by Darcy Burke
Jane laughed softly. “That’s probably true.” She lowered her voice to ask, “You saw Lord Ripley fight?”
“I did more than that. I tended the cut on his head caused from a rock wielded by his cousin.”
“You didn’t! How on earth did that come about?”
“I saw that he was bleeding, and when he rode away from the path into a more secluded area—”
Jane interrupted. “Secluded?” One fine blonde brow arched in query.
“Not very,” Phoebe said as if it mattered. She didn’t have much of a reputation to protect. “No one saw me—or us. Together, I mean.” Why did she suddenly feel hot? And slightly agitated?
“Tell me everything,” Jane said, her eyes glowing with curiosity.
“There isn’t much to tell.” Wasn’t there? He’d taken her handkerchief and promised to return it in person. Worse than that, they’d flirted. Phoebe might not care about her reputation, but that didn’t mean she wanted to link herself to one of the most notorious rakes in England. “There may have been a bit of flirting,” she murmured, her gaze drifting away from Jane’s.
“May have been?”
Phoebe looked back at her friend. “Yes, there was flirting. What else would you expect from a man such as Ripley? Anyway, blood was streaming from his wound. I had to help.”
“I would expect nothing less from you,” Jane said warmly.
“He kept my handkerchief, promising to launder it before he returns it to me. In person.”
“How gallant. That’s not typically a word one hears in conjunction with Ripley. When will he call?”
Gallant wasn’t a word Phoebe would use to describe him either. Vexing. Masculine. Tempting… Phoebe pushed those words from her mind. “He said he would do so tomorrow, but that’s only if he can find me.”
A laugh bubbled from Jane’s lips. “Why wouldn’t he be able to?”
“Because I didn’t give him my name. Or my direction.”
Jane looked at her in…admiration? “Oh, you did flirt. How did it feel?”
“Strange.” It wasn’t that Phoebe had never flirted. Since Sainsbury, however, she hadn’t wanted to. She still wasn’t sure she did, and yet Ripley had somehow provoked her. She didn’t like that. No, she didn’t like men, especially those of Ripley’s ilk. Libertines and philanderers. Men such as her former betrothed, Sainsbury. “I don’t plan to continue.”
“Why not? As a spinster, you can do whatever you like.”
“Not if I value what remains of my reputation.”
“And do you?” Jane asked.
“We won’t be able to be friends if I fall even farther.”
Jane snorted in disgust. “Society is too priggish.”
“And superior,” Phoebe added, casting a look toward Mrs. Matheson and the others. “To some, it’s amusing to imagine yourself above others.”
“It’s obnoxious.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “And this is why we’re such good friends.”
Jane cocked her head to the side, her expression one of contemplation. “I find myself wondering how Lord Ripley will try to determine your identity. It’s not as if he can encounter you at a social event—he rarely attends any, does he?” She snorted softly. “It’s horribly hypocritical that the same people who won’t invite you extend an invitation to him, all for the sake of creating a buzz in an effort to elevate their own popularity.”
“I’m not sure obnoxious is a strong enough adjective to describe such people.”
“Odious?” Jane offered.
Phoebe nodded. “Offensive.”
“Outrageous!”
“Obscene.”
They dissolved into giggles for a moment.
Once recovered, Jane said, “I find myself still imagining how Lord Ripley will find you. I’m almost inclined to provide him with a clue.”
“You must not.” Phoebe briefly thought Jane was serious, but realized she wasn’t, of course. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
“A wager, then. I’ll bet him he can’t find you.”
“Except you contacting him would be a clue.” Phoebe shook her head, knowing for certain her friend was in jest.
The glimmer of humor dissipated from Jane’s gaze. “It occurs to me that Lord Colton has become rather close with him. Is it possible the marquess could trace you through him?”
Lord Colton’s sister Sarah, now the Countess of Ware, was a friend of theirs. “I can’t imagine how,” Phoebe said.
“I suppose it’s unlikely Ripley would describe you to perfection. Perhaps he will wander London in search of you.”
