by Jayne Davis
Hélène looked from Lord Harlford to Joe as the men talked, a crease gradually forming between her brows.
“…spent as much time on the gun deck as I have, Deane, you wouldn’t say…”
Phoebe listened with interest, gleaning more of Joe’s experiences at sea from the discussion than she ever would have done if she’d asked him herself.
“…chain shot to destroy rigging and spars…”
“These pastries are delicious,” Hélène said, cutting across Joe’s description of a stern chase. “Would you bring me some more?” She fluttered her lashes at Lord Harlford.
“Allow me, Lady Hélène,” Marlow said, and went off to fetch them.
“I’m sorry, Lady Hélène,” Lord Harlford said. “I thought you would be interested in your cousin’s stories.”
Hélène quickly changed her pout into a smile. “I…of course I am, my lord. Do carry on, please, Cousin Joseph.”
“I think the music is about to start again,” Phoebe put in. She knew why Hélène was annoyed and was irritated by her shallowness, but it wouldn’t do for her to say something rude in front of her cousin’s most important suitor.
“If you wish for more information, my lord, a message to Berkeley Square will reach me,” Joe said.
Lord Harlford thanked him and turned to Phoebe. “Are you free for the next dance, Miss Deane?”
She should not have been surprised, for he had asked if she would be attending.
Hélène spoke before Phoebe could reply. “I was saving that dance for you, my lord!”
He looked down at her, his face expressionless. “I do not recall asking you.”
“I know, but you always have two dances with me,” Hélène said coyly. “Any more would be improper.”
“True,” he said, his voice cool. “However, I prefer to arrange my own partners.”
“But I will have no-one to dance with!” Hélène’s pout just avoided the appearance of a sulk.
“A novel experience,” Joe muttered under his breath. Phoebe jabbed her elbow at him.
“I would be honoured to dance with you, Lady Hélène,” Lieutenant Marlow said.
“Thank you,” Hélène said, but turned to Joe with a smile. “But I should dance with my cousin,” she said. “It’s such an age since I’ve seen you, Joseph!”
“Don’t play your games with me, Hélène,” said Joe. “Come, Marlow, you said you only wanted to stay until supper.”
Phoebe glanced at Marlow, wondering if Hélène had hurt his feelings, and was relieved to see what looked like a rueful smile and not the set expression he had worn at the beginning of the evening. They made their bows, leaving Phoebe with Hélène and Lord Harlford.
Harlford returned his attention to Phoebe, his expression holding a hint of a smile. “Miss Deane?”
“I am not engaged for the next, my lord.”
“Then may I have the pleasure?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The marquess was a good dancer, but Phoebe felt awkward. His conversation was stilted, and limited to the usual comments about the weather, and she found none of the shared enjoyment of the activity shown by most of her other partners. Was he dancing with her only to punish Hélène?
After contributing a few remarks herself about the ballroom, she fell silent. His face displayed polite boredom; unsure whether the cause was her talk or her silence, she concentrated her gaze on the ruby pin in his neckcloth. He had talked readily enough when they had been watching the balloon, but that was mostly about technicalities. Even the vapid comments made by some of her other partners were better than this uncomfortable silence. She thought, with a pang, of the easy way she and Alex had conversed, and wished he were here.
“Did you enjoy the balloon ascension, my lord?” she asked eventually, determined not to dance in silence any longer. “I have never seen one before, and found it most interesting.”
He looked at her rather searchingly, and then finally smiled.
“I should apologise for foisting my young cousin on you,” Phoebe added.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “It is encouraging to witness such enthusiasm.”
“It can be rather wearing,” said Phoebe ruefully, winning another, slightly wider smile. This time it reached his eyes, making him look much friendlier. The rest of the set passed in companionable discussion of various sights worth seeing in London, then he led her to a chair.
“Would you care to drive in the park with me, Miss Deane?”
“That would depend, my lord,” said Phoebe. He looked surprised, and rather taken aback. She guessed he was not used to receiving anything but a grateful acceptance.
