by Merry Farmer
“Believe me, Mrs. Jones, this is not what you think it is,” Phoebe said, gasping for air.
“I shall go,” Lord Cosgrove said, back stiff and head tilted up as though he were the wronged party. “But this is not the end of my suit, Lady Phoebe.” He marched past Mrs. Jones and Phoebe’s mother, leaving the parlor and the boarding house.
Phoebe wasn’t relieved, though. Not by a long shot.
“This is intolerable,” Mrs. Jones said, practically shaking with fury. “I will not stand for this sort of misbehavior under my roof.”
“But Lord Cosgrove is a viscount,” Phoebe’s mother said, as though Mrs. Jones were dense.
Mrs. Jones rounded on her, eyes wide. “You, madam, have been a thorn in my side from the moment you and your daughter arrived on my doorstep.”
“I have not,” Phoebe’s mother protested, clapping a hand to her chest in offense.
“You give yourself airs, madam,” Mrs. Jones said.
“That’s ‘my lady’ to you. I am a dowager marchioness.”
“A dowager marchioness who does nothing of any use to anyone, who steals food from the kitchens, and who vexes the poor girls working for me as though they are your own personal staff.”
“I have a right to be treated with the respect due my position,” Phoebe’s mother said imperiously.
“Your position is that of beggar, madam,” Mrs. Jones shouted. “And by the end of this week, it will be that of vagrant.” She turned to Phoebe. “I want you and your mother out of this house by the end of day on Friday.”
“But Mrs. Jones.” Phoebe started toward her, gut churning with anxiety.
“No buts about it. You have broken my rules and you are out.” She turned to go.
“But we have nowhere else to go,” Phoebe started after her. She had investigated several boarding houses before finding Mrs. Jones, and none of them would accept her and her mother without a more substantial deposit than she was able to manage on her income from Harrods.
“Then you will go to the street,” Mrs. Jones snapped. She didn’t even turn to look at Phoebe as she marched off to whatever other task she had to do.
Phoebe stopped in the foyer, clasping a hand to her mouth, fighting her tears. She hadn’t let herself bemoan her fate or feel sorry for herself so far, and she would be damned if she did now. But it was hard, so terribly hard, to be cast off by fortune, tossed from one threatening shore to another without any hope of a port in the storm.
“There, there, dear,” her mother said, coming up behind her and patting Phoebe’s shoulder. “I’m sure Lord Cosgrove will take us in once you go to him and apologize.”
“Apologize?” Phoebe whipped around to face her mother, eyes blazing with indignation. “He assaulted me, Mama.”
“He was simply being overzealous,” her mother said with a shrug. “Marrying Lord Cosgrove would be a boon,” she went on, beaming at the prospect. “He is a viscount, and he holds a respectable place in society.”
“He isn’t well-liked, Mama,” Phoebe growled, balling her hands into fists at her sides. “Just as father was not well-liked.”
“That is inconsequential, as we both know from experience.” Her mother lost her smile.
“And where was he when Father died and left us penniless?” Phoebe went on. “Why did he not come to our aid right away? Why did he wait until now to make himself known?”
“Who knows why men do the things they do?” her mother said with a nervous laugh. “The important thing is that he wishes to marry you. That means a home for us, a return to our former life.”
“Our former life was not the sort of thing anyone would want to return to,” Phoebe said with a frown, marching past her toward the stairs and up to their pitifully small room.
“Yes, but it is a life in society,” her mother argued, following.
“A society that turned its back on us,” Phoebe reminded her. She shook her head as she pushed open the door to their room. She would have to pack their things, and the sooner the better. Mrs. Jones had given them a few days to find another situation and to move out, but there was no telling if the woman would change her mind and toss them out sometime sooner.
“If you would just consider Lord Cosgrove’s suit,” her mother pressed her case.
