Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  The coachman helped her out, and she was warmly greeted at the door by her parents’ butler, Foster. “Welcome home, Miss Lennox.”

  “Thank you, Foster. But you know this isn’t my home anymore.” She smiled.

  “Doesn’t stop me, and everyone else, from wanting it to be.” His light blue eyes twinkled with warmth.

  Phoebe wasn’t entirely sure “everyone” wanted her to return. She was beginning to think her father was too angry with her independence to find their way back to their father-daughter relationship. A burst of sadness spread through her. They’d once been close, but he’d changed after her brother had died in Spain. She’d understood his despair, but she realized now that he’d never fully recovered.

  “Well, everyone that’s left,” Foster amended, his expression pained.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Harkin, Wick, and Meg were let go last week.” He shook his head. “They’ll be fine, I suppose. It was just a shock.”

  “Indeed.” Phoebe was quite surprised to hear that several of the retainers had been terminated. “Have they found new positions?”

  “Wick has. He was ready to become a butler, and so he has.”

  Phoebe heard the pride in Foster’s voice. “That’s wonderful. What about Harkin and Meg?” Meg was one of the maids, but Harkin had been her mother’s personal maid.

  Foster shrugged. “I haven’t heard from them since they left. Harkin went to stay with a friend, and Meg returned to her mother, though she said she couldn’t stay there long.”

  “I’ll see if I can help.” Phoebe made a mental note to ensure both women found employment. Perhaps she could at least hire Meg.

  “I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn,” Foster said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  She gave him a warm smile. “Of course. I appreciate you telling me.”

  They went toward the back of the house, and Foster announced her at the entrance to the small sitting room. Phoebe greeted her mother, who stood from her chair, where it looked like she’d been embroidering. She’d been the one to stitch the delicate flower and butterfly on the handkerchief Marcus had returned. The one that smelled like him and that Phoebe had kept on her nightstand since he’d delivered it. Next to his drawing of her, which she looked at every night before she went to sleep and every morning when she awakened. She wished she had a drawing of him, actually.

  Mama came and kissed Phoebe’s cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I thought Papa would be here.” Phoebe glanced around at the otherwise empty room.

  “He’ll be in soon, I imagine. He knows you were coming.”

  Was that why he was avoiding the sitting room? Phoebe bit her tongue before she could ask. She didn’t want to fight with him. She loved him and wanted things to be different. To be…easy. Or at least easier.

  Phoebe decided to take advantage of her father’s absence. After gesturing for her mother to sit, she took a seat on the settee facing her chair. “Did you really let Harkin go?”

  Mama’s mouth tightened briefly. “Foster told you? Yes.”

  Silence reigned for a moment as Phoebe waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, she blurted, “Are you and Papa having financial difficulty?” It seemed the only logical explanation, especially considering her father’s outburst at her house the other day.

  “Not at all.” Mama’s voice was smooth, but she didn’t make eye contact with Phoebe. “We just don’t need so much help, not with just the two of us.”

  “You need a lady’s maid. Why would you let Harkin go?” She’d been with their family for as long as Phoebe could remember.

  “I don’t really need my own maid. Lettie is excellent at dressing hair, and she’s been helping Harkin with my clothing of late.” Lettie was another maid, younger and less experienced than Harkin.

  “I’m sure she’s fine—”

  “She’s more than fine, and really, none of this is your concern,” Mama said firmly. “What is your concern, however, is with whom you picnic in Richmond. Is it true you accompanied Lord Ripley alone?”

  Since the rumor had surfaced at the card party last night, Phoebe had expected her mother might ask.

  “Yes.” While Phoebe saw no need to explain herself, she added, “It was a lovely day. I enjoy the marquess’s company. He is quite intelligent. Erudite, really, which might surprise you. Plus, he gave me driving lessons.”

  Mama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He is not known for being intelligent, erudite, or an excellent driver. He’s a scoundrel.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “He isn’t to me.”

  “How on earth did you even meet him?”

