by Jayne Davis
Driving on, they came eventually to the location of the balloon ascension, now just a muddy area where the gas-generating machine had stood. Recalling the way the balloon had disappeared into the distance, Phoebe asked the marquess how far such a balloon could travel.
“It depends on the wind, Miss Deane, and on how quickly the gas leaks through the fabric of the balloon.”
That wasn’t a very informative answer. “Could they cross the Channel?” she persisted. “I was wondering if the French could use balloons to spy on our ports, for example.”
“The wind would have to be…” His voice trailed off as the phaeton slowed to a halt.
She must have said something foolish, although she didn’t know what. Perhaps he considered such a discussion unsuitable for a woman—he hadn’t minded discussing such things at the ascension, but Georges had been with her then.
“My lord?” she said, putting her chin up. It would be polite to apologise, even if she didn’t really mean it. “I’m sorry if I—”
“No, no, Miss Deane.” He met her eyes, a wry smile twisting his mouth. “I should apologise for becoming distracted.”
“It was probably a silly idea.” She looked at her gloved hands, folded in her lap.
“No, indeed. I believe balloons could be useful to the army as well, to locate enemy positions, for example. But there are difficulties.”
“The wind direction?” she asked, interested to learn more.
“Yes. There is also manufacture of the oil of vitriol, some of the materials—”
Breaking off, he shook his head as he flicked his whip above the horses’ heads, setting the phaeton into motion again. “I’m sorry, I must be boring you.”
“Not at all. The oil of vitriol is for making the hydrogen, is it not? Is it difficult to manufacture?”
“I was thinking that some of the materials needed for making it are also needed in the manufacture of gunpowder,” he said, guiding the phaeton back out through the park gates.
Phoebe digested this information. “I had not considered the complexities of such things,” she admitted at last. “I suppose an efficient supply of materials is as important in warfare as ships and men.”
“Efficient is often the last word to describe it,” he muttered, turning off Piccadilly onto Berkeley Street.
Intrigued, Phoebe wondered if he was involved in government in some way. She hadn’t come across his name in the newspapers, but there must be many men working behind the scenes.
“I’ve enjoyed our drive, Miss Deane,” he said as he pulled up outside the house. “Would you care to drive again? I am free the day after tomorrow. If you wish, I could find a nice quiet pair, suitable for a lady. We could go in the morning, when the park is empty.”
Phoebe wasn’t too sure about the ‘nice, quiet pair’, but perhaps quieter horses would allow her to concentrate on her technique. He had taken her wish to drive more seriously than Joe had.
“Thank you, my lord, I would enjoy that.”
“The day after tomorrow, then?” he said, helping her down and bowing over her hand.
Phoebe stood in the doorway, looking after him with mixed feelings. She’d enjoyed watching his expert driving, and their conversation had been interesting once they were no longer attempting the usual social pleasantries, but she did not feel totally at ease with him.
She still wondered if he was trying to teach Hélène a lesson, in spite of what he’d said at the ball. A man of his station wouldn’t be seriously courting someone like her, with no title and no dowry. It didn’t really matter—she’d enjoyed the drive, and would enjoy his company again.
Chapter 35
Phoebe sipped her wine as she looked around the parlour at Marstone House. This room was decorated in a very different fashion from the dark wood and rich colours of the library, which was the only other room she’d seen here. Pale green walls and delicately patterned curtains gave it a light feel, and the paintings depicted countryside scenes and seascapes.
Her gaze passed over the other guests, as she tried to recall everyone’s name. She was by far the youngest person present, with Bella a close second. Why had Lord Marstone invited her? If he wanted to talk to the comte, an invitation to her aunt and uncle would have sufficed.
Listening to snippets of the conversations going on around her, she felt ill-qualified to join any of them. The talk was all of Fox’s continuing disagreements with other Whigs, or the expectation of some regions of France rising up against the revolutionary government.
There were uneven numbers of ladies and gentlemen, and Phoebe supposed there must be more guests yet to arrive. However, the butler entered the room to announce that dinner was served, and the earl approached with the only two people she had not been introduced to.
“Fenton, may I present Miss Phoebe Deane. Miss Deane, Admiral Lord Fenton.” The admiral was older than Lord Marstone, with iron-grey hair and a weather-beaten face. Lord Hilvern, the remaining guest, was portly, with a florid complexion and developing jowls.
“These dinners are rather informal, Miss Deane, as you may have gathered,” Marstone continued. “We do not stand on ceremony. Fenton, if you would escort Miss Deane?”
The admiral offered his arm, and the whole party made their way into the dining room across the hall. Phoebe was seated between the admiral and Lord Hilvern. Bella sat beyond Hilvern, at the foot of the table. The comte was almost opposite, and gave Phoebe an encouraging smile as he sat down.
The meal was good, but not outstanding; many of the guests appeared to be giving more attention to their conversations than their dinners. Phoebe sat without talking for a while, concentrating on controlling her nerves and watching the other diners. Then Bella brought her conversation with Lord Hilvern to a close. As Lord Hilvern turned ponderously towards Phoebe, Bella caught her eye with a quick grimace before giving her attention to the comte on her other side.
