Chapter Four

T o share, or not to share? Phoebe sipped her tea and mulled it over in her head. She was, in a manner of speaking, engaged to be married. Or at least she would be in short order. Tomorrow night, if all went to plan. She should tell her friends, at least. There was no better time than now, in the privacy of Emma's sitting room, during tea. Their first tea with all of them together since Diana had been delivered of a son, Jacob, early last month. It was the best, most convenient time, surely. They would understand. "You'll be relieved to learn, naturally," Emma said to Phoebe as she poured herself a fresh cup, "that there won't be a single bachelor present at my ball tomorrow evening." By that, Phoebe assumed that Emma's brother had not yet gotten round to accepting the invitation he'd received. But he would. He had to. "Really?" Lydia inquired. "How did you manage that?" "I find that bachelors willing to attend such things grow increasingly rare," Emma said. "Largely, it's the wives that compel it—the bachelors prefer to give of their coin instead of their time." Diana laid a hand upon Phoebe's shoulder. "And if there happens to be a bachelor that slips through—well, I'm certain we can invent some sort of excuse for you." "A torn slipper ribbon," Emma suggested. Phoebe sighed. "I've tried that one thrice—and twice was enough to have Mama visit the shoemaker and cast aspersions upon the quality of his wares. I shouldn't like to jeopardize the poor man's business any further." "A fainting spell?" Diana offered, along with a plate of biscuits. Phoebe shook her head. "Regrettably, Mama now carries a vinaigrette for just such a purpose. And the last time I feigned a faint, Mama summoned a doctor and I was forced to endure the application of leeches." "Dear me," Emma sighed, forgetting her manners to rest her elbow upon the small table and tuck her chin into her hand. "Well, don't fret over it. I don't anticipate any bachelors, but should one slip through, we'll think of something." Well, that wouldn't do. Even if she did have the dearest, most loyal friends that were to be found in the whole of England, it would be impossible to get herself appropriately compromised under their careful watch. She ventured, "I don't think such subterfuge will be necessary tomorrow evening." "Likely not," Emma said. "But it's always wisest to prepare for any eventuality. Lord Statham was not invited, but he's been crass enough before to prevail upon the good manners of a hostess, or so I am told." "Not to worry," Diana assured Phoebe. "We shall ensure that he doesn't make it through the door should he have the gall to turn up uninvited." "I'm not concerned about Lord Statham," Phoebe said. At least, she wasn't any longer. Or she wouldn't be, soon enough. "I only meant to say, if there should be a bachelor in attendance—" Blast . "But there won't be," Lydia said crisply. "But if there should be!" Phoebe threw up her hands in a surfeit of aggravation. "If there should be, then—then I don't believe any extraordinary measures needs must be taken." A strange silence settled over the table in the wake of Phoebe's pronouncement. "Phoebe," Emma said at last. "Is there something you would like to share? Am I to be playing hostess to an unexpected guest?" "An unexpected gentleman guest?" Diana inquired, blinking behind her spectacles. "And a bachelor, at that," Lydia added. "One you do not intend to dissuade?" How was she meant to answer everything at once? "Not unexpected, exactly," she prevaricated. Although perhaps he was, since he'd said he'd never attended before. Perhaps Emma had never truly expected him attend. "And yes, a bachelor." But a gentleman? She doubted even he would lay claim to the title. "I mean to say—" The fractious whimpering of an infant began as a distant sound, but Emma had been trained these last months to recognize immediately the sound of her small daughter, and her attention was instantly diverted to the doorway where, seconds later, her husband entered. "Pardon my intrusion," Rafe said apologetically as he bounced the small bundle in his arms in an attempt to soothe the baby from her discontent—without much success. "Only Mama will do, it seems." Thankfully, the piteous wail quieted the moment Emma took her daughter into her arms. "Oh, my poor darling," she cooed down at the baby. "That new tooth must pain you something awful. Rafe, would you fetch her some ice wrapped in a cloth to chew?" "Of course," he said, but then Phoebe had the sneaking suspicion that he refused Emma nothing. "Oh—as I have got your attention for the moment, a bit of news. You'll never guess who has accepted your invitation this time around." With one hand he dug into the pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved a folded bit of paper. "It arrived perhaps ten minutes ago," he said as he offered it to her. Oh, dear. With a deftness that suggested she had learned to manage rather a lot whilst holding a small child in her arms, Emma flicked the paper open with one hand and scanned the lines contained therein. Her brows rose, her mouth dropping open in pleased surprise. "Oh, how wonderful!" she said. "I always invite him, of course, but Kit has never once—" And then the realization struck her. Her voice faded out into a stunned silence, and her gaze swung toward Phoebe with the weight of a cudgel. " Kit ?" she inquired. "Well—well—" Phoebe's voice had emerged in shrill tones of encroaching panic. Desperately, she said, "He is not unexpected , exactly, is he?" Into the stilted silence that followed, Rafe said, "I've missed something, haven't I?" "I suspect we all have," Lydia replied blandly. "Oh, this is going to be an interesting afternoon indeed." "Yes," Diana agreed, shifting in her seat as she rubbed her hands together in a fashion that Phoebe could only consider wickedly gleeful. "Phoebe has got a great many questions to answer," she said. The worst sort of busybodies, they were, all three of them. But at least they were not gossips, and a woman had to take her blessings from whence they had come.

