CHAPTER8
“Phoebe!”
She heard her name being hissed from the shadows, and she smiled, knowing exactly what was coming. She picked up a glass of champagne to celebrate the first successful step of her plan, then stepped over into the dim light where the voice originated, finding three women standing around the other side of the bronze statue, waiting for her.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I was looking for you.”
“And we,” said Sarah, “were looking atyou. Phoebe, you were dancing with LordBerkley.”
“I was,” she affirmed. “I am well aware of his identity.”
“But why?” Julia asked, her head tilted as she studied her. “Last time we spoke you seemed to want nothing to do with him.”
“Nothing has changed in my feelings toward him. He remains a disagreeable man of outdated opinions,” Phoebe said, though she felt a niggling of doubt at her own words. She pushed it aside and continued. “But something else has changed, and becoming close with him is the best possible solution.”
She told her friends, who were as rapt an audience as one could ask for, about learning the marquess had been asking about her, and her publication. On one of the weekly walks with the three women, she had finally told them the full story of their encounter in the drawing room, of which they were all suitably shocked, though just as much at Phoebe’s own behavior as at the fact that the marquess had spied upon them. They were less surprised about his reaction or his words. Now they stared at Phoebe wide-eyed at her current plan of attack.
“The only reason he could be so interested in finding the publisher ofThe Women’s Weeklyis that he wants us to cease operations,” she finished. “It is what I expected, though I didn’t think it would be so soon, nor that he would be the man to lead the charge. As I learned this information through one of my delivery boys, I couldn’t very well walk up to the marquess and ask him why he is persecuting us. I do not want him to be aware that I have any involvement. And so, I decided the best way to determine what he has planned and what his actions may be was to become close with him myself.”
She finished triumphantly, looking around to see her friends staring at her. Sarah wore a shocked expression, Elizabeth looked rather worried, and Julia grinned.
“Brilliant!” she said, leaning forward toward Phoebe, but her exuberance was cut short when Elizabeth held up a hand to protest.
“I am not so sure about this,” she warned. “Clearly you are not keen for anything more than a flirtation in order to ascertain the marquess’ movements. How long do you plan on maintaining this charade? At some point you will have to break things off. He is a marquess, Phoebe, a respectable man, and he will not associate with a young lady for an overly acceptably long period of time for anything more than what might potentially lead to courtship, and then marriage. Yes, marriage,” she said at Phoebe’s shocked expression. “It would lead to scandal. I understand what you are doing, Phoebe, and I support you, I do, but I simply do not want to see you hurt. I do not see this ending well — for either of you.”
Phoebe took a breath. Elizabeth was looking out for her best interests, she knew that. And yet, her friend was pointing out the issues with her plan that she herself was unsure of, but had determined were not nearly as important as savingThe Women’s Weekly.
“I understand that Elizabeth, I do,” she said. “But I promise you that I will not allow this to get out of hand. It’s a mild flirtation, that is all. Besides that, I am clearly not the type of woman in whom the marquess would ever have a serious interest. Look around this ballroom — or any ballroom, for that matter. Do you see many other outspoken women who are not afraid to speak their ideals, who can hardly dance a step, who spend their inheritance instead of saving it for a dowry? No. It’s because those types of women are not the ones who will marry gentlemen of title. In fact, they will likely not marry at all.”
Seeing Sarah study at her with her head tilted, one side of her lips curved in a look of sympathy, Phoebe shook her head with a smile. “Do not pity me. This is what I choose. This is what I would far rather do with my life. Now, a glass of rum punch, anyone?”
* * *
Jeffrey leanedback against a sculpted marble column, shifting positions when the corner of a carved angel wing dug into his back. He was itchy, but not for any reason he could easily identify. He was brooding, he knew, as he kept his eye on Lady Phoebe, ensconced in a corner with three other ladies — the very same ones he had found her speaking with upon the occasion of their meeting at the Earl of Torrington’s. Their heads were together, Lady Phoebe gesturing animatedly. They reminded him of his sisters, the way they spoke without reserve, assured in unwavering friendship.
What was she up to? One moment she was arguing with him, slapping him without reservation, the next she was prettily flirting with him like every other young miss who approached him. Though none, he knew, would be so bold as to approach him without introduction nor cause for conversation.
His view of her was momentarily obstructed by a face — one rather like his own, but covered in a perpetual — though disingenuous — smile.
“Jeffrey,” Ambrose said with a nod, his grin increasing as he knew very well his brother preferred to be called by his title when out in a public setting.
“Ambrose,” Jeffrey responded, as he attempted to peer around his brother’s head when he noticed Lady Phoebe and her friends were departing from their station in the shadows.
“Something — orsomeone— catch your interest over there, brother? A certain heiress, perhaps?”
“What are you on about?” Jeffrey muttered.
“Why, it’s on everyone’s lips,” said Ambrose before his words took on a mocking tone. “Lord Berkley, who waltzes with no one, who avoids showing interest in any one particular young woman, on the dance floor and during a waltz, no less! And with none other than Lady Phoebe Winters, a wallflower who looks as though she has never danced a set before in her life within polite society. Why, Jeffrey, why?”
He asked the question in mock interest, holding a hand to his breast, and Jeffrey rolled his eyes at him. “Go away, Ambrose.”
Ambrose only laughed, and it was then that Viola passed by, inserting herself between the two of them, knowing their propensity for disagreement, clearly not wanting them to make a scene in the Holderness ballroom.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, looking from one of them to the other, and Jeffrey couldn’t help but smile at his sister. She was so calm, so gentle, and he knew that it bothered her when he and his brother found themselves in conflict in her presence.
“Everything is fine, Vi,” he said reassuringly. “Ambrose here is shocked that I was able to locate the dance floor of the ballroom, that is all.” He sent a glare his brother’s way. “And he was just leaving.”
Ambrose bowed mockingly to his brother, kissed his sister on the cheek, and, thankfully, continued on his way, likely to find a woman who would believe his charming words were genuine.