Letters for Phoebe, page 2
Griffin went in search of his mother, his grin more confident now that he had decided upon a course of action.
Chapter 2
A Little Luck
Mr. Joseph Kimball had left Town to see to a matter on his father’s estate. That was what the Kimball butler told Griffin the next morning when he asked to be admitted into the house. Griffin stared at the butler with confusion.
“What of the senior Mr. Kimball?” Surely, Miss Kimball’s father would serve just as well. He need only deliver a warning. It mattered little to whom, so long as the individual cared about Miss Kimball’s happiness.
“He did not come to Town this Season,” the butler said, somehow looking and sounding stiffer than before.
Griffin took a card from his coat and gave it to the servant. “Here is my card. Will you take it up to Mrs. Joseph Kimball? She and I are friends.”
The butler took the card, then placed it on a silver platter on a table near the door. “I am afraid she is resting and is not to be disturbed, sir.”
There were very few hours left before Miss Kimball was to entertain Mr. Milbourne. While nothing dire was likely to occur during their casual appointment, it would be best if she were warned not to schedule another. He should put her on her guard, at the least.
Leaving the house with a quick step, Griffin went directly to the rooms he kept in town. When his parents came to London, he usually stayed with them, but keeping his own set of rooms had proven quite handy on more than one occasion. Independence from one’s parents assured more felicity and understanding when he made decisions for himself without first consulting them. They loved him, of course, but Griffin needed a place all his own.
He let himself into his rented rooms inside what had once been a very elegant townhouse. Three rooms with doors opening into each other belonged to him. He used one for dining, one as a bedroom, and the largest as a place to entertain guests and relax.
He went into his bedroom where a writing desk sat beneath a wide window. Griffin dropped into the chair and rummaged about in the drawers until he found everything necessary to write a letter.
The moment he dipped his pen in the ink, however, he realized his mistake.
He had planned to write Caroline, but she might not see his letter if she had taken ill. The butler had seemed more than adamant about her remaining undisturbed, after all. No one else was in the house, except Miss Phoebe Kimball herself. Writing a young woman, without parental permission, was most improper.
Griffin tossed the pen down and leaned back in his chair.
Impropriety had rarely stopped him before, but he had never mixed anyone in with his plans without their permission. Miss Kimball would likely object to him taking such a liberty as writing her a personal note.
But then, if she did not know where the note came from, or who had penned it, she would have no reason to be upset.
Thus justified, Griffin took the pen up once more.
Two letters waited for Phoebe in her room, after she had spent a marvelous quarter of an hour in Mr. Milbourne’s company.
Perhaps marvelous overstated the time spent with the gentleman, but Phoebe needed to be positive. His fortune was similar in size to hers, which meant they would enter into any match made as equals. That was a high mark in his favor.
She took her letters from Lawler, thanking the butler, and went into the study to open them. She recognized the hand on the first, and the thickness of the paper made it clear there was more to the packet than merely a letter.
But it could not be. She had no need of the bracelet, or of the good luck the girls had come to associate with it. Everything in her life went according to plan, no luck necessary.
Yet when she lifted the seal and unfolded the paper, a handkerchief fell to the desk with a light clatter. Phoebe hesitated, then lifted the thin cloth to reveal a bracelet of red round beads. It was from Lavinia. She said nothing extraordinary, but the paragraph explaining the bracelet was of interest.
I know this is a trying time for you, dearest. Please consider wearing our bracelet. I think it will bring you luck—and possibly love—on your husband hunt.
After reading through the letter twice, Phoebe sighed and looked down at the bracelet. There would be no harm in wearing it, even if she did not need any extra good fortune. She could look on the bracelet as a simple trinket, reminding her of her friends and simpler times.
In a moment, she had it wrapped about her wrist. The clasp was one the girls had made certain each of them could easily do up alone. A small snick secured the red beads to her wrist, and almost immediately Phoebe felt as though each of her friends stood before her.
Daphne, Marah, Lavinia, and Isabel. How she missed them. They had been as close as sisters during their time at school. But it had been years since they had met up, all together.
With a gentle sigh and a tender heart, Phoebe opened the second letter.
Miss P.K.,
I take no delight in this, but feel you must be warned. Mr. Milbourne is not a man to be trusted. He is swiftly gambling away the family fortune, and will lose yours if you two become connected. There is more which makes him an unsuitable choice for a gentlewoman of good family. Please be cautious in your acquaintance with him.
-A Friend
Phoebe stared at the letter, her heart racing. She read it again, trying to ascertain if she had ever seen the handwriting before. It was bold, with a slant that felt decidedly masculine. The paper was plain, without any embellishment to suggest a personal stationery. She turned it over and inspected the red-wax seal. A rampant lion.
Her bracelet, the same color as the seal, caught her eye.
No. That was silly. The letters had arrived at the same time, and had nothing to do with one another. The bracelet was just a bracelet. A nervous laugh escaped Phoebe and bounced about the corners of the room.
The note, though. That could be serious.
Phoebe left the study and went in search of the butler. She found him in the entryway.
