Chapter Fifteen

C hris' fever had passed days ago, so he supposed he must owe the heat that swept over him exclusively to fury. A vein throbbed somewhere about his temple, and it took every ounce of his formidable will to bite back the shout that tightened his throat. "I have got a cook," he said to Laurence, who stood at his bedside, "whose eyesight is on a steady decline and whose hearing certainly isn't what it once was." Laurence blinked, placidly ignoring the shrieks and screams of his children, who had been making an utter mess of Chris' room for night on ten minutes now. "I beg your pardon? What is that meant to signify?" "It means," Chris snarled, "that I suggest you remove your—your—" Hell and damnation, Phoebe would skewer him if he didn't at least attempt to spare their tender ears the worst of his crudity. "Your progeny ," he said, "before I inform her that a litter of piglets has invaded my room and she is tempted to serve them for dinner!" A girl—one of the Victorias, he thought, though he was damned if he could recall which—bounded upon the bed with enough energy to force a grunt from his lungs. "Uncle Christopher," she said, "what does getting shot feel like?" Uncle Christopher! "Now, now, Victoria darling." With an awkward laugh, Laurence attempted to shuffle his daughter off the bed. "Let's not trouble Uncle Christopher with such talk. I'm certain he doesn't wish to relive it." He was still living it. The wound might've closed, but the muscle beneath was still repairing itself. It'd be another week at least before he was sufficiently recovered. And Laurence had still seen fit to invade his sickroom, inflicting his spawn upon him. "Laurence," he said. "Any child not immediately removed from this room is going to receive a puppy. Courtesy of Uncle Christopher ." "A puppy!" Victoria squealed, bouncing in delight as she turned toward her brother. "David, did you hear? We're getting a puppy!" "A puppy each," Chris corrected, with a snide little notch of his chin. To his credit, Laurence went just a bit pale. "Children," he said. "Go find your mother at once." "But, Papa!" "Right now, darling." But as he was shepherding the children toward the door, Chris thought he heard the man mutter something beneath his breath that had sounded rather like, "Before the curst man throws a pony in as well," as he shut the door behind them. Which wasn't a half-bad idea. "If you've come to visit in the spirit of brotherly… something ," Chris said, "consider yourself absolved thereof." Laurence snorted. "Not hardly. I've told Phoebe already, but I came to share the good news. Cynthia's with child." Chris threw up his hands. "Who the hell is Cynthia?" "Middle sister," Laurence said. "Three down from Phoebe." Christ . Still more Toogoods, as if there weren't a damned lot of them already. Chris scrubbed one palm over his face. "My felicitations," he said. "Get out." " And ," Laurence said, stubbornly seating himself in the chair at the bedside. "I'm submitting your name for membership at my club." "What the hell would you do that for?" "It's more or less a family tradition. My father is a member, his father was a member. Even the men who've married in have become members—though those with existing memberships to more exclusive establishments have kept those as well." Laurence scraped his hand through his tawny hair, a few shades darker than Phoebe's. "It's expected you'll join," he said. "You haven't got another club, have you?" "Doubt there are many that would allow me to cross their thresholds." Laurence snorted. "You got a special license out of the Archbishop," he said, "I don't know if I'd believe you couldn't wrangle a membership out of any club." Probably he could—but he'd never been motivated to try. Foisting his presence upon a club full of lords with sticks up their arses about it had never been his idea of a good time. And there was the likelihood that they'd all resign their memberships en masse , besides, and the club would go under on account of it. "See here," Laurence said. "I don't know why Phoebe chose you. None of us do. Near as I can tell, you're an ill-mannered, bad-tempered, unsophisticated, crude son of a bitch." He gave a shake of his head, as if the more he'd spoken, the less sense it had made. "But she's happy. Somehow, someway, she's happy." Chris wondered if he had been meant to be insulted or flattered. "Had you expected her to be unhappy?" "I think I must have," he said. "You see, every one of us has married for love." Every one of them, apart from Phoebe.

