Chapter One

June 1815

Cartwright Hall

Life as a spinster was generally not as bad as the rest of the ton made it out to be.

Certainly, an enlightened male relative was necessary to provide a roof over one’s head, but compared to a married Lady of Quality, Phoebe Townsend decided that spinsterhood certainly afforded her far more privileges than if she had a husband who lorded himself over her by virtue of his being born male.

Besides, she could hardly feel any difference in her life from before she had been declared off the marriage market, for better or for worse. It was simply a matter of finding similar like-minded individuals with whom she could comfortably associate with, and the so-called Spinsters’ Club afforded her that rather nicely.

“It is rather pitiful how he has not chosen to marry,” Miss Cartwright shook her head with a rueful smile. “With a face like that, he could send the whole of London abuzz!”

“Not to mention that he is currently a Marquess and heir to one of the finest estates in all of England!” Miss Bradbury added. “The Duke of Cheshire has been ill for so long that it is only a matter of time before…”

It was rude to speculate on the imminent demise of a person, of course, so she did not finish her sentence. However, it was understood by everyone in the Club that the Duke of Cheshire had been on his deathbed for quite some time and his son, the Marquess of Wentworth, Lord Charles Montgomery, still had no intention of fulfilling his obligations to his line and finding a wife to sire him an heir.

“But he is so dreadfully handsome!” Miss Cartwright sighed dreamily. “It is such a waste of his heavenly looks, to be sure!”

Phoebe barely looked up from her diary as the other ladies around her continued to gossip about their favorite gentleman—the infamous Lord Charles Montgomery, the Marquess of Wentworth. Every Wednesday, without fail, their conversations would turn towards the Marquess, and they would sigh over his dashing good looks.

I daresay Lord Wentworth would not be so pleased to find himself the object of the fantasies of a gaggle of spinsters, she thought to herself, as she made another note in her diary.

It was one thing to have swathes of eligible young ladies falling over themselves for a gentleman, and an entirely different thing for him to be secretly fawned over by a bunch of women who Society has collectively deemed wholly unsuitable for marriage.

“It is always the handsome ones who hide the darkest secrets,” she heard Miss Adeline Thomas scoff. “He hardly ever leaves his estate, and he never accepts callers. That should be enough to tell you all that there is more to Lord Wentworth than just his looks.”

“But that hardly means he is engaged in something nefarious,” Miss Bradbury shuddered. “Perhaps he just prefers to keep to himself most of the time…”

All the other members of the Club would generally agree that a gentleman had the privilege to be selective of the company he indulged in. After all, a good number of them did prefer to stay away from social affairs too. 

But Miss Thomas had the most unfortunate character trait of one who never wanted to be told she was wrong. Before she had been declared a spinster by her beleaguered papa and hapless mama, she had been called a veritable termagant behind her back for her querulous nature.

“Of course, they would never say that out loud,” she told them all with a tone of derision. “After all, what villain would trumpet his misdeeds for all the world to hear? Mark my words—Lord Wentworth has probably murdered countless people and buried them in Wentworth Park!”

The idea of literal corpses becoming fertilizer for the vast and tangled gardens of Wentworth Park was so laughable that Phoebe had to pause from her scribbling to look up at her companions with a sigh.

“I certainly doubt the veracity of that particular claim,” she told them.

As one, their gazes all swiveled back to her, most of them confused and hopeful.

Miss Thomas regarded her with an icy glare. “And how would you know? Have you been to Wentworth Park?”

“Of course not,” she replied with an amiable smile at the quarrelsome lady. “But Townsend House is just near to Wentworth Park and one can clearly see the Marquess from my window if he ever deigned to go out and bury somebody in his own gardens. Besides,” she told the rest of the group, “if he is going about and murdering as much as Miss Thomas claims, then he certainly is not very punctual about it.”

She saw the twin spots of pink that colored Miss Thomas’s cheeks, but she felt that she must speak out of turn to defend the honor and reputation of a gentleman who was not himself present to stand up for himself in the face of such lies.

