He met her eyes and held out his hand. “Come—I’ll take you home.”
They traveled the short distance in a hackney, not a suitable venue in which to broach the subject of Phoebe’s vow. As soon as they were alone, in suitable surroundings—she was determined on that.
They walked into the Park Street house to discover Edith, Audrey, and Loftus in the drawing room, all waiting, agog, to hear that she was safe. Of course, once assured that was indeed so, they demanded to know all the rest.
Deverell suggested, and Phoebe concurred, that Skinner, Fergus, and Grainger, who Deverell had sent earlier from the club to reassure Edith, be summoned so all involved could hear their tale.
They told it as concisely as they could, but Edith, Audrey, and even Loftus had questions, wanting to know every little detail. Phoebe inwardly railed at the delay but accepted that they needed to be reassured. She and Deverell held nothing back; quite aside from all those present having a right to know, the scandal of Lord Lowther’s suicide would be all over town come morning.
But at last they reached the end of the story. While Audrey and Edith exclaimed over Lowther, Deverell moved to Phoebe’s side and took her arm. Bending his head, he murmured, “You’re flagging—exhausted. You need to retire.”
She blinked up at him, then realized. “Oh—yes.” Turning to the others, she repeated his words, adding her own emphasis and letting her shoulders droop.
“Of course, dear—you must go up and rest. Don’t let us keep you.” Edith beamed at her—at them.
Audrey waved a dismissal. “We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you to the stairs.” To the others, Deverell said, “I need to get on.” To where he didn’t say.
Phoebe turned to Skinner and Fergus. “Please take word to Emmeline and Birtles. I don’t want them worrying unnecessarily.”
“Aye.” Fergus glanced at Skinner. “We’ll get around there right away.”
“And you”—Deverell looked at Grainger—“can hie back to the club and tell Gasthorpe what’s happened. I have no idea when Crowhurst will get back tonight—it might be late.” He said nothing about his own return.
Grainger beamed and snapped a jaunty salute. “Yes, sir.” He turned and followed Skinner and Fergus through the door.
Phoebe followed more slowly, Deverell by her side. They paused in the hall. Deverell closed the drawing room door, waited until the other three had disappeared behind the green baize door, then he reached for Phoebe’s hand; she gripped his. “Come on.”
Hand in hand, they slipped up the stairs.
To her room.
At last! Phoebe led the way in, sweeping through the door Deverell set wide and on to the clear area before one window. Skinner had left a lamp burning, shedding sufficient light for her purpose. Marshaling her thoughts, she swung around to pace—and found he’d shut the door and was halfway across the room, advancing on her.
Her wits leapt to attention. Halting, she pointed at him. “Stop!”
He blinked, slowed, and did, leaving five feet of space between them. The look on his face as he searched hers plainly stated he had no idea what was going on. What she was thinking. If she was thinking or if she was panicking…
She waved her hands as if to erase his thoughts. “I need to talk to you—and I can’t even think if you’re too close.” His wary tension evaporated; she glimpsed a fleeting quirk of his lips before he schooled his expression to attentive interest. She frowned at him. “Just stay where you are, and listen.”
His lips set; his wariness hadn’t entirely left him.
She drew breath, clasped her hands before her, and faced him squarely. “I know that when we first met, all those weeks ago at Cranbrook Manor, you had it in mind that I might make a suitable bride for you. You need to marry—that is beyond question—not just for an heir, but because of the many social obligations that now fall to you as Paignton, obligations no bachelor could easily fulfill.”
She paused, then inclined her head. “So you have good reasons to hunt for a wife—indeed, it’s incumbent on you to do so.” She hesitated, searching his eyes, wondering if she dared put her suppositions into words…his steady, unwavering green gaze as always reassured her. Gave her the strength to say, “I…got the impression, all those weeks ago, that you seriously considered making me an offer, that you might well have done so if I hadn’t made it plain that I was uninterested in marriage.” Hesitating for only a heartbeat, she clasped her hands more tightly and lifted her chin. “Was that so?’
A moment passed while he searched her eyes, then he nodded. Briefly. “Yes.”
Relief of the sweetest kind washed through her. “Good. Because what I wanted to tell you is that I’ve changed my mind.” She held his gaze. “I’m no longer uninterested in marriage.”
He stared at her for a strangely dizzying moment, then something changed. Some shift in the atmosphere, some cosmic realignment—some sudden and glorious upwelling of joy.
His features eased; he stepped forward.
“No—wait!” She held up a hand. “You have to hear me out. It’s important—I’m not the sort of lady who changes her mind, not about things like that.”
“Phoebe—”