Page 12 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

Nothing.

She quieted her breathing and strained her ears. Had it been…could it possibly have been…the latch on her bedroom door being slowly lifted?

It was as though she could hear the house alive all around her. A few creaks, a rattle far off somewhere. Outside some lone person was pushing a handcart along the road. An owl hooted, who must surely have his usual home in Hyde Park or Berkeley Square, not here in Hill Street. Another owl replied. This was the dead of night.

Nothing. She should go back to sleep. She tried to relax.

But she couldn’t. Something was not right in the house. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. If only she knew what time it was. If she lit her candle, she could look at Papa’s old fob watch which had come to her on his death and which she kept beside her bed as Aunt Fanny said it was not the done thing for a young lady to wear. She had a number of mementoes from Papa stored in her room, most of them things Aunt Fanny frowned on.

She reached towards her candle.

Her doorlatch almost imperceptibly rattled. Yes. That had been the noise that had disturbed her. She was right.

Her hand stopped moving and she held her breath, listening.

She couldn’t see the doorlatch clearly in the gloom, nor even the door itself, but she could almost feel it rising as someone, someone clandestine who didn’t want to wake her, lifted it.

Her first thought was that it was Atkins come back to collect something she’d forgotten. But none of the servants would be about now, and, with absolute certainty, she knew this was not Atkins, who would be sound asleep with the other servants up in their attic bedrooms. Out of earshot. And also very much out of reach if she rang the bell for her.

So who could this be, sneaking about the house in the depths of night?

Not someone who should be doing so, that was certain, or they would not be doing it with such cautious subterfuge.

Phoebe might be crippled by shyness when in crowds, but she was not a fool, and she was not a coward. If this was a burglar, or some other such criminal, then she would be ready for him.

She pushed back her covers and slid out of bed onto silent feet, pulling her bolster down under the eiderdown to make it resemble a sleeping person, and groped under her bed. That was where she kept Papa’s old things. The ones Aunt Fanny so disapproved of. Her fingers closed around the well-worn handle of Papa’s old cricket bat. Gripping it in both hands, a few long strides on tiptoe took her to the door. Hardly daring to breathe, she pressed herself up against the wall. As the door opened, it should hide her.

If she’d stopped to think, she might not have acted so bravely, but stopping to think was not her forte. And besides, hiding under the covers and pretending to be asleep was the action of a coward. She could do this.

She’d hidden not a moment too soon. Very slowly, perhaps because whoever was opening it was afraid it might creak, the door began to swing open. Not a creak was to be heard. Not that there was anyone but her to hear it, as both Aunt Fanny and Mattie not only slept at the back of the house, but also on the far side of the staircase and wide landing. It would take a big noise to disturb either of them, especially after such a late night.

Phoebe found she’d been holding her breath when she had to let it out. But the person creeping through the door didn’t appear to have noticed.

A tall, stealthy figure, which appeared to be dressed all in black, slid into the room on feet as silent as hers had been. Good heavens. Could it be the Mayfair Highwayman himself? Phoebe suppressed an involuntary gasp just in time.

He, for the figure’s height and clothing proved it was undoubtedly a man, and a tall one at that, paused for a moment as though to find his bearings. His head turned to left and right as though weighing up the contents of the room. The bolster on her bed looked satisfyingly like a sleeping figure, glimpsed in a gloom illuminated only faintly by the streetlights.

Phoebe didn’t move, but tightened her hold on her cricket bat, glad of its length.

The man turned his head and for a brief moment she saw his silhouetted profile against the dim oblong of the lamplit window. A head of curly hair, a high brow, a straight nose, and a firm chin: all of that she saw in that instant. A rather noble profile for a thief in the night. Was he really likely to be one of their own servants? A quick review in her head provided her with none who could have a profile such as this man.

He was now looking at the bolster in the bed. Was he taken in by it?

She waited. Caution warned her that unless he was doing something criminal, she probably shouldn’t just attack him with her cricket bat. There might be some perfectly logical reason for this nocturnal visit. She just couldn’t think of one.

He turned his head again and looked across at her dressing table.

Aha. That was definitely what the Mayfair Highwayman would be looking for.

Still on silent feet, he padded across the room and peered at the very tidy top of the dressing table, left so by the very tidy Atkins. His hand went out, hesitated, then reached for her jewelery box.

Her pearls. He was after her pearls. Mama’s family pearls, in fact. Indignant rage rose within her. How dare he. How very dare he. She wasn’t about to stand back and let him steal her great grandmother’s pearls.

Perhaps because of her size, she was more than capable of moving as silently as her visitor, whom she now knew for certain to be a burglar, noble profile or not. And most likely the Mayfair Highwayman himself.

As she moved, she swung back the cricket bat.

Perhaps it was the swish of the bat in the air, or perhaps some sixth sense that warned the burglar of her approach. He began to turn.