“What do you mean he is not at all punctual about it?” Miss Cartwright dared to ask, her eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Well, contrary to popular opinion, he does come out of his house,” Phoebe explained. “But it is always at around six in the evening and then, he proceeds to go about the rest of the estate…”

Miss Bradbury frowned. “Go about the rest of the estate doing what exactly?”

“Why, he inspects it, of course. Every inch of it, from what I could see.”

“But Wentworth Park is quite large! It would take him hours to accomplish such a task.”

Phoebe smiled at them. “Precisely. Now, if someone were to go about doing all that day after day, that would leave only the daytime hours for him to go about murdering people and that is hardly ideal unless one were to become a prolific killer in broad daylight.”

The other ladies let out horrified giggles, for although as dark and horrific the idea of murder was, it was also quite ridiculous to engage in such an act in broad daylight, with most of the world being wide awake to witness the act.

A murmur of agreement rose from amongst the other ladies as Miss Thomas bristled in annoyance from her seat. Phoebe even saw her throw a glare her way, but she just shrugged it all off. She was pretty much accustomed to Miss Thomas and her attitude by then and a glare was not really the worst she had received from the other spinster, all things considered.

“My, you certainly have Lord Wentworth all figured out,” Miss Thomas remarked in a saccharine tone. “A pity that he has not noticed you, then. In fact, the only attentions you have ever received was from—who was that again? Oh, Lord Edwin Oakley.”

At the mention of that name, Phoebe immediately stiffened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her pen.

Of course, Miss Thomas would bring out the Baron of Scunthorpe, which was a sore topic for Phoebe. He was the one thing that could reduce her to silence—and not in a good way.

Instead of flinging back a scathing retort, she looked down at the scrawled notes in her diary, her lowered eyes making out the name Charles written frequently amongst its pages.

Miss Thomas might hurl her vitriol at her, but Phoebe knew the truth—that Lord Wentworth was not the monster she made him out to be and she would not allow her to malign such a misunderstood man.

Before anyone could say anything else, Miss Cartwright let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, this was a rather, ah, lively discussion,” she smiled at her guests. “But it is getting rather late now so we might have to adjourn this meeting and meet again, say, the same time next week?’

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group and Phoebe inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, things between her and Miss Thomas did not have to escalate unnecessarily.

She quickly packed up her things into her little satchel, when she recalled that she had promised her younger sister, Daphne, that she had to be back home earlier. She quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the group, pointedly ignoring the smirk that Miss Thomas casually threw her way.

“Will you be here the same time next week, dear?” Miss Cartwright asked her with hopeful eyes. 

“Of course, Miss Cartwright,” Phoebe replied with a quick smile.

“Do take care on your way back,” her host told her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

Phoebe gave her a slight nod as she hurried out the door, her satchel swinging from her arm, its contents jostling from within. She put a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away as she quickly made her way into the carriage waiting for her.

“Back to Townsend Manor, please,” she told the coach. “And please hurry.”

“Right away, Miss Phoebe!” the coachman replied, and with a snap of the reins, they were off.

Oh, I do hope that I am not too late or Daphne will never forgive me!

If she had not been caught in a small argument with Miss Thomas, she might have been better able to keep track of the time and excused herself from the meeting earlier.

Well, at least I have made it clear that I do not live next door to a brutal murderer, she thought with a relieved sigh.

She did, however, feel more than a little incensed when Lord Edwin was brought up in the conversation. Miss Thomas certainly had no qualms about being rude and offensive for as long as she could have the upper hand in an argument!

As she looked out the window apprehensively, Phoebe could not help but let out a sigh once more.

Chapter Two

June 1815 

Townsend Manor

Phoebe knew herself to be a rather tolerant person in that she found herself to be more accepting of a person’s idiosyncrasies than most of the ton were willing to be. She also was not one to nurse a grudge. However, she found that she was still rather piqued when she arrived at Townsend Manor.

Perhaps piqued was not even the right word, for she was still in a dark mood, when a flurry of pale pink muslin nearly crashed into her from the door.

“You have arrived! Oh! I was so worried that you had forgotten about me!”

