Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,62

“I want to make certain the guests have left before I go back.”

Neddy glanced at him with cheerful interest. “What o’ the red-haired widder and that little brush o’ a lad?” he dared to ask. “Didn’t you wish to see ’em off, sir?”

“Lady Clare is a rare, fine woman,” West replied ruefully. “Too fine for me, unfortunately. With her, it would be the cart before the horse, and I’m not a man to walk behind the cart.”

There was rumble of agreement among the men. But Neddy ventured, “Myself, I don’t care if I’m at the tail of the cart, as long as my wife keeps us on the straight road.” They all chuckled.

“Naither would I mind, if the wife was sweet to look upon,” Stub declared. “And the Widow Clare’s a breeder: you’d get healthy kittlin’ off such a good cat.”

Although West knew the comment hadn’t been meant disrespectfully, he gave Stub a warning glance to indicate the subject was closed. After the axle had been removed from the cart, West walked back to Eversby Priory manor. The morning had risen cool and blue. A good day for traveling.

He followed the graveled path around the side of the house to take a glance at the front drive. There were no carriages, no throng of busy servants; the Challons were definitely gone. Letting out a measured breath, he went in through the front entrance.

Despite his considerable list of tasks and chores, he found himself at a loss for what to do. He felt like a tree with a center of gravity offset from its base, liable to topple in an unpredictable direction. The household bustled quietly as servants cleaned the vacated rooms and stripped linens from the beds, while others cleared the breakfast room sideboard and removed plates and flatware. West glanced down at the empty mending basket in his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do with it now.

He went to the room where Phoebe had stayed and set the mending-basket near the threshold. The bed had been hastily made; the side where Phoebe had slept wasn’t quite smooth. He couldn’t resist drawing close enough to trail his fingers along the counterpane, remembering the slight, firm weight of her body, the feel of her breath on his cheek—

A plaintive drawn-out meow interrupted his thoughts.

“What the devil . . . ?” West muttered, walking around the bed. He was stunned to find the black cat there, dusty and irritable-looking. “How can you be here?” he demanded. “I just left you at the barn!”

Galoshes let out another disconsolate sound and wandered around the empty room. She must have raced to the house as soon as he’d set her free and had somehow found a way to slip inside. She jumped onto the bed and coiled at the corner of it.

After a moment, West sat on the side of the mattress. He reached for a pillow and hunted for any lingering trace of Phoebe. Discovering a faint soap-and-roses sweetness, he drew it in deeply. When his eyes opened, he found the cat staring at him, the golden eyes solemn and accusing.

“You don’t belong in her life any more than I do,” West said flatly. “You don’t even belong in a house.”

Galoshes showed no reaction, other than flicking the tip of her scraggly tail like someone impatiently drumming her fingers.

West wondered if she would keep coming back in search of Phoebe. It was impossible not to feel sorry for the skinny little creature. He let out an exasperated sigh. “If I did manage to help you reach her,” he said, “I doubt she’d keep you. God knows what will become of you. Furthermore, do you really want to live in Essex? Does anyone?”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

West considered the cat for a long moment. “We might catch them at Alton Station,” he mused. “But you’d have to go back into that mending basket, which you wouldn’t like. And we’d have to go on horseback, which you especially wouldn’t like.” An involuntary grin crossed his face as he thought of how annoyed Phoebe would be. “She would kill me. I’m damned if I’ll risk my life for a barn cat.”

But the smile wouldn’t go away.

Making the decision, West tossed aside the pillow went to fetch the mending basket. “Choose your fate, cat. If you fight me over the basket, the adventure ends here. If you’re willing to climb in . . . we’ll see what can be done.”

“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man . . .” Evie chanted as