hour of the party praying for it to end.
Lady Morton seemed pleased. “Excellent. The Duke of Greythorne was in attendance. Did either of you happen to notice him?”
Finley shook her head. Phoebe yawned delicately behind her gloved hand. “I did not. I’m sure it was because His Grace was surrounded by frenzied young ladies vying for his attention.”
One of Finley’s brows rose. “Is he that handsome?”
Phoebe grinned. “And that rich. He’s only a little older than us, so I doubt he’ll be eager to marry anytime soon. They’re wasting their energies trying to catch him.”
This was an odd concept to Finley, girls trying to “catch” a husband. Her mother always made it sound as though it was the man’s duty to woo the lady. Perhaps it was something introduced by the Suffrage movement.
She was about to ask how old Robert was, but caught her tongue just in time. That was not something to discuss in front of Lady Morton. Besides, Phoebe had laid her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, almost instantly falling asleep.
Lady Morton shot Finley an amused glance. “She’s been able to do that since she was a baby. It seems you and I are left to amuse each other as we contend with the crush of traffic, Finley.”
And what traffic! The carriage would roll a few feet and then stop, caught up in the steady throng departing the party, clogging the narrow street.
“Lord Vincent has a very lovely home,” Finley offered awkwardly. At least it was safe conversation.
“Yes,” her ladyship agreed. “All the modern conveniences, as well. The earl is a very interested in progress. He’s always supported the scientific arts.”
“What happened to his leg?”
Lady Morton’s expression sobered. “A carriage accident. He and his wife were on their way back from holiday in Scotland. His leg was destroyed and she was killed.”
“That’s terrible.” Finley felt awful for asking.
“Yes. He made himself an automaton limb—one that moves and behaves just as a proper limb would. Is that not amazing?”
Finley murmured in agreement. “I saw a portrait of his wife earlier this evening.”
“You did?” A wrinkle appeared between Lady Morton’s brows. “How did you happen to see that?”
“I had a headache and needed quiet. I slipped into an empty room and saw it hanging on the wall.” She had said this much, she might as well press on, “She looks like Phoebe.”
“Yes.” The older woman clasped her hands in her lap—tightly, as though to keep from fidgeting. “Cassandra and I were cousins.”
So that meant that Lord Vincent intended to marry his wife’s cousin. There was something…icky about that.
One glance at her ladyship and Finley suspected she shared the feeling. She also looked like she dared Finley to cast judgment in a strangely fragile manner.
“It’s a good match,” Finley said instead.
“Yes.” There was an element of relief in the word. “It is.” Then she turned her attention to the window, and all conversation came to an end.
The carriage jerked into motion and picked up speed. They were home within a few minutes. Phoebe woke up so quickly and brightly that Finley wondered if the girl had been asleep at all.
Chapter Five
The next few days were filled with shopping as Lady Morton and Phoebe were determined to see Finley well dressed. She refused to allow them to buy her extravagant clothing, and instead set her mind to simple, well-made garments.
“I’m supposed to be from the country,” she argued. “Country fashion is much more practical than City dress.” She was right, of course, so they gave in. The result was a modest wardrobe of good, modern pieces—nothing too fine or fussy, but nothing so drab that they’d be ashamed to be seen with her in public.
If she needed something superfine, it was agreed that she could borrow something that Phoebe had already worn and alter it. Being raised by a seamstress had its advantages.
But all this shopping and stopping for tea, more shopping, stopping for luncheon and visiting, and then more tea, followed by dinner and an evening at the theater—in Lord Vincent’s box—meant that it was days before Finley had the chance to talk privately with Phoebe, and quite late at night at that.
Before changing into her nightclothes, Finley went to the other girl’s room. She dismissed the young maid forfor the night, so that she could help Phoebe get ready for bed.
Finley felt as though they had become quite close over the past few days. Perhaps not the best of friends, but at least confidantes. She hadn’t told Phoebe her secret, and the girl hadn’t asked, but Finley definitely felt comfortable around her.
They made small talk for a few moments, talking about the play they’d seen—a production of Oscar Wilde’s
“May I ask you a question?” Finley asked, as she loosened the laces of Phoebe’s damask corset.
“Only if I may ask one of you,” the girl replied, holding on to one of the posters of her bed. “Good lord, Finley, you’re going to lift me clean off the floor!”
“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Finley gentled her actions. Sometimes she forgot her own strength.
Phoebe smiled over her shoulder. “What is it you wished to ask?”
“Why are you marrying Lord Vincent?”
“How is it you can leap from a second-floor window and not even twist an ankle?”
“Usually how this sort of thing works is that you answer my question before asking your own.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I will answer yours after you answer mine.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Finley sighed. “I don’t know how I’m able to leap out a window and remain unharmed, only that I can.” It was an honest answer, if a poor one.
Dark eyes narrow, Phoebe turned to face her, popping the hooks in the front of her corset, beneath which her chemise was stuck to her skin. “What else can you do?”
“I agreed to one question,” Finley dodged. “Now you must answer mine. Why are you marrying Lord Vincent? You obviously don’t want to, so why?”
Phoebe glanced away, clenching her jaw in an almost petulant manner.
“Are you going back on our agreement?” Finley demanded.
“I agreed that you could ask me a question. I did not promise to answer it.”
“Oh, that’s honorable of you.” She should keep her mouth shut. This girl was not her social equal. One word to her mother and Finley would be out on the street—again. But she was hurt, insulted and a little pissed. “I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else and you won’t extend the same courtesy. That’s just lovely. Good night.”
She made it perhaps two steps before Phoebe reached out and seized her by the wrist. For a second, Finley was in a poor enough temper that she was tempted to catch the girl’s wrist in her own hand and squeeze until the delicate bones rubbed together.
“Finley, wait.” An expression of real distress crossed her face. “Don’t go. Please.”
With a mulish set to her jaw, Finley turned, relaxing her posture enough that Phoebe dropped her arm. “I’ll stay.”
Phoebe’s thin shoulders sagged. “Good. Why don’t we sit down?”
They sat beside one another on the edge of the bed. Phoebe had slipped into a robe to protect her bare arms from the slight spring chill in the air. Finley waited patiently for her to begin.
Licking her lips, Phoebe tangled her fingers in her lap, thumbs rubbing together nervously. “Surely you noticed that Papa did not attend the theater with us this evening?”
