Chapter Fourteen

P hoebe had hardly gotten the question out before there was a rap at the door, and a few servants filed into the room, laboring beneath the weight of altogether too much food, a tea service, clean cloths, and a massive bowl filled with water, in which bobbed several large chunks of ice. She pinned her lips together as they set the tray of food across Chris' lap, slanting a pointed glare in his direction meant to suggest that if he made even the slightest reference to her indelicate question before them, she would see that he lived to regret it. With a huff of irritation, Chris held his tongue as the servants went through their paces. She supposed he was unaccustomed to not speaking freely, of whatever he pleased, regardless of the presence of his staff. What he was accustomed to, she suspected, was scheming. Plotting. Working out how best to manipulate any given situation to his advantage. And by the calculating gleam in his eyes as he watched her in the fraught silence before the staff had once more departed the room, he had figured out how to do it. "I'll tell you," he said, little more than a half-second after the door had closed behind the last of the servants. "If you stay for lunch." "I've already eaten," she said. "Yes, I know. You took tea with my mistress." The faintly grumbling tone implied he was still put out over that. "I suppose she was the one to inform you of such things." Of course she had been. Phoebe had never heard of them before, not even in whispers from married friends. But then most of the women of her acquaintance were ladies in the truest sense of the word, wed to gentlemen with titles and estates to pass down to heirs. Children were meant to be the natural result of marriage, a way of preserving one's legacy, one's lineage. "Am I not permitted to be curious about such things?" she asked. "I had thought if there were anyone to understand, it would be you." "I do," he said, lifting the silver cover from the tray upon his lap and setting it aside to reveal a lunch of thin slices of meat, wedges of cheese, thick cuts of bread, and a bowl of strawberries. "But I'm not in the habit of giving away something for nothing." She had a diamond bracelet in her pocket that suggested otherwise. "Give me a damned strawberry, then," she said. "And tell me." Chris speared a strawberry upon the tines of his fork and held it out to her. "It's an item made of sheep's gut that a man wears over his cock during sex," he said. "Primarily, its purpose is to prevent the contraction of diseases. But it also prevents a man's seed from taking root." Phoebe blinked. Perhaps she ought to have been shocked by the blunt speech, but it was somehow preferable to the veiled, confusing terms that most of her social set used. Like a riddle couched in flowery and obfuscating language, she had often felt she had come out of a conversation less educated than when she had entered it. "And this is…effective?" she asked, finishing off the strawberry as she reached for a clean cloth and dunked it into the icy water. "More often than not. It's doubtful I could father a child anyway—but I'd prefer not to contract a preventable illness if I might avoid it. Thus far, they have served me well." He tore a slice of bread into bite-sized pieces with his fingers, and those sharp blue eyes surveyed her cannily. "Do you want to see one?" "Could I?" The corner of his mouth lifted. "For a price," he said. Phoebe frowned her disapproval. "Is everything a transaction to you?" "Most things," he said. "Fortunately for you, my price is inexpensive. I'll ask only a kiss." "A kiss!" The arch of a single brow suggested Chris thought her reaction a trifle overblown. "Is it so objectionable? To my recollection, you enjoyed yourself well enough last time." Phoebe knew her cheeks had to be crimson. With a sort of petulance of which she had never dreamed herself capable, she lobbed the cloth at him, and he gave a bark of laughter as it slapped against his forehead, tiny rivulets of water sliding down his face upon impact. "That was for show," she said peevishly. "It was meant to look convincing, if you'll recall." "Really? Only show?" He scraped away the water running down his face and peeled the cloth away. "I was fooled, then. And I am not fooled often." "I don't believe I have got those sorts of desires," she said. "Do you not? Or is it that you think you're not meant to? That you've acquired a certain anxiety about what such things might lead to?" There was no judgment lurking within the words; they were offered only with curiosity. And the answer to them was—she didn't know. She had never allowed herself to examine it too closely. There had been gentlemen she had found attractive, whom she would not have refused a kiss in a