by Jayne Davis
Hélène flushed. “I don’t know exactly, Papa.”
“Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Come now, you must have some idea!” Hélène hung her head. “A lot more than Phoebe, I assume?”
“Yes, Papa,” Hélène whispered.
“And why should she not?” the comtesse snapped. “Hélène is our daughter, after all!”
“Phoebe is still family,” the comte reminded her, his voice quiet. “Now, do I need to get someone to bring down the gowns you say are Phoebe’s? Or will one of you tell me the truth?”
Another tense silence fell on the room. Phoebe’s amusement at her aunt’s discomfort was countered by thoughts of the effect it was likely to have on her temper later.
“Very well,” the comte said, and rang the bell. When a footman entered he instructed him to send Phoebe’s maid to them. Ellie appeared so quickly that Phoebe suspected she had been listening outside the door.
“You are…”
“Ellie Denton, milord,” Ellie bobbed a curtsey.
“Good. Now, you will go with Miss Deane and help her to change into the… the gold gown of hers that is kept in Lady Hélène’s room.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but I don’t know of any of Miss Deane’s gowns what are kept elsewhere. I brung down all the ones she had when Mr Cookson told me to.”
“She’s new,” said the comtesse. “She doesn’t know. I told you that.”
“Yes, you did. I am beginning to find this tedious, as well as disappointing,” the comte said. “Can you assure me, madame, that if I send Phoebe to change into this gold gown Hélène mentioned, or any of the others you say she has, they will fit her as well as the gowns you and Hélène are wearing fit you?”
Phoebe awaited her aunt’s reply with interest—did the comtesse really think her husband could not see through her lies?
The comtesse muttered something about a trainee seamstress. The comte waved dismissal to Ellie and the interested footman hovering in the doorway, and waited until the door had closed behind them.
“So if I send for…” He consulted the bills in front of him. “If I send for Mademoiselle Laurent, she will explain how she came to give only Phoebe’s gowns to an incompetent trainee to make?”
The comtesse had the sense to keep silent this time.
“You have insulted my intelligence, madame, as well as the honour of this family. And your lack of honesty in this matter calls into question your candour about what happened in France.” He stood up. “You will none of you leave the house again today. I will be dining at my club. I will speak to you all in the morning.”
The comtesse, face flaming red, got up and stalked out of the room. Phoebe gave her time to get beyond the hall and then followed, going to ground in the back parlour to take stock.
She sat looking out over the small garden behind the house, a smile gradually spreading over her face. Her aunt had well and truly been hoist with her own petard. If she hadn’t been so stupid and spiteful in France, it could have been some time before the comte discovered what she’d been doing with Phoebe’s allowance.
But that was not responsible for the feeling of lightness within her now—that was due to her uncle. Although he was not her blood relation, he had far more care for her than her aunt. Affection, she wasn’t sure about—he was a reserved man, unfailingly polite, and normally hid his feelings well. For him to have rebuked his wife in front of herself and Hélène, he must have been angry indeed.
Whatever the comte decided to do, Phoebe’s situation was not likely to get any worse. Even if he believed his wife and banished Phoebe to the country somewhere, she would probably have more freedom than she did now.
Chapter 24
Phoebe awoke the next morning to the smell of chocolate. Ellie put the cup down beside the bed, and handed Phoebe a small packet.
“This come to me, miss, to be given to you. I ent told no-one about it.”
“Thank you, Ellie.”
Phoebe was relieved to see that her name was written in small, neat handwriting, quite unlike Brevare’s scrawl.
“Be you wanting breakfast up here, miss?”
“Yes, please, Ellie. Coffee and toast will do.” That would get Ellie out of the room.
The packet contained a sealed note—the new decoy message—and a folded paper from the Earl of Marstone. It stated that the house was being watched as planned, and instructed her to send someone to tell the watcher when she had heard from her contact. Her ‘contact’ must be Brevare.
Quickly dressing herself, she fastened a pocket beneath her gown and put the sealed note in it. The folded paper went in the fire. Her apprehension about the plan was overshadowed by worry about the coming interview with her uncle. Had he believed her story, or would her aunt prevent her being introduced into society? Either result could have its advantages, as long as the comte did not cast her off completely.
