“You were born on a leap day. Then you would be near thirty, but with only six birthdays celebrated.”
His grin flashed, and he bowed to her, right there upon the street. Phoebe laughed, then covered her mouth with one hand. What would the neighbors think?
“Good day to you, sir.” She spun on her heel, walked into the house, and did not look back as the befuddled Lawler shut the door behind her.
Chapter 5
List of Suitors
To My Unknown Friend,
I have confirmed what you told me, sir. I must thank you again, even as I cross Mr. Carew’s name from my list. That must sound callous to you, that I keep a list of potential suitors. Or perhaps you understand. I am inclined to think you a sympathetic man, given your kindness to me thus far. You must know something of what it is like for ladies, to risk our future happiness upon men we hardly know by more than reputation.
It occurs to me that I might save myself time, having a friend such as you, by sharing my list. If this is presumptuous, do forgive me. But this may save you from future correspondence with someone as woefully uneducated on the bachelors of London as I seem to be.
What think you of these gentlemen? I have listed them alphabetically by surname.
Mr. Henry Brockton
Sir William Carter
Mr. Bartholomew Kenley
Mr. Howard Lambleigh
Lord George Pewton
Mr. Alfred Waymont
Yours Most Gratefully,
P.K.
To The Clever P.K.,
While some might find your list-making presumptuous, I am only intrigued. You appear to be an intelligent woman. You have given your future a great deal of thought, and I am most sympathetic toward you. Here is your list given back, with my notations.
Mr. Henry Brockton (A slave to his mother. I cannot imagine an independent woman enjoying such a thing.)
Sir William Carter (Has announced his intentions to marry a Frenchwoman of his acquaintance.)
Mr. Bartholomew Kenley (A possible candidate, if one does not mind his obsession with insects.)
Mr. Howard Lambleigh (He is a confirmed bachelor with no interest in the fairer sex. Not even a lady as lovely as you.)
Lord George Pewton (While an agreeable man, I must warn you: his hair is not his own.)
Mr. Alfred Waymont (I cannot imagine you wishing to spend more than a moment in conversation with him. He is intolerably stupid.)
My friend, I cannot say what it is you see in these gentlemen. There is no pattern I can detect here, or else I might provide you with a list of men who are more suitable candidates. Do share your requirements with me, P.K., and I will do my best to aid you in your search.
Most Humbly,
Your Friend
Griffin waited in the park, having an idea when Miss Kimball would appear to collect his letter from the flower girl, Anna. The child had agreed to keep his identity a secret, and keep acting as messenger, without even asking a copper of him. She seemed delighted to take part in an intrigue, and he promised to purchase flowers from her every day for the rest of the Season.
He checked his watch, then glanced up at the gray sky. If it rained, Miss Kimball might change her plans. He would need to change his, too, given that he had no umbrella with him.
At three o’clock she appeared, wearing a walking dress and bonnet festooned in emerald green ribbons. She had no maid, which meant she did not mean to go farther than the square. Perhaps she would only pick up her letter and then vanish again inside the house.
As soon as she was on the walk, her back to where Griffin stood in the shade of a tree, he started to follow. Not because he wished to speak to her, necessarily. But seeing her reaction to his letter would amuse him. Finding fault in each of her listed bachelors had proved far too easy.
Not that he had wanted her to cast them all aside. But he had instinctively known not a single of the six men were worthy of a match with someone as bold and intelligent as Miss Kimball. It would take a different sort of man to make her happy, of that he felt certain.
Miss Kimball retrieved her letter from the flower girl and kept walking, perhaps to complete a circuit around the square. She opened the letter and read as she walked, while he kept pace several yards behind her. He was close enough to hear her giggle. The light laugh, at something he had written, gave him reason enough to smile with satisfaction.
Griffin did not hail her until he saw her put the paper in her reticule. Then he called out, “Miss Kimball, is that you?”
She stiffened and looked over her shoulder at him. “Mr. Fenwick.” She stopped walking, and he quickened his step until he reached her side.
“We meet yet again.”
“So we do.” She folded her hands in front of her, the reticule bearing his letter dangling from her wrist. “What brings you out to Berkeley Square today?” She glanced up at the gray clouds. “In such uncertain weather.”
“A desire for a walk. I found the park here to my liking, when last we met.” He motioned to the trees and well-kept grasses. “Though it is horribly named.”
“I do not suppose Berkeley Rectangle would sound as lovely, or as though it might rival Mayfair and Grosvenor Squares.” Miss Kimball’s lips twitched, though she did not fully smile. “Mr. Fenwick, I was correct when I settled upon your birthdate at our last meeting, wasn’t I?”
Griffin bowed, theatrically. “You were most correct. I was born on February the twenty-ninth, in 1784.”
Her eyes brightened, and she leaned slightly closer, though a foot of space still separated them. “So you have been alive eight and twenty years, with only six birthdays, because the year 1800 had no Leap Day. Am I correct?”
He grinned at her. “You are.”
“You must take great delight in vexing people with that riddle.” She did not laugh, though he suspected she wished to do so. “That brings me all the way back to my original question, sir. A man of your advanced years seems oddly opposed to the idea of matrimony. Why is that?”
