A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I’m not sure that a year will be sufficient for either to have happened.’

  ‘Two years then. Are we agreed?’

  His smile was infectious. ‘Two years to the day,’ Phoebe said, smiling back. ‘You have my word, Mr Harrington.’

  He took out a gold case, handing her a card from it. ‘And you have mine. Take this, in the unlikely event you need to get in touch before then, to break our assignation, which I sincerely hope does not happen. Otherwise I look forward very much to seeing you again.’

  She put the card in her reticule, smiling at the absurdity of it. He poured the dregs of the wine. They raised their glasses in a toast, and their eyes met, and the oddest thing happened. It felt as if time stopped. As if the room and the people in it melted away. And there was only the two of them.

  ‘Phoebe!’

  She leapt to her feet, spilling her wine. ‘Pascal!’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  Mr Harrington was on his feet, making a bow. ‘Owen Harrington. I met Miss Brannagh quite by accident, but it was a happy coincidence, for I was able to bring her news of her sister, the Countess of Fearnoch, with whom I am acquainted. How do you do, Monsieur Solignac.’

  Pascal gave a short bow. He was frowning suspiciously at Mr Harrington. ‘Mr Harrington didn’t like the idea of my sitting alone so late at night,’ Phoebe said. ‘He was kindly keeping me company until you arrived.’

  ‘I am grateful to him, but I am here now.’

  Mortified by his aggressive tone, Phoebe would have remonstrated, but Mr Harrington was already taking his leave. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘Miss Brannagh,’ he said, pressing her hand briefly. ‘Adieu.’

  He threw some notes on to the table, enough to have paid for all the wine for the entire room for the evening, then with a curt nod, he left.

  Despite her lover’s arrival, Phoebe was suddenly despondent, and disappointed to have her encounter with Mr Harrington cut short in such a brusque manner. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It’s very late, I’ve had more than enough wine and I want to go home.’

  Chapter Two

  London—October 1830

  Phoebe stepped out of the hackney cab that had transported her from the posting house and gazed apprehensively at the imposing town house. The front door was painted a glossy black, the brass knocker and bell pull brightly polished. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her. It had been sunny when she left Paris, but the rain had set in at Calais, and had poured down relentlessly ever since, reflecting her mood.

  She checked her watch needlessly. It was just after ten in the morning. Far too early to be calling on anyone. The shutters of the town house were not closed, which meant someone was in residence, but not necessarily the person she sought. So much could have happened in the intervening two years. He might have changed address. He could be married and settled. It was perfectly possible he was still travelling the world.

  He could even be dead, for all she knew. After all, he hadn’t turned up at the Procope café in August as arranged. She’d told herself that it was ridiculous of her to expect him to, that their so-called assignation had been light-hearted banter, nothing more, but she’d gone anyway, three nights in a row. When each night ended without him making an appearance she had been bitterly and quite disproportionately disappointed. She had been so eager to hear what he’d made of his life, fervently hoping it would counterbalance the disaster which constituted her own. She had tried hard not to attach undue significance to his failure to turn up, but it had felt like the last straw, a signal to cut and run. Though she had struggled on for another few weeks, in her head, his non-appearance marked the end of her dream.

  Which was one of the reasons why she was here, hoping against hope that Mr Harrington had succeeded where she had so signally failed. Though he probably wouldn’t even remember their brief encounter in Paris, she thought despondently. If by some miracle he was in residence and did agree to see her, there was every chance that he’d look straight through her, as if confronted by a complete stranger. Which, in essence, she was.

  A footman was eyeing her cagily from the steps of a house across the street. She probably looked suspicious loitering in this genteel locale unaccompanied. Phoebe climbed the first step. If Mr Harrington was not here—oh, God, no, she couldn’t bear to think of the alternative. Please let him be here, she whispered to herself. Please.

  The footman was making his way across the street to accost her. Phoebe climbed the remainder of the shallow steps and rang the bell.

  The door was opened just a crack by a stern, elderly servant. ‘May I help you?’ he asked, making it clear that he thought it very unlikely that he could.

  She held out the worn card which had lain in the recesses of her reticule for over two years. ‘Does Mr Harrington still live here?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid he does not receive visitors.’

  Startled, she was about to ask why ever not, when the man made to close the door in her face. ‘Please, will you ask him if he will make an exception for me?’ Phoebe said urgently. ‘My name is Miss Phoebe Brannagh. From Paris, tell him, the young lady from the Procope Café.’

  * * *

  ‘Phoebe Brannagh,’ Owen repeated.

  ‘The young lady wasn’t sure if you would remember her,’ his butler informed him, careful to keep his expression bland. ‘You met in Paris, apparently.’

  Not long before his life had changed for ever, in fact. ‘Our paths did cross,’ Owen said, ‘but I can’t possibly see her.’

  Propped up in bed, his hands hidden under the sheets, he rubbed the extensive scarring on the backs of them compulsively. Phoebe Brannagh! His thoughts often drifted back to their encounter in the Procope. Beautiful, passionate, ambitious and determined, she was unforgettable. He had left the café that night inspired, invigorated, full of optimism for the future, not exactly full of plans but certainly full of determination. He had recalled, many times since, her words of caution when he had so foolishly bemoaned his privileged lifestyle. ‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ she had said, ‘and grateful for what you have.’

