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Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

P hoebe twirled the wand disinterestedly as a sleek, black cat jumped up at the feather attached to its end with its claws outstretched. It let out an indignant yowl as the wand flicked just out of reach.

"It feels rather unsettling, does it not, Whiteson?" she mused distractedly. "Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he does something truly unexpected and now, I do not know what to make of it. Or if I should make anything of it at all."

She let out a soft sigh as she flicked the wand again, much to the cat's consternation. Eventually, her lack of focus caused her to allow the wand to droop, and Whiteson, who had been waiting for the perfect opportunity like the skilled predator that he was, immediately pounced upon that feathered stick with a triumphant cry.

"You know what they say about cats and spinsters," a soft voice intruded her thoughts.

She looked up to find Minerva walking towards her with a small smile. "Daph is already in her bedchamber."

"That is quite unusual. One would think that she would be unable to sit still from the excitement of having dinner with Lord Brunswick tomorrow."

"Oh." The smile on Minerva's face looked slightly devious. "Mama told her that she needed to get a lot of sleep in order to look her absolute best tomorrow."

Phoebe let out a short laugh and shook her head at her sister. "Mama certainly has her ways. What about you? Why are you still up at this hour?"

"I saw you out in the gardens and I wondered if you might like some company… well, after what was said to you earlier."

"I… have almost forgotten about it entirely."

It was the truth, strangely. As incensed as she had been at Miss Thomas and her sharp tongue, she had almost forgotten her earlier resentment when she first noted their neighbor deviating from his usual routine. She still found it so unsettling that she barely touched her dinner and there was still half of her pudding left, which Minerva had then happily claimed for herself.

"That is good, I suppose," her sister remarked. "From all accounts, Miss Thomas does seem to enjoy offending a lot of people, so you are in good company."

"Not all company is good, you know."

"Oh, I know all too well. You forget how I prefer books to people, Fi."

Phoebe nodded listlessly as she stared out in the direction of Wentworth Park—and those few windows that still remained open. If the Marquess was up to something vile, then he most certainly was not going to leave the windows open for all the world to see, was he?

"Well, in that case, I should return to my book," Minerva smiled at her. "I had Mary make me a cup of warm milk earlier and I would not want it to be cold by the time I got back."

"Yes," Phoebe muttered in reply. "Meanwhile, I think I'll stay out here a while longer to keep Whiteson company."

She heard Minerva murmur an acknowledgement and Phoebe was vaguely aware of the gentle pat on her shoulder before her sister walked back into the house and back to her book.

As the second oldest of the three sisters, Minerva was of age to make her bow, but she had begged their parents to delay her coming out by another year, which was a great contrast to Daphne, who seemed to have prepared for her own entrance to Society ever since she was born.

All three sisters were different in their own way, but Lord and Lady Townsend regarded them all with equal affection and a bit more tolerance than most parents in the ton afforded their children. It was how Minerva managed to hold off on making her bow and why Phoebe had never been forced into marriage herself.

At five-and-twenty, she had at least another year before she could safely declare herself off the marriage mart, but her parents still said nothing when she announced that she was effectively putting herself on the shelf, as it were. Even then, she was not scorned for choosing the life of a spinster and her father even guaranteed that she would always have a roof over her head.

Other parents would not have been as tolerant.

Now, she mostly spent her days either helping her sisters or attending the weekly meetings in Cartwright Hall. However, what she was most fond of was watching the Marquess of Wentworth go about his daily activities like clockwork.

She could not fathom how a man could impose such a rigid schedule upon himself, and while she started observing him due to a great deal of fascination for the existence he chose to lead, she had truly come to admire the man in a way.

Of course, it certainly helped matters that he was sinfully handsome with a physique that would have rivaled that of Michelangelo's David.

She flushed as she thought of his broad-shouldered frame and those long, muscular legs of his as he stoically made his rounds about Wentworth Park.