“Lawler,” she said, holding out the letter. “Do you know where this letter came from? It has not been franked, nor does it appear to have come through the post.” The lines were too crisp, the paper unwrinkled.
“That letter?” Lawler looked at the seal. “Oh, yes. The little girl who sells flowers near the park brought it to the house. She has brought notes from the Barret-Rye family before, I believe.”
Phoebe nodded. The Barret-Ryes were friends of Caroline’s who lived on the far side of the park. Caroline had mentioned on a walk one afternoon when they’d passed the girl that they frequently bought flowers from her and sent her on the occasional errand for a few pennies.
“I see. Yes, I think you are correct about the flower girl.” But his assumption that the note was from the Barret-Ryes was most certainly incorrect. Surely other families might employ the child in a similar manner. “Thank you, Lawler.” Phoebe walked to the stairs, holding the note against her chest.
The words it contained might be a lie. Or she might be at risk of being misled by a man. Again. What had Caroline said yesterday?
April is the month of fools.
“I will not be taken in again,” Phoebe whispered. She hurried to her room to fetch her spencer and bonnet. If she made a few calls, she could find the truth for herself.
Griffin walked down St. James’s, grinning to himself. He had left his club where several of his friends had recounted his dough-ball duel back to him, laughing all the while. They were placing bets as to what sort of foolish thing he might do next. Some thought he would release an animal from the menagerie, or perform on stage at the Royal Theatre. The betting book had appeared, amid much ribbing, and Griffin quite enjoyed the attention, as anyone would.
He intended to walk a distance before finding a hack to take him home for the evening; any number of black carriages waited on gentlemen who had not brought their own vehicles that evening, but the closest conveyance was not the one Griffin sought. He peered into a few as he walked, looking for signs of age. He preferred to give his funds to those most in need, not the few who had managed to claim the choicest positions near the front doors of gentlemen’s clubs.
The flash of a pale face inside one vehicle gave him pause. He took a few steps backward and looked again, certain he was mistaken.
A woman waited in the hack. He looked up at the driver, who purposefully ignored him, then approached. Poor thing had likely come looking for a relative and did not know how to go about getting them out of the club without causing a scene. Women were not allowed, of course, and usually sent servants to deliver important messages to husbands.
Griffin knocked on the window, purposefully looking away. “Madam, if you will tell me who you are waiting for, I will happily fetch the man for you.”
There was a yelp from inside, then the window dropped open with a bang, startling him into looking up. Directly into Miss Kimball’s face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her dark eyebrows raising comically high.
“What am I doing here? My club is here. What are you doing here?” Griffin stared at her, then looked deeper into the shadows. “Do you at least have a maid with you?”
She gasped. “That is none of your concern.”
She was alone. Griffin shook his head. “What are you doing out here, Miss Kimball? Your reputation—”
The door opened, and she reached out to grab the lapel of his coat, stunning Griffin enough that he complied when she pulled him into the coach. He realized what he had done when she shut the door behind him.
“See here, Miss Kimball, I will not be forced into a compromising position with you.”
A bark of a laugh followed her momentary silence. “Me? Compromise you? Why ever would I do such a thing?”
That ruffled his pride a bit, but Griffin shrugged. “Who knows? Women are mysterious creatures. For instance, I have absolutely no idea why you would pull me into a dark carriage if you did not have nefarious purposes.”
She leaned forward in her seat, allowing the lamplight from outside to illuminate her face. “Nefarious?” She smiled enough to make him almost like her. “I suppose I am behaving rather unusually, but I assure you, my being here has nothing to do with you. I merely had no wish for you to stand there and give me away. I am here for a very specific purpose.”
“What might that be, that it requires sitting all alone on St. James?” Griffin adjusted his posture first, his hat second, and then smoothed the lapels of his coat. “Caroline would have a fit, I am certain. She cannot know that you are here.”
“No one knows I am here,” she stated coolly, looking out the window again. “And I will thank you to tell no one about it. You may leave now, if you wish. No one is upon the street at present.”
“What is it you are waiting for? Or whom are you waiting for? Perhaps I can help.” That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, of course. The satisfaction of his curiosity was an additional benefit. After the way Miss Kimball had treated him the day before, he had thought her entirely too bent upon propriety to be the adventurous sort.
For several seconds, she bit her bottom lip and stared out the window. Her eyebrows were drawn down, her eyes narrowed as she seemed to think. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, then sighed. “I suppose the fact that Caroline knows you so well ought to count in your favor. Very well. I am waiting on Mr. Milbourne. You may remember introducing us yesterday.”
“I do, yes.” He looked out the window, a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. “Are you meeting him here?”
“Heavens, no.” She appeared genuinely startled. “I intend to spy on him.”
His jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Spy on him?” He sat back in the seat and took her in with entirely new eyes. He had thought her prim and proper. Arrogant or conceited. But here she played at espionage. “I have seriously misjudged you, Miss Kimball.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I am not surprised.” Whatever she meant by that statement, he could not say.