“Well, and what brings you here, Miss… er…” Hilvern looked down his nose at her—quite a feat, Phoebe thought, as he wasn’t much taller than she was.
“Deane, my lord.”
“I haven’t seen you before.” He spoke as if that were her fault.
“I have only just come into society.”
“Hmm. Niece to Calvac, eh? Who’s your father?”
“I doubt you will have heard of him.” Really, this felt like an interrogation rather than a conversation.
“You seem young for one of Marstone’s guests.” Hilvern took another mouthful of roast pigeon.
“Time will cure that, my lord,” she assured him. She wondered if she had been too impolite, but a soft snort from the end of the table reassured her. Bella was listening—the thought gave her a small glow of confidence.
“Miss Deane,” the admiral addressed her, and she turned to her left. “We have not met before tonight, but the name seems familiar.”
“My brother is a lieutenant in the navy, my lord,” Phoebe said. The admiral seemed both friendlier and more polite than Lord Hilvern. “You may have seen his name on some list?”
“It seems I have come across it recently.”
With a slight sinking of her heart, Phoebe wondered if the loss of Joe’s ship had come to his notice. “He was serving on the Galene, sir, and returned to England a few days ago.”
“Ah, yes. Unfortunate affair that.” A fleeting look of disapproval crossed his face.
“My brother was absolved of any blame,” Phoebe added.
“Quite so, quite so.” He gestured to a footman who came to refill their glasses; more servants entered to clear the dishes and bring in the next course.
“You do not seem convinced, my lord,” she said.
“I do not recall the details, Miss Deane. I will, of course, be guided by the findings of the men who conducted the court martial.”
“Come, Miss Deane,” Lord Hilvern spoke from her other side. “You should leave these matters to those in charge. They need not concern you. Sutor, ne ultra crepidam, and
all that, you know?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord? I’m afraid I have never learnt Latin.”
“Naturally not,” Lord Hilvern said, looking down his nose again. “Females are unsuited to it, addles their brains.”
Phoebe took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if she should just swallow the insult. Beyond Hilvern, Bella gave her a smile and a nod.
“That must have made life very difficult for the Romans,” Phoebe said.
“What…?” Hilvern frowned.
“The Romans spoke Latin, did they not?” She widened her eyes a little. “How did the men speak to their wives?”
“What? Of course their wives spoke Latin!”
“But you said that females were unsuited to it, my lord?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows and fluttered her eyelashes as Hélène often did, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.
“Well, it must be different if they are taught from childhood. Obviously.”
“Oh, I see.” She narrowed her eyes, as if thinking. “So the Romans brought their own female servants with them when they first came here?”
Hilvern stared at her for several long moments, then turned to his plate without speaking.
Phoebe’s lips twitched and she picked up her glass. Before she could drink, Bella leaned forward.
“Why would they need to bring their servants with them, Phoebe?” she asked, a definite laugh in her eyes.
“If females can only learn Latin when they are children, they would not be able to get any British female servants to learn their language,” Phoebe said. “They would have to train up new servants from childhood.”
“That’s a good point, Hilvern,” the admiral chipped in from her other side. Phoebe glanced around, uneasily aware that the rest of the guests were now listening to this exchange.
“That’s a part of history they never taught me.” The admiral shook his head in wonderment. “Amazing the details they omit.”
Hilvern’s jaw dropped, before he closed it with a snap, his jowls wobbling. “Nonsense!” he said. “You’re letting the chit make fun of you, Fenton.”
“Oh, I think I know who is looking the butt of this joke, Hilvern,” the admiral said. “I know many women who speak other languages.”
“Yes, well, they speak French—that’s a different matter completely. The female brain is not suited to the classical languages.”
“Lord Hilvern, are you suggesting that no females can learn Latin?” Bella said.
“Not suited to it, as I said.” Lord Hilvern’s face was becoming flushed, and he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
“That’s odd. I’m sure Lady Mary—”
“Oh, leave him alone to lick his wounds, Bella,” Lord Marstone said from the far end of the table, a wicked gleam in his eye. He turned back to his neighbour. “Now, Tresham, I doubt this repulsion of the French attempt to take Sardinia is as significant as you—”
“How did you find attitudes in the countryside during your trip to France, Miss Deane?”
Phoebe turned to the admiral with relief as Hilvern glared at his plate. “It was difficult to tell, my lord. We avoided contact with others as far as possible.”
“Of course—very wise.”
“Fenton, could I ask you a favour?” Her uncle spoke across the table—by now Phoebe wasn’t surprised that no-one took any notice of what was usually a social solecism.
“My son is ten years old, and at an age when he wishes to know about everything,” the comte went on. “His latest desire is to see a warship. No doubt he would wish for a ship of the line, but a frigate would do. Is there any possibility of something of that nature?”
“I’m sure there must be something suitable at Greenwich,” the admiral said. “Failing that, at Deptford or near Woolwich. I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“My thanks, Fenton,” the comte said.
