Chapter Twenty

C hris burst into Phoebe's bedroom, and she startled to the sharp crack of the door smacking against the wall as he entered, one hand drifting in a shaky arc toward her heart. She sat at the edge of her bed in a ruffled white nightgown, holding very still as her lady's maid dabbed at her neck with a bit of cloth. "What the hell has happened?" Chris inquired as he crossed the room toward her, the tip of his cane sinking into the plush carpet draped across the floor. "I had hardly set foot in the door before Brooks was on me. Said you'd been injured." Phoebe gave a brief nod and winced as the lady's maid clucked disapprovingly at her for moving. "Yes, I—I was at a bookshop in Whitechapel—" "Whitechapel!" Chris snarled the word as he stopped at the edge of the bed. "You don't go to Whitechapel." "I do when I'm looking for books beyond what the usual shops sell," Phoebe said. "Not often, of course. And I always take a footman—" "Yes," he said tightly. "I can just how well that worked out for you." "Don't be snide, Kit," she said, and there was no heat to the words, just a sort of fragility he'd seldom heard from her. "I really can't bear it this evening." Christ . He'd promised not to shout, but sometimes—sometimes it was damned difficult. Like when his wife took herself off to Whitechapel with only the company of a footman for her security. "Out," he said, nudging the lady's maid's knee with his cane. The woman looked up, flustered. "But, sir. I've not finished." "Leave everything. I'll do the rest." He'd tended enough of his own wounds in his life to have a passable competency in the care of them. As the woman vacated her position beside Phoebe and slipped out the door, Chris sank into her place and glanced at the things left behind. Salve, clean cloths, a bowl of water. A few droplets of blood stained the neckline of Phoebe's nightgown where they must have rolled down from the cut on her throat. But the bleeding had slowed, at least. Chris grabbed a cloth, dunked it in the bowl of water, wrung it out, and dabbed it delicately to the wound. "Imagine," he said, "you are having quite a pleasant day, all things considered. You spend the afternoon at your social club with your friend, and even the intrusion of altogether too damned many of your brothers-in-law is…entertaining, in its way. You drink. Converse. A few other members of the club, while not precisely friendly, at least acknowledge your presence with somewhat less than the antipathy you might have expected. And then you return home to find that your wife has been injured because she decided on a whim to go to Whitechapel ." Phoebe swallowed so hard he felt the working of her throat roll against the bit of cloth he'd pressed to her neck. "I haven't got a wife," she said. Her shoulders lifted and fell, and her fingers gave an agitated flutter. "And it wasn't on a whim. It was—" "Phoebe." "—an important errand. You asked me to fill the library, and I—" "Phoebe." "—am fulfilling my obligations. I thought you'd be pleased!" " Phoebe ." He caught her flailing hand in his, set it firmly back into her lap. "No damned book is worth your life. I—" Hell . "I don't want to be a widower, either." Her shoulders sank, and somehow he had the feeling that that one quietly-spoken sentence had chastened her more than a shout could have done. Her lips trembled, pursed as he pressed a fresh cloth to the wound on her neck which had finally stopped seeping blood. "It doesn't want stitches," he said. But he could tell by the clean edges of the gouge that it had been made with a knife, or a dagger, or some other such bladed weapon. She hadn't only been injured; she'd been attacked . "Tell me what happened," he said. Her lips parted, and her breath hissed through her teeth. "Someone—a man who called himself Russell—grabbed me outside the bookshop," she said. "While the footman was loading the books into the carriage. He had a knife." Her blue-grey eyes had gone glassy, and she blinked back the mist of tears that shimmered in them. "He grabbed you?" he asked. "Where?" "Just—just my arm." She gave a vague little gesture. For the first time Chris noted a smear of blood upon the sleeve of her nightgown. He picked at the tie that secured the neckline of her nightgown, wrenched it loose to shove it down and bare her right shoulder and the uppermost part of her arm. Already it had begun to bruise, wreathing her soft skin in bands of purple in the impression of hard fingers. And there, in the tender flesh of her inner arm, were several deep gashes in the shape of crescents, as if overlong fingernails had bitten into the skin. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled. It had been a long damned time since he'd seen marks like these, since he'd known a man altogether too eager to make them. But he'd had gouges just like them aplenty in his youth, and if they'd faded somewhat from his skin in the years since, they had not been erased from his mind. The sting of them, the bite of sharp claws better suited to a bird of prey than to a man, carving chunks of out his flesh. It was impossible. It had to be. Didn't it? "Did you see his face?" he asked. She shook her head, her curls bouncing against her cheeks. "No, I—my back was to him. He made threats against you. Against us." Her breath hitched in her chest. "He said—he said he could get to us anywhere." The house was as secure as it could possibly be, but there was no amount of security that could dissuade someone so reckless and determined, so fixated upon revenge that Phoebe had become a target. Her safety ought to have been sacrosanct, assured because there was no man alive foolish enough to target her. Only now, it seemed, a dead man had done it. Or a man he'd believed to be dead, for well over two decades now. "I was so frightened," Phoebe whispered, and her cheeks flushed as if she had admitted to a shameful secret. "I'm still frightened. What if he—" "Don't." There was no purpose in it, nothing to be gained in the worrying about something that might never come to pass, something that could not be controlled. "I felt so helpless," she said, and her lower lip trembled. "I never want to feel like that again." She squeezed her eyes shut, gave a little shake of her head as if to clear it of the miasma of dark thoughts that lingered still. "Please don't leave me alone tonight," she said in a fierce rush. "I won't be able to sleep." He didn't doubt it. Her entire life she'd been sheltered and protected, and now she had had her first brush with true danger. Tonight—and perhaps for many nights into the future—she'd share the darkness with a bogeyman she'd never had reason to fear before. A bogeyman he had brought down upon her head. One he had created. "I'll stay," he said. Until she no longer feared the darkness. Until he'd culled the threat once and for all. And in the meantime—he would teach her how to defend herself.

∞∞∞

The moon peeked through the clouds, shining an eerie light down upon the garden, where Phoebe stood perhaps a foot or so away from Kit, bracing her feet in the position he'd indicated. Midnight had come and gone, but she'd been too overwrought to sleep, and so Kit had suggested a lesson in self-defense instead. Phoebe had her doubts as to whether she would make a competent student. "I feel extremely foolish," she said as she lifted her arms, balling her hands into fists, bending her elbows and tucking them tightly against her body the way Kit had shown her. "Why couldn't I just have a pistol?" Kit pushed her fists down a few inches. "You want to shield your face," he said, "without obstructing your vision. Can you shoot one?" "What?" "A pistol. Can you shoot one?" "Well," she hedged. "In theory." She knew the generalities of doing so. Aim barrel at target, pull trigger, hope to hit. "Then in theory it's a poor weapon for you." He raked his gloved hand through his hair. "You can have a pistol," he said. "A small one; small enough to fit in your reticule. But achieving proper aim can be difficult, and pistols have the distinct vulnerability of needing to be reloaded. Without proper practice—which could take weeks or months—it'll be of more service to you as a threat than as a weapon. You understand?" Not really. But then, she'd never had to defend herself physically in the entirety of her life. She gave a little shrug of her shoulders, careful not to let her hands drop. Kit heaved a sigh. "If you must pull your weapon, you should attempt to do so at a distance. Even if you cannot aim accurately, your attacker is unlikely to know that. Use the threat of it to keep him at a distance. If you must fire it, do so only at close range, where your aim is likely to be more accurate. You'll have a single shot, so you must make it count." Oh. She supposed that made sense. Kit slipped his hand into the waistband of his trousers and withdrew a thin blade. "This is a stiletto," he said. "A dagger. It's small, lightweight, and good for punching lots of holes in things very quickly, Furthermore, it has no need to be reloaded. Vulnerabilities?" "I, ah—" "Don't drop your hands." Damn . They had drifted down while she'd been thinking. She lifted them once more. "I'd have to be close," she said. "That's right." He flipped the dagger in his hand, catching the hilt with a sort of effortless dexterity that suggested he had altogether too much familiarity with weapons. "You have to be close, and your goal will be to maintain your distance, so it's not very good as a threat. Your assailant might well wager he's got more experience with a blade than you have and seek to disarm you. Strike