Griffin shrugged. “As I have said, I have not found a lady to my tastes.”
“Pity for you.” An ominous rumble rolled across the sky, causing Miss Kimball to look up and assess the clouds. “Dear me. It seems neither of us will have our walk.”
“Afraid of a little rain, Miss Kimball?” he asked, disappointed she would leave before they’d had a chance to enjoy a verbal duel.
“I am afraid of ruining my bonnet.” She touched one of the swirling green ribbons.
“Then I will walk you to your door.” Griffin glanced at the reticule on her wrist as she put her hand upon his arm. “Are you not particular about your choice of gentleman, Miss Kimball? I imagine you are on the hunt for a husband, as every single woman in London is on the hunt.”
“You make it sound as though I actually have a wide variety of choices.” She shook her head, her eyes upon her house rather than on him or the park. “No woman truly does, you know. I am limited by my family’s position in Society—”
Griffin interrupted. “Which is fair, given your address.” Berkeley rivaled Grosvenor when it came to fashion.
Her eyes narrowed. “My father was fortunate to purchase the house at a time when it was quite affordable. But as I said, my family is not noble; my father is only a gentleman. That narrows the options. Then there is the matter of my dowry; it is too small to tempt those looking to increase their riches or save themselves, yet my family connections are not remarkable enough to entice those that are solvent and only looking to better position themselves in society. We also must take into account my age and appearance. The pool of gentlemen narrows still more with other factors, such as my determination to have intelligent conversation rather than simper at a man as most would desire.”
Griffin laughed, a hearty sound that made her shrink and look about as though to make sure he had not drawn attention to them. They crossed the street to her house, but Griffin did not give up her arm immediately.
“
Any man who would censure you for speaking your mind would only do himself a disservice.” Griffin looked down at her, wondering if he dared try for an invitation into her home. It would save him from the rain and provide entertainment.
What made him laugh turned her sober. “It intrigues me that you think so. My own brother is forever telling me to curb my tongue.”
“That is a shame. I find myself amused whenever we have an opportunity to converse.”
“Amused?” she asked, eyebrows drawing downward.
Griffin nodded and released her arm. “It is rare a woman speaks her mind as you do.”
“And a woman speaking her mind is…amusing.” Her tone remained flat, which he ought to have taken as a warning.
Griffin only widened his smile as he continued speaking, ready to explain how much he enjoyed their verbal battles. “Of course. It is refreshing to hear a woman converse with such lightness and wit. Most cannot take what you say seriously—”
Miss Kimball raised her hand, halting him mid-sentence. “That is quite enough.” Then she balled that delicate gloved hand into a fist, lowering it to her side while her cheeks turned red. “Most, in fact, do not take what I say seriously. I always thought that a mark against their intelligence, not my own.”
As she spoke, Griffin’s horror grew. Something had gone terribly wrong in their conversation. “Miss Kimball, if you will let me explain—”
She cut him off again, at the same moment a large raindrop fell past the brim of his hat. “I have no desire to converse further. I apologize for ending your entertainment this afternoon, but the show cannot go on in the rain. Good day, Mr. Fenwick.” She turned from him and ran up the steps. The door opened and when it slammed shut behind her, the sky broke open above.
Griffin stood like an addle-pated dunce, staring at the closed door. The rain did not care that it soaked him and came down all the harder.
At last he turned, walking away. What a fool he was. Even if they had come along in their relationship, apparently, she knew him less than he did her. He needed to mind his tongue. The conversation had turned too quickly, and now he needed to make amends. But when? And more importantly, how?
Phoebe paced her bedroom, the glow of the gas lamp the only light. None came from outside, despite the early evening hour, due to the heavy clouds storming above Town. The rain beat against her window, the sound soothing her troubled thoughts.
The letter from her anonymous friend lay open upon her writing desk, a blank sheet of paper beside it.
“Do share your list with me…”
Dare she? Having one man laugh at her that day had shaken her. Mr. Fenwick had seemed like the sort of man one might befriend, but knowing he only spoke to her because she amused him had stung.
Phoebe put her hand over the red beads of her bracelet, rolling the accessory down to her wrist again. How she missed her friends. If only they were near to one another and could laugh away their troubles as they had at school.
What would they advise?
She went to the desk and sat, staring at the neat handwriting of the man with the rampant lion seal. Who was he, and why had he taken an interest in her? Enough of an interest to warn her not once, but twice?
He had to be a gentleman. At least, that was what she hoped. But was he an elderly fellow merely doing her a kindness? Somehow, she doubted it, given the firm hand he used. And the humor in his words.
It was dangerous for a woman to write to a gentleman, let alone a stranger.
But the little flower girl would warn her if there was something amiss, wouldn’t she?
The memory of Griffin Fenwick’s smirk, his hurtful words, goaded her at last.
Biting her bottom lip, Phoebe took up the pen.
Chapter 6
An Evening of Dancing
My Dear Friend,
I am not certain many would call me clever. How clever is it, for example, to write out one’s hopes and wishes to a complete stranger? I will have to trust to your honor, sir, whoever you might be.
