by Aileen Fish
“I did.”
“Then you saw it.”
“The gossip, yes.”
She gnawed her lower lip, still struggling to make sense of her tumbling thoughts.
“You want to know if it’s true a woman left my home late last night.”
“Oh, no, that’s not it at all. It’s none of my business what you—”
“Phoebe, no one came or left but me. I went to the club after we parted.”
Her relief hit so deeply she almost didn’t notice his use of her first name. When that fact sank in, her heart sang. “Believe me, that wasn’t my concern. My father has me worried. He won’t allow me to see you again.”
“I see. To be honest, I’m surprised he allowed it to this point.”
“Mama never said so, but I think she hoped by getting to know you better, I’d see how poor a choice you were as a husband.”
The corners of his lips twitched. “And have you come to your senses?”
She looked down at the tip of her boots, once again gnawing her lip. The she peered up at him, bracing herself for humiliation. “No.”
The lines around Basingstoke’s mouth relaxed as his smile widened, lighting his face. “I’m pleased to hear that. What will you do?”
Why did he expect her to do something? He could resolve this issue by simply proposing. Father might refuse at first, but Mama could change his mind. Maybe. A proposal would make Basingstoke respectable, and let her parents see his intentions were honorable. Yet he didn’t even hint at being close to asking for her hand in marriage.
Maybe he had no intention of doing so. She’d created his attraction in her dreams so long ago, and he felt nothing of the sort. He was being polite to a foolish girl, that was all.
She refused to allow that thought to linger.
What could she do to thwart Father’s demands? She certainly couldn’t call on him. And slipping out of the house on her own—as she’d done now—would make everyone think something illicit was taking place. There must be a way to see him.
The obvious answer was the easiest to accomplish. Tipping her head to one side, she grinned, quite pleased with herself. “Why, tonight I shall go to Lady Hasslebeck’s musicale, and tomorrow, Miss Riverton’s ball at Crighton house.”
He nodded, his grin twitching as if he fought laughter. “I considered accepting an invitation to a Venetian breakfast that arrived this morning.”
“What a coincidence. We received the same invitation.”
He understood. They could attend the same assemblies whether Father wanted her to or not, for as long as she remained in London. Basingstoke did want to see her again, to spend time with her. Those fears were for naught.
Mama wouldn’t approve, and Father might follow through on his threat to send her back to the country, but she had to risk it.
She wished she could come right out and ask why he didn’t propose. He must have some reason.
Of course he did. They’d met merely two weeks ago. No one should make such an important decision on such short acquaintance.
But her feelings wouldn’t change no matter how long they knew each other. She would always love him.
“You’d better return home before someone recognizes you,” he said softly.
“Yes, I should.” She sighed. Someone needed to invite the two of them to a card party, so they could spend time together simply talking. Spend time showing Mama how well they suited, how happy they were. Surely that would make her mother realize the truth and convince Father this was best for Phoebe.
Lord Basingstoke was absolutely the best match for Phoebe.
***
Sitting in the dark corner of White’s club the next afternoon, Basingstoke was brooding. There was no other word for it. Up until the last month, he could care less what Society thought of him. For the most part, he still did. The only opinions that matter now were Lady Phoebe’s and her parents. He supposed some sort of grand gesture was required to prove to them he wasn’t the man he was reputed to be.
He didn’t make gestures, grand or otherwise, to change anyone’s opinion of him. Those who knew him recognized the man he was. Those who didn’t…who cared?
Thornton found him in the shadows and sat in a chair close by. “What has you in such a grim state?”
“I’m not grim. I’m thinking.”
“You look as if you’re about to let go of one of your best workers. Whatever you’re thinking of, stop.”
“You’re right. I shall stop. Why are you lurking in the shadows so early in the day?”
“Boredom. I have no excuse. I decided to find a game of cards winding down from last night and joining it in hopes of fleecing anyone with too little sleep and too much money still in his purse.”
