Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Ground floor, second door on the left. You won’t be able to miss it.’
‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ Phoebe straightened her spine and wished it did not feel like she was about to go into battle. ‘Would you mind asking the cook for a saucer of milk? My kitten is a bit hungry. Robert appeared to enjoy watching it chase a piece of string this morning.’
‘That I will, miss. And it is good you stood up for Master Robert.’
Phoebe went down the stairs, heartened at the thought that the staff supported her actions. She started to open the second door when there was no reply to her knock. It was a bit stiff, but gave way when she applied her shoulder to it. ‘Mr Clare, I would like to speak with you.’
A faint light shone through the shutters, but the room was shrouded in dust cloths. A faint dusty dank smell pervaded it; in the corner, a single dried rose lay abandoned.
Phoebe took a half-step inside. A ballroom, rather than a study. She had made a mistake with the butler’s instructions.
She would simply grab the rose and tidy up, the work of a moment. It seemed so sad and lonely there with cobwebs festooning the chandelier. A lonely reminder of some happier time. She half-closed her eyes, imagining what this room must look like when filled with light and people. It must be truly magnificent with an orchestra in the background and the excited chatter. A cloth covered most of the floor, but where it was pulled back, she could tell it was highly polished. Out of the corner of her eye she spied a spinet, its dust cover half off. Phoebe hesitated, looking at the black keys. Some servant had undoubtedly been careless and had left it open.
Quickly she walked over, intending to cover it, but her fingers brushed the keys. A low sound came out and her heart turned over. How long had it been since she had played? Of all the things they had lost, her spinet had hurt the most. But economies had had to be made, even if Alice had at first refused to see it.
Softly she picked out a simple tune, listening to the bell-like quality of the instrument. She closed her eyes, letting the music flow over her, holding her in its embrace.
A door behind her opened, and she froze, hands poised over the keyboard.
‘Ah, Miss Benedict, I fear you have lost your way. This room is never used. What precisely are you searching for? And why did you think you might find it here?’
Her cheeks burned as if she had spent hours in front of a roaring fire. Such a foolish thing to do. To play an instrument without permission.
Mr Clare watched her from the door across the hall with a sardonic expression on his face. He looked so very different from the man she had glimpsed in his shirt sleeves last night. Once again he was the pirate captain, prowling the deck of his ship, looking for people to feed to the sharks.
‘I appear to have mistaken the butler’s directions.’ Her hands smoothed her skirt. Absurdly she wished that she was wearing a colour better suited to her complexion than jonquil. ‘I was searching for your study.’
She left the ballroom without a backwards glance.
‘Indeed.’ He reached out and closed the door with a bang and then turned the key in the lock. ‘Endeavour to remember precisely what your business is. And where you conduct it.’
‘I doubt I will have any need to go in there again.’ Phoebe pressed her hands together, knowing that her cheeks flamed. It had been wrong of her to play, but at the same time it had felt so wonderful to have music flowing from her fingertips again. She doubted that Mr Clare would understand the lure of music. ‘I am here to look after your son, not to attend dances or to play the spinet.’
‘For future reference, my study is across the hall. I trust you will not be lost again.’ His face turned cold.
Phoebe forced her lips into a smile as inside she fumed. She of all people should have known better than to be swept away by such things. Wool-gathering, her stepmother called it. Sophia would sniff and call it something worse. ‘With you to lead the way, how could I be?’
‘Is your tongue often tart, Miss Benedict? You certainly seem to have no fear or hesitation of speaking your mind.’
‘Only when necessary, Mr Clare.’
‘That makes a change.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Here I was thinking you spoke it all the time, and the devil take the hindmost.’
‘It is one of the disadvantages of mixing with my stepbrothers. My tongue has become far too free.’
‘And how many do you have?’
‘Three.’ Phoebe drew a deep breath. ‘I took an interest in my stepbrothers and their well-being. They have had their scrapes, but they have all turned out well. My eldest brother’s carriage accident had nothing to do with his upbringing and everything to do with taking a corner too tightly.’
‘And where was your stepmother? Did she take no interest in her children?’
Phoebe bit her lip. How did one begin to describe Alice, the Dowager Viscountess? Her nerves and her sudden enthusiasms, none of which included her children. Phoebe banished the thought as unworthy. Her stepmother was a good woman in her own way, and it was not her stepmother’s fault that her husband had perished in the way that he had. Phoebe knew where the fault lay with that. And after her father’s death, her stepmother had been incapable of anything but wallowing in self-pity. Someone had to comfort the boys and make sure they were brought up properly. ‘My stepmother is not one of nature’s nurses.’
‘And you are?’ His voice was liquid honey, flowing over her. Seductive and smooth.
Phoebe kept her eyes firmly on the Turkey-patterned carpet in the hallway. Was he mocking her? ‘I have reason to believe so.’
‘How pleasant it must be to have this passion to look after other people. To know what is right for them. Pure arrogance, Miss Benedict.’
‘To make them well, to make them whole again.’ She glanced up into his ravaged face. Her breath stopped. Did he need healing as well? Her cheeks heated at the wayward thought.
‘Nothing will make me well again, Miss Benedict.’ He inclined his head. ‘I charge you to remember that. I have no need of a nursemaid or a helping hand.’
‘I never…’ Phoebe clutched the folds of her skirt, twisting them about her fingers. Rapidly she schooled her features. ‘I am here as Robert’s nurse, not yours. And the only person I will pity is anyone foolish enough to attempt to look after you.’
‘And do the rest of your family also have this passion for sticking their noses into other people’s business? Going into closed rooms?’
‘It…it has been a long time since I have seen as fine an instrument as that spinet, let alone played one. I have begged your pardon. That should be the end of it.’
‘I sincerely hope it is, Miss Benedict. Temptation can be a dangerous thing. As you wish to examine my study, you might as well satisfy your curiosity—I see I will get no peace until you do.’
Phoebe brushed past him and into the study with as much dignity as she could muster. In stark contrast to the shrouded and mummified ballroom, the study burst with light and warmth. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth and the curtains had been drawn back to allow the winter sunshine in. Every surface had paper piled high on it. In one corner a model of a travelling engine stood. Phoebe stared at it, puzzled, but at the sound of rattling papers she turned her attention back to Simon Clare, who had sat down in an armchair.
‘Now that you have seen the study, is that all? Or was there something more than the urge to gawp?’
‘I…I…’
‘You appear at a loss for words.’ Mr Clare stretched out his legs. ‘Surely you are not coming to say that you wish to leave.’
‘No, not that.’
‘Very well. Your visit here saves me the trouble of climbing up the stairs. Precisely