∞∞∞

"It's too damned tight." Chris fidgeted uncomfortably through Brooks' attempts to make him presentable for Em's ball. Why in the bloody damned hell did the Ton insist upon stuffing themselves into clothing tight as sausage casings? "It is the fashion," Brooks said, a frown tugging at his lips as he worked to knot Chris' cravat. "Then the fashion is absurd. What need ‘ave I got for a collar that touches my ears?" "It's your chin at best, and if you don't stop squirming, you'll strangle yourself upon your own cravat." Brooks gave the snowy fabric a yank, striving to tug out the wrinkles Chris' restless struggling had pleated into it. "If you had a valet, he'd tell you the same." "Don't need a damned valet." "Every gentleman needs a valet, damned or otherwise. There, at last." Brooks fluffed the trailing fabric of the cravat and stepped away, gesturing toward the cheval glass in the corner. Chris turned. Stared. Scowled. Glowered . "I look like a fucking dandy." "You're meant to look like a dandy, you miserable halfwit. And mind your speech, or you'll not make it through the door." "'Course I will. It's my damned sister's house." "And stop calling everything damned . It can't all be damned." If it required him to dress in frills and lace to rival a ball gown and pretend as though it wasn't wretchedly uncomfortable to do so? Then yes, it was all damned. "You're a terrible excuse for a butler," he said. "I've got ‘alf a mind to sack you." "You'd certainly have no more than half a mind if you did," Brooks retorted. "I'm the only one who knows his job in this household. It's just me standing between you and utter chaos." "Is that so?" Chris asked. "Then you can damned well go buttle something." Brooks blinked. "You haven't the faintest idea of what a butler is meant to do, have you?" Answer doors and such, probably. Though Chris hadn't nearly enough callers to justify the hiring of a man to do it. He did have the suspicion that there were a fair few other things that fell under the man's responsibilities, but he'd never given half a damn as to what they were—so long as Brooks came at his call. "I pay you to know these things," he said, plucking at the uncomfortably tight sleeves of his coat. "Stop fussing," Brooks growled. "The carriage is ready. Just—just get yourself into it and damned well go ." He reached out to snag the cane from where Chris had cast it haphazardly upon a dresser. Less fine than the one Emma had once purchased for him, and with fewer accoutrements and ornamentations, but it would serve its purpose well enough. He shouldn't have bought such a massive bloody house, he reflected, as he began the long journey through the halls and toward the door. Getting anywhere within it was a damned production, one that made his knee ache abominably. But at least the carriage was, indeed, waiting for him when he slid out into the night, the door left ajar so that he could climb into it. And he did, settling back against the plush seats with a sigh of relief as the pressure on his knee eased. He cast his cane onto the seat across from him, propped his boots upon the same, and now that Brooks was no longer present to chide him for it, he wrenched two fingers into the tight wrap of his cravat to loosen the strangling fabric. Probably he'd look somewhat less than refined when he arrived, but it didn't matter. He was coming home engaged regardless.

