The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  Phoebe relished the time, but before she removed her outer clothing and lay thankfully on the bed, she sat at the writing table to contact her husband.

  Here she’d sat writing a letter every day to him and reading his to her. This was truly where she had fallen in love.

  A pity he didn’t love her. He’d never said so, in fact he avoided doing so. She would cope with that one day. But not tonight. Tonight she had the luxury of being herself. A period of quiet reflection.

  Dipping a fresh quill in the inkpot, she paused. She could tell him Angela needed her, or that she was indisposed. But lying went against the grain.

  Eventually she decided to tell him the truth.

  “My love,”—why not start with the ultimate truth?

  “I am staying with Angela tonight. Although I know you have the right to demand I return to Berkeley Square, I beg you do not. I’m tired, and I need to be me one more time before I turn into a duchess for good and all.

  “I will still be me, I know that. Without your help and your grandmother’s advice, I would have been lost. I will become someone else, someone new, and I am finding the process tiring.

  “But I will return. I do not intend any insult to you or your grandmother.”

  She bit the end of the pen. Her other concern? Should she keep that until she could speak to him directly? Yes, probably for the best. But no. A hint would pave the way. Something was not clear to her yet.

  She was too tired to think properly. Dinner and a quiet night. Unless her husband turned up to claim her.

  Chapter 22

  Phoebe blinked and came awake. Staring at the canopy above her head, its familiar pleated lemon-colored fabric greeting her like an old friend, she waited for her senses to return to her, and idly considered going back to sleep.

  She was at peace with herself and the decisions she’d made. The dowager was right. She would cope and become the duchess she was, not force another mask over her face. Leo had written back to her, telling her to rest well, and he would see her on the morrow.

  She let the events of the past few weeks roll past her eyes, as if they were merely events in a play and not reality. The clock chimed, striking the hour. Ten o’clock. Goodness, she’d almost missed the morning.

  From the night she’d met Leo in the grotto to now, she let the pictures stroll past. She watched them as if she was an observer rather than the main participant. The sting when she’d cut her hand, then he’d come up behind her and claimed her.

  Wait…

  Her recollections came to a screeching halt. Phoebe thought back and went through the events of that fatal night again. The cut had been trivial and had healed cleanly. Lifting her hand before her face, she looked at the place where it had been. It had been a slice, clean with no snags, as a clasp or a claw setting might have delivered.

  Phoebe slammed her hands onto the mattress and forced herself up, vaulting out of the bed, reaching the door in a few strides. Careless of her appearance, she tore open the door.

  A footman stood outside, dressed in the Leomore livery. Aware of her state of undress, her voluminous nightgown and her hair in untidy braids because she’d done them herself, Phoebe clutched her hand to her chest like a distressed maiden. Something she most definitely was not.

  Linton bowed. “Your Grace. His Grace sent me to watch over you.”

  “I see,” she said, tight-lipped. “P-Please s-send someone up with tea and bread and butter.”

  “Your maid has arrived, Your Grace.” The man kept his gaze averted, staring at the wall to one side of the door. “She is waiting at your convenience.”

  “Send her b-back. I w-will d-dress after breakfast.”

  Picking up the can of hot water before he could do it for her, she closed the door. The effrontery of her husband! Sending a footman so she could retain her state? That was all it could be, because she was safe in Angela’s house, more so after the break-in, since Angela had increased vigilance in the house as well as outside. She stamped her foot impatiently before pouring some water into the washbasin and beginning her toilet. Before, she’d have hurried straight to Angela’s room to share her revelation, but since at this hour Angela would either be downstairs in her office or at the bank, that would have been foolish.

  Half an hour later, her hair neatly brushed under a plain cap, wearing a dark blue gown that she’d bought when she first came here, Phoebe swept out of her room and headed downstairs.

  Fortunately Watson was there. At least Leo had not filled the house with his staff, even though Linton was trailing after her. Or rather, following her like a shadow. A stubborn shadow at that. “I n-need to speak with Miss Childers, Watson.”

  “She is at home, Your Grace. Should I tell her you wish to speak to her?”

  “N-No. I know where she is.”

  Phoebe was one of the few people with permission to interrupt her cousin at her business. After tapping on the door, she slipped inside and closed the door firmly on her footman.

  Angela, dressed as simply as Phoebe was, looked up from her work. They were not alone; a man leaning over the desk by her side also met Phoebe’s gaze. In the corner, Miss Helmers sat, working on a shapeless piece of tatting. She nodded to Phoebe, flicked a glance at her over the top of her spectacles, and went back to work. Until recently Phoebe had taken that duty on herself, but she preferred reading to tatting.

  Phoebe had held back long enough. “I’ve worked something out,” she said.

  The man quietly gathered a few papers and left the room.

  “Good morning, Phoebe,” Angela said.

  “Yes, indeed, it is.” Not the response required, but the one most appropriate.

  A smile curved Angela’s mouth. “Do tell,” she invited. “I can see you are bursting.”

