Chapter Eight
“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 at you. Why, Phoebe, you were dancing with the Marquess of Berkley.”
“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 He remains a disagreeable man of outdated opinions,” Phoebe said, though she felt a niggling of doubt at her own words.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 her friends, she had finally told them 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 of The Women’s Weekly is 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. “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 saving The 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 leaned back 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—or someone—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. “The Marquess of 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 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.
“What was that about?” Viola asked, and Jeffrey waved a hand. “You know Ambrose.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, looking up at him meaningfully through her spectacles. “Lady Phoebe. I had thought that the two of you did not get on particularly well, and yet there you were together, looking as though you might actually be having a nice time.”
“It was just a dance, Viola,” he said with a sigh. Had everyone been watching him, or did his family not have their own affairs to see to? “I thought you enjoyed your acquaintance with Lady Phoebe.”
“I do, but that has nothing to do with this conversation. Now you, Jeffrey, are not one to ask just any young woman to waltz in front of all the ton,” she said, an eyebrow raised as she studied him for a moment before continuing on her way.
A moment alone, in silence, Jeffrey thought. That is all I need. Then I will—
“Berkley.”
So much for that.
“Clarence,” he replied, pushing himself away from the pillar. At least the Duke wouldn’t question his dance. His friend would understand that one waltz meant nothing at all, was as regular an occurrence as any other.
“I hear you were dancing with the Lady Phoebe.”
Or not.
“Yes,” Jeffrey said, gritting his teeth. “That I was. One dance. As every other gentleman dances with every other young lady. It is nothing to be particularly shocked about, nor to make any note of.”
“True,” Clarence said, standing beside him to peruse the scene in front of them. He took a sip of his drink before tilting his head toward Jeffrey. “Unless the one dancing is a marquess who avoids waltzes with young ladies of the ton. And his partner is a woman who, as far as I am aware, is not particularly enamored by said marquess and is not typically found on the dance floor.”
Jeffrey snorted at that. Clarence had a point.
“She apologized,” he said by way of explanation, and now Clarence actually turned to look at him, disbelief on his face.
“One apology and you are in one another’s arms? How do you do it, Berkley? I wish I had such a way with women. You will have to teach me your skill. But tell me—you could dance with any woman in this ballroom. Most are desperate for you to even look at them. Why choose a woman who vexes you so?”
Jeffrey contemplated his words for a moment. They were true, but the issue was he himself didn’t quite know the answer. Clarence was patient, and finally Jeffrey spoke words that were as true as he could gather.
“There is something about Lady Phoebe that I cannot exactly explain,” he said. “But the very reason she captures my attention is that she is not at all like most other young women with whom I am acquainted. From what I have gathered, she is unpredictable, it is true, she holds opinions that are rather unpopular, and she is not afraid to speak of them. And yet, I find myself intrigued.”
Incredulity only grew on Clarence’s face as Jeffrey spoke, and finally the Duke shook his head.
“I cannot say I completely understand you, Berkley, but it is good to see you interested in a woman, at the very least. It has been far too long for you—at least, as far as I am aware. Nevertheless,” he tipped his drink toward him. “I myself like to know what to expect when it comes to women. I believe I will go find myself one of the young ladies whom you so despair and engage her in a dance. I will leave you to your lady of mystery.”
Unwilling to explain himself to yet another friend or family member, Jeffrey passed his drink to a waiting footman and perused the ballroom for a means of escape. The expansive garden doors beckoned, and he climbed the stairs before lighting his cheroot on a wall sconce and pushing open the door, the slight wind pushing at the glass door as he did so.
The fresh air, however, was cool against his skin, refreshing after the close heat of the ballroom. The early spring air nipped at him, but it would mean there would be far less possibility of running into anyone out here. He took a deep breath of the misty air, which held a hint of the rain that had been threatening all evening. Meandering down the garden path, he took a puff of his cheroot. He slowly blew out the smoke in front of him, seeing it curl through the evening air.
“I would really prefer you didn’t do that.”