Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

W omen.

Jacob was done with the whole lot of them. Ladies appeared sweet and delectable with soft curves and feminine features, much like a tame house cat. But beware of the slash of their claws and the sinking of their teeth. If only he could ask Lieutenant Scar or Robert for advice. Instead he spent the evening undercover, dressed as the Dorshams' coachman with hopes to put a stop to the highwaymen's robberies.

A cold breeze whipped his face, and he yanked up the woolen scarf he'd wrapped around his neck to hide his identity from the Dorshams.

He'd thought Miss Emily Thompson of a different breed. Once again, he'd thought wrong. The more time he spent with women, the less he understood them.

Jacob steered Goliath up the lane to Brownstone Hall after driving the Dorshams back to Hinwick Manor in the weary pre-dawn hours. He attempted to buoy his spirits by focusing on Christian. He'd located his son—a wondrous feat—and shouldn't let his indecision on how to proceed nor his argument with Emily affect his mood.

Sunday's sermon still pricked at him. He could ask God for wisdom on how to proceed.

But right now? On his horse? In the middle of the night? Wasn't that sacrilegious?

Christian's voice rang in his head. I just talk to Him.

Jacob cleared his throat and glanced up at the starry sky. "Good evening, ah…Lord. I was wondering if You could help me know what to do. For Christian's sake, I want to be a better person—a good father. I've made mistakes"—he snorted—"plenty, as I'm sure You are aware, but I want to change, have a fresh start, a new life. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Have Your way with me."

The clopping of the horse's hooves was the only audible sound, but a quiet thought echoed in his head. I love you, My son.

Jacob's throat constricted.

Foolish. Surely, God hadn't actually spoken to him. Why would He?

How many years growing up had Jacob strived to hear those words from his father—to no avail?

But to believe God would say that? To him?

Lack of sleep was making him delusional.

With a shake of his head, he focused on his assignment. Being the wealthiest family in Sylvanwood, the Dorshams were the most likely targets for the highway robbers. Thankfully, for a few coins and unbeknownst to the Dorshams, one of their drivers had been happy to take the night off. Posing as their coachman had allowed him to surveil the roads while driving Lady and Miss Dorsham to the nearby town of Swindon for a ball. He'd also had the opportunity to listen to the other drivers' comments after he mentioned the highwaymen.

"They rode good horseflesh with admirable skill," the Flushings' driver said. "Accosted us on a turn. I couldn't outrun them without risking flipping the coach. Well-armed, too, both of 'em." The man warmed up to his topic. "The thin one aimed a blunderbuss at me chest and another at Johnny, the footman, while the other bandit lightened Lady Flushing of her jewels."

"The post road ain't safe, but we risk crackin' an axle on some of them backroads," said the Bushnell driver.

As dawn crested, Jacob lumbered up the wide stone steps into Brownstone Hall. The workers were already getting started on their tasks.

The door swung wide for him to enter. "Good morning, milord," his aunt's half-deaf butler said in a booming voice that set Jacob's head throbbing.

"Good morning, Maslow."

Maslow beamed as if thrilled his master referred to him directly. "Mr. Welsh is ready for your meeting. A few letters arrived yesterday. I took it upon myself to put them in your office."

"Splendid."

Jacob greeted his steward outside the study and waved him in before plunking into the chair behind his desk. "You can tell me good news, or you can hand me a drink. Either will do."

His steward scratched his forehead where a scar split the eyebrow into equal halves. "Shall I ring for coffee or tea, milord?"

Jacob shook his head. The poor bloke didn't always understand his sarcasm. Dark circles, probably matching Jacob's own, outlined the man's eyes. Had he spent all night reviewing Aunt Louisa's finances? Jacob liked his attention to detail and ability to do sums in his head. Jacob had taken a risk in hiring him without a local reference, but it had paid off so far. Mr. Welsh had already suggested several efficient changes.

Mr. Welsh flipped through his notes. "The re-shingling of the roof is coming along favorably, but…" He glanced toward the crystal decanter.

Jacob couldn't help but smile. "I was only jesting about the drink."

The steward relaxed. "The slate above the west wing is in worse shape than we realized. More shingles will need to be ordered."

"How many?"

"Six bundles."

"Place the order. How is the re-glazing of the windows?"

"Slow and tedious, but they are making progress."

"Excellent. We can address the rest tomorrow. What about my correspondence?"

Welsh reached for the opened mail in the silver tray and flipped through the letters. "Lord and Lady Keating heard you were in the area and have invited you to a soiree at their house in Bourton-on-the-Water, and Mr. Beau Brummell has asked you to join him in attendance at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. Baron Alvanley sent an invitation to his country house for sport hunting with the hounds. Several letters from—ah"—he cleared his throat—"ladies, begging for your return to London." He held out a paper with elegant script. The man's face reddened like an apple, and his eyes did not meet Jacob's. "This one seemed quite urgent."

