by Jayne Davis
“Make sure no-one recognises you. And you had best not tell anyone else you are back, either.”
“Too late for that,” Alex said.
“What? Who?”
“Oh, don’t worry, no word will get out.” He stood and headed for the door before the earl could say anything else. “I’ll call on Bella, then I’m for my bed again.”
Chapter 31
Ellie knocked and carried a tray of coffee into Phoebe’s room. “Lovely day it is, miss,” she said, once she had set down the tray and opened the curtains. “This come for you earlier,” she added, handing Phoebe a twist of paper. “Leastways, we think it was meant for you.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe asked, sitting up in bed and taking it.
“Some scruffy urchin brung it round to the kitchen. Said it was for the lady with the red hair.”
“That must be me.” Phoebe flattened it out, her heart lifting when she saw the few scrawled words.
Back safe. A.
She folded the paper up again, glancing at the clock. “Oh, I’m late for breakfast.”
“The green gown, miss?” Ellie asked, taking it from the closet. Phoebe nodded, and Ellie helped her with the fastenings.
“Thank you, Ellie.”
Phoebe opened the note once more—she was relieved that Alex had returned, but why had he sent such a short note? She’d hoped to see him, to find out…
She shook her head and picked up her book, determined to put Alex out of her mind for now.
To her surprise, her uncle was still at the breakfast table.
“Good morning, Phoebe,” he said. “You looked well in your gown when you all set off for the ball last night.”
“Thank you, sir.” She felt a warm glow of pleasure at his words.
“I’m sorry I could not accompany you. You enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes, indeed.” She had been without a partner for only a few dances, and her companion for supper hadn’t been too obviously obsessed with Hélène’s attractions. Glancing down at the dark green sleeve of the round gown she wore in the house, she was still impressed at the added confidence her new appearance gave her. Enough to realise that at least a few of her partners last evening had chosen her for herself, not merely for being Hélène’s cousin.
“I must thank you again, sir, for—”
“Family, Phoebe, as I said.” The comte waved away her thanks, but she thought he looked pleased. He glanced at the book next to her plate, one brow rising. “Burke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“I think I don’t know enough about what happened to start the revolution,” Phoebe admitted. “This book gives only his interpretation of things, and I doubt that he’s an unbiased commentator.”
“You would find it difficult to find anyone unbiased,” the comte said. “I deeply regret the way things are going, but some change was inevitable.”
“You sympathise with the revolutionaries?” Phoebe asked, surprised.
The comte’s gaze become unfocused, and Phoebe wondered if she had offended him.
“No, not really—certainly not their methods of enforcing change,” he said. He rubbed one temple. “There were many injustices that needed to be addressed, but I’m afraid I was not so sympathetic that I tried to do anything about it. I opted for a quiet life, and so moved you all here, out of the way. I am likely to lose Calvac, but I have sufficient investments in London to maintain us. “
“What happened?” Phoebe hesitated—that was a sweeping question, inviting a detailed answer. “I’m sorry,” she added, “It isn’t something that can be answered quickly. You—”
The comte held up a hand. “Are you seriously interested?”
“Yes, sir.”
He poured himself another coffee and settled back in his chair. “To understand the revolution, you need to first know what life was like in France beforehand.” He went on to describe how power was more concentrated in the monarchy in France than in England, and the way the tax system supported the aristocracy at the expense of the peasants and middle classes.
Phoebe glanced around the dining room as he talked, taking in the roaring fire, the polished wood and decorated china, the landscape painting above the fireplace. She smoothed her skirt, uneasily aware that the amount she’d just spent on clothing could have fed and housed a number of labouring families for some time.
“If you are still interested, Phoebe, we could meet after breakfast once or twice each week. When you have read that—” He indicated Burke’s book. “—you may have more questions.”
“Thank you, sir, I would like that.”
He took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “On another matter, this invitation was delivered this morning. Do you know anything about it?”
Phoebe opened it—it was an invitation for the Calvac family, including Phoebe, to a dinner with the Earl of Marstone.
“You don’t seem surprised,” the comte said.
“Not entirely,” she admitted. “His lordship sent me Burke’s book and a couple of others after he came across me in a bookshop. There was a message in one of the books.” Best not to mention the code. “I wondered if he was joking, so I wrote to say that I was sure that you would accept a formal invitation.”
“It is most unusual,” the comte said, taking the letter back and looking over it again. “I have heard of Marstone’s dinners. They are for conversation—no cards or other entertainments. Political discussion, I gather.”
It wasn’t the kind of dinner her aunt or Hélène would appreciate. Phoebe wasn’t sure she would enjoy it either—she knew little of politics as yet, but she could listen.
The comte stood and moved over to the mantelpiece, perusing the invitations propped up on it. “There is an invitation here for a ball on the fourth of March. Should you mind missing that?”
“No, sir. My aunt, though—”
“I would like to accept Marstone’s invitation, but your aunt will not. However, I do not think Marstone will be offended if only you and I go. I will arrange it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The day continued fine, with hazy sunshine and hardly a breath of wind. Phoebe was glad for an excuse to be out of doors again, even if it was only to play cricket with Georges. She asked Cookson to allow Green to bowl, while Phoebe and Ellie acted as fielders.
