by Jayne Davis
Alex nodded, controlling his impulse to swear.
“The stories will have spread further by tomorrow,” Kellet added. “I’ll let Marstone know what I’ve heard.”
“Is this Marstone’s doing, Kellet?”
“Why would he spread such a story?” Kellet asked, genuine surprise in his face.
“Not spreading the story, but doing something that would make someone else do so?”
Kellet’s brow creased as he thought. “The decoy note was delivered weeks ago,” he pointed out. “It cannot be a result of that. However, Lord Marstone did mention that Brevare has been seen in London in the last couple of days.”
Alex rubbed his face. He didn’t know why Brevare would accuse Phoebe of wanton conduct, but the gossip was far more likely to be due to him, not Marstone.
There was nothing he could do tonight. He’d see Marstone in the morning, but Bella first—she’d be of more use supporting Phoebe if the rumours had spread further than the men’s clubs.
* * *
Phoebe sighed as the hackney drew up outside the Brothertons’ house on Hanover Square. The comtesse had insisted Phoebe accompany her on a social call, so she was resigned to half an hour of boredom. At least her aunt had agreed she could return home with Ellie afterwards, instead of sitting through their appointment with Mademoiselle Laurent.
The comtesse and Hélène alighted first, sending Ellie up the steps to knock on the door. Phoebe felt for her coin purse in her pocket and paid the hackney driver, hearing the Brothertons’ butler say something but unable to make out the words. He stood in the middle of the open doorway instead of moving to one side to allow them in.
“Nonsense!” The comtesse’s voice was loud, too loud for a public street. “Of course she is at home; we arranged to meet here today. Stand aside, man!”
The butler remained immobile, his face impassive. With a growing knot in her stomach, Phoebe recalled Lord Tresham’s odd behaviour the day before.
“I should say, my lady, that Lady Brotherton is not at home to you. Good day.” He stepped smartly backwards and closed the door in their faces.
“Well!” The comtesse’s lips compressed. “You, girl,” she said to Ellie. “Get another hackney. We’ll go straight to Mademoiselle Laurent.”
“Aunt, it might be wise to return home until you know why Lady Brotherton—”
“Nonsense, Phoebe,” the comtesse said. “Just because of a misunderstanding? Lady Brotherton should not employ such insolent servants.”
It didn’t take long for Ellie to return with a hackney. Outside the mantua-maker’s shop, Phoebe was once again left to pay. When she followed her aunt and cousin inside, she found them standing at the entrance to the main salon, their way blocked by one of Mademoiselle Laurent’s assistants.
The leaden feeling in her stomach intensified. Something was definitely wrong.
“But we have an appointment in half an hour,” the comtesse protested.
“I am sorry, my lady,” the assistant said. “Mademoiselle Laurent has had to cancel your appointment today.” Her eyes slid from the comtesse to Phoebe, one corner of her mouth turning up in a sneer.
“Does she wish me to take my custom elsewhere?”
Beyond the maid, several women sat on the sofas, drinking tea as they looked at pattern books and fashion plates. As the comtesse protested, books were set down and heads turned in their direction.
They should leave now, before the comtesse embarrassed herself any further, but Phoebe knew her aunt would reject any such suggestion from her. Hélène stood behind her mother, her gaze on the floor.
“We should go now,” Phoebe said to her cousin, keeping her voice low. When Hélène looked at Phoebe, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. Nodding mutely, she touched her mother’s arm.
Phoebe went out with Ellie in search of yet another hackney, dreading the inevitable confrontation when they reached home.
Phoebe trailed behind as the comtesse swept into the house, almost running into Cookson as she pushed past him, demanding loudly to know where the comte was.
“In the library, my lady. Shall I tell him…?”
Cookson fell silent as the comtesse stalked towards the library and flung the door open so hard it slammed into the wall. The comte, startled, looked up from his armchair, then got to his feet as his wife came to a halt in front of him.
“I demand you send her away. Now.”
“Come, sit down my dear and—”
“Now!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “I have been denied entry to the Brothertons’ house and Mademoiselle Laurent’s, and given the cut direct there.”
“My dear—”
“It’s all her fault!” The comtesse pointed a finger towards Phoebe, still standing near the door with Hélène, both shocked at the rage before them. “I heard her name mentioned several times in Mademoiselle Laurent’s.”
That must have been after she’d gone to find a hackney.
“I told you how it would be, Eduoard!”
“Lavinia—calm down, please.” The comte looked helplessly past his wife, motioning to the girls to leave.
Phoebe turned and led Hélène out into the hall. The baize door to the servants’ quarters was swinging gently, and Phoebe wondered how many of the staff had been listening. Her aunt’s voice was still audible even though the library door was closed.
Hélène was in tears and well on the way to a fit of the vapours. “They’ll take our Almack’s vouchers away,” she wailed. “I’ll never make a brilliant match now!”
Phoebe herself felt slightly sick, and took a few deep breaths to calm her stomach.
“Get someone to bring a vinaigrette, Cookson, please,” she said to the waiting butler. “We are not at home to visitors.”