“More likely he’ll forget about me entirely.” How could she compare to his countless paramours? And why would she want to? “Yes, I shall hope that he does.” Except there was a pulse inside her saying, no, you don’t.
“Do you? I find it curious you even stopped to help him. Your incredibly kind heart notwithstanding.” Jane looked at Phoebe expectantly.
“I didn’t really think about it. I just went to help.” She had, however, thought about it plenty since then. She kept revisiting the moment when his fingers had grazed hers. The connection had radiated through her with heat and power. She felt it still.
“I can see that you’re thinking now,” Jane said.
“Let us speak of something else.” Phoebe didn’t want to discuss Ripley or her reaction to him. For if she did that, she’d think about him more than she already was, and any thoughts were too many.
“My apologies if I made you uncomfortable. I would never do so on purpose.”
“I know that.”
“I suppose I find it exciting to be able to flirt and engage with a man such as Ripley, if only to flaunt your independence. One of the benefits of being a self-declared spinster. Perhaps that should have been the name of our club, the Self-Declared Spinster Society.”
Phoebe grinned. They’d formed a two-person alliance at the start of the Season. They were officially three people with the addition of their friend Arabella, but she was soon to become the Duchess of Halstead. “That doesn’t sound nearly as dashing as the Spitfire Society.”
“No, it does not. I do think spitfires would flirt, however.”
Jane was probably right; however, Phoebe had no intention of seeking Ripley—or any other man—out. For flirtation or anything else. “I’ll leave that to you,” Phoebe said.
Jane laughed. “When I meet someone with whom I would like to flirt, you’ll be the first to know.” She winked at Phoebe.
The sound of a bell chimed through the drawing room, indicating it was time for the next round of cards.
“I do hope you’ll let me know if Ripley finds you,” Jane said as they made their way back toward the tables.
Phoebe didn’t answer, for they’d joined the others and had to separate to find their seats. Of course she’d tell Jane, not that she expected it would be necessary. Ripley wouldn’t find her—how could he?
Plus, she didn’t want him to find her. Their paths would likely never cross again, and for that, she should feel relieved.
Instead, she felt more than a trifle disappointed.
Chapter 2
The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Brooks’s welcomed Marcus as he stepped into the subscription room, his gaze moving about in search of his friend Anthony Colton. The scent of tobacco wafted in the air while Marcus nodded at dandies in their brightly colored waistcoats.
“Ripley!” someone called. Suddenly, there were several gentlemen blocking Marcus’s path, all eager to speak with him.
A broad-shouldered man pushed his way to the center of the group. “Someone wagered you’d call your cousin out before dawn, if you haven’t already.”
“Am I a known duelist?” he asked sardonically.
The large man—Galbraith—blinked, then laughed. Another man, a smaller fellow next to Galbraith, spoke. “No, but perhaps you’re looking to expand upon your…reputation.”
Marcus gave them all a smile that belied his lack of patience. �
�I’m quite content to be celebrated as a charming libertine, thank you.”
“Then why fight like that in the middle of the fashionable hour?” the smaller man asked. Marcus couldn’t quite recall his name, but recognized him as one who liked to stir the pot of gossip.
“Was it the fashionable hour? I’m afraid I rarely pay attention to such things. If you’ll excuse me.” He flashed another smile, this one tighter than the first, and pushed through the gentlemen in search of Anthony.
Marcus finally caught sight of the viscount in conversation with another gentleman. Cutting his way in that direction, Marcus avoided making eye contact with anyone. He’d never minded being the source of gossip because it was always about his latest paramour, and many of the rumors weren’t even true—but Marcus never kissed and told.
No, this was different. His cousin had embarrassed the family, and he’d provoked Marcus to behave in a manner he didn’t care to. And Marcus hadn’t even obtained the information he wanted or the resolution he needed.
