said you're one of Gerald's seconds," she finally recalled. "Who's
the other?"

"Crowhurst," Filby answered glumly.  "He was playing at the next table
that night.  Good of him to offer, I suppose, but he hasn't been
particularly helpful."

"Perhaps not to you, Mr.  Filby, but surely he wouldn't refuse a lady's
request."

Filby frowned.  "I don't know, ma'am.  I know you and Crowhurst are
friends, but to tell you the truth, he's not quite..."

"Lord Crowhurst exaggerated when he called us friends," she interrupted
hastily.  "I hardly know the man, but '

Before she could explain the situation further, they were interrupted
from an unexpected quarter.  Miss Grismead floated up to them, obliging
Mr.  Filby to rise to his feet.  Under his fascinated gaze, she
crumpled slowly and gracefully onto the window seat transforming
herself into a limp heap of pale blue muslin.

"Miss Smith," she breathed in accents that would have led anyone to
believe her next words would be her last, "I wonder if I might have a
word with you?"

Only too happy to take a hint, Filby swept a magnificent bow.  "Must
pay my respects to your mother, Miss Grismead.  Your very obedient
servant, Miss Smith."

"We shall continue our conversation later, Mr.  Filby," Phoebe said
with heavy meaning.  But Filby was already making good his escape.

Not that he was going far, Phoebe consoled herself, as she watched him
fall into the clutches of Lady Grismead.  She heard her ladyship demand
his expert opinion on the proper costume for a Ladies' Driving Club and
decided Filby would still be within easy reach when she'd finished with
Pamela.

When she turned to her visitor, Miss Grismead fixed her with a soulful
gaze and managed the enormous effort of clasping her hands together.
"Miss Smith, I must and will speak with you.  You're my Last Hope."

"I am?"  Phoebe blinked at her, momentarily distracted from Gerald's
problems.

"Yes, indeed.  I know you are aware of my situation.  How could you not
be, when Papa so brutally refused to countenance my betrothal to
dearest Norvel the other day?  In front of everyone!"

"Well, I don't think he refused precisely, Miss Grismead.  He seemed to
think--'

"It is all of a piece," stated Miss Grismead, waving away anyone else's
thoughts on the matter.  "But I was struck, Miss Smith, by your
sympathy.  By your courage in mentioning the Fatal Word in front of
Mama.  By your--'

Phoebe gazed at her, mesmerised.  "Fatal Word?"  Miss Grismead glanced
about the room, assured herself that no one was listening, and leaned
closer.  "Poetry," she whispered.

"Oh.  That Fatal Word."

"I knew in that moment you'd been Sent."

"Sent?"

"To aid me in my affliction."

"Well, actually, I came up to London to demand help on my own account,
but--'

"Yes, I know.  From Deverell.  You see.  It is all Meant."  "Meant?"

Pamela nodded.  "Deverell will never listen to me, Miss Smith, but if
you ask him to help us, he won't refuse."

Phoebe started to wonder if she'd missed something, somewhere along the
line.  "Naturally, I'd be happy to help you in any way I can, Miss
Grismead, but--'

"Thanksyou, Miss Smith, thank you.  I knew I could

depend on you."  Pamela rose to her feet.  She managed the task so
gradually that Phoebe held her breath, expecting her visitor to
collapse back onto the seat at any moment.  So fascinated was she by
the procedure, she completely failed to comprehend that Pamela
considered her task done.

"I knew you wouldn't refuse to exercise your influence to ensure the
Happiness of one who will be Forever Grateful."

"Influence!"  Phoebe's pent-up breath rushed out in a startled whoosh.
By the time she'd recovered, Miss Grismead had drifted back to the sofa
where she appeared to fall asleep.  Phoebe was not fooled.  She had
just been struck by the unpleasant realisation that Miss Grismead's
languishing pose gave her plenty of opportunity for observation.

Heat stung her cheeks as she wondered what, exactly, Pamela had
observed to cause her to say practically the same things that Lady
Yarwood had said yesterday?  Had she betrayed herself in some way
before she'd even been aware of her own feelings for Deverell?  But
even if she had, surely Deverell hadn't done anything to cause two such
diverse personalities to assume she had any influence over him?

Phoebe gripped her hands together, fighting a whirling torrent of
emotions while her mind see-sawed dizzily between alarm that she'd made
a public spectacle of herself, and a quite improper hope that Deverell
wasn't indifferent to her.

Hope, she discovered to her shock, even a tiny, tremulous hope, was
stronger than any amount of alarm.  It took several minutes of severe
self-chastisement before she managed to drag her mind back to more
important matters.  She had to prevent Gerald's untimely demise on the
field of honour, And she would also try to persuade Deverell to help
Pamela.

She wanted to see him reconciled with his family, she realised, with a
little pang of her heart.  She didn't want him to be alone anymore.  He
had stopped being a warrior.  Now it was time he... Before she could
finish the thought, the door was flung open with a flourish, and Thripp
ushered Deverell into the room.

Phoebe's entire body went rigid.  She went hot all over.  She was
positive she was one big blush.  Every thought in her mind vanished,
leaving only the memory of his kiss.  The warmth and gentleness; the
strength of his arms; the fierce demand of his mouth on hers in the
instant before he'd wrenched away.

Dismayed, trembling, suddenly realising that all conversation had been
momentarily suspended, she whipped her head around to face the window,
fighting the sensations aroused by his arrival.  Given the choice, she
would have fled from the room, but what would everyone think?

On the other hand, she couldn't stay here, gazing rudely out of the
window when the drawing-room was full of visitors.  What if Deverell
ignored everyone else and approached her as he'd done at Lady
Grismead's dancing party?  Every eye would be upon them.  Everyone
would think what Pamela and Lady Yarwood were already tWin king

Completely.  unnerved by the possibility, Phoebe leapt up and scurried
over to take cover in the crowd.  Collapsing onto the chair next to Mr.
Filby, she pressed a hand to her middle.  A futile gesture, she thought
despairingly.  It was going to take more than a shaking hand to still
the butterflies dancing a reel in her stomach.

"Cressy, perhaps you might ring for some tea," she managed
distractedly, breaking into that damsel's conversation with Mr.
Filby.

"Yes, of course, Phoebe."  Cressida glanced at her uncle, then gave her
a sweet smile that had alarm bells jangling once more in Phoebe's head.
She felt more like an insect on a pin than ever.

"Glad you came over," Filby muttered out of the corner

of his mouth.  His furtive manner had her mind struggling back to
Gerald's plight.  "Got something to say.  Better say it quick.
Deverell's chatting to his secretary, but no telling when that might
change.  After all, he can talk to Chadton any time, can't he?"

She resisted the urge to scream.  "Do you have an idea, Mr.  Filby?"

He nodded.  "Brilliant notion.  Can't think why it didn't occur before.
Deverell won't give me the time of day.  Will only strangle Gerald." He
paused and beamed at her.  "You 71 have to tell him."

"Me!"  She stared at him.  "Oh, no, not you, too, Mr.  Filby."

He blinked.  "Beg your pardon, ma'am?"

"Oh, dear.  What am I saying?  Really, I hardly know... Please take no
notice, sir."

"All a bit much," he said with perfect understanding.  "Shouldn't have
suggested it.  Bit alarming, isn't he?  Rather large.  Can quite
understand why you wouldn't want to be strangled either, ma'am.  Better
try Crowhurst first."

"Yes," she agreed weakly, quite unequal to the task of explaining her
incoherence.  "Perhaps you're fight, Mr.  Filby."

"No hurry," he assured her, rising.  "Meeting's not for another two
days.  Insisted that Gerald have time to practise.  Only fair."

"Oh, my goodness."

"Must go.  See Deverell wishes to speak with you.  Very obedient..."

He was gone before the last words were out.

"What a very strange effect I seem to have on Filby," Deverell observed
blandly as he approached.  He turned Filby's vacated chair slightly
towards her and sat down, one arm resting along the low curved back.
"Why do you suppose that is, Miss Smith?"

She shook her head, not risking even the most fleeting of glances at
him.  She didn't need to look at him to know that his hand was resting
only inches from her shoulder, that his gaze was fixed unwaveringly on
her face.  She could feel the heat and intensity in him as if they were
actually touching.

"Hmm.  I see I've put myself beyond the pale."  His voice lowered,
sending a shiver down her spine.  "Aren't you even going to greet me,
Phoebe?"

"Good aRe moon sir."  Her own voice showed a distressing tendency to
squeak.  Phoebe cleared her throat and sat up straighter.  "Did you
wish to consult with me about something?"

"Nobody would remark upon it, if I did, you know."  Her gaze flashed to
his.

He smiled, but those aquamarine eyes were watchful.  "That's better.
Would you mind telling me why you're behaving as if I kissed you in
front of my entire family yesterday, instead of privately?"

"For goodness' sake, my lord!  You must have run mad!"

His smile turned wry.  "An unnerving possibility."

"No, not because of that!"  She gestured wildly in her agitation. "What
if someone had heard you just now?"

Deverell obligingly followed the direction of her hand.  "Gerald and
Filby have escaped, Theodosia and Edward aren't paying the slightest
attention to anyone else, and my aunt is arguing with Cressida about
which theatre to attend tomorrow night.  Pamela appears to be the only
one interested in our conversation, and that's probably because she's
hoping you'll persuade me to cast a vote in Nermal's layout."

"Norvel," she corrected faintly.  "And how did you know that, sir?"

His lips twisted.  "I know my family, Miss Smith.  However, before you
embark on a futile course of action, I wish to apologise to you."

Phoebe's mouth fell open.  She instantly clamped it shut again.

"Deverells do apologise on occasion," he murmured, a wicked smile
lighting his eyes.

"Yes," she agreed, by now quite distracted.  "Bowls of gruel."

A quizzical brow shot up.  "I beg your pardon?"  "Nothing, my lord.  I
mean..."  She made a heroic effort to pull herself together.  "Every
time Theo and Cressy apologise, they offer me bowls of gruel or mustard
plasters.  Heaven knows why."

"Probably fell into the habit with Cousin Clam," he suggested drily. He
hesitated, then seemed to choose his next words carefully.  "I'm afraid
I can only offer my regrets that I've made you uneasy in my company,
Miss Smith.  It was inexcusable of me to take my frustrations with my
wards out on you."

"Frus--Oh.  Yes.  Yes, I see."

"I doubt it," he muttered, then, raising his voice, "it would have
given me great pleasure to have despatched' them back to Kerslake
yesterday.  Unforttmately, I'm unable to do that."

"No, my lord.  Er ... why not?"

He met her gaze.  "And abandon you to your fate, Miss Smith?  Or have
you leave?"

"Oh," she said again.  "Yes, I suppose I did threaten you, sir."

He laughed softly.  "You did.  But don't let your conscience bother
you.  There have been ... compensations."

Oh, dear, how was she to take that?.  Now her heart didn't know where
it was supposed to be.  It was probably safer to leave it in the
vicinity of her feet, whence it had plummeted as soon as Deverell had
implied he'd kissed her out of frustration with his nieces.  But then,
what compensations was he referring to?  So far, all she'd done was
involve him in one imbroglio after another.  Something he didn't seem
to appreciate.

Especially as no one in his family seemed to appreciate him.

But he was wrong, she thought, intercepting a fleeting, keen-eyed
glance from Lady Grismead.  She was sure her ladyship would soften
towards him, given the chance.

And she was going to see that he received that chance, Phoebe vowed
again.  She knew what it was like to be isolated through no fault of
one's own.  He shouldn't have to endure his aunt's disapproval, when a
simple favour might put things right.  He shouldn't have to spend his
life fashioning statues, whose pleading arms wrenched at her heart.

If she did nothing else for him, she would heal the rift with his
family.

"Compensations," she repeated brightly, as though suddenly struck by
the notion.  She avoided the amused gleam in his eyes and gathered her
thoughts in the manner of a general mustering troops.  "Well, I'm
pleased to hear you say so, my lord.  That is one thing about
Deverells.  They're seldom boring.  I'm sure as you come to know your
family better, you--'

"I wasn't talking about my family, Miss Smith."  "Well, I was!"  she
retorted, cross at this lack of cooperation.  "Whether you like it or
not, my lord, you do have a family.  I..."  She hesitated and her voice
softened.  "I know you were treated harshly in the past, but surely
your father's actions can't be laid at the Grismeads' door.  If you
would only offer to help--'

The faint smile in his eyes vanished abruptly beneath a layer of ice.
"I have no intention of assisting any member of my family in the
follies they choose to commit, Miss Smith."

Phoebe heaved an exasperated sigh.  "My lord, it is no use trying to
make me believe you are heartless.  You aren't."

"Indeed?"

"No.  You'll always assist your family, even if you don't particularly
like some of them."

His eyes narrowed.  "Why would I do that?"

"Because you are a man of honour, sir.  Don't bother trying to convince
me otherwise.  I know better."

"Do you?  What makes you so damn certain of that?"  His voice was even
more frigid than his eyes.

Phoebe took a deep breath, as though she was about to plunge into those
icy depths.  "Because you think your family believes otherwise, and
that hurts you," she all but whispered.

The' silence hanging between them almost vibrated with the echo of her
words.  Sebastian stared at Phoebe, buffeted by so many conflicting
emotions he could only hold himself savagely in check while the storm
howled within him.  The sensation was stunningly similar to the one
he'd felt when he'd been confronted by his father all those years ago.
The sudden sense of vulnerability, the frustration, the helpless rage
at having the hurt place-deep inside him stripped bare.

But ... this time ... there was something else.  Something that held
him here, waiting.  Something that warred viciously with his desire to
draw Phoebe closer.  Something that goaded him to see how far he could
push her blithe certainty, even while the fear that he could push her
too far sank icy claws into his gut.

The conflict was so intense, so agonising, he had to glance away from
her before he could speak.

"You're mistaken, Miss Smith."

She shook her head.  "Actually, you know, they don't consider you
dishonourable in the least."

"Oh?"  He looked back at her, one brow raised.  "You have an intimate
acquaintance with their innermost thoughts as well as my own?"

"No," she said softly, ignoring his sarcasm.  "But I do know Doverells,
and I shouldn't think Gerald and the girls have given the matter a
moment's thought.  They would have been far too young when you left
England to have had an opinion on the subject.  As for the Grismeads,
you intimidate them.  You see, instead of chastising you, your years
away have made you very much stronger than they are.  They know it, and
they know you know it That's why they're so wary of you."

She smiled with sudden mischief.  "You also take a delight in giving
your aunt apoplexy, but she is still ready to approve of you if you'd
only give her the chance."

That smile went straight to his heart.  She hadn't even taken his
bad-tempered denials into account, Sebastian realised.  She was far too
busy trying to convince him that his family no longer considered him a
disgrace.  She believed in him, and that was that.

He went utterly still as the knowledge sank into the dark place in his
soul.

Phoebe believed in him.  Without any evidence to the contrary.

The raging conflict within him abruptly coalesced into a surge of
desire so violent he almost shook with it.  His hand clenched hard
around the back of the chair.  He didn't dare move a muscle.  It took
every ounce of self-control he'd learned over the years not to reach
out, drag her into his arms and make her his here and now.

He'd known she was necessary to him, but this sudden savage desire ...
this need.  This yearning to sink into her warmth and belief in him so
he'd never be alone again--he'd never felt anything like it.  His body
ached with wanting her, but it was more than that.  His heart ... his
very soul ... hungered.

God damn it, he was starving for her.

Shaken, Sebastian managed to unlock his clenched jaw so he could speak.
"My aunt doesn't approve of anything, Miss Smith."

She tilted her head slightly, the mischievous gleam taking on a touch
of provocation.  "Why don't you try it and see?"

The challenge dragged a reluctant laugh from him.  "I did say, didn't
I, that you're more than a match for any

Deverell?  Little did I know how true that was."  She clasped her
hands.  "Then you'll do it?"  "What, precisely, is "it", Miss Smith?"

"Merely what you do so well, sir."  Her mouth curved in a way that
deepened the tiny dimples at its corners.

"Intimidate Mr.  Hartlepoole into behaving sensibly and assist the
Grismeads out of their financial quagmire."  Sebastian took a deep
breath.  "Is that all?"  She nodded.

"And what do I receive in exchange?"

