by Aileen Fish
“Really, Basingstoke,” barked Phoebe’s companion Sir Phineas Taylor. “Have you no respect for your peers?”
Mr. Wilmot agreed and urged Phoebe to move on. “The nerve of the man bringing his bastard out among us like this.”
Phoebe halted. How could he say such a thing in the boy’s hearing? She glanced back at Basingstoke, who had his hand on his son’s shoulder. A black cloud—that was the only way she could describe it, a black, threatening storm cloud—overtook his features. She was too embarrassed to say anything, and when he caught her looking, she turned away.
Ruffling the boy’s hair, he said, “Come, Benjamin. I think it’s time for an ice.”
Smiling at his son as if nothing was amiss, he led him toward the exit gate.
Phoebe’s heart went with him. No child should be treated that way, to be spoken about in such harsh terms within his hearing. Even if the child knew of his beginnings, to have it said out loud was intolerable.
Mr. Wilmot was no gentleman. As soon as she and her girlfriends were away from the men, she’d tell them she never wanted to endure their company again.
Chapter Nine
Has there been a falling out between Lord B~ and Lady P.W.? Lord B.~ hasn’t graced the ballrooms of any of the recent assemblies. Has Lady P.W. come to her senses at last and decided upon a different young man?
Watching his much-younger brother enjoy a pineapple ice at Gunther’s wasn’t enough to put out the fire burning inside Basingstoke at Lady Phoebe’s betrayal. She’d fooled him all this time. Made him believe she wasn’t like the others where his brother was concerned. He’d only been away for a few days…was she angry at him for not telling her he was leaving? Or had her true feelings finally shown through?
The answer was clear. She hadn’t chastised her companions when they spoke so cruelly about Ben. The boy wasn’t the only child in London to be born outside marriage, nor was he the first not to be acknowledged by his father. Their father.
The late earl had died while Benjamin was still at his mother’s breast, so perhaps the lack of inclusion in his will was merely an oversight. Perhaps Father would have shown affection for his son.
Perhaps, but unlikely.
Their father wasn’t an affectionate man. He’d never spoken with pride about his elder son, never bragged about Basingstoke’s accomplishments.
In his own childhood, Basingstoke hadn’t noticed anything amiss in their relationship until he spent school holidays at the homes of his classmates. The laughter there, the obvious love, warmed him at the same time it made him feel alienated. He was an outsider, no matter how welcoming his schoolmates’ families were.
He wanted something different for Benjamin. Born to his father’s courtesan, Mrs. Minnie Smythe-Richards, the boy lived with his mother in a small, but clean, apartment next door to the house where she’d plied her trade. After his father’s death, Basingstoke assured she had adequate income to support the two of them, so she needn’t return to prostitution. He felt the time with a loving mother would give his brother a strong foundation upon which to build a life.
Now he was of age for schooling, so Basingstoke had moved Ben into his town home in preparation for living in the country under the tutelage of the man he’d hired while he was away. He was not going to let their father’s philandering scar his brother for life, and the first step involved distancing him from his mother. She’d complained at first, but an increase to her income had quieted her.
Five years ago, when Basingstoke had begun to call upon Benjamin, the rumors had started. No one knew of Ben’s relationship to the late earl, so they naturally assumed he was Basingstoke’s son.
Basingstoke wouldn’t have been the first peer in his early twenties to have an illegitimate child, but that was just the sort of situation gossips sought to add to their repertoire.
And he didn’t care.
His true friends knew him, and he’d always been sure that somewhere there was a woman who’d love him in spite of the scandal that wasn’t even his own.
Seeing a dribble of raspberry ice about to drip on Ben’s shirt, Basingstoke reached for his handkerchief. “You don’t want to ruin that clean, white shirt.”
“Mama never buys me ices,” the boy said. “Are we going back to the mena-grie?”
“Is that what you want to do?” Enough of Basingstoke’s anger had subsided, and he was reasonably certain Lady Phoebe and her friends would have left by now, so he felt safe in returning.