∞∞∞

"I thought Helen for Susannah," Mama said, between sips of champagne. "Who?" Phoebe asked absently, only half-listening. Every guest had arrived already—every guest, save one. She had been watching from her place against the wall all evening, carefully positioned with a perfect view of the doorway so that she would know immediately when Chris arrived. Had he shown up an hour ago, he might've been pronounced fashionably late. Now he was simply late and Phoebe had been left to wonder…had he reconsidered? Or had he only been poking fun at her to begin with? But he had accepted Emma's invitation, and that—that had to mean something, didn't it? "The retiring room girl," Mama said. "She's a wonder with hair, and such nimble fingers. Susannah is in need of a new lady's maid. I thought Helen for the position." "Oh," Phoebe said. "Oh, yes. Of course." Mama heaved a sigh. "It is a pity," she said. "Not a bachelor to be seen! And the gentlemen who are present seem to be less interested in dancing than they are in making free with dear Emma's champagne. Why, your dance card—" Mama paused mid-complaint, her cheeks hollowing. "Dearest, whatever have you done to your dance card?" Twisted it all up into a crinkled little scrap, apparently. Nerves could do that to a person, she supposed. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "Well, I suppose it's no great loss. It's not as though anyone has asked me to dance, anyway." "But someone might," Mama said. "And you'd be at a loss." "Mama, every gentleman in attendance is married." "Yes," Mama allowed begrudgingly. "But they might very well have single friends to whom they might recommend you." Phoebe might have found herself offended, if she did not know that all of Mama's machinations came from such a place of love. Any other mother in her position might have been desperate to rid herself of her last spinster daughter, but not Mama—Mama only wished to have all her children safely, and happily, married. She would be convinced to the last that it was none of Phoebe's own doing that she had not taken , but that London society, particularly the male half of it, was simply blind to her charms. "I see Emma just there," Phoebe said. "I'm certain she has got a fresh dance card going spare." She knew well enough that it would not get any use, but that hardly mattered. This one small thing would make Mama happy, at least for the moment. At least until Chris arrived. If he arrived. Her nerves jangled as she wound her way around the outer edge of the ballroom, toward the refreshment table where Emma stood. Emma caught sight of her some distance away and her brows lifted as Phoebe neared. "Champagne?" Emma asked, sotto voce , as Phoebe arrived. "You look quite peaked." "Please," Phoebe said, accepting the glass that Emma offered. "I told Mama I would ask you for a fresh dance card." She lifted the ruined one that dangled on a ribbon from her wrist. "Oh, dear. Do you think you shall have need of one?" "I don't expect so," Phoebe said. "But it was a convenient enough excuse to come and talk to you instead of standing at the wall and—and—" "Fretting?" "It's just that he's not come," Phoebe said in a harried whisper. "He will. He's never bothered even to respond before. But he has accepted, and so he will be here." Emma hesitated. "Phoebe…are you certain that this is what you truly want? Because you cannot take it back. If you should change your mind, you will be utterly ruined." A strange little shiver slipped down her spine. She might be ruined anyway; at least in the eyes of society. It was permissible, of course, even expected in some circumstances, for a woman to marry beneath her. If she hadn't the dowry to secure a suitor of a higher status than her own, she might have little other choice. A viscount's daughter could wed a mere mister, and still expect to find herself in invitations. She would not merely be marrying a rung or so beneath her, in the eyes of the Ton . She would be stepping off the ladder completely. It would be fine . Her friends would not desert her, nor her family. Even Emma had experienced remarkably few consequences due to her association with her illegitimate half-brother, though Phoebe had the sneaking suspicion that it had had quite a lot to do with the fact that she'd married into the Beaumont family, and that she now counted both a marquess and an earl among her relations. An odd hush descended over the ballroom, the thrum of conversation dying to nothing. The musicians played on, but amidst the silence of the room the music sounded suddenly hollow and shrill. And there he was. He had strolled in as casually as if he owned the place, with a wrinkled cravat tied a bit too loosely, his gold hair windblown—not in the fashionably disheveled manner in which certain gentlemen were wont to wear their hair, but as if he'd hung his head out the window of his carriage on the ride over. Every eye was trained upon him, and he wore the weight of the stares he collected without a flinch, as if he had not even noticed the attention he'd attracted, and— "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I'm certain." "Go, then," Emma said. "Kit's caused such a stir that you won't be missed. In fifteen minutes, I'll let your mother know you've gone to walk in the garden. If you change your mind, you must be back in the ballroom before then." Phoebe downed the last of her champagne and set the glass aside. And while the whole of the ballroom marveled at the unexpected intruder, she slipped out into the cool night air.