For the first time, since he'd startled her out of her nervousness, she
began to look wary.  "Er ... your family's gratitude?"

He started to smile.  Damned if he was going to be the only one
suffering here.  Leaning closer, he deliberately lowered his voice.
"Not enough, Miss Smith."

She looked more wary than, ever "Um'the know ledge that.  you've done
the fight thing?"

' Still not enough."

"Well, I don't know what more you expect, but--' "Keep in mind that,
despite your little speech on the subject, I'm not doing this for my
family but for quite a different reason, and I'm sure the answer will
come to you."

Phoebe swallowed, immediately rendered speechless.  A shivery sense of
excitement raced through her body as though tiny bubbles of heat were
sizzling in her veins.  Everything tingled, even her fingers and toes.
The tremulous hope that Deverell wasn't indifferent to her was both
thrilling and terrifying.

Thank goodness she hadn't mentioned Gerald's predicament to him, she
thought inconsequentially.  She was already drowning in those intense,
glittering eyes.  When they lowered to her mouth and lingered there for
a heart-stopping moment, it was almost as if he was kissing her
again.

"Yes," he growled very softly when his gaze returned to hers, 'you know
the answer, Miss Smith."

She swallowed again.  "I don't think..."

He smiled slowly.  "There's no need to think.  The details will have to
wait until a more convenient time anyway."  He rose, still watching her
from beneath half lowered lashes.  "I shall report back to you, Miss
Smith, when my tasks are done."

Phoebe couldn't summon the breath for even the briefest of farewells.
She watched Deverell bow to his aunt--while sending a glinting sidelong
look at her that plainly told her he was adding the courtesy to her
debt--and leave.

Before the door was fully shut, her thoughts were whirling around and
around like ribbons on a maypole.  She couldn't seem to catch hold of
any one of them.  The arrival of Thripp with refreshments went almost
unnoticed.  She was aware of Theodosia dispensing tea and cakes, but it
was like watching everything from another place.

What was she to do?  What was she to make of Deverell's remarks?

She felt torn, unbearably torn, between her belief in his honour and
the painful awareness that the most honourable man in the world might
not offer anything but a carte blanche to a governess whose past was
still largely shrouded in mystery.  She had no dowry, no land, no
prospects, and a family who refused to publicly acknowledge the
connection.  What else was she to think?  And yet he'd said she was
innocent.

Phoebe felt her heart constrict so sharply her lips parted on a silent
cry of pain.

There was one other alternative.  One she hadn't considered until now.
One that filled her with so much desolation she couldn't bear it.

If an honourable man had no intention of marrying her, he wouldn't
offer anything at all.

He might tease her because she'd persuaded him to go against his
personal inclinations in assisting his family.  He might even kiss her
because he'd been driven to the edge of his control.

But he wouldn't ruin her.

The realisation that she wouldn't care about being ruined occurred and
was dismissed.  It no longer had the

power to stir so much as a ripple.  She loved him.  She would accept
an offer of any kind, for as long as Deverell wanted her.  Because when
love was placed on the balance, the consequences weighed nothing.

Unfortunately, despite several hours spent in contemplation of the
subject after the guests had departed, she couldn't think of a way
around the situation.  Knowing that Deverell had been unjustly punished
for-suspect conduct in the past, precluded her from trying to tempt him
into definitely scandalous conduct now.

Even if she'd known how to deliberately tempt a man against his more
honourable inclinations.

All she could do was treasure every moment she spent with him in the
months she had left.  To gather memories and store them.  To hold them
in her heart against the time when she'd have to leave.  There was
really no other option.

The prospect was so depressing, it was almost a relief to turn her mind
to the problem of how she was to approach Crowhurst.

Chapter Eleven

In the end it was all quite simple.  She sent a message to Crowhurst,
asking him to call on her the next day on a matter of business, and
when he arrived she stationed Thripp, already forewarned, in the
hall,

At least, it was meant to be quite simple.  Her plan should have
worked.  Unfortunately, she had forgotten that she wasn't dealing with
a gentleman.

"You'll have to pardon me if I seem a little surprised by your
invitation, Phoebe," Crowhurst began to say as he sat down on the chair
she indicated.  His pale brows rose slightly when Thripp departed,
leaving the drawing-room door wide open and remaining in plain sight in
the hall, diligently polishing the stair-rail.

"And in view of the fact that Deverell has informed me' that the next
note I send you will be my last, isn't it a little indiscreet for us to
be meeting under the roof he's providing for you, and under the eye of
a butler who's engaged in a task more suited to the under-housemaid?"

"No doubt you're accustomed to noticing such nuances, my lord," Phoebe
retorted before she could stop herself.  "You may also have noticed
that it is Lord Deverell's wards who live under this roof.  They, or
rather one of them, is the reason I asked you here today."

Crowhurst smiled mockingly.  "Yes, I can appreciate that you'd prefer
some privacy."

She took a deep breath, determined to ignore the implied insults.  "I
wish to speak with you about Gerald, sir.  About his forthcoming
engagement with a certain Mr.  Creech, to be exact."

Crowhurst's eyes narrowed.  He watched her for a few unnerving seconds,
then sat back and crossed one leg over the other.  "I take it Filby has
been busy.  You'd better get rid of the butler, Phoebe.  Or close the
door."

"Thripp is completely devoted to Gerald," she informed him.  "If he
does hear anything, it will go no further.  Besides," she added,
descending from these lofty heights, "I've already informed him of the
situation.  He knows I'm trying to save Gerald."

She didn't add that Thripp had threatened to go to Deverell with the
tale if she didn't succeed.

"How very heroic of you, my dear," Crowhurst drawled.  "I wish you
every success."

Phoebe straightened her spine.  The interview was not going as she'd
planned, but she refused to give up.  "SuccesS, sir, may depend upon
you.  Mr.  Filby has already failed in his attempt to bring about a
reconciliation, but there's still hope.  This Creech person may listen
to an older man."

"You expect me to visit him?"

"Will you not do so, sir?"  She leaned forward, clasping her hands.
"The fact that Gerald has never fought a duel in his life, and is still
a minor, must weigh heavily on a gentleman acting as a second.  Surely
you'd wish to do everything in your power to bring about a happy
resolution."

Another silence fell as Crowhurst seemed to consider both her and her
words.  His expression never changed, but Phoebe felt her skin start to
crawl under his appraising stare.

"A happy resolution," he repeated.  "That, my dear Phoebe, might take
considerable effort on my part.  I believe..."  He paused and smiled
faintly.  "Yes, I really do believe that if I help you, some recompense
will be in order."

Phoebe rose at once.  "Then this interview is at an end, sir.  Good
day."

"You think so?"  he snarled suddenly, coming to his feet.  His hands
clenched and unclenched by his sides.  His lips drew back in a grimace
of rage as he glared at her.

The transformation from mockery to menace was so swirl, so unexpected,
that Phoebe's entire body jolted.  She backed away, putting her chair
between them, the similarity of the situation to the one two days ago
when she'd retreated from Deverell's wrath striking her with stunning
force.

The same circumstances; two such different men.  How could anyone think
Deverell dishonourable, she thought, angry and hurting for him, when
men like Crowhurst existed?

"Do I have to call Thripp to show you out?"  The ice in her voice, born
of anger and contempt, seemed to throw Crowhurst off stride for a
moment.  He shook his head, as if he hadn't expected her to respond
like that,

and made a visible effort to control his fury.

"We haven't finished, Phoebe."

"We never started, sir.  I was labouring under the misapprehension
that, as Gerald's second, you would wish to assist him.  I see I was
mistaken.  There's only one thing to be done, and I should have done it
in the first place.  Go to Lord Deverell."

The expression that flashed into his pale eyes had her hands gripping
the chair tightly, but his voice was still controlled.  Sibilantly
soft, it slid over her nerves like ice-water over bare flesh.  So might
a snake speak, she thought, before striking.

"Why do you think I'm reluctant to serve you in this regard, Phoebe? Go
to Deverell, by all means.  Pour out the tale of Gerald's woes.  I'm
sure you'll find he's already aware of the situation and intends to do
nothing about it."

Her hands gripped the chair tighter.  "What do you mean?"

"It's all quite simple, my dear.  Ask yourself who Would have reason to
desire Kerslake's death.  Who will benefit from the likely outcome of
this duel?  Who, indeed, is in a position to arrange for such a
challenge to be issued in the first place?"

Phoebe stared at him, shocked speechless.  "You're mad," she whispered
at last.  "Deverell has no reason to want Gerald dead.  Why should
he?"

"Why?  There's the title for a start.  Then--'

"But Deverell has his own title."  Still reeling from Crowhurst's
insinuations, she shook her head.  "He's wealthy, he..."

"Ah, yes.  Wealthy.  Riches he acquired as a result of exile.  Do you
think even wealth such as Deverell's would influence a man bent on
revenge against the family who banished him in the first place?  As for
his title: what's a new barony against an earldom several centuries
old?  I think you'll find, Phoebe, that when the evidence mounts
up--'

"That evidence may weigh with you, sir," she retorted, abruptly
restored to her wits.  "But as has already been made perfectly clear to
me, you and Deverell are entirely different.  Kindly take your leave. I
will strive to forget that this conversation ever took place."

"Strive to forget it?"  he hissed back, taking a step forward and
speaking so quickly the words almost slurred together.  "Do you think
to fob me off so easily?  Do you think I'll forget you asked me here to
assist a Deverel!?  Do you think you can crook your finger and I'll
come running, even while you're living under another man's protection?
Go to him, then.  See who's right and who's wrong.  See--'

"My lord, for goodness' sake..."  From the corner of her eye, she saw
Thripp move towards them.

"You come to London to haunt me.  You set up house with Deverell.  The
one man you knew it would kill me to see you with.  You--'

"My lord, please..."

Crowhurst stopped.  He glared at her, his eyes unfocused, staring
blankly at something--or someone--only he could see.

Phoebe swallowed and tried to think of something to say.  She'd been
rendered totally off-balance by Crowhurst's attack.  Not only the
unexpectedness of it, but the extent of his rage was beyond what was
reasonable.  Clearly he wasn't entirely sane.  Especially on the
subject of Deverell.

And it was all too obvious that, in his frenzy, he'd mistaken her for
the lady with whom he'd had that long-ago affair.  She didn't know what
to do: All she could think about was the fastest method of getting him
out of the house, and yet she couldn't help feeling a sense of pity.

Glancing past Crowhurst, she motioned Thripp to remain in the hall.
"Look about you, sir," she said, gesturing to their surroundings.  "Do
you see any sign of Deverell living here?  I'm companion to his nieces,
nothing more.  Nor do you do yourself---or, indeed, the lady you once
cared for--any credit by insulting me like this."

"Do you think I care about that?"  he muttered.  The fixed glare was
fading, but he continued to stare at her with a kind of brooding
purpose that was even more disturbing.  "I haven't cared about anything
since you left."

"My lord..."  Phoebe took a deep breath and tried to inst il as much
gentle firmness into her voice as possible.  "I'm very sorry for your
pain, but ... I'm not who you think I am."

He seemed not even to hear her.  "I know who you are," he grated and,
turning on his heel, walked out of the house.

Several hours later, Phoebe had forgotten all about Crowhurst and his
problems.  Indeed, she was so worried about Gerald, who hadn't put in
an appearance all day, she even managed to prevent her heart from
somersaulting more than once or twice when Deverell at last strolled
into the drawing-room.

She stopped pacing to scowl at him.  "My lord!  At last!  Where have
you been?  Didn't you receive my notes?"

"All three of them," he replied, crossing the room to her.  A wry smile
curved his mouth.  "I'm willing to do a lot for you, Phoebe, but being
in three places at once is impossible.  Even for me."

"But I haven't asked you to be in three places at once!  Really, my
lord--' She stopped, her indignation vanishing under the impact of his
wicked smile.  That same smile that at once puzzled and disturbed and
excited.

Wrapping her arms across her waist, she took a firm grip on her elbows.
It was better than flinging herself at him and taking a firm grip on
him, which was what she really wanted to do.

"Where have you been?"  she demanded, forcing her mind back to the
matter at hand.

"I," he said virtuously, 'have been obeying the first of your orders,
Miss Smith.  I've been engaged with Nermal."

"Oh, my goodness," she uttered weakly.  "You didn't call him "Nermal"
to his face, did you?"

Deverell tilted his head while he considered the matter.  "Actually,
now I come to think about it, I don't remember calling him anything at
all.  I merely pointed out a few facts."  He regarded the way she was
holding on to herself and raised his eyes to her face.  "I take it you
don't wish to hear about the interview?"

"No.  Yes!  I mean ... not now, my lord.  Something much worse than
Nermal's stubborn-- Oh, heavens, now you've got me doing it.  I mean,
something much worse than Mr.  Hartlepoole's----'

"Phoebe..."  His voice lowered and went dark.  A large hand was laid
across her lips.  "Hush."

Phoebe went utterly still.  Even her breathing stopped.  "Unless," he
continued very softly, 'the girls have taken up scientific experiments
that threaten to blow up the house while we're in it, I really don't
care what has happened."

She tried to take a breath and felt her lips brush against his fingers.
Tiny shivers of sensation coursed through her body, tightening her
throat and turning her knees to water.  She made an inarticulate sound
and.  he lifted his hand.  But only to trace the line of her jaw with
one long finger, to stroke the curve of her ear, to retrace the path to
her chin.  He tilted her face up to his.

"If ... if only that was all," she managed to say, amazed she could
speak at all.  She'd never known that a light caressing touch to her
ear could cause such a quivering in the pit of her stomach.  She
focused desperately on Deverell's cravat and tried to recall why she'd
summoned him.  "It's Gerald."

"Gerald?"

"He's engaged himself to fight a duel with a dreadful man called
Creech."

Deverell smiled faintly and lowered his hand.  "Yes, I know."

"You know?"  Phoebe's gaze flashed up to his.  The faint echoes of
sensation quivering inside her abruptly stilled.  "You know!  Then what
do you intend to do about it, my lord?"

"I've already done it," he said calmly.  "Creeeh has been ... ah ...
persuaded to acknowledge the rashness of his challenge by apologising
on the field."

"Oh, thank goodness!"  Phoebe's stunned expression changed with
lightning speed to a brilliant smile.  "Now Gerald will be able to
cease pretending that he hasn't been worried out of his mind for the
past few days."

Deverell didn't seem unduly moved by the prospect.  "Not quite.  You,
Miss Smith, will behave towards Gerald

as if nothing has happened.  It won't hurt him to lose a few nights'
sleep over the matter.  He's as much at fault for being cozened into
playing in an out-and-out Hell in the first place."

"Oh."  Her smile lost some of its brilliance.  "You want to teach
Gerald a lesson."

"Precisely."

"Well, I suppose your intention is admirable, my lord, but'

This time he captured her chin on the edge of his hand.  "I thought I
asked you to trust me, Phoebe."

"I do trust you," she retorted, valiantly striving to ignore the
resumption of dancing butterflies in her stomach.  "But how was I to
know you were even aware of the situation?"

"There were any number of people at the Pigeonhole that night who were
only too ready to apprise me of it," he said drily.  "If anyone should
have remained ignorant of the situation, it was you."  His brows met.
"Don't tell me Gerald ran to you for help."

"No, of course not."

"Then it must have been Filby.  No wonder he fled yesterday.  Damn it,
I ought to seek him out and throw a real scare into him for upsetting
you like this."

"It wasn't Mr.  Filby's fault.  He tried to persuade Gerald to confide
in you, but because you're forever threatening to strangle your wards,
Gerald refused to do so."

"So now it's my fault?"  A faint smile edged his mouth.  The fist
beneath her chin stroked briefly, gently.

"Well..."  She swallowed, intensely aware of the size and warmth of his
hand.  She didn't know whether she was supposed to ignore his touch or
object to it.  When his knuckles Stroked down her throat and back
again, she shivered and rushed into speech.

"Threats of strangulation are not conducive to happy relationships, my
lord.  It is one thing to strangle bandits in India.  I dare say they
were trying to rob you at the time.  It must have been vastly
inconvenient, but '

"There's nothing for it," he murmured.  "I see I shall have to kiss you
again."

"Oh.  Oh.  Well..."

"If you have no objection, of course."