  “I don’t recall,” Phoebe lied. She recollected, and delighted in remembering every moment of their acquaintance. “We’ve become friends.”

  “Friends? With him?”

  “With whom?” Papa chose that inopportune moment to enter the sitting room.

  “The Marquess of Ripley.” Mama said the name with considerable distaste and a curl of her lip.

  Papa looked toward Phoebe with enthusiasm. He didn’t appear to share Mama’s unrest. “Dare we hope it becomes something more? She could do far worse than marriage to a man of his rank.”

  Mama sent him an irritated glare. “It’s Ripley.”

  Again, Papa was not moved by her agitation. “He’s a marquess.”

  Mama sat back in her chair with a disgruntled sound deep in her throat. She crossed her arms, looking thoroughly vexed.

  Papa turned his expectant gaze on Phoebe. “Well? Will your connection to him become something more?”

  “No. We’re only friends.”

  “Men like him aren’t friends with women. Hell, unmarried men aren’t friends with women period.”

  Annoyed with both of them for meddling, Phoebe shot back, “And you, as a married man, have so many female friends?”

  Papa grunted. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you. You can’t be friends with the Marquess of Ripley, not unless you want to be completely ruined. But given your behavior, perhaps that’s your ultimate goal.”

  Phoebe forced herself to remain calm. “No, my goal is to lead a happy, fulfilling life. I find the marquess interesting, and he’s teaching me to drive.” That somewhat skimmed their relationship, which she believed had far more depth, since revealing the truth would only encourage her father’s assumptions.

  And maybe your secret desire.

  That voice in her head needed to die. Violently.

  Standing, Phoebe realized her visit was not going to be pleasant, not with them badgering her. Nor was she going to get any answers as to why they’d let three retainers go.

  “Buy any Gainsboroughs this week?” Papa asked. He sounded nonchalant, but there was an edge to the question that fed her irritation.

  “No. I’m looking at a Reynolds, though.” She wasn’t really, but she’d thought about it. The Foundling Hospital, which she’d visited yesterday to take some things to the children, displayed many beautiful paintings by Reynolds as well as Gainsborough and Hogarth, who’d donated their work to the institution.

  She didn’t wish to taunt her father. There was something wrong here, and she wanted to help. If she could. And if Papa would let her.

  “Papa, if you ever need anything, I hope you’ll ask.”

  Something dark—alarm, perhaps—flashed in his gaze. “What could I need from you?”

  “Probably nothing.” She didn’t hide her exasperation. “Still, the offer stands.”

  Mama rose from her chair. “Phoebe, I beg of you to have a care for your reputation.”

  “What’s left of it,” Papa muttered.

  “Please cease this…friendship with Ripley,” Mama went on. “He’s not worth your time. Or your standing.”

  Phoebe gave them both a frosty stare. “Since my standing isn’t what it once was and may never be again, I don’t see the point in following all of Society’s stupid rules. If I want to go for a picnic with a frien
d—a male friend—I shall.”

  They both gaped at her in horror. Shaking, Phoebe bid them farewell and took her leave.

  Inside the coach, she fought to put the unpleasant visit from her mind. She’d meant what she’d said: she saw no point in following rules that made no sense given her current path. And she was not on her way to becoming a respected member of Society with a husband and children.

  Instead, she was linked to Marcus. People were even now likely gossiping about them, about their relationship. Phoebe laughed, but it wasn’t really amusing. It was, however, ridiculous since she’d done nothing truly scandalous. Besides take a picnic alone with a friend who happened to be a notorious rake.

  Her gaze fell on the box sitting on the opposite seat. Inside was the final piece of the disguise she would wear at the masquerade. Marcus wasn’t going to be able to tell who she was. She, however, would ferret him out, and then she’d find the right moment to claim her victory.

  Hosenby’s was a small but somewhat elegant pub located on the corner of Cranbourn Alley near Leicester Square. Marcus had first come here somewhat recently, when Graham had arranged to meet Osborne, Drobbit’s apparent assistant in crime. Marcus wished he’d thought to look for the man sooner.

