by Ingrid Hahn
Phoebe’s brows knit. “Your knees, my lady?”
“She means she’s been on her knees praying every night.” Max turned to the countess. “I’m sorry for that, Mother. But I must insist, this is our wedding and ours alone.”
She smiled at her son, face warm with love. “Oh, you are persuasive, aren’t you, my dear one? Very well.” She turned to Phoebe. “Now I must hear all about you, my lady.”
“I believe there isn’t much I can tell you that isn’t already generally known about my family.”
“Oh, your family. Yes.” She waved a hand and spoke with more energy than she’d previously displayed. “I won’t pretend that I wish my son had chosen a girl from a more upstanding family. But we can overlook that, can’t we?”
Apparently they could—and quite a bit more easily than Phoebe would have guessed.
Perhaps Phoebe should have experienced a twinge of pain at Lady Maxfeld’s words. Except there was no malice in what she’d said. Only truth. And Phoebe couldn’t claim to think any differently on the matter.
Her ladyship continued. “But I wasn’t asking about your family, I was asking about you. What do you like? What do you think about? What do you read? Which shops are your favorites? I knew your mother at school, but I imagine you already know that, don’t you? You don’t favor her…no, you don’t favor either of your parents. At least not in appearance. But if I may so remark, I think I see some of your mother’s spirit in you.”
Phoebe couldn’t help but give a sly smile. “Forgive my boldness, my lady, but I daresay in the time you’ve spent with my mother, you’ve learned enough about me to inform me of a few points in my character I didn’t know I possessed.”
Lady Maxfeld gave a soft chuckle. “Yes, of course she’s spoken of you to me, and with all a mother’s rightful pride, as well you can imagine. I’d like to hear about you from you. Now…tell me everything.”
Three quarters of an hour later, Phoebe would be perfectly content to never speak about herself again.
Lady Maxfeld had drifted to sleep. They left quietly.
After carefully shutting the door behind them and pressing a finger against his lips to signal silence to the approaching maid, Lord Maxfeld tucked Phoebe’s hand into the crook of his arm.
“My lord, pray forgive my boldness, but is she ill?” She kept her voice low.
He scowled. “She’s seen doctors, surgeons, apothecaries—all the most respected of those practicing any healing arts. They can find nothing wrong. There might be nothing physically wrong, but there is something wrong with her soul.”
Remaining silent, she waited for him to continue.
They came to the landing before the stairs. Lord Maxfeld stopped, staring absently at an old portrait on the wall, one among a great many somber faces upon time-darkened canvases. The man depicted wore a ruffled collar.
“My sister died a little over a year ago. My mother has never recovered from her grief. Truth be told, I did think she was improving. Then suddenly last January she took a turn for the worse.”
“If she’s so ill, why does she keep her grandson?”
“My sister and mother were extremely close. You noticed that picture she tried to hide?”
Phoebe nodded.
The earl appeared to steel himself. “Juliet.”
“How did they die—your sister and her husband?”
“She died of a putrid sore throat. Thomas fell ill—she prayed day and night that she be taken and her son spared. It seems God answered her wish.” His mouth turned in a bitter line. “A week later, her husband drowned in the lake by his house. We found an empty brandy bottle smashed on the floor of his room. I’m fairly certain he’d gotten stinking drunk. Fool.”
Phoebe could only shake her head, shoulders heavy with regret that the man had come to such an end. “Your poor mother. I do feel for her; I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a daughter.”
He looked at her, intensity shining from the depths of his eyes. “I do hope you will never have to find out.”
It was a small kindness, his expressing this hope for her. Phoebe bit her lip, unable to reply.
“But what will happen when you take him away from her? What if doing so…” She couldn’t finish the horrid thought.
“I have no intention of taking him away. She will happily relinquish him to me once she sees how much I can give the boy.” Lord Maxfeld drew a breath. “Speaking of Thomas, I can’t leave before I see—”
He was cut off by a blond boy racing toward him. The child was about five and nothing but a streak of glee—arms wide, smile huge. The lad ran right into Lord Maxfeld’s legs, wrapping himself around the earl and squealing with delight.
“Shhh.” The earl swooped the boy into his arms. “Grandmama is sleeping. We mustn’t wake her.”
The boy’s wide eyes fixed upon Phoebe. “Who’s she?”
“Remember your manners.”
They went down the stairs, Lord Maxfeld carrying the child the whole way.
“But who is she?”
“She’s my…er…friend.” They reached the bottom and the earl made proper introductions. “Do you remember what we say when we meet fine ladies?”
Young Thomas lifted his head, then grinned at Phoebe, one of his front teeth missing. “I found a beetle yesterday. Should you like to see it?”
Phoebe couldn’t help but smile. The beetle seemed an earnest overture of friendship. “Not today, I’m afraid, though I’m honored by the offer.”
“Are you here to take me home with you, Uncle?”
“Remember what I told you? That’s not something we can discuss at present.”
“When?”
Lord Maxfeld laughed, setting the child down.
A new face appeared at the top of the stairs, a woman plain of feature but entirely agreeable looking. “That’s enough, Master Thomas. Say your good-byes to your uncle and the fine lady,” she intoned warmly but firmly. “Come back upstairs. It’s time for your tea.”