"Objection?"  she squeaked.  She felt herself blushing wildly as his
other arm went around her, drawing her closer until she was nestled
against him ... melting against him, she realised in wonder, her softer
curves accommodating themselves to his bigger, harder frame as though
they'd been lovers forever.

The thought made her tremble.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she'
couldn't quite believe her own recklessness, but she knew she was going
to grasp the moment and hold on tight.  Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Well ... as you pointed out yesterday, my lord, no sorry details of
infelicitous relationships have recently crossed your lips."

The smile in his eyes was suddenly heart-shakingly tender.  The hand
beneath her chin uncurled to cup her face.  "My sweet, trusting,
innocent little Phoebe.  How did I ever live without you?"

Fortunately for her scattered wits, he didn't seem to expect an answer.
He lowered his head and with the same irresistible, utterly
overwhelming mastery that had rendered her helpless yesterday, covered
her mouth with his.

Phoebe found herself drowning in sensation instantly.  Heat and
excitement, deliciously thrilling, poured through her from her head to
her toes.  Her lips parted, her arms lifted to cling to him, and this
time ... this time when his arms tightened in response, when his mouth
hardened on hers in fierce demand, he didn't draw back, leaving her
dizzy and bereft.

His tongue caressed her lower lip, gently, insistently, as though
preparing her for his deeper claiming, and then he was tasting,
touching, possessing every soft, hidden part of her mouth, coaxing her
into a hesitant response until she was kissing him back as deeply, as

passionately, until she lost all awareness of anything but their
embrace.

When he lifted his head aeons later, she was limp and trembling in his
arms, her heartbeat wild, her breasts deliciously crushed against his
chest, a strange insistent ache throbbing through her lower body.  She
sorted the sensations out one by one and then was suddenly flooded with
the knowledge of Deverell's violently leashed desire.  Every muscle in
his body was rock-hard with tension.

Her eyes flew open.  She gazed into the golden flames blazing in his
aquamarine eyes and felt herself melting all over again.  Not even the
crushing strength of his arms, or the frankly intimidating male arousal
pressed against her-had the power to restore a semblance of caution.

Phoebe."  He kissed her again, briefly; her name a whisper against her
lips, and then pressed his mouth to her temple.  His heart thudded,
powerfully, against her breast.  "Don't be afraid.  I want you, but--'
His breath shuddered out and his arms tightened.  "Just give me a
minute."

"I'm not afraid," she breathed in the same hushed tone.

"You're trembling."  He drew back to look down into her face.

She blushed at the raw hunger in his eyes.  He made no effort to
disguise his need, continuing to hold her so closely she could feel the
faint vibration of muscles held rigidly in check.  And yet she'd spoken
the truth.  She wasn't afraid.  Her awareness of the fierce restraint
in him was as thrilling as all the rest.

Only one thought had the power to disturb her.

"It's just ... when you kissed me yesterday..."  She faltered, then met
his gaze openly.  "You're not angry, or frustrated, today, are you, my
lord?"

His mouth curved.  "I think under the circumstances, Phoebe, you might
call me Sebastian."

"Oh."  She felt herself turning pink again.  "You're not annoyed with
anyone, are you... Sebastian?"

He bent and brushed her mouth with his, a half-groan, half-laugh
escaping him.  "I didn't know until now that the sound of my name had
the potential to drive me mad.  Phoebe--' He held her impossibly
closer.  "No, I'm not angry, or annoyed.  And as for frustration, I
think I can survive another day or two of it."  The rueful laughter
that sprang into his eyes was as swiftly banished.  "Phoebe, you do
know, don't you, that there's no debt between us?  That I was only
teasing you the other day?"

She smiled on a dizzy rush of happiness.  He cared.  He cared about her
feelings.

"Of course !  do," she assured him.  And added confidingly, "Crowhurst
said much the same thing, you know, about favours and recompense, but
he meant it.  The difference was glaring."

And so, without any warning, was Deverell.  The hands that had been
lightly stroking her back abruptly ceased their movements.  He seized
her by the arms and stepped back a pace.

"Crowhurst was here?"

"Yes, but--'

"What gave Crowhurst the idea he would be welcome in this house?"

"Well ... I sent for him."

, Frhat?,

She winced.  "Please, my lord.  I have had quite enough of gentlemen
yelling at me today."

His voice immediately went ominously soft.  "Crowhurst yelled at
you?"

Phoebe began to perceive that whatever Deverell might have felt before,
he was now very seriously annoyed.  She set herself to rectifying the
situation.  "He wasn't himself, my lord.  Or, perhaps he was," she
amended, recalling Crowhurst's erratic behaviour.

"Make up your mind.  Whether Crowhurst was himself

or not may be the deciding factor in whether he continues to exist at
all."

She ignored this growled threat.  "Do you know, sir, I believe Lord
Crowhurst must be quite unbalanced.  Not only has he constantly
mistaken me for someone else, but he actually had the temerity to imply
that you were somehow involved in Gerald's duel."  She gazed up at him
anxiously.  "Perhaps you'd better have a word with him, my lord.  If he
were to spread it about that--'

"I'll have a word with Crowhurst, all right."  He released her, but
only to clench his fists.  "Several words.  Unlike you, Miss Smith, who
will never speak to him again if you wish to avoid the inconvenience of
being unable to sit down for a week."

Phoebe's eyes widened.  "Now you're threatening to beat me?  Well!  Of
all the-- I was only trying to help Gerald."

His teeth met.  "I'm aware of that."

"All I did was send Crowhurst a note--' She stopped, abruptly recalling
something else her earlier visitor had said.  "And that's another
thing, my lord.  Did you threaten Crowhurst with retribution if he sent
me any more notes, because if you did--'

"Yes?"  Deverell didn't appear to move, but suddenly he was looming
over her, eyes glittering.  "If I did, Miss Smith?"

"Nothing," she said, metaphorically retreating with as much dignity as
possible.  "I have no wish to receive notes from Crowhurst, but since I
needed to see him I had to send him a note.  You must know he's one of
Gerald's seconds.  How else was I to speak to him about the
situation?"

Deverell continued to loom.  "You weren't supposed to speak to him
about anything," he grated.  "But just so I have all the pertinent
facts, where did this interesting conversation take place?"

"In here, of course."

"Crowhurst was in here?  Alone?  With you?"

"Thripp was in the hall the entire time and the door was open."

There was a moment of menacing silence.  Deverell continued to study
her with ominously narrowed eyes.  Then he scowled.

Phoebe rewarded this evidence of self-restraint with a brilliant smile.
She was far too hasty.

Deverell reached for her.  His hands, big and immensely strong, closed
around her shoulders.

"I don't know how you manage to drive me straight to the edge," he
muttered, dragging her not entirely gently into his arms.  "But right
now I don't particularly care."  His mouth came down on hers.

A tidal wave of male passion and outrage washed over her.  Phoebe
trembled under the impact.  Deverell wasn't so much kissing her as
staking a claim.  From a deep well of feminine awareness, she
recognised the difference instantly and responded to it, clinging
closer, yielding the moist secrets of her mouth, letting him know she
was his.

And as if her response was all he'd been seeking, he gentled at once.
His arms tightened, but they cradled her.  He broke the kiss, but only
so he could trace the curve of her throat with warm lips.  She trembled
again as his mouth nudged aside the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown
to caress the soft skin beneath, and he murmured something she couldn't
understand, nor barely heard over the pounding of her heart.

"You're mine," he whispered.  "Only mine, Phoebe."  "Yes."

The word was lost in his kiss as his mouth returned to hers.  He began
to stroke her, his hands caressing the curves of her waist and hips,
until she felt his fingers come to rest just beneath her breast.

She shivered in almost unbearable anticipation.  Then he moved his hand
upward and enclosed one so mound with the sureness of absolute
possession.

Phoebe cried out softly and clung to him.  Liquid

warmth unfurled inside her, the muscles in her thighs went soft.  She
was helplessly adrift on a sea of the sweetest pleasure she'd ever
known, and yet caught, held safe, in the arms of the man she loved.

Even when he raised his head and looked down at his hand cupping her so
intimately, she made no protest.  She blushed.  She trembled inside and
knew he felt it.  But she had never felt such a sense of rightness as
the warmth of his touch.

"You trust me."  He sounded awed, as if he'd just discovered the most
priceless treasure in the world.  "Absolutely," she whispered.

He raised his eyes to hers.  Something fierce blazed in the blue-green
depths for an instant.  Desire was blatant; she thought she recognised
glittering triumph; but behind it was something so dark, so vulnerable,
that she made a tiny sound of protest.

"It's all right," he said swiftly.  And releasing her, cupped her face
in his hands.  The breath he drew in was audible.  "Phoebe, I--'

The drawing-room door opened with a crash.

"Phoebe!  You must read this at--whoops!"  Theodosia started to
retreat.

Flushing with confusion, Phoebe tried to back away from Deverell.  He
promptly prevented her escape by seizing her hand.

"It's all right, Theo," she managed to say when he whipped his head
around and fixed the intruders with slitted eyes.  "Come in."

"No, it's not all right," Deverell all but snarled.  "Go away."

Theo giggled.  "Sorry, Uncle Sebastian, but from the look on Phoebe's
face, I suspect the moment is lost."  "I'll be the judge of that.
Vanish."

"Really, my lord."  Phoebe tried to summon up a reproving frown, She
suspected the effect was sadly ruined by the bright colour staining her
cheeks.  "Is that any way to speak to your wards?"

Yes.  '

She frowned even more severely.

"You're not still angry with us for starting a driving club, are you,
Uncle Sebastian?"  Cressy gazed at her uncle with an air of innocence
that didn't fool Phoebe for a minute.

She stared at the twins more closely.  They didn't appear to notice
anything odd in the fact that their uncle was holding their companion's
hand in a particularly possessive grasp, and showed no inclination to
release it.  Their eyes were certainly sparkling with excitement, but
it didn't seem to stem from any anticipation of scandal.

Phoebe's wits reeled.  What lost moment had Theo been talking about?
Surely her charges didn't suspect she was willing to become Deverell's
mistress?

"Be assured," Deverell responded in a tone that wouldn't have reassured
anyone in possession of their senses, that this latest crime puts the
Two-in-Hand Club for Lady Whips in the shade.  Leave."

"But we haven't told you our news."  Theo waved a thick wad of paper
under his nose.  "Cressy has written a melodrama."

'l'll be the first lady playwright."

"We're going to show it to Mr.  Kemble at once."  "I'm sure he'll wish
to produce it."  "But if he doesn't, well take a copy--'

"In the first instance," Deverell interrupted in crushing accents,
"Cressida is not the first lady to write plays.  And in the second
instance, as much as I'd like to be rid of you, you will not pester
Kemble, or anyone else, with anything."

"But, Uncle Sebastian, you don't understand.  I'm going to write plays
instead of acting in them.  I'll be famous."

"Unlikely."

"I'll sway millions."

"The theatres only seat thousands."

"That is quite enough, my lord."  Phoebe tugged at her hand.  This
time she succeeded in freeing herself.  The fact that she did so only
because Deverell chose to release her wasn't lost on her.  "Cressy, I
would be delighted to read your play.  Perhaps I should do so before
you take it to Mr.  Kemble.  I consider myself something of an expert
on melodrama, you know."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Deverell start to grin.  While the
twins conferred in excited voices, she turned and fixed him with a
minatory stare.  "And I believe you have several other people to visit
today, my lord.  Now that our discussion is finished, you mustn't let
me keep you."

"Our discussion is far from finished," he growled in a low voice.  "But
you're correct.  I still have Grismead to see and a long-overdue
account to settle with Crowhurst before I can be sure of your undivided
attention."  He recaptured her hand and raised it to his lips.  "But
I'll be back, Miss Smith, be certain of that, at which time I intend to
see we have some privacy.  I have a very important question to put to
you."

The sudden cessation of chatter had Phoebe glancing at the twins.  They
were watching the proceedings with bright-eyed interest.

"Well ... I cannot imagine ... that is..."

"Don't let your melodramatic imagination run away with you while I'm
gone," he murmured against her fingers.  "It's a very straightforward
question, requiring a very straightforward answer."

His brilliant aquamarine eyes smiled straight into hers for a
heart-stopping second, then he pressed a lingering kiss into her palm,
released her and left.

Phoebe gazed after him, suddenly floating so high on a bubble of
happiness that she scarcely noticed the twins'

scurrying out of the room after him.

Deverell wasn't going to offer her a carte blanche.

His intentions were honourable.  There could be no other explanation
for his words or his actions.  If he'd intended to make her his
mistress, he would never have spoken or behaved with such frank purpose
in front of his nieces.

And with that' thought whirling through her mind, she finally realised
what had continually puzzled her about that very wicked, very inviting
smile.  She'd seen the warmth and amusement, she'd seen the devilish
invitation to share his humour, but she hadn't recognised the intimacy
or the promise in his eyes.

The promise of a man of honour, she thought wonderingly The impossible
seemed to have happened.  She didn't know how it had happened.  She
didn't know what Deverell saw in her that placed her above ladies of
wealth and beauty and position, but he wanted her.  He cared about her
feelings; about her reputation.  He might even Oh did she dare to hope
for so much?  He might even grow to love her as she loved him.

Phoebe hugged herself and executed a small skip of un contained
excitement.  For the first time in her life, the future was full of
hope and promise.  For the first time, she dared to believe that the
fantasy she'd dismissed several days ago might come true.  The
impossible really had happened.

Deverell was going to ask her to become his wife.

Her euphoria lasted until she sat down to a solitary meal in the
dining-room.  Gerald still hadn't returned, and the girls were
attending a concert with Lady Yarwood and her daughters, thereby
allowing their companion a free evening.

It was a pity she didn't want a free evening.

Phoebe studied the silent, empty room and wished she'd thought to pay a
visit to Hatchards.  The latest calf-bound novel from the Minerva Press
would be preferable company to the doubts that were beginning to crowd
into her head.  Not she doubted Deverell's intentions.  Not for a
minute.  But he'd practically expressed those intentions

before she'd put him in full possession of the facts.  And three
pertinent facts were now staring her most unpleasantly in the face.

Her circumstances were perfectly suited to becoming a mistress.

A wife was another matter.

Before Deverell said another word, she would have to tell him the
truth.

She would have to do more, Phoebe told herself, a sharp ache already
piercing her heart at the thought.  She would have to point out every
disadvantage, every possible repercussion, every drawback to a marriage
between herself and Deverell.  She would have to do it even if he loved
her--and he hadn't said a word about love.

He wanted her.  She had no doubt about that.  The memory of the
fierceness of his embrace and the heated demand of his mouth on hers
caused tingling little shivers of sensation to dart about inside her
every time she thought about it.

But he was a Deverell.  When Deverells wanted something, they tended to
go after the object of their desire and worry about the consequences
later.  If he married her and later regretted it, she knew the
heartbreak would be unbearable.

Because she loved him, she would have to bring about the possible
destruction of her dreams.

Phoebe sighed and pushed her unfinished meal away.  She propped her
chin on her hands and stared unhappily at the window.  Dusk had fallen,
shadowing the garden in shades of grey.  She could vaguely make out her
own reflection in the glass.  Doom and gloom emanated from her like a
shroud that threatened to engulf her entire surroundings.  The
destruction of her dreams seemed all too imminent.

When Thripp opened the door, she turned with a sense of foreboding.

He carried a small white envelope.  The logical explanation seemed to
leap out at her from the shadows.

She wasn't going to have to explain things to Deverell after all. She'd
forgotten he was more controlled than the rest of his family. He'd
already had second thoughts.

"This was just delivered for you, miss."  Thripp glanced down at the
note he held, but made no move to give it to her.

Phoebe braced herself and straightened.  She held out her hand.  "Thank
you, Thripp."

He didn't move.  "It's from that Crowhurst fellow."  She frowned.  "How
do you know?"

"After all them notes, miss?"  Thripp indulged himself with a most un
butler-like snort.  "I'd know his hand anywhere."

"Oh.  Well..."  She tried not to let her spirits revive too much with
the small reprieve.  "No doubt he wishes to apologise for his very
peculiar behaviour today.  I'm sure Lord Deverell won't object to me
reading it."

Assuming his most mournful expression, Thripp handed over the note.

