Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(54)

Despite his considerable list of tasks and chores, he found himself at a loss for what to do. He felt like a tree with a center of gravity offset from its base, liable to topple in an unpredictable direction. The household bustled quietly as servants cleaned the vacated rooms and stripped linens from the beds, while others cleared the breakfast room sideboard and removed plates and flatware. West glanced down at the empty mending basket in his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do with it now.

He went to the room where Phoebe had stayed and set the mending-basket near the threshold. The bed had been hastily made; the side where Phoebe had slept wasn’t quite smooth. He couldn’t resist drawing close enough to trail his fingers along the counterpane, remembering the slight, firm weight of her body, the feel of her breath on his cheek—

A plaintive drawn-out meow interrupted his thoughts.

“What the devil . . . ?” West muttered, walking around the bed. He was stunned to find the black cat there, dusty and irritable-looking. “How can you be here?” he demanded. “I just left you at the barn!”

Galoshes let out another disconsolate sound and wandered around the empty room. She must have raced to the house as soon as he’d set her free and had somehow found a way to slip inside. She jumped onto the bed and coiled at the corner of it.

After a moment, West sat on the side of the mattress. He reached for a pillow and hunted for any lingering trace of Phoebe. Discovering a faint soap-and-roses sweetness, he drew it in deeply. When his eyes opened, he found the cat staring at him, the golden eyes solemn and accusing.

“You don’t belong in her life any more than I do,” West said flatly. “You don’t even belong in a house.”

Galoshes showed no reaction, other than flicking the tip of her scraggly tail like someone impatiently drumming her fingers.

West wondered if she would keep coming back in search of Phoebe. It was impossible not to feel sorry for the skinny little creature. He let out an exasperated sigh. “If I did manage to help you reach her,” he said, “I doubt she’d keep you. God knows what will become of you. Furthermore, do you really want to live in Essex? Does anyone?”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

West considered the cat for a long moment. “We might catch them at Alton Station,” he mused. “But you’d have to go back into that mending basket, which you wouldn’t like. And we’d have to go on horseback, which you especially wouldn’t like.” An involuntary grin crossed his face as he thought of how annoyed Phoebe would be. “She would kill me. I’m damned if I’ll risk my life for a barn cat.”

But the smile wouldn’t go away.

Making the decision, West tossed aside the pillow went to fetch the mending basket. “Choose your fate, cat. If you fight me over the basket, the adventure ends here. If you’re willing to climb in . . . we’ll see what can be done.”



“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man . . .” Evie chanted as she played with Stephen in the Challons’ private railway carriage. They occupied one side of a deep upholstered settee, with Sebastian lounging in the other corner. The baby clapped his tiny hands along with his grandmother, his rapt gaze fastened on her face. “Make me a cake as fast as you can . . .”

Phoebe and Seraphina sat on a settee directly opposite them, while Ivo and Justin stood at a window to watch the activity on the Alton station platforms. Since the scheduled stop was short, the Challons remained in their carriage, which was paneled in gleaming bird’s-eye maple and trimmed with blue velvet plush and gold-plated fittings. To keep the interior temperature pleasant, ice cooling trays had been set into the floor and covered with ornamental gridwork.

The nursery rhyme concluded, and Evie cheerfully began again. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake—”

“My sweet,” Sebastian interrupted, “we’ve been involved in the manufacture of cakes ever since we set foot on the train. For my sanity, I beg you to choose another game.”

“Stephen,” Evie asked her grandson, “do you want to play peekaboo?”

“No,” came the baby’s grave answer.

“Do you want to play ‘beckoning the chickens?’”

“No.”

Evie’s impish gaze flickered to her husband before she asked the child, “Do you want to play horsie with Gramps?”

“Yes!”

Sebastian grinned ruefully and reached for the boy. “I knew I should have kept quiet.” He sat Stephen on his knee and began to bounce him, making him squeal with delight.

Absently Phoebe returned her attention to the book in her lap.

“What novel are you reading?” Seraphina asked, looking up from a ladies’ fashion periodical. “Is it any good?”

“It’s not a novel, it was a gift from Mr. Ravenel.”

Seraphina’s blue eyes brightened with interest. “May I see?”

Phoebe handed it to her younger sister.

“The Modern Handbook for Landed Proprietors?” Seraphina asked, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s full of information I’ll need when I move back to the Clare estate.”

Carefully Seraphina lifted the front cover and read the neatly handwritten lines inside.

My lady,

When in difficulty, remember the words of our mutual friend Stephen Armstrong: “You can always swim out of quicksand as long as you don’t panic.”