by Burke, Darcy
Harry departed, leaving Marcus in a pensive mood. Where the hell had Drobbit gone? Had something happened to him?
Marcus swore under his breath. Osborne. Drobbit’s assistant in crime. He’d invited Graham to a pub in Leicester Square to discuss investing with Drobbit. Marcus was thoroughly vexed with himself for not recalling that sooner and blamed his fixation on Phoebe. He’d go to the pub tonight.
First, however, he needed to pick up his custom-made mask from Bond Street. They’d delivered it the day before yesterday, but it hadn’t covered enough of his face and head. The goal was a disguise so he could win the bet with Phoebe.
At least he had that to look forward to. Not winning, though he wanted to, but having something with her. Because after that, he wasn’t sure what would sustain their friendship. Unless they could truly continue on as friends. That would be damned difficult when he wanted to know her in ways that transcended friendship. He wanted intimacy with her. On every level.
Fuck, man, pull yourself together.
Marcus made the short walk from his house in Hanover Square to Bond Street. As he turned south, his mind was still very much on Phoebe. Their current wager, the wager he’d forfeited and paid two days ago, potential wagers he could make when this one was finished. Anything to stay in her orbit.
Instead of wagers, perhaps he could convince her to allow him to continue giving her driving lessons. She was an excellent student. So good, he doubted his services would be necessary for too long. Still, it was better than nothing.
As if conjured from his desires, Phoebe was coming toward him. He recognized the precise moment she saw him. The dimples he loved flashed briefly. His gut tightened.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted as he came upon her. She was not alone. Miss Jane Pemberton accompanied her, and it seemed a maid trailed them, for the woman paused when they did.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Phoebe said, dropping into a curtsey.
Miss Pemberton followed suit.
He could just have continued on. Probably should have, but he was captive to Phoebe’s presence. “What are you shopping for today?”
“I just picked up the last piece of my costume for the masquerade,” Phoebe said, her gaze dipping to the box she carried.
“I wonder if you were at the shop where I am headed. Imagine if we’d shown up at the same time.” He suppressed a smile but looked at her with mirth. Her gaze responded in kind, glowing with humor.
“Then I suppose things would have been spoiled.”
“I’m pleased they are not,” he said. He looked to Miss Pemberton, lest he forget entirely that there were other people who weren’t Phoebe. “Are you looking forward to the masquerade?”
“I am, though I had to persuade my mother that we should go.” She blushed slightly. “Forgive me.”
Marcus arched a brow, then glanced at Phoebe in question.
“She’s referring to the news that is newly circulating—that you purchased Brixton Park.”
He’d been a bit concerned about his reputation dampening the attendance of the ball, but he also knew people were eager to visit Brixton Park. Close to London with grand and extensive gardens, the house hadn’t hosted an event in over a generation. “I assumed people’s curiosity would win out.”
“It did with my mother,” Miss Pemberton said with a light laugh. “Thank goodness.”
“Excellent. It’s going to be spectacular.” He leaned forward—to impart a secret but also to hopefully catch a whiff of Phoebe’s spicy feminine scent. “Don’t tell anyone, but there’s to be hide-and-seek in the maze, followed by fireworks.”
Miss Pemberton sucked in a breath. “It’s a surprise?”
“Yes, for the Duke and Duchess of Halstead. To celebrate their union.”
“That will be spectacular.” Miss Pemberton grinned at Phoebe. “I’m so glad I’m allowed to attend!”
“Me too.” Phoebe sent a smile toward Marcus, and he wanted to take it very personally—that she was glad to be going to an event at his house to see him.
Christ, he’d never hung on a woman like this.
Past time to go. “I’ll look forward to seeing you both Saturday.” He bowed, then continued on his way, taking care to walk as close to Phoebe as he dared.
She turned her head as he did the same, their gazes connecting for the briefest moment. “See you Saturday,” she murmured.