Phoebe ripped open the envelope and drew out the single sheet of
notepaper.  Its message was brief.  She had to read it twice, however,
before the meaning sank in.  When it did, she leapt to her feet,
sending her chair crashing to the floor behind her.

"Oh, dear God!  Oh, my goodness!  ThriPP; what--?  Where--?  Oh,
heavens, what are we going to do?  Crowhurst has kidnapped Gerald!"

"Knew that note boded no good."  Thripp nodded' several times.  He
seemed more satisfied at his own acuteness than appalled at this latest
calamity.

Phoebe was too busy scanning the note again to pay attention.  "He says
if we wish Gerald to remain alive, I'm to come to the Black Mole Inn on
Hounslow Heath before eight o'clock tonight.  Alone.  He gives
directions on how to find the place."

"His lordship isn't going to like that, miss."

"I don't like it, but what choice do I have?  Gerald's

life could be snuffed out at any moment.  Good heavens!  This must be
why we haven't seen Gerald all day.  Crowhurst must have kidnapped him
this morning in case I refused toer ... repay him if he prevented
Gerald's duel."

"Why would he do that, miss?  He didn't know you were going to ask for
help.  Any road, even if you'd gone off with Crowhurst all meek and
cosy, Master Gerald would still have a tale to tell."

Phoebe stared at him in dismay.  "Perhaps Crowhurst doesn't intend to
keep Gerald alive.  He seemed to be quite irrational earlier, but now
he must be insane, and there's no saying how such a mind works."  Her
own was racing.  "He even accused Deverell... But what if it was
Crowhurst who arranged for that awful man to challenge Gerald?"

"So the innocent young lady'd be forced to ask for the villain's help,"
Thripp concluded knowledgeably.

When Phoebe blinked at him, he gave a discreet cough.  "Mrs.  Thripp
likes to read them news pamphlets, miss.  You've no idea what some
folks get up to.  A right disgrace it is and no mistake!"

"Good heavens!"  Her mind remained suspended for a moment on the image
of the Thripps poring over scandalous halfpenny pamphlets before she
managed to wrench it back to the present.

"I'll have to obey Crowhurst's instructions, there's no question about
that.  But if he thinks VII tamely succumb to his threats, he's very
much mistaken."

She thought for a moment longer.  "Thripp, while you instruct Gerald's
groom to bring the phaeton around, I'll write a note to Deverell.  Tell
the footman he's not to rest until he's delivered it into his
lordship's own hands.  Oh, dear..."  She wrung her hands and glanced at
the clock on the mantelpiece.  "Crowhurst might be insane, but he's not
entirely stupid.  It's past seven now and I have to be at this place by
eight."

"Aye."  Thripp nodded gloomily.  "Just the time when his lordship has
likely gone out for the evening.  Henry'll have to search for him all
over, and by that time who's to say where you'll be?"

His words were an all-too-accurate reflection of her own fears.  Phoebe
scowled at him.  "Let's not sink to the level of your pamphlets,
Thripp.  If Deverell has already seen Crowhurst, which seems likely
since Crowhurst has resorted to threats, he may still be at the
Grismeads'.  If not, try his clubs."

"Aye, miss."

"And I'd better leave another note for the girls.  There's no saying
when I'll return."

She wouldn't say 'if', Phoebe told herself, as Thripp hurried away to
summon Gerald's groom.  Of course she would return.  When Crowhurst saw
that she'd followed his instructions to come alone, she might even find
an opportunity to help Gerald escape.  Even if she didn't, Deverell
would come after her, she was sure of it.

If only she could be as certain that Gerald was still .  alive.  Her
fear for his safety was all too real.  Crowhurst would soon realise--if
he hadn't already--that he could hardly release his bait without
serious repercussions to himself.

Pushing the chilling thought aside, Phoebe raced into the drawing-room.
Her hands were shaking, but she managed to pen the note to Deverell and
stuff it into an envelope.

The clatter of carriage wheels outside the window told her the phaeton
was ready.  She scribbled a hasty note to the twins, thrust the
missives into Thripp's hands and threw on the bonnet and pelisse a maid
had fetched for her.

As she dashed out into the night she could only hope and pray that
Deverell wouldn't be too far behind her.

Chapter Twelve

Hounslow Heath was not a comforting place to be in broad daylight.  By
night, for a lone traveller, it was eerie in the extreme.  One tended
to see footpads and highwaymen lurking behind every bush.  When Phoebe
finally drew up outside a small inn crouched by the side of the track
in the meagre Shelter afforded by a few stunted trees, she released a
huge sigh of relief.

A curricle and pair drawn up to one side of the building was the only
indication that she was in the right place.  The lantern over the door
was unlit, and the sign creaking in the wind was so grimy, only the
most keen-eyed observer would have discerned the figure of a small,
sly-eyed creature.  In the faint glow from the downstairs windows,
Phoebe decided the creature was a black mole.

The inn named for the animal did not appear to be the most well-run
hostelry.  No ostler came running to hold the horses.  No host was
bustling through the doorway with offers of refreshment.

She began to regret having left Gerald's groom a mile or so back where
the rutted lane, leading to the track she herself had followed, left
the main road.  Mindful of Crowhurst's instructions, she had thought it
safer to come on alone.  The groom had argued vociferously, but Phoebe
had been adamant.  They had already taken several wrong turns, having
passed the ill-defined lane in the darkness before the moon had fully
risen.  Jem had been ordered to hold the lantern and keep a look-out
for Deverell.

She wondered what time it was.  Sending up a prayer that she wasn't too
late and that Deverell was hard on her heels, she tied the reins and
climbed down from the phaeton.

The door of the inn opened as her feet touched the ground.  Hazy golden
light spilled into the yard.  The illumination didn't improve the
scene.  Turning, she saw that an attempt had once been made to pave the
yard, but now tufts of grass poked up between the stones and weeds grew
in wild profusion.  Leaves and refuse blew and eddied across the small
space every time the wind gusted.

Phoebe shivered in the cool breeze and started to chafe her arms.  She
froze in mid-gesture as Crowhurst strolled through the open doorway, a
smile of triumph twisting his features.

The memory of her first encounter with him flashed through her mind.
She shivered again and glanced around her.  At least, then, she'd been
in the middle of a city.  The Black Mole seemed to be situated in the
middle of nowhere.

"Ah, Phoebe, my dear.  I was beginning to wonder if you'd been so
foolish as to ignore my instructions."

"Where is Gerald?"  she demanded without preamble.  Crowhurst smiled
again and gestured to the doorway behind him.  "Won't you come in?  We
may as well discuss the situation in comfort, don't you think?"

Ignoring the question, Phoebe swept past him into the inn.  She halted
at once, transfixed by dismay and a spine-tingling silence.

Comfort was not the word she would have used to describe the interior
of the Black Mole.  The door opened directly into an evil-smelling
taproom that hadn't seen a broom or mop for years.  Several
seedy-looking individuals were seated around the solitary table.  Their
eyes bored into -her with avid interest.  A tankard dunked as

it was put down on the table.  One of the men made a remark beneath
his breath and was answered with coarse snickers.

Crowhurst ignored the crowd.  "In here," he said, opening another door
off the taproom.

Thanking providence that she didn't have to walk past those men, Phoebe
followed Crowhurst into what was clearly a private pa dour It was no
less gloomy than the taproom, lit only by a branch of candles on the
centre table, but at least it was cleaner and a fire burned in the
stone fireplace opposite the window.

She crossed to it, holding her hands to the warmth.  The flames seemed
to have little effect on the chill sweeping through her body.

"I must apologise for these crude surroundings, Phoebe."  Crowhurst
closed the door and crossed the room towards her.  "But the Black Mole
has been rather convenient for my purposes over the past few years. Out
of the way.  No one asks questions.  And we won't be staying long."

Phoebe raked him with a scornful gaze.  "You would seem to have a taste
for low company, my lord.  First that grimy little theatre, and now
this."

He laughed.  "Always the haughty madam.  But I'm no longer a boy to be
kept dangling at the end of one of your strings."

"Gerald," she prompted coldly.

He raised a brow at her lack of response to his comment, then
indicating the wooden settle by the fire, seated himself at one end and
picked up a glass of wine from the table beside him.  Phoebe remained
standing.

"Still playing cards at White's, I expect," he murmured casually,
raising his drink to contemplate the reflection of flames through the
dark liquid.

She stared at him.

He smiled and lifted his glass to her before taking a sip.  "You didn't
think I'd really kidnap Gerald, did you, Phoebe?  That would have been
a very foolish thing to do.  And far too much trouble."

"You lied?"  She almost whispered the words.  Her brain struggled to
take them in.

"Indeed.  You see, I'd been watching Gerald today in pursuit of my
original scheme.  An exhausting process, I must say.  First I trailed
him to Filby's, then Tattersall's, then Manton's.  Then he and Filby
must needs lunch at a coffee-shop, and visit Filby's tailor.  I knew he
hadn't been home all day, and the idea of setting a trap for you by
claiming he'd been kidnapped occurred to me.  Once I saw him settled at
White's, I doubted he'd ruin my plans by making an inconvenient
appearance before you left London, so--' he spread his hands '--here we
are."

She could only continue to stare at him, incredulous.  "And you think
you'll get away with this?"

He lifted a shoulder.  "Why not?  By the time anyone realises the
truth, we'll be long gone."

The comment had a rather nasty ring of truth.  Phoebe took a steadying
breath and tried to think past the quick jolt of fear spreading ice
through her veins.  Somehow she had to prevent Crowhurst from taking
her further afield.  The Black Mole was unprepossessing, but she was
safer here where Deverell had a chance of finding her.  If she could
just manoeuvre for some time.

"What was your original scheme?"  she asked, her mind scurrying to
think of ways to keep him talking.

He hesitated, then' shrugged again.  "I don't mind telling you, since
you won't be going back to Deverell anyway.  As soon as I realised the
duel I'd arranged wasn't going ahead, I formed the notion of making a
more overt attempt on Gerald's life."

"You wanted to kill Gerald?.  Why?"

"No, no," he said irritably.  "Of course I don't want to kill Gerald.
Don't you see?  If an attempt had been made on his life, everyone
would've thought Deverell was behind it.  He would have been
imprisoned.  At the very least disgraced.  He'd have left England
again."

"No," she murmUred, shaking her head.  "No one would believe Deverell
capable of harming Gerald."

Crowhurst sent her an impatient glare.  "They would after I'd reminded
everyone of the old scandal.  It's common knowledge that Deverell has
no love for his family, nor they for him.  And then, you see, you would
have been mine, and he'd have been punished for trying to take you from
me."

The gloating satisfaction in his voice momentarily deprived Phoebe of
speech.

"Why did you change your plan?"  she finally asked, hoping he couldn't
hear the faintness in her voice.

His air of triumph dropped from him like a cloak.  He turned to her
with an almost boyish eagerness that made her want to cringe.  A
combination of fear and pity roiled inside her, making her feel sick to
her stomach.

"I thought you wouldn't like it if Gerald got hurt, Phoebe.  Even
though I wouldn't have killed him, I'd still have had to make it look
like a real attempt on his life.  That was when I thought of the
kidnapping scheme.  I knew you'd come."

"My lord, surely..."  Dear God, how did one reason with a disordered
mind?  "Do you honestly think you'll get away with this?  Deverell will
come after me, but it's not too late if you'll only--'

"Let him come after you!"  Crowhurst shot to his feet and flung his
glass into the fire with a violence that made her flinch.  The glass
expiated, sending sparks hissing up the chimney and illuminating the
sudden viciousness of his expression.

Phoebe remembered Lady Yarwood's comment about Crowhurst's moods and
tried to force herself to stillness.  Her ladyship hadn't known the
half of it.  Nor was the memory going to help her now, she thought,
glancing at the door.  Had he locked it?  But if she tried to escape,
Crowhurst was close enough to catch her.  And she doubted those men
outside would lift a finger to assist her, even if she screamed.

"I don't mind killing him," Crowhurst snarled.  "You'd like us to fight
over you, wouldn't you, Phoebe?  You always played one of us off
against the other.  How many were there?  Two?  Three?"

Trembling inside, she put a hand to the back of the settle to steady
herself.  "Sir..."  She swallowed and tried again.  "I am not---'

"No!"  He cut her off with' a jerk of his hand and, frowning, took a
few agitated steps towards the window.  Again she saw him try to master
his rage.  "I know!  I know.  Not her.  Keep forgetting."

"I'm sure ... I'm sUre that's quite understandable," she faltered.
"It's clear I very closely resemble the lady you once loved, and ...
I'm sorry for that, but--'

He wasn't listening.  "Not her," he muttered, peering through the
glass.

Phoebe's heart leapt as she heard a faint noise outside.  Had Crowhurst
heard?  Could he see anything but their own dim reflections?

"Not her," he continued to mumble.  He turned and started back towards
her.  "Look the same.  Yes, that's it.  Exactly the same.  She's
you."

Ice water flowed down Phoebe's spine.  She stopped straining her ears
for sounds beyond the window.  "Who?"  she whispered.

Crowhurst halted and peered at her in the hazy light.  "YoUr mother,"
he said as if surprised she should ask.  "Just like her."

"My mother?."  Phoebe dropped to the settle as if her legs had turned
to water.  Scenes from her childhood whipped through her mind with a
speed that left her reeling.  Suddenly several things began to make
sense.

"You were in love with my mother?"

"Her name was Phoebe, too."

"No."  She shook her head, still dazed.  "Charlotte.  It was
Charlotte."

"That's what her family called her."  Crowhurst dismissed the name.
with a gesture.  "We used her middle

name.  She said it made her feel like another person.  Not hedged in
by that puritan family of her husband's.  Phoebe.  Like you."

"And Deverell?"  she whispered, staring at Crowhurst.  "Was he...?  Did
he...?  But you met him only weeks ago.  Was that a lie, too?"

"We never met.  She kept us apart.  But he took her from me!"  he
shouted suddenly.  "She ran off with him.  She was supposed to leave
your father for me.  But she chose him.  She chose Deverell."  "Not
quite, Crowhurst."  "Oh, thank God!  Sebastian!"

Her cry was lost beneath the crashing of the casement against the
outside wall.  Before the echoes had died away Phoebe leaped from the
settle, darted around Crowhurst and flung herself at Deverell as he
came in through the open window.

He caught her as he straightened, holding her close for a moment before
drawing back to look down at her face.  His gaze, dark and concerned,
swept over her.  "Are you all right, little love?"

She nodded.  It was all she could manage.  A rush of relieved tears
sprang to her eyes.  She blinked them away, and was opening her mouth
to speak when she found herself abruptly thrust to one side.

Crowhurst launched himself at Deverell, his lips drawn back in a snarl
of rage.

Before Phoebe could so much as gasp, Deverell took one step forward and
lashed out with his clenched fist.  The full strength of his body was
behind the blow.  Crowhurst's jaw cracked under the impact.  He went
down in a sprawl of arms and legs and lay there, groaning.

"Oh, good heavens."  Phoebe unglued her hands from her mouth.  "He's
just lying there.  Do you think you've broken his jaw, my lord?"

"Very likely."  Deverell didn't appear to be unduly dismayed by the
prospect.  He stepped over his victim and stalked towards the door.  He
opened it and subjected the occupants beyond to a flint-eyed stare.

Phoebe felt the sudden stark silence from where she stood.

Deverell shut the door without a word and waited until the faint murmur
of conversation started up again.

Obviously, Crowhurst had been right when he'd said no one asked
questions at the Black Mole.  Phoebe glanced at him and immediately
went rigid.  "Sebastian!"

Deverell drew a pistol from his pocket with a deceptively casual
movement.  "Don't bother looking around for your sword-stick,
Crowhurst.  It's over by the fire and I'll bring you down before you
can take one step towards it."

"Bastard!"  Crowhurst's voice cracked but apparently his jaw was still
in one piece.  He could speak.  Crawling to a chair, he pulled himself
painfully to his knees, then to his feet.  "I'll see you ruined for
this.  I'll see you both ruined.  She came to me.  She came to me!  I
didn't force her."

"Depends on how you look at the situation."  Deverell nudged the settle
closer to the fire with one booted foot."  "I seem to recall being told
quite recently by a certain governess that blackmail is a form of
threat."  He beckoned to Phoebe.  "Come here, love.  You're
shivering."

