“Goodbye, George. See you on Monday.”
She was gone, out the door of his bedchamber into his study. He heard her gather her things, the sound of the door to the special entrance first opening and then clicking closed.
He lay back on the bed and groaned.
What had he done?
More importantly, what had she done tohim?
Suddenly he was on his knees on the floor, scrabbling with his hands to find the empty chamber pot under the bed.
Finally, what had been heralded so many times this afternoon happened.
He cast up his accounts and filled the chamber pot with the remains of Mrs. Hay’s very fine roast beef luncheon.
Five
“Where have you been, Phee?” Alice whispered and nudged Phoebe’s slippered foot. They were seated next to each other at a table at Lady Huxley’s. Phoebe was partnering Lady Huxley, and Alice was partnering Lady Fitzhugh.
Phoebe moved her foot away. “Not now,” Phoebe hissed back, trying to suppress the unfamiliar anger she felt toward her friend.
Traitorous Alice should not be bothering her. Not right now. Lady Huxley expected to win at whist and woe betide a partner who made an error in play. Phoebe knew her skill at the game, her drive to win, and her willingness to partner Lady Huxley were the chief reasons she was invited to these all-female whist parties. Otherwise, she did not think she would be on the guest list.
Yes, she was the daughter of the Duke of Abingdon and thus was, on paper, fairly high in precedence. But she was the youngest and the plainest of her sisters. And she had had almost four Seasons already, and up until three days ago, most of the ladies here must have been of the opinion that she was unmarriageable.
After all, she was considered rather wallflowerish. Or bluestockingish. Or hoydenish. Thetoncould not decide. Whatever it was, it was not good.
Yes, her value definitely lay in her ability to help her hostess win.
Her deceiving friend Miss Alice Danforth, on the other hand, was invited everywhere. Alice need not be good at whist. Alice wasAlice, and no gathering of thetonwould be complete without her.
It suddenly struck Phoebe that perhaps she was invited to this exclusive afternoon because of her friend. Alice had her choice of invitations and Phoebe could easily see Alice might demand Phoebe be asked as well.
But perhaps, in the future, Phoebe would be invited because she was the Duchess of Thornwick. Not because of Alice.
She sat up a little straighter. She would have a right to be here once she was married. A duchess herself. How lovely that would be. She would be addressed as “Your Grace,” and almost certainly, she would have grace. No more Bumblephee. She would glide and speak and fan herself most elegantly. Her sagging petticoats, her messy hair, her effort would all be things of the past. Like her once bitten-to-the-quick nails.
Because like her nails, she could grow. Change. She tugged at her skirts now, trying to hide her petticoat. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She dabbed at her upper lip delicately with her wrist.
She cast a glance around the room. Yes, in the future, she would fit in here.
She saw Alice laughing at a remark made at the next table. The inimitable and indomitable Miss Alice Danforth. She fit in everywhere. She didn’t need a courtesy title. She didn’t need a husband.
How lucky Alice was.
Lady Huxley began to shuffle the cards for Alice’s deal. She arched an eyebrow at Phoebe.
“Our little bird has landed herself a duke, I hear.”
Phoebe averted her eyes from Lady Huxley’s beady ones. “Yes, my lady. I am engaged to be married to the Duke of Thornwick.”
“He is to be congratulated.” The plump Lady Fitzhugh, on her right, smiled. “I must say I am surprised that—”
“Yes, I know, it is very surprising, isn’t it? He’s so good-looking and tall and a duke. To think he picked me. Papa is so pleased.” Phoebe knew she was babbling but could not seem to stop herself. “Mother says she can’t believe that I, rather than Judith or Deborah or Abigail, will be a duchess. And she says she’s grateful never to have to chaperone me at a ball again. She says she spent half her time the last four Seasons finding my glove or tacking up my petticoats and could never really enjoy herself. She says all the thanks goes to my good bloodline—”
Then Phoebe did stop babbling. Because her mother was wrong. All the thanks went to Alice, didn’t it? Alice was the one who had thrown Phoebe in Thornwick’s path when he was looking for a suitable duchess. But she didn’t want to give Alice credit. Not when she was still angry at her. Phoebe would give credit to the lady on her right instead.
“But I think, Lady Fitzhugh, perhaps I owe it all to that little hint you gave me last Season.”
