Chapter 4
Phoebe had not slept. For all the chamber’s comfort, featherbed included, she had tossed and turned, rehearsing speeches in her head.
By dawn, she had nothing to show but shadows beneath her eyes.
At least her hip no longer hurt, only light bruising and a residual tenderness where she had fallen on the gravel.
All night, she worked and reworked possibilities, from the scenarios she may face with the new earl to the myriad persuasions she could use on the clerk to win his loyalty.
Only as the hazy glow of daylight rounded the curtains’ edges did her thoughts drift to the past, to memories and regrets, to Freddy.
With a shake of her head, she dismissed the remnants of those early morning recollections.
Letter in one hand, the other palm clammy with nerves, she followed the footman.
This was it. This was her chance to turn a single night’s pity into something longer, something that might bring her face-to-face with the new earl.
This would prove Phoebe’s most challenging task yet.
True victory would mean not only an extended stay, but access to the study in hopes of learning what she could about the new earl without appearing overly curious in her conversations with the solicitor.
She needed to tread carefully to win favor today.
“Miss Whittington,” Mr. Ellison greeted her, rising from behind the desk. His spectacles flashed with reflected morning light before he tucked them into his pocket. “I trust you are well this morning.”
“As well as can be expected.” She touched the black ribbon knotted beneath her bosom, a poor substitute for the missing shawl, but at least a gesture.
“Of course.” His tone carried the sympathy his words did not. Mirroring yesterday, he motioned to the tea tray as if they were two acquaintances at a polite call.
She could not decide whether she disliked him for being a barrier to her plans or liked him for being a potential advocate for her cause.
His good looks, not detracted by spectacles or the black armband of mourning, did not signify, although she could not deny they irritated her.
No clerk had the right to be appealing, least of all this one.
With a steadier hand than she felt, she laid the folded letter upon the tray. “I have brought the earl’s invitation.” Then, nonchalantly, she attended to her teacup, spying his response discreetly from beneath her lashes.
Mr. Ellison unfolded the battered page, brows furrowing. “This is barely legible.”
“He had dreadful handwriting,” Phoebe said, her tone light.
“It is not only the hand to which I refer.” He turned the page in demonstration. “Time has not been kind.”
Her pulse fluttered, but she forced a shrug. “Clear enough to see his intent.”
The letter had not arrived in the best condition, smudged and torn as it was.
The extended travel in her care had not helped its case, adding more tears, crumples, and smudges.
Nevertheless, it was legible. She only now wished she had brought all his letters.
At the time, she never would have expected to need to prove anything to anyone.
To be fair, she was unsure what purpose they would serve in her current situation, as she did not wish for a stake in the inheritance, only the household’s sympathy, at least until she could charm the new earl.
Still, she would have felt more at ease under this man’s scrutiny if she could prove her case.
He studied the letter longer than she liked before folding it again. “I will keep this for my records, if you permit.”
Her throat went dry. Did this mean he believed her? At least enough not to send her packing or dismiss her outright? Heart hammering, she nodded.
Steepling his fingers, he went on, voice even, “The household regrets you are without a host, but you are welcome to remain for several days, time to recover, to take the air in the gardens, to pay your respects at the chapel.” He studied her with the same measured and steady attention he had given the letter.
“I can attend you on occasion, though most of my hours are consumed by the late earl’s papers. My apologies, Miss Whittington.”
Relief surged, followed swiftly by panic. A guest left to wander the gardens might as well be exiled. She needed access, to both him and this study. Her gaze darted, flitting to the desk piled with accounts, correspondences, and who knew what else.
There. The answer dropped neatly into her lap. He had handed her the answer himself!
“You look positively buried, Mr. Ellison.” She leaned forward, letting the hint of a smile play at her lips. “My father always said half the battle of trade is in the accounts, and I’ve spent many an hour rescuing him from paper avalanches. Allow me to assist.”
One brow arched. “Difficult to imagine Miss Whittington up to her elbows in invoices and shipments.”
She held his gaze. “It will distract me from mourning and spare you the tedium of sorting a lifetime’s worth of papers. Surely even clerks wish for an extra pair of hands.”
He hesitated long enough for her to sense her victory. At last, he said mildly, “Very well. If you are determined.” He glanced at the desk. “The garden accounts. You may sort those by date. Nothing perilous, but let us see if your talents extend beyond smiles.”
Phoebe tilted her chin, triumphant. “I’ve a talent for order, and if it spares you a headache, so much the better.
I am determined to surprise you, and I firmly believe you will find me as capable with papers as with smiles, Mr. Ellison.
” Deepening her smile for emphasis, coupled with a bashful blush, she added sweetly, “Perhaps more so.”
Her heart leapt as she suppressed her triumph behind a sip from her tea. His concession proved she could gain footing with him, and through him, the new earl. More importantly for now, she had secured her place at Lobelia Hall. Time was all she needed, and she had just won it.
When the door clicked shut behind her, Graeme leaned back in his chair and allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
If she thought she had maneuvered him, she was mistaken.
He had given her nothing more dangerous than string and ribbons.
Let her shuffle bills of lading and trivial correspondence; the true accounts and the codicil would remain locked.
His grin extended beyond outmaneuvering her maneuvers.
He was victorious! She did not suspect his motives of invitation beyond sympathy.
Her offer to help had, then, played right into his hand.
Now, he could observe her, test her, question her at leisure.
If Miss Whittington was indeed the mysterious P.W.
in the codicil, then every hour she spent in the study would bring her one step closer to revealing herself while allowing him the time either to discover the ammunition to contest her claim in court or to persuade her to relinquish the inheritance.
And if she was not the P.W. he sought, merely a clever fortune-huntress, well, he had just bound her with her own rope.