Her gaze caught Mr. Fenwick’s by chance, but she saw the twinkle of amusement there, and the way his lips turned upward. He tipped his head, as though in salute.
Phoebe suppressed her smile and gave her soup another cursory sip. “Mr. Fenwick, what are your particular favorite activities? Besides lobbing dough about in London’s finer parks.”
Rather than appear contrite, or even remotely rebuffed, the man’s slight smile grew into an approving grin. “I tend to find amusement wherever I may be, Miss Kimball. Though I do rather enjoy the parks, most of all, and gardens when I can spare the time. Spending time out of doors is far more enjoyable than sitting about in stuffy parlors.”
A sentiment she readily agreed with, but she could not let him know that. He was ruining her opportunity with Mr. Carew, after all. “Stuffy parlors? Oh, but all the ladies of London spend our time in parlors, you know. Drinking tea, embroidering, and hoping to entertain callers. What a loss your company must be, when you are out in flower gardens.” She turned to the side, sensing Mr. Carew’s attention. “As an architect, sir, you must have things to say upon the enjoyment one might find in a well-constructed home.”
Mr. Carew’s cheeks pinked. He swallowed abruptly. “Well, I am certain—that is to say, my interest lies more in public buildings. But I have set about designing a house. My own, that is. For the future.” He stumbled about in his words the way a drunkard might stumble out of a tavern.
Poor man. He must be painfully shy.
Not like Mr. Fenwick, who joined their conversation uninvited. “A future house. If you are to build your own, Phillip, perhaps you should wait until you are ready to wed. I imagine a bride would prefer to have some say in a new construction.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. They are only rough plans, and I should like to consult the future lady of the house.” Phillip coughed into his hand, and his eyebrows rose as he looked over her head at Mr. Fenwick, as though he was trying to communicate without speaking.
How odd. And suspicious.
Phoebe turned to Mr. Fenwick, lowering her lashes and curling her lips into a smile. His expression faltered a moment, then returned to cheerful ignorance. Did he mean to pretend she had not caught him frowning darkly at Mr. Carew? Why was Mr. Fenwick determined to put himself into their conversation?
“What of you, Mr. Fenwick? Would you make such concessions for a lady?”
He leaned just a touch over the arm of his chair toward her. “For the future Mrs. Fenwick, of course. But as I have no plans to wed at present, nor any plans to build a new home, I believe I am safe from such a concern.” His teeth flashed white as he grinned.
The soup course was taken away, the fish replacing it.
“A true loss for the ladies of London,” Phoebe quipped, but her dart had no effect. Mr. Fenwick’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “It is rare a bachelor in London would so baldly state that he has no plans to wed, though I imagine a good deal of gentlemen might keep such a desire secret. What, pray tell, causes the hesitation on your part?”
He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, though he kept his gaze upon hers. “It is not hesitation, I assure you. Merely disinterest.”
“In marriage or in young ladies?”
“Marriage itself is not an unpleasant idea.” He sipped from his cup at last and lowered it back to the table. “But if I entered into that blessed sacrament with the wrong young lady, I imagine I would equate marriage with torture.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose before hastily recalling a lady ought never to do so in public. “Are your requirements for a bride so particular that you have not come upon one woman who happens to meet them? You must have exacting standards.”
“Not at all.” His eyes twinkled at her as he twirled his fork in one hand, then speared his fish. “I would prefer a woman of good humor, sound judgment, wit, and the ability to hold a pleasant conversation. That is not asking too much, is it?”
The simplicity of his words could not possibly reveal the entire truth. No man would be content with so little. Her own brother had easily rattled off a list of twenty requirements for the woman he wished to marry. Caroline had fulfilled nearly all of them.
Her next words were something of a dare. “I suppose a large dowry and a pretty face would not matter to you then, Mr. Fenwick?”
Mr. Fenwick finished chewing his bite of food before he made his answer, and Phoebe rather hoped it would prove clever.
“I am fortunate enough that I can marry for love rather than fortune, Miss Kimball. As to ‘pretty,’ I find that a woman is only as lovely as her character.”
Her lips parted, but no retort came to mind. Mr. Fenwick had the audacity to wink at her, then he turned to the woman seated on his right.
Phoebe lifted her fork, the course of the conversation momentarily lost. She had spent more time sparring with Mr. Fenwick than actually coming to know Mr. Carew. As he apparently believed himself the victor in their verbal sparring, Mr. Fenwick had momentarily ceased blocking her conversation. But he had left Phoebe befuddled. How did she begin anew with Mr. Carew?
The only time Mr. Carew had proved talkative was during his conversation on the history of London buildings. Uninterested though she was, Phoebe seized quickly upon the topic before Mr. Fenwick remembered her.
“Mr. Carew, will you please tell me what you think of the Tower? There is so much history in that old building. How many additions would you say it has had since the time of William the Conqueror?”
Mr. Carew noticeably perked up, and he fairly dove into the topic. “Given that the Tower was built by the Normans, one must start there, and understand where the original foundations existed before London was altered.”