“Miss, I’m supposed to help you dress,” Ellie protested as she returned with breakfast.
“I can manage perfectly well, Ellie. I’ve been doing it for years.”
Ellie’s mouth turned down. “But you won’t need me, then, miss. Do you want me to go back to Devonshire?”
Phoebe laughed. “Of course not—if you don’t tell Mrs Kidd I can dress myself, I won’t either. It’s more important to me that you don’t gossip.”
“Ooh, I like a good bit o’ gossip, miss,” said Ellie, with a grin. “But not about you, never that!” She shook her head emphatically as she spoke.
Cookson directed Phoebe to the dining room when she went downstairs. Her uncle was breakfasting there alone; her heart sank at the stern expression on his face.
He set down his cup and waved Phoebe into the place set next to his own. “Good morning, Phoebe.”
“Good morning, sir.” She took the indicated seat, her hands clenched in her lap.
“There is no need to be quite so apprehensive, Phoebe. I believe your version of events—but I hope you can understand why I am not pleased about what happened.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you.”
“I saw the Earl of Marstone yesterday,” he went on. “I am aware, from my conversation with him, that there are some aspects of your story that you did not share—” He put up a hand as Phoebe opened her mouth to speak. “—that you did not share with me. However, he did vouch for Westbrook.”
Phoebe bit her lip. Why had she not considered that her uncle might check with the earl?
“Phoebe.” The comte leaned toward her, his gaze fixed on her eyes. “I want you to give me your assurance—your word—on something.”
She nodded.
“Do the parts of your story you omitted have any bearing on my wife’s concern for your… your virtue?”
“No, sir, they do not. I give you my word.” Her nails bit into her palms as she awaited his reply. His gaze held her own for an uncomfortably long time before he looked away, one hand rubbing his temple.
“Very well. I believe you, but that is not likely to endear you to my wife. I will be making it clear that any gossip about your reputation will also reflect badly on Hélène. You and Hélène will both go into society this spring. If you are not invited to an event, she does not go either.”
Phoebe glanced down at her gown.
“Don’t worry about that,” her uncle continued. “I am giving you the total of the allowance that should have been spent on you since you came to live with us. Four hundred pounds is a lot of money to spend at once, but it appears that the state of your wardrobe necessitates it.”
“Sir, you can’t spend all that on me!”
“Phoebe, I am sorry affairs have reached their current state. I have been too absent from family matters of late, but that is about to change.” He patted her hand where it rested on the table. “I am not a demonstrative man, and although you and Joseph are not of my blood I do regard you both as family. And you have been good to Georges, from what Miss Bryant tells me.” He gave a small smile. “I hope you will still find some time for Ge
orges once you are involved in balls and assemblies.”
“Yes, sir, I enjoy spending time with him.”
“That’s good. Anson will discuss arrangements for your allowance with you. Have bills sent directly to him. I am assuming I can trust you to not overspend?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I don’t know how I can thank you—”
“Family, Phoebe. Family.” But he seemed pleased with her thanks as he waved dismissal.
Phoebe came down to earth again abruptly when she went back to her room. Ellie was waiting for her, holding another sealed note.
“This come for you miss. Dunno who come with it—it was left in the kitchen.”
Phoebe took it and broke the seal.
Be at the west end of the canal in St James’ Park at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I will take you to the FO.
Brevare was at least pretending to take her to the Foreign Office; she’d have to cross St James’ Park to get there from Berkeley Square. She refolded the note.
“Can you take this to Owen? Without anyone else knowing?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Tell him he’s to tell the watchers.”
Ellie nodded.
“I have to meet the vicomte tomorrow morning at eight o’clock in the park, but I will go with only Owen to escort me.”
Ellie’s eyes grew round.
“No-one else is to know, Ellie,” Phoebe warned.
“No, miss.” Ellie bobbed a curtsey and took the note.