∞∞∞

The click of Chris' cane upon the marble floor was a sound Phoebe had not heard in better than a week. She glanced up from her book just in time to see Chris stagger through the door, relying a bit more heavily upon the cane than he might have otherwise. "What in the world are you doing?" she asked. "You're meant to be—" "Hadn't you heard?" he interrupted. "Got the go ahead from the surgeon to get out of bed at last." As each step seemed to be a much more laborious process than she would have expected, Phoebe surmised that perhaps Mr. Fisk had less pronounced him once more in good health than he had rolled his eyes and let Chris do as he would, since he would anyway. "Still," she said, as he trod a painstaking path toward the couch she had claimed to read upon. "I truly think you would be better off in bed. Your color is not good." At last he arrived before her, his hand gripping the handle of his cane so hard his knuckles had gone white with the exertion of it. "For once," he said, his voice clipped and edged with pain, "you and I are in complete agreement." And he collapsed upon the couch, his head landing in her lap. His warm breath puffed against her thigh, a heat she could feel even through her gown, chemise, and petticoat. "Got the devil of a headache," he groaned. "Would you like some willow bark tea?" His gold brows knit in consternation above his closed eyes, as if she were being deliberately obtuse. "What for? Got a wife to rub my head for me, now, don't I? Your brother and his damned children are responsible for this headache; seems only fair that you take care of it." Phoebe supposed she had, at one point in the not-too-distant past, heard a great deal of screeching from the upper floors. "They're really very sweet," she said. "And, really, you should be glad he brought only the eldest two with him." A deeper furrow of those brows. "How many has he got?" "Six." " Six children?" Horror thrummed within his voice. "Well, he's been married nearly ten years," she said. "And…it's not so many as eight." Chris made a strange sound, which might've been a something of a laugh. "I suspect he'll get there eventually," he said. "Might give your parents a run for their money. Six children," he groaned, as if in disbelief. "And one of your sisters is breeding again, I hear." "She's not livestock," Phoebe said primly. "She's with child." "Even so. Within the next few generations," he said, "I suspect half of the Ton will have been infiltrated by Toogoods." He gave an offended sniff. "Notable lack of head-rubbing going on at the moment. Rather rude, when one considers that I was obliged to be nice to your brother." Nice , she suspected, was a matter of opinion. But she set her book aside and applied her fingertips to his scalp, raking her nails through his hair nonetheless. Crisp and clean, the soft blond locks slid through her fingers as smoothly as silk. A sigh drifted from his lungs. "All right," he said. "Let's have it. There's Laurence, you, Cynthia…" "And?" she prompted. "And that's all I know." She supposed that from an outsider's perspective—especially that of a man who had but one sister to recall—her family might seem monstrously confusing. "There's Laurence," she said, "then me. Then Louisa, Margaret, Cynthia, Henrietta, Teresa, and Susannah." "Good Lord," he said. "Somehow it's worse to hear it said aloud. Will there be an examination?" And she hadn't even gotten to all her nieces and nephews yet. "Cynthia," she said, "has got four children at present. Including one of the Victorias and one of the Williams. Laurence has got a Victoria, a William, a David, and one of the Georges." "And two others besides?" "At least until his wife conceives again." A muffled groan. "What is the use in committing any of this to memory when it's likely to change again ere long?" From beneath the burnished gold of his lashes he cracked one eye open. "Just how many children are born to your family in the average year?" An odd little laugh bubbled up in her throat. "Do you know, I've never considered it. There were two last year, but then four the year prior—" "Birthdays must come damned close to bankrupting the Toogoods as a whole," he said. "And that's to say nothing of Christmases." Oh, he was going to loathe Christmas. Hours and hours of children running amok, wading through a drawing room so stuffed with gifts that it was practically impossible to set foot inside. Wrapping paper thick as London fog drifting through the air in shreds. Last year they'd lost track of one of the Williams for at least an hour, only to find the boy curled up behind a stack of presents that had obscured him from view, having a nap. Probably best not to mention it. Toogood family functions had long had an extraordinary tendency toward chaos, increasing exponentially with each new child added into the mix. She had always enjoyed them—for a few days at a time. Perhaps as much as a week on the outside. But there was a tangible relief to be found in knowing that when they had concluded, she would return once again to a house of her own which was largely quiet and peaceful. "God, that feels good," he said of the delicate scratch of her fingernails, his voice deepened to a husky murmur—almost a purr. His back arched in a stretch as he slid one arm beneath his head, his palm warm against her thigh. "'Ow many books ‘ave I got now?" "At least several dozen," she said, though she'd not made a count. "And one more in addition, when you return my copy of Pride and Prejudice . Haven't you finished it yet?" "Finished it weeks ago. I'll give it back when I'm good and ready." His jaw clenched against a yawn. "And how did you find it?" "Somewhat less insipid than I'd expected, but still rather saccharine