Page 25 of Letters for Phoebe

Daphne sat back as well, eyeing Phoebe curiously. “Charming, you say? I suppose there is as much a chance of him being young and handsome as there is of him being fifty and married.” She tugged restlessly on one of her red-brown. “Excitement and mystery are all well and good, I suppose. But you are taking care, aren’t you? Not to be discovered?”

“I will not be discovered.” Phoebe sat up at once. “I have been very discreet, as has the gentleman. He has never even approached me—”

“That you know of,” Daphne corrected. Then she tapped the paper with one finger. “What about this Mr. Fenwick? It sounds as though your gentleman likes him. Did you enjoy his company at the play?”

Phoebe waved a hand dismissively. “I always enjoy Griffin’s—Mr. Fenwick’s company.”

Daphne’s eyes lit up at Phoebe’s slip of the tongue. “Griffin. That is his given name, yes?” Phoebe narrowed her eyes, but Daphne kept talking. “It seems to me that if your anonymous friend pointed you toward Mr. Fenwick, and Mr. Fenwick seems to like spending time with you, you ought to pay more attention to him than to someone who will not even tell you his real name.” Daphne nodded once, firmly, to punctuate her argument.

With a sigh, Phoebe accepted the letter from her friend’s hand and turned it over in her own. The rampant lion glared up at her from the red wax seal.

“I do enjoy Mr. Fenwick’s company. Last evening, at the theater, he was so attentive and kind.” Without thinking, she reached up to touch the tip of her nose, but hastily lowered her hand again to her lap. “But he as good as told me that he has no interest in marriage at present.”

Daphne pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at Phoebe. “I am certain most men say that up until the moment they meet the lady who interests them above all others. It is rather like showing one’s hand in a game of Whist. He does not wish you to know whether he holds a trump or a useless deuce.”

A laugh burst from Phoebe, and it only took Daphne a moment to join in with her own giggles. Phoebe shook a finger at her friend. “Your mother would not at all like your Whist metaphor.”

Daphne’s cheeks colored, but her eyes danced. “I know. But I trust you will not tell her.” She relaxed, and fixed Phoebe with a look of concern. “You are one of my dearest friends. I want you to be happy, but I also want you to be careful. Perhaps you ought to suggest a meeting. Nothing clandestine. Just a walk in the park where you both sit on the same bench or carry the same book. You would not even have to speak. But you would see him and know at once whether there is more there than a friendship.”

The wisdom in her friend’s suggestion rendered Phoebe silent for several moments as she thought it over.

“And,” Daphne added with a crooked smile, “perhaps give this Mr. Fenwick a chance. Since he was so ‘attentive and kind’ last evening.’”

“Perhaps I will.” Phoebe turned the note in her hands over again, hiding the lion from sight. “Now. I want to hear more about you. What plans have you this coming week? Perhaps we can contrive to attend the same parties for once.”

Chapter 10

Out of Sorts

Since the night of the play, Griffin had exchanged several notes with Phoebe. The first she had obviously written after their evening together as it was full of her thoughts on the play and nothing else. She did not ask for more hints, which was a relief. But she also did not mention the name Griffin Fenwick again.

He wrote a response, concluding his thoughts on the play, and then sharing thoughts on a book he had read. Of course, Griffin mentioned it in the anonymous letter because he had seen the book upon the table in her house when he had visited. It was the book she had put the anonymous letter inside. The second volume of a novel called Sense and Sensibility.

They exchanged a note each on the subject of the book, Griffin smiling over every word she penned, before he finally went somewhat mad.

Griffin needed to see Phoebe again. In person. And he had not been able to think of another excuse for arriving at her door, unless he finally admitted his interest in courtship.

“That would be the reasonable thing to do,” he muttered to himself as he entered his family’s townhouse. But making his interest known in such a way would put pressure upon it, he well knew, and cause those with critical eyes to watch and wait and comment on the relationship.

“Griffin, darling, is that you?” His mother called from the drawing room. “Do come here, son, and tell me where you have been the last two days.”

Entering the room, Griffin saw his father seated in a chair with his feet on a stool. He looked over the book he was reading and smiled at his son. “Fair warning, all your mother really wants to know is whether you have seen Miss Kimball of late.”

Griffin’s mother embraced him, then shook her finger at her husband. “Do not pretend I am the only one who is curious. You have been speaking of her as much as I have.”

Though it somewhat alarmed him to know his parents had speculated on his relationship with Phoebe, Griffin decided it would be better if he were merely amused. He fixed his grin upon his face, kissed his mother on the cheek, then flopped inelegantly into the chair near his father.

“What do you think of Miss Kimball, Father?”

“Same as I did after the play. She is a lovely, lively young woman.” Mr. Fenwick closed his book and took off his spectacles. “Ask me what I think of you, Son.”

Raising his eyebrows, Griffin obeyed. “What do you think of me, Father?”

“I think,” his father said slowly, drawing each word out with some severity, “that you have avoided us these two days past because you like Miss Kimball excessively.”

“I concur,” Mrs. Fenwick said shortly. She walked to the mantel, hands clasped behind her back. “You have never shown such interest in a young lady before, Griffin.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat would give too much away. Instead, he tipped his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Miss Kimball is lovely, I grant you. She has a lively mind, as you said. I find her to be intelligent and a witty conversationalist.”