The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  Lucinda, busy watching everyone else, shot her sister a sharp look. “You mean it’s not real?”

  “Oh, it’s real,” Phoebe answered her. “But it w-will not last. W-We agreed to wait until the end of the s-season and then allow it to slip away.” She would not tell them about Leo’s shocking volte-face and his decision to make their betrothal a real one, meaning leading to marriage. Once he met her family he would see how impossible the connection was. Phoebe loved her family, but she wasn’t blind. Or deaf, for that matter.

  “What’s he like, this duke?” her father demanded. “Is he honorable?”

  “Completely,” Phoebe said stoutly. “It was k-kind of him to rescue me, but I have no hold on him.”

  However much she wanted to answer otherwise, her family deserved the truth. Her father would enjoin her brothers to keep their peace, and as for Lucinda—she had no reason to spread the news. Her family, county to the last inch, was not impressed by Leo’s title. Perhaps the man would impress them. County and Country were at loggerheads, and had always been, Tory versus Whig, but sometimes the two intersected. She’d come to town with no expectations of furthering herself, and she could not afford to expect it now. The plunge back down to earth would be far too painful.

  Lucinda had whined for days when her mother had decided to send Phoebe to London. “You think I can trust you out of my sight?” she’d said to her youngest child. “Phoebe will behave herself. She’s a good girl.”

  Except Phoebe had not exactly behaved very well recently. When Leo kissed her, she kissed him right back. When he held her, she gloried in it. Took what she could get while she could get it. She was as bad as the flirtatious Lucinda, who regularly set the neighborhood on its ear with her coquettish behavior.

  Worse, because she was engaging with a duke at the heart of society. People watched. The journals contained new gossip every day, and the print shops teemed with scurrilous cartoons. Sometimes about them. Phoebe had learned not to look. Lucinda would have adored the attention, probably sent a few things home, and definitely kept them.

  The noise was comforting. Phoebe could lose herself in it, let the busy chatter go on over her head, and devote herself to her own thoughts. Until Lucinda broke into them, as usual. “You’re wearing a new gown.” It sounded like an accusation, and probably was.

  “Yes.” She glanced at Angela, who grimaced. “Someone ransacked my room. They destroyed most of my clothes.”

  “No doubt if they were not interrupted they would have continued in mine,” Angela put in.

  Phoebe glanced at her, halted in her narrative. Angela gave her a minute shake of her head.

  She was right. Of course people knew of the incident, but they didn’t want to spread any more rumors concerning the necklace. She hadn’t told her family about the break-in, judging it better to tell them when they were together.

  She’d have been forced to apply to her father for money, had Angela not provided extra pieces. And they were in the latest mode, since Angela’s maid had fitted them to her. She’d kept the dashing riding habit, and Angela had insisted on buying her more clothes with the excuse that she could not allow a future duchess to go about in rags. Compensation for having her belongings destroyed in her house. Since Angela was deeply distressed about the incident, and she had money to spare, so she wouldn’t deprive herself, Phoebe had allowed the purchase of half a dozen new gowns and petticoats. Of course, a dozen had arrived.

  Lucinda eyed Phoebe with a jealous eye. “I must have gowns in the latest style, must I not, Mama?” She turned a particularly sweet smile to Angela. “Could you recommend us to a mantua-maker, ma’am?”

  “I would advise you to purchase gowns that are half-made already, for speed,” Angela said smoothly. She shook her ruffles back as she reached for the coffeepot. “I can certainly accompany you to several fine establishments. Then we may find a maid to alter them for you, and you will be ready for society in a trice.”

  Lucinda pouted so effectively that Angela promised to take them that very day. “But you are to ride out with the duke, are you not?” she asked Phoebe.

  Not that Phoebe knew, though she took the excuse eagerly and made it her own. “Indeed, yes. I should go and change.”

  “And do not forget that the SSL meets this afternoon.”

  Indeed not. Phoebe loved those meetings, where she felt most at home. “Oh really?” Lucinda said. “What is that, pray?”

