by Jayne Davis
“Yes, miss. Funny message if you ask me.”
When Phoebe came downstairs, she was directed into a different parlour, this one decorated in shades of burgundy and gold. Taking a glass of wine from a footman, she went to sit on one of the sofas by the fire. Everyone except her aunt and Hélène was present. Alex stood talking to Lord Marstone and Lord Carterton, all three in well-cut but plain coats and breeches, their embroidered waistcoats their only ornaments.
“Miss Fletcher has done you proud,” Lady Jesson said, coming to sit beside Phoebe.
“Thank you, my lady,” Phoebe said, pleased. “She does everyone proud, I think.”
Although the men appeared to be deep in a discussion, Alex looked over to where Phoebe sat, giving her a cool nod before resuming his discussion. But she had noticed the beginnings of a smile, hastily suppressed, and recalled the message that Bella had sent via Ellie.
He was happy to see her, she was sure, but was playing a part. She suspected that she had a part to play herself this evening, but she wished that someone had told her what it was to be.
Phoebe glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was ten minutes past the hour that Bella had said dinner would be served.
“It seems their experience with Harlford has not cured them of making late entrances,” Lady Jesson said in her ear.
The door opened. After a brief pause—enough time to ensure all attention was on the door, Phoebe suspected—the comtesse and Hélène swept in. Their embroidered gowns were trimmed with silver lace and bows of ribbon, and diamonds twinkled at the comtesse’s neck and ears.
“More suited to a ball than a country dinner,” Lady Jesson muttered. “All icing and no cake.”
Phoebe suppressed a smile. She was perfectly happy with her own, far more restrained gown.
“So sorry we are late,” the comtesse said, looking at Lord Marstone rather than her hostess. On cue, to her obvious delight, he crossed the room to greet her.
Lord Carterton and Alex exchanged a quick grimace, then Alex squared his shoulders and moved to stand before Hélène, bowing over her hand. “How beautiful you look this evening, Lady Hélène.”
Hélène smiled, and fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, thank you, Westbrook.”
Phoebe took a couple of deep breaths, determined not to laugh.
“May I have the pleasure of escorting you to dinner?” Alex held his arm out as if he were in no doubt of her reply. Hélène fluttered her fan, and laid her fingers on his arm. The earl similarly offered his arm to the comtesse and they led the way across the hall to the dining room.
“I’m afraid the seating will be informal,” Bella apologised as her husband escorted her. “Having so many more ladies than gentlemen.”
“It will be as good as a play,” Lady Jesson said quietly, and Phoebe heard Lady Lydenham give a quiet chuckle.
In the dining room, Lord Carterton, as host, sat at one end of the table with the comtesse in the position of honour on his right. The Earl of Marstone was next to her. Hélène was on Lord Carterton’s left, with Alex on her other side. Bella, as hostess, took the foot of the table with the rest of the party. Phoebe was sure that several of the rules of precedence had been breached, for surely the earl, as the highest ranking man present, should have been next to Bella, where Phoebe herself was sitting.
During the meal, Phoebe enjoyed talking with Lady Jesson and Bella, and even Lady Lydenham across the table now and then. Odd snippets of Alex’s remarks to Hélène reached them, and a few from Lord Marstone to the comtesse.
“…eyes like jewels,” Alex said into an unexpected lull in the conversation.
Phoebe looked across the table as he glanced up, and bit her lips at his fleeting grimace.
“Such a pretty allusion,” Hélène breathed, winding one curl around her finger.
“…as beautiful as your daughter…”
“…hair like spun gold…”
“Phoebe, tell me what young Georges will want to do while he’s here,” Bella said, her lips twitching. Phoebe kept her attention on her hostess—it would not do to laugh at the table.
Alex was not enjoying being forced to listen as Hélène described the balls she had been to, the gowns she had worn, and the titled gentlemen she had danced with.
“…three times would not be proper.”
“No, indeed.”