  Such prescient words. In the months which followed, in the aftermath, how often he had wished he’d heeded them earlier, returned to London, satisfied with his lot. He might have remained feckless and shallow, but at least he’d have still been himself.

  ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I can’t possibly see her, it is out of the question.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Shall I convey the usual message?’

  The usual message. That Mr Harrington was not at home to callers under any circumstances. Owen hesitated on the brink of assent. What on earth was she doing here, in London? He had wondered, back in August, if she had honoured their assignation. Though it was impossible for him to make the journey he’d still felt guilty, picturing her sitting on her own up in that top room of the Procope sipping wine and waiting for him, just as she had waited patiently, night after night, for Solignac. Had she realised her dream of opening her own restaurant? Were she and the chef who had her under his spell still sharing both a kitchen and a bed? For his part, he fervently hoped not the latter. The little he’d seen and heard of the man had made him certain Miss Brannagh deserved a great deal better.

  Why was she here now? It was ludicrous to imagine her concern for him, sparked by his failure to turn up in August as agreed, had brought her all the way to England, though if the boot had been on the other foot, he might well have done just that, for he had imagined their second meeting countless times. During the darkest days, when the memory of her zest for life had been a small beacon of light, he had imagined himself well, fit, successful. Happy. He had dreamed up endless versions of how his life had turned out, picturing himself recounting them to her in the cosy light of the Procope, a pichet of wine and two half-empty glasses on the table.

  What had she
achieved in the last two years? Now he had the opportunity to find out, was he really going to pass it up? He was genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from his increasing indifference to the world and its inhabitants. Miss Phoebe Brannagh, she had declared herself, though that didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t married, merely that it was the name he would recognise. The chances that she had abandoned the kitchens for an easier, more prosaic life were high, but Owen hoped Phoebe had remained true to her highly individual self, and beaten the odds. The more abjectly he felt he had failed, the more fervently he had hoped that she had found success in Paris.

  Though if she had, then why was she here? Her family lived in England, he recalled. It could be that she was visiting, and on a whim had decided to look him up. But why hadn’t she written to ask if she could call, if that was the case? And why call at such an early hour? In the old days, he’d have been up since dawn, would have gone for a ride or a run with Jasper while the roads were quiet, or he’d have had a fencing lesson, a shooting lesson, put in some time sparring or at the gymnasium. He could barely recall those days now. When he did, it was as if it was a dream, as if it had all happened to a different person.

  Which it had. He was utterly changed in every way. His accident had destroyed him physically. He had battled back for a while, regaining some measure of mobility, but the slough of despond he was sinking into of late was like a pool of black tar, slowly smothering him. His world was muffled, devoid of any feeling, and not even on his best days, when he could just about recognise the importance of not throwing in the towel, did he feel any inclination to take action. He couldn’t possibly let Miss Brannagh see him in this sorry and broken state.

  Though he wanted to see her. Hearing about her success might just act as a balm for his malaise. It was a ridiculous notion, to imagine that her triumph could offset his disaster, but it might, it just might make him feel a tiny bit better, even give him the kick up the backside he required. And if he didn’t see her, he’d always wonder, wouldn’t he, what had become of her?

  ‘Wait,’ he called to Bremner, who hadn’t in fact moved. ‘Have her shown to the breakfast parlour. Light the fire there, and in the morning room. Offer her tea. Food. She likes food. Offer her breakfast. Tell her I will join her presently. I need a bath.’

  His butler rushed to do his bidding, failing to hide his astonishment, for visitors, Miss Braidwood’s dutiful calls aside, were unheard of these days. Owen slumped back on his pillows, already having to fight the urge to change his mind. It hadn’t been one of his better weeks. He’d barely crawled out of bed since that last depressing visit from Olivia. He rubbed his jaw, averting his eyes from his un-gloved hands. He needed a shave. He was going to have to work a minor miracle to make himself look even halfway respectable.

  Pushing back the bedclothes, Owen placed his feet gingerly on the ground, gritting his teeth as the familiar searing pain shot through his right leg. He had abandoned the exercises prescribed by his doctors. The regime had succeeded to a point, but he’d long ago hit a plateau. He’d been an athlete once. Those simple, tedious stretches, which were the limit of what his doctors thought he could manage, reminded him that he never would be again.

  Dammit, he was not using his stick. It was always worst first thing, he simply had to endure it. He took a faltering step, cursing the grinding pain in his hip, forcing another step and another, slowly making his way to the new bathing room he’d had installed, locking the door securely behind him. It was an unnecessary act, as he had no valet, and all the household knew not to intrude on him on pain of death, but it made him feel better all the same.