  He’d been too distracted. By Phoebe.

  “Ho there, Rip.”

  Marcus turned to see Anthony swaggering toward him, a tankard in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Anthony lifted his mug. “Drinking their fine ale. And seeing what comes up next.” He waggled his brows. “Glad you stopped in. Shall we find a table?”

  “So you came here for the ale? I don’t remember it being remarkable when we were here a few weeks ago.”

  “Eh, the ale is fine, but I recall a particularly pretty serving maid.”

  They wove their way to the corner, and Marcus took a seat that allowed him a view of the large room. A serving maid came upon them immediately, her dark curls bouncing as she stopped at their table. Marcus wondered if she was the one Anthony was after.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” she said, her rouged lips pulling into a saucy smile. She fixed her gaze on Marcus. “You need an ale?”

  “I do.”

  “Anything else?” She slid her hip toward him so that she grazed his shoulder.

  “Not right this moment, but I’ll let you know when you come back.” He winked at her, and her eyes lit with hope.

  When she left, Anthony slammed his tankard on the table with a grin. “You aren’t here five minutes, and the women are already throwing themselves at your feet. Maybe I’m sorry you came. When I’m alone, I don’t have competition.”

  “I didn’t come for that, actually, so she’s all yours.”

  “Excellent. She’s not the one I was thinking of, but she’s quite pretty too.” Anthony was turning into a regular lothario.

  “Remember that you need to soak the French letters before you use them. No quick fucks.” Marcus deemed it his responsibility to protect the younger man, especially since he felt wholly responsible for his decline into hedonism.

  “Yes, Father.” Anthony’s eyes darkened just before he tipped his hand down and lifted the tankard to his lips, draining it.

  The maid returned with Marcus’s ale, depositing it on the table, and gave him an expectant look. “Another ale for my friend,” Marcus said.

  She hastily took herself off once more.

  Marcus hadn’t meant to provoke Anthony’s melancholy. That was the true reason for his slide into debauchery—Marcus had just provided the path.

  “I didn’t mean to lecture,” Marcus said softly.

  “I know.” Anthony looked up, then sat back in his chair. “I just… I like to feel good. Is that bad?”

  “No, so long as you’re careful, and I’m sure you are.”

  “Because of your guidance, which I appreciate. Now, if you aren’t here for the maids, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for Osborne.”

  “That tall fellow with the cane?”

  Marcus nodded. “I’m hoping he can tell me where Drobbit’s hidden himself.”

  The maid returned again with another tankard. She set it in front of Anthony, then gave Marcus an openly suggestive stare. “How can I help you, my lord?”

  “I’m looking for a rather tall gentleman with a walking stick. Goes by Osborne. Have you seen him of late?”

  Her full red lips drew down into a pout. “That’s what you wanted?”

  “Yes.” He took a coin from his pocket and slipped it into the bodice of her gown, letting his fingers linger against her flesh, not because he wanted to, but because he knew she wanted it. And he needed information.

  She licked her upper lip in blatant invitation. “Haven’t seen him in over a week. He does that sometimes—disappears for a bit.”

  Damn. It sounded like he’d gone underground around the same time as Drobbit. “Do you know where he goes?”

  “No, but I could ask.” She cocked her head to the side. “For a price.”

  Marcus pulled another coin from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

  She closed her fist around it, then dropped her gaze to his crotch. “Not what I was hoping for.” When she didn’t immediately leave, Marcus worried she wasn’t going to help him. And he wasn’t going to shag her for information.

  Anthony stood and wrapped his arm around the maid’s waist. He leaned down and spoke softly, but loud enough that Marcus could hear. “Come, we’ll see what we can do to get you what you want. I may not be a marquess, but I’m a viscount and you’ll still be able to boast to your friends.”

  Marcus opened his mouth to object, but Anthony gave his head a shake before spiriting the maid away through a doorway into the shadows. Hell and the devil, he didn’t want Anthony shagging her for information either. Not that Anthony appeared to mind.