“But he asked me for a drive in the park the next…”
Glancing down the table, he was pleased to see Phoebe conversing with Bella and the other ladies.
“…only a viscount, but his father is…”
Bella glanced his way, a wry smile suggesting that he might be the cause of her amusement.
“…don’t you think so, Westbrook?” Hélène fluttered her eyelashes at him again.
“Yes, indeed.” He had no idea what he’d just agreed to, but her chatter did at least save him from the effort of trying to find a topic of conversation. Except that her silence was hinting that it was his turn to compliment her again.
“I regret that I have been unable to attend society events,” he said. “It would have been a pleasure to dance with you.”
“Oh, yes. I wonder if Lady Carterton could hold a—”
“Unfortunately there is no ballroom here, Lady Hélène.” Best to nip that idea in the bud. What else could he say? He’d covered hair, eyes, skin, gown. Would she notice if he repeated himself? His only consolation was that Marstone, paying similar attention to the comtesse, must be equally bored.
He was relieved when Bella did not allow the company to linger over dessert, rising and announcing that it was time the gentlemen were left to their port. As the ladies left the room, Alex saw the comtesse sweep ahead, rudely assuming precedence over the other ladies, and audibly reminding Phoebe that she should be last.
Was that the way the woman always talked to Phoebe? He shook his head, hoping that Bella or one of the other women would step in if the comtesse became too obnoxious. His worry receded when Phoebe looked over her shoulder as she left the room; she caught his eye and smiled, amusement in her eyes, and he couldn’t help smiling back.
Chapter 46
Phoebe followed Lady Jesson into the parlour, and they all settled themselves in the seats near the fire. Andrews supervised a footman bringing in the tea tray, and Bella waved a hand at Phoebe.
“Would you pour, Miss Deane? Lady Hélène can help you.”
Thus dismissed, the younger women busied themselves pouring cups of tea and passing them round.
“So nice for Hélène, Westbrook paying her such compliments,” the comtesse said, taking a sip of her tea.
“That’s all very well,” Bella said. “But it will come to nothing.”
“Why?” the comtesse asked. “He was extremely attentive.” She looked as smug as if the attention had been paid to her.
“He asked if he could escort me on a drive tomorrow, Mama,” Hélène said, moving to sit beside the comtesse.
“There, you see?”
“But he is a man of honour, Lavinia,” Lady Jesson said.
“Naturally. He is Marstone’s son. What has that to do with anything?”
“Come, Lavinia,” Lady Jesson said. “The reason you are here is because of the stories circulating about your time in France. All the stories say that Westbrook compromised Miss Deane’s virtue.” She leaned forward. “Any man of honour would do the right thing and make her an offer.”
Phoebe was beginning to find this charade less amusing than she’d expected.
“In fact, I would expect him to make an offer while he’s here,” Lady Lydenham put in.
The comtesse looked horrified; Hélène’s bottom lip began to stick out.
“I thought you intended Harlford for your daughter?” Lady Jesson said.
“Oh, I’d heard his attention was elsewhere now,” Bella put in before the comtesse could reply.
“A bird in the hand…” Lady Jesson said. “At least, a bird in the hand would be better if Westbrook
wasn’t honour bound…”
“Nothing to be done, I’m afraid.” Lady Lydenham shook her head. “It seems Miss Deane will be making an excellent match quite soon.”
“But the rumours are untrue!” the comtesse said, her gaze flitting from one woman to the next. Under other circumstances, Phoebe thought she would have enjoyed seeing her aunt bested like this.
“When has that ever stopped people making a judgement?” Bella said. “I suppose the truth might also make the rounds if it were interesting enough. Unfortunately, stories where nothing apparently happened rarely get passed on. The story I heard was quite interesting—”
“What did you hear?” the comtesse asked. She glanced at Hélène, sitting in silence with her pout developing further. “Hélène, my dear, would you fetch my shawl from my room?”