Phoebe obeyed, reflecting on the very peculiar effects of shock.  The
gentler note in Deverell's voice and the careful way he seated
her--while holding a gun in his other hand--was having a strange effect
on her nerves.  She began to wonder if she was growing slightly
hysterical.

"I didn't blackmail her," Crowhurst repeated.  He eyed Deverell for a
moment, then his features twisted into a look of cunning.  "She came to
me to avenge her mother!"

"What?"  Phoebe's eyes went wide.  She snapped back to life.  "What are
you talking about, sir?  You wrote me that dreadful note.  I can
produce it right now!"

' Sweetheart--'

"Don't you know?"  Crowhurst burst out.  "Your mother killed herself
when Deverell abandoned her.  Her family cast her off.  She couldn't
stand the loneliness and disgrace and--'

"God damn it!"  Deverell roared.  "Will you shut up, Crowhurst!"

"It's all right," Phoebe said quickly.  She glanced up at him and felt
her heart turn over at the glittering rage in his eyes.  "I knew my
mother had been cast off.  I was going to tell you, but..."

Oh, dear God, what a way for him to learn the truth.  Would he ever
believe that she was going to tell him everything at their next
meeting?

"I was going to tell you," she repeated.  "Everything.  That my name is
really phoebe Everton-Smythe and--?

"I know, love."  She saw his eyes narrow as he controlled his anger. "I
heard Crowhurst ranting while I was pr ising the window open, and put
most of it together.  Until tonight, I don't think any of us knew all
the facts.  We'll talk about it later."

"Will you tell her the truth, Deverell?  That you only want her because
you were forced to give up her mother and your family shipped you off
to India to avoid the scandal."

"In the first place, Crowhurst, I neither abandoned Phoebe's mother nor
was forced to give her up.  She was having an affair with my brother,
not with me.  Unfortunately," he added into the stunned silence that
greeted his announcement, 'on the evidence at the time, my family
thought as you did."

Both his listeners continued to stare at him, speechless.  Crowhurst
looked as if Deverell had struck him again.  Phoebe had already
received so many blows to her senses that she could scarcely think. 
The sweeping sense of relief washing over her was immediately followed
by another stronger wave of foreboding.

She'd been wondering how Deverell could ever love the daughter of the
woman who had caused so much pain in his life.  She was still
wondering.  Charlotte Everton-Smythe hadn't broken his heart, but she'd
been the unwitting cause of his banishment.

"Your brother?"  whispered Crowhurst.  His face had turned a sickly
pale colour.  "Yes.  Your revenge has been for nothing, Crowhurst." 
"He arranged for that man to challenge Gerald," Phoebe murmured.

Deverell nodded, glanced down at the pistol in his hand and returned it
to his pocket.  "That threw me for a while.  Crowhurst's obsession with
you made it obvious that you closely resembled a past lover, and taking
into account my brother's series of affairs and Crowhurst's enmity
towards me despite the fact that we'd never met--it seemed all too
probable that he and Selwyn had been rivals.  When he inveigled Gerald
into playing at the Pigeonhole, I thought he was trying to revenge
himself on Selwyn's son by mining him."

He turned to Crowhurst who was now slumped in brooding silence.  "But
it was me you were after, wasn't it, Crowhurst?  The only trouble was,
you didn't have the guts to tackle me personally, so you decided to
strike at me through Gerald.  Quite a neat scheme, but you should
choose your tools more wisely.  Creech crumpled as soon as I told him
you'd been seen together."

"You can't prove anything from that," Crowhurst said sulkily.  "I dare
say I've been seen with everyone who's played at the Pigeonhole."

Deverell appeared unperturbed by the claim.  "Quite true.  But men who
make a living by fleecing young sprigs from the country aren't noted
for their superior intelligence.  Creech not only admitted that you
paid him to accuse Gerald of cheating, but added the interesting fact
that you promised him swift passage out of the country and enough money
to live on for several years if Gerald was fatally wounded.  Then you
would've sat

back and waited for Society to remember the old scandal."

Crowhurst's already pale face turned a ghastlier hue.  He plucked at
his sleeve with shaking fingers.  "What are you going to do?"

"Strange though it may seem, I have no wish to ruin you.  I can even
sympathise with your desire to wreak vengeance on my family."  His
expression hardened.  "I spent several years harbouring similar
fantasies.  But you made a fatal mistake when you involved Phoebe in
your schemes."

"I wouldn't have hurt her.  I just wanted her back."  Deverell's eyes
flashed with such savagery even Phoebe gasped.  He strode forward,
yanked Crowhurst up by the collar of his coat and slammed him against
the wall.  His voice lowered, each word emerging with deadly clarity.

"Phoebe is not her mother.  Do you understand me, Crowhurst?  She is
not yours.  She never will be."

Crowhurst stared at Deverell as if mesmerised.  "Not mine," he
whispered obediently, and then his face crumpled.  "I loved her," he
choked.  "And now she's dead."

"Oh, Sebastian."

He silenced her with a look.  "She died a long time ago, Crowhurst." He
released the other man and stepped back.  "Unfortunately for both of
us, she died before she could right a few misconceptions."

Phoebe couldn't tell if Crowhurst had heard that last remark or not. He
crumpled to the floor and stayed there, utterly beaten.  She looked up
at Deverell, her eyes widening at the grim set of his mouth, and
wondered what was going to happen next.

The answer came from the vicinity of the window.

"I say, Uncle Sebastian, what on earth is going on here?  Is Phoebe
safe?"

She blinked in astonishment.  "Gerald?  Is that you?"  Deverell turned
in time to see his nephew swing one leg over the windowsill and clamber
into the room.

"Of course it's me," he said.  "You feeling all right, Phoebe?  You
look a little pale.  No need to.  Thought I'd better come and tell you
I haven't been kidnapped."

"How ... very considerate of you," Phoebe uttered in faint accents.

"We had, however, already deduced that useful fact," Deverell added.
"May I ask how you found us?"

Gerald grinned.  "Got'home to find the girls in an uproar over Phoebe's
note.  Bad decision to leave one," he tacked on, sending her a
reproving frown.  "Took me ten minutes to calm everyone down."

"But I wrote that note so they wouldn't worry," Deverell raised his
eyes heavenward.

"Anyway," continued Gerald, correctly interpreting this expression, "I
followed Phoebe's directions.  She was driving my phaeton, of course,
so I had to dash off a note to Reggie."

"Good God!  Don't tell me you brought Filby with you."

"Very obedient servant, sir."  As if at a signal, Filby's head and
shoulders popped up at the window with the suddenness of a plump,
particularly fashionable jack-in-the-box.  He beamed at Phoebe.  "Very
happy to see you, ma'am.  No trouble at all to bring Gerald.  Curricle
took only a minute to harness.  Sorry to be a little delayed just now.
Had to tether the horses.  Gerald's, too.  Looked as if they might
wander off.  See you left your phaeton down the lane with Gerald's
groom," he added chattily, turning to Deverell.  "Don't blame you.
Yard's getting a bit crowded."

Phoebe couldn't help it.  She had to succumb to the madness of the
situation or go mad herself.  Her peal of laughter earned her a glare
from Deverell that threatened to set her off again.

"It was very gallant of you and Gerald to come to my rescue, Mr.
Filby," she finally managed.  "Won't you come in?"

Filby eyed the windowsill with a dubious expression, then looked down
at the pale blue pantaloons he wore beneath his greatcoat.  "Might use
the door, if no one minds," he chirped, and vanished as suddenly as
he'd appeared.

His place was promptly taken by the twins.  Phoebe blinked at them and
wondered if she was losing her mind.  She heard Deverell swear
comprehensively.

"What the devil are they doing here?"  he demanded of his nephew.

Gerald scowled fiercely at his sisters.  "I thought you promised to
stay in the curricle until Reggie and I discovered what was afoot."

"You have discovered it," Theo pointed out inarguably.  "And we're
tired of sitting there, doing nothing."  She hopped nimbly over the
windowsill, followed by her sister, and glanced about with interest.
"Besides, we heard Phoebe laugh so we knew she was all right.  You are,
aren't you, Phoebe?"

"Gerald," began Deverell before she could answer, 'if you wish to
survive until tomorrow, you will take Filby and your sisters and--'

He was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves entering the yard at
a smart trot.  At the same time Filby pushed open the par lout door.

"Strange set of company Crowhurst keeps," he remarked, strolling into
the room.  "Think someone else has arrived, by the bye."

"Surely not," Deverell said sarcastically.  "I could have sworn we're
all here."

Filby turned a look of polite enquiry on the figure still crouched on
the floor.  "You expecting anyone, Crowhurst?"

As though emerging from a deep trance, Crowhurst started and managed to
push himself upright again.  His voice was not the one to answer Filby,
however.

"This cannot be the place.  Look at it.  You, my good man.  Are you the
innkeeper?  You should be ashamed of yourself.  And who are all these
slovenly persons?  Get rid of them at once!  Disgusting!  Sitting there
drinking while villainous crimes are going on under their very noses.
I've a good mind to summon the nearest magistrate."

"Good God!"  muttered Deverell.

Before he could enlarge on the theme the door was flung open, narrowly
missing Mr.  Filby.  Lady Grismead sailed into the room, followed by
Mr.  Charlton.

"Bloody hell," growled Deverell.  "I thought I left you explaining
finances to Grismead, Edward?"

"Kindly moderate your language, Deverell."  Lady Grismead came to a
halt in the middle of the parlour and swept the occupants with a single
gimlet-eyed glance.  "I," she announced with awful meaning, 'have come
to find out what is Going On."  She let her gaze rest on Deverell.  "If
you think, sir, that you can receive an urgent summons while in my
house and dash off without an explanation, you may think again."

Deverell sighed.  "Nothing is going on, as you so succinctly put in,
Aunt.  Miss Smith found herself obliged to leave town and requested my
escort."

"Indeed?  I suppose that is why Mr.  Charlton and I encountered a groom
skulking in the lane, and why there are carriages everywhere one
looks."  She paused to let this sink in, then softened her tone.

"I am not quite a fool, Sebastian.  Mr.  Charlton and I hastened to
Park Street and found Miss Smith's note.  It was clear she was in a
great deal of danger.  And although I dare say you are capable of
managing any number of unpleasant situations, there are some that
require the Presence of a Woman.  You," she added, with the air of one
throwing in a clincher, 'have been extraordinarily helpful to us today;
now I wish to return the favour.  That is what families are for."

While her nephew was swallowing this piece of worldly wisdom, she
turned to Phoebe.  "Perhaps you will enlighten me, Miss Smith."

Predictably, everyone except Phoebe started to talk at once.

"All an unfortunate misunderstanding," Filby stated positively.

"Crowhurst told Phoebe he'd kidnapped me," Gerald informed his
great-aunt.  "Of course, he was lying, but--'

"Phoebe didn't know that," Theo put in, glancing anxiously at Deverell.
"It wasn't as if she ran off with him."

Cressy nodded emphatically.  "She was duped."  She glanced around,
spotted Crowhurst and turned on him with such ferocity that he shrank.
"Villain!  Blackguard!  You knew if you put a limit on Phoebe's time,
she wouldn't be able to check the truth of your story.  I hope Uncle
Sebastian spits you on the end of his sword."

Gerald rolled his eyes.  "Cressy, Uncle Sebastian isn't wearing a
sword."

"Well, I hope he shoots you full of holes."

"Please, Cressy."  Phoebe's voice wobbled as laughter threatened to
overtake her again.

"Leave this to me, Miss Smith."-Lady Gfismead took charge.  "No one
will be fiddled with holes, Cressida.  I do not approve of violence.
However-'

As the full force of the argument about what to do with Crowhurst began
to rage about her, Phoebe subsided.  She was only too happy to let her
ladyship have her way.  She was starting to feel rather shaky.  The
result of too much excitement, no doubt.  She slumped a little on the
settle and felt Deverell glance down at her.

Mr.  Charlton claimed his attention before he could do more than touch
a gentle hand to her cheek.

"Sir, do you want me to get rid of Crowhurst for you?  It's the least I
can do since I'm here."

"No, what I want you to do is get rid of everyone else."  His secretary
winced.  "I claim ignorance of your wards' intentions," he pleaded
hurriedly.  "And I'm sorry about bringing your aunt along, but When you
walked out leaving me with Lord Grismead, I doubt a juggernaut would
have stopped her."

Deverell grinned unexpectedly.  "You're forgiven.  But only because you
had enough sense to leave Grismead, Pamela and Nermal in London."

"Pamela and Mr.  Hartlepoole," pronounced her ladyship, overhearing
this and abandoning the argument, 'are engaged in composing a notice to
be placed in the Gazette.  Thanks to Deverell," she added
graciously.-"However, poor Gfismead is probably worrying himself into
one of his dyspeptic fits, so----'

"Aunt," interrupted Deverell firmly, 'if you really wish to repay me
for knocking some sense into that idiot poet and advising Gfismead on
financial matters, would you please take the girls back to London?
Gerald and Edward will accompany you.  And Gerald's groom, of course.
You'll be perfectly safe."

Her ladyship frowned.  "What about Miss Smith?"  "She'll be perfectly
safe, too."

"Hmm.  You do realise, I suppose, that Miss Smith has been through a
most harrowing experience."

"No, really, I'm--'

"I realise it," Deverell said with unaccustomed patience.  "Don't
worry, Aunt.  We won't be far behind you.  I have one more matter to
make clear to Crowhurst, after which I'll take Phoebe home."

Lady Grismead considered this statement for a few moments, glanced at
Phoebe, then gave a brisk nod.  "I see Miss Smith trusts you
implicitly, Sebastian.  No doubt we have been wrong about you all these
years.  You shall tell me the truth tomorrow.

"As for you, sir--' her ladyship swept a basilisk glance over
Crowhurst, who seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible
'-if I see your face in town in the near future, I shall make it clear
that your predilection for unsavoury theatrical productions renders you
unfit to be received by all respectable persons.  I trust you
understand me."

"Good heavens!"  exclaimed Phoebe, startled.  She looked up at
Deverell.  "How did she discover that, sir?"

"I'm afraid I made the mistake of warning Grismead after Crowhurst
attended my aunt's party," Deverell answered in the same low tone.
"Obviously, she prised the story out of him."  He bent and covered her
tightly clenched hands with one of his.  "Just a few more minutes,
sweetheart, then--'

"Uncle Sebastian, do we really have to go with Aunt Ottilia?"  Cressida
bounced up to them with so much energy, Phoebe felt like a wilted leaf
in comparison.  "I know Theo is happy to go off with Edward, but I want
to hear precisely what happened.  Think what a tale this could make.  I
could write--'

"Wouldn't do," stated Filby, coming up to them with the air of one
anxious to quit his surroundings.  He peered worriedly at his sleeve
and flicked off a cobweb.  "Heroine rescued before she's been ruined.
Nephew full of gig.  Wicked uncle turns out to be the hero.  No good at
all.  Are you ready to depart, Lady Cressida?"

"No good, sir?"  Cressida drew herself up.  "What, pray, do you know
about melodrama?"

Filby appeared completely unaware of her outrage.  "Well, mother likes
to put on amateur theatricals at our Christmas house-parties and--'

"She does?"  Cressy clasped her hands.  Her scowl vanished.

Still inspecting his coat, Filby nodded.  "Thought you might be
interested.  Lot of tim.  Often acted in them m'self."

"You have?"

"Tell you all about it on the way home.  You ready, Gerald?"

"A moment, Gerald."  Deverell bent, picked up Crowhurst's sword-stick
and handed it to his nephew.  "Send this around to Crowhurst's
lodgings.  tomorrow, will you?  And see if you can stay out of gambling
halls until you go up to Oxford.  If you're serious about repairing
your fortunes, I'll help you, but--'

"Oh, will you, Uncle Sebastian?  That would be--' He was propelled
through the doorway by Mr.  Char Iron As everyone departed, arguing
about which carriage to occupy, Deverell's gaze rested for a moment on
Filby and Cressida.

"A match made in heaven.  Why didn't I see it before?  Do you know,
Phoebe, I believe I may have underestimated Filby."  He turned and
smiled down at her.  "I must have been preoccupied at the time."

