Page 11 of Letters for Phoebe

Mr. Carew noticeably perked up, and he fairly dove into the topic. “Given that the Tower was built by the Normans, one must start there, and understand where the original foundations existed before London was altered.”

As he continued to discuss the type of stone used to build the original walls about the Tower of London, Phoebe looked to the side to see Mr. Fenwick’s reaction to her victory.

He actually wore a frown and stabbed at his fish as though the food had done him harm.

Served him right. Everyone knew Mr. Carew’s mother wanted all her sons married, which made any one of them fair game. But Phillip Carew’s fortune would be in proportion to Phoebe’s, making him her favored candidate.

Batting her eyes, Phoebe turned her full attention to Mr. Carew, and tried to understand why he disliked the Tudor additions to London’s famous castle so very much.

Chapter 4

A Turn About the Square

To My Friend P.K.,

While I congratulate you on your excellent selection this time, I feel I must offer warning yet again. Mr. P.C. has not yet made it general knowledge, but he is, at present, promised to another. I should hate to see you waste your time—or worse still—your feelings, upon a man who cannot return your sentiments.

Most Sincerely, With My Good Wishes,

Your Friend

To My Mysterious Friend,

I will not bother to speculate how you are so aware of my movements that you know precisely how and when to warn me. We live in London. A thing barely happens before the gossip takes it from one end of the city to the other. I thank you for your warning.

As I do not know how you come by your information, you will understand that I must verify what you have said before acting upon your advice. Nevertheless, I am most grateful to you.

Yours, etc.,

P.K.

* * *

Phoebe left the letter to her anonymous friend with the flower girl, then started upon her walk. Berkeley Square was not so fine as Grosvenor Square, but Number Fourteen had been her home during every Season from the time of her childhood. Her father had bought it, nearly new, and she had measured her years by the growing trees in the middle of the square.

A maid walked behind her, just far enough back to give Phoebe the illusion of privacy. This allowed her to pretend, for a brief time, that she was not a maiden in her third London Season, but an independent woman.

Miss Applegate’s insinuation two evenings previous, that Phoebe had been unsuccessful in finding a husband the previous years, had nettled her. Unlike most women who went charging about, looking for the wealthiest husband they could attract, Phoebe had first come to London with roses in her cheeks and romance in her heart. She had made that vow to her friends, of course, and had meant it with all the zeal of girlhood.

She had planned everything, perfectly, before stepping foot on London soil. The first half of her Season, she would come to know as many gentlemen as possible, and make new friends who were as good as those she had left behind. There would be one gentleman, she knew, who would stand out. A man worthy of her heart, and the promise she and her friends had made.

Phoebe paused on her walk and looked across the Berkeley grasses to the young trees reaching for the heavens the way she had once reached for her dream of a gentleman to hold her heart.

No such man had ever appeared. No matter. She had drawn up her plans for her second Season, and just when she thought to give up, she had met Harold Brookston. He had flattered and flirted, made her blush, danced with her at every opportunity. Then he had started pushing for an engagement, and she’d demurred, uncertain of her heart.

That uncertainty had saved her. His family had fled in the night, but they were caught and brought back to London to stand trial. Harold and his father went to debtor’s prison, their estate seized by the Crown.

He had wanted her money, and nothing more.

People married for worse reasons. Phoebe knew that.

But she’d fled to the country, humiliated, and shredded her plans to bits. Then she wrote up a new plan, with a list of names. Romance was not for her. She would find another way to happiness in mutual respect. That would be enough.

With such melancholy thoughts distracting her, Phoebe did not notice Mr. Fenwick until he stood at her side. “What are you looking at with such intensity, I wonder?”

She jumped and covered her heart with one hand. “Mr. Fenwick.”

He gave her a lop-sided grin and bow. “Miss Kimball. Greetings.”