Claimed by the Rogue (21 page)

The woman nodded solemnly. “There ain’t many o’ yahr stashun what would put ’emselves aht fer da likes o’ us. If I live ter be one an’ one ’undred, I’ll never forget yahr kindness.”

Phoebe shrugged aside the praise. “If you ever find yourself in need, or if you wish for my help in getting another message to Mary, you are to let me know at once.” She opened her reticule and handed over one of her cream-colored calling cards.

If Robert hadn’t loved her already, he would have fallen hard and fast in that moment.

“It was lovely meeting you.” Phoebe turned toward Robert.

Mistress Fry called her back. “Hold!” She whisked behind the booth, picked up her scoop and began shoveling shells onto a sheet of waxed paper. “The best o’ da lot, freshly shucked,” she said with obvious pride. Bundling them with string, she passed the present over the counter to Phoebe.
 

Whilst Phoebe had nibbled upon many an oyster patty served at buffet suppers, Robert doubted she’d ever come close to eating an uncooked bivalve. Expression alarmed, she drew back. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

Robert stepped forward. “We would be delighted.” Before Phoebe could protest again, he snatched up the bag.

The oyster woman’s gaze flickered back to Phoebe. “Is that yahr man?” she asked Phoebe as though he weren’t standing all but under her nose.

Curious as to how she would answer, Robert forced himself to stay silent.

“We are friends. The best of friends,” Phoebe added, keeping her gaze trained on Mary’s mother.

Dividing her gaze between them, Mistress Fry grinned. “If I’d ’ad a
friend
like yahrs instead o’ da bilge rat what knocked me up, me life might ’ave gone differently.”

Blushing prettily, Phoebe turned back to Robert. “We should be getting along.”

Heart fisting with the force of all the love he felt but for now must hold within, he smiled down on her. “In that case, milady, your carriage awaits.”

Feeling safe by Robert’s side, Phoebe exited the market shed in a sort of happy haze the likes of which she’d not known for years. Despite the errand keeping them away longer than she’d planned upon, she couldn’t wish it otherwise. Meeting Mary’s mother had been deeply moving. As it happened, Mistress Fry had missed the last two Saturday afternoons in Russell Square through no fault of her own. The woman who typically minded the oyster stall on Saturdays had quit and Mistress Fry had been forced to take over those shifts in addition to her own. Her unenviable choice had been to miss seeing her daughter or risk losing her employment.
 

The mission of mercy had turned into something of an adventure. Despite living in London year-round for the last six years, the present was Phoebe’s first excursion to an actual market. Europe’s largest fish market had not disappointed. Once she’d become accustomed to the hubbub, she’d found herself fascinated. The sights, the noise, even the smells were all foreign to her. Not, however, to Robert.

Glancing over at him, not for the first time she marveled on how confident and at ease he seemed here, far more so than in the assembly rooms of Almack’s or even her parents’ small ballroom. Though she’d rather eat…raw oysters than admit it, the ease with which he’d navigated them through the crush, the sense of being utterly cherished and protected by him, was more than a bit thrilling.
 

And then there was his compassion, which he showered so freely upon all, including Mistress Fry. In hindsight Phoebe saw that, if left to stand, her refusal of the oyster woman’s gift might have been interpreted as snobbery, undoing much of the goodwill sewn during her brief visit. Fortunately Robert had understood—and acted. His swift intervention had saved face and feelings for everyone. She glanced to the tied parcel he carried by its string and wished she’d made more of an effort to overcome her squeamishness.

Swinging the parcel, he turned his rogue’s smile once more upon her. “Oysters are accounted to be an aphrodisiac. Are you certain you won’t try one?”

“Quite.” An aphrodisiac—as if Phoebe was in want of such a thing when Robert was about. Despite the conditions she’d earlier imposed upon their “friendship”, she found herself wishing she might cast caution to the wind—along with Rule Number One.

She wanted to kiss Robert. She wanted it rather badly. The angry embrace they’d shared on his first night back had become a source of near-constant obsession.
 