“Yes!”
“Well, then, let’s be off.”
When they arrived at the menagerie, he paid the admittance fee again and led Ben inside. “Where shall we begin?”
“The elephant!” The boy bounced with excitement and tugged on Basingstoke’s arm. “Let’s go!”
Chuckling, Basingstoke followed his little brother. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be there when we get there.”
“But I want to see him. Come on.” He added his other hand to the tugging and leaned back for more leverage.
“I’m coming.”
No one stood near the elephant’s enclosure, so they could watch without being rushed to move on. Birds hopped about on the stone floor, and one rode on the animal’s hip. With his trunk swishing slowly side-to-side and his eyes closed, the elephant looked to be napping.
“He’s sleeping. Isn’t it time for you to do the same?” Basingstoke asked his little brother.
He received a glare in return. “I’m not a baby.”
“Well, then, let’s move on.” He didn’t pay much attention to which animals they saw. The sound of Ben’s excited chatter was enough to prove how much fun he was having. Basingstoke also had fun but would have enjoyed himself more had he been able to spend the time with Lady Phoebe at his side.
The more fool he. Even as angry as he was at her inaction when her friends spoke ill about Ben, he couldn’t put her out of his thoughts. Out of his plans for his future.
About half an hour later, he saw her standing with one of her friends in front of the eagle’s cage. Checking about, he didn’t see the rest of their party.
“Good afternoon, ladies. It’s lovely weather, isn’t it?”
Lady Phoebe spun around and smiled when she met his gaze, her eyes wide with surprise and what he hoped was happiness. “Quite lovely.”
Her friend, whom he now recognized as Lady Clara Swinton, eyed him before giving Lady Phoebe a side glance. She said nothing.
“Your friends aren’t with you?” he asked.
Lady Phoebe shook her head. “We weren’t ready to leave when they were.”
“Neither was Ben. He insisted we return.” And Basingstoke was so glad he had. He winked at the beautiful woman in front of him. “Have they added any new exhibits while we were away?”
“I’m not sure. Shall we explore to find out?” Lady Phoebe glanced at Lady Clara, who nodded in spite of her eyebrows being drawn together.
“Come, Ben,” he said.
“I feel I must apologize for our companions earlier,” Lady Phoebe said.
Unable to meet her gaze, he watched a mother and little girl peering at the leopards. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard.”
“It was a disgusting thing to say. I’m embarrassed to call them friends.”
“Phoebe,” Lady Clara said, putting a hand on her arm, “let’s not discuss them.”
Lady Phoebe straightened her shoulders and held her head high. “You’re right, they don’t deserve our time. Benjamin, what’s your favorite animal?”
“The lion. Rarrr!” He mouthed a huge roar and shook his head hard. “He’s big, and strong, and no one wants to fight him.”
“He is rather fierce, isn’t he?” she agreed.
Watching her talk to the child warmed him. As he’d initially suspected, she didn’t let the fact of his birth keep her from treating him as an equal. He lost himself in the pleasure he felt. “The lion isn’t fierce. He has a severe case of biliousness and has no desire to hide his discom
fort.”
The ladies turned back and stared with wide eyes before breaking into laughter.
“Really, Lord Basingstoke, that’s a bit much,” Lady Clara chided as she fought to control her laughter. Her blue eyes sparkled.
“It’s better than comparing them to the ton,” Lady Phoebe said. “Well, more proper, I supposed, but not as funny.”
Feeling quite pleased with himself, he tipped his hat. He was even more of a ninny than he’d realized, taking joy in her praise, weak though it was. “Well, then. You see Ben, we mustn’t discuss our physical complaints, nor poke fun at Polite Society. I fear that leaves us with the weather.”
Raising a hand to shade her eyes, Lady Phoebe looked skyward. “It’s such a beautiful day, don’t you think, Ben? Not a cloud in the sky.”