secluded garden or deserted terrace… if she could have experienced those things without the threat of marriage hanging over her head. Without the threat of children. She supposed it was…possible, perhaps, that she had let such fears wreak havoc upon her mind, until it had simply been safer, more comfortable, and altogether less frightening to ignore such thoughts whenever they happened to traipse, unbidden, through her mind. To turn up her nose at them and pretend them away, until they had grown fewer and farther between, more easily disregarded. But she had liked the kiss. She had liked the way it had lingered long afterward in the slight bruising of her lips. She had liked his arm around her waist, the warmth of his palm sliding over her bottom, the heat of his chest pressed against hers. She had just never judged that sort of thing, no matter how pleasant, worth the risk of bringing a child into the world. Even if he could not father children, still she would rather not tempt fate in that regard. But if certain things could mitigate that risk yet further— Phoebe said, "I want to see it first." Chris squinted in open suspicion. "How do I know you'll hold up your end of the bargain?" "Between the two of us, I'm far more trustworthy." "Ah, hell. Fair enough." Though he'd yet to take a bite despite the fact that he'd torn up a great deal of his meal, Chris gestured with the fork toward the nightstand drawer. "Little wooden box," he said. "All the way to the back, on the right." Obediently, Phoebe rifled within the drawer, sliding her hand toward the very back until her fingers touched something cool and smooth. The box was small and discreet, perhaps six inches long. Unassuming, she thought, for what it contained. "Go ahead," he urged, and she flipped open the catch and lifted the lid. A neat stack of items lay within, stiff and semi-transparent. "They look like vellum," she said, poking at the topmost one with the tip of one finger. The rustle of them made her wince. "These cannot be comfortable." A laugh rumbled in his chest. "They're made of sheep's gut," he reminded her. "They come dried. They must be soaked prior to use to make them pliable. As for comfort—well, not so much as going without. But it's a small price to pay for the security they provide." Security. Yes. She supposed they must offer that, or no one would bother with them, strange as they were. She flipped the lid closed once again, secured the latch, and tucked the box back into the drawer where it belonged. "I've held up my end of our bargain," he said. "So. About my fee." Well, she had made that bargain, and she had traded upon her trustworthiness to do so. It was only a kiss. She closed her eyes, leaned forward. "Oh, no, I don't think so." The amused words cut straight through her concentration, and she opened her eyes once more with a frown. "My ability to lean in is somewhat curtailed at the present moment, and you're entirely too far away. You'll have to sit here." He patted one hand at the edge of the bed, where a scant six inches of surface was available between his hip and the edge. She'd be precariously balanced, but she supposed he was right. She couldn't exactly expect him to meet her halfway in his condition. Somehow, she managed to perch herself there, claiming what little space she could, and bent toward him once more. Only a kiss, she thought, and pressed her lips to his. A brief one, at that. He ought to be resting— Before she could pull away, he sank his fingers into her hair, his right arm strong and sure against her back. "That was not," he said in a low murmur against her lips, "quite what I had in mind." Something about the tenor of his voice made the hairs at the nape of her neck lift. Made a strange heat kindle in her belly. His lips grazed across hers, the day's growth of beard upon his cheeks and chin abrading her skin. An odd sensation. Not unpleasant so much as unfamiliar. Her mind shed itself of petty concerns as if a spell had been cast upon her, and some part of her—some part she had long ignored, some part she had tried to convince herself did not exist at all—tossed up a tempting thought. This is something that he can teach to me . It had been an easy thing to dismiss that first kiss as a product of panic, of desperation. A thing to be done only to secure what she had wanted for herself. Now, in the quiet of an otherwise deserted room, she had no such excuses. There was that same unconscious lassitude, the loosening of every stiff muscle, the parting of her lips to admit the slow thrust of his tongue, the slick slide provoking a shiver. She found herself grasping his shoulder, her nails flexing into the muscle beneath his warm skin. Too warm. She'd forgotten his fever— "Chris," she mumbled. "Shh. Not just