The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  Fortunately her mother had the figure to command such magnificence. Phoebe did not.

  Leo did not so much as twitch a muscle by his mouth as he bowed over Lady North’s hand, and then Lucinda’s. Lucinda flourished her fan and peered at him over the top of it. Lady North declared herself delighted to meet him. “Miss Childers will no doubt ask you to dinner one night, and I can’t wait to find out all about you. My husband wishes to discuss portions with you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Tedious stuff, but let me tell you, Your Grace, we are more than ready for the discussion.”

  “I must insist that you dine with my grandmother and myself,” Leo said without a qualm. “She will be delighted to meet you. Her health does not permit her to attend as many functions as she would like, but I am sure she will want to meet you.”

  “Why, that’s very kind of you,” her mother answered, her smile broadening. “I am sure we’d love to meet her. Are your parents out of town?”

  “They are no longer on this earth,” he said gravely.

  Leo carried the question off with aplomb, particularly considering his parents’ reputations. Phoebe had been in London long enough to understand that people never referred to his parents in his presence.

  Lucinda nudged her mother, and Phoebe wanted to sink into the ground. Nudging? Lord, what next? Poking?

  No, what followed was Lucinda’s sharp trill of a laugh. “Really, Mama! I have read their stories to you this age! The duke was brought up by his grandmother after his parents died.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Phoebe’s mother tended to retain what she needed and let the rest slip. So she hadn’t considered the story of Leo’s upbringing particularly relevant or interesting. “Silly me, I forgot. Your grandmother did not marry again?”

  Beside her, Phoebe’s father snorted. “Will you remarry when I’m in the earth?” Another snort, as if he’d said something funny. “I’d reach out of the grave to stop you.”

  Her mother laughed uproariously. Not something society appreciated. Glancing around, she saw people turning away, and her soul shrank inside her.

  Phoebe had a terror of standing out, of being seen as different, not a sentiment she shared with her family. People did not bellow with laughter in a society ballroom.

  Leo took everything in his stride until Lucinda opened her mouth. “Phoebe only came to London as a duenna, but look at her now! Cousin Angela has been so kind to her. I declare, once her regular companion was back, we thought Phoebe would come home, but instead we came to her.”

  Ignoring Leo’s frozen silence, Lucinda deployed her fan, flicking it out prettily and wafting it before her face. “We are enjoying ourselves vastly, sir, Your Grace.” Lowering her lashes, she paused before flicking them up and gazing into his eyes, her expression of eager desire unmistakable. The flirting was too bold, too blatant for a young girl not yet twenty. A maiden without a sure footing in society would do better to behave more circumspectly. The problem was, having Lucinda as a sister would draw unwanted attention to Phoebe, and by association, Leo. She’d be lucky if he didn’t cut the connection there and then.

  Phoebe flinched.

  But Lucinda was not yet finished. “And this is the most beautiful house, truly. I daresay London is full of them, but I only made my come-out last year, so I have not seen many of them. Would you show me your house one day, Duke?”

  That was going too far.

  Phoebe had heard of society masks, but she had never seen one as effective as the one Leo donned now. His face gained a stillness, and his eyes fixed in cool orbs, holding Lucinda in a ray of chilly attention. “It would be for my grandmother to invite you. Since you are the sister of my betrothed, I daresay you will be invited.” The implication—that left to him, she would not see his house—remained hanging in the air.

  Phoebe’s mother drew a sharp breath and, before Lucinda could reply, asked him a question. “Your main seat is in Derbyshire, is it not, sir?”

  His smile thawed a fraction as he turned to her. “Yes, it is. But I own other properties, and I do not like to ignore any of them.”

  “That makes me glad we only have one,” her father said, and led Leo into a discussion about houses and their upkeep which was totally innocuous.

