Cecelia fought the urge to fidget beneath his intense regard. One that carried weighty questions and even heavier accusations.
Also, she wondered if he realized that he’d agreed she was pretty …
“What’s yer name, child?” The rumble of his voice as he spoke to the girl threatened to unstitch something deep within Cecelia’s belly.
“I’m Phoebe.” She curtsied.
“It’s a pleasure to meet ye, Miss Phoebe.” They shook hands briefly, and the ghost of a smile haunted the corners of Ramsay’s mouth. “I’m—”
“I know who you are. You’re the Vicar of Vice. You were yelling last time you were here. I hid under the desk so you wouldn’t take me away.”
Every muscle in Ramsay’s features and body tensed once again, turning him into his usual statue of stone. “What is such a wee thing doing in a place like this?” he demanded with barely leashed fury. “Will I find her if I search the missing persons reports?”
“I’m not missing, I’m right here.” She held her arms out and waved as though he might be blind. “I’m Phoebe Thistledown.”
“She belongs to me,” Cecelia rushed, reaching for the girl’s hand and pulling her into the safety of her skirts.
Ramsay’s frown returned, along with a deeper, bleaker look as he studied Cecelia, then the girl.
Cecelia knew she’d lost all esteem in his eyes. She’d passed the point of no return.
They were true enemies once again.
“She … doesna resemble ye,” he finally said.
“I imagine she takes after her father.”
“Ye imagine.” His lip curled into a silent snarl of disgust. “Are there so many men in the running for her patrilineal line?”
“That’s not what I said.” Cecelia lifted her chin a notch. “And I’ll thank you not to speak thusly in front of the child. You’ve subjected her to enough profanity already.”
A bit of his high color drained from his face, and he possessed the grace to look abashed as he and the girl stared at each other with a similar sullen suspicion.
“Forgive me, Miss Phoebe,” he murmured, shocking Cecelia past all comprehension.
Phoebe nodded her forgiveness, then finally asked, “You’re a justice?”
“Aye. And I suppose ye are all free to go and clean up and be seen to, though ye’ll not leave London until this inquest is completed.” His gaze collided with Cecelia’s, chilling her at least ten degrees. “Except for ye. I’ve questions for ye still.”
Phoebe stepped in front of her. “If you’re a lawman, you can’t hurt anyone,” she reminded him. “And you’ll let her come home with me, because she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
He blinked down at the girl, his voice less jagged than before. “Home? Do ye not reside here, child?”
“No, we live on Cranford Street with Jean-Yves. I have a bed made from fairy wood and ivy, a robin nests in my window, and Cook made me extra cherry tarts for breakfast.”
Ramsay brushed at the thighs of his trousers, releasing a bone-weary breath. “If yer ma’s done nothing wrong, then she’s nothing to fear from me, child.”
“She’s not—”
“What do you say I take little Phoebe to hospital,” Francesca interrupted, collecting the girl’s hand from Cecelia’s. “She was close to the blast and I still think she should be examined along with Jean-Yves. You can meet us there, Cecil, when you’re through here, and we’ll all escort you home.”
“Will you be accompanied by Mr. Derringer?” Cecelia queried. Someone had attacked her in the open and made it clear that they had no scruples about collateral damage. Phoebe’s safety was paramount.
“No, but I have employed Mr. Colt.” Francesca grinned. “Don’t fret, my dear, we’re well looked after.” She patted her pocket where she always kept a pistol.
“Thank you, Frank.” Cecelia meant it with all her heart, as Francesca swept poor Phoebe away.
Phoebe’s high, sweet voice echoed down the eerily empty marble hall. “Why does she call you Frank? That’s a man’s name.”
“It’s a secret,” Francesca said indulgently. “If you’re very good for the doctor, I might tell you the story of the Red Rogues.”
“I like stories,” Phoebe declared.
“I instinctively knew you did.”
“And I’m always good.”
Francesca’s laugh was genuine and husky. “No one is always good, and one cannot be inducted into the Red Rogues if that is the case.”
“Then…” Phoebe seemed to think about it for a quiet beat. “I must misbehave?”
“Regularly.”
“Can you teach me how?”
“Oh, you darling girl, I thought you’d never ask. Auntie Frank will be your most enthusiastic instructor.”
“Should I misbehave for the doctor, then?”
“Of course not.”
“When should I?”
“That is an excellent question—Oh dear, do stand aside by the wall with me.”
“Why?” Phoebe asked.
“Because you don’t want to get trampled by a duke.”
At the sound of heavy running footfalls, Alexandra’s grip tightened on Cecelia’s.
“Where is she?” The Devonshire accent echoed from the walls of the hallway, raw with equal parts anxiety and ferocity.
“In the courtyard gardens,” they heard Francesca dictate. “She’s unharmed, by the by.”
Redmayne was a devilishly dark streak of animalistic motion as he broke from the door of the entry to see his wife standing at the bottom of explosive debris.
“You’re welcome!” Francesca’s amused call from the hallway went unheeded.
With a little cry, Alexandra released Cecelia’s hand.
Glass from myriad broken windows intoned the duke’s and duchess’s desperate footsteps across the ruined gardens as their rush forward ended in a collision of bodies that would have driven a smaller man to his back.
Redmayne, however, enfolded his little wife into his chest, curling strong shoulders over her as she reached into his jacket and banded her arms around his back.
One large hand cupped the back of her head, and the other drew itself up and down her spine as he pressed his scarred cheek to her crown.
Despite his gentle handling of her, a string of foul curses that would have turned a buccaneer’s cheeks red ripped through the air. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, do you hear me?”
Alexandra burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m all right. Not even a scratch on me. There’s no need to worry.”
“No need to—” He thrust her away from him, examining her well-being for himself. “This is the second explosion you’ve escaped without a wound in as many years. So help me, there will not be a third.”
“I’m glad you came.” Alexandra leaned heavily on her husband, and he instantly bent to scoop her into his arms as he sent his brother an unspoken message with eyes the identical shade of wintry blue.
Ramsay nodded once.
“I’m taking you home,” he murmured to his wife.