Knowing nothing he wanted would come of it, he’d count the minutes nonetheless.
Chapter 6
Phoebe’s gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment as he walked away. She couldn’t help but appreciate his smooth, confident gait or the way the tails of his coat brushed against his muscular thighs. Reluctantly, she turned her head back and started walking.
She felt Jane’s attention before she said anything. “What is going on with you and Ripley?”
“Nothing,” Phoebe answered. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends who picnic in Richmond, give each other driving lessons, and who flirt.”
Phoebe glanced toward her. “There was no flirting.”
“If you say so.” Jane didn’t sound convinced. “You should do what you like, what makes you happy.” Meaning, even if she had been flirting, there was nothing wrong with it.
Except there was, because flirting with the Marquess of Ripley would leave her with nothing but heartache. He might not be the reprobate Sainsbury was, but he was still a philanderer.
What’s wrong with that exactly?
Phoebe ignored the tiny voice in the back of her head.
You don’t have to be heartsick. Take what you want.
“What are you suggesting, Jane?”
“Only that if you want to flirt with him, you should. There’s no harm, and no one will judge you.”
Phoebe let out a sharp laugh. “The hell they wouldn’t.”
“All right, they probably would, but who would know? I don’t mean offense, but no one pays attention to you. Or me, for that matter.”
“Perhaps not, but they pay attention to Ripley.” At last night’s card party, someone had asked if she’d taken a picnic in Richmond. They hadn’t come out and asked if she’d been with Ripley, but the question had been clear. “People know we took a picnic to Richmond.”
“And?” Jane pressed her lips together as they neared Phoebe’s coach. “You don’t have to answer to anyone. Unlike me.” She glanced toward her maid, whom her mother had insisted accompany them.
“The time may be coming very soon that your mother won’t allow you to visit or shop with me anymore. And I may be disinvited from Mrs. Matheson’s card parties.”
Jane’s fair brows bunched together. “I can’t control the latter, but I will not permit the former. If it comes to that, I will declare myself a spinster and come to live with you. Then they can focus all their attention on Anne.”
They climbed into the coach and, since the maid sat opposite them, changed the topic of conversation to their shopping excursion. A short while later, they arrived at Jane’s house. The coachman opened the door, and Jane indicated the maid should depart first.
Then Jane turned to Phoebe. “Don’t let Sainsbury ruin anything for you. Not all men are like him. I don’t know Lord Ripley at all, but you seem to like him, and that’s enough, isn’t it?”
Enough for what? “I wasn’t flirting.”
Jane sighed in exasperation. “But you can if you want to. And you can drive to Richmond. Or dance with him at the masquerade.” She laid her hand atop Phoebe’s briefly. “Do what I can’t. Please.” With a parting wink, she left the coach.
Phoebe thought of her friend’s advice as they drove to their next destination. Unfortunately, they arrived far too quickly. Looking out the window at the house in which she’d grown up, she took a steadying breath.
The coachman helped her out, and she was warmly greeted at the door by her parents’ butler, Foster. “Welcome home, Miss Lennox.”
“Thank you, Foster. But you know this
isn’t my home anymore.” She smiled.
“Doesn’t stop me, and everyone else, from wanting it to be.” His light blue eyes twinkled with warmth.
Phoebe wasn’t entirely sure “everyone” wanted her to return. She was beginning to think her father was too angry with her independence to find their way back to their father-daughter relationship. A burst of sadness spread through her. They’d once been close, but he’d changed after her brother had died in Spain. She’d understood his despair, but she realized now that he’d never fully recovered.
“Well, everyone that’s left,” Foster amended, his expression pained.
“What do you mean?”
“Harkin, Wick, and Meg were let go last week.” He shook his head. “They’ll be fine, I suppose. It was just a shock.”
“Indeed.” Phoebe was quite surprised to hear that several of the retainers had been terminated. “Have they found new positions?”
“Wick has. He was ready to become a butler, and so he has.”