for my tastes. ‘Ave you got anything that isn't romantic drivel?" He turned his head to redirect her fingers toward the back of his neck. "I have got A Modest Proposal ," she said dryly. "You'd like that one. It's a satirical essay upon the merits of eating babies." "You're joking." "I am not." In fact, she had purchased it precisely because it was the sort of thing she'd imagined would amuse him excessively. "Of course, it's quite old now, but it is still classic example of satire. It would give you something to discuss with the other gentlemen at the club." " Ugh ." He pulled a face reminiscent of a child urged to eat his vegetables. "No escaping that, is there?" "Likely not. But at least you'll have company." That, and if he could somehow bring himself to make friends—or at least acquaintances—of the other members of the club, he'd find himself in better standing within society. Probably he had no idea just how much business was done within them, how many relationships had been forged over a game of cards or dice. "If I have got to have a club," he said glumly, "I'd prefer it to be Rafe's. But I suppose if it's family tradition…" A sigh, half petulant, half exasperated. "Never had those." Because he'd never had much of a family, she supposed. At least until recently. "Didn't Laurence tell you?" she asked. "He and Rafe are members of the same club. Along with Rafe's brother and brother-in-law." But it warmed her, somehow, that he would have condescended to join her brother's club—even if it wouldn't have been one of his choosing. "Hm," he said, and with a gesture of his free hand as he added magnanimously, "I suppose that's all right, then." His fingers smothered a yawn. "Read to me," he commanded. "I won't be able to sleep otherwise." "You'd sleep more comfortably in bed," she admonished lightly, even as she reached for her discarded book. "I would," he said in sullen acknowledgment. "I called for you, but you didn't answer." Because she'd been two floors down, on the opposite side of the house, and behind the closed door of the library. And yet, he'd gotten out of bed, gotten himself dressed—if haphazardly, in nothing more than a pair of plain linen trousers and a shirt he hadn't bothered to tuck in—and come down to find her? Only to read to him? She thought about inquiring of it, and just as quickly dismissed the idea when his shoulders tensed with another yawn. He was asleep within a page, snoring lightly, head nestled comfortably on her lap. And she hadn't even had the chance to call him Kit.

∞∞∞

"You're a damned fool, and you're going to get shot again." "Probably," Chris said, only half-listening to Brooks' complaints as he collected the letters that had piled up upon his desk in his absence. It had been nearly three weeks since he'd last been to Cheapside, three weeks since he'd been able to carve out a bit of time whilst Phoebe was out of the house in order to see to his business interests. "Here," he said to Brooks, handing over a stack of letters. "You take these and give me an accounting of them." Somewhere within his desk there was an accounting book to go over as well, but he had no idea how long Phoebe's tea with Em and their little group would last, and it would be prudent to divide the work. Brooks cast himself into a chair, still sulking at having been dragged along on this errand, since he had not been able to convince Chris to put it out of his head entirely. Peeling off wax seals one at a time, he began to read. " Investments ?" he said, with no small amount of incredulity in his voice. "Have you gone legitimate?" A faint rustle of papers. "Spoke too soon," he said on a sigh. "Here's a death threat for you. And another." "Blackmail doesn't pay as well as it used to," Chris said absently. "Every man's got his breaking point, and more and more peers are coming to theirs sooner than ever. You can't get blood from a stone." And you couldn't bilk money from a peer who hadn't got two farthings to rub together. "Of course I've got investments. Where do you think my money comes from?" "Naturally, I had assumed smuggling," Brooks said. "Or counterfeiting. Perhaps larceny or murder for hire." Chris snorted. "Extortion pays better, and with less risk," he said. "At one time I had my thumb in a good number of pies. However, the days wherein the government was inclined to turn a blind eye to my misdeeds has passed. Now, I restrain myself to what cannot easily be proven." Or what the government was unlikely to bother with the effort of prosecuting, besides. And he'd made enough money in the interim to make investments which would ensure his pockets—and bank accounts—would stay flush for the rest of his life and well beyond. As he shifted in his chair, the throbbing ache in his side reminded him that the rest of his life might turn out to be significantly shorter than he might have preferred. "Any of those death threats seem credible to you?" "How the devil would I know? Nobody's ever wanted to kill me." "'Cept fer that bloke what wanted to break yer kneecaps and toss you in the Thames," Chris said. "Reckon he was itching to do it. Hell, I've considered strangling ye a time or two." "You didn't have to pay him off." Brooks managed a passable sneer. Chris shrugged. "Needed a butler." Brooks had had a genteel accent, even whilst he'd been pleading for his damned life, and he'd proved himself a fine butler despite his general antipathy for his employer since—or at least he had in Phoebe's estimation, which he was inclined to trust. Phoebe . Hell, he could still feel the gentle scratch of her fingernails through his hair. He'd yet to demand the kiss he'd bargained for, but only because his side was still healing and he wasn't keen to have it interrupted by