∞∞∞

Chris was accustomed to stares, to suspicion and reticence. He'd expected no less, even at an event hosted by Emma. There was a sort of power in it, one that he wielded on force of habit. Like the parting of the Red Sea, the dancers stumbled in their paces, drifting inexorably to the fringes of the floor to merge with the separating crowd. "Kit!" Em struggled through the thick of the throng that had coalesced at the outer edges of the room, as if they had been pulled by a magnet—or repelled from him. She held two glasses of champagne in her hands, which she guarded carefully as she weaved through her guests. "I'm so glad you've come," she said as the last strains of the music faded with a discordant hum of the strings. She reached his side at last, appearing oblivious to the vast swath of empty space which surrounded them. "Champagne?" she offered. "'Course. Far be it from me to refuse when the cost of it hasn't come from my purse." It was fine stuff, naturally, but then Em could well afford to entertain her guests in style. Into the heavy silence, he said, "I suppose you've gotten loads of donations?" "You'd have no reason to know, since you've not attended before," she said, "but the largest part of the evening is dedicated to entertainment and to finding appropriate positions for my oldest children. Donations are made at the end of the evening when the dancing has concluded. I expect it will be the most profitable year yet." "I expect you're correct." He lifted his voice just a little; a subtle suggestion to the room that it had better be. That they ought to dig as deeply into their pockets as they were able, if they wished to avoid his displeasure. "And where is Rafe this evening?" "Likely in the nursery," she said, "making himself suitably scarce. He attracts a great deal of attention these days, and he didn't wish to make himself the showpiece of my ball, when it is meant to be about the children. Do you know, I think he is not quite enjoying his newfound fame." No, Rafe wouldn't. He'd long become accustomed to enjoying a certain relative anonymity, in which society at large paid him little attention. To have found himself so much the focus of it just recently had no doubt placed him in a strange and awkward new position. "You're welcome to visit with him, if you like," Em suggested. "In the nursery? Not damned likely." Chris swallowed down the last of his champagne. "Oh, come. You're fond of the children; you know you are," she said. He supposed he was, in a way. The way of an uncle who frequently sent lavish gifts and sweets and such, and who tolerated the presence of his sister's children despite the annoying screeches and noxious smells that often emanated from them. But he had little interest in spending more time with them than absolutely necessary for the sake of whatever nebulous manner of family harmony Em had insisted upon. "Another time," he said. A far distant one, if at all possible. It wasn't why he'd come here tonight, though he could hardly say as much with at least a hundred pairs of ears striving to catch every word he spoke. And Em knew it. He could see it there upon her face. Probably Phoebe had told her—or at least told her enough. "Oh!" she said, as if it had just occurred to her that the entirety of her event had come to a screeching halt with his arrival. "What has happened to the music? Play on, if you please." A strange grumble of disappointment swept through the crowd as Em tugged at his arm, dragging him with her to the far corner of the room, and the musicians once again took up their instruments. The last dance had come to a premature end, and the dancers scrambled to find their next partners. "Phoebe's gone to the garden," Em said beneath her breath. "You'll need to wait here a bit. You're still too much a curiosity to escape unnoticed." Yes; she was likely correct there. Still several sets of eyes lingered upon him, as if waiting for him to perform some outrageous act. He reassured himself that at this distance, in what was clearly meant to be a private conversation, no one would overhear. "I've got a small speech prepared, which I intend to give when the next set concludes," Em said. "I should capture most everyone's attention for at least a few minutes. That's when you'll slip out." Good God, women were a wily lot. Had they planned every last detail? "To the garden?" "You must be interrupted during a private moment," she said. "It's critical. I shall have to make some sort of a fuss to gather what witnesses I can to find you there. The worst of the gossips, to ensure there's no wriggling out of it—for either of you." Apart from treason, Chris suspected he could wriggle out of a great many things. He was already a man of tenuous honor and no respectability; the only one truly trapped would be Phoebe. "Of course, I shall expect a sizeable contribution," Em said breezily. "For services rendered, you understand." Chris squinted, his hand fisting upon the handle of his cane. "'Ow sizeable, exactly?" "Two thousand pounds." " Two thousand ? You're out of your gourd." "Well, really, Kit, it is for a good cause, and it isn't as though you can't afford it. Besides, you owe me for every year you've not even sent a polite refusal," Em said with a sniff of offense. "I expect a bank draft in my hand before you leave. Now, do make your way toward the terrace and be ready to slip out promptly." And as she turned to wade once more into the thick of the crowd, Chris sighed and conceded that, given his circumstances, two thousand pounds was probably a bargain to secure himself a highborn wife.