yet." There was his other hand at her waist, sliding toward the small of her back. His fingers clenched in her hair, holding her still. The pressure of his lips burned, bruised. A sensation that would linger with her long after the kiss. "It's been too damned long." The hair at the nape of his neck was damp with sweat, but still soft and smooth. She didn't know quite how her fingers had ended up there, but she enjoyed the growl that rumbled in his throat as her nails scraped across the skin beneath it. "Chris—" "Phoebe. Kindly shut up ." Ah, well. She had tried. And really, it was a unique opportunity to assuage her curiosity. To learn the differing textures of his skin. The smoothness of his shoulders and back, the sparse hair scattered across his chest. The— " Ah, goddammit all to hell !" Chris roared. He released her abruptly, falling back against the pillows, his face twisted in pain. One hand splayed over his side protectively, just above the gauze pad peeking out from beneath the bandage. The tray of food, still perched upon his lap, rattled at sudden motion. Briefly bereft, Phoebe blinked in surprise. Oh—oh, no . In her struggle to get closer, she'd jammed her knee up against his side. Right against his wound. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't think—" "I'll live," he grunted, wincing through the pain. "More's the pity. Probably I should have known better than to try it in my condition. Not at my best." The short, staccato bursts of words made her conscience twinge. "I did try to warn you," she offered as she bent, carefully, to retrieve the cloth that he'd let drop to his tray. "You do have a fever, besides." Another dunk in the ice water, since it had gone tepid at best, and she wrung it out, offering it to him once more. "Perhaps I should summon the surgeon—" "It will pass," he said. "I'd rather not have that ornery old bastard deciding for himself to relieve me of possession of my spleen while he's got me helpless." He sighed when she laid the cloth across his forehead. "What does a spleen do?" "Haven't got a damned clue, but it's still mine and I'd prefer to keep it." His eyes closed for a moment. "I'll sleep for a little while," he said. "If you don't mind." "Oh. Of course," she said. She had taken up rather a lot of his time, when he ought to have been devoting himself to healing. Rising to her feet, she turned for the door. He snagged her wrist before she could leave, his fingers tightening into a manacle. "I want another go," he said, squinting at her beneath the soggy cloth. "In a time and place of my choosing." "Another…go?" Did he mean…? "When I'm in a better condition for it. Since you've maimed me and all. Seems fair." It did seem fair. Or maybe that strange haze that had fogged her mind had not cleared yet. Certainly her lips still tingled, and her heart still raced. Perhaps she had simply enjoyed herself too much to refuse outright. Perhaps she would have seized upon any excuse which had been presented to her. "All right," she said, and she wondered if the words had sounded as throaty to his ears as they had to her own. "Another go." Another kiss.

∞∞∞

"Your brother is a terrible patient," Phoebe grumbled over tea. "That should hardly come as a surprise," Emma said. "He's not known for his agreeable disposition. I imagine it pricks his pride something awful to be confined to his bed." Confined was a strong word. Against advice, against pleading and scolding and threatening and cajoling, he'd slipped out of bed at least a dozen times in the past week. Torn his stitches twice before they'd been removed. Shouted, complained, and sulked. A worse patient she'd never seen and hoped never to see again, if only because his poor temper had worn against her patience and she was swiftly approaching the very last thread of it. "But it will pass," Emma added as she stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. "Now that his fever has abated and the wound has closed properly, he'll be on the mend in earnest." "Yes," Phoebe said sullenly. "Until the next time someone makes an attempt on his life." Emma winced. "It does seem to happen with alarming regularity," she said. "I'd not be so worried—" "You wouldn't?" "Until just recently," Emma clarified, "Kit has been perfectly capable of defending himself. Oh, he might come out of a scrape with a new scar for his pains, but his position was a dangerous one even before he was a spy. It takes a great deal of strength and determination to wield a power like his, and he's grown up rougher than most." In the rookeries, Phoebe thought. In the slums, fighting and thieving for every pence, every scrap of food that might sustain him for another day. She had lived such a sheltered life, insulated from every evil, every