  Scowling, Marcus drank a good portion of his ale. He looked around the room and instantly made eye contact with a well-known prostitute. She was a celebrated entry in the Ladies of Covent Garden circular. Apparently, she’d moved on to Leicester Square.

  He quickly averted his gaze and finished his ale, then moved on to Anthony’s. Even so, she appeared beside his table a moment later.

  “Lord Ripley. What a delight to see you here.”

  Normally, he would exchange pleasantries with her, perhaps even a light flirtation, but he wasn’t in the mood. He’d come for one thing: information. And then he was going to Mrs. Alban’s.

  “Evening.” He dropped his attention back to his ale.

  “Oh dear, when a gentleman is more interested in his cup than me, I fear I may be on the decline.”

  Marcus gave her a faint smile. “Not at all. Don’t let me keep you.”

  She exhaled with regret. “I wish you would keep me.”

  Thankfully, she took herself off, and Marcus focused his energy entirely on the ale and keeping his head down. Dammit, but Anthony was taking his time.

  Perhaps he’d taken Marcus’s counsel about soaking the letter to heart.

  Shaking his head, Marcus finished the ale just as Anthony returned. He sat down with a smug expression.

  “Damn it, Anthony, you can’t have soaked it long enough to use.”

  Anthony laughed. “I didn’t tup her. I did, however, learn that if you leave a particular word with the barkeep here, he’ll notify Osborne that one of his associates is looking for him.”

  Marcus edged forward in his seat. “What word?”

  Anthony shrugged. “He won’t tell her, said it defeats the purpose of having a special word.”

  Marcus slapped his hand on the table. “Fuck.” He stood up and stalked toward the bar.

  But Anthony followed, clasping his arm and pulling him to a stop. He swung around to see Anthony grimacing. “Don’t ask. She wasn’t supposed to tell me any of that. You’ll just get her in trouble.”

  Groaning, Marcus threw an irritated glance at the bar. Then he changed course and stalked toward the
door leading to the street.

  Anthony followed him outside. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “Mrs. Alban’s,” he clipped.

  “Indeed?” Anthony sounded…overjoyed. He clapped a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Excellent! Ripley is back to form, ladies and gentlemen!”

  The people passing by cast them looks, and one fellow grinned and applauded. Marcus rolled his eyes.

  “Mind if I join you?” Anthony asked. “Mrs. Alban’s always has soaked letters on hand.”

  Yes, they did, which was why it was typically Marcus’s destination of choice when he was in search of female companionship. Her establishment was the closest thing he’d ever had to a mistress. But tonight, he visited for a different reason.

  As they walked toward Covent Garden, Anthony asked, “I was there the other night, and Mrs. Alban asked when you planned to visit.”

  “She invited me to dinner this evening. I’m sure you could join us.”

  Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. You and Mrs. Alban have a…special relationship.”

  Marcus paused and turned to face Anthony. “What do you mean by that?”

  “That you have a special relationship. I don’t know of anyone else she invites to dinner, do you?”

  No, but then Marcus had never asked. “I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

  “You’re the only one who puts that light in her eye and the lilt in her voice. Surely you’ve noticed.”

  Hell. “No.” He started walking, moving quickly across St. Martin’s Lane. The brothel was just two streets ahead on the right. “Listen, there is nothing special about our relationship. We are friends, which I know is odd, but that’s all we are.”

  “Truly?” Anthony sounded quite surprised. “I assumed you shagged her when we visit. Is that not the case?”

  “I’ve never taken her to bed.” And he never would. That would be wrong somehow. They were friends.

  Yet, he considered Phoebe a friend, and he would take her to bed tonight if she invited him.

  Instead, he was going to a brothel, to ask Mrs. Alban if she had any contacts who might know of Osborne’s or Drobbit’s whereabouts. But in the back of his mind, he’d expected to go upstairs to one of her most expensive ladies. Or two.