by Jayne Davis
“Yes, sir. But I dunno what we’ll be doing, now we’re at war.”
“I’ll have to check on that, but I suspect that the usual activities will continue in some way. You’re not out of a job yet, although I doubt we’ll be using Granville again.”
When they’d finished their ale, Alex set off for Berkeley Square, still debating what he should do. He wanted to hear from Phoebe herself that she was unharmed after taking part in Marstone’s scheme, and to tell her what he had found out about Brevare’s family. Phoebe had played a major part in the success of his mission—the fact that the decoy note had not yet flushed out the traitor was not her fault. He wasn’t sure how much Marstone had told her, and she deserved to know that she’d been right about Brevare’s motivation.
Alex hesitated at the entrance to Berkeley Square. He had no wish to encounter the comtesse or Hélène, and if Phoebe were enjoying a successful season, his paying a formal call might raise a few brows. Best to ask for her at the kitchen door rather than the front entrance. He would just have a few words with Phoebe, he told himself, then he would be on his way.
As he approached the house he heard shouts and laughter from the gardens in the centre of the square and stopped to look. A boy was making a creditable show of bowling to a man in footman’s livery, a nearby servant girl being sent to retrieve the balls. She looked vaguely familiar.
Slipping through the gate, he stood watching for a few minutes. When a ball flew in his direction, the girl trotted over, pausing with widening eyes as she caught sight of him.
“Mr Westbrook?” She looked uncertain. “I be Ellie Denton, sir, from Ashcombe.”
“So you are,” he said with a smile, recognising her from her father’s inn. “Owen said you were enjoying London. Is Miss Deane at home, do you know?”
“No, sir. She’s gone for a drive with that marquess. Her ladyship is in, if you was wishing to see ’er?”
“I think that pleasure can wait,” he said.
Ellie giggled.
“I’ll try later. Do carry on,” he added, seeing that they were attracting attention.
He walked slowly around the edge of the gardens, heading for the south end of the square and the street that led to Green Park. He’d intended to call on Bella next, but something had knotted in his stomach when Ellie mentioned Phoebe driving with a marquess.
It should not have been a surprise that Phoebe was being courted. Part of him was pleased for her but he realised, with some self-loathing, that another part of him wasn’t pleased at all. As a poor relation, she had seemed almost within his reach. A woman being squired about by a marquess was well beyond him.
A high perch phaeton trundled into the square as he approached the corner. It was a dashing sporting carriage with black wheels picked out in gold, contrasting oddly with a pair of ordinary-looking, unmatched horses that could only be described as plodding along. The driver was a tall man dressed in black, sitting next to a lady in a beautifully tailored emerald green pelisse with matching bonnet ribbons.
He stopped abruptly, his heart racing—this fashionable woman was Phoebe. His mouth dried and his breath caught as he took in the red curls framing her face, the curve of her lips. She looked every inch the fine lady, stunning in her new clothing, but there was something missing. Her face didn’t have the sparkle that made her truly beautiful, and there was none of the animation that he’d been picturing in his mind for the last few weeks. Her face was set, as if she were holding in irritation—an expression he’d often seen when she was with her aunt.
The phaeton drew up in front of the Calvac residence, and a tiger jumped from the back and ran to hold the horses. The marquess descended, then handed Phoebe down. Alex watched, clenching his jaw as she took the marquess’ arm up the steps to the door, then turned to face him. Behind her the butler opened the door, but they made no immediate move to enter.
Alex scowled, looking at the stiff way she held herself, and wished he could hear what was being said as she took her leave of her escort and went into the house. High-ranking he may be, but Phoebe hadn’t seemed too impressed by her escort.
The marquess turned abruptly and climbed back into his phaeton. As he drove past, Alex caught the crease between his brows—displeased, or perhaps confused.
His gloom lifted a little. He’d have to wait until he could talk to her, but it seemed that fine clothes and aristocratic suitors hadn’t changed the Phoebe he knew.