out at the fleshy bits if someone gets too close." With the tip of the blade, he indicated spots. "Sides, kidneys, stomach. Avoid the chest unless you can manage quite a lot of force behind the strike. You're likely to hit the ribs instead. Cause a lot of pain—not so much true damage. The goal is never to wound . It's to disable entirely. To kill, if necessary." Aim for the fleshy spots, avoid bones, and maintain distance whenever possible. It seemed simple enough. Phoebe flexed her knuckles, concentrated on keeping her fists up, and eased back a step. "Careful," Kit said. "You're about to step on Hieronymus." Phoebe turned her head, casting her gaze about to find the turtle—who was some distance away, chomping upon the fluffy yellow head of a dandelion. Before she could voice her confusion, Kit had come up behind her, wrapping his arm about her throat and dragging her back against his body. She heard the clatter of his cane as it hit the ground, and her heart skipped across several beats, anxiety spiking in her chest. "Never," he said near her ear, "allow yourself to become distracted. You dropped your hands." Oh . She'd given him an opening to go on the attack. "What do I do now?" she asked. "Whatever you have to in order to escape," he said. "If you can gauge the position of your assailant's head, throw your head back as hard as you can. You might just break his nose with the blow. If you can reach his eyes, press your thumbs into them and gouge them out. Otherwise, pull his hair, and scratch or bite any skin you can see. Hard ." "Bite?" she echoed incredulously, disgusted. "Yes, bite. In a brawl, you're not a lady, and your assailant won't be a gentleman. It's not a duel to be won honorably; it's a fight for your life. Contrary to what your sort is fond of believing, there is no honor in dying because you were too morally upright to fight unfairly. Your assailant won't be giving you a fighting chance. You must take one, however you are able." "All right," she said, flexing her fingers at her sides. "I think I've got it." "Good," he said. "We can be done for the night when you can escape." Escape? "How am I meant to do that?" "However you must," he said. "You're smaller, physically weaker. You've more vulnerabilities to exploit. But you're an intelligent woman. You know my weakness already." His knee. He'd had to discard his cane to secure her, sacrificing his stability. "I don't want to hurt you," she said, swallowing hard. "I doubt you could do too much damage," he said. "You're still a novice, untrained—" She jammed her elbow into his side, then used the scant distance she'd gained as he wheezed to turn and kick at his knee. It collapsed beneath him, and he sank to the ground with a shout of pain. "Kit!" Her heart in her throat, Phoebe sacrificed the distance she had gained to crouch down beside him. "Are you all right? Have I hurt you?" Like the swift strike of a snake, Kit snatched her wrist, yanked her across the distance between them, and rolled her beneath him to pin her wrists above her head. "Last lesson for the evening," he said. "Always run if you can. Never stay to fight if you have the opportunity to escape." "Oooh!" Her inarticulate sound of fury provoked a laugh from him. "I didn't hurt you at all, did I?" "Oh, you got me. My knee will be sore as hell tomorrow," he said. "But I grew up brawling." In the distance, there was the squeak of hinges, and then Phoebe heard her father's voice. "I say, what the devil is that racket?" Oh, no. They'd woken her parents! Phoebe wriggled, wrenched her wrists free of Kit's hold, and shoved at his shoulders. "It's all right, Papa," she called. "It's only me." Kit rolled off of her with a longsuffering sigh, stretching one hand out to fumble for his discarded cane. "I suppose the garden's right out for amorous activities," he said in a muted murmur. "Somehow the thrill of potentially being caught is diminished when one considers that it would be your parents to catch us." Phoebe could only thank her lucky stars that the moonlight was not bright enough for her vivid blush to be visible to her parents. She scrambled to her feet just as Mama appeared on the balcony over the wall beside Papa. "Phoebe Horatia Moore!" Mama gasped. "Whatever are you doing out in the garden in your nightclothes?" " Horatia ?" Kit inquired as he braced himself with his cane, grunting as he rose. "I didn't choose it," Phoebe whispered. "Didn't you hear the reverend say it when we were married?" "Wasn't much listening," Kit said. "Too damned many eyes boring into the back of my head at the time. And too damned many Toogoods to go with them." Phoebe suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "No one's going to see, Mama," she called back. "And besides, you're in your nightclothes as well." "However, I