Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
P hoebe shifted in her sleep with a soft moan in discomfort. Her bedchamber in Wentworth Park was mostly stifling hot, perhaps due to the fact that Charles utterly forbade her from leaving the windows open in the night, claiming that it invited all sorts of illnesses if one was to catch a sudden chill.
While this might be appropriate in the autumn and winter months, it was just plain uncomfortable in the spring to summer months.
She irritably flipped the downy comforter off of her sweaty body, when she felt a sudden draft sweep into the room. She frowned and opened her eyes, adjusting to the darkness of the room. When she saw the curtains rustling silently, she sat up in surprise.
Why are they open? Did someone come in and—
“Phoebe.”
The soft, deep voice enticed a shriek of surprise from her lips. She turned around quickly and found Charles standing before her, his eyes cold.
“Ch-charles? What are you doing here at this hour?” she squeaked.
She supposed she should be happy her husband came to her rooms in the middle of the night. However, the look in his eyes told her that he had not come to see her to consummate their marriage, or even make an effort towards it.
“It was quite warm, so I opened the windows,” he explained, glancing towards the fluttering curtains with an indescribable emotion glinting in his eyes.
“It was one of your rules,” she reminded him gently. “You already gave in when I wanted to open the curtains. I was not about to sail too close to the wind and demand that I open the windows while I was sleeping.”
The corner of his lips curled up into a rueful smile. “I half expected you to do so, anyway.”
Phoebe gaped at him in shock. So, he thought that she was going to be stubborn enough to defy him? If so, then she really should have left the windows open instead of suffering through the balmy nights drenched in her own sweat!
She sat down at the edge of her bed with a sigh. “I do not suppose you came here to check on my windows, though.”
She saw it again—the flash of something in his usually calm eyes. Was it fear? Anxiety?
She had heard of men who feared every little thing, suspicious of anything that moved or breathed. Charles had always been odd, maybe even cautious and controlling to a fault, but she did not ever deduce he would be fearful of anything.
If he did fear something, then it would explain all the unnecessary rules and routines he enforced upon his estate.
“Come with me, Phoebe,” he told her, holding his hand out to her. “I have something to show you.”
She bit her lower lip hesitantly. “Can you not show me here? Or maybe in the morning, perhaps?” she added in a failed attempt at a more lighthearted conversation.
“I am afraid it cannot wait any longer.” His voice denoted his urgency. “Come with me, Phoebe.”
Gingerly, she slipped her hand into his, her heart beating wildly in her chest like a caged hummingbird. She did not know why he was acting so odd tonight. She could only sense that he needed her.
Somehow.
And perhaps, she truly wanted to know more about her mysterious husband. Her Mama had always told her that her curiosity was going to get her in trouble one day. But really, how much trouble could she get into with Charles? It was not like she was going off sneaking into yet another forbidden area in the estate.
Charles was taking her there.
Besides, he would never do anything to hurt her or cause her to be alarmed in any way.
Would he?
Charles could not wait any longer.
For the past week or so, he had been going out of his mind, trying to keep Phoebe from noticing anything. His wife was an intelligent woman—certainly more than the regular débutantes that flooded the ballrooms of London. He knew that she was bound to discover something eventually.
In the first few days of her arrival in Wentworth Park, he knew that she had already deduced that something was amiss in his estate, and yet, she had been more accepting of his eccentricity. He did not think he would have been as gracious if their roles had been reversed.
His past experience had instilled in him a need to rigidly control all of his surroundings. To scrutinize everything and everyone.
But Phoebe, with her wide open heart, could never be as cautious as he was—not until she fully understood why .
He grasped her hand and led her down the winding staircase, their only source of light the lamp he had in his other hand. He pushed open the door to the basement and quietly led her inside, standing silently behind her at the sound of her surprised gasp.
Before them, the walls were covered with sheets of paper scribbled entirely with notes. Some of them had numbers, a sort of code. Others still were full of scrawled musings.
On the far end, a huge map of England was pinned to the wall. There were markings covering it and lines of red thread crossed all over its surface, held in place by pins.
Just below the map, there was a huge oak desk littered with pieces of paper.
“Charles,” she breathed in, her eyes wide in confusion. “What is the meaning of all this?”