Only, wanton creature that he’d made her, she wouldn’t be satisfied with stopping at his mouth. She wanted to touch her lips and teeth and tongue to the whole of his big, lean, beautiful body. Imagining what it might be like to unbutton first his waistcoat and then his shirt and kiss a queue from his muscle-corded throat to washboard-flat belly and beyond had kept her awake for much of the previous night. She could but imagine how beautiful he must be beneath his well tailored if gaudily colored garments.
 

Unfortunately, she had no recourse but to imagine. In contrast to his former freeness, he’d kept himself scrupulously buttoned since his return. Other than the glimpses of hair-dusted forearms she’d dared during their picnic, she had to make do with memory. From the few times she’d touched him since his return, she’d gleaned an impression of lean muscle and steely strength. Though he certainly sought out every excuse to lay hands upon her, he seemed to have developed a dislike of being touched himself. The Robert of six years before had begged for back rubs, so much so that she’d teased he rivaled Pippin in pandering for pets. The man who’d returned in his stead stiffened to stone if she so much as laid a glove upon his shoulder. The odd aversion was yet another reminder that the “smooth-cheeked boy” with whom she’d fallen so madly in love was no more.

Lost to daydreaming, she scarcely registered them reaching the carriage until they were upon it. Glancing up, she saw that Caleb hadn’t budged from his seat on the box. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but the body beneath the loose-fitting robes seemed to have shrunk since their leave-taking. Rather than climb down and open the door for them, he stayed put. Reminded of the hand-and-foot way he’d waited upon them during their picnic, his sudden sloth struck Phoebe as strange. Tearing around the hospital lawn with the children and Pippin in pursuit must have worn him out indeed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Robert’s frown. He reached for the door, opened it and paused. From habit, Phoebe held out her hand in preparation for being handed up.

Instead of doing so, he turned away and backed up with a view to the box. “Ho, Caleb, I’ve brought you your favorite delicacy, freshly shucked oysters.”
 

Face covered, Caleb pivoted fractionally toward him.

Robert hauled back and lobbed the parcel at the manservant. Hands, narrow and pale, shot out to receive it, catching it neatly.

Robert backed up a step, slanting Phoebe a warning look. Not that he needed to. Like a phantom ship, her happy haze had vanished. Hairs pricked her nape. Dread sent her stomach sinking.

The carriage dipped as a second man, dressed as a dockworker, leapt down from the footman’s rest where he must have lain in wait all along. “What fine fortune, for I fancy oysters meself.” Advancing to close the gap between them, he flashed a gold-toothed grin—and the primed pistol he held down at his side. “Now be a good girl and gent and climb inside. We’re going for a little ride.”

Heart pounding, Phoebe backed away, edging closer to Robert. Wordless, he stretched out a hand toward her. She took it, and his fingers closed firmly about her palm.
 

Turning to her, he shouted, “Run!”
 

Skirting the wharves, they tore past Custom House toward Tower Hill, Robert hoping to lose their pursuers in the warren of winding streets and alleys. What followed was a blur of crooked lanes, concealed courtyards and rubbish-strewn alleys. Six years away had muddied his memory and in truth he’d never known the eastern environs terribly well. Unlike Reggie and others of his set, forays into the city’s seedier sections had never appealed to him. Even so, his experiences whilst away had honed his survival instincts to a fine point. Ducking beneath lines of laundry strung between rabbit-hole-sized windows, he urged Phoebe forward.

They darted across Rosemary Lane, the footpads hot on their heels, the dockhands, doxies and denizens barely sparing them a second look, as though two people running for their lives was a commonplace occurrence. Perhaps it was. Had he been alone, Robert would have gambled on his ability to outrun them, and to cut them down with his cutlass if they caught up, but having Phoebe with him placed both possibilities out of the question. Despite the admirable pace she’d so far kept up, she was hopelessly hampered by her gown and soft-soled slippers. A fleeting look at her face confirmed she was flagging. Searching out a temporary sanctuary in which to hide, he drew her toward the back of an abandoned building. They entered the alley and despite the acrid odor she neither coughed nor choked.
 

