Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe awoke the next morning before dawn.
She did not bother to ring the bell for her lady’s maid but instead stuffed herself into a rather old day dress, the sort she wore when she lived in Nantwich.
Her hair was a right mess, but Phoebe did her best to style it in a low bun before throwing a pretty bonnet on top and lacing the ribbon tightly.
She crept through the house, careful not to wake a soul. When she tiptoed past the breakfast room, she was keenly aware of movement within and bit back a sigh.
Do my parents never sleep?
Phoebe herself was not normally an early riser, so she was not sure what sort of hours her mother and father kept. But since she, as well as the Earl and Countess of Tripleton, had left the ball in the wee hours of the morning, it stood to reason that they should still be abed.
But I am not. I could not sleep a wink.
Bravely, Phoebe glided past the breakfast room, dashed down the hall, and stepped out onto the stone steps of Tripleton House.
She darted a quick glance left and right, checking the streets for others.
She saw only a few kitchen maids and other household staff, starting their work early, preparing for the busy day ahead.
And what a day it shall be!
Phoebe skipped down the steps, then nearly galloped off in the direction of Genevieve’s father’s house. Thankfully, the cousins did not live far from one another. And Phoebe reached the abode faster than usual, because by the end she nearly sprinted to reach the door.
She mounted the steps then stood there, gulping in the crisp morning air, before raising her hand and knocking sharply three times.
A giggle flew from her lips when she remembered what Genevieve had said so long ago about rapping her knuckles on the red ribbon doors three times.
To think… Sebastian was Lord Spencer… is Lord Spencer. I met the host at his very own party and…
“Lady Phoebe?” Jones, the wizened old butler who worked for Genevieve’s family opened the door slowly and blinked his eyes once… twice… three times at her.
As always, Jones was dressed in a dark suit with a clean, crisp silver cravat knotted neatly at his neck. His thinning hair, which was nothing more than a tuft of fluffy white curls, was combed flat so that it looked sleek and shiny. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” she answered immediately and honestly.
Jones shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “But…you know the hour is early then, my lady.” He squinted at something behind her, and she realized that he must be looking toward the sun, tracking its progress as it crept higher in the sky.
“It is quite early, Jones,” Phoebe responded.
She could hear the chipper sound of her own voice and quite liked the way the words bubbled out of her.
She rushed on with renewed energy. “But I wish to speak with Lady Genevieve.” She turned to the side and slid past him. “I assume she is in her bedchambers.”
Jones followed her down the hall dutifully. “Lady Genevieve came in only a few hours ago. She told her maid that no one was to wake her before noon.”
Phoebe laughed lightly. “She will not mind if I disturb her sleep.”
“She… might,” Jones said quietly.
It was evident that he meant to do his best to discourage Phoebe from mounting the staircase and rushing to Genevieve’s bedchambers, and Phoebe admired him for his efforts.
But today, on this occasion, she simply could not contain her ebullience.
“I will apologize to her profusely,” Phoebe promised.
She paused with one slipper on the bottom step and turned back to face Jones.
She gave him what she meant to be a comforting smile.
“I will be sure to tell Lady Genevieve that you tried your very best to dissuade me from interrupting her repose, Jones, but I was too stubborn to listen.”
“Thank you, Lady Phoebe.” Jones nodded, then turned and walked toward the kitchens.
Phoebe wasted no time. She dashed up the stairs, rounded the corner, and rushed to Genevieve’s bedchambers.
She knew she ought to knock, but feared that in doing so, she might wake other members of the household.
While Phoebe did not mind rousing her cousin at this early hour, she did not relish the idea of waking her uncle and having him question her.
Without giving the matter much more thought, Phoebe flung open the door, slipped into Genevieve’s room, and shut it quietly behind herself. She stood there for a moment, panting.
How exhilarating!
Quickly, she surveyed her cousin’s bedchambers. They were a mess. It looked as though Genevieve had come home from the ball last night and flung her clothing everywhere.
The gown she had worn, a white muslin frock with dainty flowers embroidered along the hemline, was pooled near the vanity.
A pair of matching slippers had been kicked so that one was near the window and the other was poised near the dresser.
There were hairpins stacked on top of that same dresser and a dusting of baby’s breath scattered everywhere.
When Phoebe’s eyes fell on her cousin, she noticed the way Genevieve had curled into a pillow and clutched the sheets tightly to her chin.
For just a fraction of a second, a tingle of guilt made Phoebe want to turn about, leave the room, and come back another time.
But then, she cast that feeling aside and embraced all the others which coursed through her veins.
I must tell her. I must share my news now!
Without further ado, Phoebe rushed to Genevieve’s bedside, crouched there and whispered, “Wake up, sweet friend. Wake up. I have such news.”
Genevieve’s eyelashes fluttered and then she sat bolt upright. Just as one might anticipate, the moment Genevieve was roused, questions began pouring from her mouth.
“What is it? Who is there?”
There was not a hint of grogginess in Genevieve’s speech. She was immediately awake, alert, and ready to pummel Phoebe with a barrage of questions.
“What time is it? How long have I been asleep?” She blinked hurriedly, then turned sharply to look at her cousin. “Phoebe?” She blinked again. “Is that you?”
“It is.” Phoebe beamed at her in the early morning light.
