Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(56)

The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe’s lap and curled up with a sigh.

“I’d say she’s adjusting quite well,” Seraphina commented with a grin, and elbowed Phoebe gently. “One never knows who might rise above their disreputable past.”

Two strikes of the bell and a long whistle blast signaled the train’s departure. As the locomotive began to pull away from Alton Station, Phoebe felt a hollowing sadness inside. There was something melancholy about a train whistle, the twin notes bracketing the air like an empty set of parentheses. Overcome by a longing that, for once, had nothing to do with Henry, she nudged aside the edge of a gold-fringed curtain to look at the platform.

Among the milling of passengers and porters, a lean, dark form stood with a shoulder casually propped against a support column.

West.

Their gazes met across the platform as the railway carriage passed. Phoebe stopped breathing, waves of alternating heat and chills leaving her shaken. It wasn’t just physical desire—although that was certainly a considerable part of it. In the measure of a few days, a connection had formed between them. An inconvenient, painful connection that she hoped wouldn’t last for long. She stared at him without blinking, trying to keep him in her vision every possible second.

With a faint curve of his mouth, West reached up to touch the low brim of his hat. Then he was out of sight.





Chapter 20





Essex

Three months later



Phoebe looked up from her writing desk as Edward Larson’s tall, lanky form strode into the front parlor of Clare Manor. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

A warm smile crossed his lean face. “A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“Naturally.”

As always, Edward was impeccably dressed and groomed, the perfect picture of a country gentleman. His medium brown hair was parted on the side and arranged in neatly trimmed waves. He was clean-shaven, but not by choice: he’d once tried to grow a pair of fashionable sideburns, but his facial hair had come in as sparse and patchy as a young lad’s, forcing him to abandon the attempt.

“It looks different in here,” Edward commented, glancing around the room. “What have you changed?”

“The curtains.”

“These are new?” he asked, regarding the cream silk curtains.

Phoebe laughed. “Don’t you remember the brown brocade ones that were there for the past thirty years?”

He shrugged, his brown eyes smiling. “Not really. In any case, I like these.”

The curtains had been part of a redecorating project that Phoebe had undertaken as soon as she’d moved back to the Clare Estate. She had been dismayed to discover that even after two years, the entire house still had the atmosphere of a sickroom. It had been quiet and musty, the rows of sash windows shrouded with heavy curtains, the walls and carpets dingy. Compared to her family’s airy, light-filled home in Sussex, it had been appalling. If her children were to live here from now on, she had decided, it would have to be aired out and redecorated.

Using funds from her jointure, she had sent to London for books of wallpaper, fabric and paint samples. She had hired local painters to cover walls with cream paint, and craftsmen had sanded the floors and woodwork down to a natural finish. The ancient carpets had been replaced by hand-knotted rugs from Kidderminster with sage or cream backgrounds. Deep-buttoned chairs and sofas had been reupholstered in green velvet or floral chintz. Although Phoebe was far from finished, she was pleased by the results so far. The smells of mustiness and decay had been replaced by fresh paint, wood polish and newness. The house was alive again, emerging from its long spell of mourning.

“Shall I ring for tea?” Phoebe asked.

Edward shook his head and bent to kiss her cheek. “Not on my account. Regrettably, I can stay only for a few minutes. I have a bit of business to discuss with you.”

“You’ve brought the account ledgers?” she asked hopefully.

Edward hung his head in a show of penitence.

Clearly, he hadn’t.

His boyish charm did nothing to ease Phoebe’s irritation, which stung in several places at once, as if she’d been surrounded by a swarm of bees.

For reasons she still didn’t entirely understand, Edward had taken it upon himself to remove the entire mass of account books, including all the home farm and tenant ledgers, from the study at Clare Manor. He had transferred them to the private offices he and his father shared in the nearby market town. Not only did the Larsons manage their own property, they also superintended farmland for many well-to-do families in the county.

When Phoebe had discovered the Clare Estate books were missing, Edward had apologized for having forgotten to tell her, and explained it was easier for him to manage the estate farms from his father’s place of business. He had promised to return them as soon as possible, but every time Phoebe reminded him, he had a convenient excuse for delaying.

“Edward,” Phoebe said reproachfully, “It’s been three months since I first asked for those ledgers.”