"No doubt, my lord," she responded demurely.  She glanced at the open
window.  "Have they really all gone?  I don't wish to sound ungrateful,
but being rescued by an entire phalanx of Deverells is rather
overwhelming."

"I trust you'll that find one Deverell can do the job quite as well,"
he replied solemnly, and walked over to the window.  "Hmm, we're not
safe yet.  Gerald and the girls seem rather anxious about one of the
wheels on Gerald's phaeton.  You didn't collide with anything on your
way here, did you, Phoebe?"

"Of course not, sir."  She smiled faintly.  "Fortunately, the road was
free of stage-coaches."

"Fortunate, indeed.  Ah, at last.  They're going."

He closed the window and latched it before turning to Crowhurst.  The
smile edging his mouth vanished.  "And as far as I'm concerned, we've
had enough of your company, too, Crowhurst.  Before you leave, however,
let me make it clear that, like my aunt, I don't wish to encounter you
for some considerable time.  I suggest you take an extended tour abroad
for reasons of health."

Crowhurst merely nodded dejectedly and shuffled to the door.  He didn't
even glance at Phoebe.

Deverell watched his progress through slitted eyes.  He waited until
Crowhurst reached the door, then spoke.  His voice was quiet, ice-cold,
and utterly convincing.

"One more thing, Crowhurst."  The other man paused.  "Come near Phoebe
again and I'll break your neck."

Phoebe's eyes widened.  If Deverell had threatened to strangle
Crowhurst, she wouldn't have taken much notice.  She had no trouble at
all picturing him snapping Crowhurst's neck in two without even
thinking about it if he so much as looked sideways at her.

Crowhurst knew it, also.  He shuddered, glanced back fearfully into
eyes that glittered with all the deadly chill of a naked blade, and
hurried away.

For a moment silence filled the small room.  Then Deverell took two
long strides towards her, snatched her up and, yanking her bonnet off
with jerky, impatient fingers, wrapped her in a crushing embrace.  He
pressed his face to her hair; his heart thundered wildly against her
breast.

"God!  I never want to go through anything like that again as long as I
live," he muttered.  "I kept telling myself that Crowhurst wouldn't
hurt you.  At least not immediately.  But I couldn't be sure."

"I knew you'd come."  Phoebe clung to him as desperately, absorbing the
reassuring warmth and strength of his body.  "But I was so scared,
Sebastian.  He was going to take me somewhere else."

"It's over now."  He relaxed his hold a little and drew back to trace
the line of her cheek with gentle fingers.  "However--' his hand
stilled '-it may not have happened in the first place if you'd confided
in me.  Perhaps you can explain, Miss Everton-Smythe, how it comes
about that a daughter of one of Yorkshire's most starched-up families
is masquerading under the name of Smith and earning her living as a
governess."

"Precisely because they are so starched-up," she said drily.  "When I
decided I'd had enough of reprimands and reproaches and being treated
like an unpaid drudge, my family decided they wanted nothing to do with
such an ungrateful person.  In fact, they said I'd probably end up like
my mother, and made me promise to drop the Everton name so no one would
connect me with them, or be reminded of the scandal she caused."

Deverell's eyes narrowed.  He released her, shoved his hands into his
pockets and took a few steps away to stand staring into the fire.

Phoebe sank back to the settle, feeling abruptly bereft.  She had the
distinct suspicion that the next few minutes were not going to be
pleasant.

"It suited me, too," she ventured.  "I had my living to earn, and a
governess with a scandal attached to her name doesn't find employment
easily."

He turned his head to frown at her.  "Damn it, the scandal wasn't of
your making.  Perhaps you didn't mind changing your name, but what the
hell was your father about to cast you off like that?"

"My father died several years ago.  Although he probably would've done
the same thing," she added after a moment's thought.  "The
Everton-Smythes are so puritanical they refuse to attend the Assemblies
at Harrogate or York.  Dancing can lead to improper behaviour, you
know.  Even to smile is a crime.  As for coming to London-- Well, you
can imagine what they think of the Season."

"I don't give a damn what they think of the Season.  If they didn't
isolate themselves, someone else besides Crowhurst might have
recognised you and we might've put everything together a lot sooner."

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully.  "I suppose my father was only too
thankful to keep the scandal contained.  Even I didn't know the details
until tonight.  When my mother left, he banned all mention of her name,
and sent me to live with his parents."  A wry smile touched her mouth.
"For a short time I believed it was so his mother could take the place
of mine, but I soon learned it was because I resembled Charlotte so
closely."

"He couldn't bear to be reminded of her?"

Phoebe shook her head.  "Only because she'd brought shame on the
family.  First by her affairs, obviously, and then ... her suicide."

His expression gentled.  "Did you know she'd killed herself,
Phoebe?"

"I ... wasn't sure," she said painfully.  "I was only nine when it all
happened, and although I knew my mother had done something
terrible--sensed it, as children do--it was soon made very clear that I
wasn't to ask any questions."

He studied her rather thoughtfully.

"It didn't change my life to any great extent," she went on, shifting
under that steady gaze.  "She was always rather distant.  I didn't know
her very well."

"We both seem to have been somewhat unfortunate in our parents," he
observed, looking back at the fire.

"So it seems, sir, if you were punished for your brother's actions."

One corner of his mouth kicked up.  "You're showing great
self-restraint, Phoebe.  I'm sure you wish to know how that came
about."

She ducked her head to hide a quick smile.  "Every sorry detail, I'm
afraid."

"That won't protect you, you know."

Her head snapped up again.  Before she could decide if he was referring
to the promise he'd made her, he continued speaking.

"My brother was several years older than I and my father's favourite.
Only the most iron-clad evidence would.  have convinced him that Selwyn
could do anything wrong.  And all the evidence pointed at me."

"But ... you couldn't have been more than nineteen or

He shrugged.  "I was wild.  Even by Deverell standards.  You think
Gerald's prank with the unmentionables was shocking.  Well--' he sent
her a glinting, sidelong glance '---I wouldn't have wasted time with
the unmentionables, but spent it with their owners."

"Oh."  She levelled her brows at him.  "Indeed, sir."

He grinned unrepentantly.  "To put it bluntly, Phoebe, I, too, was
involved in ... er ... liaisons, the only difference being that the
women concerned were unmarried.  Unfortunately, Selwyn's mistress began
to want more than an illicit affair.  Probably because her husband had
cast her out, as we now know.

"Selwyn, of course, had no intention of disillusioning my father, and
risking his own position, by leaving his wife and becoming embroiled in
what promised to be a scandal of epic proportions.  The result was a
series of increasingly impassioned letters, addressed, to avert
suspicion, to the Hon.  S. Deverell instead of Viscount Kerford, as
Selwyn was then styled."

"What happened?"  Phoebe prompted when he fell silent.

He shrugged.  "The inevitable.  One can only assume that your mother
was suffering from extreme distress to have behaved so rashly.  Since
Selwyn and I shared the same initial, far from averting suspicion, a
barrage of letters addressed so simply in a feminine hand could mean
only one thing as far as my father was concerned.  That I was causing
trouble again.  He opened them and, since endearments rather than names
were mentioned, all hell broke loose."

"But you must have protested your innocence.  And surely your brother
didn't allow you to be punished so terribly for his wrongs."

"Protests didn't do much good when I couldn't prove anything.  As for
Selwyn---' his mouth twisted '--there was no love lost between us.
Imagine a Deverell determined to hide his true nature behind a facade
of pious respectability, and you have Selwyn.  Whenever the two of us
were alone, I scorned him for his hypocrisy.  I might've been wild, but
it was out in the open and Society be damned."

"Also just like a Deverell," she murmured.

He smiled reluctantly.  "Yes.  I'm afraid Ialso had more than my fair
share of Deverell pride.  If Selwyn wasn't going to confess, then I
wasn't about to accuse him.  And

when my father refused to believe me without proof, I ceased trying to
convince him."

Phoebe shook her head.  "That was very foolish of you, my lord."

'.I didn't think so at the time."  He hesitated, then added, "I did try
to trace the lady who'd written the letters, but by the time I'd beaten
her whereabouts out of Selwyn, she was dead.  He didn't tell me her
real name anyway, only the one she was using by then, which is why I

didn't make the link between you until tonight."  "Your brother
provided for her?"

"No, he'd abandoned her along with everyone else, but he knew where she
was living.  One wonders why desperation didn't send her to
Crowhurst."

"No wonder his mind became disturbed," Phoebe mused aloud.  "She
preferred death to running off with him."

"Perhaps he wasn't offering marriage in the event that your father
divorced her," Deverell suggested drily.  "Apart from the fact that
she'd had other lovers, she must have been several years older than him
and would always be associated with scandal.  Not insurmountable
drawbacks in a mistress.  A wife is another matter."

Phoebe glanced fleetingly up at him.  "Precisely my own words, sir."

There was a rather charged silence.  Phoebe could feel Deverell's gaze
on her, but she kept her own eyes lowered, even when he reached out a
hand to her.

"Phoebe..."  He drew in a breath and let his hand fall back to his
side.  "You must be tired, little one.  We'll talk further tomorrow.
I'll ask the landlord to fetch you a glass of brandy while I bring my
phaeton to the door.  It'll warm you before we start out."

Phoebe felt her throat tighten for some inexplicable reason.  She
nodded and managed a small, rather wobbly smile.

It seemed to do the trick.  Deverell strode to the door.  He paused for
a second to study the empty taproom.

"It's a lowering thought," he observed, 'that I had to come in through
the window in case that crew in here were in Crowhurst's pay, while my
aunt swept the place clean with a few well-chosen words."

He sent her a swift grin over his shoulder and walked into the other
room.  Phoebe could hear him summoning the landlord.  She bent' to pick
up her discarded bonnet, crushing the ribbons between tense fingers.

She had absolutely no idea, she realised, of Deverel!"s thoughts on the
situation now that the past had been laid bare.  Apart from that brief,
fierce-embrace, his present manner was that of a concerned friend.  And
although he'd used that most precious endearment, he had never, even
earlier that day, mentioned anything about being in love with her.

Of course, there had hardly been time for a discussion on the subject,
but they were alone now.  What had happened to the very important, very
straightforward question he'd wanted to ask her as soon as they had
some privacy?

Phoebe gazed unseeingly into the fire and remembered her earlier
doubts.  It was no use repining, she told herself.  Nothing had
changed--except that Deverell was now aware of her unsuitability as a
wife, which saved her the trouble of pointing out that fact.  She
should be grateful to be spared the duty.

And she was, after all, still willing to become his mistress.  No doubt
her heart would be shattered some time in the future, but she wouldn't
think about that right now.  She might not even have to worry that he
wouldn't make any sort of offer at all.  He knew she was willing to
become his mistress.  Of course he knew it.  She'd responded to him
without reservation only that afternoon, before he'd so much as hinted
at marriage.

Well, she simply wouldn't act like a woman who expected a marriage
proposal.  The task shouldn't be difficult.  Up until several hours
ago, she hadn't had any such expectations.

Nodding at the logic of her reasoning, Phoebe sat up straighter and
arranged her features into an expression of calm composure.  She
wondered when Deverell would be back so she could get her performance
over and done with.

Chapter Thirteen

Deverell was back in two minutes, a very thoughtful look on his face.

"Phoebe, little one, are you certain you didn't collide with anything
on your way here?  Or run over something on the road?"

Phoebe blinked up at him, distracted from the bracing speech she was
delivering to herself.  In her fragile state of mind, she was inclined
to take umbrage at his question.

"Well, I know I was extremely worried about Gerald, my lord, but I
think I would have noticed a collision.  Why do you ask?"

He didn't immediately enlighten her.  Instead, a slow smile started to
spread across his face.  "Those devious, diabolical little
Deverells."

Phoebe eyed the smile with foreboding.  "What have they done now?"

"I should have made sure they climbed into the right carriages.  Gerald
has very kindly taken my phaeton and left his for us."

"Good heavens.  Why would he do that?"

"Probably because he knew his days would be numbered if he damaged
mine."

When she only continued to stare at him in bewilderment, he
elaborated,

"You may recall, my love, that I thought Gerald seemed anxious about
his phaeton."

"I don't think I want to hear this."

"Gerald, no doubt with the connivance of his sisters, has splintered
the cotter pin on each wheel.  As soon as we hit the first pothole in
the road, We'll find ourselves sitting in it."

"He' what?  Why--?  Oh, this is too much!  Just wait until I see him
again.  I'll--' She stopped, her eyes widening as the full force of
their predicament struck her.  "What on earth are we going to do, my
lord?"

"Not a great deal, I'm afraid.  It's some distance to the nearest town
where I'd be likely to find a wheelwright, and even if I was willing to
leave you here while I made the trip on the landlord's cob--which I'm
not--I doubt the gentleman would be willing to return with me at this
hour."

"But--'

The landlord appeared in the doorway before she could voice even one of
the protests whirling about in her head.

"Yer horses're stabled, me lord, and the wife's lighting a nice fire
upstairs."

"Fire?  Upstairs?"  Phoebe stared from one man to the other in horror.
"But ... you're not suggesting we stay here!"

"Why not?"  The landlord appeared to take offence at her tone.  "The
room up yonder's as good as this 'ere.  The last owner had 'em built on
for himself," he confided to Deverell.  "Thought him and his rib was a
cut above, if ye take me meaning, sir.  But I says a bedchamber's there
to make money."  He grinned ingratiatingly, displaying several gaps
between his teeth.  "There's even a bolt on the door, so ye'll be reel
private, like."

"Not to mention solvent in the morning," Deverell remarked, treating
the landlord to a hard stare.  "Which is when you'll be paid."

"Oh, aye, sir.  Wotever yet honour wishes.  And I hope yer both has a
very good night."  Chuckling, he withdrew.

"Oh, my goodness."  Phoebe sagged limply against the back of the
settle.  "Whatever are we going to do now?"

Deverell raised a brow.  "Take over the landlord's best bedchamber.
What else?"

"How can you be so calm about this, my lord?"  Her voice soared to a
note the great Catalani would have envied.  "Don't you understand?  If
we stay here all night, you'll be placed in a compromising position!"

He stared at her as if she'd suddenly expressed a desire to fetch the
wheelwright herself.  "You're worried about me being in a compromising
position?"

"Of course I am.  What else would I be worried about?"  "Your own
position?"  he suggested.  She-dismissed her own position with an
agitated wave.  "This is terrible!  Just when everything was going so
well; when everyone will know you were unjustly accused and... We must
do something, my lord."

"Before you manage to whip yourself into a real fit of the vapours,
Phoebe, let me remind you that no one knows we're here."

"Your aunt does," she wailed, not in the least mollified by this
unhelpful remark.  "And 'your wards.  And Mr.  Filby.  And-'

"Please."  He held up a hand.  "Spare me the list.  If we leave early
in the morning, everyone concerned will think we got home tonight."

"But--' She paused, frowning.  There was a flaw in there somewhere, but
she couldn't put her finger on it.

A second later the thought fled from her mind.  Deverell strode
forward, a look of determination on his face, and scooped her up off
the settle before she realised his intention.

"However, if I'm going to be in a compromising position, I might as
well take advantage of it," he muttered, and carried her out of the
room.

Phoebe could have sworn her heart stopped.  She flung one arm around
his neck in an instinctive reaction to

suddenly finding herself in motion while several feet off the ground.
Her other hand still clutched her bonnet.  "My lord, wait!  Are you
sure you know what you're doing?"  He grinned.  "Positive."

"But..."  After several futile attempts, she found her voice again.  It
sounded very small.  "Well, then ... what are you doing?"

"Carrying you up to bed so I can make love to you."  "Oh."  Her heart
did stop.  "Oh, my goodness."

"Don't worry, love," he murmured, and smiled straight into her hugely
rounded eyes.  "This only puts things forward a little."

"Things?  Oh, yes.  Things."

She searched vainly for something else to say.  Nothing came to mind.
It didn't matter because her breath had stopped, as well.  All of a
sudden Deverell seemed bigger and more overwhelming than ever.  The
easy way he carried her up the stairs was daunting enough; she could
also feel every powerful shift and surge of muscle against her softer
form.

