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“Out riding. Men can only do the pretty so long and then they must exert themselves, lest they become cross and difficult. Where did I put the—?”
Sybil passed her a wooden mallet. “If you knew he was going riding, why did you not tell me? I could have gone with him.”
Phoebe tapped the cork back into the side of the barrel. “If he sought to spend more time in your company, he would have asked you at supper last night to join him this morning, but because you are allowing him to fall under that Wentworth woman’s spell, he’s likely off trying to meet her by chance where none are on hand to chaperone.”
Sybil clearly did not enjoy time spent in a wine cellar. She stood in the center of the room, where her hems would not touch the barrels, where her sleeve wouldn’t inadvertently collect a streak of dust.
Phoebe, by contrast, loved the place. Loved the peace of it, the wealth symbolized by having a store of good vintages, loved that she controlled every aspect of what happened here.
Would that she could control Sybil, or better still, Althea Wentworth.
Sybil took up the pipette and touched it to her mouth. “How can Ellenbrook meet by chance a woman who’s likely sipping her morning chocolate as we speak?”
“For God’s sake, you don’t suck on the pipette like a child with a sweet. The glass is not to touch the barrel or any part of your mouth, ever.”
Sybil met Phoebe’s glare and licked the end of the pipette. “Lady Althea entertained both me and Ellenbrook graciously, and Lord Stephen took a liking to me. He’s a ducal heir. Why should I cultivate Ellenbrook when I can look much higher?”
Just like her mother.Phoebe set the mallet atop the barrel, though she was tempted to strike Sybil a blow to her pretty head.
“Sybil, I could not love my own daughter more than I do you, but you are a commoner. This is evident in your thinking if not in your settlements.”
“Nearly all women are commoners.”
At least the dear child hadn’t accused Phoebe herself of that failing, though technically, Sybil would have been correct.
“I am the daughter of an earl, while you are…” Not quite beautiful, not quite wealthy, not quite shrewd. Dark-haired instead of a fetching blonde; green-eyed when gentlemen of breeding preferred blue eyes. A challenging combination to marry off, and that was assuming nobody pried too closely into Sybil’s antecedents. “A ducal heir is beyond your reach, and women who overreach are vulgar.”
“Women who overreach are vulgar, women who marry beneath themselves are pathetic.” Sybil started for the door. “Is marriage a sort of nursery rhyme such that only a middle door leads to happiness?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, taking one last look at her wine cellar. She’d oversee the bottling and decanting, but for now, she had other tasks to carry out. “Marriage is exactly like that. You seek a match that is advantageous to both parties without reflecting poorly on either one. If a woman has looks, then the fellow can be wealthy. If she has the money, then he can bring a title to the union.”
“But I have only modest assets of any kind. Papa is well-to-do, though—”
Phoebe held up a hand. Sybil’s father had earned much of his wealth supporting the British army in its ceaseless quest to conquer the known world. He was the younger son of a baronet, which helped a very little, and he owned several estates, which added a patina of respectability. Nonetheless, he was firmlyin trade. No amount of silk bonnets or embroidered slippers could obscure that reality.
“You are lovely,” Phoebe said, “well dowered, and will make Ellenbrook an excellent wife, but not if Lady Althea snatches him up first.”
“She’s lovely too, I tell you, and the Wentworths were obscenely wealthy even before they stumbled into a title. Lord Stephen is witty and not bad looking.”
Phoebe took the ring of keys from her pocket and locked the wine cellar, graft among the servants being a fact of life.
“The Wentworths are the last family you should seek to marry into.” Phoebe set a brisk pace for the stairs. “The duke was convicted of a heinous crime and juries don’t convict a man unless he’s guilty as sin.” He’d been pardonedandsupposedly exonerated, but Phoebe trusted an English jury to be more discerning than royal favor or gossip.
“But what about—?”
“The Wentworth fortune? They are bankers, and bankers become paupers overnight. Besides, Lord Stephen is only the heir, and his brother yet enjoys good health. Lord Stephen could be knocked from his expectations by this time next year. Then where would you be?”
Sybil stopped on the landing. “Married into a ducal family? Expecting the next spare? Free from godforsaken Yorkshire, where winters never end and everybody is cousins with everybody else?”
“You sound like me, when I was young and foolish. Apply yourself to wooing Ellenbrook and you will be a viscountess with more annual pin money than most women see in a lifetime.”
They gained the upper reaches of the house, morning sunshine showing off all the marble, gilt, and art to good advantage. Phoebe had worked hard to appoint her household in elegant good taste at a time when ostentation was becoming fashionable.
Sybil ran a finger along the frame of Great-Uncle Blanchard’s portrait, then rubbed the dust away with her thumb. “Should I call for my horse and attempt to meet Ellenbrook by chance?”
“We will call for the gig and pay a call on Vicar Sorenson. Wear your plain bonnet and everyday cloak.”
“Why are we calling on Vicar?”