He continued on his way. If he called now, he risked encountering the comtesse, and he wasn’t in the mood to be polite to her. He’d have a walk, then deliver Lady Marstone’s note to Bella.
Phoebe asked Cookson to send a tray of tea to her room and went upstairs, relieved that Lord Harlford had another engagement. It had been an enjoyable hour, on the whole, and she should not be so irritated because he hadn’t wanted her to drive the phaeton through the streets. She hoped her farewell had not seemed rude.
Captain Synton had taken her driving twice, before he’d had to spend more time at the War Office. On those occasions she hadn’t asked if she could drive beyond the park gates: Lord Carterton’s blacks were expensive horses, and she didn’t feel competent to control them amidst the noise and distractions of traffic. Today’s horses would have been no problem, she thought, annoyed again as she recalled the way the marquess had taken the reins from her as they approached the gates on their way back without a word of explanation or apology.
On the other hand, the excursion had demonstrated that Lord Harlford wanted her company. If he were still trying to pay Hélène back for her continual lateness, he wouldn’t have bothered with a driving lesson. A smile spread across her face as she recalled his surprise that she really could drive—although the animals he’d hired were not much of a challenge. She hadn’t learned anything new today, but it had been useful practice and a chance to try her hand with unfamiliar horses.
She put her cup down and found an empty page in her sketchbook. Her pencil flew over the paper as she drew the phaeton in a busy street. She was in control, amidst a melee of carriages, carts, and street hawkers. Finally, with a smile, she added Harlford sitting beside her, cringing with a hand covering his eyes. She was probably being rather unfair to the man, but caricaturing him relieved the last of her irritation.
Alex would have let her drive in the streets, she was sure. No, he would have encouraged her. But he wasn’t here. She hadn’t heard from him since that brief note arrived—nearly a week ago now.
Shaking her head, she turned her thoughts back to Lord Harlford. He was one of the most eligible men on the marriage mart this season—good looking, wealthy, by all accounts, and only a few years older than she was. If she had any sense she would be encouraging him. Her aunt and cousin would never forgive her if she got an offer from Harlford, but that needn’t bother her once she was married.
What would life be like, though, as a society wife—tedious, with a continual round of balls and other gatherings? It might not be too bad if he took an interest in politics and let her participate in discussions like the one last night at Marstone House, but his interests didn’t appear to lie in that direction.
There was little point in such speculation, she told herself firmly. One driving lesson did not lead to an offer of marriage. Trying to change the direction of her thoughts, she picked up the copy of Rights of Man and began to read, noting down questions to ask her uncle later.
She gladly put the book to one side when Ellie returned to help her to change for the evening, hoping the visit to the theatre would lighten her mood.
Ellie laid out a pale blue gown with a deeper blue overskirt, trimmed with gold edging. As the maid put Phoebe’s hair up, threading thin gold ribbon through and around the heap of curls, she chattered away, sharing the day’s gossip and events.
“Mr Westbrook come round today, miss, did you know?”
“What? When?” Phoebe stared at Ellie in the mirror, her stomach giving a peculiar lurch.
“When you
was out with the marquess. We was playing cricket in the square again with the young master. He asked if you was ’ome, and said ’e’d come back some other time.”
“He didn’t leave a card?”
“No, miss, he didn’t go into the ’ouse. I think he didn’t be wanting to see Madame.”
“Ah. Yes.”
Ellie chattered on, but Phoebe didn’t pay attention. Although she had wanted to see Alex for weeks, the fluttering in her stomach and breathless feeling surprised her. But perhaps he’d only called to let her know what he’d found out about Brevare.
Conversation at dinner was limited. The comtesse managed to warn Phoebe not to monopolise Harlford’s attention before the comte determinedly changed the subject to the play they were going to see.
“Oh, no-one goes to the theatre to watch the play, Edouard,” the comtesse said dismissively. “We go to be seen!”
“You may find that Harlford does not share that view,” the comte said mildly. “If you wish to give him a disgust of this family, by all means ignore the play and gossip instead.”