Phoebe didn’t want to listen to all this again, so as Hélène left the room she moved over to a table in the corner of the room where some books were laid out. Flicking through them, she chose one with illustrations of the Sussex and Kent coastline, and settled at the table to read it, trying hard to ignore the low-voiced discussion across the room.
She looked up when the men entered the parlour, her stomach fluttering as Alex and Lord Marstone came over to her.
“Miss Deane,” the earl said. “Why are you sitting alone over here?”
“I did not wish to hear again my aunt’s version of events in France, my lord.”
“Hmm. Yes, I can see that might be… annoying.”
“I trust you enjoyed your dinner, sir?” Phoebe said, knowing he had not.
Both men laughed at that. “As much as Westbrook enjoyed his, Miss Deane.” The earl cast a wry glance at his son. “I have to leave for London in the morning, but it looks as if Bella has the plan well in hand.”
Lord Marstone bowed and moved away, joining the group near the fire.
“Are you all right, Phoebe, really?” Alex asked, his voice quiet. “Some of the stories going round are—”
“They are not true, and everyone I care for or respect knows that.” Looking into his face, any lingering doubts about his feelings disappeared. His worry was far more than concern for an acquaintance, or even a good friend.
“‘Just call me Westbrook’ indeed!” she went on. “You, sir, have no grounds to complain about the squire’s horse!” She wanted to talk to him, but not here in front of all these people.
He laughed. “The truth, but not the whole truth?”
“Yes, but when you know very well that they will put the wrong interpretation on things.”
Her aunt called from the other side of the parlour. Turning to look at the comtesse, Phoebe recognised the tight line of her mouth.
“Enjoy your tête-à-tête,” she said to Alex as she got to her feet.
“What—?”
Phoebe smiled at Hélène as she passed the younger woman and approached the comtesse, sitting obediently when her aunt patted the empty place beside her on the sofa. From the corner of her eye she saw Hélène speaking to Alex, and his response—a smile that did not reach his eyes.
The comtesse wore a triumphant look. Phoebe was glad to find that the ladies had finished discussing France, and instead were talking about an expedition to the coast the following day.
“Weather permitting, of course,” Bella said. “Nick can give us a guided tour of the castle at Pevensey, for those interested.”
She would enjoy sketching the castle but there probably wouldn’t be time for her to paint it as well. As the talk turned to other amusements, she wondered if she might paint in the grounds here one day. There would be spring flowers in bloom.
Bella broke the party up relatively early, saying they needed to be on their way well before noon the next day. Upstairs, Phoebe found Ellie waiting for her, but the girl made no move to help her to unpin her hair and undress.
“You be wanted in the library, miss,” she said. “In a little while, when we’re sure Madame has gone to bed.”
Phoebe’s eyebrows rose; this was no doubt part of Bella’s plan.
“You’d better help me to decide what to wear tomorrow,” she said.
Alex sipped a glass of port while he waited for the ladies to return. Marstone sat opposite, wearing one of his thoughtful looks. His occasional glances towards Alex sent a slight chill of unease through him—Marstone was plotting something, but he had no idea what.
Bella returned first with her husband, followed by Lady Jesson and Lady Lydenham, and their maids. Finally Phoebe arrived and sat next to Lady Jesson.
“It’s time we explained properly, Phoebe,” Bella said. “Simpson, here, is Lady Jesson’s maid, and Matthews works for Lady Lydenham. They are to return to London tomorrow and start an alternative story circulating amongst the servants.”
The two maids nodded; Alex guessed they had already been given their instructions.
“I have not been in society much recently,” Lady Lydenham said. “But I think it’s time I began to entertain again. I will be holding a rout next week.”
“That is quite short notice,” Bella pointed out. “But Simpson and Matthews will make sure that people know Lady Lydenham has been staying here and has more to tell on this latest supposed scandal.”
“That, and curiosity, should persuade enough people to come,” Lady Lydenham added.
“And I,” said Lady Jesson, “can ensure that quite a few ladies, including some who like to think themselves very proper, will come and will acknowledge you and your aunt and cousin.”