As he continued to discuss the type of stone used to build the original walls about the Tower of London, Phoebe looked to the side to see Mr. Fenwick’s reaction to her victory.
He actually wore a frown and stabbed at his fish as though the food had done him harm.
Served him right. Everyone knew Mr. Carew’s mother wanted all her sons married, which made any one of them fair game. But Phillip Carew’s fortune would be in proportion to Phoebe’s, making him her favored candidate.
Batting her eyes, Phoebe turned her full attention to Mr. Carew, and tried to understand why he disliked the Tudor additions to London’s famous castle so very much.
Chapter 4
A Turn About the Square
To My Friend P.K.,
While I congratulate you on your excellent selection this time, I feel I must offer warning yet again. Mr. P.C. has not yet made it general knowledge, but he is, at present, promised to another. I should hate to see you waste your time—or worse still—your feelings, upon a man who cannot return your sentiments.
Most Sincerely, With My Good Wishes,
Your Friend
To My Mysterious Friend,
I will not bother to speculate how you are so aware of my movements that you know precisely how and when to warn me. We live in London. A thing barely happens before the gossip takes it from one end of the city to the other. I thank you for your warning.
As I do not know how you come by your information, you will understand that I must verify what you have said before acting upon your advice. Nevertheless, I am most grateful to you.
Yours, etc.,
P.K.
Phoebe left the letter to her anonymous friend with the flower girl, then started upon her walk. Berkeley Square was not so fine as Grosvenor Square, but Number Fourteen had been her home during every Season from the time of her childhood. Her father had bought it, nearly new, and she had measured her years by the growing trees in the middle of the square.
A maid walked behind her, just far enough back to give Phoebe the illusion of privacy. This allowed her to pretend, for a brief time, that she was not a maiden in her third London Season, but an independent woman.
Miss Applegate’s insinuation two evenings previous, that Phoebe had been unsuccessful in finding a husband the previous years, h
ad nettled her. Unlike most women who went charging about, looking for the wealthiest husband they could attract, Phoebe had first come to London with roses in her cheeks and romance in her heart. She had made that vow to her friends, of course, and had meant it with all the zeal of girlhood.
She had planned everything, perfectly, before stepping foot on London soil. The first half of her Season, she would come to know as many gentlemen as possible, and make new friends who were as good as those she had left behind. There would be one gentleman, she knew, who would stand out. A man worthy of her heart, and the promise she and her friends had made.
Phoebe paused on her walk and looked across the Berkeley grasses to the young trees reaching for the heavens the way she had once reached for her dream of a gentleman to hold her heart.
No such man had ever appeared. No matter. She had drawn up her plans for her second Season, and just when she thought to give up, she had met Harold Brookston. He had flattered and flirted, made her blush, danced with her at every opportunity. Then he had started pushing for an engagement, and she’d demurred, uncertain of her heart.
That uncertainty had saved her. His family had fled in the night, but they were caught and brought back to London to stand trial. Harold and his father went to debtor’s prison, their estate seized by the Crown.
He had wanted her money, and nothing more.
People married for worse reasons. Phoebe knew that.
But she’d fled to the country, humiliated, and shredded her plans to bits. Then she wrote up a new plan, with a list of names. Romance was not for her. She would find another way to happiness in mutual respect. That would be enough.
With such melancholy thoughts distracting her, Phoebe did not notice Mr. Fenwick until he stood at her side. “What are you looking at with such intensity, I wonder?”
She jumped and covered her heart with one hand. “Mr. Fenwick.”
He gave her a lop-sided grin and bow. “Miss Kimball. Greetings.”
Phoebe glanced toward the trees, then back to him. Where had he come from?
“I must say, Miss Kimball, that running into you is becoming a habit. I cannot yet discern, however, if it is a good one I ought to keep, or a bad one I must attempt to break.” He sighed dramatically, then offered her his arm. “What do you think?”
She accepted his escort, almost without thinking about it. “I hardly see that what I think matters. We seem rather doomed to such meetings.” She looked down at her bracelet, peeking out at her from beneath the sleeve of her spencer. “Or fated, depending upon your perspective.”
Surprise colored his tone. “I had rather expected you to put me in my place again, Miss Kimball. Not offer your agreement upon the matter.”
“I have not agreed with you,” she argued at once. “And I cannot put you in your place, sir, because I know not where you belong.” There. Let him puzzle that out. Odd man.
“I suppose I belong wherever I am at the moment. If we believe in fate, that is.” Mr. Fenwick clicked his tongue upon the roof of his mouth. “That would mean, Miss Kimball, that I belong right here. With you.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat before she saw the glimmer of laughter in his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth. Of course he had not meant anything serious by such a statement. She hastily put aside her odd reaction to his words.
“Do you ever get tired of teasing?” she asked darkly, shaking her head at him.
“Never. It does little harm, if any, and usually makes people smile.” He kept his steps measured, short. Perhaps for her benefit. Perhaps to prolong his time in her company for more verbal torture.
Phoebe’s thoughts turned, and an excited sort of flip took place in her stomach. Why not play his game? She could tease and torture as well as he, and it had proved rather amusing at the dinner table the other evening.
