“Yes, and I meant it. Because of your personalities, you would drive each other crazy,” Hudson overdramatized the shaking of his body.
“Probably, but no matter. We decided against it.”
“Phew! I expect to hear from you either tonight or first thing tomorrow. I’m dying to know who you’re being arranged with.”
“Me too. And yes, I’ll send word.” As they walked toward the door, the voices of the same five gentlemen lowered again as they passed by. Oliver nodded. “Gentlemen.”
“Your Grace,” all five said.
When they stepped outside, Hudson laughed. “What was that about?”
“When I arrived, they shut the betting book. I believe there’s a bet on me, or rather, who my future wife will be. Do me a favor—go back inside and check.”
“You really want to know?” Hudson raised a brow.
“Yes.”
“Fine,” he mumbled, turned around, and went back inside.
Oliver hurried to the mews and mounted Wind. He didn’t even want to contemplate how many hours he had left to wait for the meeting.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On the morning of the day she was to meet a potential suitor and possible husband, Phoebe went down to the kitchens for breakfast. Her aunt must have given up poisoning her, since no tray had arrived that morning. No doubt the scare with Fluffy had rattled her, and she couldn’t risk her precious dog being poisoned again. That eased Phoebe somewhat, but not completely. She would never truly let her guard down until she no longer lived within Greenwich House.
Phoebe hadn’t seen her aunt since the day she’d moved into the pink room and peeked into the drawing room while the Duke of Doom was visiting. She cringed each time she called him that, but try as she might, she couldn’t remember his name, and she didn’t want to ask Emma.
It was rather sad about the duke. Emma would make him a wonderful duchess. Of course, that hinged on there not being a curse. But Phoebe didn’t believe in curses. Since Lord Norton hadn’t shown any interest in Emma, perhaps the man she was meeting tonight would have a friend, and he and Emma would suit each other. She owed Emma for all her help. If she could assist her in finding a suitor and husband, it would make her happy. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t married and raising a family by now.
When Phoebe finished eating, she went back to her room and found Fluffy outside. She picked her up and hugged her. “What are you doing here? You know your mama doesn’t want you near me.” Fluffy licked her chin, and Phoebe giggled at the feel of her wet tongue. “You are such a sweet dog. How did you ever manage to belong to such a mean mistress?” Fluffy licked her again. She put her down and watched as the white dog wiggled down the hall and disappeared down the staircase. Nodoubt she wanted to find someone else to lick the remains of breakfast off their face.
Phoebe went to the dressing table, which doubled as a writing desk. She took out paper, quill, and ink and wrote a letter to her father. She would never send it, as she had no address for him. But perhaps she would let go of some of the anger she felt toward him if she put her thoughts on paper. It couldn’t hurt, and it was worth a try.
Dearest Father,
The day you packed up and left, Mother died. I was with her at the end, and she didn’t appear to suffer. As I had promised to her, I contacted your brother, Lord Greenwich, and he arranged for Mother’s burial and took me home to live. He and Lady Greenwich feed and clothe me, but that is all. I’m not allowed in the family rooms. I eat with the servants. After the first week of staying in the attic, Lady Emma, the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Greenwich, insisted on moving me into the room beside hers. That is where I am now as I write this letter.
Emma is very kind to me, and we have become friends.
Since I’ve been at Greenwich House, I’ve mourned Mother, and as I’ve seen how your brother lives and how you left Mother and me on her deathbed, I’ve had to confront my anger toward you. I wonder why, when I was eight years old, we had to leave our nice home and move to the house we rented, where we lived for thirteen years. Why did we have no money? Why did Mother work her fingers to the bone taking in mending, while I cooked and cleaned? Why did you never let me marry? You both came from prominent families, so what went wrong? I realize you will never read this letter, but still, I sit here, withtears in my eyes, for Mother and for what you did to her. I don’t want to say she died because of you, but that is what I believe. If she had had the privileged life she was born into, perhaps she wouldn’t have become sick. Only God knows the truth. I pray you find what you are looking for.
Your only daughter,
Phoebe
Before her tears blurred all the words, she folded the parchment and tucked it into a book of poems. Her tears continued as she pictured her mother’s beautiful face before she became ill. Seeing her mother’s face in death was something she struggled with. She didn’t want to remember her that way, so she forced that scene from her mind. Just as she refused to see what her father had turned into. She was tired of being angry with her father for what he had done to them, for his leaving.
She forced herself to stop crying and breathed in and out, hoping to calm her nerves. She whispered something she thought she’d never say, “I forgive you, Father.” They were only words, but the crushing weight lifted from her chest instantly. Not forgiving him wouldn’t hurt him, but it was hurting her, so she let it go. If she were to forge a future with someone, she needed to enter the relationship with an unencumbered past and heart.
Now what did she do? It was hours yet to luncheon and even more hours until her meeting with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She flopped onto her bed, propped up the pillows, and stared into the fireplace, which had been set. October could be chilly.
She took luncheon and dinner in the kitchens with the servants. They were neither unfriendly nor friendly toward her, and she didn’t blame them. As the niece of their employer and the lord of the house, they must find it strange that she tookher meals with them. It didn’t bother her if they ignored her. She preferred it that way. And with any luck, she wouldn’t be in residence much longer.
In her room now, dressed and waiting for Emma’s knock, she paced, her stomach tied in knots. There was a soft knock on the door. Phoebe went and opened it a crack. Emma said, “All clear. Come quickly.”
Phoebe followed Emma as silently as possible to the servants’ stairs and down to the kitchens. The cook sat alone at the table, drinking tea. Emma held up a finger for silence. Phoebe raised a hand and pulled her hood lower so she wouldn’t be recognized. Except it wouldn’t be too hard for the cook to guess.
She slipped out the servants’ door and hurried toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s carriage, which she could see several houses down. When she approached, Puck jumped down from his seat and opened the door. “Welcome, miss.”
