Revealed (30 page)

Phillippa saw Marcus leave the pavilion’s grounds through her opera glasses from the comfort of her box.

She had been holding court with Nora on the settee to her left, and Bitsy on the cushion to her right. Totty was at the front of the box, racing enthusiast that she was, delighted in the day’s activities. And everyone who was anyone, including the hostess Lady Hampshire, had stopped in during the day to pay their respects and gossip endlessly. It was a delightful affair, the day glorious, and the races amusing. Phillippa should be all that was comfortable, and yet she found herself remarkably agitated, nervously folding and unfolding her hands.

Currently, Phillippa was entertaining Miss Penny Sterling, much to Nora’s dismay. But Phillippa promised Marcus she’d cultivate the child—and besides, Penny was delightful, if unremarkably so.

“And Sir Ridgeway then asked if he could have another dance, but my father much prefers Mr. Crawley to him, but Sir Ridgeway is so very kind. Mrs. Benning, what do you think I should do?” Penny looked at Phillippa hopefully. Since Totty had done Phillippa the great service of steering Louisa and Mrs. Dunningham toward the balustrade to watch the races, Penny took the opportunity to seek motherly guidance from Phillippa. That Phillippa was only four years Penny’s elder did not faze her.

“Tell me dear, what are your objections to Mr. Crawley?” Phillippa asked.

“I have none, not really,” she said. “He works with my father, he calls often. But he’s not Sir Reginald Ridgeway.”

“Well. Sir Reginald is a good friend and a consummate gentleman,” Phillippa purred. “Feel free to dance with him twice, but only if you also dance twice with Mr. Crawley. We can’t let any of the men think you favor them over another, can we?”

“Of course not!” Penny replied instantly. Then, “Er, why not?”

“Because then they’ll think they have you and no longer try to catch you.”

“Oh,” Penny said, a confused scowl taking over her features. “But Papa says I should make men think I love them, and that way I’ll get married faster.”

“Faster?” Phillippa asked. Lord help the child whose font of marital advice is her father.

“Yes, Papa says he cannot take the idea of escorting me out another Season. Apparently it’s a trying thing.”

Or it was an expensive thing. And judging by Penny’s clothes, money could be of the essence in the Sterling household.

“Well, one way to make men love you is to dress to best advantage,” Phillippa broached. She heard Nora snort behind her but ignored it.

“Absolutely,” Penny agreed. “I studied the ladies’ journals for months before my debut, and I picked out this color myself. What do you think?” She held out a length of her skirt, a puce shade of twill fabric. The shade was likely intended to capture the bit of violet in Penny’s eyes, but it failed miserably.

Maybe funds were not the difficulty, Phillippa thought grimly, but Penny’s taste. No seventeen-year-old girl in her first Season should be given complete reign over her own wardrobe. And with a disconnected mother and a bewildered father, it seemed like that had occurred.

Humming a noncommital reply, Phillippa was saved from further comment by Mrs. Dunningham spotting a friend in the crowds, forcing the girls to take their leave.

Phillippa resolved silently to call on Madame Le Trois on Penny’s behalf immediately upon their return to London, as she bade the ladies adieu and relaxed back into the sofa cushions. However, her eyes were still alert and her hands were still twisting nervously in her lap.

This did not go unnoticed, although its cause was given a different source.

“Good heavens, Phillippa, darling, leave off, you’ll twist your handkerchief into a ball,” Totty remarked, as her eyes followed the horses through the turn.

She finally stood, excusing herself from the settee where the surrounding crowd was becoming stifling, and joined Totty at the front of the box. Nora, not to be left out, followed.

“It’s no secret why she’s nervous,” Nora muttered under her breath.

“Hmm?” Phillippa replied, and then seeing the damage she had indeed caused to her square of fine linen, promptly stopped abusing the poor object. “What do you mean, Nora? What have I to be nervous about?”

“Anticipation, of course,” Nora replied, and then, at a whisper, so the chattering ladies behind them wouldn’t hear. “Since Broughton disappointed you last night, you have another full day of anticipation until . . .”

Phillippa turned her gaze away from the spot where Marcus Worth had stood, and let go of her questions as to where he could have gone—the final races were about to begin—to look questioningly at her diminutive friend. Nora’s gaze shone bright and hopeful.

“Nora, what on earth are you talking about?” Phillippa inquired.

Nora blushed awkwardly and continued.“You . . . and Broughton. In all the books, the anticipation is often excruciating, until the moment of—”

“You are no longer allowed to read such books,” Phillippa declared disdainfully. “Obviously they’ve rotted your mind.”

“You’re the one who gave them to me—”

But Totty’s attention was captured as well. “Miss Nora, are you asking Phillippa what I think you’re asking?”

“But we all know it, Philly. You must be worried.” Nora frowned.

“About what?”

“About Broughton. Did he reject you? Is he still interested in you? Because a man choosing sleep over . . . is that normal? I hope you didn’t do something wrong—offend him in some way?”

Phillippa, not for the first time, wished she hadn’t made Nora quite so sophisticated and that her mother hadn’t passively allowed it.

“He hasn’t come to your box yet,” Nora said, eyeing Broughton and his cronies cheering at the edge of the track. “Mrs. Dunningham was asking what happened, as was Lady Plessy, and Lord Draye . . .”

Phillippa could only blink for a moment. Out of all the things she had racing through her brain, this was the most annoying, because it was the least important. Who cared if people speculated about her sleeping situation? She was Phillippa Benning, for heaven’s sake; she was used to it. But something about the way Nora questioned her allure—and that not only had Broughton fallen asleep and not come to her room, but the man who did she had found herself leaning into and caressing—and then he had the temerity to question her about her husband!