The boy looked up to his uncle with unadulterated worship. The look was returned.
And when Lord Maxfeld smiled at his nephew, Phoebe’s heart responded.
Oh dear Lord, how he seemed to love this child.
“When are we going to ride, Uncle?”
“Thursday, just like always.” The earl tousled the fair head. He knelt to draw Thomas into an embrace and kissed his cheek. “You run along and I’ll be back for our afternoon out very soon.”
“Just us gentlemen, right?”
“Just us gentlemen.”
When the boy vanished, Phoebe leveled Lord Maxfeld a biting stare. “I suppose this is where I’m supposed to say that I see the end justifies the means.”
His expression darkened. “What was it you said to me yesterday about not caring about my opinion?”
“I remember what I said well enough.”
“The same principle applies here, my lady.”
His curt remark, spoken low and sharp, was an abrupt reminder that everything between them was for show. It was as if he’d seen how much she enjoyed watching him with his nephew and wanted to push her away.
She tossed her head. “Fair enough, I suppose.”
They left. It was raining again, the drops pattering down, the air smelling of water upon dusty stone.
In the distance between the house and the carriage, they had a few precious steps alone, which she would not waste.
“I think you’re going to be a good father someday, my lord.”
Instead of being pleased by what she’d said, he darkened. “I’ll never be a father.”
She frowned. “You can’t know that.”
There couldn’t be something wrong with…his…well, his, er, manhood, could there be? He was Lord Maxfeld, after all.
Then again, it might explain his foul mood. Men were such testy creatures.
“I do. I’ll never be a father because I’m never going to marry.” There was a steely quality to his voice, as if sp
eaking were coming at a high cost.
“Never?”
“I wasn’t speaking in jest when I told you as much the first time.”
“But…never? Surely you don’t want to be alone.”
“Why does it follow that I’ll have to be alone?”
“But marriage—”
“Isn’t for everyone.”
Funny how often she’d used those exact words with her mother. Rather, upon her mother’s deaf ears.
“Some risks are worth taking, my lord.”
“And some aren’t.”
There was no arguing with that. It wasn’t based on logic or reason. It came from a place inside him too murky to quite make out. And it was obvious enough he wasn’t about to tell her anything. There was no point in continuing to pry, at least for today. Besides, she hadn’t earned his confidence. “Well? What’s next?”
“We act the part of besotted lovers.” He spoke in an offhanded manner, as if the answer were obvious.
“But if this is only for your mother’s benefit…”
“I know. She doesn’t venture out much these days, but she does have a circle of intimates who keep her apprised of my goings-on.”
Phoebe lowered her voice. “Your mother’s heart will be quite broken when the…arrangement ends.”
“Whatever you’re suggesting…”
“Don’t worry, my lord.” Her tone was dry and flat. “I’m not suggesting we marry.”
Lord Maxfeld’s face darkened. “Good. There shall be no more discussion on the matter. We’ve agreed to this for the reasons I’ve stated. There shan’t be any sentimental inducement to alter our plans. Not for any reason.”
Chapter Six
On Friday morning, having again risen before noon, Max arrived at Corbeau’s house to call upon Lady Phoebe.
No sooner had he handed his dripping things to the footman—it was raining again—than Max’s friend came stalking down the corridor.
Corbeau was a large man with a forbidding presence and features that often seemed frozen in stern disapproval. He spoke without preamble. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“When did you come into town?” Max followed his friend to the other side of the house with a sense of dread. When all was said and done, this false engagement could well cost him his oldest, dearest friendship.
If it did, so be it. Thomas was everything. Everything. He’d salt every last acre of arable land for the boy, if need be.
“Arrived yesterday afternoon.”
“Alone?”
Corbeau gave Max a horrified look. “I would never travel without my wife by my side.”
Ignoring the pride his friend invested in the word “wife,” Max couldn’t help but laugh privately. Although not strictly sold on the merits of matrimony himself, between the right people, the institution could be said to have a use or two in its favor. And nobody was more right together than Corbeau and his bride, recently Lady Grace, elder sister to Lady Phoebe.
He was happy for his friend and not envious in the least. His heart might give a sort of…well, all right, he’d own it—his heart gave a pang. But it was indigestion, nothing else. Too much coffee at breakfast again. Certainly not envy. He wouldn’t pine for what he could never have or want.
They came into a stately room that held a library to be boasted of through the generations.
“I say, what I heard about you running out of Mrs. Crabtree’s house at dawn with a parlormaid and a goat isn’t true, is it?” Corbeau gave Max an appraising look.
“Good God, has everyone heard that story?”
“It’s not a notion easily forgotten.”
“Be that as it may, it’s not what you think.”
“It never is.” Corbeau shut the door.
Max was suddenly desperate to explain to somebody who’d believe him. “It was her son, young Harold Crabtree, and his rituals again. I didn’t think he’d actually do what he said—I was there only for a good time. But when he brought out that poor girl and the ridiculous animal, it was no longer enjoyable.”
“I wondered about that.” Corbeau didn’t rebuke him for keeping the company of Harold Crabtree and his ilk.
