Chapter 8
“What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to Birmingham?” Slade asked Phoebe.
Phoebe had made it a point to dress in drab colors for the past seven years, never wanting a man to take notice of her ever again. But for some reason, her nondescript gray dress and dark woolen coat topped off with a plain dormeuses bonnet made her self-conscious under his explorative eyes.
“Errands for my employer,” Phoebe said.
As Slade introduced his friend, Peter Horton, the gray light of day accentuated the chiseled lines of Slade’s jaw and cheekbones, which had grown more angular and harder since they were children. He was more self-assured, confident and controlled now, most likely picked up in the military.
Phoebe smiled at Peter, who gave a gallant bow in her direction. He was fully half a head shorter than Slade.
“How do you do, Mistress Dunbar?”
Peter’s pleasant expression, marked in his well-disposed features, drew a sense of affability and friendship from Phoebe. As this did not happen often—never in fact—she took it to heart.
“A pleasure to meet you, Master Horton. I take it you are a gunsmith?”
“Indeed, I am. And how do you know our colonel here?” Peter threw a cursory glance in Slade’s direction.
“Slade fostered with my older brother Egan at the MacDonells’ Invergarry Castle in the Scottish Highlands when they were lads,” Phoebe said.
“Then you and I must speak at length. Even though I have known the colonel here for six years, I know next to nothing about him.”
“It would greatly please me to—”
“Don’t you have an appointment?” Slade cut in, his expression superior and laconic as he eyed Peter. Peter, appearing unperturbed, reached into his waistcoat and retrieved a silver pocket watch.
Peter clicked the device open then gasped. “The meeting with the Gun Trade Association is about to start. I must dash. Enchanted to meet you, Mistress Dunbar. I look forward to our next encounter.”
He inclined his head towards her and Slade, his features taking on a warm and unassuming smile.
After Peter left, Slade folded his hands behind his back and shot her an expectant smile. But then after glancing at their immediate surroundings, a shadow of disapproval crossed his features.
“Doesn’t your employer provide you with an escort?”
“I always have an escort for Lady Bolingbroke’s errands, a footman this time, currently tending to the horses at the stables.”
He seemed to consider her answer then his gaze turned direct. “And for personal errands?” A hint of concern in his tone.
Phoebe gave a half shrug. “I hardly ever need one. Many times, I come into town with a few of Bolingbroke’s staff on our time off, and after errands we travel back in a group.
” Phoebe paused, warming at his concern, then added, “For example, on the thirty-first of the month, three of us are going to the Saint Michael’s church fair, for my birthday. ”
“The thirty-first? That’s your birthday?” A pained expression darkened his brow.
Phoebe was taken aback, concern squeezing her chest. What would cause such a stark reaction in him? “I know the thirty-first is also the day of Samhain, but—”
Slade shook his head. “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to cause any concern. It’s only that I … I once knew someone whose birthday was the same day.”
Her entire body stilled, then she blinked at him even as coldness brushed her spine.
At that moment, Phoebe would have staked all the darkest secrets of the Whig Party, the English Government and the Royal Army put together that Slade was referring to Sylvia.
She regretted unknowingly broaching the topic of his former betrothed and causing him distress.
And she would be damned to hell, for she was jealous of a dead woman.
Phoebe had been but a few feet from Sylvia once, years ago, when Egan and her parents had taken her for new clothes in Portree.
Egan had pointed Sylvia out to Phoebe as Slade’s betrothed even though they’d never actually spoken to each other.
Sylvia had had that perfect clear porcelain skin, with big sparkling cinnamon brown eyes, in a perfect oval doll’s face that seemed to have a perpetual genuine trusting smile.
Phoebe had already been enamored of Slade and seeing how flawless Sylvia was had made her green-eyed over the other woman ever since.
His expression shuttered, as if he wished to change topics. “Since your escort is currently taken up with tending to the horses, might I accompany you for the remainder of your errands?” he said.
Her spirits lifted. As gallant as ever, despite her faux pas. “All that remains is for me to grab the latest copy of the Daily Courant before I head back, and I would welcome the company,” Phoebe said.
The gossip columns had recently reported on the Jacobite rebel raids in Claigan village in the Scottish Highlands conducted by the English redcoats.
Phoebe was certain Bolingbroke’s men were responsible for the raids.
What else were Bolingbroke’s minions up to?
Always keep your eyes and ears peeled, Falcon had said.
Phoebe and Slade began a leisurely stroll in the direction of the coffee house to procure the gossip columns when Slade eyed her with concern. “How have you been since the footman’s accidental shooting?”
“Quite well, thank you. And Ludlow is recovering, thanks to your quick thinking,” Phoebe said, to which Slade gave a gracious inclination of his head.
As they made their way down the sidewalk, the foot traffic around them pushed them close enough together that his gleaming riding boots brushed the edges of her skirts, the action strangely intimate.
Then Phoebe’s eyes fell on his holstered pistol, the beautiful design on its butt so masterfully engraved she had an intense urge to do a test fire.
But how to get Slade to allow her to fire his pistol without divulging she’s a proficient trained by the Movement?
“Is it difficult to learn how to shoot with a flintlock pistol?” she said.
His lips pursed as they both sidestepped a group of cackling men dressed like sailors. “It depends on how proficient you want to be. Why do you ask?”
“Will you teach me?” she said. And braced herself for his response which she was certain would be not only oppositional but reprimanding as well.
He stopped walking and stared at her in utter surprise and bewilderment. “Whatever for?”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned back to look at him, determination settling in her stomach.
“I assume you are much safer when able to take care of yourself, having defensive skills or a weapon. I realize it’s highly unorthodox and extremely unladylike, but I long for a bit of that secure feeling.
” She was fully prepared to beg if he refused.
Slade shook his head, gesturing with an open palm for her to continue their walk as he himself resumed. “One does not need to learn to shoot to feel secure,” he said, his tone adamant.
Phoebe swallowed down her mild annoyance.
“No, one does not. But working in the house of a general—which is stocked with all types of arms, I might add—and coming into Birmingham at least once or twice a week on errands for Lady Bolingbroke, it would be prudent on my part to think of security. Why just last week two drunken sailors coming out of a pub nearly knocked us over—”
Slade stopped his stroll, his green eyes glinting with alarm even in the day’s pale light. “Were you accosted?”
She stopped as well and rushed to assuage his alarm, while her insides warmed at his concern. “No. No, it was an innocent mistake for which they begged our pardon. But what if their intentions had been nefarious?”
Slade’s face tensed. “Although I find it shocking you are implying you wish to carry a firearm, your observation about working in Bolingbroke’s household is well noted.”
Derision and danger brewed in his expression. Did he not like General Bolingbroke? Weren’t they comrades-in-arms? Well, she supposed someone like Bolingbroke inspired anything but camaraderie.
“Very well, I’ll teach you how to shoot,” Slade said, the words coming out determined.