  Phoebe stood there, mortified, unable to think of anything to say. When Leo turned to her and asked her if she was hungry, she kept her gaze downcast and spoke before she thought. “I-I-I c-c-c-could n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n…”

  She was stuck. She only stopped when he lifted his hand and touched her lips, very gently. “Let’s go to the supper room. I’m sure we can find something to tempt you.”

  After bowing to her parents and brother, he led her away. Tears pricked her eyes.

  She tried to pull away, but he clamped her forearm to his side. “P-p-p-p-please, l-l-l-l-let me go.” She wanted to find a dark corner to hide in until this nightmare had ended. What was she thinking of, dreaming that this man would even consider being her husband? He’d been a gentleman, that was all, helped her out of an awkward situation. She was doomed to marry Sir Marcus Callow, or stay a spinster. She was foolish to think of anything else.

  Once she was through this evening, she’d sit down and think how she could escape.

  “I don’t recall getting a letter from you today,” he said softly.

  Whipping her head around, she stared up at him, meeting his amused gaze. “I didn’t have time.”

  They stared at each other. “You see, you are fine. Now what put you in a pet? By the way, I won’t hold you to a letter every day, though I have to admit that I’ve been looking forward to them.”

  “When we s-separate we c-can still write, can’t we?” It was magic. She was talking to him like any ordinary person.

  “What’s this about separation?” Leading her to a corner of the busy room, he took her hands and turned her to face him. “What brought that on?”

  “My p-parents. Or not them exactly. Lucinda, perhaps. I d-do have a suitor at home, and she reminded me of him.”

  “I see. Was anything said between you and this suitor?”

  He meant promises. She shook her head. Marcus worried her, and he was far too overbearing for her liking. “I never promised him anything.”

  “In that case, he is irrelevant. You are betrothed to me.” He tucked her arm under his once more and strolled to the long table at the end, where a number of dishes were being uncovered. “Do you like oyster patties?”

  His smile didn’t invite argument, but now she’d found her voice again Phoebe wasn’t about to settle down. “I c-cannot imagine why you are s-saying these things. You know what we d-discussed. And now you have m-met my p-p-parents, you know how impossible this is.”

  He kept his society smile in place. “Eat, drink, and I will take you back to your estimable parents.”

  And just like that, Phoebe wanted to die.

  As they were about to sit at a small table, he said, musingly, “I cannot wait for my grandmother to meet your parents.”

  Chapter 11

  Phoebe’s days of quiet enjoyment with Angela had gone. Since her involvement with Leo, society took notice of her, and now it appeared more people would be watching her. This morning’s Journal of London Life had contained a poorly disguised account of her recent public appearances with Leo, or rather, the other way around. They were concerned with Leo, not her. They accused him of making a fool of himself with a provincial miss of no address or particular beauty, and drew cruel pictures of them all, depicting her parents as country bumpkins and Phoebe as a schemer, gazing up at Leo with a sly smile. She had thought she could accept such attention, but she was wrong. They were hurtful, unkind, thoughtless, and she wanted none of it. And yet she kept reading them and studying the prints when Angela wasn’t fast enough to destroy them.

  Journal in hand, she wandered through the hall, preparing to go upstairs to freshen her ap
pearance, preparatory to a visit to a dressmaker with her mother, Lucinda, and Angela.

  Her thoughts froze as she looked up.

  “Just look who’s here, Phoebe!” her mother cried brightly.

  Standing in the hall, staring at her with a smile wreathing his handsome face, was the reason she’d begged her mother to come to London. Sir Marcus Callow. The son of friends of her parents, he had assumed she would be there for him when he had finished sowing his wild oats, which he did with little regard to discretion. His one attempt at courtship was so forceful, so distasteful that she had avoided him ever since. But she had not told anyone about it.

  Marcus didn’t ask, he assumed, and when Phoebe’s throat locked up, which it did around him, she found him completely overwhelming.

  Marcus’s square-jawed, beetle-browed face swam into her vision. She blinked. He was still there. “Sir M-Marcus,” she managed.