Shaking his head, Basingstoke chuckled. “You have more money than most of these men put together. Why even try to win more?”
Thornton shrugged. “Because I can.”
Basingstoke pushed himself to his feet and stretched. “I need to clear my thoughts and you need to waste some money. Let’s go to Tattersall’s and examine the horse flesh. I’m sure they’re selling off some stud or other worthy of your interest.”
Rising, Thornton followed the earl. “That’s a much better scheme than watching you contemplate whatever ills you’ve imagined.”
The auction had already begun when they arrived, so there was little time to examine the items still to be bid on. Basingstoke squeezed through the crowd until he was close enough to see clearly what was on display.
Thornton found his way to Basingstoke’s side, muttering, “The quality of people they allow in here…”
“I never knew you were a snob, Thorn. If a man has money, shouldn’t he be allowed to spend it?”
“I never knew you were a champion for the common man.”
Rather than responding, Basingstoke eyed the conveyance awaiting bids. A cabriolet in impeccable condition, it struck something inside him. Never one for ostentatiousness—his own vehicles were staid, black and serviceable—this cabriolet was as attention-grabbing as any. The folding hood was black, yes, but the carriage body was a rich hunter green, and the spokes of the wheels were bright yellow. That punch of color made all the difference, and he knew Phoebe would love it.
Thornton must have had the same thought. “Your lady-love will look pretty when you take her for a drive in that.”
Basingstoke’s pride bristled, still wanting to appear aloof where his heart was concerned. “I thought only of myself. It’s too bold for my tastes.”
His friend simply eyed him, causing Basingstoke to grow uncomfortably warm.
“In that case,” the duke said, “you won’t mind if I bid.”
“Of course not. Feel free to bid on anything that catches your eye. It’s your purse we came to lighten, not mine.”
“Excellent. That cabriolet will make an excellent wedding gift, when a certain gentleman finally decides to propose.”
“It’s not a simple decision,” Basingstoke said with a growl. “Marriage.”
“The decision is already made. I can see it in your face when you look upon her. When you mention her name. When I mention it. Lady Phoebe Woodson. See, there, you did it again. Your brow goes soft, and your lips relax. She is a balm to your soul, man. Quit wasting your time.”
Thornton was right—Lady Phoebe was a balm, but it didn’t remove the obstacles in their path. “I knew I faced a difficult task, trying to find a respectable woman whose family wouldn’t reject a disrespected man. I just didn’t realize how much it would bother me when it came time to discuss the betrothal with her father.”
“It doesn’t help that you associate with those men.” Thornton pointed to the W pin.
“Don’t you start in on them. You haven’t avoided the scandal columns, yourself.”
“I’ll hold my thoughts for now. Your cabriolet is next, and I don’t want to distract you while you bid.”
Basingstoke gave him a harsh glare, but quit arguing the poi
nt and bid until the less-than-unassuming cabriolet was his.
Chapter Seven
All is well between Lord B~ and Lady P.W. One expects to hear news of a betrothal soon!
Phoebe and her friends, Marjorie and Clara, paused in front of the haberdasher’s shop and eyed the fabric displayed within. One of the bolts caught her eye. “Oh, my.”
“Which one?” Marjorie asked. “The sprigged rose?”
“That red is divine!” Clara sighed. “I do wish red didn’t make me look so sallow.”
“That dark green would make a charming pelisse for you, though,” Phoebe said.
Before she could suggest they go inside, Lord Basingstoke called to them from down the street.
“Lady Phoebe, ladies, it’s a beautiful day for a stroll, isn’t it?”
She spun to see him approach with the Duke of Thornton. “Your Grace, my lord, how good to see you. We were deciding whether or not to shop for fabric.”
Basingstoke raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let us keep you from such a delightful pastime.”
Marjorie took a step away from the window. “We may shop anytime we wish.” She nudged Phoebe’s elbow.