She found herself being wrapped in a frenzied hug and for a brief moment, she wondered if this was how she was going to die—smothered by muslin and still stewing with a significant amount of resentment towards Miss Thomas.

But Phoebe still wanted to enjoy a great deal of what life had to offer, so she managed a small smile as she gingerly extricated herself from her youngest sister’s exuberance.

“Daphne, you are already a young lady,” she gently reminded her sister. “Perhaps you should refrain from barreling at those who have just crossed the front door.”

She saw a faint, pretty blush adorn the younger girl—no, woman’s—cheeks as her sister appeared properly chastised for her behavior. That was soon followed by a more childish pout and Phoebe smiled a little more ruefully at the sight.

Perhaps she is not as grown up as she likes to think herself, she thought as she took off her bonnet and gloves.

“I had thought you had forgotten about me,” Daphne repeated, the complaint clear in her voice. “You promised you would be home by four.”

The eldest daughter of the Townsend household nodded slightly. “Of course, I did, but the meeting dragged on for far longer than I would have liked.”

It could have ended much sooner, if Miss Thomas kept her tongue in check, she added in her mind.

“Well, no matter!” Daphne declared as she dragged her older sister upstairs to her rooms. “You must help me—I am in a right state wondering what to wear for dinner tomorrow.”

“I hardly think the approval of a spinster should accomplish your goals.”

“Spinster or not, you have attended three Seasons. Your experience is, at this point, most invaluable, Fi.”

Phoebe smiled to herself as Daphne continued to drag her upstairs. Indeed, she had made her bow and attended all of three Seasons, but she did not have much to show for it. As far as the ton were concerned, it had all ended with dismal results for she had no husband to show for herself.

There was one suitor, but the mere thought of him had her glowering once more—something that Daphne managed to catch.

“You do seem like you are in a less than stellar mood today,” she remarked softly as they stood just outside the door to her bedchamber. “Perhaps I should not have dragged you so needlessly—”

“Oh, dearest, that is hardly your fault!” Phoebe cried as she hugged her sister. “It is just that…well…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Thomas brought up the subject of the Baron of Scunthorpe earlier at the meeting…”

Phoebe knew she needed not expound further on the matter when she saw the realization dawning on her younger sister’s face.

“Well, that was rather rude of her!” Daphne huffed as she pushed the door open. “And I have heard of this Miss Thomas—she sounds like a dreadful character, really.”

“Who is a dreadful character, Daphne dear?” a voice queried.

Phoebe peered inside the room to find the third Townsend sister seated on the couch with a book on her lap. Minerva looked back at her like a curious little owl, her head tilted slightly as she regarded her two sisters from the doorway.

“Miss Thomas!” Daphne bit out. “She just mentioned that…that…unwelcome presence during their meeting!”

Phoebe let out a small smile as her youngest sister expressed an extreme indignation for what she had experienced at the meeting with Miss Thomas.

Sisters are truly a loyal and ferocious bunch.

Well, her sisters, at least, for she knew a great many amongst the ton who turned against their own.

“No!” Minerva breathed out. “She did not!”

Phoebe could tell that her second sister truly had strong feelings on her behalf also, for she had set aside her book as she stood up suddenly.

“The sheer audacity!” Minerva remarked.

“I know, right? It is no wonder that most people I know have shunned her.” Daphne let out a delicate shudder. “Even her poor mama has had to contend with her misdeeds for it appears she had made a great number of foes before.”

Phoebe looked at her two younger sisters, who appeared to have worked themselves up into a fit of righteous indignation on her behalf. The earlier resentment that she felt towards Miss Thomas and her reminder of the Baron started to dissipate and she smiled a little bit more as she laid a hand on Daphne’s shoulder.

“Come now. Let us shelf that matter,” she coaxed her. “You have a dinner to attend tomorrow, I believe? Why, we must make sure that you are simply the most radiant creature that Lord Brunswick has ever laid his eyes on!”

Daphne blushed a vivid rosy hue as she cast down her gaze shyly. “You know that nothing is settled yet between us. I just wanted to make a good impression…”

“And you shall, of course!” Minerva declared loyally. “After all, where else can he find such a beautiful and talented young lady in all of London?”

