A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘You’re not limping.’

  ‘No.’ Owen held the door open.

  ‘You sound different. And you look well. I meant what I said when I arrived.’

  ‘Thank you. I will be even better after a chat alone with my wife.’

  * * *

  It took Owen another five minutes to finally rid himself of his best friend, whose surprised delight at his much-improved appearance would have amused and pleased him were he not anxious to get back to Phoebe. He found her white-faced, exactly as he had left her, her tea untouched. Sitting down beside her, he clasped her hands between his. ‘It’s not the end of the world. We’ll find a way to turn this to our advantage.’

  She slipped free of his grasp, her mouth wobbling, her eyes stricken. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. There was nothing in that piece of bilge that you haven’t already told me.’

  ‘There is every need. If I chose to behave in a way that the world sees as scandalous, I must expect to be judged accordingly. But to have inflicted the shame and scandal on my sisters and my aunt! And you, worst of all, that is unforgivable.’

  Phoebe dropped her face into her hands and burst into tears. Appalled, for he had never seen her cry, Owen pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. ‘What is unforgivable is exposing someone’s private life in order to sell newspapers.’

  ‘You’ve been so kind to me, and this is how I reward you.’

  ‘Phoebe, stop it. Please don’t cry.’ He tried to tilt her face up, but she buried it in his chest, sobbing as if her heart would break. All he could do was hold her, after tugging off his gloves so that he could smooth her hair, until her sobs became hiccups and then finally stopped.

  ‘I’ve made your coat all wet.’

  Owen pulled out his handkerchief. ‘Here, use this instead.’

  She caught his hand, rubbing it against her cheek. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Stop apologising, you’ve even less reason to do so than Jasper.’

  ‘Jasper was hoodwinked by a journalist. I have no one to blame for this mess but myself. You shouldn’t have married me.’

  ‘Phoebe.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘That’s quite simply nonsense. Come on, let’s retire to the parlour,’ Owen said, ‘and see if we can turn our new-found notoriety to our advantage.’

  But to his dismay as they sat down, fresh tears sprung from Phoebe’s eyes. ‘I have been selfish and thoughtless. Eloise was right after all.’

  ‘Your sister surely didn’t accuse you of any of those things.’

  ‘Not me,’ Phoebe said, wringing her hands. ‘My mother.’

  ‘Your mother! What on earth has she to do with this?’

  ‘I think I told you that Mama was a—a free spirit—or at least that’s how I’ve always thought of her. She was so very beautiful, and so popular and so passionate—that’s what she always used to say, “I am a passionate creature.”’

  Which certainly did sound, Owen thought, like the words of a woman determined to have her own way. He tried to recall what else Phoebe had said of her mother. Not very maternal—yes, he remembered drawing the comparison there with his own mother, but while he had been well cared for by a host of other responsible adults, Phoebe and her twin seemed to have relied on their elder sister. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said helplessly, ‘I can understand why Eloise would think your mother was selfish, thoughtless even, to have preferred a career as the toast of Dublin society to looking after her children, but you don’t even like going to parties.’

  ‘I thought she was bold and brave enough to refuse to be bound by convention. I admired her for that. Eloise and Estelle think very differently, so I kept my opinions to myself, but when I went to Paris, I felt as if I’d been brave and bold too.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘It was a huge step to go, but when I got there, instead of concentrating on working hard to achieve the one thing that I wanted, I was dazzled by the city and seduced by the life I was leading. I knew that it was wrong of me to have an affaire with Pascal, but I wanted it. So I—this is so mortifying—I told myself that I was a free spirit like my mother, and was emulating her. I pretended to myself that she’d be proud of me for doing as she did, for bucking convention. Mama had countless affaires. I thought I was finally doing something that would have made her notice me, something that would have met with her approval. You see, that’s how pathetic I am. So I blithely carried on, thinking of no one but myself, heedless of the impact my behaviour might have on anyone save myself. And now it’s not me who has to pay, it’s you and my sisters.’

  ‘So, naturally you have concluded that your sisters were right about your mother. And if you are like her then it follows that you are also selfish and thoughtless.’ She had it so wrong, and she looked so woebegone, he wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he’d done that already and it hadn’t helped. ‘Women like your mother don’t care who they hurt, do they, provided they get their own way?’

  ‘She always said that Papa was trying to suppress her true nature.’

  ‘And you felt that your sisters were suppressing yours, in a way, didn’t you? Because in their misguided attempts to protect you from what they thought was certain failure, they were trying to stop you from becoming a chef?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose. But...’

  ‘So you went to Paris, all on your own, and for the first time in your life you were free of them. There was no one to watch over you, no one to advise you. It’s not surprising that you went a little wild, Phoebe. I certainly would have.’

  ‘No one cares if a man has an affaire. It’s expected of them.’

  ‘You weren’t married to anyone else. You weren’t promised to anyone else. And it wasn’t just any old affaire, it wasn’t a meaningless fling. You thought you were in love. You thought that you and Pascal had a future together.’

  ‘You make it sound as if what I did was perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘It’s completely understandable. I won’t insult you by pretending that the world won’t see it as scandalous, because the world does judge men and women very differently. But you knew, Phoebe, even when you were relishing every moment of your life in Paris, that your sisters would be shocked.’

