Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels 5)

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.”

Or send for me, and I’ll come throw you a rope.

—W. R.

Every time Phoebe had read those words—at least a dozen times since they’d left Eversby Priory—a giddy sensation rushed through her. It had hardly escaped her notice that West had marked sections of the book with x’s, just as she had marked Henry’s book so long ago. A sly bit of flirtation, those x’s—she was welcome to interpret them as kisses, while he could still maintain deniability.

Infuriating, complicated man.

She wished he hadn’t come to her door this morning. It would have been easier to leave Eversby Priory while she was still angry with him. Instead, he had undercut all her hurt and fury with searing honesty. He had laid bare his soul. He’d all but said he loved her.

This relationship with him—if that was what it was—had happened too fast. There had been no time to savor anything, no time to think. They had behaved as if they were in their teens, all passion and impulse, no common sense. She had never expected to feel this way again, young and hopeful and intensely desired. He’d made her feel as if there were untapped qualities in her waiting to be discovered.

“Will you send for him?” Seraphina asked softly, still looking down at the inscription.

Phoebe made certain their parents were still occupied with Stephen before she whispered, “I don’t think so.”

“He’s very taken with you.” Seraphina handed back the book. “Everyone could see it. And you like him, don’t you?”

“I do. But there’s too much I don’t know about him. He has a disreputable past, and I have the children to think about.” Phoebe hesitated, disliking the way that sounded, so prim and judgmental.” Sighing, she added glumly, “He made it clear that marriage is out of the question.”

Seraphina looked bewildered. “But everyone wants to marry you.”

“Not quite everyone, apparently.” Phoebe opened the book and touched the initials W. R. with her fingertip. “He says he’s not suited for fatherhood, and . . . well, marriage isn’t for every man.”

“Someone with his looks should be required by law to marry,” Seraphina said.

Phoebe gave a reluctant chuckle. “It does seem a waste.”

A knock at the enameled door of the carriage altered them to the presence of a porter and a platform inspector just outside.

Sebastian looked up and handed the baby back to Evie. He went to speak to the men. After a minute or two, he came back from the threshold with a basket. Looking both perturbed and amused, he brought it to Phoebe. “This was delivered to the station for you.”

“Just now?” Phoebe asked with a nonplussed laugh. “Why, I believe it’s Ernestine’s mending basket! Don’t say the Ravenels went to the trouble of sending someone all the way to Alton to return it?”

“It’s not empty,” her father said. As he set the basket in her lap, it quivered and rustled, and a blood-curdling yowl emerged.

Astonished, Phoebe fumbled with the latch on the lid and opened it.

The black cat sprang out and crawled frantically up her front, clinging to her shoulder with such ferocity that nothing could have detached her claws.

“Galoshes!” Justin exclaimed, hurrying over to her.

“Gosh-gosh!” Stephen cried in excitement.

Phoebe stroked the frantic cat and tried to calm her. “Galoshes, how . . . why are you . . . oh, this is Mr. Ravenel’s doing! I’m going to murder him. You poor little thing.”

Justin came to stand beside her, running his hands over the dusty, bedraggled feline. “Are we going to keep her now, Mama?”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Phoebe said distractedly. “Ivo, will you go with Justin to the dining compartment, and fetch her some food and water?”

The two boys dashed off immediately.

“Why has he done this?” Phoebe fretted. “He probably couldn’t make her stay at the barn, either. But she’s not meant to be a pet. She’s sure to run off as soon as we reach home.”

Resuming his seat next to Evie, Sebastian said dryly, “Redbird, I doubt that creature will stray more than an arm’s length from you.”

Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West’s handwriting.

Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position

To Whom It May Concern,

I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred.

Your servant,

Galoshes the Cat

Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents’ questioning gazes on her. “Job application,” she explained sourly. “From the cat.”

“How charming,” Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder.

“‘Personal companion,’ my foot,” Phoebe muttered. “This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin.”

“I wonder,” Seraphina said thoughtfully. “If she were truly feral, she wouldn’t want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It seems we’ll find out.”

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.