Drobbit had stolen from people and, in some cases, had completely ruined their fortunes. Because of him, Marcus’s friend Graham Kinsley had inherited a nearly bankrupt dukedom and had been forced to sell a valuable property that had been an especial part of his family’s legacy. To salvage matters, Marcus had purchased it, and he would have gifted it right back if Graham’s sense of honor and pride hadn’t prevented him.
Marcus tossed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he arrived at Anthony and Sir Robert. Both men welcomed him with smiles and raised their glasses.
“Join us,” Anthony said. “Sir Robert was just relating the most amusing tale of a duck attacking Lord Beasley in the park this afternoon. I don’t suppose you saw it?”
“I did not.” Marcus was relieved they weren’t discussing the other spectacle of the day in the park.
Sir Robert chuckled. “He was likely too busy exchanging blows with Mr. Drobbit.”
Anthony’s dark brows arched briefly. “Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry to have missed it. Do you need a second?”
Marcus gritted his teeth. “No.”
“What was the cause of your disagreement?” Sir Robert asked. The question sounded nonchalant, but the eager glint in his eyes told the truth—he wanted to know the core of the matter. Likely so he could share it with all and sundry.
“It’s a tedious matter,” Marcus answered. Drobbit’s behavior would get out. He’d fleeced too many people, and the threat of their own exposure—no gentleman wanted to be known as a financial fool or for the pitiful state of his fortune to be publicized—was no longer enough of an incentive to keep them quiet. At least, that was what Marcus suspected would happen. So far, he knew of only two of Drobbit’s victims: his friend Graham, or rather the duke from whom Graham had inherited his title, and Mr. Yardley Stoke, father to Graham’s soon-to-be wife.
Identifying additional victims and ensuring Drobbit made restitution was of the utmost importance to Marcus. He wasn’t going to stand by while a member of his family ruined people.
“Tedious how?” Sir Robert prodded.
Anthony snorted. “Tedious means it doesn’t bear discussion. Good God, man, go find something interesting to talk about. I heard Lord Fenwick’s gout is acting up again, and I understand he’s organizing a pilgrimage to Bath. However, everyone going must agree to take the waters in the nude. The rumor is he’s already recruited Mrs. Dorris.”
Sir Robert’s eyes lit with this information. “Well, you would know,” he said to Anthony with a chuckle. “How delicious. I must see who else is going. It may be worth the trip just to see Mrs. Dorris…”
The knight took himself off, and Marcus moved to take his place so he could turn his back to the wall and face the room. “Thank you for the diversion.”
“You seemed annoyed with his interrogation.” Anthony sipped his brandy. “In fact, there was a dark gleam in your eye I’m not sure I’ve seen before.”
“This situation with my cousin is infuriating.” Marcus glanced about for a footman.
Anthony was aware of Drobbit’s swindling. “Provoking enough to fight with him,” he murmured. “In public. It’s shocking. People see you as a lover, not a fighter.”
“People should mind their own damn business.” At last, a footman came by with a glass of Marcus’s favorite port. “Thank you,” Marcus said before taking a fortifying drink. Then he looked back to Anthony. “Let us find a private place to speak.”
Anthony’s dark brows arched in mild surprise. He turned and led Marcus from the subscription room to an alcove off the main hall. “Will this do?”
Marcus withdrew the folded piece of parchment from his coat and, juggling the glass of port, managed to open it up so Anthony could see. “I’m looking for this woman.”
Anthony’s gaze barely scanned the drawing. “That’s Miss Phoebe Lennox.”
Victory thrummed in Marcus’s chest. “I was hoping you might know of her, but you didn’t even hesitate. How well do you know her?”
“Not terribly. She’s a founder of the Spitfire Society with Miss Jane Pemberton. My sister, along with her good friend Lady Northam, is friendly with both of them. You may recall hearing of Miss Lennox last Season after she jilted Laurence Sainsbury at the altar.”
She suddenly sounded familiar. “Have you mentioned her before?” Yes, he had—Marcus remembered now. “You suggested her as a potential bride for Halstead a few weeks ago.”
“I did. And you joked that she was more your type—because of her blemished reputation, to which I said she absolutely was not.”
Dammit.
