Chapter Twenty Three

C ould a turtle be said to glare? Chris couldn't be certain, but Hieronymus seemed to be doing a passable impression of one nonetheless. He'd rejected the cabbage leaf and dandelion both that Chris had offered to him in favor of scuttling about the grass beneath the stone bench, as if he were in search of his favored companion, pausing every so often to cant his head up in what Chris could only assume was meant to be an excoriating expression. "Don't look at me like that," Chris muttered beneath his breath. "Do you think I don't miss her as well?" Three days had passed, and though he'd given Russell every opportunity to ambush him within his office in Cheapside, the wretched bastard had not taken the bait. Perhaps he'd scented the trap after all. Chris had nothing but a few knickknacks left to remove, and then the window of opportunity he'd afforded himself—afforded Russell—would close. He'd sent Phoebe off for nothing, and now it was beginning to look as if she might have to remain exiled a while longer. And the worst of it was that the whole damned Toogood family had closed ranks around her, which was unbearably wearisome of them. Each evening he'd headed next door after a lonely dinner in the hopes of seeing her for just a few moments. Each evening he'd been refused at the door by the stalwart butler, Baxter, who had stoically informed him that Phoebe was not receiving. Not receiving . Her own damned husband! So instead he'd come out to the garden to sit and wait by their shared wall, in the apparently futile hope that she might find her way out as well. But she hadn't. Minutes had ticked by into hours in utter silence, and he'd never heard so much as the faintest footfall upon the stone path next door. He oughtn't to have been surprised. She'd locked her door against him that last night, and hadn't said so much as a single word to him when he'd escorted her over to her parents' the next morning. His wife, it seemed, was capable of nursing a grudge with unassailable determination. He could almost admire it. Would have done, if it hadn't been directed at him. Somewhere just on the other side of the wall, she was no doubt tucked up into her bed, while he—he was consigned to sitting on a stone bench like a lovelorn fool until he'd lost feeling in his buttocks, waiting on a woman who was too stubborn even to pop out for a midnight chat. Who likely didn't even know he was waiting on her. Who might not care, even if she did. Hell . A tap on his foot. Hieronymus stood there upon the toe of his boot, peering up at him in his silent turtle way. Glaring. Chris leaned down and scooped him up, watched his little legs kick in the air. "I know," he said, holding out the cabbage leaf once more in an effort to tempt him to eat. "But you've got to do it. Phoebe will be displeased if you've wasted away in her absence. If you die, she'll probably have to get a cat or some such creature." He hadn't the faintest idea of where he might source another turtle, and he didn't think Phoebe thought Hieronymus could be so easily replaced, besides. Resentfully, Hieronymus bit into the leaf at last, and Chris sighed. Phoebe had turned his garden resident into a pet somehow. And now the creature sulked over the loss of her company. Perhaps he was guilty of sulking just a bit himself. It was just that he missed her. At least half a dozen times today he'd found himself unconsciously seeking her out, winding through the rooms she most frequently occupied in the hopes of finding her curled up somewhere with a book, or taking tea, or rearranging furniture and objects d'art to suit her vision of what their house ought to be. And then he'd remembered that he'd had to send her away. It didn't matter that it had been for her own safety. He was miserable without her. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that. She'd become a fixture of his life, and sending her back to her parents had felt rather like losing a limb. Or like she'd carved out a piece of him to take with her. His heart, most likely. Though God alone knew whether or not she would want it.

∞∞∞

Kit had been talking to the turtle. It had been impossible to hear what he'd said, exactly, since the breeze rustling through the trees had drowned out the sound, but it had been somehow charming, nonetheless, to watch him from her parents' balcony, holding her cheek in her hand as she braced one elbow upon the balustrade and peered down into the neighboring garden. She'd been careful creeping out, waiting for the rattle of the wind through the branches to open the door and slip out. Every night he'd waited for her—sometimes pacing, sometimes seated upon the bench. Sometimes he'd called her name. Just a hopeful inquiry given to the darkness, hardly loud enough for her ears to detect. A few times she had considered answering. She hadn't yet let go of her anger. Probably she wouldn't for some time. But beneath it was the clawing ache of worry, and she thought—even if she didn't think she could manage a civil conversation between them at this juncture, still she needed the reassurance of seeing him, even from a distance, safe and whole. Exasperated, no doubt, if she were to judge by the occasional rueful shake of his head, by the way he raked his fingers through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it and irreparably ruffling the gold strands. But alive and well. "Phoebe?" Swallowing back a gasp, Phoebe whirled toward the balcony door to see her mother standing there, her brows knit in confusion. " Shh ," she whispered. "He'll hear you." Pressing her lips together into a firm line, Mama carefully tiptoed forward, leaning over the balustrade to peer down in the direction Phoebe had been looking. "Ah," she said in a muted whisper. "I see." Did she, though? Phoebe had been tight-lipped on the details. All she'd expressed was that they'd had a row—which was true—and he'd