That thought gave her the perfect topic to pursue.
“It may surprise you to know, Mr. Fenwick, that I have given some thought to your words from the other evening. On marriage.”
He coughed away a small gasp, turning his head from her. His voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “I thought we had said all that was necessary on that particular topic.”
“Have we? Or are you merely reluctant to reenter the conversation on the chance that I might come out the victor this time?” She tipped her head to the side and attempted to appear more innocent than conniving.
Mr. Fenwick’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware we were keeping track of points in our conversations, Miss Kimball. But do go on. You have my interest.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe lowered her gaze to the walk. “I should like to begin the topic, Mr. Fenwick, with an inquiry. I have wondered why a man of your age would persist in claiming no interest in marriage. While I concede that gentlemen may take longer at such a choice than ladies, you are rather in your dotage, are you not?” Teasing him served him right, after he had amused himself at her expense more than once of late.
His head turned abruptly, and she sensed his eyes upon her, studying her. “Dotage, Miss Kimball? I’ll have you know I am younger than you are.”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned toward him, releasing his arm. “Sir, I cannot believe you would say such a thing. You are not. You must be nearer thirty than twenty.” She narrowed her eyes and studied the charming, tiny lines near the corners of his eyes; they grew deeper as he smiled. At her. He had a rather nice smile.
“I will have you know that I have only marked my birthday on six occasions.” His eyes glittered, bluer than gray in his amusement.
Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. “That is absurd. Indeed, the most absurd thing I have ever heard.”
He mimicked her stance. “I swear to you, on my honor, it is the truth.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again and stared hard at him. There was a puzzle in his words somewhere, and she would find the answer. Perhaps his family had not done anything on the anniversary of his birth to mark the occasion. That might be what he meant. Yet she had heard, from Caroline, all about the Fenwick family. They sounded as though they were all quite close, and if they had produced someone such as the gentleman before her, they likely did not ignore excuses to celebrate.
“Six birthdays.” She wrinkled her nose.
His grin turned almost cocky. He offered his arm again. She accepted it. “Six,” he confirmed. “I will wager you have celebrated twenty years of your life passing.” Their walk continued, even slower than before.
“I have.” Drat and bother. “Six marked birthdays. What happened during the unmarked anniversaries?” She ought to hate how curious he had made her. Yet she had always had a weakness for riddles. Especially those with logical conclusions.
“There were none. Only the six have passed since my birth.” He chuckled, sounding far too certain of himself.
Phoebe sighed. “I will think on this, sir.”
“Do. Take whatever time you need.” He was leading her around the square, she realized. They had passed Number Fourteen several houses before.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she said, turning to look up at him. He was taller than she by a head. “Are you very well acquainted with the Carew family?”
His smile momentarily faded, and though he did not look down at her, she sensed caution in the way his eyes narrowed. “Yes. Very well. I consider Phillip to be one of my oldest friends.”
“How fortunate for me. I have a question I must ask. A delicate question.” She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes to the path upon which they walked. “Is Mr. Phillip Carew already—that is to say, are you aware if he might already have bestowed his affection upon a young lady?”
The gentleman paused, and when she looked up, she saw, for the first time, a very deep line creasing his forehead and a frown upon his face.
“I do not mean to pry,” she said hastily. “Or ask you to betray any confidences. I need not know her name. Only if she exists. You see, I had thought to come to know the gentle
man better, but if friendship is all that is possible, I should like to know.”
He glanced away from her, presenting a profile of a long, elegant nose and strong jaw. He took in a deep breath which expanded his chest, then released it with his answer. “Yes. There is someone Mr. Carew has set his hopes upon.”
A flicker of disappointment made her shoulders sag. Her mysterious correspondent had told the truth. She ought to write her thanks again, except she already had, in a way, even before confirming his news.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. The day had grown dimmer, and she drew a line through Mr. Carew’s name upon the list in her mind. “Would you be so kind as to walk me home, Mr. Fenwick?” She gestured behind them.
“Of course.” He turned and offered the opposite arm for her to take. The maid who had been trailing behind them squeaked and hurried to step aside so they might pass her.
Mr. Fenwick was quiet for some time, all the way up until he assisted her across the street. Delivering her to the very door of Number Fourteen, he released her arm and bowed. “Thank you for your company, Miss Kimball. I enjoyed it.”
Though distracted by the rearrangement of her plans, Phoebe curtsied and said what was proper. “It was pleasant to spend a few moments with you, Mr. Fenwick.”
The butler opened the door. The maid had already disappeared through the servants’ entrance below street level. Phoebe stepped inside, but the instant before the door shut, she had a bolt of understanding.
Phoebe threw the door open again and went to the top of the steps. Mr. Fenwick had already attained the pavement.
“Mr. Fenwick,” she called.
He spun, looking up at her. He took a step closer. “Is something the matter, Miss Kimball?”
When her grin burst across her face, her elation taking hold of her, he froze as though stunned. Good. A man like him ought to be surprised once in a while. Phoebe delighted in his full attention as she solved his riddle.
Letters for Phoebe (Promise of Forever After Book 1) Page 4