  “I am.” Excitement filled her. “D-Do you recall the n-night the Latimer necklace was stolen?” She didn’t wait for more than Angela’s nod. “I received a c-cut on my hand.” She held up the hand in question. “A long cut, not too d-deep, b-but it was straight and clean.”

  Angela raised a brow in query.

  “A cut from a shard of glass.”

  Phoebe’s statement had its desired effect. Angela sprang to her feet. “You mean that the necklace Lady Latimer claimed was stolen was a paste one too? The one she claimed was real?”

  Phoebe nodded.

  “Wait.” Angela raised her voice. “Carson!”

  The man she had been with before came back into the room. He couldn’t have gone far. “Ma’am?” He shot a glance at Phoebe and nodded. “Your Grace.”

  Phoebe found the way perfect strangers knew who she was unnerving. She would no doubt get used to it in time.

  “Do we have the Latimer file?” Angela asked. “I am about to share certain details with the duchess.”

  Carson gazed at Phoebe, clearly startled, his eyes wide and his mouth partially open. “But you never…”

  “Her Grace has an interest in this matter.” Angela twitched a file from Carson’s hands. “Here it is.”

  She opened the file and pushed it across the desk so Phoebe could see it.

  Phoebe studied the columns of figures, not much different from the household accounts she was used to, except the figures were larger. She followed the numbers down to their inevitable conclusion. “The Latimers are c-close to b-bankrupt,” she said numbly.

  “Indeed.” Angela folded her arms and glanced at her employee. “The decline has been steady, mainly due to gambling. Lady Latimer’s, mostly.”

  “Why didn’t you t-tell me before?” Phoebe burst out, her attention still on the figures. The numbers advanced by the bank had increased steadily. She was looking at a summary page covering the last five years.

  “This summary was only completed a day ago. I ordered it done this week, after Lord Latimer came to us for another loan. We coul
d not oblige this time without security, and as a result, the bank has mortgages on his estate.”

  Phoebe gasped. “It’s that b-bad?” She had no idea how much the Latimers were worth, so the sheet before her showed serious inroads, but not the final result. Now she knew. “They are b-bankrupt?”

  “The estate is entailed, so they can’t sell it, but they can mortgage it,” Carson put in. “When an estate is mortgaged, it is customary to let others in the same business know, so that the estate cannot be remortgaged to someone else. No doubt the news will leak out.” He sighed. “It always does. But the loans were not public knowledge.”

  “Ah.” Angela must have found herself in a bind, but Phoebe still admired her. She kept the confidences she had to, despite her friendship. “You c-could have told me in confidence?”

  “If I’d known. But the full extent of the loans didn’t become apparent until this week. The Latimers have been borrowing all over town. Only when I saw her ladyship at the tables last week did alarm spark. I saw the feverish desperation and knew.” She sighed. “The major banks meet occasionally to discuss mutual business. No doubt we will discuss the Latimers and how much credit we can extend them. They are close to disaster.”

  “So she likely s-sold the jewelry m-months ago.”

  “Months,” Angela agreed. She took the file back, briskly tidied the papers, and closed the leather portfolio, handing it to Carson, who tied the red tapes. “The real stones are probably part of several new pieces by now.”

  Phoebe sighed. “All that n-nonsense for pieces of g-glass.” Understanding sparked in her mind. “But by claiming it was s-stolen, she could c-claim the insurance money. And wearing that c-copy, people would not assume they were b-bankrupt.”

  The woman in the blue gown who had snatched the jewelry from Lady Latimer most likely didn’t exist. Instead, she’d probably handed the pieces to Chapman, who had run off with them and handed them to his accomplice.

  Angela exchanged another glance with Carson. She had obviously come to the same conclusion, since she was not surprised by Phoebe’s revelation. “We must contact the people involved, naturally.”

  “I have sent a runner,” Carson said, as if that was a normal act. It would ruin the Latimers.

  “She’ll deny it.”

  Angela got to her feet and went to the door. “I have an idea. That night, you were at the edge of the grotto, were you not? And you collided with the thief?”

  “Y-Yes, that’s r-right.”

  “I think I know what happened. Come to the grotto. Let’s see if we can find anything.”

  They wasted no more words.

  Rain had made the garden soft, drops sprinkled over the budding roses in the garden. Phoebe and Angela sped through, careless of their gowns and soft indoor shoes. By the grotto, they paused.

  Ten minutes later they had found nothing and stood staring at one another, wondering what happened next. “Where were you standing?” Angela demanded.

  Phoebe climbed the two shallow steps and then dropped down one. “One foot was on the path and the other on the edge of the bottom step. Like this.”

  “Stay there.” Angela crouched and peered around the base of the steps. “Oh my goodness.”

  “What?” Phoebe bent and nearly pushed Angela out of the way in her haste to see. “Oh my word.”

  Leaning in, careless of her lace ruffles and silk gown, she reached into the gap under the small pavilion, to where a freshly dampened piece glittered and gleamed. Carefully, she drew it out.

  It was covered with mud, as was her arm, but the shape was unmistakable. As they examined the piece, the rain started up again, pattering down and clearing the dirt from the magnificent necklace in her hand.

  “Stop right there.”