“It won’t fix things right away,” Bella said to Phoebe. “But in time people will forget. You, and Hélène, I suppose, might have to wait until next season to make a match, but that can’t be helped.”
“So what is supposed to have happened?” Phoebe asked.
“Roughly what really did happen, with a few revisions,” Alex said, trying to put out of his mind the fact that reinstating Phoebe in society’s good opinion only made his own prospects with her even more remote. “The trick is to give an alternative explanation for the main features of the story.”
“My aunt has agreed to this?”
“She thinks she concocted it herself,” Lady Lydenham said, a smile spreading across her face. “I haven’t been so amused in an age!”
“Your party was unfortunately stopped by an over-zealous official,” Alex went on. “Brevare and I came upon you and convinced the official that we were the proper people to take charge. Two of the Frenchmen detailed to accompany us fought each other over some money they had stolen out of your trunks.”
“But what were you doing there?” Phoebe asked.
“Spying,” Lord Marstone said. “I imagine most of you have worked out he must have been doing something of the sort.” Marstone glanced around the room. “I’m afraid there is someone in the Foreign Office passing information to the French. They know Westbrook has been gathering information on troop numbers and so on in France, so it’s not safe for him to go back now. Therefore it will do no harm if it comes out that he’s been working over there.”
Alex, watching Phoebe’s face, noticed the faintest narrowing of her eyes before her expression returned to neutral. Marstone had taken a risk in not warning her of what he was about to say but, to anyone who didn’t know her, she had not betrayed his lie.
“And Brevare?” Bella asked.
“He was looking for his mother and sister in France, and happened across me. He made advances to Phoebe and was rejected, and he is now spreading these stories out of spite, to make himself look better. Getting in his version first, before Phoebe realises he is in Town and might let drop what really happened.”
Lady Jesson looked at her maid. “Have you got all that, Simpson?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Matthews nodded, too.
Alex studied Phoebe’s face as the maids left the room. What was she thinking? Hoping this would work, so she could continue to enjoy her season?
“My ladies, if you don’t mind, I’d
like a word with Miss Deane before I leave tomorrow,” the earl said, glancing at each of the women. “Now is the best time.”
Goodnights were brief, as they’d already been said once, and soon Alex was alone with Phoebe and Marstone.
“From what I have been able to gather of Brevare’s movements,” Marstone said, “he went back to France shortly after the decoy note was taken from you, Miss Deane. I suspect he went to look for his family.”
“But by the time he tracked them down, I’d already removed them?” Alex asked.
“It seems likely. But I wanted to make it clear that he is not to be trusted, even if we are wrong about the source of these stories.”
“Does that mean he really is working for France? If his family are safe now, he cannot still be blackmailed into—”
“We know they are safe,” Marstone interrupted. “It is probable that our traitor knows it as well, but if Brevare hasn’t found out, the traitor could still be blackmailing him.”
“You still haven’t told him? It’s over a week since Alex brought them back!” Phoebe’s eyes were wide.
“No,” Marstone said. “Thank you, Miss Deane, that is all I wished to—”
“Why haven’t you told him?” Phoebe persisted, her gaze fixed on the earl. “He must be very worried about them.”
Alex suppressed a smile at Marstone’s expression—he was not used to being questioned like that.
“Why are you concerned about him after the damage he is doing to you?”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Phoebe said. “Why not just tell him and ask him who he is working for?”
Her gaze was now a definite glare. Marstone sat impassively, his set mouth the only sign of his feelings.
“It’s likely there is an intermediary between Brevare and the real traitor,” Alex put in, ignoring the warning glance Marstone sent his way. Phoebe deserved an answer.
“That’s enough, Westbrook.”
“Certainly, sir. I’m sure Miss Deane can work out the rest for herself.” He didn’t wait for Marstone to respond, but turned to Phoebe.
“Miss Deane, may I escort you upstairs?”