Jacob accepted the letter and reclined in his chair to read it.

My Dearest Warren,

Oh, how it flatters my heart to hear you dueled my foolish husband for my honor. It makes my sentiments easier to declare. I am in acute torment and candidly confess my motives are far from pure, but my passion takes the place of reason. Since you have proven you share my ardor by your care for me in my wretched state, I beg you to come to London posthaste. How impatiently I await you. While you are off amusing yourself in the countryside, my heart suffers.

Truly Yours,

Lucile

"Lady Benton." Jacob spit the words like a curse. "My good deed has not gone without punishment." He released a bitter laugh. "I help a lady in distress and end up at the end of her husband's pistol. And now, the woman has completely misinterpreted my intentions. Mr. Welsh"—he pointed at the young man—"if you learn one thing from my example, learn this. If a woman starts spewing sentiments of love— run! Women are trouble. You're best to leave them well enough alone."

His steward dropped his gaze.

Jacob hadn't inquired about Mr. Welsh's marital status, but by the red tint creeping above his steward's cravat, Jacob would place a high-stakes bet that a thief of the feminine variety had stolen the man's heart.

He tossed the letter onto the desktop. "Please decline her gently but firmly." The night he'd carried Lady Benton to her chamber to sleep off the effects of her heavy imbibing, he'd overheard her seedier guests whispering about Benton organizing the highway heists. He excused himself to use the retiring room and searched Benton's office and later his bedchamber. He had toasted his hostess with the intention of getting her foxed so her tongue would loosen, but she kept the wine and spirits flowing long past his initial salute. His intentions weren't to get her into bed, only to obtain information on behalf of the Home Office.

He swiped a hand through the air. "In fact, respond in the negative to them all. My attention is needed here at Brownstone Hall. One more thing."

"Yes, milord."

"Write my"—how should he address Agent Scar to his estate manager?—"private investigator. Have him report again on Lord Benton. I want to know the man's exact location." He didn't need the devil to put a bullet in his back the moment he let his guard down. He rose. "That will be all."

Mr. Welsh collected the letters and left the room.

Jacob rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. In their secluded meeting places, Sarah had professed similar dribble to him. He'd grown to understand that such words from women like Sarah and Lady Benton weren't professions of love for him. They'd been words of worship to a god of pleasure. He'd merely been one of their sacrificial goats.

It never ended well for the goat.

" O h, Emily, how could you?"

Emily cringed at Phoebe's whine and stepped outside the church, closing the doors behind her. She'd promised Mama she'd gather flowers from the church yard to take to Widow Taylor.

Several weeks had passed since Lord Warren and his jaunty attitude had invaded her world and a few days since she'd begun painting his portrait. Her life had somewhat returned to normal, and she did not need Phoebe upending it again.

Emily placed the cutting shears into the basket and slid it into the crook of her arm. She inhaled deeply before she turned. So much for her private retreat. There would be no peace now that Phoebe had found her.

Phoebe trotted up the walkway, a fierce scowl darkening her complexion. The ruffles on her parasol flopped in tune with her steps.

"Why would you do this to me?" Her chest heaved as if she might burst into tears. "I thought you were my friend."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

She stopped so abruptly that her skirts swayed forward. "You know what I mean. You're ruining everything."

"Truly, I do not." Emily fought the urge to snort and turn away from her friend's drama.

Angry red splotches formed on Phoebe's cheeks. "You told Lord Warren you will no longer be painting his portrait." She put a fisted hand on her hip. "Don't deny it. He told me so when I encountered him at the mercantile."

Emily prayed for patience. She'd sent Jacob a letter yesterday recommending he commission another artist. "If you walk with me to the field to cut flowers, I can explain."

Phoebe glanced at the tips of her fawn-colored kid boots. "We must stay on the stone path."

Emily agreed, and Phoebe fell into step alongside her.

Birds swooped around them, chirping out love songs to potential mates. The warm weather coaxed spring into a premature bloom. Her mother also suggested she clip some daffodils to decorate the church before the next warm day withered them.

"Well?" Phoebe prodded.

How could she explain to her bold-spirited friend that Emily was merely looking out for her reputation without having Phoebe take offense? "It is true. I told Lord Warren I would not continue to be commissioned for his painting." She'd mourned over the loss of funds. She'd need to paint five times the number of portraits to make up for the one lost commission, which could have paid for a semester for Christian at Eton.

Phoebe turned toward her. "Why? You must know my interest in Lord Warren. Do you have no regard for my feelings?"