  ‘And yet it didn’t stop me!’

  ‘But you did your best to keep it from them. Not because you were ashamed but to protect them, shield them from what for them would have been an unpalatable truth. Would your mother have done that?’

  ‘No, because she didn’t—’ Phoebe broke off, looking stricken.

  ‘Go on,’ Owen said gently.

  ‘Because she didn’t care,’ Phoebe whispered.

  ‘But you did, enough to try to keep your sisters in the dark.’

  ‘She guessed anyway. Eloise sees everything. That’s why she sent Estelle to Paris. If I had only listened to Estelle...’

  ‘Phoebe, as far as you were concerned at the time, Estelle was asking you to abandon your life-long ambition.’

  ‘If only I had, we wouldn’t be at odds as we are just now. Do you think—Owen, do you think Mama simply didn’t care for any of us girls?’

  ‘I think,’ Owen said carefully, ‘that perhaps she cared for herself first and foremost.’

  ‘That’s what Eloise believes.’

  ‘If that rag had written a story about your mother, how do you think she’d feel?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not like this. She was forever declaring that she wouldn’t apologise for her behaviour. I used to think that was brave of her to thumb her nose at convention.’ Phoebe winced. ‘Poor Papa. And now I’m inflicting the same thing on you. Like mother like daughter!’

  ‘You went to Paris, the culinary capital of the world, because you passionately wanted to learn how to be a chef. Your passion is something you do have in common with your mother—t
hough I suspect it’s the only thing. You had the courage of your convictions, you were determined to chase the pot of gold at the end of your rainbow. So tell me, what is there in that to be ashamed of?’

  ‘I failed.’

  ‘There is no shame in failing. Failing to even try would have been a much bigger crime.’

  ‘But I didn’t consider the consequences.’

  ‘There would have been no consequences if some low-life hack hadn’t dished up your broken dreams as salacious gossip.’

  ‘And now everyone will know that you’re married to a hussy and a failure.’

  ‘Then there is only one thing to be done.’

  Phoebe’s face fell. ‘Oh! Of course you would be well within your rights if...’

  ‘Not that, silly. We must simply prove them all wrong.’

  She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. He waited, watching the emotions flit across her transparent countenance, delighted to see the way she set her shoulders, braced herself as if readying herself for battle. ‘Do you think we can?’

  ‘Of course we can, but we’re going to ride out this storm first. We are the scandalmonger’s dish of the day. I could pull strings, have a denial printed, make them retract it even, but that would simply lend it credence, fuel the fire. They will have other fish to fry soon enough, and then we will be yesterday’s news.’

  ‘Leaving you married to a—a fallen woman, as far as the world is concerned!’

  ‘Do not ever say that!’ Owen jumped to his feet. ‘Do you hear me, Phoebe?’ He pulled her to her feet, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘I am proud to call you my wife. In fact I’d go so far as to say that I can’t think of any woman I’d rather call my wife than you. You don’t have a selfish or thoughtless bone in you’re body. You don’t trample over your nearest and dearest—or indeed neglect them—just to get what you want. You are not your mother’s daughter. Are you listening to me?’

  ‘I’m just terrified I’ll let you down.’

  ‘The only way you could let me down would be if you threw in the towel. Stop living in your sisters’ shadow, Phoebe and once and for all, put that bas—put Solignac’s opinion of you out of your head. If the restaurant fails, it won’t be because you haven’t put your heart and soul into it.’

  ‘I won’t fail. We won’t fail.’

  Owen smiled. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘What was it you said, notoriety whets the appetite? If our restaurant was open tonight, we’d be left with a roomful of plates scraped clean! I’ll have to write to Eloise.’

  ‘Would it be better if I wrote to her?’

  ‘Prove to her that you’re standing by me? No, thank you, then I’d actually be hiding behind you. I’d better do it today, then I may even pre-empt her seeing that article. I can reassure her that it makes no difference to our plans, that you stand foursquare behind me. As to her name being mentioned in the press—there’s nothing I can do about that save to apologise to her and to Alexander. At least I don’t need to write to Aunt Kate, she’s still away.’

  ‘What about Estelle?’ Owen asked tentatively.

  ‘The chances of her seeing that story are remote. I have enough on my plate as it is.’

  ‘I think that’s wise. Time enough for that when the dust has settled.’ A tear trickled down her cheek. He brushed it away, forgetting that he wasn’t wearing his gloves. Her skin was warm, soft, damp. His fingers tingled.

  ‘Is my nose red?’

  ‘Yes.’ He kissed it.

  He felt her inhale sharply. He let her go, taking a step back, but she caught his hand, lifting it to her mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to his swollen knuckle. ‘Thank you. I am so proud to be able to call you my husband. In fact,’ she said, smiling up at him, ‘I’d go so far as to say that I can’t think of any man I’d rather call my husband than you.’

  A bittersweet compliment if every there was one, for her kiss, just a silly little kiss, had set his senses alight, and right at this moment, he wanted to be the kind of husband he’d promised he would not be. ‘Thank you, but do try for a little originality in your compliments.’