Add to that a madman running around somewhere, and Phillippa’s head was suddenly too full of conflicting thoughts. She had to remove herself before she became, God forbid, candid.

“. . . and now that Lady Jane’s here—but never mind that, you’ll reel him in tonight, and Lady Jane will become a distant memory,” Nora rambled as Phillippa audibly sucked in her breath.

“I need some air,” she said, excusing herself from a concerned Totty and a blinking Nora. As she turned for the door, Phillippa heard Nora ask Totty if she’d said something wrong, but by the time Totty replied, Phillippa and Bitsy were out the door.

There were people everywhere; there really was no escaping them. But as long as those people did not speak to her, Phillippa was well-situated to walk and breathe and think as she pleased.

Strangely, most of her thoughts were on Marcus.

Was it her imagination, or had he changed recently?

She did not know him very well, true, but what she did know was that he had an easygoing manner, a quick sense of humor, and an openness you wouldn’t expect from someone who spent their life keeping secrets.

However, in the past few days, he’d become shuttered. She thought she could pinpoint it to around the time his brother arrived. A worrisome individual, Mr. Byrne Worth. He seemed shadowed, and not in that alluring way described in all the gothic novels, which the right woman with a loving heart could fix and make well again. Honestly, who had time for such things? No, he was shadowed in a way that made him cold, and it made Phillippa very, very worried for Marcus. Because, brother or no, what if Marcus trusted him, to his (and her) detriment?

She pivoted up the path sharply, a dark scowl masking her pretty features. Oh, why was her mind so involved by Marcus Worth? She shouldn’t be thinking of him in such a personal way. They were merely using each other. Colleagues, in a roundabout sense. So what if her memory of their one and only kiss had been enhanced with time? So what if her hands had an unnatural affinity for his person? His hand, his hair, wherever she was allowed to place them, there they went. So what if her dreams had recently begun to feature said person’s hands? And eyes? And form? It was Broughton who was her object . . . wasn’t he?

But Broughton hadn’t shown.

Last night, she had been so tired of waiting for Broughton, a man whom she intended to reject, it was terribly peevish to find she would not have the opportunity of doing so. But to have people questioning if he still wanted her! Well, it offended every sensibility! She was of a mind to march into the middle of that pavilion and—

“Mrs. Benning!” A masculine voice called, “Lovely to see you!”

She had been wandering in a determined circle, blindly. Little did she realize she had circled over to where Lady Jane Cummings and her father, the Duke of Rayne, were coming up the path.

The Duke was a man of later middle years, with a middle paunch to match. His hair had gone white in the past few years, no doubt from the strain of losing his beloved wife. He had always been a genial fellow about town but must have collected some dust in his head since then, for never in the past would he have made the mistake of calling a greeting to his daughter’s declared enemy.

“Your Grace,” Phillippa said on a curtsy, keeping her composure. Lady Jane dipped as well, if a little shallowly. However, this went unnoticed by her father, who clamped his hand over Phillippa’s.

“You’ve grown up so nice and tall. How long’s it been? Three years? Four? And how’s your husband?”

Both ladies looked shocked, as Lady Jane turned to the Duke. “Father, I think—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’ll let you catch up with your friend. I’m desperate to see the races myself.” And with a wink and a pat on Bitsy’s head, the Duke left Lady Jane to face Phillippa on her own.

The ladies could only stare.

Bitsy had the good sense to contain his growls.

Lady Jane broke the silence first. “I apologize for my father,” she said stiffly.

“Is he all right?” Phillippa asked quietly.

“Of course he is,” Lady Jane snapped, and then, with a little more grace, “Thank you for inquiry.”

She moved to go past and catch up with her father but turned back instead, catching Phillippa by surprise.

“Do you think you’ll win now?” Lady Jane asked, as she brought a haughty sneer to her lips.

“Win?” Phillippa echoed, bewildered.

“Do you think if you let Broughton into your bed tonight, it will get him to offer for you? Don’t you know that men only want what they can’t have?”

“Is that what you think?” Phillippa replied coolly.

“Rumor has it you put the man to sleep.” Lady Jane sneered. “You’re not the only one who can play deep, but unlike you, I play to win.”

And with that, Lady Jane turned on her heel and stalked off after her father, leaving Phillippa’s mouth open and her mind thunderously dark. She let out a deep breath, trying to let her anger go with it, but no one ever got her back up like Jane Cummings. This might take a lot of breathing.

The sun had dipped past the treetops by the time Phillippa looked up from her wander and her deep breathing, and she did not immediately recognize her surroundings. She’d been too much in her head: the fast rush of anger, the cool blue of regret, the mad flush of confusion. All had blinded her to her whereabouts, which was somewhere in the vicinity of the pavilion, as she could still hear the alternating groans and cheers from the crowd.

Suddenly, the soft sound of nickering broke through the air, and Phillippa whirled around and saw, much to her relief, that she was at Lord Hampshire’s stables. A massive structure, whitewashed to match the pavilion, no doubt, it had to house scores of Lord Hampshire’s best stock.

The structure seemed devoid of any presence of humans; the stable lads who had drawn the short straw and were supposed to be watching the stock must have snuck over to the races to watch Mystique win the three-year-old finals, she thought. The horses looked none the worse for a lack of supervision, however, and since the day was so temperate, the outer stable doors were open, allowing the horses within to enjoy the sweet air. There was a long row of beautiful horses, their faces turned to Phillippa and Bitsy. Scanning the long row, they found that the nickering in question had come from a glorious black mare, whose appearance apparently belied a sweet disposition.

“Oh! Aren’t you lovely!” Phillippa gasped aloud. “Admittedly, I’m no judge of horseflesh”—in truth, she cared little about the beasts beyond that their coats matched her carriage—“but you must be the pride of the stables.”