‘I believe you were a stake in faro, or some such thing?’
‘That’s impossible!’ Sophie replied scornfully. ‘Papa didn’t gamble!’
‘Oh, I’m talking about long before you were born, when he and my mother were betrothed.’
This time both sisters paused.
‘La! Does no one tell you poor country mice anything?’ Aurelia purred. ‘Well, you see, your papa and my mother were quite the love match – quite unbelievable, isn’t it – until my grandparents put an end to it. And by all accounts, your papa was as much a gambling man as any, if not worse. He and the earl considered themselves trueCorinthians, my mother says, living life to every excess including gambling for the highest stakes! It’s why your papa married an heiress and retired to the country – he had no choice. But not before he gambled away the hand of his first-born daughter to his best friend, the earl, should he ever choose to marry. Looks like the earl decided it was time to call in his oldest debt!’
There was a moment’s shocked silence, while Aurelia glittered with triumph. Then she swept away, leaving Phoebe to stare after her, entirely bereft of words.
‘Take no notice,’ Sophie whispered fiercely, ‘she’s provoking you ahead of the race, nothing more.’
Phoebe nodded, wanting to believe Sophie with all her heart and yet knowing,somehow, that every word Aurelia had spoken was true.
Apart from anything else, it made so much sense: Papa’s dying wish, Thomas’s insistence she honour it, the earl’s ease with the arrangement – he had owned her all her life, after all–and the looks of sympathy she’d detected among senior members of the ton, too, those old enough to recall the rash promise of a young gambling rake.
Nausea climbed into her throat as she acknowledged Papa’s will had contained not so much a dying wish, as an old gambling record. She was a debt recovered, no more.
Could anyone be any less heroic in their whole life?
‘He’s here, he’s here.’
A mutter of excitement filled the air as four footmen, clad in gold-embossed violet, entered the lobby. Phoebe swallowed, her scattered thoughts overwhelmed by the fuss around her.
‘It’s time, my dears.’ Aunt Higglestone bustled forward, entirely oblivious to the drama that had just played out.
‘Remember, heads up, eyes down, speak only when spoken to and no mention of mud!’
* * *
Phoebe soon discovered that being presented to the king was rather akin to having a tooth drawn. There was a great deal of agonised waiting, for a short consultation that delivered immediate relief once it was all over.
And King George IV was the most ostentatious person Phoebe had ever encountered in her life. Tall, rotund, and with his silver locks brushed into a style of which Beau Brummell himself would have been proud, he oozed charm, fine jewels and an old rakish demeanour that made Phoebe feel distinctly grateful for his short dialogue, which comprised four words only.
‘Ah, the Fairfax girl!’
Which left her in no doubt whatsoever that the king wasalsoaware of past events that had brought her whole sorry existence to this point. And it was this burning thought that ensured she escaped his interest as swiftly as possible, and watched Sophie’s far more graceful presentation from a quiet corner of the Upper Assembly Room.
‘You’re in luck today,’ a voice murmured behind her. ‘I’ve heard the king is still in a temper with Princess Caroline, and isn’t in the mood for long interviews.’
Phoebe inhaled silently, and kept her eyes trained forward.
‘He looks as though he’s in mourning,’ she managed, despite the twist in her core.
The viscount stepped out of the shadows, downing the rest of his brandy.
‘Those aren’t mourning clothes. Beau Brummell told him he looked better in dark colours, and he hasn’t worn anything else since. As I was saying, he detests Princess Caroline, offered her everything so she would stay out of the country. But she’s returned, anyway… One would hope marriage would result in a rather less fractious state of affairs.’
Phoebe’s eyes flickered up to meet the viscount’s intense stare.
‘I’m aware their marriage isn’t exactly a love match,’ she returned.
A small satirical smile played across his lips, gold flecks glinting in the low light.
‘Does such a thing exist within the confines of Almack’s and the Pump Room?’ he quizzed.
She stared at his unflinching expression before pulling her gaze back to Sophie, who was conversing quite comfortably with His Majesty. In the same breath, she caught sight of the Earl of Cumberland, clad in striped pantaloons, and a grotesque mustard waistcoat, on the opposite side of the room.
