The Heart of a Scoundrel (36 page)

Silence stretched on eternally between them and then Phoebe pushed away from the desk. With resigned steps, she walked away from him.

“I want to change,” he called out, staying her as she reached the door. “I want to be more.”
For you
.

Phoebe wheeled slowly back, her face curiously expressionless. “Unfortunately, Edmund I’m not entirely sure you can.”

Long after Phoebe had gone, Edmund stood fixed to the spot. He stared at the wood panel, clenching and unclenching his fists into painful balls at his side. Then, moving behind his desk, he sat down. With slow, methodical movements he flipped open the familiar book and then pulled open his desk drawer. Dipping his pen into the crystal inkwell he etched one more name onto the pages and stared blankly down at the name marked there.

L
ater that day, Phoebe stared up at the façade of a familiar stucco townhouse. Her skin pricked with the gazes trained on her by rabidly curious passersby. She rapped once on the front door. In light of this latest betrayal by Edmund, surely she should feel some great torrent of emotions. Except, she didn’t think she could shed another tear for her husband, the Marquess of Rutland. She raised her hand to knock again, when the door was suddenly opened.

Surprise wreathed the old butler, Manfred’s face, reminding her of another loyal, devoted butler. “Miss Barrett,” he greeted with a smile and then remembered himself as she stepped through the doorway. “My Ladyship,” he amended.

Phoebe shrugged out of her cloak and handed it off to the waiting servant. “I daresay a dear family friend who knew me when I was putting rose water in my father’s cologne is permitted calling me by my Christian name, still.”

“Did you now?” A twinkle lit his old eyes. “I do not recall you as anything but perfectly behaved.”

She managed her first laugh that morning and then looked about.

“Her Ladyship is in the Pink Parlor,” he said correctly interpreting the reason for her visit. He motioned with his hand. “If you’ll allow me to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with a murmur of thanks. “I’ve been gone but two days,” which felt like twenty years. “I still remember my way about,” she assured him.

Manfred grinned and inclined his head. “As you wish, my lady… Miss Phoebe,” he said when she gave him a pointed look.

With a last small smile for the servant who represented a tie to her past, she made her way through the quiet townhouse, onward to the Pink Parlor. She came to a stop at the open doorway. Her mother sat at the edge of a mahogany shell chair. Head bent over an embroidery frame, she attended the stitchery in her hand, pulling the needle through the stark white fabric.

“I did not expect a visit so soon after you’d been married,” her mother welcomed, not picking her head up from her work.

“Mother,” she greeted. Phoebe stepped into the room, hesitated, and then pulled the door closed behind her. That soft click brought the viscountess’ attention up and her wide smile withered and died on her lips.

“What is it?” She tossed aside her frame, work forgotten, and climbed to her feet.

There was such a gentle, maternal concern in that inquiry that if Phoebe hadn’t already cried every last possible tear for Edmund and their future, she would have dissolved into an empty puddle of weepy nothingness at her mother’s feet. Phoebe gave her a shake and motioned to the chair she’d just vacated. Wordlessly, she claimed the seat opposite her mother. She drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair, examining this woman who’d smiled through so much darkness. “How did you do it?”

Her mother angled her head.

Phoebe ceased the distracted tapping. “Marriage to Father. How did you do it all these years and smile? Why aren’t you…?” She closed her mouth.

The viscountess picked up her embroidery frame. “Why aren’t I…?” she prodded, setting her stitch work on her lap.

“Unhappy? Bitter? Angry?” Everything Phoebe herself was this moment.

Her mother furrowed her brow. “What do I have to be unhappy about?”

“Come, Mama,” Phoebe chided. “Surely you know what I speak of?” She glanced at the silver needle dangling from the frame. “You can’t possibly be happy wedded to Father.”

A dawning understanding lit the other woman’s eyes. “Ahh,” she said, settling back in her chair. She sighed and glanced over at the closed door as though ascertaining there was no one at the entrance, before then returning her attention to Phoebe. “No,” she said softly. “My marriage has not been a happy one, but my life has been a great one.”