Phoebe turned to face her. “I will never marry a man like Lord Cosgrove,” she said. “I would sooner take up a position as a match girl than lower myself to that level.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do, Mama,” Phoebe insisted. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to puzzle out how I am going to put a roof over your head after Friday.”
“Lord Cosgrove—” her mother tried one last time.
Phoebe held up a hand to stop her. “I never want to hear the man’s name again. I will figure a way out of this situation, as I have figured a way out of every situation you and Father have thrown me into in this curse of a life. I will do whatever it takes.”
She only shuddered to think what that might end up being.
Chapter 4
Lady Phoebe Darlington. Danny couldn’t get the delectable thing out of his mind for days after their meeting at the pub. Not that he wanted to. Phoebe was as darling as her name implied. He caught himself thinking about her sweet smile and her self-effacing manner as he went about his business, both at the pub and while inspecting the site in Earl’s Court that he was thinking of investing in. He couldn’t concentrate on the figures and reports Tuttle spewed off to him through any of their business meetings, which was as unusual as an ostrich in Piccadilly.
He most certainly couldn’t banish her from his thoughts—and didn’t want to—as he lay in bed each night, pondering her beauty. And imagining what she would feel like under him, of course. And over him, for that matter. His imagination had conjured up more than a few tantalizing images as he’d relieved himself from the tension of wanting her, and he wasn’t at all ashamed about it.
But thoughts and fantasy had never been enough for Danny. He’d only gotten where he was in life by acting, not dreaming. And for him, action began with research. He’d spoken to his friends, Rupert Marlowe, Jack Craig, and Reese Howsden, about Phoebe and her situation. In the process, he’d learned all about her profligate father, the way society had turned its back on Phoebe and her mother, the extent of the debt Lord Darlington had left behind, and the mess that had happened in Ireland the year before with Lady Maude Darlington and Linus Townsend’s father. Every new bit of information Danny learned made him as mad as a hornet. It also made him want to do something to change Phoebe’s fate.
Which was how he found himself wandering the aisles of Harrods on a Thursday afternoon instead of inspecting housing designs or investigating the members of parliament who would be voting on which company to grant the contract for the Earl’s Court development to. He needed a new suit if he was going to meet with those members of parliament, after all, and as long as he was at Harrods….
Danny’s heart gave an uncharacteristic leap in his chest as he turned a corner and started down the aisle of counters containing every bit of women’s frippery he couldn’t have cared less about, unless it was while in the process of removing it from a willing partner. There she was, standing behind a pristine glass and wood counter, surrounded by boxes and trays of women’s gloves in every shade of the rainbow. She was a vision of loveliness, even though she only wore a simple, grey skirt, fashionable white blouse, and some sort of uniform pinafore covering the ensemble. Her golden hair was caught up in a tight and serviceable bun at the back of her head, and a slight flush painted her porcelain cheeks as she straightened and folded gloves in the wake of a customer who had just departed.
But it was the sorrow in her expression, the way her shoulders hunched and her face seemed drawn, that made Danny pick up his pace as he strolled down the aisle toward her. There were slight, dark circles under her eyes, which were downcast as she worked.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said in his lowest accent as he le
aned one elbow against her counter and rested his chin in his hand. “Can you tell a bloke where he might find a pretty pair of gloves to give to his sweety?”
A slight pinch came to Lady Phoebe’s brow as she turned to him. Danny was beyond gratified when her frown turned into a look of delight at the sight of him.
“Mr. Long,” she said, her shoulders relaxing and her smile turning genuine. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
“I could say the same about you,” he said, standing straight.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the shop girl at the counter beside Phoebe’s break into a wide, knowing grin. She glanced across to the girl at the counter across the aisle, tilting her head as if to point out the conversation.
“Have you come to purchase gloves for your…your sweetheart?” Lady Phoebe asked, flushing pinker, her eyes fluttering down for a moment.
It tickled Danny to his core to think she might be jealous of some imaginary lover. “Yes,” he said seriously, glancing over the trays of gloves. “Which are your favorite?”