  A stranger stood before them. Dressed in a rough frieze coat, a man glared at them. Dark hair was drawn back into a rough leather tie, and an unadorned cocked hat was crammed on his head.

  In each hand he held a pistol.

  “I’ll take that.”

  Phoebe lifted her chin. “Mr. Forrester, I presume.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Maybe.”

  Phoebe glanced down at the glittering string in her hand. “It’s not real.”

  “It has to be. That’s what Chapman did that first night. You and him, you were in it together from the start, weren’t you? Well, you don’t get to trick me twice. Give it here.”

  Two pistols. One ball each. Phoebe’s thoughts raced. If she gave him the necklace, he’d undoubtedly kill both of them. Or maybe he’d kill her and leave Angela to cope with the mess. Neither solution worked for her.

  What on earth could she do?

  * * * *

  Leo turned the letter from Phoebe over in his hands. He’d written a brief note back, giving her the night. He had asked too much of her, but the obsession to clear her name and thus prevent any danger had taken hold, and he’d chosen to remain in town. Doing that had forced Phoebe to take on the mantle of duchess in the full sight of the whole of society. She was failing, wilting before his eyes, and it was his fault. All his fault.

  He would leave the task to other people and take her to the country, where she could ease her way into her new role. Where he could concentrate on her.

  If she agreed. The letter revealed absolute exhaustion. Guilt swept over him. He had put her through so much in the past few days: pursued her, married her, and brought her back to London to face her critics. After her quiet country life, he should not have expected so much. She should be cherished, and he would make sure she was. He’d kept her awake at night, unable to keep his hands off her, finding fulfillment in her body he’d never experienced before.

  Opening the drawer in his writing desk, Leo tucked the letter away on top of the pile he had received from her, and fastened a black velvet ribbon around it, one of his hair ties that he had put to better use. He pushed a gold key into the gilt lock and secured the correspondence, so precious to him. That was when he’d truly fallen in love with her, when she was nowhere in sight but he could still hear her voice.

  Of course he loved her. What a fool he’d been to deny it! The kind of love his parents had for each other wasn’t the only kind. Society was full of loving couples, did he but look. He’d assumed too much. Phoebe was the love of his life.

  He would call on her this morning. If she was not ready to return to him, he would not fuss, but give her more time. Of course he would, he assured himself, although the notion had all his senses rebelling against the decision. He wanted her in his arms again, curled against him, their hearts beating in time. But he would not allow his deepest desires to control him. Everything must be as she wanted.

  Having steeled his resolve, he stood before the mirror over the mantelpiece and tugged the edges of his green cut velvet coat into place. His small sword was by his side, and the pearl pin firmly tucked into his neckcloth.

  Fortunately his grandmother was still in her room when he quit the house, otherwise she would have taken him to task, as she had last night. As he walked the short distance to Grosvenor Square, he recalled her words, ruefully acknowledging that he deserved every one of them.

  “Phoebe will make you an excellent wife, if you would but let her. She is not a grand lady, but she will be. Give her time, Leo. Do not rush her into the position, as you have been doing. At the beginning of the season, you told me you wanted a partner, not a servant, someone not afraid to stand up to you. She will, Leo, if you do not overwhelm her. If she chooses not to return to you, she may join me in the Dower House. I intend to repair there later this week. See to the arrangements, will you?”

  Although he adored his grandmother, her autocratic manner annoyed him at times, but that did not blind him to the truth of her remarks.

  He would give up searching for the necklace and take Phoebe away, if she would have him. He had not felt so ne
rvous since facing his grandmother after climbing the largest oak in the park and falling out of it. Looking at it with the eyes of an adult, he knew her stark scolding and the excoriating words she had used were as much terror as anger. That oak had been at least twenty feet high. To her credit, it still stood, although she had threatened to have it felled.

  Before that, his terror when his mother had ranted at him, because she had made no sense and she had appeared to forget his name. At five years old, he should not have been in the presence of an outrageously drunk woman.

  Swinging around the corner, he strode to the house and took the broad white stone stairs leading to the shiny black front door. The footman opened it on his knock, and the butler sent to see if Leo’s wife would see him.

  If she would see him. What would he do if she refused? Slink away, tail between his legs, and come back the next day? Surely she would not refuse to see him?

  The footman hurried back. This man looked as if a gust of wind would blow him over. “Your Grace, Her Grace and Miss Childers—they’re in the garden by the grotto—there’s a man—he has a gun…”

  Leo needed no more prompting. To hell with correctness and holding back. His wife was in trouble. As he raced to the back of the house for the best view of the garden, he did some swift calculations. The grotto was where they had met. Where the thief had confronted her.

  She was searching for something, and so was the man with the gun. The necklace? Had it been there all the time?

  Two footmen stood by the open window. Fortunately better built than the one in the hall. Linton shot him an apologetic shake of his head. Cautiously Leo stepped forward and to one side of the window. “What is happening?”

  “He is waving a pistol around, and he has at least two more stuck in his belt,” one said. “We have sent for help.”

  By then it would be too late. He would not stand by and watch the woman he loved suffer. “Do you know him?”