shipped her off. But it wasn't the whole of the truth, really, and it made her feel a bit guilty. "How long has he been out there?" Mama asked. Phoebe gave a little shrug. "An hour or so," she said. And then, hesitantly, she added, "He's waited every night." "Waited?" Mama inquired, and Phoebe knew her sharp gaze would at last see what she had not before. The wall that neatly separated the two benches, one on either side, lined up nearly exactly. A place where two people from separate households might meet in secret, with no one the wiser. "Oh," Mama said at last. "For you." Phoebe managed a small nod, feeling vaguely ashamed of herself. "How long?" "A few weeks, I suppose," Phoebe admitted. "Since just after we moved in. Until—" "Emma's ball," Mama murmured. "And then I suppose it wasn't necessary anymore." No, it hadn't been necessary. But they'd still frequented the garden together, even if there had no longer been a wall between them. It had felt comfortable, she supposed. Familiar. Like a ritual they'd established between them. They'd been veritable strangers when they had married, but during those nights they had shared in their respective gardens, speaking to one another over the separation of the wall—there, they had felt like friends. "I didn't understand it," Mama said softly. "I suppose I still don't. How you could allow yourself to be compromised like that. By a man of his reputation, a man you'd have no reason to know." She made a soft sound beneath her breath. "But I suppose you must've known him at least a little. How did it begin?" Phoebe hunched her shoulders, bending over the balustrade. "I don't know if I should tell you," she said. "It wasn't…very proper." "Oh, then you certainly must," Mama said. "It's been at least a few months since I've had a proper scandal to chew on. Hardly anything at all since your marriage." " Mama ." "I only mean to say," Mama continued, "that you can tell me anything. You always could, darling. Though I suspect you've long harbored a fair few secrets." Phoebe felt the gentle nudge of Mama's shoulder against her own, and wondered if perhaps Mama might have held a few suspicions all along. She heaved a sigh, flicked her gaze downward and watched the breeze waft Kit's tousled gold hair about. "Tuesday morning calls," she said. "Do you recall the day you granted Lord Egerton leave to walk in the garden with me?" "I remember," Mama said, with a lift of one brow. "I believe he stormed off in something of an ill humor. I never quite received an explanation from him. Or from you." "He made an inappropriate advance," Phoebe confessed. "I suppose he thought I must be just desperate to be married, that I ought to be flattered by his attentions." Mama snarled through gritted teeth, "How dare—" " Shh ." Phoebe slanted her head meaningfully toward where Kit sat still upon the bench, and waited until Mama had once more reined in her flare of temper. "Kit's got a balcony of his own, you know," she said. "He was there, watching. He took exception to Lord Egerton's manners and lobbed an orange at his head." "An orange?" "I suppose it was the only weapon at his disposal at the time," Phoebe said. "He's got that orangery, you know. He sends most of them along to Emma for the children. Fresh fruit is so very dear in winter." She heaved a sigh, settling her chin in her palm. "But he had a whole sack of them, and it did drive Lord Egerton away, and—and I was grateful," she said. "We struck up a friendship of sorts, in conversations over the wall after you and Papa had retired for the evening. And on Tuesdays, he was kind enough to keep watch on the balcony and…and to drive away my callers." The suitors she had never wanted. That she had never managed to work up the nerve to tell Mama she hadn't wanted. But perhaps now—perhaps now was the time at last. Mama settled one hand upon her shoulder. "Phoebe?" she inquired gently. "Oh, Mama," she sighed, averting her gaze with a guilty flush. "I didn't want to be married. Ever, if I could avoid it." "You never said." "I couldn't. I didn't know how. You were so determined to find me a husband." Phoebe dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I love you so much," she said. "And I love our family, as chaotic as it has always been. I love all of the children, I do, but…but I have never wanted any of my own. How could I have told you that your idea of happiness would have made me miserable?" "Like you just have," Mama said, and her arm slid about Phoebe's shoulders to wrap her within that warm and familiar verbena-scented embrace. "My darling girl. All I have ever wanted was your happiness. I want that for all of my children, no matter what form it takes. But are you happy?" "I have been," Phoebe sniffled, turning her cheek against Mama's shoulder. "I have been, though I know my choice of a husband has not been what you imagined for me." "Darling, if he makes you happy, then I shall love him despite his flaws." A brief hesitation. "His many flaws." Phoebe muffled a helpless snicker. "He does," she said slowly. "He'll never be a perfect gentleman, but then I am not a perfect lady. We suit each other." In ways she had never expected. In ways she never would have learned if she had only summoned the courage to confess her secrets before now. Perhaps Mama would have allowed her to remove herself from the marriage mart, but if she had…if she had, she never would have struck that bargain with Kit. She would have found contentment, most likely. But she would not have found love. Or this—this unlikely happiness she had somehow stumbled into. "I suppose he shares your vision of happiness?" Mama asked carefully. "Yes," Phoebe said. "Mama, I know you must think it peculiar of me—" "Darling, I have got seven and twenty grandchildren at present, and more will no doubt follow. If one of my daughters should pop round for tea and bring only her own delightful company, well, then, I