Until tonight, of course, when he failed to show up.

Her thoughts were disrupted by an indignant meow, followed by the sound of a slight scuffle as the feathered wand that Whiteson had been playing with tumbled to the ground. The feline let out a huffy purr before dashing off through the hedges and into the darkness—straight into Wentworth Park!

"Whiteson, no!" Phoebe cried out in alarm.

Although the cat certainly looked better than it did before it wandered up to the gardens of Townsend House, she doubted Whiteson would be considered a welcome guest in Wentworth Park. With her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she dashed through the hedges after the stubborn feline and climbed over the wall that divided the two properties.

Her feet landed on the grassy yard of Wentworth Park with a soft thud, but still, Whiteson was nowhere to be found. She gritted her teeth as she began to call for the cat softly. Under the cover of darkness, it would be much more difficult to find the black cat, except by its glowing green eyes.

You better be grateful after all the trouble you have put me through , she groused internally as she continued her search for him.

A soft breeze blew through the yard, rattling a few bare branches and sending a handful of fallen leaves flying her way. Phoebe squinted and covered her face to protect it when she noticed a small trapdoor lying open several yards away from her.

Whiteson must have gone in there, that silly cat!

She let out a frustrated sigh as she headed over to the trapdoor. A wooden staircase disappeared down into the depths and Phoebe could not resist the shudder that ran through her.

What is this place?

She called again for the cat, but an answer never came, so she gritted her teeth and began to descend the staircase. Her first step was met with a loud creak and she froze immediately, looking around to see if somebody had heard her. She was now officially trespassing on the property of the Marquess of Wentworth, and if he found her… well, she doubted he would be impressed at all, to put it mildly.

"Whiteson!" she called out again in a soft hiss. "Where are you, you silly little feline?"

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she felt her feet step into something wet. She immediately recoiled, her eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness and the paltry light from a handful of lamps that seemed to be on the last dregs of their viability.

Seconds later, the scene before her broke through the hazy gloom of the cellar. Two rows of barred cells flanked her on both sides. From the closest one to her left, she saw a handcuff attached to the wall and a straw pallet that appeared to be infested with mold. From beneath the straw pallet, a mouse emerged, scurrying close to her feet, and she bit her fist to silence her shriek.

She had heard the rumors about the mysterious Marquess, but she had never thought he would have an actual torture chamber on his own property—or what seemed like one, anyway. It was certainly not something one would show to the guests when giving them a tour of the estate and she even doubted most of his staff knew of its existence, considering it appeared like it had not been cleaned in ages.

"I should leave," Phoebe whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the dampness in the still air of the cellar.

Her heart began pounding fiercely, a rapid drumbeat that echoed the tremors racing through her limbs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie sense of being watched in the darkness, and made to turn back towards the safety of Townsend House. But just as she spun toward the stairs and made to flee, she collided into something hard. Fists of steel hooked around her elbow, and Phoebe very nearly screamed.

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?" a deep and angry voice rumbled from the shadows.

Phoebe gasped and looked up, only to find the livid features of the Marquess of Wentworth. His dark brows were snapped together, his eyes a piercing, icy blue. His lips were pressed into a cold line as he awaited her reply.

"I-I am Phoebe Townsend, my Lord," she stammered. "From Townsend House next door. I-I w-was looking for my cat—he ran over here, you see. He probably discovered th-that and there were a l-lot of m-mice in there and he thought—"

Phoebe clamped her mouth in horror when she realized that she had just tried to justify breaking and entering into the man's property by implying that he had a rodent problem!

She hung her head in remorse. "I apologize—that was completely out of turn for me to say—"

Although from all the scurrying and squeaking I have been hearing, this must be a veritable feast for a stray cat like Whiteson!

She watched as his dark brows relaxed into a more neutral position, although his eyes still looked like chips of ice. His fists fell away from her arms and Phoebe shuddered as she ran her hands over her skin there, hoping they would not leave bruises in the morning.