“Yes,” Lady Clara jumped in, clearly understanding Marjorie’s ploy. “Anytime.”
Phoebe took the hint. “We were about to continue on our way.”
“Will you allow us to join you?” Lord Basingstoke approached, and Thornton followed.
“Delighted,” Marjorie said. “Your Grace, I believe you and my husband were recently discussing a horse.”
“Yes. Yes, we were.” He passed Basingstoke to walk with Marjorie and Clara.
Phoebe watched them move away, then turned to Basingstoke and smiled. “I’m happy to see you.”
“Happy doesn’t fully express what I feel.”
They walked slowly behind their friends with just enough distance that their conversation could be almost private. Phoebe toyed with the ribbons on her reticule, inexplicably nervous to be so near him again. “My friends and I needed a break from morning calls. I had no idea it would lead to seeing you. Are you also shopping?”
“I hadn’t intended to, but while at Tattersall’s I found a cabriolet I had to have. I paid a fair price for it. Luckily the other bidders realized how determined I was to have it, and they stopped bidding.”
“How delightful.” She didn’t care one way or another about carriages and the lot. Men could carry on about them like…well, like she and her friends did over fashion, fabrics and trims.
“I shall take you on a drive later in the week.”
Even more delightful. But how was she to convince Mama to allow it? And keep Father from knowing about it?
He seemed to understand, or anticipate, her concern. “I’ll call on you at home a few times before then. Your mother seems to object to me less of late.”
“I hope she’s been taking to heart what I tell her about you.” Mama hadn’t mentioned him that morning, which Phoebe preferred to think was an improvement. Likely, nothing new had happened for her to complain about.
“You’ve been talking about me? All good, I hope.” He winked.
Phoebe’s heart tumbled, stopped a moment, and then raced on. That wink was like a physical touch. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking. “Is there anything else I might relate to her?”
“Not if you wish her to look kindly on me.”
Now her heart stopped cold. What did he mean? Was there some new scandal marking his good name?
“I jest, dear girl,” he said with a chuckle. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It was in rather poor taste, I’ll admit. Forgive me. Look, we’re lagging behind the others. We’d best catch up.”
Thornton turned at the sound of their approaching footsteps. “Lady Phoebe, did he tell you of his purchase? I don’t know what the man was thinking. Ghastly shade of green, and those wheels! Brighter than the sun, I tell you. So unlike him. One would think he was trying to please a lady—if one didn’t know him better.”
The cabriolet was for her? Or simply to delight her when they drove about? “It sounds charming. And yes, he has promised me a ride soon.”
With a brief nod, Thornton went back to speaking to the women on either side of him.
“It’s not ghastly,” Basingstoke said softly. “The green.”
“I never suspected it could be. I’ve seen nothing to dissuade me you have excellent taste.”
His shoulders relaxed noticeably. “We’re drawing near your home. I should leave you before anyone in your household spies us. I will see you this evening, as we discussed?”
“Of course.”
He bowed, called to the duke, and the men turned at the corner. Phoebe and her friends continued on.
Clara watched them walk away. “You are so lucky, Phoebe, to have secured the love of such a handsome man. Perhaps you could suggest his friend might wish to know me better?”
Marjorie laughed and shook her head. “As if anyone could convince Thornton what his own feelings are. You’d better set your sights elsewhere.”
Phoebe held her tongue. No one could have imagined how she and Basingstoke came to fall in love, and look where they were now. It never hurt to dream.
Then he failed to attend the agreed-upon ball.
Chapter Eight
Mayhap the news of a betrothal between Lady P.W. and Lord B~ was spoken too soon. Has Lord B~ left town for the Season?
Basingstoke had as much as vanished from Society.