The comtesse looked down at her plate, her mouth set in a hard line.
“Do you know who else is invited?” Hélène asked into the resulting silence.
“Lord Tresham, I think,” the comtesse said. “But concentrate on the marquess, my dear, He’d be a much better match than a mere baron.”
The comte shook his head, and tried once again to describe part of the plot to his family.
Chapter 37
Phoebe was pleased to find that her uncle had arranged for the hired carriage to drop them off some time after the doors to the auditorium opened, so the foyer was not as packed as it might have been. Nevertheless, there were still crowds of people waiting to enter the pit and the galleries, and the noise, heat, and mingled smells were almost overwhelming. She made her way behind her aunt and cousin as they kept close to the comte, the tall feathers on her aunt’s headdress providing a beacon to follow.
She relaxed once they reached the staircase, where there were fewer people and movement was easier. A footman waiting near the private boxes showed them the way. Lord Harlford and Lord Tresham had already arrived, and bowed a greeting to them all.
Hélène scanned the box and looked out towards the stage, her lips curving in a happy smile. “This is a splendid position, my lord,” she said, looking up at the marquess’ face. “How lovely for you to have a box so close to the stage.”
“It’s actually Tresham’s box, Lady Hélène,” the marquess said. “Please, won’t you be seated?”
Hélène’s smile slipped—at the wasted compliment, Phoebe guessed. But her cousin recovered quickly and took one of the seats at the front of the box.
“Miss Deane?” Lord Harlford said, indicating the seat next to Hélène. “You will get a much better view of the play from the front seats.”
“Thank you, my lord.” As she sat, she saw Lord Harlford’s gaze turn to her aunt.
“I’ll sit at the back,” the comtesse said, before Lord Harlford could speak. “Why don’t you sit next to Hélène, my lord?”
Lord Tresham, standing next to the marquess, bowed and moved to the empty chair next to Hélène. Phoebe suppressed a smile at the quick grimace that crossed her aunt’s face. Lord Harlford’s lips twitched as he took the seat next to Phoebe—far from resenting Tresham’s usurpation of the place next to Hélène, he seemed amused by the manoeuvring.
Lord Tresham addressed several remarks to Hélène while they waited for the performance to start but received only perfunctory responses. Lord Harlford managed to carry on a conversation with Phoebe that also included her uncle, seated behind them. She listened with interest as they discussed the actors they were about to see.
Once Antonio came on stage with his lament, it was clear that the comte’s opinion of Lord Harlford had been correct—he was at the theatre, so he would watch the play.
Phoebe was entranced by the performance. Portia, with her quick wits and intelligence, had always been one of her favourite Shakespearean characters when reading the plays, but it was much more enjoyable to listen to her words being spoken by a good actress.
She returned to the real world at the first interval when a footman entered bearing a laden tray. Phoebe gratefully accepted a glass of lemonade.
“How are you enjoying the play?” Lord Harlford asked. Phoebe was about to reply, but Hélène spoke first.
“Oh, it is wonderful, my lord. I’m so pleased you invited us.”
Lord Harlford’s brows rose. “Which character do you prefer, Lady Hélène?”
“Oh, the… um, Antonio is handsome, is he not? I mean…”
Rather than being irritated by Hélène monopolising the marquess, Phoebe observed him listen to her cousin’s chatter. He didn’t appear to be bored, but neither was he enthralled by her cousin’s remarks.
“What is he doing here?” The comtesse’s sharp question interrupted the conversation. Everyone looked at her.
“Who, my dear?” the comte said.
“That man is in the Cartertons’ box! Why is Lord Carterton associating with someone like him?”
Phoebe’s stomach performed the same somersaults as it had that afternoon—the only person she had heard her aunt refer to in those terms was Alex.
She followed her aunt’s gaze, and saw Bella sitting in one of the boxes across the auditorium. The Carterton party must have arrived late, for she hadn’t noticed them before the play began. Another woman sat next to Bella, and several men stood behind them—difficult to see in the dim light towards the back of the box. They moved forward again to take their seats as the performance restarted, and Phoebe’s pulse accelerated as she saw that one of the men was, indeed, Alex.
