Chapter 2
Tugging absently at the glove tips, Phoebe freed her fingers. The guest chamber’s tasteful opulence distracted her, however briefly. It evidenced an owner who prized refinement. She wished she had met the Earl of Collumby, if only once. Yet perhaps it was better that she had not.
The tears that stung, however, were not for him so much as for herself.
She did mourn him, but more so, the hope he had represented.
She knew so little about him: a widower four times over, determined to cheat his presumptive heir from succeeding him by taking another bride, a young bride.
Beyond that—distinguished or decrepit, kind or cruel—she would never know.
Phoebe laid the gloves in her lap and swallowed the ache rising in her throat.
What was to become of her now? She would not go lightly back to London.
To return meant facing her father’s wrath.
He had granted her this one reprieve, one chance to redeem herself.
Fail, and he would ship her to Calcutta to marry Mr. Darius Vavara, a textile magnate with coffers as deep as his jowls.
The ultimatum echoed too loudly: marry the earl, or I’ll send you to India, girl, and let Mr. Vavara make a wife of you.
She shivered.
Better spinsterhood than that. Alas, spinsterhood was not an option. Her father would see to that.
A faint rustling from the adjoining room caught her attention. “Fanny? Is that you?”
The door to the dressing room angled ajar, and the lady’s maid’s head of curls appeared in the gap. “Yes, miss. I’m unpacking.”
With a snort, Phoebe said, “We’ve only been invited for one night. What’s there to unpack?”
Stepping into the room, Fanny dithered, wringing her hands. “You’ll be fine, miss. You always land on your feet.”
“Do I?” Phoebe stared at her gloves, wanting to believe her, but then, what did Fanny know? She had only been her lady’s maid for a few weeks. “Today I landed on my hip.”
Unperturbed, Fanny approached. “Shall I fetch tea? Or see if the laundress has black dye for your muslins?”
“For a singular meeting with a clerk? Would be a waste of both dye and gown. Unless I can find a way to extend our stay, there’s no cause.”
Phoebe tossed the gloves aside and crossed the room to sit at the poudreuse, only wincing twice as her leg smarted.
The mirror was draped in black; lavender sachets reeking of sympathy hung to either side.
She stared at the fabric, despondent. If she had married the earl before his breath failed him, all this might have been hers.
Instead, she sat like an interloper in a borrowed chair, sorrow for company.
Slipping her feet free, she curled her stockinged toes into the plush rug, the threads thick enough to drown her despair.
The dark wood of the poudreuse gleamed. The chinoiserie paper-hangings behind the dressing table tantalized with a floral motif.
It was new. And exquisite. Far too handsome for a girl perched on ruin.
Behind her, Fanny crept closer, fidgeting, fussing, and finally sinking her hands into Phoebe’s hair to remove the pins and fiddle with the loose curls, ringlets the maid had painstakingly twirled with hot tongs that morning in anticipation of meeting the earl.
Fanny said, far chipper than she should be, “A rest will restore your spirits, Miss Whittington. While you recover, I’ll request the dye and tea. By the time you wake, your gowns will be ready for an extended stay, and the leaves will be ready to steep for a refreshing brew.”
Ignoring this, Phoebe said, her words carried on a sigh, “Easy for you to say when you’ll not be delivered to Calcutta for the sin of falling in love. Papa will never forgive me.”
Although she could not see Fanny’s reflection in the mirror, not with the heavy fabric blotting present, past, and future, Phoebe could feel Fanny’s soft breath as she made to reply, then reconsidered.
Phoebe laughed harshly. “You’ve not seen Mr. Vavara, have you? Picture a mountain of wool bales with a ruby on top. That’s to be my husband now.”
Voice creeping, hesitant, Fanny offered, “He can’t be so bad. You were willing to marry the earl, after all. You’d never met him, and he was, if I’m not mistaken, nearing eighty.”
“At least the earl had the courtesy to be a widower before remarrying, not to mention I doubt he had a proclivity for pinching young ladies where gentlemen ought not pinch. Oh, and let us not forget the keen advantage that he lived in England.” She emphasized the last, as though the former were of less degree, when in truth, she would have been willing to live anywhere had the bridegroom been worth the destination.
