Anabelle Bryant - The Midnight Rake

His sister deserved some type of explanation to soothe her disappointment over Winton’s illogical dismissal. The gentleman’s abrupt drop from society could only be labeled dishonorable. Julia pleaded with him to discover what caused Winton’s fickle change of heart and while Phin endeavored to keep free of personal entanglements, he would be hard pressed to watch his sister suffer unnecessarily. With reluctance, he’d agreed to pursue the man on his sister’s behalf in hope of extracting an accounting for his recent behavior.

Phineas adjusted the drum of the reel and secured the wooden lace bobbin, casting as far into the waters as possible, the skittering noise of his line advancing as it arched through the sky a familiar sound. He rubbed the lucky penny in his trouser pocket, but luck was not his.

After an hour of similar failure, Phin conceded. He’d had no success and snapped his fishing rod when it caught on an unexpected quagmire. In a darker mood than earlier, he sunk into the leather squabs of his carriage and signaled to the driver with a sharp rap to the ceiling. He wished for nothing more than the sweet solitude he’d find upon arriving home. His mother remained at their country estate, Betcham Manor. His father had embarked on a grand tour months before and would continue his travels indefinitely. The allure of absolute quiet, a late supper and the respite to be found in his large bed, tempted with idyllic suggestion. He eased back against the cushions and relaxed, anticipating the peacefulness awaiting him at home.

Restlessness became his enemy and at last he arrived. Too anxious for the footman’s arrival, Phin’s boots hit the pavement before the carriage stopped in the drive. He bounded up the stone steps leading to the main entrance and barely reached the brass knob before the door flew wide, his butler present on the other side. The servant’s perturbed expression gave Phineas immediate pause.

“What is it, Jenkins?” The man’s usual conviviality appeared absent.

“Your mother, my lord.”

Phineas pushed into the marble-laid foyer, his eyes sweeping from wall to wall in uncertainty. “Is everything alright?” His voice was laced with concern. “Has a message arrived? Is there news of which I need to be made aware?”

The butler cleared his throat and leaned forward a fraction. “Your mother is here. She is currently upstairs. The household did not expect Her Grace’s arrival and I am afraid the sudden visit has upended the staff.”

“Jenkins, you alarmed me. Have a care.” Phineas relaxed, shrugging out of his waistcoat to hand to the servant. Then brushing a palm down his face, he exhaled fully. “Surely my mother’s unexpected arrival should not discomfort the staff. The house has been kept aright and I’ve only been gone a fortnight. What seems to be the trouble?”

“She has arrived with houseguests, my lord. And…” Jenkins swallowed with palpable hesitation.

“Out with it.” Phin’s patience evaporated along with his envisioned tranquility. He wanted nothing more than the solitude of his bedchamber, and now the option had been taken from him. He’d be forced to show for dinner with his mother in house. She would desire a full accounting of his trip to Brighton. He could only conclude her sudden decision to journey into London had been prompted by her need for company while Julia remained on holiday.

But wait, didn’t Jenkins mention she’d arrived with companions? Phin released a disappointed groan. The only thing making a long dinner worse was forcing a mood of congeniality when all he desired was a good night’s rest.

A high pitched squawk from above stairs interrupted his dismal conclusions.

“No.” Phineas’ eyes flared with the realization. “Jenkins?”

“Yes, my lord,” The butler shook his head in forbiddance, confirming his master’s assumption. “Her Grace brought the parrot.”

Phin didn’t trust a reply. His mother’s pet parrot was a veritable nuisance. Not only did the bird’s incessant screeching guarantee all household decorum would be lost, but the pest had taken an unnatural dislike to him. The feelings were mutual. One look at the red macaw guaranteed the onset of a severe megrim.

He placed a hand on the butler’s shoulder in reassurance, unable to suppress the slight smile curling the edge of his mouth at the gravity in which Jenkins relayed the news. “It won’t be so terrible, I promise you.” He spoke the placating words in hope of setting the man at ease then paused as two maids rushed past, piles of freshly folded linen in their arms. His eyes followed them as they hurried up the far staircase. “Our home will not be turned topsy-turvy so easily.”

When the older servant made no reply, Phin repeated his vow. “You will see. I will not allow it.”

Determined to discover what his mother was about, he set a brisk pace across the hall, his eyes noting every detail of his home remained in order. Velvet curtains were drawn allowing daylight in, the tiles gleamed with fresh polish, and not a speck of dust could be found on the disciplined carvings of the satinwood furnishings. He rounded the corner of the corridor nearest the drawing room, only to pull up abruptly, unable to stop as he collided with a stranger who exited the same room. Their bodies bumped together with enough force to momentarily stun him. As he retreated, his chin brushed the hair swept across the lady’s forehead, his entire body confused by the unexpected collision and the instantaneous reaction of each of his senses.

She smelled like vanilla, sweet and tempting, and his stomach may have growled at the observation. One thing remained certain, the accidental caress against her person more than convinced him this stranger in his house felt warm and wonderfully soft in all the right places. He recovered manners with a shake of his head, and moved aside with reluctance.

Sunlight streamed through the drawing room windows and washed over the lady motionless in the doorway. By damn, her eyes were unusual, flecks of gold dancing in startling green. With effort he forced out a coherent string of words.

“Pardon me.” His gaze followed hers as it dipped to the floor where a pair of ivory gloves lay on the cerulean carpet. “If I may?”

His voice held a note of confusion he could not explain. Bending at the waist, part purposeful bow, he lifted the gloves with care. The silk appeared worn, and he noted the top glove was missing two of its four pearl buttons.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Her small hand snatched the gloves from his grasp before he could consider them further, her fingertips sweeping against his palm in a smooth, silky caress, so delicate he wondered if he’d imagined it. But no, the sudden shot of awareness that jarred his heartbeat proved it occurred.

“I am Phineas Betcham, Viscount Fenhurst. This is my home. And you are…?”

A flash of surprise flickered in her deep green eyes and a smile made a fleeting appearance before the lady caught her bottom lip in indecision. Again, a peculiar feeling rushed through him. Perhaps the long carriage ride and the heat of the day had affected his stomach after all.

“My name is Penelope Rosebery. I’m a guest of the Countess.”

Her voice, melodic and calming, banished all thoughts of the intrusive parrot, inviting him to consider her fine features. Her bonnet fell backwards, the yellow ribbon circling her neck as if she’d just made entrance to the house. The delicate hat lay underneath a single long braid, the color of fresh baked scones. Her eyes, a mossy shade he’d never seen previously, sparkled, crystalline and intriguing; and her nose, pert and quick turned, was spattered with a handful of freckles likely gained by not wearing the bonnet. Were her cheeks flushed from their near collision or the circumstances of the situation? He could not know. All in all she presented a fetching picture; an utterly refreshing surprise during an inordinately difficult day.