am not in the garden." Mama folded her arms over her chest. "Mr. Moore, I had expected better of you." "You really should not have done." Phoebe elbowed Kit in the ribs. "He means to say that we are terribly sorry to have woken you," she said. "It won't happen again." "See that it doesn't," Papa groused, his brow furrowing as he leaned over the railing of the balcony to stare down at Kit. "Mr. Moore, my son has informed me that he spent an afternoon with you at our club." "And a number of your sons-in-law," Kit said. "Do they do everything as a group? Rather overwhelming, if you ask— ow , Phoebe." He rubbed the spot on his side she'd jabbed again with the point of her elbow. "They enjoy one another's company. Gentlemen are known to have friends," Papa said. "Laurence said you proved an amiable companion." Kit's brows lifted. "Really?" "Why do you sound so surprised?" Phoebe muttered. "Because I am surprised." Papa gave an impatient clearing of his throat, slanting a stern glance downward at them. "I look forward to hearing what was discussed," he said. "Perhaps over breakfast tomorrow. Until then, good evening. Do try not to make so much noise at such an inopportune hour in the future." Together, Mama and Papa shuffled back inside, and Phoebe heard the door to the balcony close once more behind them. "Ah, hell," Chris sighed beneath his breath as his shoulders slumped with defeat. "Should have known there would be a catch." He lurched to the side to neatly avoid another jab. "So help me, Phoebe, if you elbow me again—" "You could at least try to be polite to my family," she hissed. "I will not," he said, with a stubborn tilt of his chin. "It's amiability that's won me the company of your parents tomorrow morning—a dubious prize at best. You can be certain I'll be on my worst behavior." Phoebe resisted the impulse to throttle him. She'd already injured his bad knee this evening; it would hardly be sporting to add strangulation to it. "You'll be pleasant," she said, "or the next breakfast we host will comprise all of the Toogoods." Kit staggered back a step, no doubt awestruck at her temerity. "All," he repeated incredulously. "All? Even the children?" " Especially the children," she said spitefully, and grinned with malicious glee when he clutched one hand over his heart as if he'd been stricken with a fit of the vapors. "Hell," he grunted. "All right, then. Never say I don't know when I've been beat. Come on, then, it's time we were inside. And watch your step. Hieronymus is just by your right foot." Phoebe glanced down, her brows pinching in confusion to see nothing at her feet. Hieronymus had retreated to the pond once more, where he was dipping his front legs in the water. Too late, she recalled Kit's warning about letting herself become distracted—she heard the swish of his cane through the air, and her knees buckled as he swept her legs out from beneath her. She landed on her bottom in the grass with an abbreviated cry, stunned. Kit threw back his head and cackled to the sky. She had often wondered what a maniacal laugh sounded like, and now she knew. Now she knew exactly . "I can't believe you did that!" she huffed. He braced the tip of his cane in the ground and bent down to offer her his hand. "Are you hurt?" "No," she grumbled. "I've bruised my pride, perhaps, but nothing more." But still deserving of retribution. Her fingers itched to slip inside his pockets and relieve him of something. "Do you know, I've taken more lessons to heart from bruised pride than from broken bones." He pulled her to her feet once more. "Truce," he said. "I'll endeavor to be…pleasant over breakfast." Generous of him, she supposed. As they turned together toward the door, Phoebe slipped her right hand into his pocket and came up empty. Probably she'd filched one too many of his belongings just lately for him to carelessly leave them vulnerable within his pockets. The stiletto. He'd tucked it back down the waistband of his trousers, but the hilt jutted above them. It would be the largest object she'd ever attempted, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. She modulated her breathing, matched her pace to his, and waited for an opportune moment. She hooked her fingers around the hilt, and the dagger slid smoothly up and out, into her hand. "Decent lift," he said with a grin as he opened the door for her. "I hardly felt it." "Damn," she said. "I truly thought I had it." "You did. If I hadn't been expecting it, you'd have gotten away with it." "How could you have been expecting it?" she asked. "I only decided to take it seconds ago!" A shrug. "You always steal something of mine when I've riled you, and I haven't got anything in my pockets. The stiletto was the obvious choice. Keep it," he said. "You stole it fair and square." And he sounded…proud.