Over the course of the next three days and nights, Phoebe and her friends plotted and schemed over ways to find Basingstoke, to no avail. He didn’t walk at the popular hour in Hyde Park. He wasn’t in attendance at any of the five balls she attended. Yes, five balls in three nights. Each time Phoebe asked to leave one, Mama was livid at being pulled away from her friends just to return to the carriage and join the slow-moving traffic travelling four blocks to the next gathering.
Mama was slightly less distressed by Phoebe’s insistence they accept invitations to two musicals and an afternoon of cards during that same period. As feared, Basingstoke was notably absent.
To get her away from her drastic imaginings, Marjorie insisted Phoebe join her friends for a visit to the Royal Menagerie at the Tower of London. “Lady Clara is among our group, and you’ve met the others.”
“Very well,” Phoebe had said, resigning to the fact she wouldn’t see him yet again.
With three ladies and two gentlemen in their party, Phoebe didn’t have to pay particular attention to either gentleman, to her great relief. She and Clara strolled ahead of the others once they passed through the gate.
Clara spoke in low tones, to prevent the others from overhearing. “Marjorie says you haven’t seen Basingstoke since I last spoke to you.”
“No. I’m so frustrated. We’d been informing each other which assembly we planned to attend, so we’d see each other. Then he didn’t come, and hasn’t been at any ball I’ve gone to. Mama won’t allow me to flit from ball to ball any longer, so I must hold out hope he finds me.”
“You assume he’s looking for you.”
“Why would I wish to think anything else? Father must have spoken to him and scared him away.”
“If he frightens that easily, his affection for you must be weak.”
“I agree. I must finally admit the truth and look elsewhere for a husband.”
Clara laughed, tilting her face up to the sun, which made her red curls glow brightly. “You’re going to be disappointed when you marry some other man. Who could compare to this image you’ve created in your head of Basingstoke?”
Who, indeed. No one could compare to the real man, much less the idealized one in her dreams.
They paused at a cage holding a golden jackal with a bright, silvery back. The creature was slim, sleek, and held its head low as it gazed on them.
“He looks ready to attack,” commented Mr. Wilmot, who stood at her side.
A familiar voice spoke from beyond
him. “And this, Benjamin, is Napoleon, small and fierce, and never to be trusted.”
Basingstoke. How had he known she’d be there? He couldn’t think they could steal some time alone at the menagerie. She laughed softly. What a silly notion, thinking he’d come there looking for her.
Phoebe glanced at the jackal’s sign, noting the name read Billy. Napoleon was a much more fitting name.
Curious as to the identity of this Benjamin Basingstoke spoke to, she leaned forward to peer around Mr. Wilmot. The only person standing with the earl was a young boy with the same thick, black, beautiful hair and strong brow. She gasped and straightened before Basingstoke caught her looking.
He was there with his son! Everyone knew about the boy, but in all the mentions of him, no one had mentioned actually seeing him. Reportedly, the child lived with his mother in a bawdy house near the club the earl frequented. It was disgraceful.
Firstly, no child should be raised in such a setting. A true gentleman would provide a proper home or foster the boy with a family in the country until he was old enough to be sent to school.
Secondly…well, she couldn’t think of another reason to be outraged. She felt sorry for the boy, who seemed well-behaved and wasn’t running madly, screaming like a banshee, as other boys were around them.
Realizing her friends were on their way to the next exhibit, Phoebe followed.
As did Basingstoke. “The eagle, Ben. Wellington is his name. He sees all and attacks when the time is right.”
The bird’s name was Tom. How undignified for such a beautiful creature. He deserved a proud name, something strong, like…well, like Wellington. Basingstoke was quite right.
As they moved on, he named the other animals. A leopardess was Harriet Wilson, beauty that she was. Beau Brummel was the peacock roaming free, of course. The proud lioness lying some distance from her mate he called Countess Lieven.
But the last pair made her laugh out loud. A pair of hyenas, one noticeably rotund, he named, “Alvanley and his fat friend.” Those were the words reported to have been spoken by Brummel, referring to the Prince Regent as the fat friend.