“But what are you doing here?” Genevieve pulled the covers up and made a show of flopping back against her pillows once more. “Do you not realize that I require my beauty sleep?”
Phoebe laughed. “You are beautiful enough, Cousin. And you may go back to sleep once I have shared my news with you.”
As if Phoebe had flung cold water on Genevieve, her friend sat upright once more.
“Yes,” she said. A new trace of enthusiasm laced through her words.
“I suppose you did have quite an exciting time last night at the ball.” Genevieve’s eyes widened.
“I had never seen such a spectacle. Can you believe the way those men marched into the ballroom and whisked away Lord Birchwood? They were so dashing. So bold. They were like one of the characters in your novels.” Genevieve laid a hand over her heart.
“And there were quite a few of the constables who look attractive in those sharp, blue coats.”
It was hard to contain her mirth, so Phoebe did not try. “I imagine, from the outside looking in, the moment was quite dramatic and swoon worthy.”
Genevieve’s brow crinkled as she dropped her coverlet and reached for Phoebe’s hand.
“Oh,” she said softly as she lowered her voice, “But I am just now realizing that maybe seeing Lord Birchwood led away in iron cuffs was not so very thrilling for you.” She hummed apprehensively.
“Perhaps that was a disturbing sight.” She squeezed Phoebe’s hand tightly.
“I am sorry I did not seek you out and check on your well-being as soon as it happened. It was just that the entire party was thrown into disarray. And when I looked for you, I solemnly swear that I did try to find you in the multitude but—”
“Calm yourself,” Phoebe soothed. “I do not expect you to always stand sentry by my side. You are not my guardian, Genevieve.”
“No, but I am your cousin and friend,” Genevieve replied stoutly. “I should have made every effort to comfort you.”
Slowly, Phoebe lifted her free hand and rubbed her cheek.
The spot did not sting. It did not cause her pain at all.
Unless she pushed all other thoughts out of her brain, she struggled to remember the horrid conversation she’d endured with her parents just after His Lordship was led from the soiree.
Yes, her father had struck her and certainly, she recalled the way her parents had threatened to sell her off to the next willing suitor. But their words did not bother her as they had at that moment. Their threats, their harsh tones, even their callous coldness, could not touch her now.
“Your support would have been most welcome,” Phoebe assured her friend. “But it was unnecessary.” She lowered her hand back to her side and gestured to her dress. “You see, I am quite well and…”
“If you are well, then why did you come here so early?” Genevieve narrowed her eyes and peered at the closed door in the distance. “How did you get past Jones?”
“Jones is not quite the gatekeeper that he once was and besides… I have news.”
“Yes…” Genevieve yawned broadly. “I suppose you did say that initially.” She patted her mouth daintily with her hand. “Did something else happen last night after Lord Birchwood made his departure?”
A giggle of happiness burbled out of Phoebe’s lips. “A great many things happened once the Marquess was escorted out of the ballroom.”
“Really?” The end of Phoebe’s little nose wriggled as if she could smell the gossip and was eager to hear more.
“I am engaged,” Phoebe said, not wanting to prolong the moment or the suspense further.
Genevieve’s upper lip curled as she sank back onto her cushiony pillows. “I already knew that, Cousin.”
“What?” Phoebe gasped. “How could you know?”
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows. You have been engaged to that rotten Birchwood for ages. I suppose things will be different between the two of you now that he is bound for Newgate but…” Genevieve brightened.
“Is that why you visited? Did your parents already free you from that awful marriage contract?”
Phoebe tipped her head slightly, acknowledging that Genevieve had guessed parts of the truth. “I will not marry Lord Birchwood.”
“Thank Heavens,” Genevieve murmured with a touch of dramatics.
“But,” Phoebe continued, “when I said I was engaged, I did not mean I would be marrying Lord Birchwood.”
Genevieve gasped. She clung to Phoebe’s hand as if it were a knotted rope binding the two of them together. “Tell me that your parents have not already arranged another match for you? How could they? How could they work so quickly? How did they know Birchwood would be led away to the gaol?”
“My parents do want me to marry someone. And, they have insisted that I find myself a husband quickly. But the person I am bound to…the person I have given my heart to is not one they might have chosen.”
Genevieve’s eyes flitted back and forth in her head. Phoebe could see that she was sifting through the possibilities, then suddenly, her eyes focused, and she squeaked. “But then that can mean only one thing!”
“Yes,” Phoebe prompted, certain that if given the proper time, Genevieve would work out the truth on her own.
“If you were free to pick any man you liked, if your parents allowed you to select your own husband, then I suppose that makes you the next Duchess of Talwyn!”
“Ha!” Phoebe beamed at her cousin. “Excellent use of deductive reason, my friend.”
“I cannot believe this!” Genevieve’s plump cheeks flooded with red as she matched Phoebe’s smile.
“But how did this happen? When did he ask you to be his bride? How long have you known that you were in love with His Grace?” Genevieve gripped Phoebe’s hand tighter.
“When he proposed, was it just like you dreamed? Did he take you in his arms the way Prince Sameul did Penelope and did he…did he kiss you?”
Phoebe smiled beatifically. “The Duke gave me a choice.”
“A choice?” Genevieve echoed. “I do not understand.”
“That is all right, Cousin.” Phoebe patted her hand gently. “I shall explain it to you.”