  “Spinsters, widows, and other single ladies,” Angela said. Phoebe enjoyed her sister’s wince. “We have a literary society that meets at least once a week. We are discussing Niely’s Sermons on the Rock at present. Would you like to join us?” Her voice couldn’t have been sweeter.

  Lucinda held up her hand. “Oh no, I think not. But thank you. I believe I will be too busy.”

  “You can’t keep your betrothed waiting,” her mother said. “That would never do. I’m sorry we’ll be away from home when he calls, but we will meet him soon, will we not?”

  The very thought of that meeting brought bile to Phoebe’s throat. How could she introduce them? Especially now she’d told them the truth about their connection. She had to tell him, before he found out for himself. Although she loved her family, she knew how they affected other people. The meeting could well bring her betrothal to a premature conclusion, and she found she disliked that notion intensely.

  * * * *

  The afternoon’s meeting had brought no developments in the search for the jewels, but the ladies were extremely interested to hear the news about La Coccinelle.

  Phoebe dressed with care, in a bronze-colored gown in heavy taffeta, decorated with pinked ruffles and with a matching petticoat. Clasping her modest pearls around her neck, she thought of the pearl pin still in her possession and opened the drawer containing the small box. Opening it, she ran her thumb over the smooth surface of the pearly globe and let herself dream.

  Then the door opened, and Lucinda strode in. Lucinda never knocked. “My, you are fine, Phoebe. You’ve even powdered.”

  Phoebe touched her hand to her hair as she closed the drawer. “Sometimes I do.”

  Lucinda had also dressed with care, in a turquoise gown that outshone the candles set in the sconces, with a blindingly white petticoat heavily embroidered with violets and daffodils. Society might see her differently, but Lucinda was not the only person addicted to bright colors. She would find her place. She always did, and it would not be with the overlooked women at the edges of the dance floor and the back of the supper room.

  “You never did before.” Hands on hips, Lucinda glared at her. “You’ve grown very grand in a whole month. How did you catch him, anyway?”

  Phoebe chose not to answer her sister’s impertinent question.

  A smile spread over Lucinda’s face. “Oh, I see. That story about the jewels. Very clever. You have him running around town on your behalf. What will he do when he discovers it’s all made up? You always did have a vivid imagination. Making up stories about me when I was little. Do you remember?”

  “I n-n-n-n-never did.”

  Phoebe clamped her mouth shut. She would not embarrass herself by stammering her way through an argument. Lucinda was perfectly capable of sneering and deriding her. She was, after all, only eighteen, a foolish age of overconfidence and lack of consideration. At least it was in Lucinda’s case.

  All she could do was stand mute and listen to Lucinda’s torrent of words, not all of which made sense.

  As she did, she descended into her morass of despair. She could not force herself out of the pit, and if she opened her mouth now she would only embarrass herself and make everything infinitely worse. Putting up her chin, she ignored her sister’s chatter as she prepared to go downstairs, ready for the ball they were to attend that evening.

  “Mama says Lady Latimer is a gracious countess. She met her once, she said, and she wouldn’t
have believed she had made such accusations. The lady must have been distraught. Mark my words, when Mama speaks to her, she will understand. She has an eligible son, or so Mama says. I could charm him into persuading his mother not to persecute you. She is still accusing you all over London, you know. It is only your connection with the Duke of Leomore that is stopping her making it worse. Mama says you are very clever to have caught a duke, and she is sure I can do the same.”

  She picked up a comb from Phoebe’s dressing table and curled a ringlet around it, posing in several fetching attitudes. Dropping the comb, she found Phoebe’s fan and used that instead, peering at herself over the top in a coquettish manner a woman might use, but a girl fresh out of the schoolroom should not. “I think I can easily get myself a duke, don’t you? After all, if you can do it, I will do it in half the time! And none of it is real, so I could even take your duke off your hands! You don’t want a duke, Phoebe. You’d never be able to cope with what is expected of you. I’ve been studying the subject for years. Much better than French or the stupid globes.”

  If Phoebe could trust herself to speak, she’d have pointed out that most duchesses were expected to have a certain degree of intelligence and education. But a familiar tightness of her throat warned her against it.

