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.”
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.