When Georges finally tired of batting, Ellie took a turn, providing much amusement for Georges and Green with her wild swings. Phoebe, having been roped into Joe’s games when younger, decided to show them that not all women were hopeless with a cricket bat.
Her first swing connected with a satisfying smack, sending the ball into a clump of bushes, and she paid Georges back for his earlier laughter by making him crawl into the undergrowth to retrieve it. Her second ball went further, narrowly missing a gentleman entering the gardens.
Recognising the elegant clothing and bearing of the Marquess of Harlford, she hurriedly handed the bat to Ellie, straightened her gown, and tucked a few stray curls back into place. The marquess had invited Hélène to go driving this afternoon. What was he doing here?
“Miss Deane,” Lord Harlford said with a bow. “I came to enquire whether you would like to attend a balloon ascension.”
“That would be interesting, thank you my lord.” She hoped she’d kept the surprise from her voice. She hadn’t thought he even knew her name. “When is it?”
“A balloon?” Georges exclaimed. “Oh, that would be excellent!”
Lord Harlford glanced at Georges, then back to Phoebe, his face expressionless; he did not have the look of a man who wished for the pleasure of her company. “It is in an hour, Miss Deane,” he said. “We would need to leave now.”
Phoebe hesitated.
His lips compressed as he awaited her answer. “Your uncle suggested I ask you,” he added.
Ah. He was supposed to be taking Hélène, but she must be once again trying to show her power
by keeping him waiting. She felt a quick flash of anger and hurt, for who would want to be merely a last minute replacement? Georges shuffled his feet beside her, and her mood lightened.
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you. We would be pleased to accept!” She turned to Ellie and winked. “Please inform Monsieur le Comte that Georges and I have accepted Lord Harlford’s kind invitation.”
Ellie looked surprised, then she bobbed a quick curtsey and went off with a grin.
Lord Harlford stood as if turned to stone. Phoebe retrieved her pelisse from a nearby bench, then helped Georges to fasten his coat.
“I’m in my phaeton—”
“I don’t take up much space, my lord. It will be a squash, but I’m sure Georges won’t mind. It is so kind of you to offer.” She bit her lip, trying not to betray her amusement at his dismay. It served him right.
“Come, Georges,” she said, sweeping out of the gardens as Lord Harlford’s tiger appeared with the phaeton. The poor man must be getting used to walking the horses while his master was waiting for Hélène.
His face still set, the marquess helped her up, then Georges, before climbing in himself and taking the reins. Georges, oblivious to the fact that the marquess had not actually invited him, pelted him with questions about the balloon they were going to see.
Phoebe, from her position at the other end of the seat, watched the conversation between the two with interest. Lord Harlford, stiff and cold at first, unbent a little as he explained the basics of ballooning to Georges, all the while guiding the phaeton with a skill that made it look easy. He almost appeared enthusiastic when Georges’ questions turned to the matched greys. They were a magnificent pair, Phoebe thought, and was surprised to hear he’d bred them himself.
The park was crowded, a host of carriages already gathered around the roped-off area where the balloon was being readied. Lord Harlford must have reserved a space, for he pulled the phaeton up in a position with a good view of the balloon, and the tiger climbed down from his perch to take the horses’ heads.
“There is time for some refreshment before the ascent,” Lord Harlford announced. Phoebe felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the man, having his plans disarranged by Hélène’s deliberate tardiness.
Unusually, Georges wasn’t impressed by the prospect of food. “Can we go right up to the balloon, Lord Harlford? Please?”
The marquess looked doubtfully at Phoebe over Georges’ head. “Wouldn’t you rather watch in comfort from here? The ground is rather muddy.”
“It would be interesting to take a closer look, my lord,” Phoebe said. “We should have time to do that, and to watch the ascent from here.”
“If you wish, Miss Deane,” he said, his eyebrows rising. He helped them down, then offered his arm to Phoebe as they pushed through the crowd. Coins discreetly changed hands, then one of the men keeping the spectators at a safe distance lifted the rope and allowed them through.
“Do they use hot air?” Phoebe asked, dredging from her memory the few things she had heard about balloons. There was no indication of a fire here, only a large, barrel-like object below the inflated balloon, and some pipes.
It was clearly Lord Harlford’s day for surprises, Phoebe thought, noticing his expression.
“This balloon is filled with hydrogen, Miss Deane. Like hot air, it is lighter than the air around us, and so provides buoyancy to lift the balloon upwards.”
“Where’s the hygen come from?” Georges asked. Lord Harlford glanced at him, but addressed his answer to them both.
“Inside that barrel, there is a way of adding oil of vitriol to iron; the chemical combination generates the gas.”
“Is that not dangerous?” Phoebe asked. “Oil of vitriol?”
“Indeed it is. The gas produced is very inflammable too—safety procedures must be followed strictly.”
Not to mention the dangers of rising into the air, Phoebe thought.
“What’s the balloon made from?” Georges wanted to know. Phoebe listened in snatches as the marquess answered the stream of questions.
