Chapter 24 #2
The viscount narrowed his gaze as he studied the man. “Yes, I do. Well, I know of him. I believe it’s Sir Bedivere Ponsonby.”
Sir Bedivere Ponsonby. “And what-what do you know. Specifically?”
Marcus cocked a dark brow. “You really are full of interesting questions this morning, aren’t you?
” When Phinn frowned, the viscount conceded.
“All right. All right. Sir Bedivere, by all accounts, used to be a decent enough chap. He once held a commission in Her Majesty’s Navy a few years back.
I believe he also might have done some navigational work farther afield for the Admiralty’s Hydrographic Office—something to do with magnetic surveys perhaps?
—but don’t hold me to that. At any rate, several months ago, the fellow apparently went off the rails. And by quite a bit.”
Phinn’s curiosity spiked. “In what way?”
“Rumor has it that he became a vainglorious prat. A total tit. He was suddenly filled with delusions of grandeur and claimed that he wanted to navigate the Northwest Passage—a sure and idiotic way to die if you ask me—ostensibly to impress Queen Victoria. But who really knows. The last I heard, he’d set sail from Bristol—this would have been about a month ago perhaps?
—en route to the Arctic. Dashed insane. But perhaps he came to his senses because it looks like he’s back in London. ”
Phinn frowned. He’d been in Bristol a month ago? So had Phinn. “Do you know the name of his vessel?”
Marcus frowned. “Something ridiculously grandiose like his ideas. The Gallant? Or the Valiant maybe?”
The Valiant … Phinn recalled that the Kinsale Cloud’s captain had complained about a massive ship—a discovery vessel—that had hoved into Bristol Quay and almost sideswiped the Kinsale Cloud when it had docked alongside them.
Miss Davenport had apparently boarded the Kinsale Cloud in Kinsale, but where had the Valiant set out from?
Ireland as well? Or had it just been returning from its failed voyage to the Arctic?
Phinn hardly knew, and speculating further seemed like a fruitless exercise. Perhaps Miss Davenport and this Sir Bedivere Ponsonby had nothing to do with each other at all. Perhaps it was all a coincidence and Phinn was simply trying to put mismatched puzzle pieces together that would never fit.
“So, when are you going to put in an appearance at one of high society’s balls, my good man?” asked Marcus. “Your governess has worked wonders on your speech. It’s damn near perfect. So not being able to talk to the ladies can’t be your excuse.”
Phinn grimaced. “I-I don’t know how to waltz,” he confessed. “Or perform any other sort of fancy dance.”
Marcus gave him a considering look from beneath the brim of his topper. “Surely this governess of yours could teach you that too. Or you could just stand at the edge of the ballroom, looking tall, dark, and broodingly handsome. Women like that.”
Phinn gave a snort of laughter. “I’m not sure about the handsome bit, but …
but I’m sure I could do broodin’. And I suppose that’s be-better than being thought of as a great lummox with no social graces whatsoever.
” Truth to tell, Phinn really had no desire to rub shoulders with his so-called peers, or court well-bred young ladies.
He wasn’t like Marcus, who was in the market for a wife. Not yet at any rate.
He certainly didn’t want to think about the fact that the only woman he wanted to be around was the delectable Mina Davenport. He really was quite obsessed with her.
“You constantly underestimate your worth, my friend,” said Marcus, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You have a social conscience and those in power could learn a thing or two from you. I, for one, can’t wait to see you make your next parliamentary speech.
It’s scheduled for the next sitting in a fortnight, isn’t it? ”
“Aye,” said Phinn, trying not to feel sick at the thought of it. “I’ve been wor-workin’ on a draft for the last week. Would you … would you mind readin’ through it when it’s finished? As you know, I’m not the most eloquent of men. I’d-I’d value your opinion.”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” said Marcus. “Actually, why don’t you drop by Hartwell House and read it aloud to me when you’re ready? I have this feeling you’re going to create quite a stir. But in a good way, mark my words.”
“Are-are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
Talk briefly turned to Marcus’s progress—or lack thereof—in finding a suitable bride and then the viscount said, “Speaking of brides—and I should have mentioned this earlier—the Duke of St Lawrence and his new duchess, Emmeline, are back from Kent. According to the note Xavier sent this morning, they arrived in London late yesterday. I’m sure Xavier would be more than happy to look over your speech as well.
Two heads are better than one and all that. ”
Phinn was inclined to agree. He was about to ask Marcus if he’d like to schedule another training session at the Belgrave Boxing Saloon—and that perhaps Xavier might like to join them—when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
It was Christopher. Beneath the brim of his ridiculously large sailor’s hat, the boy’s face was looking decidedly pale.
“Can-can we go home now, Lord Kinsale?” he asked.
Phinn crouched down. “Are-are you not feelin’ well, lad?”
The boy worried at his lower lip. “My belly does feel a bit funny. So … so I think I’ve had enough of Hyde Park, and I’d like to go back to Kinsale House if that’s all right.”
Phinn frowned. “O’ course we can go home.” When he straightened, he noticed that Sir Bedivere had just ridden past again, heading back in the opposite direction. But the baronet seemed completely oblivious to their small group beneath the elm tree.
But did Christopher know the man? Was that the real reason Christopher’s belly suddenly felt “a bit funny”? Phinn bent down again and said quietly, “That blond-haired gentleman who just rode by on a big black horse, do-do you know him? Or … or does your mama?”
Even though the boy shook his head, his large blue eyes were fearful. “I’m not sure who you mean, my lord,” he said.
Phinn grasped his shoulder lightly. “You-you know you can tell me anythin’, lad. I’ll look after you and your mama. I care about you both, very much.”
Christopher looked Phinn in the eye. “I like you too, my lord. So does Miss Davenport. Do you … do you think you might ask her to marry you, one day?”
Phinn’s heart contracted. “I’m not … I’m not sure, Christopher.
” And that was the truth. Then he posed another question.
It was something that had been niggling him for some time, like a wee burr in his shoe, but he hadn’t been game enough to ask Christopher.
“Why-why do you call your mama, Miss Davenport?”
“Because she asked me to,” said the boy. “Because she’s my governess. And Tom calls her Miss Davenport too. She said it would be easier for everyone if we just did that.”
Phinn nodded. “I expect so.” It probably didn’t mean anything that “Miss Davenport” rolled so easily off the boy’s tongue.
As though he was used to calling his mother that.
No doubt it hadn’t been easy for the lad to keep up the pretense that his mama was only his cousin.
The scandal associated with being an unwed mother was not easily forgiven by society. Phinn understood the need for secrecy.
But still … Phinn had never heard young Christopher call Mina Davenport “mama” even by accident.
As he drove Christopher, Tom, and Brutus back to Kinsale House, Phinn wondered if he should have a frank talk with Miss Davenport about his concerns and suspicions regarding Christopher’s father and about Sir Bedivere Ponsonby.
And that the boy had let slip that his late godmother had been someone named Lady Grenfell.
But what if his suspicions were baseless?
Questioning Miss Davenport’s integrity—trying to unearth her secrets—might upset the governess and cause her to withdraw.
And Phinn didn’t want to do that, upset her, especially if she were in some sort of strife.
Tom wasn’t the only one who needed to learn to trust those in his life.
Phinn wanted Miss Davenport to be able to trust him too.
Perhaps, in a quiet moment, he could simply reinforce the idea that he would help and support her, no matter what.
Not just because he needed her help to transform him into an articulate gentleman. It was more than that. He did care for Mina Davenport. Rather a lot. A dashed lot.
No, a feckin’ lot … which was probably far more than he should.