“Do you know where she lives?” Marcus still had to return her handkerchief.
“Cavendish Square, I think. Why?”
“You only think, or you know?”
“Why is this important?” Anthony poked his head from the alcove and waved at a footman. When the man came around, Anthony set his empty glass on the tray and asked for a fresh brandy.
“It just is,” Marcus said when Anthony had ducked back into the alcove.
“You’ve set your sights on her, then? An unmarried miss isn’t your typical quarry,” Anthony observed.
No, it was not. Marcus kept his sport to paid professionals and the occasional widow. Once or twice, in his youth, he’d dallied with a married woman. He preferred his liaisons tidy and short. “She’s not my quarry.” Then what was she?
Intriguing. And right now, that was all that mattered.
Anthony continued as if Marcus hadn’t spoken. “She is a self-declared spinster—which is why she founded the Spitfire Society—so I suppose she isn’t like other unmarried misses. Still, please remember that my sister likes her.”
“I’m not in the habit of ruining young ladies.” Marcus refolded the parchment and put it back in his coat pocket before drinking more of the delicious port.
“No, you are not,” Anthony agreed. “That was quite a likeness. You drew it?”
“Yes.” Marcus shared his drawings with only a handful of people—his butler and valet and most recently Anthony, who’d happened to catch him in the act one day. Many of Marcus’s drawings were not fit for public consumption. They were detailed and provocative…erotic in nature. He’d been tempted to draw Miss Lennox nude, but while he could guess what she would look like, he found he didn’t want to. He’d much rather discover the reality instead of rely on his imagination.
The footman stopped by with Anthony’s brandy. Anthony quickly drank half the glass. “I’m for Mrs. Alban’s. You’re coming?”
Marcus shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood for his favorite brothel. Anthony’s eyes widened briefly.
“Why not?” Anthony’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Miss Lennox.”
“No.” The protest sounded weak, even to Marcus’s ears. “I’ve no plans to debauch Miss Lennox.” That much was true. Thoughts—and he’d had a few since meeting her that afternoon—were not plans.
Yet.
Marcus f
inished off his port and stepped from the alcove. “After today, I require a quiet night at home.”
“Except you opted to come here in search of the identity of the woman you drew in excellent detail. Truly, I knew her straightaway—the likeness was extraordinary, as if she’d sat for you.”
Marcus wished she would. Perhaps he’d ask…
“I have something that belongs to her.” Marcus had made her a promise—that he’d find her before tomorrow and deliver her laundered handkerchief—and he meant to keep it.
Anthony sipped his brandy. “How in bloody hell did you obtain something of hers without knowing who she was? There’s a story here, and you’re being damnably cryptic.”
He was and would continue to be. “Have a good evening at Mrs. Alban’s.” Marcus inclined his head, then turned and deposited his empty glass on the tray of a passing footman.
As he approached the main entrance, another gentleman stepped in his path. “I hear you’re fighting a duel. Should we show up at Hyde Park at dawn?” He glanced toward a pair of gentlemen standing nearby.
Marcus resisted the urge to pound his fist into the man’s face. “You’re more than welcome to. However, I shall be warm in bed at that hour.”
“Whose?” one of the other gentlemen asked, drawing laughter from everyone within earshot.
Reining in his irritation, Marcus found Anthony’s gaze. To his credit, he was not laughing, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes. Along with curiosity. Because he knew there was more going on with Marcus than his idiot cousin.
While Marcus would put up with Anthony’s curiosity, he found himself annoyed by everyone else. He summoned a sharp grin. “You know I never fuck and tell.” The forced smile instantly fell from his lips the moment he turned his back to the group and exited the club.
He directed his mind back to Drobbit and what needed to happen next. Marcus would visit the man soon.
Marcus’s driver opened the door to his coach. Before stepping inside, Marcus directed him to Cavendish Square.
The destination had spilled from his mouth unbidden. But there it was, and he found he didn’t want to change it. The ride through Mayfair was short, and he was soon passing into Cavendish Square.