another misplaced limb. But in another week or so, perhaps two on the outside, he'd be good as new. And that meant— Damn. He was going to have to manage a bit more business than he'd expected. He slapped the accounting book down on the desk. "Total that for me," he said. "Give me the figures when I return." "Return?" Brooks blustered. "Where the hell are going?" "Just upstairs," Chris said as he headed for the door. "Won't be a minute." That was probably a lie, but it would pacify Brooks long enough to get away. The door to his flat was tucked away right beside this one, and there was just a set of stairs that would take him up. Unfortunately, he'd not gotten this far in his planning when he'd rushed out of the house, and so he was obliged to do something he'd not had to do since he'd bought the place years and years ago. He knocked. And knocked. And then pounded his fist against the bloody door until Charity could not possibly have failed to hear it, and still it took her another two minutes to arrive at the bottom of the steps. "Darling," she said as she opened the door, the artfully arranged sable curls that dripped down her neck making it clear she'd taken the time to fuss with her appearance before she'd admitted him. "I wasn't expecting you. Have you forgotten your key?" "I wasn't expecting to come," he said. "I didn't bring it with me. Let me in, will you?" "Of course," she said, as he slipped through the door at last. "Don't tell me," she said as he followed her up the stairs altogether too gingerly, owing to the pain in his side and the aggravation they caused to his knee. "You haven't made time for my sapphires, either." Despite himself, he grinned. "I was shot not a month ago, and it's your sapphires you're worried for?" With a playful pout of her rouge-reddened lips, she placed one palm upon his chest. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Of course I was worried for you. Just think of it—if you had died, I certainly wouldn't have gotten my sapphires at all." A laugh rattled somewhere in his chest. "Ah, Charity," he said. "I am going to—" Hell . "Miss me?" she concluded lightly as she settled upon the couch. The one with the damned spindly legs that looked as if they might collapse beneath her, with all the gilt and the crimson velvet better suited to a brothel. "Damn," he said, and took a seat in a chair that looked only marginally sturdier. "How did you know?" "You hadn't brought your key, and you're not in the habit of paying social calls besides. It seemed a reasonable assumption," she said. "Would you care for a drink?" "Better not," he said. "Brooks has been a pain in the arse about it. Says I'm meant to be healing, not getting foxed." "A wise fellow. You won't mind if I have one, of course," she said, as she plucked a stopper from a crystal decanter. "Partings always make me rather maudlin. I should like to drown my sorrows a bit." By the curl of her lips she hadn't a damn sorrow to speak of, which made it a somewhat more palatable situation all around. But their relationship had never involved love, and so he consoled himself that he had not broken her heart. Perhaps at most he had pricked her pride a bit. She was a beautiful woman, accustomed to a great deal of attention. To be thrown over was one thing, but to be thrown over for a wife — "I quite like Phoebe, you know," she said. "You could have done so much worse for yourself." She took a sip of her liquor and added, without spite or malice, "Probably she could have done better." That was the damned truth, but a mistress wasn't meant to say such things. Although he supposed she wasn't his mistress any longer, so she was entitled to speak her mind. "I told her she wasn't to make friends with you," he grumbled, and she tipped back her head and laughed. "Men always imagine they can tell women what to do," she said, "as if they might stuff our heads so full of their thoughts that only their own words will pour out when we speak. In fact, women have long perfected the art of smiling, nodding…and doing exactly as we please anyway. She invited me back, you know," she said, with a sly little smile. "And you're going?" "Of course. As I said, I liked her." A sigh, a slow shake of her head. "I'll expect the apartment," she said. "As you can see, I've made it my own over the years." It would probably cost him more to return it to the state in which he'd left it than he would lose in its value if he simply signed it over to her. "Done," he said. "And the sapphire necklace and bracelet," she said. "You've already promised me those." "I'll make good on it." "And some earbobs wouldn't go amiss," she added cannily. "Hell, no," he said. "I denied you that when you refused to tell me what you conversed about." She rose to her feet once more in a magnificent swish of amber silk and sashayed across the floor toward him with that seductive roll to her hips that had made her so highly sought-after as a mistress, and bent at last to murmur in his ear. "The earbobs," she cooed sweetly, "or your wife and I will be comparing notes." Fucking hell . "All right," he sighed. "The earbobs, too." The joyful laugh she gave made him wonder whether or not she'd been in earnest. "It has been a pleasure, darling—and I do mean that. But I think we both know it was bound to end eventually, and you've left me lonely for far too long." He had, at that. Even if it hadn't been intentional until just recently. "I will miss you," he said. They'd had a good go of it, the two of them. He would still consider her a friend of sorts. "I'll send my key back round to you." "See that you do," she said, with a fond smile and a pat of his cheek. "And do tell dear Phoebe that I'll bring the tea next time. She'll know what I mean."