“It’s blue.” The boy clearly had no interest in the weather. He peered up at Basingstoke. “Can we feed the monkeys, now? I’m bored.”
Lady Phoebe quickly apologized. “We didn’t mean to keep you from enjoying your afternoon. Please don’t let us delay you.”
Before she had the chance to get away, Basingstoke suggested, “We can talk while he feeds them. That is, if you ladies don’t have somewhere else to be.”
“No, we don’t.” Lady Clara replied.
“Excellent. We’ll walk to the monkey cage together.”
If Lady Phoebe didn’t beat him to it, he’d drop a hint as to where he planned to be that evening, and tell her he was prepared to speak to her father as soon as he handled a few more matters.
Chapter Ten
I have the pleasure to announce a most delightful—but not unexpected—event to take place in the near future. It appears the banns will soon be read at St. George’s for none other than Lady P.W. and Lord B~!
Two days later, when his butler announced Hartshorne’s call, Basingstoke set aside the book he’d been reading and stood to greet the duke. “This is a surprised, Your Grace. Is something amiss with Lady Phoebe? Is she unwell?”
“She’s the reason for my call, but her health isn’t the issue. Read this.” Hartshorne handed him a slim, leather-bound book.
“What’s this?” He opened it and skimmed the first page.
The book appeared to be some sort of journal, and the first entry was dated three years ago. Each of the entries mentioned “Lord B~ and Lady P.W.”
“Phoebe?”
The duke nodded.
“It can’t be hers, however. We hadn’t met three years ago, and I certainly wasn’t courting her then.” He flipped through to the most recent entries. “According to this, I proposed last night.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t, because Lady Phoebe is at my house as we speak, and she and my wife are calmly plying their needles and discussing some book or other. They’d be shopping for new clothing if a wedding was in the offing.”
Basingstoke snapped the journal closed and set it on his desk. “How did you come by this? And should we be reading her private thoughts, fantasies though they are?”
“Do you have this morning’s paper?” Hartshorne asked.
Basingstoke picked up the folded newspaper and offered it to the duke, who didn’t reach for it.
“Turn to Mrs. Crookshank’s column.”
He did. The third paragraph down was remarkable familiar. “Will banns be read at St. George’s next Sunday for a certain couple we’ve been watching this Season? Anyone who saw Lord B~ and his lady last night would say so.”
A proposal. It couldn’t be. This was a coincidence. “She’s Mrs. Crookshank?”
Hartshorne shrugged.
“No. I refuse to believe it.” He skimmed over the recent entries in the journal. “That column gossips about many people, not just me. There’s nothing in this journal that doesn’t include us, and no mention of anyone else.”
“Perhaps she’s one of many writers contributing to the column.”
Tossing the paper aside. Basingstoke swallowed the bitter burn rising in his throat. Phoebe wasn’t the sort of woman to do something so foolish, was she? That column had to be one of the main reasons her father objected to their friendship. “It can’t be. Why? Why would she do it?”
“Why do women do anything? Maybe she created this dream after being jilted by some other man. Maybe she just has a vivid imagination. But on the chance she’s only pretending to care for you, I felt you should read her journal.”
Basingstoke glared at the unassuming book that appeared to prove he was being played the fool. He couldn’t blame Phoebe without asking her the truth, but she’d likely deny it, regardless of whether she contributed to the gossip column or not. He handed the journal back to the duke. “You mustn’t let her know you’ve shown me this. I’ll discover the truth somehow. If she’s guilty, at least I’ll have found out before I do something foolish like proposing.”
Once Hartshorne left, Basingstoke donned his hat and left his house. The only way to find out the truth was to call on the newspaper editor and grill him until he confessed.
Finding the editor bent over handwritten sheets of paper on his desk, Basingstoke tore into him. “Who is this Mrs. Crookshank of yours?”
“She is herself, of course, although it’s a pseudonym. No one would allow her into their homes if they knew her true identity.”