“On what, may I ask?” He did at least sound polite.
“On whether you truly wish to take me for a drive, or if you are still annoyed with my cousin, as you were when you invited me to view the balloon ascension.”
His eyes slid away from hers.
“I don’t hold that against you,” Phoebe went on. “I think bringing Georges along was sufficient revenge.”
“Touché, Miss Deane,” he said, a smile giving an attractive curve to his lips. “I would enjoy your company on a drive, if you are willing.”
“In that case, yes, thank you.”
“Tomorrow? Around four o’clock?”
She agreed, and he bowed and took his leave. She was surprised to see that he left the ballroom soon afterwards, not going back to rejoin Hélène’s crowd of admirers.
When they arrived home, the comte emerged from the library and asked them all to join him in the parlour.
“How did you enjoy the ball, Phoebe?” he asked.
“Very well, sir. I danced most of the dances, with some pleasant gentlemen. It was—”
“She made Harlford dance with her after supper,” Hélène interrupted.
“Really?” asked the comte. “How did she make him do that?”
Phoebe watched with scarcely concealed amusement as Hélène’s mouth opened but no words came out. She closed it again, her lower lip sticking out.
“Phoebe puts herself forward far too much for one of her rank, Edouard,” the comtesse said. “I have always said so.”
“So you asked Lord Harlford for a dance?” the comte asked Phoebe, ignoring his wife.
“No, sir. He asked to join us for supper—he wanted to talk to Joe and Lieutenant Marlow about gunnery. Then he requested the next dance.” She kept her eyes on her uncle, sensing her aunt’s glare. It would be better to break the worse news to the comtesse and Hélène while her uncle was there. “He also asked me to go driving with him tomorrow afternoon.”
“Interesting,” the comte said, looking towards his wife. “Perhaps some men value punctuality. Now, I’m sure Phoebe can be excused any calls you may have had in mind for tomorrow afternoon.”
The comtesse nodded reluctantly, and Phoebe suppressed a sigh of relief. As she mounted the stairs to her bedroom, she wondered whether driving with Lord Harlford would be worth the resulting resentment from her aunt and cousin.
Chapter 34
Alex slowed his horse to a walk as he rode up the drive at Ashton Tracey. The setting sun cast long shadows across the gravel and glinted off the windows on the house. He dismounted by the steps and knocked on the door as the post-chaise approached behind him.
“Mr Westbrook.” The butler greeted him with a sedate bow. “We were not expecting you, sir.”
“Mackenzie.” Alex smiled. “Lord Marstone has a sudden need to provide hospitality for the Vicomtesse de Brevare and her daughter. They will be staying for an indeterminate time.”
“Very good, sir. If you will excuse me.”
Mackenzie didn’t wait for Alex’s acknowledgement, but turned and summoned a footman, who dashed up the staircase. Going to find Lady Marstone, no doubt.
Alex went back outside as the carriage pulled up, opening the door and lowering the step before handing the vicomtesse down. Overdone politeness to the woman now might ease the burden on
the staff who would have to look after her.
The vicomtesse stood on the gravel, her gaze running over the building before her. Ashton Tracey was one of Marstone’s smaller estates, but he and his wife seemed to prefer it above their other properties.
Mackenzie returned, and ushered the vicomtesse into the house with a low bow. Alex helped the daughter down, then offered his arm. Inside, the vicomtesse surveyed the marble tiles and polished oak staircase, the thick velvet curtains framing the windows, and the crystal chandelier above, all with a faint air of superiority.
Lady Marstone descended the stairs. Alex watched in admiration as she appeared to sum up the vicomtesse instantly, giving a low curtsey even though her own rank was higher than that of her guest.
“My lady, welcome to my home. You must be exhausted after your journey. Let me escort you to your room myself, so I may ensure all is in order. You can rest and change.”
That was a mistake, Alex thought, shaking his head at Lady Marstone over the vicomtesse’s shoulder. One of the woman’s complaints had been that Alex had not brought any of her clothing out of Paris with them.