“At least I can be of some service to you,” he said at last, the world trying to right itself in his mind. “Mr. Milbourne will not come out for a few hours yet. He is playing cards.”
Her shoulders sunk. “Hours? It is midnight now.”
Griffin nodded slowly. She was acting on the information in his anonymous letter. While he had not expected such a dramatic reaction, Griffin’s relief she had taken him seriously made him relax. “The game is easily worth a few hundred pounds at the moment. He will play until it is over, then he will play again, whether he wins or loses.”
“Does everyone know about his gambling habits?” she asked quietly, notes of anxiety in each word.
“Everyone who pays attention to such things.” He shrugged, wincing on her behalf. What would it feel like to be the last one to hear such a thing? At least she had made no commitment to the gambler.
“Gambling is a popular pastime among gentlemen, though,” Miss Kimball said quietly.
Griffin shrugged again. “That is not the least of his vices, I am afraid.”
She groaned and dropped her face in her hands. “Duped. Again.” Without raising from her slumped position, Miss Kimball spoke through her fingers. “Thank you for your time and insight, Mr. Fenwick. You may go.”
Could he, when she was obviously in distress? “Miss Kimball, I could see you home if you like—”
Miss Kimball sat up abruptly, her spine straight as a needle and her tone just as sharp. “That is unnecessary.” She opened the door to the hackney. “Thank you for your concern. Good evening.”
Her swift dismissal, made with a cold tone and her nose in the air, gave him pause. Yet he tipped his head to her, stepped out of the coach, and shut the door behind him. Some people did not know how to show gratitude. Not that he needed effusive praise, but something more than being turned out onto the street as though he had been the one performing a questionable act did not sit well with him. It nearly brought his temper to the surface.
Irritating, unreasonable woman. As much as he had admired the gumption it took to spy upon someone, and the bravery besides, he would not allow himself to like Miss Kimball. He had done her a good turn, nothing more. Griffin was determined to think no more of her, even as he walked into the darkness of the street and heard her hackney pull away.
Chapter 3
A Sparring Match
To My Friend,
You have saved me from great humiliation and subsequent despair. I thank you, with all my heart. You cannot know what it means to me to receive your warning at such a time when no one else could advise me. I have made certain Mr. M. will have no reason to believe himself welcome in the future.
Truly, I cannot express the depth of my gratitude. May God bless you.
Sincerely Yours,
P.K.
Griffin arrived at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Carew, and their three sons, barely in time for dinner. He’d been abominably late to all of his appointments that day, ever since he had received the note from Phoebe Kimball. He’d read and reread her words, studied the swirls of her handwriting, and tried to discern how the young woman who had pushed him out of a hack could possibly be the same one who wrote such warm words with an elegant and gentle hand.
The woman was more than the stuffy socialite he had first thought her.
He paused in the foyer of the grand house on Brook Street, making certain his cravat remained presentable. With a quick grin at his own reflection, Griffin followed a footman to the upstairs parlor. The doors opened and Griffin strolled in, ready to find entertainment or make his own.
His eyes landed almost immediately on a woman dressed in pale blue, with flashing gemstones in her hair and a placid expression upon her face.
Miss Kimball.
Fortune had smiled upon him, giving him another opportunity to take her measure. Griffin went immediately to where she stood, listening to Phillip Carew wax eloquent about architecture. Phillip was the second Carew son, the one nearest Griffin in age and a personal friend. The poor fellow had reverted to the topic on which he could speak for hours, long after the eyes of his listeners glazed over.
It could only mean Miss Kimball had done something to make Phillip nervous.
Griffin had better save his friend. “Good evening, Miss Kimball. Phillip.”
Dark lashes lowered, Miss Kimball’s lips turned down when he addressed them. “Mr. Fenwick. I did not know the Carews were a mutual acquaintance.”
“Nor did I.” Griffin grinned wider when her frown deepened. Though she appeared to dislike him, he suspected there was a great deal more to her regard for him than that. He would discover it, too. “It is a pleasure to see you again so soon after our last meeting.”
Ah, that caused a greater reaction.
The woman’s dark eyes widened, momentarily turning fearful.
“A pleasure,” she repeated, her eyes cutting to the side as though looking for an escape.
His cheer diminished somewhat. He had not meant to make her afraid, alluding to their meeting the night before. Curse it, this was precisely why his mother had always told him to think before speaking. The lady thought he meant her harm, no doubt.
“Of course, it was also our first meeting, in the park,” he said hastily, in an attempt to allay her fears. Her eyes sought his again, and the sharp lines of her shoulders relaxed.
Phillip looked from Miss Kimball to Griffin with an arched eyebrow. “I am pleased you two know one another, even though it is a recent acquaintance.” He cleared his throat, looking suddenly over Griffin’s shoulder. “Ah, if you will both excuse me. I see someone I must speak to.” His awkward exit indicated well enough the excuse had been invented. He bowed and disappeared.
Griffin chuckled, knowing Phillip would thank him later, but when he turned back to Miss Kimball her expression froze him in place.
