To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,67
they pulled up outside a tall, elegant townhouse. Max leapt down and turned as he heard another carriage pulling up behind theirs. It was early morning yet and the street still swathed in shadow as the sun was not yet high enough to light it well. The door of the carriage swung open and Kline jumped out. “Charlie!” Max said in surprise, hurrying forward. “Do you have news? Have you seen—”
Kline grinned at him and held out his hand to someone inside the carriage. Max’s heart stuttered to a standstill as gloved fingers took it, and Phoebe stepped down with a flurry of blue skirts.
“Phoebe,” he said on a breath of relief so profound his knees trembled.
“Good morning, Max,” she said, her smile uncertain.
Max did not think, only acted, his emotions too out of control to consider she might not welcome his embrace as he closed the gap between them and hauled her into his arms, holding her tight against him.
“Thank God,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Thank God.”
He let go slowly, unwillingly, and she moved away from him, out of his arms.
“I’m sorry, Max,” she began, but he stopped her, pressing a finger to her lips as he shook his head.
“It was my fault. I know that it was. I ought to know better than to cut you out of proceedings in such a way. Alvanly did this to you, not to me, and it is only right that you face him, if that is what you wish. I was overbearing and domineering, and everything I know you will not stand and for that I beg your pardon, love, only… give me another chance, Phoebe. I promise I shall do better.”
She was staring up at him and he was too anxious to believe he could interpret her emotions with any accuracy, but she seemed surprised by his words at least. Hope bloomed in his heart, and he promised himself he would not misstep so catastrophically again.
“Thank you, Max,” she said softly. “But I am sorry too, for making you worry so. That was badly done of me and… and I wish I had not left as I did.”
Max raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “I am only glad to have you back with me again, and the chance to make you wish to stay this time.”
Phoebe smiled at him, uncertainty still shining in her eyes, but there was warmth there too, and his hopes burned a little brighter.
“Princess?”
“Jack!”
Max watched as Phoebe flew to the old villain and hugged him tightly. What the viscount thought of her hugging her coach driver with such affection, he could not imagine, but the warmth between them was obvious, and Phoebe was as irrepressible as ever. Max looked around to see Viscount Kline was indeed watching with obvious curiosity, and standing with a rather spectacular looking woman, who was dressed from head to toe in vibrant pink.
“Lady Kline?” he guessed, addressing Charlie.
The viscount’s lips twitched. “Lord Ellisborough, may I have the pleasure of presenting Mrs Nina Abercrombie? Mrs Abercrombie, Max Carmichael, Earl of Ellisborough.”
“My lord,” the woman said, giving an elegant curtsey.
Max looked between her and Kline, wondering why the woman was with him.
“Nina went to Abbeville to meet Alvanly, Max,” Phoebe said, filling in the gaps for him. “She was not involved in the theft,” she added in a rush, correctly interpreting his anger at the idea. “She knew nothing of that. He owes her money, that is all. She came to France to collect it. He intends to sell the painting to repay her and then travel around the continent living off the rest in fine style, no doubt.”
“And Lemoine is his pawnbroker,” Max said, assuming that was why they were here.
“Yes,” Phoebe said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “So, let us see if he has been here yet.”
Max looked down with a surge of pleasure to see Phoebe place her hand on his arm and stare up at him, waiting. He covered her hand with his for a moment, holding her gaze and hoping she could read a little of what he felt for her in his eyes, before he moved forward and led her inside.
***
“A fake!”
Phoebe’s shocked voice rang out through Monsieur Lemoine’s elegant parlour, the place to which he had discreetly taken them once he had ascertained just who he was entertaining.
“I regret, Madame,” Monsieur Lemoine said with a shrug of his shoulders, his English good but heavily accented. “But yes. A clever fake, I