Phoebe wrinkled her brow. “That seems a contradiction,” she scoffed. How could one not preclude the other?

Light danced in her mother’s blue eyes. “Does it? Is my marriage to your father a happy one?” She shook her head once. “No, it isn’t,” she said with more candor than Phoebe ever recalled. “It is not the marriage I imagined for myself.” Those words an echo of Phoebe’s earlier thoughts ran through her, tightening the pain. Yet there was no spiteful resentment deserving one such as her mother. Her mother began tugging her needle through the frame once more. “My life is a happy one, Phoebe, and I’d have it no other way.” She glanced up and must have seen the disbelief on her daughter’s face, for she smiled. “You think I lie?”

Phoebe shifted. “No…I…” At the knowing look, she settled back in her seat with a sigh. “Yes,” she mumbled, feeling like a recalcitrant child. “Surely there must be a lie.”

“Oh, there is no lie,” her mother said instantly. “Perhaps regret, yes. But not a lie. My life is a happy one.”

Filled with a restive energy, Phoebe jumped to her feet and began to pace. “How did you do it? How do you go through life with a smile and laughter?” When Phoebe herself thought she could never smile again. She spun back, pleading with her eyes for an answer.

Her mother set aside her frame again and then came to her feet. She came over and took Phoebe gently by her shoulders. “How can you not know why I smile and laugh? I have you and Justina and Andrew. My heart is full because of you three and someday, when you are a mother, you will understand that,” she said giving her shoulders another slight squeeze.

Phoebe’s throat worked spasmodically. “That cannot be the same as having a husband’s love.”

“No, no it is not.” Her mother brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a void, but you and your brother and sister, you fill that.”

She drew in a shuddery breath and a strand of hair fell over her brow. The viscountess brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear. “This is about your Lord Rutland.”

And because Phoebe would wager her very life that Father didn’t speak to his wife on any matter, even the topic of her own children, she told her the truth. “He won my dowry in a game of cards against Father.”

Her mother stilled her soothing caress. “And?”

“And he would have wedded Justina if I did not marry him.” That part stung more being breathed aloud so that she resisted the urge to rub her hand over her aching chest.

Mama snorted. “You believe Lord Rutland would have wed Justina, to what end?”

Phoebe opened and closed her mouth several times and then frowned. Odd, until this moment, she’d not truly considered how Justina fit into his madcap scheme. Or…for that matter, why he even wanted Phoebe. After all, marriage to her had effectively quashed his plans for Honoria.

“Do you know what I believe?”

She shook her head, wishing someone had answers to put her world to rights.

“Your husband cares for you. When he looks at you, there is no other person in the room.” She stroked her hair. “No, that man would have never wed Justina.” Her lips turned in a wry smile. “I am not excusing his behaviors, but I am saying there is more there than your modest dowry.”

Hope stirred at her mother’s words and, for an instant, she willed them to be accurate and true. Then she recalled that blasted book and her name scratched casually upon the pages as though she were any other person he’d use in his scheme of life. “Edmund doesn’t care for anyone,” she said tiredly. She drew in a breath and before her mother could debate the point with her, she hurriedly said, “I should return home.”

“Yes, you should.”

Phoebe kissed her mother on the cheek. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

She started for the door when her mother called out stopping her. “Phoebe?” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. “Lord Rutland is not your father,” she said simply.

Phoebe managed a smile and with that, left. As she made the short carriage ride back to Edmund’s townhouse and entered her new home, her mother’s words danced around her mind. Wallace opened the door granting her entry and she paused in the foyer.

The servant cleared his throat. “His Lordship has gone to his clubs.”

His clubs. Of course.

His clubs. Those vile, despicable dens of sin. It should come as no surprise that a man with a book containing peoples’ weaknesses would take to his clubs not even two days after he’d married. She curled her hands into tight, painful fists. After he’d lain in her arms and shown her more pleasure than she’d ever known her body capable of, he’d today sought out his clubs, which was really not dissimilar than any gentleman might do—if he were to visit White’s or Brooke’s, but this was different. Hurt throbbed in her chest and she swiftly turned to go. “Thank you.” Phoebe made to climb the stairs to seek out the sanctuary of her new chambers.