Phoebe heard the pride in Foster’s voice. “That’s wonderful. What about Harkin and Meg?” Meg was one of the maids, but Harkin had been her mother’s personal maid.
Foster shrugged. “I haven’t heard from them since they left. Harkin went to stay with a friend, and Meg returned to her mother, though she said she couldn’t stay there long.”
“I’ll see if I can help.” Phoebe made a mental note to ensure both women found employment. Perhaps she could at least hire Meg.
“I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn,” Foster said. “I thought you’d want to know.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Of course. I appreciate you telling me.”
They went toward the back of the house, and Foster announced her at the entrance to the small sitting room. Phoebe greeted her mother, who stood from her chair, where it looked like she’d been embroidering. She’d been the one to stitch the delicate flower and butterfly on the handkerchief Marcus had returned. The one that smelled like him and that Phoebe had kept on her nightstand since he’d delivered it. Next to his drawing of her, which she looked at every night before she went to sleep and every morning when she awakened. She wished she had a drawing of him, actually.
Mama came and kissed Phoebe’s cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“I thought Papa would be here.” Phoebe glanced around at the otherwise empty room.
“He’ll be in soon, I imagine. He knows you were coming.”
Was that why he was avoiding the sitting room? Phoebe bit her tongue before she could ask. She didn’t want to fight with him. She loved him and wanted things to be different. To be…easy. Or at least easier.
Phoebe decided to take advantage of her father’s absence. After gesturing for her mother to sit, she took a seat on the settee facing her chair. “Did you really let Harkin go?”
Mama’s mouth tightened briefly. “Foster told you? Yes.”
Silence reigned for a moment as Phoebe waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, she blurted, “Are you and Papa having financial difficulty?” It seemed the only logical explanation, especially considering her father’s outburst at her house the other day.
“Not at all.” Mama’s voice was smooth, but she didn’t make eye contact with Phoebe. “We just don’t need so much help, not with just the two of us.”
“You need a lady’s maid. Why would you let Harkin go?” She’d been with their family for as long as Phoebe could remember.
“I don’t really need my own maid. Lettie is excellent at dressing hair, and she’s been helping Harkin with my clothing of late.” Lettie was another maid, younger and less experienced than Harkin.
“I’m sure she’s fine—”
“She’s more than fine, and really, none of this is your concern,” Mama said firmly. “What is your concern, however, is with whom you picnic in Richmond. Is it true you accompanied Lord Ripley alone?”
Since the rumor had surfaced at the card party last night, Phoebe had expected her mother might ask.
“Yes.” While Phoebe saw no need to explain herself, she added, “It was a lovely day. I enjoy the marquess’s company. He is quite intelligent. Erudite, really, which might surprise you. Plus, he gave me driving lessons.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He is not known for being intelligent, erudite, or an excellent driver. He’s a scoundrel.”
Phoebe shrugged. “He isn’t to me.”
“How on earth did you even meet him?”
“I don’t recall,” Phoebe lied. She recollected, and delighted in remembering every moment of their acquaintance. “We’ve become friends.”
“Friends? With him?”
“With whom?” Papa chose that inopportune moment to enter the sitting room.
“The Marquess of Ripley.” Mama said the name with considerable distaste and a curl of her lip.
Papa looked toward Phoebe with enthusiasm. He didn’t appear to share Mama’s unrest. “Dare we hope it becomes something more? She could do far worse than marriage to a man of his rank.”
Mama sent him an irritated glare. “It’s Ripley.”
Again, Papa was not moved by her agitation. “He’s a marquess.”
Mama sat back in her chair with a disgruntled sound deep in her throat. She crossed her arms, looking thoroughly vexed.
Papa turned his expectant gaze on Phoebe. “Well? Will your connection to him become something more?”
“No. We’re only friends.”
“Men like him aren’t friends with women. Hell, unmarried men aren’t friends with women period.”