  Leo had sent her the fan earlier that evening, a pretty trinket she’d planned to take with her.

  Unfortunately, Lucinda was posing with the pretty affair of ivory sticks and painted parchment. Delicate too. The way Lucinda was handling it would shorten its life considerably. But if her sister realized Phoebe wanted that fan, she would not relinquish it.

  So she dug in a drawer for another and found a lace and bamboo one that would serve. Unfortunately, Lucinda retained the fan as if she had forgotten she was holding it. Which was far from true. She had purloined many of Phoebe’s possessions and claimed them for her own. Phoebe usually took them back when her sister had tired of them. Tonight she would not. Snatching the fan from her sister’s grip, she gave her the other one instead. Lucinda squeaked in alarm, but Phoebe took no notice, leaving the room and heading downstairs, gratified at the disdainful swish of taffeta. She didn’t have to speak to make a point in this gown.

  She got by on mutters and low-toned murmurs, giving herself time before she tried a full sentence. But the family spoke enough for her. They crammed into the carriage usually occupied by just Phoebe and her hostess, although when the men saw the four women filling the vehicle with their skirts, they backed off and said they would walk and wait outside.

  “It cannot be but twenty minutes,” Angela said.

  “If they arrive at all,” her mother put in. “There must be clubs and inns on the way.”

  Phoebe groaned. Of course there were. Perhaps Angela should send a footman with them, but what could he do? He’d probably end up as one of the party of men on the town. A London footman would know the places to go.

  As it was, the ladies had misjudged the gentlemen. When the carriage rolled around the corner of Sycamore Street, there they were, waiting outside the house. The shiny black doors were flung open, and two footmen in maroon and white, with silver trim, stood haughtily either side of the door. The people they knew went straight through—others had to produce invitations.

  Angela ensured the Norths got inside. The boys gave one another brief grins before Freddie quickened his pace and gave Phoebe his arm. “Got to escort my favorite sister,” he murmured, and shot Phoebe a knowing smile. “Proud of you, my girl. Very proud. Papa says we shouldn’t tangle with the nobs, but I don’t take no notice of that. People are people, aren’t they?”

  “And all men like a g-good b-b-boxing match or c-c-cock fight,” Phoebe managed.

  Unlike her mother, who didn’t have the patience to hear her out, or Lucinda, who spoke straight over her, Frederick tended to wait for her to finish, which sometimes helped, and sometimes did not.

  Tonight it helped her regain her voice.

  Freddie’s eyes brightened. “Indeed you’re right, and most likely I’ll find someone who knows exactly where I should go.”

  They climbed the stairs at a stately pace. The walls were festooned with portraits of ancestors, mostly from the Cavalier era, when the family had supported the Crown. And suffered for it, by all accounts. This house was witness to the seesawing fortunes of the family that owned it. Her own had been solid country gentry for hundreds of years, never deviating from the straight course from birth to death. “I’m sure they will,” she assured her brother, patting his arm.

  Entering the ballroom with her family came as a new experience to Phoebe. Now society would be able to place them. Their good but plain clothes, the slightly outmoded fashions, and their confident demeanor marked them out for what they were. Pure county, salt of the earth, the backbone of England, her father would say, and no doubt repeat in the course of this evening. But she belonged with these people, and she felt at home with them.

  Phoebe watched as her two worlds collided. Angela definitely belonged to the upper echelons, so that left Phoebe effectively in the middle.

  She would have made her way to the ladies in the corner, but someone else was approaching.

  Leo bowed, and Freddie acquitted himself creditably as Phoebe performed the introductions. “You will forgive me if I escort Miss North for the next dance,” Leo said smoothly, and Freddie gave way, grinning.

  “Gladly,” he said.

  “P-people are w-watching,” she murmured, trying hard not to clutch Leo’s sleeve.

  “They always do.” He glanced down at her, smiling warmly. “It is good to see you, my dear. And now for our first minuet.”