The rhythmic movements.  began to render her unaccountably weak inside,
but at the same time she was gripped by a wholly unexpected feeling of
apprehension.  Deciding to become a man's mistress was one thing.  The
actual physical act was something she hadn't exactly thought about
until this very moment.

Now it seemed to be all she could think about, as she was carried into
a bedchamber at the top of the stairs and set down before a small fire.
A branch of candles, their flames reflected in the brandy bottle beside
them on the mantelpiece, was the only other source of light in the
room.  A large, comfortable-looking four-poster seemed to take up most
of the space.

Phoebe glanced at it and started to shiver inside.  Deverell strode
back to the door, closed and bolted it, then turned to face her across
the bedchamber.  "Ah, I see the landlord had the happy idea of bringing
the brandy up here," he observed, glancing past her.  He came forward
and picked up the bottle.  Glasses clinked.

Struggling for the same casual aplomb, Phoebe burst into' speech.  "I
can't tell you how pleased I am that you're finally reconciled with
Lady Grismead, my lord, and... Oh!"  She took the glass of brandy he
handed her.  "Thank you, sir."

"I've recently discovered that life holds a lot more promise if you're
not continually looking back," he murmured.  He replaced the bottle and
turned so that she stood side-on to him, her shoulder brushing his
chest.  She knew he was watching her.  He lifted a hand to briefly
touch a curl that had come loose from its tight knot.  "You taught me
that, Phoebe."

For some strange reason the low, husky note in his voice made her
shiver even more.  "Oh?"

"Yes."  He reached down, gently.  prised her tense fingers open and
removed her bonnet from her grasp.  "You won't need this, little
one."

She watched as the bonnet went sailing onto a nearby chair..

"And I think you'll be more comfortable without your pelisse," he went
on, still in that low, almost soothing tone.  He began undoing buttons
with one hand.

Phoebe held her breath, torn between an impulse to stop him and a
trembling awareness of his fingers moving downward between her breasts.
She didn't dare breathe.  The thought of him touching her there again
made her legs shake.  She began to wonder if she could stay upright.

The last button slipped free.  Deverell pushed the folds of material
aside and pressed his hand, just for an instant, to the softness of her
stomach.  Even through her gown and petticoat, the heat of his touch
burned her.  There was something primitive about the gesture; something
intensely possessive.

Phoebe's hand shook.  Brandy sloshed dangerously close to the edge of
the glass.  She brought her other hand up to steady it, suddenly
realising that he'd been

talking softly the whole time he'd been unfastening buttons and she
hadn't heard a word.

"I ... I beg your pardon, my lord?"

His smile sent more shivers chasing one another down her spine.  "I
said, when I first returned to London I thought it would be amusing to
sit back and watch my family tumble into the pit of financial ruin
yawning at their feet.  I didn't even have to lit a finger to bring it
about.  They were doing such a good job of it, themselves.  '

"But you oh--'

Her throat seized when he shrugged out of his coat.  He flung it across
the chair and loosened his cravat.  The strip of snowy muslin went the
way of the coat.  Phoebe followed its progress, then looked back in
time to see him hook a finger in the neck of his shirt and yank it
open.

A touch of indignation seeped into the maelstrom of emotions whirling
about her head.  If he wanted to converse, that was perfectly all right
with her.  In fact, it might help her regain her balance.  But how were
mistresses supposed to carry on an intelligent conversation while
clothes were casually being removed right and left?

"You changed your mind?"  she managed to say, racking her brain to
recall the thread of the discussion.  "No," he murmured.  "You changed
my mind."

"I ... I might have given you a new slant on the situation, sir."

"Let's just say, then, that your view of the situation put a new slant
on it for me."  He began pulling his shirt out of his breeches.

Phoebe decided that if she wasn't to faint right then and there,
drastic measures would have to be taken.  She glanced down at the
brandy in her hand, raised the glass to her lips and took an indecently
large sip.

Heat spread through her veins almost instantly.  She stopped shivering.
At least outwardly.  Her shivers were replaced by tiny internal
flutters that were surprisingly pleasurable.  She eyed the brandy with
approval and took a larger mouthful.

The glass was gently removed from her hand and replaced on the
mantel.

"Sweetheart."  Deverell tipped her chin up on the edge of his hand. She
was piercingly aware of the heat radiating from him; of the fact that
his shirt hung open, revealing the powerful planes of his chest and the
rigid muscles of his stomach.

"I want you more than my next breath," he said softly, 'but not if it
makes you so nervous you have to toss brandy down your throat.  Nothing
has to happen here and now.  Would you rather I spent the night
downstairs?"  "DownStairs?"

His smile was crooked.  "If I climb into that bed with you, little one,
I don't think I can trust myself not to make you mine every way there
is before morning."

For a moment the words stunned her.  Then, just as abruptly, Phoebe was
flooded with their meaning.  He wanted her.  His desire was tightly
leashed, but it was there, straining against the barriers of his
formidable control, apparent only in the narrowed intensity of his eyes
and the taut, waiting stillness of his body.

Despite his gentle tone, despite the wry amusement in his smile, he
really did want her that badly.

And suddenly she thought of the way everyone was always wanting
something from him.  Protection, money, rescue It didn't matter what.
She thought of the way his family had ignored him for years.  She
thought of the statue of a child with its arms outstretched.

And she thought of the way she loved him, with all her heart and mind
and soul.

What good was that love if uncertainty made her hesitate to give freely
the one thing he wanted from her?  What good was it if she hesitated to
take whatever he was offering of himself?.  Love, she discovered in
that moment, transcended everything.  Her upbringing, her own innate
caution, a woman's vulnerability--all were

powerless against the overwhelming need to give.

She smiled up at him, filled with the same sense of rightness she'd
felt that afternoon, and lifted her hand to touch his wrist with
gentle, questing fingers.  "Sebastian.  Please stay with me."

His hard warrior's face lit with a smile that almost took her breath
away.  For a fleeting second she saw the boy he'd been.  Passionate,
reckless, wild, but with a rock-solid sense of honour that had been
forged in fire, making him the man he was today.  The only man she
would ever love.

"Phoebe," he whispered, and bent to brush a gentle kiss across her
lips.  "Don't be afraid.  We're going to be perfect together."

She lifted her mouth, wanting more, and with a half-stifled groan he
thrust his fingers into her hair and kissed her with a fierce ardour
that sent arrows of pleasure darting down her thighs.  She felt her
hair tumble down as pins went flying, and a delicious sense of freedom
raced through her.

"I've been wanting to do that forever," he muttered, breaking the kiss
to run his fingers through the honey-brown tresses.  His hands were
shaking, she realised in bemusement.  "It's like silk.  The fm est
softest silk."

With another muffled exclamation, he untangled his hands from her hair
and started undoing the ribbon beneath her bodice.  Phoebe scarcely
noticed.  She was no longer worrying about clothes being removed.  She
gazed with fascination at his bare chest, its covering of thick, dark
hair drawing her fingers like moths to a flame.

He shuddered heavily as she flattened her hands on him.  "Yes,
sweetheart.  Touch me.  I've been wanting you to touch me for weeks."

Her eyes widened and he smiled in rueful acknowledgement of her effect
on him.  "Didn't you know?"  he asked.  "I've wanted you since that
first day.  That first second."

"Even when I was wearing those old clothes?"  she asked, smiling with a
hint of mischief.

"All I have to do, little one, is look into your eyes and I want
you."

"Ohh."

His mouth curved, she thought with tenderness, but his eyes were
glittering, intense.  He bent to kiss her again, long and hard and
deep.  Until her arms went up around his neck and she was pressing so
close she could feel the quiver of muscles under relentless control.  A
heady sense of feminine power went through her.  He made her tremble
with longing; she'd never dreamed she could have the same effect on
him.

Then, with a muttered imprecation, he drew back, whipped his shirt off
and turned her around to unfasten the tiny buttons that ran down the
back of her gown.  She heard fabric tear.

"Bloody hell, do there have to be so many of the damn things?"

Phoebe giggled.  Her laughter faded, however, when Deverell turned her
again and pushed her gown down to her waist.  It obligingly fell the
rest of the way to the floor.  But it wasn't the fact that she was
standing there wearing only her petticoat and chemise that caused
amusement to change to awed wonder.

He was the most beautiful male she'd ever seen.  Tall and perfectly
proportioned, his shoulders and arms hard with muscle, his chest deep
and wide, and covered with the dark pelt of hair that made her fingers
itch to explore the fascinating new territory spread before her.

"You're beautiful," she whispered, utterly enthralled.  He shook his
head, slowly, as though barely hearing her.  The heat of his gaze
almost seared her skin.  With one finger he traced the ribboned edge of
her chemise before slowly freeing the laces.

Phoebe trembled as he lowered the straps.  In another second she would
be as bare to the waist as Deverell.  She felt herself blushing and
squeezed her eyes shut.

The thought was shocking.  It was positively scandalous.  But the
thrilling excitement pouring through her veins prevented even the
smallest protest.

Cool air brushed over her, she heard him say something, his voice so
hoarse she couldn't make sense of the words, then she cried out in
stunned pleasure as his big, powerful hands closed around her soft
flesh, cupping her, shaping her, stroking her.  The sensation was
indescribable, sending tingling streamers of heat from her breasts to a
place deep inside her that throbbed with a longing she'd never felt
before.

"Sebastian..."  Her legs quivered with the effort to stay upright.  "I
can't ... stand..."

She was swept off her feet before the next word was out.  Phoebe's eyes
flew open as Deverell carried her to the bed and lowered her gently to
the mattress.  He stood looking down at her, his aquamarine eyes
brilliant, glittering, reflecting the moonlight filtering through the
window beside the bed.

When he bent to remove her petticoat, leaving her in her stockings and
bunched-up chemise, Phoebe wondered how it was possible to feel utterly
abandoned and wicked, and blush all over at the same time.  Despite the
excitement and longing pouring through her, she flexed her knee in an
instinctive attempt to shield herself from that intense gaze.

"It's all right, sweetheart.  My lovely Phoebe."  His voice was shaking
almost as badly as his hands, Sebastian realised.  God!  If he didn't
stop looking at her, he'd fall on her like a ravaging warlord intent on
taking the spoils of battle.

But she wasn't the spoils of battle.  This was his innocent, trusting
Phoebe.  He'd barely reassured her about their future, hadn't said a
word about anything other than wanting her---a totally inadequate
description for the grinding, wrenching need tearing at his gut---and
still, she lay there, gazing up at.  him with a fascinated wonder that
threatened to rip his precarious control to shreds.

He wrenched his gaze away from the sight of her lying there waiting for
him, and sat down on the edge of the bed to yank off his boots.  It was
no use worrying about the things he hadn't said.  He could hardly
speak, let alone string the right words together.  He felt as if he was
going to explode if he didn't sink into her warmth and softness.  He
could give her all the right words and reassurances later.

He hauled off his second boot and tossed it after the first, then froze
when Phoebe reached out a hand and touched his arm.

When she ran questing fingers up to his shoulder and flexed them to
test the strength there, Sebastian knew he was going to go mad.  The
knowledge didn't prevent him from shifting to face her so she had
access to his chest.  He watched her lips part in a delighted smile as
she touched him, saw the innocent feminine appreciation in her
beautiful eyes and nearly groaned aloud as the ache in his body
intensified to the edge of agony.  "You're so hard," she said
wonderingly.

He drew in his breath sharply as one little finger stroked across a
male nipple.

"I'm aware of that fact," he muttered through clenched teeth.
"Painfully aware of it."

"Sebastian?"

"Don't worry about it."  Surging to his feet, he wrenched open his
breeches.  "If you don't wish to receive the shock of your life, my
innocent little governess, I suggest you shut your eyes."

Phoebe smiled happily up at him.  "I'm not completely ignorant,
Sebastian.  I have seen statues of males, you know, and--' Her eyes
blinked wide.  "Oh, my goodness!"

His ragged laugh sounded as if it had been torn from him.  He lowered
himself to the bed beside her and gathered her into his arms.  She
came willingly, but he could feel her trembling.

He brushed his knuckles gently over her cheek.  "There have been
several times when I've wanted to silence you, Phoebe, but not, believe
me, by terrifying you."

"I am not terrified," she informed him, blushing so rosily he could
feel the heat beneath his fingers.  "It's just that ... well ... you're
very large, aren't you?  All over, I mean."

Despite the need clawing at him, Sebastian couldn't help himself.  He
grinned.  "You're worried about the discrepancy in our sizes?"

Phoebe blushed again.  "Well, it is rather pronounced."  "Phoebe,
sweetheart..."  He bent to kiss her.  "My innocent darling, do you
really think I'd do anything to hurt you?"

"Of'course not, Sebastian, but--'

"You've given me so much of your trust.  Can't you trust me in this,
too?"

She sounded indignant.  "It isn't that I don't trust you, Sebastian.
But ... well ... one can hardly ignore the evidence of one's eyes."

"Oh, God."  He rested his forehead against hers, unable to decide
whether to laugh or swear.  What other woman would stop proceedings at
this point and expect an explanation that was utterly beyond him? "Just
trust me, darling.  Please."

He felt her hesitate, then she relaxed and curled against him,
snuggling closer.  Sebastian groaned softly and bent to kiss her
throat, at the same time pushing her chemise lower.  "Lift up,
sweetheart.  Let me get this off you."

The softly growled command sent a tremor of mingled excitement and
apprehension through her.  Phoebe obeyed, then went very still as he
stripped her chemise and stockings off and let his gaze travel over her
naked body.

His chest expanded on a ragged indrawn breath.  He touched one finger,
just the tip of one finger, to her throat.  As if he' didn't quite
trust himself with a firmer caress, she thought wonderingly.  Then he
laid the flat of his hand against the pulse beating wildly in its small
hollow and she trembled in uncontrollable response.

Such big, powerful hands.  Such gentleness.  The contrast made her melt
and then shiver with excitement.  When he moved his hand to trace the
small bones below her throat, her flesh pulsed with heat where his
touch had been,

He bent his head to retrace the same path with his mouth.  Phoebe
gasped as his kisses went lower.  Her breasts felt flushed and heavy,
the tips aching.  Then he closed his mouth over one rosy crest and she
cried out sharply at the sudden, piercing pleasure.

"Yes," he growled against her throbbing flesh, and she shuddered at the
raw sound of his voice.

"Sebastian..."  Her own voice was barely audible.  "I feel so..."

"Yes," he said again.  "Tell me, sweetheart."

Tell him?  she thought dimly, Tell him?  She could hardly speak.  She
felt his hand stroke down her body until his fingers tangled in the
soft triangle between her legs and all the muscles in her lower body
seemed to dissolve.

"Sebastian/Ohh, I thought ... I felt unbridled passion when you kissed
me, but this ... is beyond anything."  "Not yet," he grated.  "But it
soon will be."

Her eyes flew open at the stark promise in his voice, then widened even
further at the savage look of arousal on his face as he watched his
hand caress her so intimately.  His touch was still achingly tender,
but the expression in his eyes held all the fierceness of a warrior;
the muscles beneath her hands were coiled springs waiting to unleash
the full force of his passion.

He was holding himSelf in check by the merest thread, she realised.
Every tendon was rigid with self-imposed restraint.  And, in that
fleeting moment of awareness, she knew his restraint was costing him.

The last remnants of nervousness vanished.  All that power.  All that
power, leashed, held in check.  For her.  She shivered in helpless
response to the thrill of anticipation coursing through her.

"I want you," she whispered, stunned by the truth of her words.  Not
even her own boldness shocked her.  The sensations he was arousing with
the gentle, insistent touch of his hands and mouth swept her beyond
anything but the strange throbbing emptiness only he could satisfy.
"Oh, Sebastian, I 10ve you."

"Phoebe.  Oh, God, sweetheart, I can't wait any longer for you.  I have
to have you.  I won't hurt you, darling, I swear.  I'll be so
careful..."

Not even aware of what he was saying, knowing only that he couldn't
bear to frighten her, Sebastian pressed her legs further apart and
lowered himself over her.

She made a soft whimpering sound of pleasure and longing when his
weight came down on her that threatened to send him straight over the
edge.  He paused, teeth clenched, feeling sweat break out across his
back as he fought for control.

She lifted her hips beneath him in an instinctive seeking movement that
was so utterly female, so unbearably arousing a harsh groan tore from
his throat.