“…varnished silk, so the gas does not leak out…”
To Phoebe, Lord Harlford looked as enthusiastic as her young cousin as he provided Georges with a detailed description of the balloon’s construction.
“…where the wind takes it…”
She wondered if her sense of adventure would be up to a balloon voyage, should she ever have the chance.
“…let gas out of the top…”
The marquess’ explanation was cut short by one of the aeronauts. “My lord, we are almost ready to ascend, if you would be so good as to leave us now.”
“Can’t we stay here?” Georges asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Lord Harlford said. “These men need space to finish their preparations. Come, it is time to eat.” He turned to the balloonist. “Thank you, sir, for allowing us to inspect your vessel.”
The man touched his cap and went back to his preparations. Phoebe put her hand on Georges’ shoulder to forestall any further protests, and followed closely as Lord Harlford pushed his way back to the phaeton.
The tiger had opened the basket of provisions and set out plates of sandwiches and small pastries on a tiny folding table. There was also a chilled bottle of champagne, and one of lemonade.
“I suggest you and young Georges sit in the phaeton, Miss Deane,” Lord Harlford said. “I can eat standing up. Now, what can I get you? A little of everything?”
“Thank you, my lord.” Phoebe helped Georges into the phaeton, and scrambled up herself while Lord Harlford filled their plates and handed them up. So far, the expedition had been far more enjoyable than she’d expected. Lord Harlford had coped with Georges’ enthusiasm surprisingly well.
They ate in silence while the men bustled about the balloon, the high perch of Lord Harlford’s phaeton giving them a clear view over the heads of the other spectators. Phoebe watched with interest as the two aeronauts finally climbed into the basket. Some of the ground anchors were released and the balloon abruptly rose a few feet, stopping with a bounce when the remaining rope pulled taut.
“It looks like a racehorse ready to start,” she said to herself.
Lord Harlford looked at her. Phoebe wondered if she’d said something foolish, but he smiled. “Indeed,” was all he said, returning his attention to the balloon as the last rope was released. He was quite attractive when he wasn’t wearing one of his severe expressions.
The next moment she had to grab the back of Georges’ jacket as the balloon rose into the sky. Without her restraint, he would have fallen out of the phaeton in his excitement. The cheers from the crowd rang in her ears as she turned her head to follow the balloon drift slowly westwards. What would it feel like to float above the earth, looking down on everything below?
Cold, she told herself firmly, as Georges began his questions—where would the balloon go, how long would it stay up, how could it be landed safely and could they follow it?
“I’m afraid not, Georges. I have another appointment shortly,” Lord Harlford said smoothly. “It is time for me to take you home.”
Georges took this refusal in good part. The tiger soon had the picnic things packed up and they set off back through the streets.
“I really do have an appointment,” Lord Harlford said, as he handed Phoebe down in Berkeley Square. Georges was already inside and running up the stairs to tell Miss Bryant about his trip.
“Thank you for the excursion, my lord. It was very interesting.”
“Thank you for your company, Miss Deane. I enjoyed it.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant the balloon ascension or her company. It would be nice if it were the latter—she had appreciated conversing about something other than the generalities she’d shared with her dancing partners.
“Do you go to the Carringtons’ ball later this week?” he asked.
“I believe so, my lord.”
“I shall see you there, then. Good day.” He touched his ha
t, then remounted the phaeton and flicked the whip to start the horses.
Phoebe watched him go before entering the house. Cookson was holding the door, waiting for her. “Monsieur asks that you join him in the parlour, miss,” he said.
Her aunt was no doubt angered by Phoebe’s acceptance of Harlford’s invitation. Squaring her shoulders, she entered the parlour.
The confrontation wasn’t as bad as Phoebe had feared. The comte began by thanking Phoebe for accepting Lord Harlford’s invitation. “If he had left any later, he would have missed the ascension altogether. I’m glad he took up my suggestion.”
The comtesse’s lips were turning down, and Hélène had a definite pout, but they said nothing. Phoebe suspected they had already had their say while she was out.
“It was kind of him to invite Georges along as well,” Phoebe said. From the twinkle in his eye, she suspected her uncle already knew how Georges had become part of the expedition. “If you will excuse me, sir?”
The comte waved a hand, and Phoebe went up to her room. She would let Georges’ enthusiasm wear itself out, then go and talk with Alice herself. Alice would be interested to learn about the balloon, and she suspected that her young cousin’s explanations would be less than coherent.
Phoebe took the note from Alex from her pocket again and smoothed it out, wondering what he was doing now. Had he been in a hurry when he wrote it, or wary in case someone else read it? Why else had he not even mentioned if he had found Brevare’s family?
She folded it in half, and put it in the pocket beneath her gown.
Chapter 32
The following afternoon, Phoebe was curled up in a chair in the back parlour, listening to the patter of rain on the window. She was reading Burke’s book, and was almost finished. Her progress was slow, as she tried to understand the implications of what was written and made notes of questions for her uncle. The whole situation was far too complex for her to take in at once, but she hoped to make sense of it eventually.