Page 51 of To Hunt the Hunter

“Don’t be cross, Mr Bennet,” Matilda said, winking at Phoebe, who grinned with delight. “Or I shall make you travel with Mama and Papa.”

Lucian groaned, tipped his hat over his eyes, and pretended to go to sleep.

Though Phoebe’s disappointment was eloquent, they had no need to use their disguises during the course of their first day. Pippin—or Grandmama, as Phoebe insisted on addressing her—had provided a sumptuous picnic, which they ate in the carriage. Lucian was silent, his complexion ashen, and Matilda was in little doubt that the jolting over bad roads was giving him a deal of discomfort. She also knew that the stubborn man would endure the fires of Hades before he’d admit as much. So, she did the best she could to keep Phoebe entertained and quiet, so as not to aggravate his nerves on top of whatever he was suffering.

By the time they reached The White Hart in Saint Albans, everyone was tired and fractious. Lucian’s irritation climbed perceptibly the moment it dawned on him that he could not order the entire staff of The Black Horse to jump, and wait for them to ask how high, my lord? He was Mr Bennet, and Mr Bennet had to wait his turn, and would not get the best room nor the best treatment and, if he got impatient, he could damn well lump it.

Surprisingly, Denton seemed to be taking the blow to his pride in even worse heart than Lucian. His indignation was palpable on his employer’s behalf and Matilda thought the entire affair doomed to failure when, finally, the private parlour was made ready for them and dinner appeared promptly thereafter.

Dinner was a tense affair. Denton and Mrs Frant appeared to be sat upon thorns to be dining with the marquess. Lucian picked at his food, eating next to nothing despite Matilda’s encouragement that he must keep his strength up. Pippin, whilst quite at her ease, lamented the lack of seasoning in the rabbit stew—not to mention the lack of rabbit—and the fact the vegetables had been boiled to a grey-green paste, and expressed vigorous disappointment with the suet pudding, which in her opinion was fit merely for use as a doorstop. Only Phoebe seemed undaunted, inhaling her dinner with no complaints, and chatting merrily to her companions without batting an eyelid at the strange circumstances in which they found themselves.

When Mr and Mrs West excused themselves and retired for the night, with Mrs Frant blushing like a newlywed, Lucian watched them go before turning to Pippin and lifting a pale blond brow in enquiry.

Pippin returned a smug grin.

“What you don’t know don’t hurt you none, my lord,” she said, before her expression turned stiff. “And you’ll not punish them none for it, neither, I hope. It’s about time they got themselves sorted. Best part of twenty years she’s been pining for him and him none the wiser. Took her nearly as long to ask for my help too. Still, I sorted them out. They’d marry if it didn’t mean losing their positions.”

She gave him a pointed look, and Matilda watched as Lucian returned her expression with a frown.

“Oh, was it a love potion, Pippin?”

Lucian scowled harder as he looked around, remembering too late that Phoebe was listening in and that the child was far too perceptive not to have figured out the gist of the conversation.

“Of course it wasn’t a love potion,” Lucian said in exasperation. “There are no such things, Phoebe.”

Pippin pursed her lips but said nothing. Instead, she turned to Phoebe. “Come along then, my lamb. You can sleep with your grandmama tonight. I don’t doubt they’ve not aired the bed properly, and you’ll make a fine bedwarmer.”

“Wait. What?” Lucian said, sitting up. “No. There is a bed made up in our room for Phoebe.”

“Oh, but you’ll not be wanting her chatter all evening, talking your ear off, not when you’ve had her all day. Besides, I’ve missed my little Mistress Barrington, and it will be nice to have some company for a change.”

“No, Pippin….” he said, his voice stern.

Matilda saw, as Lucian could not see, the sly wink that Pippin gave Phoebe, and the alacrity with which the child responded.

“Oh, yes, Pippin. Will you tell me stories too, about when uncle was a little boy, with his brothers, and all the naughty things he did?”

“Reckon I could be persuaded,” Pippin said, holding out her hand and blithely ignoring Lucian.

“Hurrah!” Phoebe exclaimed and ran to Lucian to kiss his cheek. “Good night, Papa, good night, Mama.”

She kissed Matilda too and rushed from the room with Pippin as fast as they could manage.

“I get the distinct feeling I am being managed,” he said bitterly.

Matilda smiled. “Don’t be cross. This is Phoebe’s dream come true, and Pippin is an old romantic.”

Lucian snorted. “Romantic? Giving me leave to debauch an innocent young lady is not romantic.”

“But she’s not giving you leave, Lucian,” Matilda said softly. “I am.”

His breath caught, and the first faint touch of colour she’d seen in his face all day marked his cheeks. He closed his eyes, but not before Matilda saw them darken with longing.

“No.” The hand that rested on the table clenched. “I’ll sleep in a chair. On the floor, if it comes to it. God alone knows what damage I’ll have done to your reputation when this debacle is over. I’ll be damned if I’ll ruin you in truth.”

Matilda reached out and covered his hand, easing her fingers between his and unclenching his fist. “I can’t turn back now, Lucian. We have this time together, this strange little theatrical we are acting out. Let us at least make the most of it. Give me something to remember you by, my love.”

“Like a bastard?” he demanded, his voice hard and cold.