“Of course, miss.”
The sounds from the library were becoming quieter. Phoebe could hear the low tones of her uncle’s voice, although not his words. She ushered Hélène, now sobbing into a handkerchief, into the parlour on the first floor.
Waiting in tense silence to be summoned back, Phoebe tried not to think of the consequences. Whatever unhappiness she had been feeling yesterday, this was far worse. At least then she’d had the possibility of marriage. Now, with the family in disgrace, it seemed that even that could be denied her. If she was the subject of whatever gossip was circulating, she was fairly sure that her uncle would still support her, but living with the comtesse would be more unpleasant than ever. And what effect would a ruined sister have on Joe’s career?
Finally, Cookson appeared in the doorway, asking them both to return to the library. The comtesse had obviously been pacified a little, and was sitting in one of the leather chairs, her face set in a scowl.
“Now, does either of you know what has happened?” the comte asked.
Phoebe shook her head.
“Hélène?”
Hélène looked way, and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Come, Hélène,” the comte said, his voice becoming sharp. “We need to find out what is happening.”
“Last night, at the rout…”
“Go on.”
“Sophia Brotherton asked if it was true that we were nearly taken prisoner in France, and that we were rescued by the Vicomte de Brevare.”
Some version of events had been spread about then. From what Phoebe had seen yesterday and today, she had little doubt that her own actions would have been cast in the worst possible light.
“Is that all she said?” the comte asked.
“Yes.” Hélène frowned in concentration. “That was all she said to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She seemed to be… pleased… when I said yes, then she went away and talked to her sister and to Maria and Susie. They were laughing at me!” Hélène started to sob again. “I thought they were my friends!”
“So, word of your escape from France has started to circulate,” the comte said. “And an incorrect one, by the sound of it.” He turned to his wife. �
�I did warn you, madame, that any slurs cast on Phoebe would reflect on the whole family. Now you see what has become of it.”
“But I didn’t!” the comtesse protested.
“Who else? You, Hélène?”
“No, Papa.”
“Sir,” Phoebe interrupted.
“Yes, Phoebe?”
“I think the story may have started with the Vicomte de Brevare.” Who else but Brevare would have the knowledge of what had happened in France?
“Why do you say that?”
“It is possible the tale has spread through the men’s clubs, not through drawing room gossip.” Phoebe described the carriage that had almost stopped to talk to the marquess the day before, and Lord Tresham’s odd behaviour. “Some people must have heard by last night’s rout, but the story can’t have spread widely until this morning.”
“That man!”
Phoebe cringed at the venom in her aunt’s voice.
“Mr Westbrook, do you mean?” the comte asked. He glanced at Phoebe.
“Not Mr Westbrook, sir.” Whatever he felt—or did not feel—for Phoebe, he would not do such a thing. She was certain of that.
“Who knows what that man will do?” the comtesse said. “He isn’t fit for—”
“Lavinia! Please!” His voice was loud enough to shock the comtesse. “Lavinia, you are tired,” he stated firmly. “You should go to your room for a lie down. You, too, Hélène.”
He stood, and offered his hand to his wife. She glared at him, then rose and allowed him to escort her out of the room. Hélène followed them.
Chapter 42
While her uncle was escorting her aunt upstairs, Phoebe thought back over the last few days. She’d seen Brevare at Lady Stanton’s ball three nights ago. He’d called on her uncle yesterday and discovered she was no servant. He could have started to spread the gossip then—the timing fitted.
The comte returned, closing the door behind him.
“It must have been the Vicomte de Brevare who spread the story,” Phoebe said, once her uncle had settled back into his chair.
“Your reasoning?”
“The only person who knows what happened in France, apart from Brevare, is Lord Marstone. I know Mr Westbrook is not responsible, and what reason would Lord Marstone have for spreading such lies, especially now?” She looked down at her hands, her fingers tightly interlaced, then back up at her uncle. “Does it matter who? The fact that there is scandal is bad enough, is it not?”
The comte regarded her, his brows drawn. “Phoebe, you do not seem surprised that scurrilous is spreading about your… adventures in France.”
“I don’t know what is being said. Madame was the one who said the gossip was about me.”
“Very well. I assume, from what you did tell me, that it must be your behaviour that is being maligned?”
“Sir, I did not—”
“I’m not saying that, Phoebe,” her uncle interrupted, his voice calm. “But you did say that some of the things you did could be misinterpreted.”
Phoebe took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes, sir. It seems likely that it is my behaviour that is under… attack.” She recalled that scene on the beach, when Alex had nearly shot Brevare. He would not readily forgive someone who’d witnessed his fear.
“I suppose Westbrook or Marstone may know something about it.” The comte looked thoughtful. “Phoebe, you said there was someone you liked better than Harlford. Would this man believe these rumours?”
Phoebe closed her eyes. She could not tell him that it was Alex himself she had meant. “No, sir, he would not believe them.” That was certainly true. “But I am not sure that he returns my regard, sir.”
The comte rubbed his hand over his face wearily. “I do sympathise, Phoebe. I will call on Marstone. I assume he can give me Westbrook’s direction?”
