Page 6 of Letters for Phoebe

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.