Phoebe’s plans for a quiet afternoon reading came to nothing, as the comtesse had arranged for them all to visit Mademoiselle Laurent’s salon. Now there was money to be spent on Phoebe’s clothing, the comtesse seemed to want to get on with it as quickly as possible.
This was Phoebe’s first visit to a fashionable mantua-maker. She gazed around the room, taking in the imitation gilded Greek columns against the walls with floor to ceiling mirrors between them, the ornately upholstered sofas, and the marble-topped tables holding pattern books and cloth samples. No wonder mantua-makers’ charges were so high, if their customers expected such surroundings. To Phoebe’s eye, it was overdone and tasteless.
Mademoiselle Laurent was a tall, angular Frenchwoman with sharp features, dressed in a deep purple gown of simple cut. “Madame de Calvac, it is always a pleasure to see you and your beautiful daughter,” she said, gesturing for the comtesse and Hélène to seat themselves. She looked at Phoebe, her gaze travelling quickly from her hair to her gown, then acknowledged her with a brief nod before turning her attention back to the comtesse.
“What can I do for you today, Madame? I have some lovely new fabrics that would look wonderful on Lady Hélène.”
Phoebe’s lips tightened as Mademoiselle Laurent snapped her fingers to a waiting assistant. This visit was supposed to be for her own gowns. Did she really want to spend all her money with this woman?
The assistant returned with a bolt of white lustring, its sheen picked out by tiny silver threads running through it.
“This will suit for a ball gown, n’est-ce pas?” Mademoiselle Laurent said.
“Oh, Mama, that is lovely,” Hélène gasped. “When will my first ball be?”
“I had planned on introducing you at Lady Brotherton’s musicale in a few days’ time, Hélène, but your first proper ball will be next week, at Lady Sandrich’s.
Lady Brotherton’s two daughters would also be making their come-outs this year. Phoebe had put up with their scorn and rudeness during too many social calls to wish to attend the musicale, but she would have little choice in the matter.
“That reminds me, Hélène,” the comtesse went on. “We must get a dancing master to make sure you remember your steps properly. You must look elegant when you dance.”
“This style, Mama?” Hélène’s attention was focused on a fashion plate. Phoebe sighed, recalling the tedious conversations during recent days on the road.
“Ah, no, Lady Hélène,” Mademoiselle Laurent said. “Something simpler for your first season. We need only to frame your beauty, not enhance it. How could we enhance perfection?”
Hélène stood up and allowed Mademoiselle Laurent to drape the fabric across her, turning her head to admire her reflection from all angles in the mirrors. Phoebe listened as Mademoiselle Laurent continued to praise Hélène’s complexion, her figure, and her hair, wondering how Hélène put up with the woman’s obsequious manner. Glancing from the comtesse to Hélène, she realised they believed every word, the comtesse looking as pleased as if praise for her daughter were praise for herself.
Phoebe waited with mounting impatience until the discussion of Hélène’s gown finally ended and her aunt remembered that Phoebe, too, needed new gowns.
“Oh, my niece will need a gown for the ball, too. Whatever you can manage in the same time. Stand up, Phoebe.”
Phoebe stood, forcing her body to stay relaxed as Mademoiselle Laurent walked around her, raking her eyes up and down and taking in every detail of the ill-fitting primrose gown.
“It is a shame about the hair and the figure,” she said to the comtesse, talking as if Phoebe were not present. “Perhaps we can powder this red to something less… glaring.” She walked around Phoebe once more. “Marie will take her to be measured, and we will choose the style. A challenge, eh?”
The assistant came to stand by Phoebe, but Phoebe ignored her. “Mademoiselle Laurent, what—?”
“So this design, in the white,” the comtesse said, handing Mademoiselle Laurent a fashion plate. “We will come back for fittings in two days. Phoebe, why are you still standing there? Go and get measured!”
“One moment,” Phoebe said, determined to be heard. “What material and design am I having?”
Mademoiselle Laurent waved the fashion plate in front of her. “This one will improve you greatly. And this white—the colour is good for younger ladies, n’est-ce pas?” She pointed to a fabric sample.
