by Jayne Davis
“Phoebe, what are you doing here?”
Phoebe looked up. Why was he surprised to find her here? She often used this room.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll leave if you—”
“No, no.” He waved a hand at her book. “I only came in to get some papers. But why aren’t you out visiting with your aunt? She and Hélène have gone to meet Lady Brotherton.”
“I’m quite happy reading here, sir. As long as you don’t mind, that is?”
“Of course not,” the comte said. “You know you can use the library whenever you please. But you should really be out meeting other people. Better to make some acquaintances before you start going to balls, n’est-ce pas?”
Lady Brotherton? That malicious gossip?
Phoebe was glad her aunt had not found her—the last thing she wanted was to have to sit politely while Lady Brotherton and her daughters made snide remarks about her appearance and prospects.
“You do not seem to be looking forward to the season,” he said.
Phoebe realised she hadn’t hidden her feelings well enough—or her uncle was more perceptive, and perhaps more sympathetic, than she had thought.
“Your aunt said something yesterday about not wanting to take you visiting because of your hoydenish behaviour,” he added with a smile.
“I had been playing cricket with Georges in the square, with a couple of the servants,” Phoebe explained, relieved he didn’t seem to agree with his wife
“Well, it might not be the most proper behaviour for a young lady, but Georges enjoys it. He does seem happier now you are home.”
“I’m sure he’s pleased to see his mama again,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as insincere as she felt. Her aunt’s attention to her son was haphazard. “In truth, sir, I am not looking forward to going into society,” she went on, unconsciously smoothing the gown she was wearing. It was one of her better ones, in a pale primrose colour, but the fit was still loose on her, and the ruffle lengthening the skirts did not quite match the style of the rest of the gown. It would be good to meet some new people but, dressed as she was, she was likely to end up becoming a wallflower—a boring as well as embarrassing experience.
She saw the comte’s gaze drop to her hand. “You would feel more confident in better gowns, would you not?” he asked.
“I spend all my pin money on drawing materials, sir.”
His brows drew together.
“I’m sorry, sir, if I sound ungrateful,” she said hastily, relieved when he shook his head with a smile. “I am truly thankful you gave me a home when my parents died.”
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was time to set out to see Lady Carterton again. “If you will excuse me, I have an errand to run.”
The comte nodded absently, and Phoebe went upstairs for her pelisse.
The house on Brook Street was of a similar size to her uncle’s house. As when they’d enquired yesterday, Phoebe and Ellie descended the area steps to knock at the servants’ entrance. The same scullery maid opened the door, glancing with surprise at Phoebe’s gown before taking the folded note Phoebe held out.
“This is a message for Lady Carterton,” Phoebe said. “I’m to wait for a reply. May we sit inside, please?” She stepped forward as she spoke, as if there was no doubt she would be let in.
The maid shrugged and stood aside to let them pass, and showed them to a couple of chairs in a corner of the passage where they could wait.
The two women sat, breathing in the smell of baking bread, watching the bustle as footmen carried trays containing the remains of breakfast and handed them over to the scullery maids.
“Her ladyship will see you now, miss,” a footman said, coming to stand before them. “Follow me, if you please.”
Signalling for Ellie to stay where she was, Phoebe followed the footman up the narrow service stairs to the ground floor, then through a baize-covered door into the family’s part of the house. He showed her into a light and airy parlour overlooking the street.
Lady Carterton was sitting at an escritoire near the window, and turned to face Phoebe as she was shown in, setting her pen in its holder. She was an attractive woman, with blue eyes and dark curling hair dressed on top of her head. Her round gown was plain in style, but well cut. From her unlined skin, Phoebe guessed she was in her late twenties. Alex hadn’t explained his relationship to her and Phoebe had assumed she would be much older.
“Miss Deane,” she said, holding up Phoebe’s note. “You say Westbrook sent you.” Her expression was wary, but at least not hostile.
“Yes, my lady. Thank you for seeing me.” Phoebe curtseyed.
“Is he well?”
“He was when I last saw him.” He was still, she hoped.
“When, and where, was that?”
Phoebe hesitated, not sure how much she should say. “A few days ago, when we returned from France. He… he helped me and my relatives to escape.”
Lady Carterton’s expression softened. “Won’t you sit down?” She stood, and moved to a pair of chairs near the fire. “Where is he now?”
“I do not know.” That was true—she didn’t know exactly where he was.
“You say you were in France—who were you with?”
“My aunt, the Comtesse de Calvac, and her daughter. I live with the Comte and his family.”
Lady Carterton finally smiled. “How can I help you, Miss Deane?”
“I need to see the Earl of Marstone. But it would be best if no-one knows I have done so.”
Lady Carterton’s eyebrows rose.
“Mr Westbrook said you could help me,” Phoebe went on. “Do you know the earl?”
The eyebrows rose higher. “You could say so. He’s my brother.”
That explained why Alex thought Lady Carterton could help her, but not why she should. Phoebe felt a sudden desire to ask just how well Alex knew Lady Carterton, and why her ladyship should help her only because Alex had asked.
“Miss Deane?”