He closed the door behind her and set the lamp on his desk with a guilty expression masking his features. “This,” he admitted, “is my real study, Phoebe. This is the place where I do most of my work.”
She shook her head. “I-I do not understand. What sort of work do you do?”
He smiled in a rather self-deprecating manner. “You might think that I am just like any other nobleman—engaged in shipping or farming or fabric,” he told her softly. “But the truth of the matter is that I work for the Crown, Phoebe.”
“The Crown?”
“Yes.” His voice hardened as she stood beside his desk. “I was quite young when I was recruited. A bit more daring and foolhardy, if you will. The Crown has its agents to identify which ones are suited for the job all over England, even Scotland.”
“And you were one of those selected to join in their ranks?”
He nodded. “I was a proud youth, then. Exceptionally arrogant, given my capabilities. Now, I know better—pride always comes before a fall and one can never be too cautious.”
His last sentence was tainted with the bitterness of experience. He had been so young, then, unknowing of the rigors he would face. Or how casually he would court death in the next few years.
“Oh my…” she murmured. “I did not know…”
“I rose up within the ranks,” he continued quietly. “But, Phoebe, you must know that this kind of appointment is not without its dangers. I have witnessed countless men die from complacency. I was resolved to never join in their ranks.”
A tense silence filled the air. Charles looked down to the scattered pieces of paper on his desk—letters all filled with the same scrawl that had become familiar to him over the last few weeks.
“Is that why you have so many rules for this estate?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “It was also the reason I married you.”
“Why?” she blurted out. “Do you need a wife to cover for you or something?”
“What? No! Never!” he shook his head emphatically, his hand automatically reaching out for her. “I would have never involved you in something so dangerous as this if I had no choice—”
“No choice?” she choked out. “Charles, you are not making any sense to me right now…”
He gathered her into his arms. “I did not mean it in the way that I was forced to marry you because I needed you to cover for me. I married you to keep you safe.”
“Me?” she asked him in shock. “I am just one of the thousands of spinsters in London. Nothing special. How could I have been in any danger?”
“Do you remember the scandal sheet?” he reminded her.
She nodded. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything, Phoebe— everything . Almost as soon as news of it broke out, I received the first letter.”
She looked up at him with a furrow in her brows. “What letter?”
His hand slid down her arm to twine around her fingers. “Come, let me show you.”
He led her over to the large desk, his hands running over the notes that had been scattered all over his surface until he came upon the one he was searching for.
“This one,” he told her urgently. He had to make her believe. Had to make her understand why he needed to be careful. Why he needed her to be careful.
Phoebe took the letter from him with trembling hands. He watched as her eyes furtively scanned its contents.
“But Charles,” she finally insisted, softly. “There is nothing here that implies whoever sent this to you means any harm.”
His heart fell when he heard those words. She did not understand it, after all.
But he knew better. It was his job, ultimately, and he was very good at his job. Much too good, sometimes.
He had seen all of this before—seemingly innocuous letters or notes sent to unsuspecting victims. Some of them outwardly mundane. All of them highly unusual.
It was always only at the end that the pieces came together. Always when everything was already too late.
“You do not believe me,” he groaned, feeling utterly defeated.
“No, no, no,” Phoebe cried, reaching out to frame his face with her hands. Gently, she urged him to meet her eyes. “Charles, I am right here. I am safe with you . There is no one who means to harm us.”
“How can you know that?” he sighed. “I have seen this happen far too many times, Phoebe. I can just feel it. Somebody is watching me. Watching us .”
“But right now, they are not,” she told him softly. “Right now, there is only you and me and that is all that matters, Charles. This is all that matters.”
And before he could protest any further, she had pressed her lips to his, effectively silencing his words.
His demons.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he was simply seeing too much into things. Maybe he had been projecting his experiences onto what they had.
But right now, she was kissing him, her lips pressed ever so wonderfully to his. Her soft hands held him close, her heaving breasts crushed against his chest.
And with a groan, he tumbled headfirst into her, returning her kiss. Deepening it. Losing himself in it.
Right now, there was only him and Phoebe—and he was no longer going to allow his demons to come between them.
Not for now, at least.