“My lady, you have visitors.”

Foot poised on the step, Phoebe spun about, nearly toppling herself in her haste. “I have taken the liberty of showing Miss Fairfax and Lady Gillian to the drawing room.” Her friends! Joy filled her at the prospect of seeing the two women who’d been friends to her when no one else had and then her happiness quickly receded with all the secrets she’d kept from them. She’d not even given them the courtesy of speaking to them of her wedding. Granted hers hadn’t been a joyous affair, but still they would have expected and surely deserved an invitation to act as guests and friends.

Wallace again spoke, calling her attention back. “If you wish me to inform them that you aren’t receiving—”

“No!” the denial sprung from her lips. She winced at the desperate edge to that one word utterance. Phoebe took a calming breath. “That is, thank you. I will join them.”

He bowed his head, but did not leave. Phoebe stared questioningly at him.

“Lady Rutland,” he said this time. “If I may be so bold? You looked at the painting and wondered as to His Lordship’s happiness. He has not been happy in more than twenty years, but I do believe he is happy,
now
.” Wallace gave her a pointed stare, his meaning clear: Edmund could be happy because of Phoebe. Which was madness. It would take far more than her to ever fill the vast void inside her husband. She managed a small smile and before she made a cake of herself and cried useless tears in front of the servant, hurried off to the parlor. If she were a good friend she’d be properly focused on the regret she had for abandoning them the moment she’d met Edmund. But she was not a good friend. For with each footfall that brought her away from that child’s portrait and to the drawing room, Wallace’s words haunted her; echoing around her mind, calling forth thoughts of Edmund as a child of seven, once smiling—and then three years later, in a picture so bitter and cold in his portrait.

Phoebe came to a stop outside the drawing room and froze at the threshold.

Gillian and Honoria stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded at their chests and matching expressions of disappointment stamped in their face. If there had been anger, it would have been easier than—
this
.

She stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. To break the recriminating silence, she said, “Would you care for—”

“If you offer us refreshments, I’m going to clout you,” Honoria interrupted. She stitched her eyebrows together.

Phoebe fell silent. The trio of friends once inseparable stared at one another, each daring the other to speak.

With a sigh, she clasped her hands together. “I understand you are upset.” And rightly so.

“I understand if you’d not share the details of your marriage with the
ton
, they are horrid,” Gillian gave a sniff. “But we are your
friends
.”

“I shared with you what I knew during your visit.” They gave her dark frowns. Guilt needled at her conscience and she crossed over. “I didn’t know we would wed so quickly,” she said as she came to a stop before them.

The concern faded from Honoria’s stare, replaced now by dark suspicion. “Did he force you to immediately wed?”

“Yes. No.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. How could the answer be both? She’d not debated him on the point of when the event would take place. “It mattered not whether it was the next day or next week, my marriage to him was inevitable.” She’d courted ruin in meeting him all those days. She sank onto the edge of a red-velvet sofa and directed her stare at her lap. “I know what you think of me. I know you believe me an awful friend for shutting you out of my life these ten days,” and she was. “And I am.” Pain filled her throat and made words difficult. “But I fell in love with him,” or rather she’d fallen in love with the lies he’d fed her. “And he was all I thought of.” Phoebe forced her gaze to Honoria. “You were right.” Her voice emerged a broken whisper. “I was hopeful and foolish, and he was everything you claimed he was.” Only that wasn’t altogether true. Confusion stabbed at her mind and played havoc on her heart. There was also a man capable of apology and who’d brought her a tray of food and a book. Nay, not just any book. The book of Wales.

The sofa dipped slightly with the addition of Honoria’s weight as she settled into the spot beside Phoebe. “Do you believe I would judge you so harshly?” Honoria chided, a stern reproach threading her words. “I love you,” she said simply. “You are my friend. And I love that you are hopeful in the face of your father’s horridness.” She claimed Phoebe’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “You retained that important piece of your soul when others,” Honoria, “are less successful at such a feat.”