Without love, it was a fate worse than death. The loss of England, of everything familiar, of the Church of England, even of the language she spoke… She could not do it. She could not.
“No, Fanny. There is no redeeming Mr. Vavara. Papa chose him as my punishment, not my salvation. This is Papa’s way of proving there are consequences to following one’s heart rather than his wishes.”
Again, Fanny remained silent. A wise choice.
Phoebe’s words would have cut deeply had the maid responded, deeper still if the response had been more dribbling optimism.
The truth was, Phoebe had been her own undoing.
She had gone against her father’s wishes to follow her heart, naively unaware that other men were as deceptive and manipulative as her father.
Rather than restore her dowry to recommend her to suitors, he reigned over her with perpetual punishment.
The sting deepened, knowing he was one of the wealthiest merchants in London, a sizable dowry of no consequence to him.
But he did not want her to secure a good match.
He wanted her to admit he had been right and she wrong, to reap what she had sown.
“You’ll find a way, miss.” Fanny broke her silence. “If the new earl were here, you would charm him just as easily as the late earl. If—”
“What did you say?” Phoebe’s attention perked.
Fanny’s fingers stilled in Phoebe’s hair as she thought for a moment. “That you could charm the birds from the trees if you wished?”
“No. About the new earl.” With a wave of her hand to dismiss both the request for a repeat and Fanny’s ministrations, she stood, pivoting to face her maid. “The clerk!”
Fanny stepped back, timid after her mistress’s sudden exclamation.
Phoebe walked to the end of the four-poster bed, gripping a carved bedpost, as if the wood might lend her strength. The ache in her chest softened, no longer grief, but the spark of defiance.
“You said it yourself,” she went on, words quickening.
“The new earl must be coming. Soon. And if he hides behind a clerk, then Mr. Ellison is where I begin. I’m not without my wit, Fanny.
I will learn the answers I need from the clerk, and if he proves stubborn, I shall find my salvation in his paperwork.
Clerks love their papers, and papers love to whisper.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a merchant’s daughter, it’s that men spill more secrets to their ledgers than to their wives.
” She flashed a grin, sharp and sudden. “We’ve hope yet, Fanny.
I’ll coax every truth about the new earl from the clerk, or charm it, whichever proves swifter. ”
Phoebe had barely changed out of her traveling gown before being summoned to the study for Mr. Ellison’s appraisal.
She refused to be rattled, though it was plain the clerk did not wish a guest to remain beneath an aristocratic roof without interrogation first. Easier, surely, to charm an earl than a clerk.
Clerks were, in her experience, calculating fellows, all logic and figures, impervious to fluttering eyelashes.
This clerk, unfortunately, was the gatekeeper to her future.
Battle-ready, Phoebe followed a footman through paneled passages to the study adjoining the library.
From what little the footman offered for conversation en route, Phoebe discerned they were heading for the old study in the old library, which evidenced there was a new study and a new library.
She almost smirked at the implication: the clerk had been relegated to the dusty tomes, out from underfoot for when the new earl arrived.
Upon entry, her gaze swept the room. Spacious, scented of ink and leather, sparse of furnishings, but its walls crowded with books and ledgers. A cool, late afternoon breeze stirred the curtains. A faint patter of rain tapped at the panes.
A figure moved from the desk to the windows, and one by one, pulled them closed, then thumbed the latch.
Phoebe drew her black shawl tighter over her pale muslin, a flimsy veil of mourning respectability.
“Miss Whittington.” He spoke without turning, voice even, business-like, his focus on latching the last window with deliberate care. “The household has informed me of your… unexpected arrival. Might I inquire the nature of your business with the late earl?”
Her chin lifted. “My arrival was not unexpected. His lordship invited me.”
A pause, then the faintest edge of amusement. “Indeed?”
Heat pricked her cheeks at the doubt in his tone.
Rather than return to the desk, he crossed to a low table with a tea tray. “Unusual times, Miss Whittington, and more unusual circumstances. I am Mr. Ellison, solicitor to the present Earl of Collumby. May I offer you refreshment?”
He removed his spectacles and slipped them into his pocket before pouring.
Without them, he was younger than she expected, though the perpetual crease between his brows betrayed hours bent over accounts.