Telling herself sternly that it was none of her business, she forced her attention back to Lady Carterton.
“Is this urgent?” Lady Carterton asked.
“I think so, my lady. I cannot say whether the earl would agree.”
Lady Carterton tapped her lip thoughtfully, then rose to ring the bell. She moved back to her escritoire and drew out a sheet of writing paper.
“My lady?” the butler said as he entered the room.
“I need someone to go to Grosvenor Square, Hobson. Please send Barrington in for instructions. And have some fresh tea sent up, too.”
The butler bowed himself out, and a few minutes later a footman entered. He took the note that Lady Carterton held out.
“This is for the earl,” she instructed. “If he is at home, you are to wait for a reply. If he is not at home, leave the note but make sure Langton knows it is urgent. And ask when the earl is expected back. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Phoebe eyed the papers on Lady Carterton’s desk. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, my lady.”
Lady Carterton smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m only making notes about yesterday’s Paupers’ Fund meeting. I can easily finish it later. Now, Phoebe… you don’t mind me calling you Phoebe?”
Phoebe shook her head.
“Tell me how you met Alex.”
By the time the footman returned from Grosvenor Square, Lady Carterton had extracted most of Phoebe’s life history and, to her surprise, had instructed Phoebe to call her Bella when they were in private. Phoebe had also been given exhaustive details of her three children and the Cartertons’ estate in Sussex. She felt as if she had been put through a mangle.
Lady Carterton opened the note. “Good, he can see us now.” She turned back to Phoebe. “I think your maid should stay here, but lend you her cloak. You shall be my maid. Do you think that will answer?”
“Yes, thank you.” It should work, Phoebe thought, as long as she covered her hair.
“Very discreet,” Lady Carterton said, eyes twinkling. “Unless they are asked not to be.”
They were soon in Grosvenor Square, and Phoebe gazed upwards at the Greek columns flanking the door as Lady Carterton plied the knocker.
Wryly amused to be acting the part of a servant again, Phoebe kept a pace behind as she followed Lady Carterton into the black and white tiled hallway. After a brief word with the butler, they were shown into the library.
“I will inform his lordship of your presence, my lady.” The butler left.
Phoebe gazed with mixed awe and envy at the large room: its floor to ceiling shelving held far more books than her uncle’s library. Then her attention fixed on a family portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. Examining it, she saw a man of thirty or so, dressed in the fashion of some years past. He stood with his hand on the shoulder of a slightly younger woman, her dark brown hair dressed high, but unpowdered. She held a babe in her arms, and two small girls played at their feet. The scenery behind them showed wooded slopes and a glimpse of sea.
“My brother and his family,” Lady Carterton said. “I think it was painted about ten years ago—they’ve had another son since then and another daughter. I’m the youngest of my generation—he’s more than ten years older than I am. Lady Marstone doesn’t care much for London, or Marstone Park. That was painted at—”
Lady Carterton broke off as they heard the door open behind them, and Phoebe turned to see the real version of the man in the portrait. The Earl of Marstone was a little above medium height, his face stern, with a straight nose and square jaw, and the same blue eyes as Lady Carterton. Something about him felt vaguely familiar—but then she had just been inspecting his portrait.
“What is it, Bella?” the earl asked, impatience clear in his tone. “Your note didn’t say. I really am busy, you know!”
“This is Miss Phoebe Deane,” said his sister calmly. “She has something to tell you.”
As the earl turned his gaze on Phoebe, she reminded herself that Alex had told her to come here, and she was not wasting this man’s time. She raised her chin as he assessed her appearance from head to toe, his face now unnervingly expressionless. His gaze seemed to pierce through her, but she refused to drop her eyes.
“I don’t think my presence is required,” Lady Carterton said. “I’ll call back in… half an hour or so?” Phoebe nodded as Lady Carterton glanced her way. “Now, if you’ll lend me a maid she can wear Phoebe’s cloak.”
“Very mysterious, Bella,” said the earl repressively.
“Oh, don’t deny me my bit of fun, Will,” Lady Carterton laughed.
Phoebe asked Lady Carterton to buy a copy of The Pirate’s Cavern while she was away, keeping her voice too low for the earl to hear, then handed over Ellie’s cloak. Lady Carterton laughed again as she departed, and Phoebe was left to face the earl.
Chapter 22
“Do sit, Miss Deane.” Lord Marstone waved her to a chair in front of his desk, seating himself in the leather-covered chair behind it. She saw his gaze slide sideways—was he looking at the clock already?
Phoebe took a deep breath, annoyance beginning to overcome her nervousness. If she could face a tavern full of drunken Frenchmen, she should not be quailing before an English lord, no matter how forbidding he appeared.
“Well, Miss Deane?” He sounded impatient still.
“I have a message for you from Mr Westbrook,” Phoebe said, getting straight to the point. It appeared social niceties were not required.
“Is he well?”
“Yes, my lord.” At least, he had been the last time she saw him.
“Good. How do you come to be his messenger?”
“He helped me and some members of my family escape from France.”
The earl’s brows rose. “Details, if you please.”