  The broad smile was so familiar. “Oh, don’t do that, Phoebe, nothing so formal. Marcus is fine.”

  Before she could stop him, he embraced her, a hug that temporarily knocked the breath out of her body. “Now where is this upstart duke? I’ll teach him a thing or two!”

  Phoebe shuddered. “I’d r-rather you d-d-did not.”

  As usual, Marcus rolled straight over her objections. “Nonsense! Your champion is here.”

  Her mother strolled into the hall. “Ah, I see you have arrived, Marcus. Do not forget that Phoebe is betrothed to the duke.”

  For once her tone was frosty. She liked Marcus and viewed him as an excellent match for Phoebe, who had, before she left for London, begun to accept the inevitable. Before that kiss, and the realization that a lifetime of such treatment might well kill her. It was either that, or remain unwed, which was a fate no woman would actively pursue, unless she had the funds to live high on the hog. Like Angela.

  Other men in her district with lesser prospects appealed to her more, but Marcus had scared them all away, standing before her like a sheepdog protecting his precious flock. But she wasn’t a sheep or a lamb, and she’d have preferred to make her own choice. She would rather remain a spinster than marry him, but she might not have much choice.

  She wouldn’t surrender without a fight.

  Filled with resolve, she stepped back. “I believe I’m expected in the club.” When Angela nodded, she curtseyed and made good her escape.

  The club room was situated in the west wing of the house. It had its own private entrance. Very useful for some of the members, who had demanding relatives and employers.

  “Good morning.” She chose a journal and took her place in an exceedingly comfortable chair with a sigh of contentment.

  The ladies responded quietly, seven of them today. They all had keys, and they were invited to enter whenever they wished, just like a gentleman’s club. The pins Angela had given them were displayed proudly on their person. Angela had thrust hers into the fabric of her bodice.

  Angela had wanted to provide a refuge, but the SSL was turning into something else. Together with the regular newspapers were others, more specialist to help them fill their new self-appointed roles—parliamentary reports, accounts of trials and books on the law—most of which were tedious reading but necessary, if the ladies were to become effective in their chosen activity.

  “I have some news,” Miss Collinge, a tall lady, announced.

  Half a dozen sets of curious eyes turned in her direction.

  Miss Collinge cleared her throat. “Ahem. Well, I was talking to Lady Stuart’s personal maid the other day—you know how she gossips. Well, maybe you don’t.”

  Miss Collinge, the genteel daughter of respectable parents, worked as a governess. Betwixt and between, she referred to herself, but here in the club, they were all equal. It was one of Angela’s few rules. “In any case, she told me that when her ladyship’s best enamel watch went missing last year, a footman found it lying in the street and returned it for the substantial reward. But that had happened before, to the same watch. Her ladyship’s suspicions aroused, she spoke most particularly to that footman. Not one of hers, you understand, but he belonged to an establishment further up the street. He denied anything, but the household was left with the strong suspicion that a group of the Stuart footmen were working with others. It is a slight possibility, but it is worth discussing, is it not?”

  A murmur of agreement went up. Phoebe’s recollection turned back to that night. A man in a cloak had knocked her off her feet. Had she seen the flash of livery braid? She had certainly seen something, and at the time she assumed the flash had been struck off the jewelry. Then the sting of pain from her cut had distracted her. Livery was flamboyant, its purpose to display the wealth of the family it belonged to. It often employed gold or silver braid.

  “The m-man I saw who had Lady Latimer’s j-jewelry was well-set and wearing a heavy c-cloak. The night was not c-cold, merely chilly, and the cloak far too thick for that weather. C-Could he have worn it to cover something up?”

  “It’s possible,” Miss Hansen said slowly. “Ladies, I think we should look into this. A conspiracy of footmen? We know servants talk and mingle. That is why scandal spreads so fast in this city.”

  “But to go from servants g-gossiping to a p-planned conspiracy is a stretch,” Phoebe pointed out. She found the theory a little far-fetched. Barely possible.