shall count myself grateful for the reprieve." Mama stroked Phoebe's hair gently, and she added, "Should I be so blessed as to live long enough to meet them, I can only imagine how many great grandchildren I shall claim." Phoebe muffled a wheeze of laughter into Mama's shoulder. "Good Lord," she said. "I never considered." "Better me than you, hm?" She really did have just the most wonderful family, Phoebe thought with a sigh. All of them—every obnoxious sibling, every loud, rambunctious child. Both loving, doting parents. "I love you, Mama," she said. "I know, my darling," Mama soothed. "And unless I miss my guess, I believe you must love that disreputable husband of yours as well." "I do." Confession was said to be good for the soul, but it felt wrong, somehow, to admit as much to her mother before she'd bothered to inform her husband. "I wasn't supposed to," she said. "I didn't expect to. We agreed upon a marriage of convenience. And it was convenient, up until it wasn't. And now—oh, Mama, it's grown so very complicated." "Life often is," Mama said sagely. " Love often is. May I offer you a tiny piece of advice? I do have some small amount of experience with a happy marriage, after all." Over thirty years of it, which Phoebe supposed must make Mama something of an expert. She nodded against Mama's shoulder. "Please," she said. "It is so easy, darling, to torture ourselves with the worst possible outcome of any given situation—as I think you have discovered just recently. Sometimes it seems the simplest thing is to avoid it altogether. However, in doing so, you must also sacrifice the potential of the best possible outcome and bear the weight of both in perpetuity." Mama brushed a loose lock of hair away from Phoebe's face, tucking it behind her ear. "In my experience," she said, "a man who did not love his wife would have no reason to sit for hours awaiting her presence at this hour of the night. Isn't knowing worth a tiny leap of faith?" It wasn't a tiny leap. It was a massive, blind jump across a vast chasm in the faint hope that Kit would be there to catch her on the other side. If he let her plummet into it— She squeezed her eyes shut. No . She was not going to seize upon the worst possible outcome any longer. She had only just relieved herself of a decade's worth of weight. Now was hardly the time to go about adding new stones upon her shoulders. "It is," she said. "Then, for God's sake, darling, go talk to your husband," Mama said. "And off my balcony, if you please. Your father and I ought to have retired for the evening ages ago." Together they slipped back inside the house, and Phoebe allowed herself a hug from Mama and Papa both, storing up the affection within them for a bit of extra reassurance. The worrying, she reminded herself as she wended her way down the stairs, was ever so much worse than the reality. And if Kit did not love her—well, then, she would simply have to endeavor to make him. She was eminently loveable, she assured herself as she cracked the terrace door open and slid out into the night. She paused a moment to breathe in the scent of the roses that bloomed in opulent profusion within the garden and made a concentrated effort to settle her jangling nerves. How did one begin such a conversation? It hadn't been a part of their bargain, but he'd been open to renegotiation before. The stone walkway stretched out before her; a path leading out into the unknown. She'd walked it dozens of times before, but this time—this time waiting there at the end was everything she'd never known she wanted, if only she could summon to courage to reach for it. She would have to begin it one step at a time, and trust that when she reached her destination, Kit would be there waiting for her. She flexed her fingers to still the trembling of her hands and thought instead of Kit's head resting upon her lap, eyes closed in bliss as she scratched her nails through his hair. Of the way he had sprung to her defense, lunging at Statham over the dinner table when the man had dared to suggest she was something less than respectable. Of how he always seemed to seek out her company, even though she knew him to be quite a private man. Of how easily he'd capitulated when she'd asked him to stay with her at night, how he had held her to drive away the nightmares. At last she came to the bench, the heels of her thin slippers sinking into the soft earth. For years, she had watched her siblings and her closest friends fall in love and marry. She had been happy for them, of course, every time, even if she had never wanted it for herself. How much more remarkable was it that her own love story had found her regardless? And it had begun right here, though she hadn't realized it until now. She settled upon the bench, let her hands fall into her lap. Turned her face to the stars sparkling like diamonds in the heavy blackness of the sky overhead. And it wasn't fear that made her heart pound in her chest. It was just love. "Kit, I—" In the distance, there was the faint, familiar shrill of hinges. Kit's terrace door, she thought, and her heart sank to her toes. She'd missed him. She'd taken too much time and he'd given up his vigil for the evening. And then— "Phoebe." Kit's voice, terse and commanding, pitched low. Close. Just over the wall. "Go inside at once. Lock the damned doors." There was a short, malignant laugh from some distance away, and a sudden chill swept over her, sending her awash in chill bumps. She'd heard that voice before. It was the same one that had haunted her nightmares. Fear jolted her upright, one hand clutching at the neckline of her nightgown, where her stiletto would have rested within its sheath had she been properly attired. She heard a familiar, muted groan—the sort that Kit always made when he rose to his feet, forcing his injured knee to support him. He said, "Hello, Scratch. I hear you prefer Russell these days."