They’d scarcely drawn a breath when shuffling feet announced their pursuers’ approach. Robert motioned Phoebe to silence. Breaths bated, they stood side-by-side, backs flattened against the crumbling wall as the pursuers passed by their hiding place.

“Do yew see ’em, mate?” one called out.

“Naw, they’re not ’ere. C’mon, let’s move on. Stinks somethin’ terrible.”

Signaling her to silence, Robert unpeeled his damp back from the stones.
 

Phoebe peered past him to the alley entrance. “Fancy we gave them the slip?” she whispered.

Improbably Robert found himself fighting a smile. “I think they’ve passed on, if that’s what you mean, but to be safe we’ll bide here a few minutes more. By the by, where did you pick up street cant?” They hadn’t been at the market all that long.

“Sorry. I suppose my students have rubbed off on me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, more impressed than he was willing to admit. “Given where we’re bound, it might prove useful.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Where
are
we bound?”

“We can’t return to the carriage just yet. They’ll be expecting us to do just that. We’ll need a haven to hide for a few hours until our trail cools and they abandon their pursuit.”

She nodded. “I agree, but where?”

“I may know someone who might be prevailed upon to take us in. One of my crew has a…
friend
with a lodging house on Well Street.” Sandy was a Cockney to his core, having drawn his first breath within earshot of the Bow Bells. His reminiscences of home were so detailed that Robert had felt as if a mental map had been drawn. For Phoebe’s sake as well as his, he hoped to God that were true. “But before we continue on, we need to render some…alterations to your appearance.”

Phoebe glanced down at herself, then back over at him. “I wasn’t aware I required altering.”

“A scalawag such as I shall slip in without eliciting a second look, but you, m’dear, are too conspicuously top drawer for your own good.”
As well as far too beautiful.

“Are you quite certain I am the one who is conspicuous?” She cast a pointed stare to his latest colorful frockcoat.

“You are for this end of the city.”

“Very well, what improvements do you recommend?” Despite their dire straits, she managed a smile.

“You can start by taking off those gloves.”

Phoebe lifted her hand to her forehead in a mock salute. “Aye, captain.”

“Most amusing, now get to it.”

Phoebe did, beginning with her left hand and pulling at the fabric tipping each finger. She used her teeth to hasten things along, nibbling the seams of the soft cloth, and Robert felt his mouth go dry. Were they anywhere besides a filthy alley, the act would be inordinately erotic. Even under their present pressed circumstances, it
was
erotic, arousing as hell
.
He made a mental note to have her repeat the act for him one day soon—in private though not in an alley.

She peeled off the right glove and passed him the pair. “What next?” she said, the glow to her gaze making him wonder if she weren’t perhaps a whit aroused herself.

Stuffing the gloves into his coat pocket, he lowered his regard to her breasts, modestly covered. She wouldn’t like it a whit, but the fichu filling in her gown’s bodice would have to go.
 

Hoping she wouldn’t fight him on it, he waived a hand toward her bosom. “No East End doxy would be caught dead looking so prim and proper.”

She glared at him. “But I’m not a…doxy.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, thinking how infinitely simpler his life might be if she were. “But for the next several hours, we need to make you look as much the drab as possible.”
 

Even in the shadowed alley, there was no missing the blush branding her cheek. Turning slightly away, she slipped a hand inside her bodice. Robert’s mouth went dry. Even though he knew she only felt for the pins, watching her touch herself there had his body heating.

Facing back to him, she handed the lace over in silence.

Robert took it. Slender though she was, she’d filled out since he’d departed. Her breasts were fuller, her hips and buttocks fully fleshed and subtly curved. His regard riveted on her bosom, twin alabaster slopes that rhythmically rose and fell as if taunting him to touch her. Well-remembering their texture and taste, the way her coral-colored nipples had danced upon his tongue, Robert was tempted to do just that—and more.