  Perhaps their last. But she had to take her pleasures while she could. Soon she would go home with her family. She doubted that Leo would follow her there. Phoebe, who had always been good at facing reality, found the task difficult tonight. Because she wanted what she could not have, what she had allowed herself to dream about for a few weeks.

  But she had this minuet.

  The dance brought courtship to life. Unlike the country dances, the partners remained with each other throughout, and the bows and curtseys conveyed elegant regard. At the very least. But the way Leo’s gaze burned into hers, everyone who cared to look could tell more than that was happening here. He was making his desire for her blatant.

  She could not respond, should not, but when his fingers touched hers, she shivered with awareness, only suppressing it with an effort. What had begun as a convenient lie was fast turning into reality. At least, it was for Phoebe. She gazed into his eyes, turning her head at the last moment, as the dance demanded, but she meant every coquettish gesture.

  And people were watching. Flushed with heat, and not because of a consequence of a hundred people and as many candles crammed into this space, she lost awareness of the world around them and watched Leo, only Leo.

  And yet, this had to come to an end.

  All through the dance, he held a slight smile in place—warm for her, colder when he gazed out at the crowd watching and the other dancers. She’d have to ask him how he did that. Not a muscle twitched as his expression changed, but the transformation emphasized his regard for her. Or his seeming regard. She could not afford to take him too seriously. Or he’d break her heart. His recent hints that he would like the betrothal to last a while longer was nothing serious, she was sure of it.

  When the minuet came to an end, he was bowing over her hand, and she dipped into a deep curtsey. She rose without a wobble, but that was partly because however flimsy his hold might appear, it was anything but slight. He held her steady while she rose, and his smile broadened. “My lady, you put others to shame,” he murmured so that nobody else could hear.

  Despite her determination to keep her head, pleasure swept over Phoebe. “I only know the steps. I’m not at all graceful.”

  She flicked out her fan, and he followed her movements,
noting his gift to her. “I’m glad my poor offering finds favor with you.”

  That made her laugh. “Pooh, I d-don’t have another so grand. I would be foolish if I didn’t make use of it.” But she spoiled her gentle teasing by adding, “Indeed I l-like it very much.”

  “Then I am learning your tastes. I am glad of that.” He led her to the edge of the dance floor. “Now I should make the acquaintance of your parents.”

  All Phoebe’s awkwardness returned in full measure. “I-I, yes, of c-c-course.”

  A small crease appeared between her brows as he paused and turned to face her, still retaining her hand. “Now what have I said to discommode you? It would be an honor to meet your parents. You must know that, Phoebe.”

  No, she didn’t. “We’re only provincials.”

  “And I have no idea what you mean by that. You are Phoebe, that is all. We are never provincials, my dear. It’s just a word, it means nothing.”

  “But it d-does. You’re a Whig, Papa is T-Tory. He is a m-magistrate at home, and you sit in the House of Lords. He rides to hounds as often as he can, and you attend a fencing s-studio. He’s a c-country squire. You are not.”

  His eyes twinkled, and he smiled. “I have been known to hunt. And I live in the country too.” He glanced around, and his gaze halted. Right at where her family stood. Freddie had gone, probably to scout out what was happening, but miraculously her younger brother Tom still stood there. Oh no, not miraculous. Lucinda was clutching his arm, probably holding him in a death grip until she had the ballroom in the palm of her hand.

  Although Lucinda had undergone a spectacular come-out at home and was now the toast of the neighborhood, she had far stiffer competition here in London. But Phoebe wouldn’t put it past her to try. As long as she didn’t flirt. Dear God, no, not the flirting.

  “Goodness,” Leo murmured, or she thought he did, although he might have used a stronger expletive.

  Phoebe’s family was a stunning sight. None of them believed in becoming shrinking violets. They nailed their colors to the mast in no uncertain manner. Phoebe’s sister’s regalia rivaled but did not exceed her mother’s dazzling green creation. At home their dressmaker indulged them, and they had set a fashion. Where Phoebe preferred subtler colors and a judicious amount of ruffles and furbelows, her mother and sister wondered, Why have one ruffle when you could have two? Or three?