Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

L ife as a spinster was generally not as bad as the rest of the ton made it out to be.

Certainly, an enlightened male relative was necessary to provide a roof over one's head, but compared to a married Lady of Quality, Phoebe Townsend decided that spinsterhood certainly afforded her far more privileges than if she had a husband who lorded himself over her by virtue of his being born male.

Besides, she could hardly feel any difference in her life from before she had been declared off the marriage market, for better or for worse. It was simply a matter of finding similar like-minded individuals with whom she could comfortably associate with, and the so-called Spinsters' Club afforded her that rather nicely.

"It is rather pitiful how he has not chosen to marry," Miss Cartwright shook her head with a rueful smile. "With a face like that, he could send the whole of London abuzz!"

"Not to mention that he is currently a Marquess and heir to one of the finest estates in all of England!" Miss Bradbury added. "The Duke of Cheshire has been ill for so long that it is only a matter of time before…"

It was rude to speculate on the imminent demise of a person, of course, so she did not finish her sentence. However, it was understood by everyone in the Club that the Duke of Cheshire had been on his deathbed for quite some time and his son, the Marquess of Wentworth, Lord Charles Montgomery, still had no intention of fulfilling his obligations to his line and finding a wife to sire him an heir.

"But he is so dreadfully handsome!" Miss Cartwright sighed dreamily. "It is such a waste of his heavenly looks, to be sure!"

Phoebe barely looked up from her diary as the other ladies around her continued to gossip about their favorite gentleman—the infamous Lord Charles Montgomery, the Marquess of Wentworth. Every Wednesday, without fail, their conversations would turn towards the Marquess, and they would sigh over his dashing good looks.

I daresay Lord Wentworth would not be so pleased to find himself the object of the fantasies of a gaggle of spinsters , she thought to herself, as she made another note in her diary.

It was one thing to have swathes of eligible young ladies falling over themselves for a gentleman, and an entirely different thing for him to be secretly fawned over by a bunch of women who Society has collectively deemed wholly unsuitable for marriage.

"It is always the handsome ones who hide the darkest secrets," she heard Miss Adeline Thomas scoff. "He hardly ever leaves his estate, and he never accepts callers. That should be enough to tell you all that there is more to Lord Wentworth than just his looks."

"But that hardly means he is engaged in something nefarious," Miss Bradbury shuddered. "Perhaps he just prefers to keep to himself most of the time…"

All the other members of the Club would generally agree that a gentleman had the privilege to be selective of the company he indulged in. After all, a good number of them did prefer to stay away from social affairs too.

But Miss Thomas had the most unfortunate character trait of one who never wanted to be told she was wrong. Before she had been declared a spinster by her beleaguered papa and hapless mama, she had been called a veritable termagant behind her back for her querulous nature.

"Of course, they would never say that out loud," she told them all with a tone of derision. "After all, what villain would trumpet his misdeeds for all the world to hear? Mark my words—Lord Wentworth has probably murdered countless people and buried them in Wentworth Park!"

The idea of literal corpses becoming fertilizer for the vast and tangled gardens of Wentworth Park was so laughable that Phoebe had to pause from her scribbling to look up at her companions with a sigh.

"I certainly doubt the veracity of that particular claim," she told them.

As one, their gazes all swiveled back to her, most of them confused and hopeful.

Miss Thomas regarded her with an icy glare. "And how would you know? Have you been to Wentworth Park?"

"Of course not," she replied with an amiable smile at the quarrelsome lady. "But Townsend House is just near to Wentworth Park and one can clearly see the Marquess from my window if he ever deigned to go out and bury somebody in his own gardens. Besides," she told the rest of the group, "if he is going about and murdering as much as Miss Thomas claims, then he certainly is not very punctual about it."

She saw the twin spots of pink that colored Miss Thomas's cheeks, but she felt that she must speak out of turn to defend the honor and reputation of a gentleman who was not himself present to stand up for himself in the face of such lies.

"What do you mean he is not at all punctual about it?" Miss Cartwright dared to ask, her eyes lit up with curiosity.

"Well, contrary to popular opinion, he does come out of his house," Phoebe explained. "But it is always at around six in the evening and then, he proceeds to go about the rest of the estate…"

Miss Bradbury frowned. "Go about the rest of the estate doing what exactly?"

"Why, he inspects it, of course. Every inch of it, from what I could see."

"But Wentworth Park is quite large! It would take him hours to accomplish such a task."

Phoebe smiled at them. "Precisely. Now, if someone were to go about doing all that day after day, that would leave only the daytime hours for him to go about murdering people and that is hardly ideal unless one were to become a prolific killer in broad daylight."

The other ladies let out horrified giggles, for although as dark and horrific the idea of murder was, it was also quite ridiculous to engage in such an act in broad daylight, with most of the world being wide awake to witness the act.

A murmur of agreement rose from amongst the other ladies as Miss Thomas bristled in annoyance from her seat. Phoebe even saw her throw a glare her way, but she just shrugged it all off. She was pretty much accustomed to Miss Thomas and her attitude by then and a glare was not really the worst she had received from the other spinster, all things considered.

"My, you certainly have Lord Wentworth all figured out," Miss Thomas remarked in a saccharine tone. "A pity that he has not noticed you, then. In fact, the only attentions you have ever received was from—who was that again? Oh, Lord Edwin Oakley ."

At the mention of that name, Phoebe immediately stiffened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her pen.

Of course, Miss Thomas would bring out the Baron of Scunthorpe, which was a sore topic for Phoebe. He was the one thing that could reduce her to silence—and not in a good way.

Instead of flinging back a scathing retort, she looked down at the scrawled notes in her diary, her lowered eyes making out the name Charles written frequently amongst its pages.

Miss Thomas might hurl her vitriol at her, but Phoebe knew the truth—that Lord Wentworth was not the monster she made him out to be and she would not allow her to malign such a misunderstood man.

Before anyone could say anything else, Miss Cartwright let out a nervous laugh.

"Well, this was a rather, ah, lively discussion," she smiled at her guests. "But it is getting rather late now so we might have to adjourn this meeting and meet again, say, the same time next week?'

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group and Phoebe inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, things between her and Miss Thomas did not have to escalate unnecessarily.

She quickly packed up her things into her little satchel, when she recalled that she had promised her younger sister, Daphne, that she had to be back home earlier. She quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the group, pointedly ignoring the smirk that Miss Thomas casually threw her way.

"Will you be here the same time next week, dear?" Miss Cartwright asked her with hopeful eyes.

"Of course, Miss Cartwright," Phoebe replied with a quick smile.

"Do take care on your way back," her host told her with a gentle hand on her arm.

Phoebe gave her a slight nod as she hurried out the door, her satchel swinging from her arm, its contents jostling from within. She put a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away as she quickly made her way into the carriage waiting for her.

"Back to Townsend Manor, please," she told the coach. "And please hurry."

"Right away, Miss Phoebe!" the coachman replied, and with a snap of the reins, they were off.

Oh, I do hope that I am not too late or Daphne will never forgive me!

If she had not been caught in a small argument with Miss Thomas, she might have been better able to keep track of the time and excused herself from the meeting earlier.

Well, at least I have made it clear that I do not live next door to a brutal murderer , she thought with a relieved sigh.

She did, however, feel more than a little incensed when Lord Edwin was brought up in the conversation. Miss Thomas certainly had no qualms about being rude and offensive for as long as she could have the upper hand in an argument!

As she looked out the window apprehensively, Phoebe could not help but let out a sigh once more.