Lady Marstone’s glance flicked to him then to the hall behind him, where any luggage would have been placed. “I’m sure we can find something to fit until we can summon a seamstress to look after your needs,” she said, with barely a moment’s hesitation. “Won’t you come with me?”
The vicomtesse followed Lady Marstone upstairs without a backward glance at her daughter. Alex felt the girl’s hand tighten on his arm, and looked down. Suzanne de Brevare’s face was pale and drawn, but she held herself straight with her shoulders back.
“Mrs Hunt will show mademoiselle to her room, sir,” Mackenzie said. “And provide refreshment.”
About to hand Suzanne over to the housekeeper, Alex paused as he felt a small tug on his arm.
“Please, monsieur, may I walk outside for a little time? I would like to speak with you.”
“If you wish, mademoiselle.” He glanced at the butler. “Please ask for refreshments in twenty minutes. I’ll be staying overnight, too.”
“Very good, sir.”
Alex led the girl back out of the front door and into the formal garden beside the house, which was still catching the last of the afternoon sun. Why did she wish to talk to him now? He had hardly spoken to her during the journey. At first he’d been driving, and then on the Lily she’d never been apart from her mother, who did not deign to talk to the help.
“I have to thank you, monsieur, for rescuing us,” Suzanne said, in a quiet voice. “I do not think my mother will do so.”
“You are welcome, mademoiselle.”
“However, I understand we are still prisoners, in some degree?”
“Not exactly prisoners.” But with no money of their own, where could they go? “What did his lordship say to you?”
He should have asked Marstone himself, but the earl had not been in when he returned from seeing Bella, and they had set off early the next morning.
“He asked me about my brother, and when we last saw him.” She stopped walking, and took her hand from his arm.
Alex turned to face her. “When did you last see him?”
She stared into his face, then raised her shoulders in a shrug. “Many months ago, after he had to sell our other estates.” Turning, she started walking again, speaking as if she was reciting words already said once. “He is not good with money, but he means well. We could have managed, except for the trouble in France. Two months ago, some men came with guns, and made us go to Paris with them. We have been there ever since, and we have not heard from Hugo.”
“That is what you told Lord Marstone?”
She nodded. “Is Hugo all right?”
“Did Marstone tell you anything else?” Alex asked.
“He said Hugo was safe, that’s all.” She bit her lip, and he saw the glint of tears in her eyes.
“He was safe three weeks ago,” Alex said. “That is all I know, mademoiselle.”
“Why is Lord Marstone interested in my brother?”
Alex could hear a tremble in her voice now. He walked on, wondering how much to tell her, if anything. It would not reassure her to know that Brevare was suspected of treasonous activities.
Glancing down, he could see some resemblance to Phoebe’s cousin—a similarly shaped face, and both girls had golden hair. When Suzanne was rested and happier, she would remind someone of Hélène. Or, rather, Hélène would remind an anxious brother of Suzanne. Phoebe’s supposition had been correct—naturally, he thought with a wry smile. The two mothers were similar in some ways, too, although the comtesse did seem to have some affection for her daughter—he’d seen little of that from the Vicomtesse de Brevare.
This Suzanne, though, was more resilient than she looked, certainly more so than Hélène. She had uttered no word of complaint about the hurried journey or rough crossing.
The truth, he decided.
“Marstone, and I, suspect that Brevare is being blackmailed with the threat of harm to you and your mother.”
The girl nodded, as though this was not a new idea.
“I wondered if it was something like that,” she said. “What has he done? Is he now a criminal here?”
He heard the wobble in her voice again.
“Not yet.” Although if Brevare did anything to endanger Phoebe he’d not only be a criminal but would certainly come to harm at Alex’s hands.
“That is why you rescued us.”
“Yes. That is also why Marstone wishes you to stay here. He hopes to find out who is doing this to your brother.”
Suzanne nodded again. “I do not like our situation, but it would be worse without your actions.” She bit her lip again. “Monsieur, it would not be wise to repeat this to my mother.”