“I do not know sir, but it is likely.”
“Phoebe, thank you for not treating me to a third set of the vapours. Remember that you are family, and this unpleasant situation does not change that.”
Phoebe felt a slight lessening of the tension within her. She had not expected him to cast her off, but it was good to hear him say so.
“Thank you, sir. You are very good.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”
“Make sure Miss Bryant keeps Georges out of the way of your aunt.” He stood up, and rang for someone to get his coat and hat and to find a hackney.
Phoebe followed him out into the hall, on the way to her room. A note lay on the salver near the door.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked, seeing his expression change as he read it.
“Harlford sends his regrets, but is forced to cancel his arrangements with us this week.”
“At least he let us know.”
“Yes, I suppose that is something,” the comte said sadly.
Phoebe went up the stairs. It appeared that Lord Harlford’s regard for her was not so high that he would try to find out the truth of any rumours before believing them. It saved her having to think whether or not she should accept an offer from him, but that was small comfort.
* * *
Alex knocked on Bella’s front door, for the second time that morning. This time Bella was at home, and Hobson showed him into her parlour.
“You’ve come about Phoebe,” Bella said, as soon as the door closed behind the butler.
“Yes,” he said, “but how did you—?”
Damn—the story had already spread.
“Sit down, Alex. I’ve been hearing several variations on an unbelievable story on my calls.”
Some of Alex’s tension left him, and he sat. He should have known Bella would not think ill of Phoebe.
“That is why I have been out so long, she went on. “I wanted to find out what was being said, and where.”
“What have you heard?”
“Most of the stories say that you took advantage of—”
“Damn it.” Alex jumped to his feet. It sounded worse coming from Bella than it had from Kellet the previous evening.
“Alex, that’s not the worst, I’m afraid.”
Alex clenched his fists, turning abruptly to look out of the window. He was angry not only with the gossips, but with himself for involving Phoebe in his business.
“There are other stories,” Bella went on. “Most say that Phoebe… well, offered herself first to Brevare, and then to you, if you would get them all home. Brevare, being the gentleman he is, refused.”
“And I did not, I suppose.” He made an effort to keep his anger in check.
That question needed no answer. He turned to find Bella regarding him closely.
“Alex, why has this started now? Phoebe has been in Town for weeks.”
“Brevare has recently arrived in London. It is likely connected with him.” He moved over to the fireplace, resting one arm on the mantelpiece and fixing his gaze on the fire. It was easier to hide the strength of his feelings from Bella that way.
“The Comtesse de Calvac…” Alex took a deep breath, trying to control the anger in his voice. “Did you know that Phoebe’s aunt effectively tried to prostitute her when—”
“What?” Bella’s eyes widened.
Alex described part of the evening when Phoebe had been made to wear the gold dress.
“Good God.”
“The woman talked about, and to, Phoebe for the rest of the journey as if she really had thrown herself at me,” Alex went on. “Including in front of Brevare. No doubt the comtesse said the same thing to her husband, but the comte seems to have supported Phoebe so far. But now? This will tarnish the whole family—will he still support her in such circumstances? Not to mention how distressed she must be at being the target of such slander.”
“I doubt anyone will have repeated the slander to her face.”
“Even so.” He walked over to the window again, wanting to do something. Anything—but mostly to punch the men who were doubtless discussing such a juicy titbit i
n their clubs at this very moment.
“If she married, the stories would die down or be ignored,” Bella said.
He turned to look at her, his breath catching at the knowing look—and sympathy—in her face.
“Not to me,” he stated. “And to be forced into it by someone’s slander? She would be little better off. Young ladies of the ton do not marry bastards in trade,” he went on. “Not even the bastards of earls.”
“You could let her decide that.”
“No. If this scandal is averted, she’d still be cut off from society. She might think she won’t mind, but she doesn’t know what it’s like. I can’t do that to her—even assuming she’d have me.” She’d only just escaped from being the despised poor relation in her aunt’s family.
“Has it really been so bad, Alex?”
He sighed. “For me, not really—particularly given the alternative of being the illegitimate son of a village woman. But there was the time I tried to offer for Mary Helstone…”
“The outcome of that was just as well, from what I knew of her.”
Alex shrugged. “As you say, it was for the best in the long run, but it wasn’t… pleasant… at the time. I’ve always been between two worlds—I have friends in trade, some in the ton, and Marstone has kept me busy. But it’s not the same for women, particularly if they are used to being in society.”
“But if she loves—”
“Leave it, Bella.” That came out too forcefully—none of this was Bella’s fault, and she was only trying to help. He rubbed a hand over his face. “What can be—?”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“Lady Jesson, my lady,” Hobson announced.
A woman entered the room, a few years older than Bella, and tending to plumpness. Bella must have been expecting her, as the butler had knocked but entered without waiting for an acknowledgement.
What had Lady Jesson to do with this business?
“Maria, I don’t think you’ve met Alex Westbrook. Alex, Lady Jesson.”
“Lady Jesson,” Alex said, his tone as polite as he could manage.
“Mr Westbrook.”