“Brooks,” he bellowed as he cast himself into the chair at his desk, rubbing at his aching knee as he collapsed there. “Bring me the goddamned papers!” His desk had been straightened by some enterprising member of the staff—which was a right pain in the arse, as he’d had everything exactly where he had meant itto be.
Muttering invectives beneath his breath, he began rooting through drawers until at last he located the newspapers he’d left strewn across his desk, once again neatly folded and ironed until the worst of the creases he had gouged into them had been removed.
“Thereisa bell pull.” The bland statement was accompanied by the slap of papers hitting the desk as Brooks appeared before him. The most recent of those which had been delivered, Chris supposed. “Don’t see why you insist upon reading those gossip pieces anyway.”
“They’re useful.” Chris muttered something uncomplimentary beneath his breath as he unfolded the latest paper. He scanned the lines upon the page absently, but it was largely the usual drivel. Mrs. G—R— was caught with so-and-so on a secluded terrace. Lord N— was refused credit at such-and-such a shop, suggesting his bills had not been paid in some time. Lady M— had a falling out with an intimate acquaintance in an appallingly public manner. Miss P—T— was seen out of doors without a bonnet, and it was a wonder that she had not acquired a hideous case of freckles as a result of her indelicacy.
Hold a moment.P—T—?No. It couldn’t be.
It was the way of such scandal rags to couch their accusations in veiled terms, so that they could not be found libelous. Of course, everyone who was anyone knew who it was that had caught the sharp edge of the writer’s pen anyway, but without a nameput to a charge, it was all quite deniable.
Unfortunately, Chris was notanyone, and so such charges frequently escaped him. That was the thing about theTon. It was so very insular, so protective of its participants.
ButP—T—. Surely not. Nother. And yet he was certain he’d read it before. He fanned pages of various papers out before him, searching anew.
Miss P.T. trod upon the toes of Lord S. no fewer than three times during the single dance they shared—and a good deal more, if the poor man’s grimaces were any indication.
Miss P—T— danced not at all, claiming a torn slipper ribbon—and yet her slipper seemed sturdy enough for a walk with her closest companion, Lady W. One wonders if she invented the excuse simply to avoid a dance with Lord N!
Lady W. Could the writer have meant Diana, Lady Weatherford?
Miss P.T. was overcome with a fit of the vapors twice Saturday last at a ball hosted by Lady K. Luckily, the unfortunate woman’s dear mama came equipped with a vinaigrette.
The woman was either the most dramatic woman on God’s green earth, or she was rebelling strenuously against the strictures of the marriage mart, Chris deduced. Another scan of the pages revealed yet more gossip.
Miss P—T— was overheard extolling the virtues of pigeons to an uninterested Mr. L—G—. Mamas, it is this Author’s advice that you train your daughters better than to be ardent admirers of vermin and pests, lest they drive away any and all potential suitors.
Pigeons.Pigeons?Chris swiped one hand over his mouth, stifling the laugh that had risen in his throat.
And another:Miss P.T. was seen—and heard—at the theatre on Wednesday in her family’s box, snoring audibly straight through Hamlet’s soliloquy.
A chortle escaped between his fingers. “Brooks,” Chris said. “I need you to find me the column with the writer who isn’t afraid to name names. Any of them; all of them.” He shoved a pile of papers toward Brooks, who rolled his eyes heavenward in aggravation, and began his own perusal of those left upon the desk. Somewhereamongst these pages was her damned name.Respectable enough to continue to merit invitations, with a name and family that were known to theTon, but who had made herself just scandalous enough to be a cautionary tale.
A woman who was alwaysMissand never Mrs. A woman whose exploits garnered exasperation, but not scorn. A woman who—
The title of the article in his hands caught his eye.
Too Bad for Toogood!
And there it was: Miss Phoebe Toogood.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got it.” Itwasher. And she wasn’t merelytoo good. She was bloody perfect.
Chapter Three
I’m off to bed, darling,” Mama said, smothering a yawn as she started for the stairs. “Lord, but these social events take more out of me every year. Don’t stay up too late.”
“I’m going to read a little before bed,” Phoebe said, pausing to press a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “I’ll be up soon.”
“My little bluestocking,” Mama said on a sigh—but the words were fond. “All right, then. Enjoy yourself, dear.”
Phoebe intended to. These were her favorite moments, when everyone else had retired for the evening, and the house was just…quiet. A sort of quiet that soothed the soul, so very far from the chaos that had comprised her early life. More than half a dozen children all crammed into one household did tend to make silence seem a rare and precious thing.
Instead of making her way to the small library, she wound through the house toward the door at the back which led into the garden. Even in July, the night air was cool and soft, scented lightly with the roses that bloomed in neatly-trimmed bushes.
It wasn’t quite Tuesday any longer—midnight had come and gone at least an hour ago—but she was certain he’d be waiting. So she hurried along the stonework path toward the high wall that separated her garden from the house to the left, and when she arrived, she sank down upon the bench placed there andheaved a sigh.
“Long night?” The wry inquiry drifted to her ears over the wall.
