Chapter Ten
I have the pleasure to announce a most delightful—but not unexpected—event to take place in the near future. It appears the banns will soon be read at St. George’s for none other than Lady P.W. and Lord B~!
Two days later, when his butler announced Hartshorne’s call, Basingstoke set aside the book he’d been reading and stood to greet the duke. “This is a surprised, Your Grace. Is something amiss with Lady Phoebe? Is she unwell?”
“She’s the reason for my call, but her health isn’t the issue. Read this.” Hartshorne handed him a slim, leather-bound book.
“What’s this?” He opened it and skimmed the first page.
The book appeared to be some sort of journal, and the first entry was dated three years ago. Each of the entries mentioned “Lord B~ and Lady P.W.”
“Phoebe?”
The duke nodded.
“It can’t be hers, however. We hadn’t met three years ago, and I certainly wasn’t courting her then.” He flipped through to the most recent entries. “According to this, I proposed last night.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t, because Lady Phoebe is at my house as we speak, and she and my wife are calmly plying their needles and discussing some book or other. They’d be shopping for new clothing if a wedding was in the offing.”
Basingstoke snapped the journal closed and set it on his desk. “How did you come by this? And should we be reading her private thoughts, fantasies though they are?”
“Do you have this morning’s paper?” Hartshorne asked.
Basingstoke picked up the folded newspaper and offered it to the duke, who didn’t reach for it.
“Turn to Mrs. Crookshank’s column.”
He did. The third paragraph down was remarkable familiar. “Will banns be read at St. George’s next Sunday for a certain couple we’ve been watching this Season? Anyone who saw Lord B~ and his lady last night would say so.”
A proposal. It couldn’t be. This was a coincidence. “She’s Mrs. Crookshank?”
Hartshorne shrugged.
“No. I refuse to believe it.” He skimmed over the recent entries in the journal. “That column gossips about many people, not just me. There’s nothing in this journal that doesn’t include us, and no mention of anyone else.”
“Perhaps she’s one of many writers contributing to the column.”
Tossing the paper aside. Basingstoke swallowed the bitter burn rising in his throat. Phoebe wasn’t the sort of woman to do something so foolish, was she? That column had to be one of the main reasons her father objected to their friendship. “It can’t be. Why? Why would she do it?”
“Why do women do anything? Maybe she created this dream after being jilted by some other man. Maybe she just has a vivid imagination. But on the chance she’s only pretending to care for you, I felt you should read her journal.”
Basingstoke glared at the unassuming book that appeared to prove he was being played the fool. He couldn’t blame Phoebe without asking her the truth, but she’d likely deny it, regardless of whether she contributed to the gossip column or not. He handed the journal back to the duke. “You mustn’t let her know you’ve shown me this. I’ll discover the truth somehow. If she’s guilty, at least I’ll have found out before I do something foolish like proposing.”
Once Hartshorne left, Basingstoke donned his hat and left his house. The only way to find out the truth was to call on the newspaper editor and grill him until he confessed.
Finding the editor bent over handwritten sheets of paper on his desk, Basingstoke tore into him. “Who is this Mrs. Crookshank of yours?”
“She is herself, of course, although it’s a pseudonym. No one would allow her into their homes if they knew her true identity.”
Could it be Phoebe? “How can you allow her to write these lies, day after day? One day you’ll be threatened with libel.”
The old man chuckled, adjusting his glasses with ink-stained fingers. “They threaten and threaten, but they have no case. No one is named directly, so if a man or lady wishes to believe the item is about him or her, so be it. Taking the matter to court would confirm their identity, which would only confirm the rumor to most of Polite Society, don’t you think?”
Everyone knew who was being discussed, or accused, without an admission from the parties in question. They accepted it as fact. The editor’s argument was weak, but true. Basingstoke decided to ask the writer’s identity directly. “Is she Lady Phoebe Woodson?”
Raising his right eyebrow, the editor said slowly, “Oh, my. Would she be the Lady P.W. in this morning’s paper? What did Mrs. Crookshank say about her? Ah, yes, a proposal. I must wish you well on your wedding, Lord Basingstoke.”
“There is no wedding, which is why I demand to speak to Mrs. Crookshank. I have reason to believe it’s Lady Phoebe writing at least a portion of that column. Tell me the truth!”
“I repeat: if the writer’s identity were made known, she’d be ruined. You’re wasting my time. Go ask your bride if she, herself, broke the news.” In dismissal, the editor picked up another piece of paper and stared at it.
No one dismissed Basingstoke that directly, but arguing was a waste of time, as the man said. He strode back outside and turned in the direction of Hartshorne’s home. The time was now to get to the bottom of this situation. Did Phoebe love him, or was this all a game?
Turning the corner, he plowed into a woman. Grasping her arms to prevent her from falling, he looked down into a very familiar pair of eyes. Lady Phoebe’s.
“Forgive me, my lord. I wasn’t watching where I walked.”
“Nor I.” He studied her eyes in hopes of finding his answers there, then remembered where they were. “What are you doing in this part of the city? It’s not safe for a young lady, even with your maid present.”
The maid looked away when he caught her watching him.
Lady Phoebe let her breath out in a huff. “I’m not a fragile porcelain piece. No one has accosted me.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
She was awfully comfortable walking in this neighborhood…as if she did it often. His stomach burned with realization. “You were on your way to the newspaper.”
“How do you know that?”
She admitted it. The beginnings of a headache pushed against his skull. He couldn’t admit how he knew without implicating Hartshorne. “Someone told me about the column. In fact, I just left the newspaper office.”
“You spoke to Mr. Hillside, the editor?”
“I did.” He shook his head. She knew the man’s name. Basingstoke hadn’t even asked when he’d barged in. Her guilt was all too plain.
“And what did he say about this morning’s gossip?”
What did she expect the man to say? “Don’t worry, he didn’t divulge the writer’s true name.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he interrupted her. “There’s no purpose in giving him your latest on dit. Come, I’ll escort you home. That will stir many more tongues than your column would.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand—”
“Don’t waste your words on me.” Walking briskly, Basingstoke took her directly home without saying another word.
Lady Phoebe remained silent, too, but he detected a quiet sniffle. He steeled himself against the sound, fighting not to succumb to her ploy for sympathy. He’d been so wrong about her, about who she was deep inside, and it was time to end the charade.
He stopped abruptly when they reached the corner where she lived. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “You needn’t fear I’ll continue to court you. Your true feelings have been made clear and I won’t bother you anymore. Good day.” He performed a sharp bow and turned to walk the other way.
“Lord Basingstoke, I don’t understand what I’ve done,” she called after him. “Please explain—”
She was interrupted by her mother calling from the doorway. “Phoebe, come inside now!”
He didn’t look back, but Phoebe said nothing more.
Basingstoke had too much business to attend to in Town to leave with Ben right away, but he could keep to himself and avoid anywhere he might cross paths with Phoebe. In time, his heart would heal enough to once again look for a wife. He dreaded the prospect, but in order for Ben to receive the allowance that was only fair he receive the rest of his life, Basingstoke needed to ensure he had an heir. He couldn’t trust his distant cousin to continue the payments.
No woman was going to stand in the way of ensuring Ben had a comfortable life, and the best chance at being accepted by society, or those who mattered, at least. His brother deserved every advantage he did, and he’d work as hard for that as if Ben were his own son.