  ‘This, from the man who appropriated Benjamin Franklin’s words as his own!’

  ‘Touché.’ Reluctantly, Owen extracted his hand from her grasp. ‘I haven’t done my exercises today, and I want to be fighting fit if we’re going to brazen this out.’

  ‘If only we could lock ourselves away from the world for a month or so—oh, good heavens, I didn’t mean...’

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t look so horrified, Phoebe, I can’t pretend that I didn’t do exactly that. But I’m not doing it again. We’re going to face this down.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but we’ll find a way. Do you think you are ready to face the world?’

  ‘If you can do it, then I can.’

  She was so brave, and so lovely, all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. God, he really wanted to kiss her. ‘Good,’ Owen said, stooping to pick up his gloves. ‘Go and write to Eloise. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Thank you. For everything. Just one more thing,’ she called as he reached the door. She pointed to his discarded gloves which were sitting on the table. ‘It’s likely to be a bare-knuckle fight, isn’t it? I don’t think you should wear those any more.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Are you teasing me?’

  Owen shook his head, concentrating on peeling an apple for Phoebe. ‘One sure-fire way to stop that rag digging up more dirt from either of our pasts is to give them something new to write about.’

  ‘So we’ll give them a new scandal.’

  ‘Of our own making. What do you think of my daring plan?’

  ‘I thought that only men were allowed to dine at Crockford’s?’

  ‘They are.’ He finished cutting the apple into thin slivers, laying it out like a fan on the plate the way she liked it. ‘Would you like some stilton with that?’

  ‘No, thank you. Well, just a smidgen. Do you intend that I dress up as a man? Or do you plan to smuggle me in?’

  Owen guffawed. ‘I’d very much like to see you in breeches...’

  ‘Owen!’

  ‘You wouldn’t fool anyone, Phoebe,’ he said, looking quite unabashed. ‘You will go as yourself. It will be our first formal appearance in society as Mr and Mrs Harrington.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’

  ‘Before we got married, I told you that I was a bit of a “name” in the city? Well, another man who has an eye for investments is William Crockford—Crocky to those who think he is their friend. In his case, the “investors” are the poor deluded souls who play at the tables. They say he can predict to the pound and to the hour when a man will come into his inheritance, and that’s how he times the invitations to grace his tables. He has become one of the wealthiest men in London by knowing how to calculate odds. He also likes to see the money he makes working for him. And I can help him with that.’

  Phoebe frowned. ‘Didn’t you say that you never give investment tips?’

  ‘I’m happy to make an exception if it suits our purpose.’

  ‘You’ll bribe him!’ She clapped her hands together gleefully. ‘Really? And then he’ll let me eat in the restaurant?’

  ‘If I also have a word in the ear of the most esteemed member of the club too, I reckon so.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘The Duke of Wellington.’

  Phoebe choked on her apple. ‘You are acquainted with the Iron Duke?’

  ‘Our paths have crossed.’

  ‘Goodness. I had no idea you moved in such circles.’

  ‘We were never exactly friends, but London is a small village.’

  ‘Did you ever come across the Earl of Fearnoch—not Eloise’s husband, but his brother, the previous earl?’

  �
��He was a bit of a loose fish by all accounts. Not my set. I was feckless, Phoebe, but I was never a libertine.’

  ‘I never thought for a moment that you were.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Do you mean that Alexander’s brother was?’

  ‘And his father, too. He has a cousin, Raymond Sinclair, who seems to be trying his best to keep up the family tradition. Rumour has their coat of arms features a codpiece. I’ve never met your sister’s husband though—which is odd.’

  ‘Alexander spent all of his time working abroad until he married Eloise. He was something in the Admiralty.’

  ‘That explains it. The family won’t be strangers to scandal though, will they? No, I don’t mean that as a consolation,’ Owen added hastily, ‘just a fact. And I know it’s your sister you’re more concerned about than her husband. Did you write to her as planned?’

  ‘I hope I said enough to stop her from worrying. As to her name being dragged into that horrible story—well, at least she and Alexander spend hardly any time in London. Now that she is expecting a baby, she’ll spend even less time here.’

  ‘When is the child due?’

  ‘Late spring. Goodness, I wonder if she’ll have twins! I shall have to take time away from our restaurant to visit her—but I’m not sure if I’d trust anyone to deputise for me, when the business is so new.’

  ‘We haven’t even found the perfect premises yet,’ Owen chided her, ‘and you’re already thinking of closing up!’

  ‘I will not rise to your bait,’ Phoebe said with a grin. ‘Do you honestly think you can get us into Crockford’s?’

  ‘Wellington considers himself something of an epicure. Combine that with the fact that he has an eye for a beautiful woman, and I reckon his curiosity should see us gain entry.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I’m going to taste Louis Eustache Ude’s food.’

  ‘Phoebe, you’re going to have to do so with the eyes of everyone else in the room fixed on you, you do know that?’

  Her excitement fizzled out. ‘Can’t we request a private room? In fact, if you are so influential—couldn’t you simply ask Monsieur Ude to come here to cook for us?’