“It is Mr Westbrook, sir,” Phoebe said to her uncle in a low voice. “I believe he is an acquaintance of the Cartertons.”
“The man who escorted you back from France?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I should thank him for his help,” the comte said. “Could you introduce me during the next interval?”
Phoebe nodded, trying to concentrate on the stage, but her glance kept sliding towards the Cartertons’ box and she heard little of the dialogue. She hadn’t thought their next meeting would be in so public a place—but an encounter in her aunt’s parlour would have been no better, she told herself. Her stomach knotted as she wondered what she would say—and what he might say.
Alex spotted the Calvac party during the first act, his attention initially drawn to the tall feathers on a woman’s headdress. He recognised the comtesse, then turned his regard to the others in the box. Even from this distance, Phoebe looked wonderful in shades of rich blue. Hélène sat beside her, the two of them flanked by a couple of men.
Alex leaned forward and spoke to Bella. “May I borrow your opera glass?”
She looked at him with a raised brow, but handed over the jewelled tube. Moving back a few steps to make his actions less obvious, Alex put it to his eye and focused on the box opposite.
The man beside Phoebe was the marquess she’d been driving with this afternoon. The older man sitting next to the comtesse must be the comte; he didn’t recognise the third man. Then he succumbed to temptation and turned the glass on Phoebe, even though it felt uncomfortably like spying on her. Her gaze was fixed on the stage, and she was absorbed in the play. There was the sparkle that had been missing that afternoon, a smile of pure enjoyment. If that smile could be directed at him—
Snapping the glass closed, he handed it back to Bella with quiet thanks. He tried to keep his attention on the play, uncomfortably aware of Bella’s interested glances in his direction.
At the first interval, Lord Carterton and his friend left the box and Alex slid into a chair next to Bella.
“Who is that with the Calvacs?” he asked, trying for a note of nonchalance.
“Harlford,” Bella said, without even looking. “The Marquess of Harlford, I should say.” She picked up her gl
ass and focused it. “And Lord Tresham—only a baron, that one. Tresham’s courting Hélène—or trying to. Hélène has her sights on a higher rank.”
Alex looked down at his hands, avoiding Bella’s gaze. Hélène might have her sights on the marquess, but it was Phoebe who had gone driving with the man that afternoon.
“Harlford has only just been confirmed to his title,” Bella went on. “I imagine his mama is encouraging him to get married and secure the succession.”
He caught a turn of her head from the corner of his eye.
“Good looking,” she went on. “Wealthy, too, by all accounts, and not a womaniser.”
“Hélène will be happy with him, then,” Alex said.
“Mmm—if she can get him. It wasn’t Hélène I was thinking of.”
Bella had that quizzical look that usually preceded probing questions. He was tempted to leave, but excusing himself would only initiate the questions he was trying to avoid.
“The next act is beginning,” he said with relief. Although he kept his eyes on the stage, he couldn’t stop his thoughts wandering. The marquess would undoubtedly be a good catch for Phoebe, if that was what she wanted. And if it was what she wanted, then he should want it for her too.
The act stretched on interminably, as Alex made up his mind that he’d excuse himself for some refreshments at the next interval—he wasn’t going to sit here and subject himself to Bella’s teasing again. But before he left, he caught sight of movement in the box opposite. Both Phoebe and the comte looked directly at the Carterton box before disappearing through the door behind them.
Instead of making his way to the refreshment room, Alex waited in the corridor. If Phoebe was coming to see Bella, he’d rather not be there. If she was coming to see him, it was far better to meet her without Bella’s curious eyes on him.
He felt his heart speed up as they came into sight along the corridor. Phoebe had one hand on her uncle’s arm, and was looking at the doors of the boxes as she passed them, rather than ahead. Her hair was still a riot of red, but now she wore it looser, a few curls framing her face. The rich colours of her gown accentuated her clear complexion. He swallowed hard.