  * * *

  The breakfast served to her was good plain fare, but though she had not eaten properly for days, Phoebe could only manage a few desultory forkfuls of eggs and ham. She drank an entire pot of tea though. Tea didn’t taste the same in Paris, somehow. The different water probably accounted for it. She was gratefully accepting a boiling kettle to brew a fresh pot and wondering what could be keeping Mr Harrington, and why on earth he did not receive visitors, when the door to the breakfast parlour opened and he finally appeared.

  She was so shocked that for a moment she couldn’t move from her place at the table. He looked as if he had aged ten years. His hair had darkened, he wore it considerably longer than before, and he had lost a good deal of weight. Lines were etched between his nose and his mouth, and more lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, which were darkly shadowed. Nature had given him excellent bones, and the loss of weight, instead of making him look gaunt, drew attention to his razor-sharp cheekbones, and to the clean lines of his jaw. He was still a very handsome man, but missing the ready smile and easy charm that had previously complemented his looks, the impression he now gave was forbidding, almost intimidating.

  Belatedly, Phoebe got to her feet, making her way to the door where Mr Harrington remained stationery. ‘Good morning. I’m so sorry to intrude on you so early.’ Her smile faltered. ‘I wasn’t even sure that you’d remember me, until your butler offered me breakfast, which he wouldn’t have done if I was a complete stranger.’

  ‘Miss Brannagh, I have never forgotten that night, or you.’ Her host sketched a bow. ‘Please, finish eating.’

  ‘I have done, thank you, but I am happy to sit while you partake.’

  ‘I have ordered coffee, that will suffice for me.’

  She had preceded him back to the table. Only as she resumed her seat did she notice his pronounced limp and the spasm of pain that crossed his face as he put his right foot down. ‘You’re hurt. Here, let me...’

  He yanked a chair out and sat down heavily. ‘Thank you, but I prefer to manage for myself.’

  The stern butler arrived bearing a silver pot of coffee, which he poured immediately before leaving them alone, and which Mr Harrington drank back in a single gulp, without bothering to add either sugar or cream. He was wearing gloves. Tan gloves, tightly fitted, so she hadn’t noticed them at first.

  ‘Would you like some ham? Eggs?’ Phoebe said, making a conscious effort not to stare.

  He poured himself a second cup, this time taking a smaller sip. ‘Thank you, no. I find I do not have much of an appetite these days.’ He eyed her half-empty plate. ‘Not up to your exacting standards, Miss Brannagh?’

  ‘I’m not very hungry either.’

  His complexion was pale. The man she remembered had been glowing with health. This man looked careworn, the lines on his face, she deduced, carved by pain.

  ‘You look shocked. Aren’t you going to ask what happened to me?’

  ‘I get the strong impression you’d much prefer that I didn’t.’

  He drained his cup. ‘I had an accident. My recuperation has been prolonged. As you can see for yourself, I am not the man I once was. And that is all there is to be said.’

  Or at least, all that he would say. He wanted neither pity nor curiosity, that much was clear. Phoebe bit back her questions, opting instead for frankness. ‘As you have no doubt deduced from my appearance at your door at this most unfashionable hour Mr Harrington, my circumstances have also changed since we last met.’

  ‘Really?’ He pushed his saucer to one side, wincing as he shifted in his chair to stretch his leg out, before turning his attention back to her, his frown deepening as he did so. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I can see that you are different. It is as if the light has gone out of you. You can have no idea how sorry I am to see that. I had hoped that at least one of us would have been toasting their success in August.’

  ‘You remembered!’

  ‘Of course I did, and would have been there if it had been humanly possible, but as you can see, I’m in no condition to travel to the other side of the street, far less Paris.’

  ‘I went,’ Phoebe admitted sheepishly. ‘To the Procope. I hoped—’ She broke off, colouring.

  ‘You hoped as I did, that at least one of us
would have something to toast. I take it then, that you do not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The sheer magnitude of recent events threatened to overwhelm her. She could not possibly ask him for help, not when he was so obviously enduring his own private hell. Phoebe got to her feet. ‘I wish you well with your recovery, but I really shouldn’t intrude any longer.’

  ‘Miss Brannagh, please wait.’

  She was at the door, about to open it when a crash and a shouted oath made her whirl around. Mr Harrington was on his feet, but only just, clutching the edge of the table. His cup and saucer and the coffee pot were on the floor.

  ‘Spare me the indignity of having to call my butler to prevent you leaving.’

  ‘You have troubles of your own. I have no wish to further burden you with my tale of woe.’

  He held out his hand, his voice softening marginally. ‘Then distract me from mine by recounting yours. If you can bear to.’

  * * *

  Miss Brannagh stepped reluctantly back into the room. Stooping to pick up the shattered fragments of crockery and the coffee pot, she paused, cast him an enquiring look, then completed the task when Owen reluctantly assented. His servants would see yet more evidence of his clumsiness, albeit neatly stacked on the table and not abandoned on the floor, but they were used to it by now. At least the coffee pot had been empty. ‘Thank you,’ he said as she sat back down across the table from him.

  ‘You haven’t eaten anything. It’s not good to start the day on an empty stomach.’

  ‘The food won’t go to waste, the kitchen staff get any leftovers.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear that, but it wasn’t my point.’