Could it be Phoebe? “How can you allow her to write these lies, day after day? One day you’ll be threatened with libel.”
The old man chuckled, adjusting his glasses with ink-stained fingers. “They threaten and threaten, but they have no case. No one is named directly, so if a man or lady wishes to believe the item is about him or her, so be it. Taking the matter to court would confirm their identity, which would only confirm the rumor to most of Polite Society, don’t you think?”
Everyone knew who was being discussed, or accused, without an admission from the parties in question. They accepted it as fact. The editor’s argument was weak, but true. Basingstoke decided to ask the writer’s identity directly. “Is she Lady Phoebe Woodson?”
Raising his right eyebrow, the editor said slowly, “Oh, my. Would she be the Lady P.W. in this morning’s paper? What did Mrs. Crookshank say about her? Ah, yes, a proposal. I must wish you well on your wedding, Lord Basingstoke.”
“There is no wedding, which is why I demand to speak to Mrs. Crookshank. I have reason to believe it’s Lady Phoebe writing at least a portion of that column. Tell me the truth!”
“I repeat: if the writer’s identity were made known, she’d be ruined. You’re wasting my time. Go ask your bride if she, herself, broke the news.” In dismissal, the editor picked up another piece of paper and stared at it.
No one dismissed Basingstoke that directly, but arguing was a waste of time, as the man said. He strode back outside and turned in the direction of Hartshorne’s home. The time was now to get to the bottom of this situation. Did Phoebe love him, or was this all a game?
Turning the corner, he plowed into a woman. Grasping her arms to prevent her from falling, he looked down into a very familiar pair of eyes. Lady Phoebe’s.
“Forgive me, my lord. I wasn’t watching where I walked.”
“Nor I.” He studied her eyes in hopes of finding his answers there, then remembered where they were. “What are you doing in this part of the city? It’s not safe for a young lady, even with your maid present.”
The maid looked away when he caught her watching him.
Lady Phoebe let her breath out in a huff. “I’m not a fragile porcelain piece. No one has accosted me.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
She was awfully comfortable walking in this neighborhood…as if she did it often. His stomach burned with realization. “You were on your way to the newspaper.”
“How do you know that?”
She admitted it. The beginnings of a headache pushed against his skull. He couldn’t admit how he knew without implicating Hartshorne. “Someone told me about the column. In fact, I just left the newspaper office.”
“You spoke to Mr. Hillside, the editor?”
“I did.” He shook his head. She knew the man’s name. Basingstoke hadn’t even asked when he’d barged in. Her guilt was all too plain.
“And what did he say about this morning’s gossip?”
What did she expect the man to say? “Don’t worry, he didn’t divulge the writer’s true name.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he interrupted her. “There’s no purpose in giving him your latest on dit. Come, I’ll escort you home. That will stir many more tongues than your column would.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand—”
“Don’t waste your words on me.” Walking briskly, Basingstoke took her directly home without saying another word.
Lady Phoebe remained silent, too, but he detected a quiet sniffle. He steeled himself against the sound, fighting not to succumb to her ploy for sympathy. He’d been so wrong about her, about who she was deep inside, and it was time to end the charade.
He stopped abruptly when they reached the corner where she lived. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “You needn’t fear I’ll continue to court you. Your true feelings have been made clear and I won’t bother you anymore. Good day.” He performed a sharp bow and turned to walk the other way.
“Lord Basingstoke, I don’t understand what I’ve done,” she called after him. “Please explain—”
She was interrupted by her mother calling from the doorway. “Phoebe, come inside now!”
He didn’t look back, but Phoebe said nothing more.
Basingstoke had too much business to attend to in Town to leave with Ben right away, but he could keep to himself and avoid anywhere he might cross paths with Phoebe. In time, his heart would heal enough to once again look for a wife. He dreaded the prospect, but in order for Ben to receive the allowance that was only fair he receive the rest of his life, Basingstoke needed to ensure he had an heir. He couldn’t trust his distant cousin to continue the payments.