A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
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off in the blink of an eye if she knew the truth. Anything to avoid more scandal, poor woman. Heaven knows, there was enough over her son.’
‘You know of Mrs Hunter’s son? What manner of scandal?’
He took a moment, looking not at Phoebe but at the shadowed corner of the cell, his focus fixed as if on some point far in the distance and not on his ragged fellow inmate who was crouched there upon the uneven stone flags. The seconds passed, until at last he looked round at her once more, and it seemed that he had made up his mind.
‘I am not a man for gossip. It is a sinful and malicious occupation, the work of the devil, but …’ He paused and it seemed to Phoebe that he was picking his words very carefully. ‘It would be remiss of me to allow you to go to Blackloch Hall ignorant of the manner of man you will find there.’
Phoebe felt the weight of foreboding heavy upon her. She waited for the words her father would speak.
‘Phoebe,’ he said and his voice was so unusually serious that she could not mistake the measure of his concern. ‘Sebastian Hunter was a rake of the very worst degree. He spent all his time in London, living the high life, gambling away his father’s money, womanising and drinking. Little wonder that old Hunter despaired of him. They say his father’s death changed him. That the boy is much altered. But …’ He glanced over his shoulder at the cellmate in the corner and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘There are dark whisperings about him, evil rumours …’ ‘Of what?’
He shook his head again, as if he could not bring himself to convey them to her. But he looked at her intently. ‘Promise me that you will do all you can to stay away from him at Blackloch.’
She looked at him, slightly puzzled by his insistence. ‘My job is with Mrs Hunter. I doubt I will have much contact with her son.’
‘Phoebe, you are too innocent to understand the wickedness of some young men.’ Her papa sounded grim and his implication was clear. ‘So do as I ask, child, and promise me that you will have a special care where he is concerned.’
‘I will be careful. I give you my word, Papa.’
He gave a satisfied grunt and then eyed the bulging travelling bag that sat by her feet. ‘You are well packed. Does Mrs Hunter not transport your portmanteau with the rest of the baggage?’
She followed his gaze to the worn leather bag that contained every last one of her worldly possessions. ‘Of course, but it does not travel down until tomorrow and I thought it better to take my favourite dresses,’ she said with a teasing smile.
‘You girls and your fashions.’ He shook his head in mock scolding.
Phoebe laughed but she did not tell him the truth, that there was no trunk of clothes, that all, save her best dress and the one she was now wearing, had been pawned over the months for the coins to pay her father’s fees within the gaol so that he would not be put to work.
‘I have paid the turnkey the garnish money and more, so you should have candles and blankets, and ale and good food for the next week. Be sure that he gives them to you.’
‘You have kept enough money back for yourself?’ He was looking worried again.
‘Of course.’ She smiled to cover the lie. ‘I have little requirement for money. Mrs Hunter provides all I need.’
‘Bless you, child. What would I do without you?’
The turnkey had reappeared outside the door, rattling his keys so Phoebe knew visiting time was at an end.
‘Come, Phoebe, give your old papa a kiss.’
She brushed his cheek with her lips and felt the chill of his mottled skin beneath.
‘I will see you next week, Papa.’
The turnkey opened the door.
It was always the hardest moment, this walking away and leaving him in the prison cell with its stone slab floors and its damp walls and its one tiny barred window.
‘I look forward to it, Phoebe. Pray remember what I have said regarding …’
The man’s name went unspoken, but Phoebe knew to whom her papa was referring—Hunter.
She nodded. ‘I will, Papa.’ And then she turned and walked away, along the narrow dim passageways, out of the darkness of the gaol and into the bright light of Glasgow’s busy Trongate.
On the right hand side was the Tontine Hotel and its mail coaches, but Phoebe walked straight past, making her way through the crowds along Argyle Street, before heading down Jamaica Street. She kept on walking until she crossed the New Bridge that spanned the River Clyde. Half of Mrs Hunter’s coins for the coach fare were squirreled away inside her purse for next week’s visit to her father. The rest lay snug in the pocket of one of the Tolbooth’s turnkeys.
The road that led south out of the city towards the moor lay ahead. She changed the bag into her other hand and, bracing her shoulders for the walk, Phoebe began her journey to Blackloch Hall.
‘Hunter, is that you, old man? Ain’t seen you in an age. You ain’t been down in London since—’ Lord Bullford stopped himself, an awkward expression suddenly upon his face. He gruffly clapped a supportive hand to Hunter’s shoulder. ‘So sorry to hear about your father.’
Hunter said not one word. His expression was cold as he glanced first at Viscount Linwood standing in the background behind Bullford, and then at where Bullford’s hand rested against the black superfine of his coat. He shifted his gaze to Bullford’s face and looked at him with such deadly promise that the man withdrew his hand as if he had been burnt.
Bullford cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Up visiting Kelvin and bumped into Linwood. Thought we might drop in on you at Blackloch while we were here. The boys have been worried about you, Hunter. What with—’
‘They need not have been.’ Hunter glanced with obvious dislike at Linwood as he cut off the rest of Bullford’s words and made to step aside. ‘And visitors are not welcome at Blackloch.’
He saw Bullford’s eyes widen slightly, but the man was not thwarted.
‘Kelvin knows an excellent little place. We could—’
‘No.’ Hunter started to walk away.
‘Stakes are high but the tables are the best, and the lightskirts that run the place.’ Bullford skimmed his hands through the air to sketch the outline of a woman’s curves ‘.just your type.’
Hunter turned, grabbed Bullford by the lapels of his coat, thrust him hard against the wall of the building they were standing beside and held him there. ‘I said no.’ He felt rather than saw Linwood tense and move behind him.
‘Easy, old man.’ The sweat was glimmering on Bullford’s upper lip and trickling down his chin. ‘Understand perfectly.’
A voice interrupted—Linwood’s. ‘You go too far, Hunter.’
Hunter released Bullford, and turned to face the Viscount. ‘Indeed?’
Linwood took one look at Hunter’s face and retreated a step or two. But Hunter had already left Bullford and was covering the short distance to where his horse was tethered. The big black stallion bared his teeth and snorted a warning upon hearing his approach but, on seeing it was Hunter, let him untie his reins and swing himself up into the saddle. And as he turned the horse to ride away he heard Bullford saying softly to Linwood, ‘Deuce, if he ain’t worse than all the stories told.’
The July day was fine and dry; and Phoebe smiled to herself as, bit by bit, mile by mile, she left Glasgow behind her and passed through the outlying villages.
The bustle and crowds of the city gave way gradually to quiet hamlets with cottages and fields and cows. The air grew cleaner and fresher, the fields more abundant. She could smell the sweetness of grass and heather and earth, and feel the sun warm upon her back, the breeze gentle upon her face.