He might even be handsome—for a clerk. But Phoebe’s head would not be turned again, not by rogue or solicitor.
“Forgive my caution,” he said as he passed her a cup. “Now is when all manner of acquaintances call, hoping for favor or inheritance. That you arrived with considerable luggage is… noteworthy.”
“As I said, I was invited.” Phoebe steadied her saucer, her hands tense. “My father and his lordship exchanged letters this summer. The most recent, received scarcely a week ago, extended a clear invitation to stay.”
He studied her over the rim of his cup. “Curious, since his lordship died three weeks ago.”
The china rattled in her hands. Three weeks? Her father had thought nothing of the battered letter’s lateness, nor had she, merely a journey of misadventure. An invitation was an invitation, no matter how weather-worn. But three weeks? Good heavens.
The clerk’s smirk told her he thought her a fool. Then, his tone had not sounded curious at all, rather it baited her: Care to try again, it undertoned.
She steadied her fingers and sat up straighter. “Not so curious given the state of the post these days. I was invited by the Earl of Collumby as his honored guest and have his most recent letter to prove it.”
Inclining his head, he said, “My apologies, Miss Whittington, should you think I have mistaken his honored guest for anything less. Forgive, also, my thoroughness. Claims, in such times, are easily made. To what honor do I owe being in the presence of so honored a guest?”
Phoebe bristled. The audacity of this man! She bit her tongue before she said everything she thought of him. Insulting the gatekeeper would do her no favors; he was her only connection to the new earl. All she needed was a foothold in the house, some way to bide her time.
“That is a personal matter, Mr. Ellison, one I do not wish to discuss with anyone except the new Earl of Collumby.”
Cool as ink on a page, he said, “The earl is not due to arrive for several weeks, and all who wish an audience with him must first gain my permission.”
His mildness sharpened her temper. He was toying with her, as though she were a petitioner at his gate. Very well. She tipped back her head to gaze at him from down the length of her nose. “I was to have been his betrothed.”
His teacup paused midway to his lips, then slowly, he lowered it without drinking and set it aside. Brows lifting, the faint crease etching deeper between them, he said in a careful voice, “Whittington. The name is… familiar.”
She seized the opening. “My father is known as the Textile King of London.” The words came blunt, proud, challenging him to deny her worth, daring him to say she, being a merchant’s daughter, was as likely as her lady’s maid to have been the almost-betrothed of an earl.
Recognition flickered in his eyes, but he betrayed nothing else, merely studied her as though she were another ledger to be balanced, another column to be tested for error. She hoped he recognized the name only as belonging to a wealthy merchant, not as associated with recent scandal.
At last, he said, “Many make claims when an estate changes hands. Proof of this… understanding… is necessary.”
“Proof?” She stiffened, defiant rather than defensive. “You would have me carry a contract in my reticule? My word is proof enough.”
“Even a word can be tested.” His tone was mild, but his gaze—steady, searching—felt like a blade drawn across silk. “You mentioned a letter?”
“Of course. But I do not have it with me.”
“Left in London? You now recall it is not, after all, with you.”
“On the contrary. It is in my chamber.” Phoebe stood abruptly, ignoring the dull ache in her hip, eager for an excuse to escape this infuriating man. “Shall I retrieve it?”
Mr. Ellison rose with a shake of his head, as though filing her answer away in some hidden account. “Tomorrow. For today, I’ll not detain you longer.” He motioned to take her teacup.
Phoebe hesitated. She wanted to demand respect, to claim more ground, but his composure offered no purchase. With a breath, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate this time to mourn.”
“It is not my intention to be impolite, especially when your heart must be wounded.” He set her teacup next to his on the tray. “The household must protect the family’s honor. Many would claim connection to the late earl for advantage; you understand why I must ask these questions.”
“I understand,” was all she said.
“By the by, when I make it known to his lordship you desire his confidence, how do you wish me to introduce you?”
“Tell him Phoebe Whittington requests an audience on a matter most delicate.”
“Phoebe Whittington?” he repeated, stumbling on her given name.
She canted her head in question. Before she could reply, he recovered his surprise and walked her to the study door.
Once she stepped into the antechamber, she realized her pulse was racing. Only a clerk, she thought. And yet I feel as though I’ve just faced a magistrate.