Rascal indeed.“We are merely working together, Phoebe.”
“Oh. I thought… Well… It seemed to me…” And she lapsed into silence.
Amelia would not ask.
She would not.
Definitely would not.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Weeelll…” Phoebe hemmed and hawed. “Well… It’s just… You do look at each other a lot. Then try and hide it. And you tease each other a lot. Then try and hide that too.”
Amelia cleared her throat again. “It’s merely the repartee of work colleagues.”
“If you say so, Miss.” Phoebe waggled her pursed lips in the exact same way her guardian waggled his eyebrows. “But like writing with lemon juice, nothing stays hidden forever.”
Clad in shirt and pantaloons,Hugh scowled at the array of waistcoats upon the bed – claret, saffron, canary, Pomona, azure and violet – yet none quite suited.
This afternoon, before heading off to her lodgings, Amelia had met with Rainham to discuss their findings while Hugh had invited himself to a meeting ofThe Berkeley Square Ladies’ Benevolent Fund for Orphans, Wounded Soldiers and other Poor Persons.
Promising a substantial donation to a new hospital for soldiers and a new Dalton tea set for the ladies, he’d endeavoured to dredge up any gossip concerning Lady Twyford, but most had not seen her for years whilst others were rather tight-lipped.
All were agreed, however, that she almost never ventured from the house and never accepted visitors.Most odd.
Something to do with her clandestine activities, perhaps?
After all this time, could he be near to an answer?
No more deaths.
Would Ross’ honour be restored?
Would Phoebe have a father to be proud of?
He strode to the dressing table, flipped a box lid and took out the cufflinks which lay within – the gold was tarnished and one of the minuscule emeralds that formed a clover leaf had been lost. But they’d been Ross’ and he fastened them to his shirt cuffs.
It felt as if he’d been blundering in the dark for an age but perhaps tonight, the light was a short step away. With Amelia at his side.
“Ahem, theMaratte,Sir?”
“Eh?” And Hugh twisted to find his valet standing with yards of cloth over his arm.
“Your cravat knot, Sir? TheMaratte?”
“No, theTrone d’Amour,if you will, Towlson.”
His valet heaved a sigh. “I shall return henceforth with different cloth then, Sir, as a more liberal dose of starch is required for such perfection. If you will excuse me?”
Nodding, Hugh returned to the waistcoats and reached out for the saffro–
The door opened behind him and nigh-silent footsteps came to a halt at his side.
“None of those, Uncle.”
“Phoebe, my blackbird of paradise, what would you suggest then?”
She was draped in a black cloak, presumably awaiting Lady Kemble’s carriage, but there was a pinkness to her cheeks that cheered him and her eyes were buoyant.