Phoebe told her story. As well as the outline she had given to Lady Carterton, she briefly described the discussions with Alex about Brevare’s actions and possible motives. Her irritation abated as he listened intently, interrupting only to clarify a point now and then.
“So,” he said when she had finished. “Westbrook has gone on some wild goose chase in search of the Vicomte de Brevare’s mother and sister, who may or may not be residing in Paris or at a château at some unknown location north of there, leaving you to bring back both the real information and a decoy note.”
It didn’t sound very sensible, put like that.
“Yes, my lord. The decoy part of the plan required he not return with us. And he thought that if Brevare was being blackmailed, having his family safe might allow him to tell—”
“Yes, I understood that. What would have happened if Brevare had tried to take the message, or messages, from you by force?” His expression had not changed, but Phoebe thought she detected disapproval in his tone.
“He would only have obtained the decoy.”
“How so?”
“The real one is… er… sewn into my stays.” Phoebe hoped she was not blushing.
The earl surprised her by giving a short laugh. “Should I leave you alone for a few minutes, then?” he asked.
“A maid and a pair of scissors would also be useful, if you please.”
Still chuckling, the earl left the room. Shortly afterwards a maid appeared and led Phoebe upstairs to an unoccupied bedroom. Phoebe took in her surroundings with interest while the maid helped her unlace her gown and stays. The room was not large, having space enough for only a single bed, a chair, and a chest, but it was richly furnished with heavy brocade curtains at the windows and around the bed. The size and location of the house already spoke of wealth; the furnishings reinforced the impression.
Once down to her chemise, Phoebe quickly unpicked seams to retrieve the letter, then dressed again—she could mend her stays when she got home. When she returned to the library, she was surprised to see a younger man with the earl.
“Phineas Kellet,” the earl said. “My private secretary.”
Kellet bowed in greeting. Phoebe held out the message to the earl, who took it and glanced briefly at the numbers before handing it on to Kellet.
“My thanks, Miss Deane.”
Kellet sat down at one end of the desk. As she seated herself, Phoebe saw him take a book from a drawer; it looked like the French road guide Alex had been using. She suppressed a smile as he started turning pages and counting words. How long would it take him to work out that he could not decode it using that book?
“Now, Miss Deane, you still have the decoy message as well?”
“Yes, my lord.” She handed it over. “Although that part of the plan has not quite worked as we… as Mr Westbrook planned.”
“That was probably to be expected,” he said, his tone dry. “But do go on.”
“I hoped to be able to speak to you before Brevare contacted me, so you could set people to watch him. However, he summoned me to Hyde Park yesterday, and told me to hand the message over to a man he introduced as the Earl of Marstone.”
Phoebe was pleased to see she had surprised him.
“You refused?”
“Yes—I told him I had been instructed to hand it to you at the Foreign Office.”
“He accepted that?” The earl’s eyebrows were once again rising.
“He had no choice; I didn’t have it with me.”
“Hmm. You took a risk. Now, can you describe the man with Brevare?”
Phoebe pulled the sketch from her pocket, passing it to the earl. He studied the drawing carefully before handing it to his secretary.
“Do you recognise the face, Kellet? I’m afraid I do not.”
The secretary shook his head.
“He may have been an actor,” Phoebe said. “He didn’t know what to say when I refused to give him the message. Brevare was in charge of the meeting, not this man.”<
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The earl steepled his hands, resting his chin on them. “What does the decoy message say?”
“I think it is just a set of undecipherable numbers, but written to look as if it is in the correct code.”
The earl placed it on the desk next to the real message Kellet was scratching his head over. He put his finger on the decoy.
“This is in Westbrook’s hand,” he stated. “The real one is not. Who coded the real information?” Phoebe detected a note of censure in his voice.
“I did.”
The earl’s mouth became a tight line. “Why did he entrust you with this… sensitive information?”
“You would have to ask him.” She wished he were here to be asked.
“How many other people know about this?”
Anger rose—Alex had made the best judgement he could in the circumstances, and this man was criticising him. Had he ever been in a situation where he risked arrest and probable execution?
Sitting forward in her chair, she began to tick people off on her fingers, her voice sharp. “The captain of the Lily knows I am bringing a message that Brevare wants, but he does not know what the message is. The same applies to one of his crew, who was sent to London with me. As Mr Trasker appears to play a large part in the smuggling operations, I assume anyone he sends is trustworthy.”
She paused there, keeping her gaze on his face, awaiting some acknowledgement of what she’d said. His eyes narrowed, but then he nodded, so she continued.
“Mr Trasker also sent a maid, who knows Brevare wants something that I am… I was carrying, but she doesn’t know where I am now.”
“And you involved my sister in this?”
Was he implying that Lady Carterton was indiscreet, or worried about her safety? His expression gave nothing away.
“She only knows that I wanted to talk to you. I also asked my uncle, the Comte de Calvac, where you live and what your reputation is, to ensure I gave the paper to the correct person, but he doesn’t know why I wanted to know. My aunt and cousin know nothing about a message. The only person who knows I am here, in this house, is Lady Carterton.”