She drew in a breath, transitioning into a stern, businesslike demeanor. “Are they for day wear or for a special occasion?”
Danny tilted his head to the side, studying her. “Day wear,” he said, remembering how worn and scuffed the gloves she’d been wearing at the pub the other day were.
“And are you looking for kid or something simpler?” she asked on.
“Which is the best?” He tried not to smile.
“Kid are finer, and they tend to last longer if cared for properly,” she answered.
“And which do you like best?” he asked.
She shifted to a tray of dazzlingly white gloves, some plain, some with embroidery. “These are our new arrivals from Paris,” she said, smiling fondly at the gloves.
“Which are the most expensive?” His mouth twitched into a grin.
Lady Phoebe studied the tray. “I would recommend anything with embroidery if you’re trying to impress a sweetheart,” she said. Her lithe fingers flittered over the gloves for a moment. Danny sucked in a breath, wondering what those fingers would feel like brushing over his skin. “These are my favorite,” she said.
The pair she selected were elegant, with vines and roses embroidered around the cuffs. Lady Phoebe Darlington had exquisite tastes. Danny caught himself wondering what she might be able to do if he gave her free reign over his purse.
“I’ll take them,” he said in a loud clip, earning a disapproving frown from a passing pair of middle-aged biddies in clothes too fine for their sour faces.
“Very good, sir,” Phoebe said with a happy smile.
She took the gloves to the register and rang up the purchase. After Danny paid, she wrapped the gloves carefully in tissue and brown paper and handed them to him.
“I’m sure these will be greatly appreciated,” he said with a wink, then handed the parcel back to her.
Phoebe blinked but didn’t take the parcel. “Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly nervous.
“No, not at all,” Danny said, shaking the extended parcel at her.
She stared at it, then at him. Understanding dawned in her eyes, which went wide. “You didn’t buy those for me, did you?” she asked.
“Of course I did.” Danny beamed, more pleased with his little trick than any grown man should have been. “Who else would I buy them for?”
“You said you were purchasing them for your sweetheart,” Phoebe said warily.
Warning flags went up in Danny’s mind. He rethought his teasing tactics. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. Especially since she had the look of a woman who’d learned to be wary of men.
“I don’t have a sweetheart,” he said with genial good humor. “I just thought you could use some cheering up. You looked so glum when I turned down the aisle just now and caught sight of you.”
Phoebe flushed, her expression flashing through a wealth of emotions before settling on bashful gratitude. “I couldn’t possibly accept,” she said, lowering her eyes.
Danny decided then and there that he didn’t like the way she looked down at the very moment she should smile and be proud. “I’ve already paid for them,” he said with a shrug, setting the parcel on the counter. “It would be too much of a hassle to refund my money. And since I’ve no one else to give them to, they’d only go to waste if you don’t take them.” He risked a wicked grin. “And you said they were your favorite, so it would be a bloody shame to waste them.”
She glanced up at him through her lowered eyes. On second thought, maybe he didn’t mind the way she looked down, because when she glanced up like that, all coy-like, her long eyelashes brushing her cheeks, it fired Danny’s blood in a way that was entirely inappropriate for Harrods.
He returned to his earlier tactic of familiarity, leaning against the counter like a bounder. “Come on, love. You wanna tell me why the long face just now?”
He was a rascal and he knew it, but his methods got results. Phoebe sent a quick, covert glance around the shop—looking for her boss, no doubt—then moved closer to him. Her sadness returned.
“My mother and I stand on the verge of being dismissed from our boarding house,” she confided in him.