  “We need to look into it.” Miss Hansen reached for the law journal she’d been perusing. “It is not altogether impossible. That would explain why they could find no trace of the jewels. They vanished so quickly. Handed to another conspirator, who made away with them, or gave them to someone else. The thief could then return to duty, and people wouldn’t associate him with the theft.”

  Damn, she was right. “Angela had the house s-searched, but obviously the j-jewels had disappeared.” Phoebe recalled the fuss Lady Latimer had made. The woman was a nuisance, but since she had lost a family treasure, nobody could blame her for it.

  However, Lady Latimer had continued to screech in the most public places that the harridan, Miss Phoebe North, had likely done away with the jewels before her paramour, the Duke of Leomore, had aided and abetted her. Why would she continue to do that? Why did she even believe that in the first place?

  Miss Hansen rubbed her hands together. “I do believe we are finally getting somewhere,” she said.

  Once they had solved the mystery, Phoebe should be glad to have her name cleared. But she wasn’t, because that would be the end of the strangest interlude of her life. And the best.

  * * * *

  If that damned girl hit him with her fan once more, he would not be responsible for his actions. Sitting next to Lucinda North had proved far more of a trial than even he had imagined. Leo braced himself for another strike. Her playful taps were a good deal more than that.

  His grandmother had insisted he amuse the youngest girl that evening. Dinner had been enlivened by Phoebe’s company, but somehow, mostly by pushing, her sister had taken Phoebe’s place at the musicale his grandmother was holding. When the soprano sang, Lucinda giggled, as if the lady was making a great joke. Phoebe sat next to her sister, her erstwhile suitor on the other side.

  Lucinda gave a light laugh as the singer came to the end of a poignant folk song. “Indeed, I would never stand for such treatment. I am no mewling miss. Mama says I will be a match for any man.”

  That was one way of putting it. For Phoebe’s sake, he would put up with her family. He gave the girl a halfhearted smile. True, she was pretty, and with a little care could be beautiful, but her looks were nowhere near enough compensation for the irritating manner.

  Leo prided himself on his evenhanded approach to all walks of life. Tonight tempted him back to the dark side. He could squash this girl with an attitude so superior she’d believe clouds hung around his neck. But he would not. For Phoebe’s sake, he would desist.

 
To his relief the soprano began again, and Lucinda had to pause, but not for long. While people tended to chatter all through theater appearances, private performances demanded more polite attention. But Lucinda did not appear to notice the distinction. Nobody would tell her to be quiet—the guests were far too refined for that. But what he would give for a carefully aimed orange from the upper stories to hit her on her delicate nose. Anything.

  Her voice grated on him. “I have had the most careful education in musical appreciation. I play the harpsichord, and I can sing. This lady performs most delightfully, does she not? My word, that was a high note!”

  “Indeed,” he said frostily, but either she did not notice his attitude, or she did not care.

  The professional artist ended her performance and took her leave. Leo would send her flowers as an apology the next day, but of course, that might be misconstrued. Perhaps his grandmother would consent to put her name to the offering. The poor woman had valiantly struggled through Lucinda’s chatter and the occasional snort from Tom North, whose choice of entertainment evidently did not include the opera.

  Now the amateurs could show off their talents. Leo had no idea if Phoebe had a musical bent, but before he could ask, Lady Coniston took the platform and his heart sank. While he enjoyed her playing, she did tend to choose the longer pieces to demonstrate her skill on the keyboard. That meant he was stuck next to Lucinda even longer. He glanced at Phoebe, who sat stiffly, hands resting over her fan on her lap, staring straight ahead. As he watched, Callow leaned over and murmured something to her.

  Claws of quite inexplicable envy pierced Leo. True, the man had pretensions toward Phoebe, but while he, Leomore, was in her life, he determined no other man should be. And yet, if she liked Callow, that would be the perfect excuse to end their engagement. She could jilt him to marry her childhood sweetheart.