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.
“Really, Basingstoke,” barked Phoebe’s companion Sir Phineas Taylor. “Have you no respect for your peers?”
Mr. Wilmot agreed and urged Phoebe to move on. “The nerve of the man bringing his bastard out among us like this.”
Phoebe halted. How could he say such a thing in the boy’s hearing? She glanced back at Basingstoke, who had his hand on his son’s shoulder. A black cloud—that was the only way she could describe it, a black, threatening storm cloud—overtook his features. She was too embarrassed to say anything, and when he caught her looking, she turned away.
Ruffling the boy’s hair, he said, “Come, Benjamin. I think it’s time for an ice.”
Smiling at his son as if nothing was amiss, he led him toward the exit gate.
Phoebe’s heart went with him. No child should be treated that way, to be spoken about in such harsh terms within his hearing. Even if the child knew of his beginnings, to have it said out loud was intolerable.
Mr. Wilmot was no gentleman. As soon as she and her girlfriends were away from the men, she’d tell them she never wanted to endure their company again.