“Best not mention the arsenal to him, if he goes to Woolwich,” Phoebe warned. “Or my uncle will be pestered to arrange a visit there as well.”
“Perhaps you should accompany him to supervise, Miss Deane?” the admiral said.
“I’d love to, thank you,” she said promptly.
He looked a little taken aback, and the comte laughed again. “I think she means it, Fenton.”
Fenton nodded, a good-natured smile on his face. As he did so, Bella rose and announced that it was time the ladies retired. Bottles of port were brought in as the ladies left the room, but Phoebe was surprised when the menfolk entered the parlour only fifteen minutes later, glasses in hand.
“May I join you, Miss Deane?” It was the admiral again.
“Of course, my lord.” Phoebe gestured to the empty seat next to her and he sat down.
“Were you serious about wishing to see a warship?”
“Yes, I think it would be interesting. And I enjoy sea journeys, although I have only ever crossed the Channel.”
“I will arrange a visit. Could your brother come along? The ship’s own officers may not have much time to show guests around.”
“Thank you, my lord, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to. Er… I think my cousin’s governess would also be interested.”
“And your maid? The footman? The housekeeper?”
Phoebe glanced at his face, wondering if she had offended him, but one corner of his mouth was turned up. She smiled. “No sir, I will not push my luck any further.”
“Very well.” The admiral smiled and moved off as Bella and her husband approached.
“I came to ask if you would like to go to Drury Lane tomorrow evening,” Bella said. “It is The Merchant of Venice, I understand.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I would have loved to go with you, but we are already invited by Lord Harlford.” It was a pity, really—she would enjoy the play more in Bella’s company. She suspected that a conversation with Lord Harlford about the play would be interesting, but that wasn’t likely to be possible with her aunt and cousin present.
Bella turned the conversation to other forthcoming engagements, and the rest of the evening passed easily enough, with less talk of politics and more of concerts, theatres, and other entertainments.
* * *
Alex did not reach Grosvenor Square until late in the evening. He drew rein at the end of the square as he saw lights blazing from the lower windows of Marstone House and the line of carriages outside. Marstone did not entertain often and, from the small number of carriages, this looked like one of his informal discussion dinners.
The journey back from Devonshire had gone smoothly enough, but he’d spent four days on horseback. He wished for a moment that he’d headed straight for his own lodgings, but the thought of being looked after by the earl’s staff while he was so exhausted had been far more appealing than his own cold and empty rooms. If he entered his usual way—via the mews and the servants’ entrance—he wouldn’t need to speak to anyone.
The doors opened and guests began to leave, most unidentifiable from this distance. A woman emerged, escorted by a much older man, the lights catching her bare head. Her hair flamed as red as Phoebe’s, and his breath caught in his throat. But it couldn’t be her—why would she be at one of Marstone’s political dinners?
The carriages moved off and the door closed. He urged the horse onwards, past the entrance and round into the mews behind the house.
Chapter 36
Alex slept late the following morning, waking to Marstone’s valet enquiring whether he required a bath. He stretched, then sat up and drank his coffee while his bathwater was brought in.
By the time he’d soaked the remaining aches out of his muscles and suffered Harrison’s ministrations to make him look respectable again, it was almost noon. He ate a quick breakfast alone in the dining room.
“Is Lord Marstone at home?” he asked Brownlee, as the footman collected his empty plates.
“No, sir. He did, however, say that you need not restrict yourself to the house. He will expect a report later this afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
“Owen Jones is lodging at the Crown, sir, near Berkeley Square, if you want to talk to him. He accompanied Miss Deane up from Ashcombe, and stayed on.”
Alex nearly asked why Owen was still here, but Brownlee wouldn’t know. Seeing Owen would be a good excuse for a friendly chat over a tankard of ale.
“Keeping an eye out for young Ellie, see,” Owen explained, when Alex asked him.
“Ellie?”
“Denton’s girl, from the inn in Ashcombe. Trasker took us in there—the wind was better. Miss Deane needed to have someone to look out for her inside the coach, he said. Then Ellie took it into her head to stay in Lunnon for a bit to see the sights. Miss Deane’s abigail, she is now.”
“And this robbery in the street—were you involved in that?” His voice came out rather more sharply than he’d intended.
“I did what Miss Deane said. Not my place, it wasn’t, to tell her not to. She come to no harm.”
“My apologies,” Alex said. “I’m glad you were here to assist.” There was no point reproaching Owen if both Marstone and Phoebe had determined on that course of action.
“I reckon I can get back to Devonshire now you’re here. I’d like to make sure Gwen is settled, and Pierre isn’t getting any bother from being a Frenchie.”
“I’ve just returned from Ashton Tracey. I talked to Henri before I left—he seemed to think Pierre would find work easily enough, and Lady Marstone will make sure they have somewhere to live.”
Owen nodded. “I’ll be off soon, then.”
“Have you got enough money?” Alex asked.
“Yes, Trasker gave me plenty.”
“Very well. Thank you for being on hand, Owen. You’ll be joining the Lily again?”