By most measures, Max would have been considered the corrupting influence upon a group of young rakehells. Maybe that’s what Corbeau thought, too. Max couldn’t bring himself to ask.
For the first time, he realized he was grateful to have one friend who didn’t judge him.
Max opened his mouth, but Corbeau spoke first. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”
Lady Phoebe. Or, rather, the engagement. Of course, Corbeau would disapprove. The one unpleasant afternoon Corbeau had believed—erroneously—that Max had developed a fancy for Corbeau’s sister, Hetty, had nearly ended in a challenge. To say Corbeau had a wildly protective streak was like saying England was a bit damp.
Not that Max blamed him. On the contrary. Had anyone resembling his sort—Max’s, not Corbeau’s—come near his own sister, Juliet, Max would have strung the bounder up to the nearest tree, covered him in honey, and gleefully watched him suffer when the ants came.
With full knowledge of the extent of his misdoing, Max nodded. “I’m not surprised to see you, although you came rather more quickly than I could have imagined.”
“The roads were good.” Corbeau took an open letter from his desk, scanned it, frowned, and put it down again.
News traveled more quickly than Max would have guessed. Maybe a messenger had been sent express. He helped himself to a seat before the fire. Though it was late in the season, the day was cold. “I’m glad to hear it.”
At the side table, Corbeau poured sherries, then took the high-backed chair across from Max. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He handed over one of the glasses.
“I’m not going to change my mind.” At the words, a hollow came into Max’s stomach. Phoebe had protested against lying to everyone she loved. He himself hadn’t assumed he would feel remorse to this degree. First his mother. Now his finest friend.
However, he was far too deep into the deception for regrets. Let them all revel when the engagement was broken.
But Corbeau only gave him a puzzled look, his dark brows low. “Change your mind about what?”
Max narrowed his eyes. “About Lady Phoebe, of course.”
“Oh, Lady Phoebe. I almost forgot.” Corbeau set his sherry aside and rose. Instinctively, Max came to his feet, too. His friend took his hand. And, with a smile, shook it. “Congratulations, old friend.”
Congratulations? Congratulations?
Max’s jaw went slack.
“I wish you all the joy in the world. I know, you’re here to see her, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long, I promise. I know what it’s like to be separated from your lady. Excruciating.” The other man’s mirth faded. “You didn’t think I came into town on account of your engagement, did you?”
“You didn’t?”
“The vote, Max. The vote.” He spoke as if reciting the most painfully obvious fact known to mankind. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
Oh. Business in the House of Lords. That’s what had drawn Corbeau to London. It made perfect sense. Then again, so did his descending upon them to warn Max away from Lady Phoebe.
“Yes…in fact, I had.”
“The world works by our hands and ours alone. There is no hope for betterment if we don’t fight to create something better.”
It sounded dangerously close to a lecture. Max squinted at him. “Are you quoting somebody?”
“I am, rather, yes.” With the sort of secret smile that deterred Max from inquiring further, Corbeau shook his head, sitting again. “I couldn’t be happier about the news of you and Lady Phoebe. You’re well suited.”
And then he launched into political talk that, truth be told, made Max’s eyes glaze. Oh, he wasn’t without his passions, and he by no means neglected his duty. He could rant and rail in Westminster with the best of them.
Tod
ay, however, he wasn’t so inclined.
People were happy about the engagement. Happy, help him, God, happy. And genuinely so, by all appearances.
It was the exact opposite of everything he’d expected. The exact opposite of the reception he’d promised Lady Phoebe. Actually, it was outright unbelievable.
He was a rat. The lowest of the low. When it came time to break with Lady Phoebe, there was going to be hell to pay. Pity for him he’d ventured too great a distance into the transaction to negotiate the price.
“You…” he interrupted. “But you were ready to string me up when you believed your sister had caught my eye. Yet you’re happy about Lady Phoebe and me?”
“Hetty is an entirely different creature than Lady Phoebe.”
“How so?” It was obstinacy speaking. Max could well enumerate the most important differences himself. He liked and respected Corbeau’s sister Lady Hetty a great deal. She was warm and lovely, intelligent and absurdly humorous. But much more a friend than anything else—almost a sister, even.
“Oh.” Corbeau slowly smiled. “Let’s just say, I think you’ve finally met your match.”
…
Phoebe sat with her sister Grace—the new Lady Corbeau—in the lesser drawing room, a stocking in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. It was the only thing she could do to distract herself from her situation. From Lord Maxfeld. From Isabel.
When she thought about Isabel, Phoebe’s throat tightened. How long would it be before she could see her sister?
This room having been planned by Lord Corbeau’s late mother for the exclusive use of the family, the decorations were softer here. Nothing had been selected with the idea of display in mind.
Which wasn’t to say the room was bare or plain. The lines were cleaner, more classical than in the other drawing room. The furniture was lighter. The walls were a tasteful shade of yellow that glowed by morning light—on the rare occasions they received respite from the gray skies.
While Phoebe and her sister darned the old stockings, Albina read aloud. Albina, who had care of Phoebe’s garments and thus spent far too much time with a needle and thread as it was, had a pleasing voice.