Annoyed with both of them for meddling, Phoebe shot back, “And you, as a married man, have so many female friends?”
Papa grunted. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. You can’t be friends with the Marquess of Ripley, not unless you want to be completely ruined. But given your behavior, perhaps that’s your ultimate goal.”
Phoebe forced herself to remain calm. “No, my goal is to lead a happy, fulfilling life. I find the marquess interesting, and he’s teaching me to drive.” That somewhat skimmed their relationship, which she believed had far more depth, since revealing the truth would only encourage her father’s assumptions.
And maybe your secret desire.
That voice in her head needed to die. Violently.
Standing, Phoebe realized her visit was not going to be pleasant, not with them badgering her. Nor was she going to get any answers as to why they’d let three retainers go.
“Buy any Gainsboroughs this week?” Papa asked. He sounded nonchalant, but there was an edge to the question that fed her irritation.
“No. I’m looking at a Reynolds, though.” She wasn’t really, but she’d thought about it. The Foundling Hospital, which she’d visited yesterday to take some things to the children, displayed many beautiful paintings by Reynolds as well as Gainsborough and Hogarth, who’d donated their work to the institution.
She didn’t wish to taunt her father. There was something wrong here, and she wanted to help. If she could. And if Papa would let her.
“Papa, if you ever need anything, I hope you’ll ask.”
Something dark—alarm, perhaps—flashed in his gaze. “What could I need from you?”
“Probably nothing.” She didn’t hide her exasperation. “Still, the offer stands.”
Mama rose from her chair. “Phoebe, I beg of you to have a care for your reputation.”
“What’s left of it,” Papa muttered.
“Please cease this…friendship with Ripley,” Mama went on. “He’s not worth your time. Or your standing.”
Phoebe gave them both a frosty stare. “Since my standing isn’t what it once was and may never be again, I don’t see the point in following all of Society’s stupid rules. If I want to go for a picnic with a friend—a male friend—I shall.”
They both gaped at her in horror. Shaking, Phoebe bid them farewell and took her leave.
Inside the coach, she fought to put the unpleasant visi
t from her mind. She’d meant what she’d said: she saw no point in following rules that made no sense given her current path. And she was not on her way to becoming a respected member of Society with a husband and children.
Instead, she was linked to Marcus. People were even now likely gossiping about them, about their relationship. Phoebe laughed, but it wasn’t really amusing. It was, however, ridiculous since she’d done nothing truly scandalous. Besides take a picnic alone with a friend who happened to be a notorious rake.
Her gaze fell on the box sitting on the opposite seat. Inside was the final piece of the disguise she would wear at the masquerade. Marcus wasn’t going to be able to tell who she was. She, however, would ferret him out, and then she’d find the right moment to claim her victory.
* * *
Hosenby’s was a small but somewhat elegant pub located on the corner of Cranbourn Alley near Leicester Square. Marcus had first come here somewhat recently, when Graham had arranged to meet Osborne, Drobbit’s apparent assistant in crime. Marcus wished he’d thought to look for the man sooner.
He’d been too distracted. By Phoebe.
“Ho there, Rip.”
Marcus turned to see Anthony swaggering toward him, a tankard in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
Anthony lifted his mug. “Drinking their fine ale. And seeing what comes up next.” He waggled his brows. “Glad you stopped in. Shall we find a table?”
“So you came here for the ale? I don’t remember it being remarkable when we were here a few weeks ago.”
“Eh, the ale is fine, but I recall a particularly pretty serving maid.”
They wove their way to the corner, and Marcus took a seat that allowed him a view of the large room. A serving maid came upon them immediately, her dark curls bouncing as she stopped at their table. Marcus wondered if she was the one Anthony was after.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, her rouged lips pulling into a saucy smile. She fixed her gaze on Marcus. “You need an ale?”
“I do.”
“Anything else?” She slid her hip toward him so that she grazed his shoulder.