Emily exhaled slowly to keep from snapping at Phoebe. Her father always said that even if you are right, you can be wrong if you raise your voice. Rarely did anyone in her household scream or yell.

You yelled at Jacob. Emily pushed the belligerent thought aside.

"I do care for you, Phoebe. So much so that I couldn't turn a blind eye to the temptations the both of you face in each other's presence."

Her friend's face brightened. "You believe he is fond of me?"

"I believe the man has earned his blackened reputation, the one you read about in the gossip columns. Stealing a kiss is proof his intentions are less than honorable. I cannot stand by and be party to him assassinating your character."

Phoebe touched Emily's arm, searching her eyes for answers. "But you think he has intentions toward me?"

Emily smothered her groan. Did Phoebe not hear the rest of what she said? She clutched her friend's upper arms to emphasize her point. "Not good intentions. I beg you not to play his games. Stay away lest you fall into his trap and end up like my mother did."

Phoebe's gaze dropped, and she swallowed. "Do you think ill of your mother?"

Emily had never discussed her birth mother with anyone. Exhaling a whoosh of air, she let go of Phoebe's arms. "I want to believe the best of her." Emily closed her eyes. "Really, I do, but the truth of it is"—she opened her eyes to face her friend—"I do not know. I shall never know if she made an unwise decision of her own free will or was forced or coerced. All I know is that she had me and left. She did not leave a note and never tried to contact me. How could she do that to a daughter she loved?"

Phoebe burst into tears.

Emily put a hand on her weeping friend's shoulder. Whatever was amiss? She didn't have a handkerchief to lend her because hers was in her reticule inside the church. She pulled Phoebe to the low stone wall separating the graveyard from the churchyard, where they sat. Phoebe's parasol fell from her loose fingers as another sob tore from her throat.

"What is the matter?" Emily squeezed Phoebe's hand.

Phoebe inhaled a staccato breath and murmured incoherently before releasing an even louder wail.

Emily leaned in. "Pardon?"

"I need to m-marry."

"Of course. It is the reason your mama is bringing you to London for the Season." Emily tried to coax Phoebe to smile or at least stop the flow of tears. "If you are worried you won't find a match, well, that would be ridiculous. The dandies of London will look at your beauty and beg for your hand."

"You think so?" She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blotted under her eyes.

"I'm most certain of it."

"Oh, Emily, I've missed your encouragement."

"Have no fear. I'm certain that by this time next year, you shall be confessing your vows, perhaps in this very church with me in attendance."

Phoebe's face scrunched again. "I don't have until next year." Her voice raised to a higher pitch. "I need to marry straightaway."

An icy chill washed over Emily. "Why?"

Phoebe put her hands to her face and sobbed.

Emily shifted off the wall to sit on her haunches in front of Phoebe. She pried her friend's hands away from her face. "Tell me the truth of it. What's happened?" She waited as Phoebe got a hold of herself.

"I enjoyed his attention, but then one thing turned into another, and it became more than just a kiss." Phoebe bit her bottom lip and lowered her gaze. "Much more."

Emily gasped. "He tupped with you?"

"I'm in a terrible mess. I don't know who else to turn to." She bit her quivering bottom lip. "Please, Emily, you must help me gain Lord Warren's affection. What if I'm with child?"

White-hot heat burning in her belly flared into an inferno. "You shall go to him and demand he marry you."

"I can't." She shook her head in such a fervent manner that several golden curls escaped her coiffeur. "Think of the scandal. My reputation."

"If you don't and you are carrying his child, you'll be ruined and so will your family."

Phoebe sniffed. "I'd like a chance to convince him myself. I shall sway him to surrender his bachelor status and make an offer for my hand in short order. But I need your help." She wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked back and forth. "I can only manage if you aid me in persuading him."

"What do you mean?"

"Sing my praises." She scooted forward to teeter on the edge of the rock wall. "Afford me any opportunity to be alone with him."

Emily hesitated, despising the idea of facing Lord Warren ever again—the despicable blackguard. "I don't?—"

"Please, Emily, I don't know what else to do. Help me as my longest, dearest friend."

Emily ached to comfort her, embrace her in a fierce hug, and weep over her ruination. But she hesitated, unsure if that was what Phoebe wanted. Her friend had always been strong-willed and high-spirited. As a child, she'd tested boundaries and dared to question everything. Why hadn't she realized the consequences?

Phoebe would be shunned, an outcast in her own town.

Emily closed her eyes. At least it wasn't her.

Bile soured her stomach. How could she think such thoughts when her friend was in such pain? God forgive me .