“Very well.” The sun had dipped below the horizon and the early spring chill was sharp. “Shall we go back in now?”
Inside, the housekeeper took Suzanne upstairs and Alex retired to Marstone’s library to sample his brandy. He’d rest tonight, then set off back to London in the morning. He contemplated using the mail coach from Exeter, but decided to ride. He didn’t want to be cooped up with strangers for so long.
Then he’d have to decide whether he should call on Phoebe.
* * *
Phoebe awaited the marquess in the library the next afternoon, standing at the window to look out over the square for his arrival. She’d finished Burke’s book and was part way through Paine’s Rights of Man, currently lying open but disregarded on the table.
Watching Lord Harlford draw up in his phaeton, at four o’clock precisely, she wondered what he would think of Paine’s proposal to eliminate hereditary titles. She wasn’t sure she should broach that topic though, not to a marquess.
Lord Harlford was shown into the library, still wearing his many-caped driving coat.
“Would you like some refreshment first, my lord?” she asked as he made his bow.
“If you are ready, Miss Deane, leaving now would be preferable.”
“Certainly.”
Phoebe was again impressed at the skilful way Lord Harlford manoeuvred his phaeton around carts, coaches, and other less expertly driven leisure vehicles. The greys seemed fresher than on the day of the balloon ascension, or perhaps the marquess was driving faster now because he didn’t have a small boy pestering him with questions. She watched his hands, noting the way they hardly seemed to move on the reins.
“Are you quite well, Miss Deane?” the marquess asked, after some minutes of silence.
“Yes, thank you my lord.” She’d been preoccupied, but had also thought that he would initiate any conversation they were to have.
“You seem rather quiet.”
He did look concerned. She bit her lip as it occurred to her that he was used to Hélène’s chatter.
“I did not wish to distract you on the busy roads,” she explained. “And I was admiring your horses. They seem to respond to the tiniest movements o
f your hands.”
“They are a good pair,” he replied. “Soft-mouthed. Fast, too, although there is not much opportunity to demonstrate that in Town.”
“Does being soft-mouthed make them easier to drive?” Phoebe asked, remembering aching arms after driving with Captain Synton in the park.
“That depends on the horses. If a soft or hard mouth were the only difference, then yes, you would not have to pull on the reins as hard. But it also depends on their temperaments. Why do you ask?”
“I have been practising driving a pair, and find my arms and hands get tired quite quickly. I was wondering if that pair have harder mouths.”
Lord Harlford regarded her, wariness in his expression. Phoebe wondered if she had said something wrong.
“Was that a hint, Miss Deane?”
“A hint, my lord?”
“That you wish to drive my greys.”
“No. Well, I mean, yes…”
She would love to, but from the way he had spoken of them she didn’t think he would be happy with someone so inexperienced handling the reins. “I would love to try driving them, but if I were you I wouldn’t want me to drive them.” That had been somewhat incoherent. “If you see what I mean?”
“I think so.” He sounded friendlier this time. “Have you been driving your uncle’s carriage?”
“He doesn’t have a carriage at the moment,” Phoebe said. “I believe he is going to purchase one, but it will be a coach rather than a phaeton. Not really the kind of thing to take for a drive in the park.”
“What have you been driving?”
“Captain Synton is a cousin of Lord Carterton. He took me in his lordship’s phaeton and pair.”
“Carterton’s blacks?”
“Yes.”
“They must be a bit of a handful for you.” He said nothing further while he negotiated the carriages almost blocking the entrance to the park. “I wish people would go into the park instead of greeting each other at the gate!” he muttered irritably as he finally got through the crowd.
They drove on into the park, their progress slow as riders and people in other carriages stopped to greet the marquess. Some attempted to start conversations about the weather or the latest on-dits, but the marquess didn’t have much to say in return, and each encounter lasted only a short time. Glancing at his face as he urged his pair on again, Phoebe wondered if he was as bored with the commonplace remarks as she was.