The design was unexceptionable, although Phoebe wondered if the lack of lace and trimming was due to considerations of cost rather than what might suit her. The fabric, too, was adequate, but it did not have the sheen of the material chosen for Hélène, and she always thought her skin blended too much into her dress when she wore white.
“Come, Phoebe, we haven’t got all day.” The comtesse’s voice was sharp now.
“How much will this gown cost?” Phoebe asked the mantua-maker. “This will not be charged to my aunt’s account.”
Mademoiselle Laurent raised her brows. “You have your own—?”
“Phoebe, don’t fuss,” the comtesse interrupted. “It is vulgar to discuss money in that way.”
Phoebe took in the anxious expression on her aunt’s face. Was there something more there than impatience to be gone?
“I do not like the colour or the style,” she said firmly. “I also need day dresses and walking dresses. If you do not have time to consult me about my gowns, and choose styles and colours to suit me, I will take my custom elsewhere. I will not be buying any gowns from you at all.”
She swept towards the door, not caring whether her aunt and Hélène followed her.
“Oh, but you misunderstand!” Mademoiselle Laurent said hastily, hurrying after her. “Of course we can show you other designs. Please, Miss… er… Miss…”
“Surely the loss of one ball gown cannot be so important?” Phoebe shook off the hand that the woman had put on her arm. “Particularly as you haven’t even bothered to ask my name!”
“I’m sure Mademoiselle Laurent can show you some nicer fabric, Phoebe,” the comtesse said, not meeting her eyes. “It will all be paid for, Mademoiselle, I assure you.”
Understanding dawned on Phoebe.
“Just how many gowns were you going to charge to my account?” she asked. Hélène looked confused, but the comtesse’s expression told Phoebe that she had guessed correctly.
“For goodness’ sake, Phoebe, stop arguing! Mademoiselle Laurent knows what she is doing. You can choose your other things later. You ne
ed to order it now so that it is ready in time.”
Phoebe recalled her uncle’s comment that morning. If she did not go to the ball, Hélène would not either. Looking her aunt in the eye, she shrugged. “If I do not have a ball gown, I won’t go to the ball. I haven’t enjoyed the few social events you have taken me to so far, so I won’t mind missing it.”
The comtesse glared at her, but Phoebe stood her ground.
“Oh, very well,” the comtesse said at last. “Mademoiselle Laurent, make up the one for Hélène. I’ll bring my niece back when I’ve talked some sense into her.”
Once in the carriage, Phoebe had to listen to a diatribe about her selfishness, poor manners, and unfortunate appearance all the way back to Berkeley Square. Hélène glanced at Phoebe with something approaching sympathy in her face. Phoebe smiled inwardly. It appeared that sometimes her aunt could be too much even for her own daughter. Phoebe let it all wash over her, feeling instead a quiet satisfaction as she kept her gaze on the passing scenes beyond the carriage. Thanks to her uncle’s sense of fairness, she had won this minor battle.
The comtesse continued her monologue as they entered the house, but the comte happened to be crossing the hall as they entered and, catching his eye, the comtesse gradually subsided.
Phoebe suppressed a smile, and went in search of Anson. She would ask to see her aunt’s accounts from Mademoiselle Laurent, and use those to help her to work out the garments she needed. Then she’d send a note to Lady Carterton. She needed an ally.
Chapter 25
Phoebe crept up the area steps at half past seven the next morning, wearing the same old dress she’d had on when she met Brevare in Hyde Park two days before, topped with Ellie’s cloak. This time, she carried a small basket with the decoy message hidden beneath an old, folded petticoat. The weather was cloudy, the damp feel to the air promising rain to come.
Owen awaited her at the far corner of the square.
“Watchers?” Phoebe asked in a low voice, and he indicated someone sweeping outside a house half-way along the street, and another man loitering on a corner further up. Phoebe pressed a hand to her stomach; she was feeling slightly nauseous. Agreeing to this plan had seemed easy two days ago when she was talking to the earl, but the reality felt rather different. If only this were over, and she were on her way to the meeting Lady Carterton had arranged in reply to her note.