"You… are a woman," he muttered matter-of-factly.

"Yes, yes," she nodded emphatically. "That I am… my Lord."

She heard him snort under his breath and wondered if he doubted the veracity of that claim too. After all, she was rather tall for a member of the feminine population. So tall, in fact, that she towered over almost all the other young ladies in every ballroom she had ever attended.

Yet, she still barely reached his chin and she still had to tilt her head back to watch him glower at her.

"Well then, you may leave," he finally bit out. "And do not come poking your nose where it does not belong, young girl. Understood?"

Young girl?

"Truly?" she breathed out in relief instead. "Oh, thank you so much, my Lord! And you can rest assured that I will not tell a single soul what I have seen!"

As I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them that the Marquess of Wentworth had a literal torture chamber on his property! I would sound just like Miss Thomas!

Lord Wentworth looked at her as if he doubted these words, too, but he silently stepped aside and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

"I trust you can find your way back home," he told her in a curt tone.

Phoebe nodded again. She seemed to be nodding an awful lot tonight.

"Of course, my Lord. I am not a total simpleton, you know," she blurted.

Once again, she caught him muttering something under his breath and she wondered what he could have been saying.

She made her way up the rickety stairs and then paused at the very top to turn back and look at him, fidgeting uneasily when he continued to glare at her.

"I, ah, just wanted to ask that if you see Whiteson, please do not hurt him," she began. "He is a black cat, you see, but he has the sweetest temper, although he is rather mischievous. Do not worry, though," she added, shaking her hands before her. "I assure you that he can help you get rid of the, er…pests on your lands. He is quite useful in other ways, you know."

Now, what did I just say? Did I just imply he had a rodent problem once more?

She felt the heat creep up her cheeks when he did not even deign to reply, so Phoebe did what she thought was best—she whirled around, and clutching at her skirts, began to run back towards Townsend House. She did not turn back or slow down until she had managed to climb over the wall and was safe in her own garden once more.

Charles had never before had a more awkward interaction with a female of his species, and he certainly had many of them before Miss Phoebe Townsend crashed into him moments ago.

He had initially thought her to be an intruder—and she certainly was that, though not the kind that he had been expecting, to be truthful.

For one, she was rather clumsy. He must have seen her stumble over the stairs at least three times going up and it was not a very lengthy staircase. On the contrary, it was rather short, one that could be breached with but a few steps.

Spies and assassins moved with far more grace than Miss Phoebe Townsend did.

And another thing, she simply talked too much. One could even say that she rambled on and on about her damned cat and how he must have found the mice on his property rather tempting, for about nineteen words too long.

A woman who tried to kill him once had also tried to distract him, but she had been much more seductive than… awkward .

Of course, there was the off chance that she could have been lying about everything. It could all have just been an act that she had put on so that he would lower his guard and she could find the perfect opportunity to strike…

Just then, he heard a soft purr and felt something rub sinuously against his leg, rumbling in contentment as it did so. Surprised, Charles looked down to find a black cat happily rubbing its body against his ankle.

"Apparently, she was telling the truth," he muttered. "And you must be Whiteson."

The cat let out a meow in the affirmative.

"Your mistress was not the most creative at naming you."

This time, it let out an indignant scoff and Charles sighed.

"Very well, you may help yourself to some mice," he relented. "But do not finish them all off. You have to leave some to maintain the ambiance of the room."

He gingerly shook the cat off his leg and walked back up and out of the trapdoor. He waited for the cat—Whiteson—to make its way out, before closing it behind him. This time, however, he made sure to lock it.

He would not risk the likes of Miss Phoebe Townsend inadvertently stumbling upon his secrets once again.

In fact, it would be more prudent to keep an eye on the young miss for a while. Heaven only knew what sort of troubles she might get into…

Do you want to read the rest of the story?

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Wedded to the Cruel Duke

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