Silence fell between them except for the twittering of birds in the nearby briar bushes. Even though the sun still shone, what had seemed like a beautiful day had darkened.

Phoebe's eyes filled with a calm as if she had a spot-on plan that would save them. Her calculated look raised the hairs on Emily's arms.

"I have three weeks before we leave for the Season. My best recourse is to have Lord Warren fall hopelessly in love with me as quickly as possible so the dates won't appear too amiss if a babe arrives early." Her gaze drifted to the church exterior. "Thankfully, the House of Lords reconvenes later than usual, and I'll arrive in London at the start of the Season." Phoebe clasped Emily's hands. "Lord Warren is a wonderful catch. This might not be the way God intended for us to marry, but I believe He sent Jacob to me. Think of it. The Dorsham name aligned with the son of a duke."

Emily swallowed her shock. Did Phoebe understand what she was saying? Of course, God could forgive her, but she would still have to face the consequences of her actions. Fortunately, she could lean into His strength. "God doesn't condone sin. But, if you ask for God's forgiveness, He will?—"

"If I am with child and can't convince Lord Warren"—her tears began in earnest again—"I will have to disappear until my time is over. My child will be left with strangers, much as you were. How could I do that when the child is part of me? What if the people are cruel or the baby is left at a workhouse or grows up as a street urchin? We can't let that happen."

We? Emily would do what she could to help her friend, but saving Phoebe from ruin wasn't Emily's responsibility.

"If I remain here unwed with a babe, we'll be worse than lechers." Phoebe covered her face with her hands. "Without my family to support me, I would have to become a man's mistress and live a life of sin to keep a roof over my child's head." A desperate sob tore from her throat. "You have your painting to sustain you. I have nothing."

Was this how Emily's mother had felt when faced with the same dilemma?

The full weight of Phoebe's situation strangled the air from Emily's lungs. There was no simple solution. Her friend's future appeared bleak—hopeless. Emily put her hands to her cheeks. Had her birth mother's options seemed as abysmal? Had she known another family would provide a better life for her baby than she could? Emily needed time to digest the situation. Most of all, she needed time to pray for God's guidance.

"There is a chance you aren't…that there won't be a child."

"I can't take that gamble." Phoebe clutched Emily's arm. "Please say you'll help me, Em. You, Peter, and Samuel have always saved me from my past scrapes. You are the only one to whom I can turn now. Your goodness and grace have sustained me. I don't know how I will survive if you say no. I need you."

Emily wavered. The best option for Phoebe and the baby was to marry, but life felt out of order. Phoebe being in a motherly way wasn't what Emily had envisioned when she and Phoebe pretend played finding a husband as children.

Jacob's playful smile and teasing blue eyes flashed in her memory. The rake had flirted with her more than once. What kind of a father would he possibly be?

She mustn't think the worst. Perhaps he would fall in love with Phoebe. Perhaps he'd love their child. Wouldn't that be best? Why, then, did unease gnaw at her?

Panic flared Phoebe's nostrils. "Please. At least say you'll continue the painting sessions."

Her nails scraped against the stone wall at the thought of having that rogue in her vicinity. Emily exhaled a long breath. "Fine, but the next session shall be at the parsonage under the careful watch of Mama and Mrs. Hayes. I don't want him doing anything else untoward." The canvas should be dry enough to move, and she'd need to figure out which room had similar lighting.

"I will need opportunities to convince him."

"Then convince him in other ways. No dalliances, especially not under the vicar's roof."

Phoebe nodded. She released Emily and pressed the palms of her hands against the stone. "Do you remember how we used to play in this very field? We'd pluck daisies for our hair."

Emily missed those simpler times. "We also made them into flower bouquets and pretended to be reciting our wedding vows. We were so young. Not a care in the world."

"Promise this will be our secret." Desperation edged Phoebe's words.

Phoebe hadn't kept hers.

"I'm sorry about telling Mama about your birth—truly, I am. I didn't think through the repercussions. Please forgive me. Say you'll hold my confidence."

Phoebe's pleading look always wedged open Emily's compassion, sometimes despite her better judgement. But Emily had no plans to ruin her friend's life by spreading gossip. She nodded.

"I could always count on you." The rigidness left Phoebe's frame.

Birds darted past, calling to their mates, and soon the air filled with the birds' songs.

"I intend to fulfill my childhood dream." Phoebe tilted her face toward the warm sun. "Soon, I'll be married and, within the year, holding a child in my arms. I have become a woman. I shall leave Sylvanwood to begin a life of my own."

Emily mentally steeled herself for the challenge ahead. At least, if she finished the portrait, Christian's schooling would be paid. She would settle for Mr. Mathis, a God-fearing man and gentleman of moderate means.