“No!” He straightened, pulling back in horror. It didn’t seem right to be so far away from her, so he stepped back into the counter. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “When I returned to the boarding house after spending time in your pub the other day, Mrs. Jones, the owner, smelled beer and smoke on me. She believed I had been carousing at a pub, which is strictly against her rules. And then my mother….” She lowered her eyes again, guilt accompanying the flush that came to her cheeks. Danny instantly boiled with curiosity. She went on with, “My mother had a gentleman guest over, which is also expressly against the rules.” She glanced up to meet his eyes again. “With two offenses in one day, Mrs. Jones had had enough. Besides, my mother isn’t exactly the easiest person to live with.”
“She’s not?” Danny asked, though in his research into Phoebe’s situation and through inquiries of his nob friends, he’d learned that Lady Maude Darlington was an absolute pill and a blight on the nation.
Phoebe shook her head and sighed. “She’s had a difficult life.”
Danny thought the estimation was beautifully generous of Phoebe.
“And now things are about to get even more difficult,” she went on, looking sadder than ever. “We have until tomorrow night to pack our things and move out of the boarding house, but I’ve been unable to find suitable accommodations that can accept us on short notice and without much in the way of means to make a deposit.”
A thrill of victory ricocheted through Danny’s chest. “That is unfortunate,” he said, standing straight again and willing himself not to smile for joy. “But it’s not a problem.”
She pursed her lips, staring incredulously at him. “It is, in fact, a major problem, sir. You may think it easy to find a place in a boarding house as a man, but I can assure you, it is infinitely more complicated for single women without means to find a respectable place on short notice.”
“Is it?” Danny made a considering face. He’d never stopped to think that it might be more difficult for some than for others to find respectable housing. Then again, that was what the entire housing crisis that had plagued London for the last decade was all about.
“It is,” Phoebe said. “In fact—”
“Lady Phoebe, we meet again,” a nasal, male voice said from somewhere behind Danny’s back.
“Bloody Christ,” Phoebe hissed, causing Danny to burst into an amused, snorting laugh. He spun to see whom she was looking at and cursing so effectively.
A ridiculous-looking older nob in a suit that was too tight for his paunchy frame and too youthfully cut for his advanced years approached Phoebe’s counter. He had something that looked like soot in his hair to give it a younger appearance, but bits of it were smeared down the sides of his neck with sweat. He
ignored Danny entirely, which was perfect, as far as Danny was concerned.
“Lady Phoebe, I am pleased to see you looking so well,” the nob said, nudging Danny out of the way as though he were a used piece of newspaper.
Danny took a large step back, grinning from ear to ear, eager to see what sort of madness was about to unfold.
Phoebe shot him the briefest of looks before turning her wary and depressed attention to the man. “Lord Cosgrove. To what do I owe the…this visit.”
Danny arched one eyebrow. So it wasn’t a pleasure for her to meet this Lord Cosgrove, was it?
“My dear, I believe you know why I am here,” Lord Cosgrove said. “We were interrupted so rudely the other night. I have not finished pressing my suit.”
“Oy, there’s a laundress over in menswear who’ll press your suit for you,” Danny cut in with as garish a Cockney accent as he could manage, pointing rudely.
Lord Cosgrove turned to glare at him. Phoebe stared at him with wide eyes and, if Danny wasn’t mistaken, lips that twitched in her effort not to grin.
“Excuse me,” Lord Cosgrove said, turning his back on Danny.
Danny stayed where he was, stifling a laugh, but let the fool prattle on.
“As I was saying, we have unfinished business, you and I.”
“No, Lord Cosgrove, we do not,” Phoebe said. She busied herself tidying up her gloves, folding some, and tucking a few of the trays back onto the shelf behind her.
“You cannot possibly wish to be a shop girl for the rest of your life,” Lord Cosgrove went on, as if being a shop girl were worse than being a whore. “I am offering you a return to the glory of your old life.”
Danny’s jaw hardened. From what he had been able to uncover, her old life wasn’t much to talk about. Judging by the looks of Cosgrove, anything he offered her wouldn’t be much to talk about either.
“Please, my lord,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “As I informed you the other night, I am not interested, nor will I ever be.”
