Chapter 26

That next morning, after her role was revealed, Rebecca and Phileas woke in each other's arms on the big sofa in her parlor. Rebecca's dress was crushed. Her skirt hoops were propped against the bookshelves. Phileas was equally rumpled, minus his coat, vest, cravat, and shoes. He woke first, checked the time on the mantle clock. They had just enough time to remove the evidence and set themselves and the room to rights before Rebecca's servants arrived. For good measure, they both made their beds upstairs look slept in.

Phileas ruffled his sheets, recalling their late night together. No regrets. She hadn't hesitated. How long has that been simmering under the surface? How long have I been avoiding the notice? Yes, I want her, and apparently, she isn't adverse. Now, how do I proceed from here?

Bridges arrived at the house first and accepted the news that Master Phileas would stay for several days. All callers and all the mistress's engagements were to be canceled. They were to say she was sick in bed. He already knew the mistress had been given some shocks last night. The late master's son had apparently known ahead of time and stayed through the night. Taking his orders, he made sure the others knew of the instructions and adjusted for the situation, whatever it was. He had served this house too long to question when things got strange. It was not his place to question, anyway. He supposed it all perfectly proper… for Foggs. But if Master Phileas was involved now, he supposed it would all be put to rights in time.

After breakfast, Phileas sent a note to Passepartout to send him a few days' worth of clothing and necessities for a brief stay with his cousin. He was not to accompany the luggage. The valet was to take the Aurora on a cruise. Nowhere in particular, just make it look like Fogg had left town.

The cousins sequestered themselves in the parlor with the door closed and the curtains pulled. They persevered for the sake of the watching servants and distracted themselves after breakfast, and planned out the mission as they moved forward.

The folder Chatsworth left was read though last night, but was gone over with a fine-toothed comb now. It held Jordan's activities, her movements, Verne's project summaries and Jordan's meetings with Phileas. Rebecca added to it with explanations of her meetings with the man, and what had been said.

There had also been a second file she had not noticed under the main one that outlined Jordan's past activities with four women he had defrauded. That had been hard to read. Rebecca saw herself in the details too clearly. She reacted to it by spending half the day berating herself for being so easily led around. As she did it, she had to listen to Phileas do the same thing, and his repeated begging forgiveness for failures he charged himself with. Rebecca was used to his taking the world on his shoulders but did not allow it this time. He could not take on an indictment that was true of the entire country, as if he alone could have known better.

Rebecca broke into one of his tirades. "Your father let that one go, Phileas. He showed me how to handle my pocket change but sent me off with a pat on the head when I asked about anything more complicated. And I let him do it. Imagine, me, getting led about and not complaining."

Rebecca laughed, but there was no humor in it.

As Phileas got into his part of the investigation and what Chatsworth had planned, she kept silent, a reaction that put Phileas on his guard.

"What?" He had finished going over how Jordan had nearly stolen her properties despite their vigilance and noticed her expression.

"What, what?" Rebecca said, looking up at him.

"I can see you mulling over something. Tell me."

She sighed. "Getting backdoored into this mission. It does not feel good to be manipulated. It also does not feel good to know I have been guilty of it myself." She looked Phileas straight in the face to make her next statement. An admission she owed him. "What I did to you in Canada was no better. You had every right to be furious with me."

Phileas nodded. It was not the first time she had done that, and it had not been the last, although he recognized it had not happened in quite a while.

"You have never appreciated why I left the service."

Phileas sighed, too, and put the papers in his hands aside. He stood and walked across the room to a portrait of his paternal grandmother hanging on the far wall to the right of the door. He could barely remember her. She had died when he was very young, but something about the looking on her face he found comforting. He did not know what long forgotten memories were responsible, but hoped it would help him get through this. Talking of his break with the service and his father was still difficult for him to think about. But this was a conversation long needed.

"You read my resignation?"

She kept her voice like his, even and quiet. "Sir Boniface read it to me. He wanted me to know but made no explanations." She hesitated and then lunged in. She struggled with the possibility her attitudes about that had been faulty, but knew he would never willingly talk about it, certainly not with her. Now that he was willing…

"I thought it was a reaction to your brother's death. Anyone would have taken that badly, but I thought–I hoped you would reconcile and come back–after you had time to heal."

"That would never have happened–my coming back, that is." Phileas kept his eyes on his grandmother's face. "I might have reconciled with father had he lived long enough for me to get over the anger."

"This is the first time you have been brought on a mission without foreknowledge and a chance to accept or decline? "It happened to me several times when father was in charge. On one occasion, he never told me. I found out over a year later from the agent in charge. My part was…"

He stopped there, not thinking it inappropriate.

He had a French noblewoman placed in his sights during a holiday in Paris, a beautiful one who had sparked every lustful instinct he owned. His friend, the lead agent involved, had encouraged his interest, and the lady had been more than willing. So, he pursued her and enjoyed the doing. He had left because of a letter from his father. It had been a summons to a family event he was required to attend.