unpleasantness—she could hardly understand it. "I suppose," Emma said, "that for many years, such attempts have simply been…the cost of doing business, so to speak. An irritating consequence, but one to which he gave little thought." Until he'd been arrested and falsely accused of treason. Beaten, bloodied— tortured by those who were meant to have been his allies. Until the injuries he'd sustained had not been something that could be healed by a few weeks spent convalescing in bed. It had taken something from him, that ordeal. His security. The ability to walk comfortably without the assistance of a cane. "He's told me some of it," she said. "About his childhood." The mouse he'd befriended who lived within the walls. "About his kidsman. Scratch. He said—he said he'd killed him," she admitted. "I never asked," Emma said. "But I suppose I assumed. Difficult to imagine someone more deserving of it." A shudder slid down her spine. "Scratch wasn't the last kidsman he's disposed of, I suspect. But there's always another to crop up in their wake. Filling a vacancy, I suppose, though Kit's been doing his best to put a stop to it." "How?" Phoebe asked. "He brings me children when he finds them," Emma said. "One less to fill out their ranks each time. And if I can get them to talk of it, he tracks down their kidsmen. Gives them the chance to leave London of their own volition." "Or?" Phoebe asked, though she thought she already knew. "Or…to invite his wrath, I suppose. I've always known his version of morality is somewhat more flexible than my own." A delicate way of phrasing it. "But I can't disagree with the outcome," Emma said. "Fewer children on the streets. Fewer kidsmen taking advantage of children in wretched situations. Fewer children jailed, transported, hanged." She sighed. "But the kidsmen are growing wise to it," she said. "And the children are less willing to speak. Just occasionally, I'll hear them whispering to one another, those children that have come to me from street gangs. As if whispers are as loud as they dare to speak of them." Like one might speak of a ghost. Or a bogeyman. "He said the children used to spread stories of Scratch," Phoebe offered. "Like a frightening tale to keep one another in line. Even after he died, still they claimed to have seen him." Emma offered a sheepish smile. "I thought I saw him once, too," she admitted, abashed. "When I was just a child, after he'd—well, you know. He was a dreadful man, with a habit of instilling fear however he could. Quick to give a slap or a cuff, even at the most minor of infractions. My acquaintance with him lasted only three days, and Kit was careful to keep his attention away from me as much as he could—but, oh, I had nightmares of him for months afterward." She shivered as if the memory was still quite fresh, then shook herself as if to rid her mind of the thought. "But enough of that," she said. "My brother is treating you well?" "He's snappish," Phoebe said, "and ill-tempered." But not cruel. Or even neglectful, or apathetic. And even when he was irritable, which had been often just lately, still it hadn't been directed at her so much as at his present situation. Sometimes—most times—she thought he must like her at least a little. "He's usually that," Emma said, with a roll of her eyes. "Just…with varying degrees of severity. One does grow accustomed to it." She had not merely grown accustomed to it; she had shouted back when the situation required it, when once she had caught him at trying to escape his convalescence too early. And he had backed down. Crawled back into bed. Heaved a longsuffering sigh and acquiesced to her demands. Apologized for his foul temper, as he'd promised, even if by his sour expression she had suspected him of something less than true contrition. "I just wish—" Phoebe hesitated, reluctant to admit to it. But this was Emma, and whatever allegiance she owed her brother she would also extend to her friend. "I wish I knew whether he has any feeling for me beyond—beyond simple friendship." It seemed a strange thing to admit to, when one considered that she had spent roughly a third of her life studiously avoiding matrimony. But she feared she was beginning to like him a little more than was prudent. A little more than that to which they had agreed, strictly speaking. It wasn't love. But perhaps it was the stirrings of it. Something which could grow into it, if she allowed it to. If she wanted it to. If it was nurtured, protected, cultivated like a fragile hothouse flower. Emma smiled over the rim of her tea cup. "Easy enough," she said. "Call him Kit, and see what he has to say of it." Phoebe lifted her brows. "What? Why?" "Because I'm the only one he allows to call him Kit. So if he lets you do it, it means something."