I suppose I wish for the usual things in a gentleman, in terms of health and general good nature. But when I think on those things that I most hope for, that I want to be part of my life, I find myself hoping for a generosity of spirit. I also wish to find a man who will be an attentive and kind father, as my father was, yet how can one know such a thing? I would hope for a gentleman who will view me as his equal in our marriage.
As you can see, these things are quite impossible to know about a gentleman. No amount of afternoon carriage rides, ballroom meetings, or afternoon teas will reveal so much about a person’s character.
But worry not. I do not expect you to find such a companion for me. For now, if you might point me toward someone of honor and financial stability, I will be pleased enough. This will be my last Season in London. I suppose I ought not be too particular.
With all my gratitude,
P.K.
To The Charming P.K.,
Allow me time to ponder on your requirements. I do think they ought to be requirements, as each item is most reasonable and understandable. Why should any woman settle for less than a gentleman with whom she can have happiness as well as mutual respect and devotion?
You mentioned this is your last Season. Might I be so bold as to ask why?
Yours, Etc.,
A Friend
Phoebe bit her lip in an attempt to darken it from a shade of coral to something more like cherries. She stood before a mirror in a withdrawing room at the Countess Vailmoore’s annual ball. Then she turned to inspect her hair, pushing a stiff curl back into a pin.
“Phoebe, you look lovely. Do stop fussing.” Caroline took Phoebe’s hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Your brother is waiting for us in the ballroom, and you know how Joseph dislikes balls. We ought not leave him to his own devices too long.”
“Of course.” Phoebe turned away from the mirror, her stomach twisting. It was no use delaying; she had to go up to the ballroom. Her brother was not the only one who disliked swirling about in a crowded room, filled with the smells of too many perfumes and the noise of a hundred or more people.
But ballrooms were where matches were made. Phoebe needed to meet new gentlemen and construct a new list, with her old list pulled apart by her mysterious friend. As his advice on bachelors had proven correct twice, Phoebe trusted the man knew what he was doing when he gave her warning. Though she did not know exactly how to avoid settling for less than her ideal gentleman. Not if she hoped to be wed that year.
Starting over again when the Season was half over daunted her. Not that anyone would suspect as much, given her poise. Or so she told herself.
Before she entered the ballroom, Phoebe touched the bracelet, this time hidden beneath her long, ivory gloves. Tonight she wore a gown of yellow, trimmed in lace. The cheerful color reminded her of daffodils, her favorite flowers.
Phoebe came to the foot of the staircase where her hand landed upon the rail. She swallowed once, twice, and then looked up to begin her ascent.
Griffin Fenwick stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail on one elbow as he watched her. One corner of his mouth went upward when their gazes connected. He wore a rich brown coat that reminded her of chocolate and a yellow waistcoat that nearly matched her gown. His hair had been tossed about expertly, given it a windblown look that only increased the charm of his appearance.
Not that she would be charmed. Not when she remembered too well the insult he had given her when last they had spoken. He thought her conversation amusing, not to be taken seriously, and for a woman to speak her mind—well. Dwelling upon that would not improve her mood.
Setting her chin at a level a notch or two above where she normally held it, Phoebe took up her gown in one hand then allowed the other to glide along the banister as she walked up. Let him make light of her intelligence if he wished. She would not spend another moment entertaining Mr. Fenwick.
He pushed away from the rail as she approached and bowe
d when she attained the landing. “Miss Kimball, good evening. I am pleased you could come.”
He spoke as though he had issued the invitation rather than the countess.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she said, not even bothering to meet his gaze. She stared past him toward the ballroom. “I had no idea you would be present.” Though tempted to sweep by without another word, Phoebe had no desire to give anyone the cut direct. There were enough other people standing about in the hall to notice if she behaved that rudely.
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Caroline did not tell you?”
Phoebe winced and finally looked at him. “What ought my sister-in-law to have told me?” She knew, when she saw his smile reappear, that he’d had something to do with the invitation that had surprised her when it had arrived.
“The countess is a friend to my mother, and she has met Caroline often enough that when I suggested she extend the invitation to your family, she agreed at once. I am delighted you are here.” He did not seem to boast. The cheerfulness in his tone sounded genuine.
How could the man prove both irritating and charming?
Gritting her teeth, Phoebe offered him a tight smile. “Most kind of you to think of us, Mr. Fenwick.”
He offered his arm, and she had no choice but to take it. “Might I secure a set of dances with you, Miss Kimball? The next set to begin, if you have not yet promised them elsewhere.”
Dreadful man. Unless she wanted to spend the whole of the evening in a chair, she had to agree.
“My first set is yours, Mr. Fenwick.” If only he did not appear so pleased, she might have forgiven him. He did not seem to understand, not in the slightest, that she held him in some contempt.
They had barely entered the ballroom, which was actually several large rooms with doors flung open to connect them all, when the music ended. Their first engagement upon the dancefloor was to begin at once.
Letters for Phoebe (Promise of Forever After Book 1) Page 5