“Stop it, Minerva! You know that is not true!”

Phoebe reached out into the wardrobe and pulled out a dress of pale blue silk shot through with delicate golden embroidery. “This one should bring out the color of your eyes wonderfully, dearest. And it looks so elegant, does it not?”

“Yes, but I think you also look pretty in that pale rose dress from Madame Chagnon,” Minerva pointed out with a shrug. “But what do I know about dresses, really?”

Daphne pulled out the dress that her second sister was referring to and held it up in front of her with an appreciative look.

“Actually, it does look charming, Minerva,” she agreed. She hurried over to the mirror and smiled. “Your suggestion has merit.”

Phoebe watched as her sister shyly ducked her head and mumbled under her breath that she was glad she could help.

“Actually, I think that the blue would be better for another event,” she agreed. “It is rather elegant, but it might come off as a little… well, unapproachable.”

Minerva nodded. “Perhaps for a ball where you need to shock them all!”

The sisters burst into giggles as they all piled onto the plush sofa, the dresses they had chosen carefully put aside.

“You know, this almost feels like that time when we were children and we went through Mama’s wardrobe,” Daphne remarked wistfully.

Minerva snorted. “As I recall, Mama was not so pleased with us at that time. We had to go without pudding for a week!”

“No pudding for a week is the absolute worst!”

They happily chatted amongst themselves, indulging in the occasional fit of giggles and lighthearted banter that was the hallmark of their sisterly affection, when Phoebe’s eyes landed upon the clock on her sister’s mantelpiece. She nearly shot out of her seat when she saw that it was already six in the evening.

“I should go now!” she said, hastily collecting her things.

Daphne sat up with a frown. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nothing much. I—I just recalled that I have something else to do.” She shot her youngest sister an apologetic smile and added, “You will look absolutely beautiful tomorrow, Daph, and Lord Brunswick should feel honored to have you as his guest.”

She noted the shy blush that bloomed on her sister’s face, but she said nothing of it as she hurried back to her own rooms. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she casually tossed her satchel onto the sofa and hurried over to the windows that faced Wentworth Park.

At six, he always goes out to make a round around Wentworth Park, she thought to herself. Always. Without fail.

This, Phoebe knew, for she had been observing the Marquess of Wentworth for some time already. At first, she would make notes of it in her journal, but over time, she had come to know his routines by heart.

Around this time, the curtains all over Wentworth Park would be shuttered close nearly in unison. She had earlier noticed that they were so thick that hardly any light passed through them, so much so that it would seem as if the whole house was plunged into darkness simultaneously. It was almost as if its mysterious owner wished to give off the impression that there was no one in the entire residence.

Or maybe, he just does not appreciate the rest of the public minding his business…

Perhaps if he believed he had a neighbor like Miss Thomas, who only thought of him as a rampant murderer, Phoebe could certainly understand why he would not be so inclined to share his activities with the rest of the public.

However, a few minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the Marquess. In addition to that, she noted that several curtains had also remained open, when they should have been shuttered close already.

Now, that is strange, she mused to herself. Where could His Lordship be at this time? He is always punctual.

For many months already, she could count on him to come out for his evening jaunt to the point that she had come to think of it as some sort of tacit secret between them both. For him to deviate from his usual routine felt almost as if he had let her down in some way.

Where could he be? Phoebe thought to herself with a frown. Surely, he is not involved in something nefarious as Miss Thomas claims!

A lot of people deviate from their rituals frequently. Phoebe herself was not a creature of habit, so why should she expect the Marquess of Wentworth to stick to such a rigid routine?

Still, she felt it was rather unsettling to not see his familiar figure garbed all in black heading out to check the perimeters of his estate with a lantern in hand. It was not just disappointment—she truly felt a certain degree of concern for the mysterious Lord and his rather predictable habits.

I wonder what could have held him up, she thought to herself, sighing as she sat at the window seat. She propped her face up with her hand and stared out at Wentworth Park and the windows with their curtains still hanging open.

Chapter Three

Phoebe 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…

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 19th of August!