"Phoebe, don't!  Be still, little one.  Let me..."  He raised himself
on his forearms to look down at her and felt as if the breath had been
kicked out of him.

Her lashes fluttered upward.  She gazed up at him, her lovely eyes
cloudy with desire, her lips soft from his kisses, her hair a silken
fan against the pillow.  He remembered that he'd wanted to know how she
would look in his arms.  Now he did know.  Small and soft and
heart-wrenchingly vulnerable.

Dear God, how did the sight of such fragile delicacy arouse him to
almost crazed desire?  The violence of his own need shook him to his
soul.  And yet something--was it the utter trust in her eyes?-managed
to leash the wild hunger straining to break free so he could enter her
slowly, lead her gently into an intimacy that had to be new and
frightening in its very intensity.

"It's all right," he whispered when she made a small frantic sound and
clung to him.  He gazed deeply into her eyes, willing her to relax, to
accept the intrusion of his body.  "I won't hurt you, love.  Just Ie
still."  "Sebastian?  I don't think..."

"Shh, Relax, darling.  Yes, that's it.  That it.  Oh, God, Phoebe--'

Phoebe gasped as.  he thrust forward, possessing her completely.  Her
nails bit into his shoulders.  He hadn't hurt her, but the thrilling
anticipation and excitement was abruptly swamped by the shock of his
invasion.  She vaguely realised that Sebastian had gone rigidly still,
holding her in a grip of iron while her body struggled to adjust to
his.  His heart pounded against her breast with a violence that would
have terrified her if she hadn't been so caught up in the incredible
sensations of joining with him.

"Are you all right?"  he asked, sounding as if his teeth were ground
together.

Phoebe managed a small nod and relaxed her grip on his shoulders.  In
truth, she was beginning to feel more than all right.  The feeling of
being invaded was passing and a delicate quivering sensation was taking
its place.  She tried a tentative movement and almost fainted as a
piercingly sweet ripple of pleasure coursed through her.

His arms tightened so convulsively she squeaked.  Then he lowered his
head, buried his face in her hair, and began to move with a restrained
power that brought all the thrilling excitement rushing back.

Phoebe clung with all her strength, eager now to follow wherever he
led.  Her entire world narrowed to this moment; this man who held her
with such fierce tenderness; this act of total surrender of all that
she was.  The intimacy was shattering, tearing apart any preconceptions
she might have had and overwhelming her with

the reality of feeling him all around her, inside her, enveloping,
sheltering, possessing.

Sweet, hot tendrils of pleasure began coiling inside her, tighter and
tighter, until the tension was almost unbearable, until she cried out
in intolerable need.  And, as if her cry snapped some invisible leash,
Deverell's control exploded in a passionate assault that sent her
hurtling into ecstasy.  If she hadn't been held so fast in his arms,
she would have flown into a thousand pieces.

Amazement, helpless delight, love so intense she could hardly bear it,
streaked through her in the instant before she was swept into a torrent
of exquisite sensation, pleasure throbbing through her with every
pulsing beat of her heart, filling every part of her, taking her to the
edge of consciousness.  Dimly, she heard the harsh sound that erupted
from his throat.  He held her as if he would never let her go,
shuddering against her, whispering her name over and over in a litany
of passion, until he sank heavily onto her, crushing her into the
bedding.

Phoebe came back to herself very slowly.  She felt as if she was
sinking into a soft, endless sea.  All her bones seemed to have melted.
An incredible feeling of lassitude flowed over her.  Vaguely she was
aware of questions floating somewhere in the back of her mind, but it
was too much trouble to think about them.  Too much trouble to speak.
The moment was too precious.

Lying with Deverell like this, still holding him within her body,
feeling his weight over her, sheltering and warm, was almost sweeter
than what had gone before.  She had never known such a complete and
utter sense of belonging.  Whatever happened in the future, whatever
life held for them, she would always be a part of him.  As he would be
part of her.  Forever.

"Sebastian," she murmured, and let the sweet lassitude take her into
sleep.

His name roused Sebastian from the torpor of satiation.  He withdrew as
gently as possible, knowing she had to be tender, and gazed down at
her.

She was already deep in slumber, her lashes delicate silken fans
against her cheeks, her lips still rosy from his kisses and softly
parted.

A wave of protective tenderness swept over him, making his body clench
and shudder violently in reaction.  The intensity of emotion stunned
him.  Phoebe had taken the pain and emptiness from his heart and filled
it with something he'd never known before.  Tenderness.

Until she'd burst into his life, he hadn't known he was capable of so
much feeling.

He thought about waking her and telling her how much she meant to him,
but she looked so fragile.  She was probably exhausted.  And he was,
after all, the one who had exhausted her.  He could wait until
morning.

Gathering Phoebe close to his side, he pulled the covers over them and
lay back against the pillows.  She felt sweet and warm in his arms.
Sebastian smiled as another thought occurred to him.

Tonight he had turned his delightfully disapproving Miss Smith into a
creature of fire and passion.  She had responded to him with an
innocent sensuality that had set his senses reeling.

But more importantly---she had given him her heart.  Making a silent
vow to cherish her gift for the rest of his life, he fell asleep,
feeling at peace for the first time in years.

An early morning mist still hovered in the air when Phoebe settled
herself on the seat of Gerald's phaeton and watched Deverell climb up
next to her.  Around them the trees hovered, insubstantial shapes in
the seamless grey of mist and sky.  The Black Mole crouched, an
unlikely harbour in the stillness.

"It's certainly a relief to be on our way," she remarked chattily as he
gave the horses the office to start.

She winced at the inanity of the remark, but decided that if Deverell
required anything more in the way of

witty conversation at this hour he shouldn't have woken her before
dawn in a fashion guaranteed to addle her wits for the rest of the
day.

And then, she remembered, having reduced her to a deliciously limp
state, he'd dressed, bounded downstairs, whistling, and appropriated
the entire inn.

Phoebe had been inclining towards a hazy sort of indignation until the
landlord's wife had appeared with breakfast, the makings for a hot
bath, and the news that her spouse had fetched the wheelwright and
repairs were underway.

They had both been fully occupied ever since.

"Oh, I don't know," he said now, sending her a wicked, sidelong glance.
"I'm going to have some rather fond memories of the place, myself."

Phoebe tried to look severe and failed dismally.  The task was
impossible when she was blushing.  And she seemed to have run out of
chatty responses.  In fact, now that she and Deverell were alone, she
found it difficult to think about anything except her uncertainty about
the immediate future.

The trouble was, she reflected, she didn't have any experience at being
a mistress.  She'd been touched by Deverell's thoughtfulness in
ensuring her privacy this morning, but that was at an isolated inn.
What was going to happen when they returned to town?

She cast a quick glance at his profile and decided that since she
didn't know the rules of mistressly behaviour,

he would have to explain them to her.

"My lord?"

He grinned.  "Yes, Miss Smith?"

Despite herself, Phoebe giggled.  "Oh, dear, I suppose that did sound
absurdly formal after ... after..."

"After you spent the night lying naked in my arms?"

"Sebastian!"  She felt herself turning an even brighter shade of pink.
"I did not... Well, I did, but..."

He laughed and covered her hands briefly with one of his.  "I'm sorry,
darling, but when I'm confronted by the prim and proper Miss Smith, I
can't resist teasing her.  What is it you wished to ask me?"

She took a deep breath.  "Well, I was wondering what we are to do now.
I mean, you might wish to spend another night ... urn ... that is to
say..."

"You're perfectly correct, my love.  I will wish to spend another night
making love to you.  Every night, in fact."

"Ohh."  She was momentarily distracted as a tingling echo of pleasure
rippled through her.  When his mouth curved, she hurried into speech
again.

"Yes, well, that is precisely what I mean.  But you can't very well
visit me at Park Street.  What would Then and Cressy think?  Especially
if you were to stroll around without your shirt on as you were doing
this morning.  Not that I wish to live in another big house," she added
hastily, in case he might think she had mercenary tendencies.  "No
doubt you are thinking of a little cottage somewhere.  I'm sure it will
be quite delightful."

There was a rather ominous silence from the figure beside her.  Too
anxious to notice anything amiss, Phoebe broached her greatest concern.
"And perhaps---only if the occasion were to arise, of' course--you
might give me a ... a suitable recommendation?"

Deverell hauled on the reins so abruptly, Phoebe almost found herself
hurtling from her seat.  She looked down, fully expecting to see sparks
fly as the horses skidded to a jarring halt.  Wood shrieked hideously
against wood as he yanked on the brake.

"What?"  he roared.

The pair in the traces promptly took exception to his tone.

"God damn it to bloody hell!"

The next few minutes were spent in a lively tussle with Gerald's
horses.

When Deverell finally got them calmed down, secured the reins and
turned an enraged countenance on her, Phoebe was put forcibly in mind
of black thunderclouds

hurling bolts of aquamarine lightning.  It finally dawned on her that
she was in a great deal of trouble.  The only good thing about the
situation was that they were still sitting in the carriage.  At least
he had to keep his voice down.

"A recommendation?"  he repeated with deadly inflexion.  "As what?"

"A ... a governess, of course," she ventured.  "I mean ... I couldn't
very well ask for a recommendation as a mistress, because I'm not
terribly experienced at it yet, and besides, Sebastian, even if you
tired of me, I would never want to belong to another man anyway, so a
recommendation wouldn't be..."

He made a strangled sound of frustration and clutched at his head.

Phoebe eyed him anxiously..  "Oh, dear.  Are you all right, sir?"

"No, I am not all right, Miss Smith.  I am rapidly going mad.  And you
are the cause of it."  He straightened, took hold of her shoulders and
gave her a none-too-gentle shake.

"Phoebe, you little idiot.  After last night, what insanity makes you
think there'd ever come a time when I wouldn't want you?  Not only as a
mistress, damn it, but as a wife!"

Her jaw dropped.  "A wife?"

Her reaction seemed to enrage him all over again.  "What the devil did
you think I meant yesterday when I said what I did in front of the
twins?"

"Well---' Her brain reeled dizzily.  "I did think ... then.  But after
last night, you must know how ineligible I am, and..."  She looked up
earnestly into his furious countenance.  "Indeed, Sebastian, you said
it yourself.  Someone associated with scandal is not suitable as a
wife."

"I didn't mean you, damn it!"  He closed his eyes, then opened them
again to fix her with a glare that made her feel as if she'd been
transfixed by one of the lightning bolts.

"Phoebe, I will put up with my aunt's managing ways and my wards'
peccadilloes.  I will tolerate Pamela and that dim-witted poet.  I will
even refrain from strangling Filby.  But I will not accept idiocy from
you!  Is that clear?"

"But..."  She faltered, eyes wide with anxiety and tremulous hope.
"Sebastian, are you sure you're not just doing the honourable thing
because we were placed in a compromising position last night 'and
everyone will--?"

"I don't give a damn for Society's opinion," he interrupted roughly.
"You know that."

"Yes, but you care about your family's opinion."  She gave him a gentle
smile.  "And, although I doubt Lady Grismead would wish to welcome a
daughter of Charlotte Everton-Smythe into the family---especially as I
have absolutely no expectations she'd still expect you to do the
correct thing."

"Sooner or later, Phoebe, you'll learn that the day I do what my aunt
considers proper will be the day they discover the earth is flat, after
all.  Why the hell do you think I made love to you after discovering we
were stranded?  Because I knew if I asked you to marry me last night,
you'd start babbling about obligations and compromising positions, even
if I'd convinced you that I couldn't care a snap for a scandal that had
nothing to do with you."

There was a short silence while she digested this speech.  Then
Devetell smiled dangerously and leaned closer.  "As it is, my love,
thanks to my forethought, you do not have a choice.  Fortunately for
me, you do care about Society's opinion, therefore you have to marry
me."

Phoebe eyed the pleased triumph on his face with a disapproving frown.
"Are you threatening me with possible consequences again, my lord?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath and grasped her courage with both hands.
"Why?"

"Why?"  He scowled at her.  "Why?  Because I love you, God damn it. Why
the hell else would I want to marry you?"

As a declaration, this thundered avowal of devotion left much to be
desired.  Its effect, however, was potent.  Phoebe flung herself into
his arms, so deliriously happy she couldn't speak.  She rained fervent
little kisses over his face instead.

Deverell's response was instant.  His entire body went hard.  He pulled
her into a crushing embrace, but instead of kissing her as she'd
expected, he wrenched off her bonnet and buried his face in her hair,
holding her so closely she could feel every heartbeat, every breath.
Her own breath caught in wonder when she realised he was shaking.

"Phoebe, I love you," he said hoarsely.  "I love you so much.  You must
believe me.  Until you stormed into my life, believing in me, trusting
me despite all you'd been told, I didn't know what need was.  I didn't
know trust like that was possible.  Now I'd fight the entire world to
keep you."

"Oh, Sebastian."  She clung closer, instinctively giving, instinctively
reassuring.  "You'll always have my trust.  Just as you'll always have
my love."

"Sweetheart!"  He drew back for a moment, gazing down into her face as
though making very sure.  And then his mouth came down on hers with an
urgency that made her senses swim.  But even as she trembled and melted
against him, he gentled, kissing her so deeply, so slowly, with such
intensely possessive ardour, she felt as if he was filling her with all
the love in his heart, as if, with just that kiss, they would be joined
for aH time.

The moment was so sweet, so tender, Phoebe felt tears of happiness fill
her eyes.

She blinked them away as Deverell drew back to smile down at her. "God,
you give yourself so completely.  If you knew some of things--darling,
you're so innocent sometimes, you scare me."

She shook her head.  "If I was that innocent," she said, gently
reproving, "I would have believed Crowhurst last night."

Without warning, the hard edge of power returned to his face.  "That's
when I knew I'd do anything to keep you, Phoebe.  Your trust awed me.
Humbled me.  What Crowhurst said was pretty damning, if you didn't know
the truth.  Especially as he believed what he was saying.  And I know
it shook you to hear about your mother like that."

"The only thing I feared was that you'd once loved her," she whispered.
"But I knew if you had, you would never have abandoned her."

"You're the only woman I've ever loved," he said, gazing deeply into
her eyes.  The truth reverberated in his words, irrevocable,
unchangeable.  "You're the only woman I ever will love."

Phoebe's face lit with a smile that was radiant with love and so much
happiness she could have soared into the cloudy sky and flown on the
wind.  "In that case, sir, I can face any amount of Aunt Grismeads and
doubtful Deverells.  Let us be off."

Sebastian laughed out loud, catching her mood.  He released her and
bent to untie the reins.  "My love, you're forgetting two things, One,
my wards were obviously aware of my intentions and last night decided
to hasten the inevitable conclusion in their own ruthless fashion.  And
two, my aunt is a Deverell.  Not only that, at present she's a grateful
Deverell.  What does that tell you?"

"That you think you'll be able to do precisely as you like while her
gratitude lasts," she answered, exchanging her smile for a severe
frown.

The frown didn't seem to have much effect.  He grinned down at her, his
eyes glittering with an expression that reminded her vividly of the
passion of

the night.  "Precisely.  We'll get married today..  You see,

I also had the forethought to procure a special licence."  Today?
But--'

He leaned over and silenced her with a kiss as they started off.

Several minutes later, Phoebe emerged from the embrace, flushed and
flustered.  "My lord!  Kindly keep your attention on the road when
you're driving.  I do not wish to end up in the ditch."

"Ah.  I wondered where she'd gone.  Now you see why we mustn't delay
our nuptials a moment longer than necessary, my love.  I need my
delectably disapproving Miss Smith to keep me in line."

Phoebe pondered that for a moment, then pursed her lips.  "Clearly a
difficulty task lies ahead of me," she concluded.  She nodded, her prim
expression belied by the.  laughter dancing in her eyes.  "However, you
will be happy to know, my lord, that I have considerable experience in
dealing with Deverells."

"And last night you added to your talents in that direction," he
murmured.

"Sir!"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Smith.  What I meant to say is that you're
perfectly placed for the task."

When she sent him a mischievous sidelong look, his mouth curved in a
smile of heart-wrenching tenderness.  "Right where you are now," he
said softly.  "In my heart."

The sun broke through the mists as they turned onto the main road to
London, lighting their world with golden promise.

Historical romance