Back in France, his lady's liaisons with him were used against her. She had been required to give the agent information on French involvement with Prussia. In return, her government would never learn about the affair. Infidelity had not mattered so much as I was Sir Boniface's son. She had been made to understand that certain politically paranoid prominent officials over her husband's career would assume I had gained information from her. Those powers might act against her husband. Such a severe threat had come on the brink of both career success and eminent financial ruin for the lady's family. Blackmail, pure and simple, and I was the knife that was held over her head. Father got his information and had paid off the husband's debts, furthering his hold on the couple.

Recalling that reminded Phileas how his disaffection with the service had grown mission by mission until, with the loss of his brother, he could stomach it no more. He had never been suited to the service. His father had never seen it. Sir Boniface made the Secret Service his life and had considered all he had done justified. There had been no convincing him otherwise, and Phileas had argued the point with him more than once.

Sir Boniface had been a zealot.

And Rebecca…

Phileas turned to her as she stared off into space thoughtfully. Rebecca loved the service, but she was not a zealot. Yet, she had a stronger stomach for the work than he did. She didn't like it but accepted how she had been made part of Isaac Jordan's downfall? Phileas would dearly love to have her out of the service, especially with what was beginning between them. But he knew it would be of no value if she resigned out of anger. It had to be her decision, free of outside influences.

He went on. "Chatsworth did not think innocence and openness could be faked. As he put it, you aren't immature or heavily sheltered, so there could be no way you could be seen as innocent other than through ignorance. He does, however, think you can act the tragic victim now that Jordan believes he has you trapped. What I want to know is how you are going to handle last night's revelations? It is not unusual for this to be the way a mission comes about. That it hasn't happened to you before now is unusual. It means Chatsworth might not be as cold-blooded as I have given him credit for. Or it could mean he hasn't learned how to manipulate events well enough to use this method. That will change in time. How are you going to handle that change? How will you take this happening again?"

"If I stay, you mean?" Rebecca said.

"As you say…"

Rebecca turned a hard gaze on him. Indignation and fury blazed in her eyes. "You think I have no right to complain? You think this is the norm, and I should just get used to being used like a pawn? That's what you always accused your father of doing, right?"

"As you say…"

Rebecca stood this time and swung away to the closed windows. I 'bloodly well' am angry and feel I have every right to feel used. She was used, and so was he.

She turned her head back toward him. "And you feel just as angry and used for being forced back into the service? Or are you so in agreement with Sir Jonathan that you have changed your mind and plan to stay?"

Phileas would have laughed if he were not so sure she would pick up the nearest thing and crown him with it. She still did not understand him.

"No, I will not," he said over her shouts.

"Once this is over, I will walk away like I did the last time. I entered this mission of my accord for you, but I will not stay." He stood and crossed the room to Rebecca. "I was never suited to the service. I did not like it and I did not agree with half of what I was put to do, but I did my duty. My resignation was a long time in coming. Erasmus's death was the final straw. You, however, are different."

Rebecca bristled at the implied comment on her character. Just how was she different from him? Was he saying that she was a cold bitch who could handle manipulating lives and swallowing the consequences, dishonorable, tragic, or successful, whichever was the case?

Phileas saw her reaction and caught her hands, holding her before she could unleash her angry tirade on him. "Do you agree Jordan needs to be stopped?"

"Yes." She shouted.

"Do you agree that under normal circumstances, he would never have chosen you as a victim? That your bearing chases off men who make a habit of preying on women? Can you not see that a considerable amount of misleading was needed to get the man to consider you? And do you really think you could have kept what sort of man he was hidden from your reactions had you known?"

"Are you defending Chatsworth?" she said.

"Do you think he was totally wrong?" Phileas demanded an answer.

"I–I, Of course I know I don't attract rakes and scoundrels," she said. "That is on purpose. I have been able to see that sport coming from across the dance floor for years. I have learned how to deal with them.

"But you did not see Jordan coming," Phileas said. "He is not the same sort of scoundrel. He's a professional, where the others you have dealt with were opportunists."

"And that makes a difference," Rebecca finished for him. "No, I did not see Jordan coming. He bothered her on some level, but I never felt it strongly enough to examine it."

Rebecca pulled back.

Phileas let her go. He had forced her to see Chatsworth's point of view. She did not want to; did not want to acknowledge that his reasoning had any validity.

"Why, on earth, are you defending the man?" She screamed. "You hate Chatsworth. You were as thoroughly used by him as I was."

Phileas saw the mutinous hardening of her chin as she trembled just out of his reach. He knew every bit of what she was feeling because he had been through it himself. He waited several long moments for it to subside, to give her time to get it back under control before he stepped forward and took her shoulders in his hands and forced her to see sense.

She suffered his touch, a good sign.

He rubbed her arms up and down and then put his arms around her. She was not ready to see it just yet, but she would, and he would take her decision, whatever it was and work with it.

By degrees, she relaxed in his arms and accepted the comfort he offered. He bent down and gave her a small chase kiss and another until she responded to him. And when she did, she spilled all her hurt and pain and confusion out in a passionate gush. She buried her head in his shoulder, crying in fury. He weathered the storm, taking in all of it.

Then she turned her head and kissed him back, followed by more.

That evening, they again settled in the parlor after dinner, exploring this new facet of their relationship and making long-term promises for the mission and themselves.