Griffin did not hail her until he saw her put the paper in her reticule. Then he called out, “Miss Kimball, is that you?”
She stiffened and looked over her shoulder at him. “Mr. Fenwick.” She stopped walking, and he quickened his step until he reached her side.
“We meet yet again.”
“So we do.” She folded her hands in front of her, the reticule bearing his letter dangling from her wrist. “What brings you out to Berkeley Square today?” She glanced up at the gray clouds. “In such uncertain weather.”
“A desire for a walk. I found the park here to my liking, when last we met.” He motioned to the trees and well-kept grasses. “Though it is horribly named.”
“I do not suppose Berkeley Rectangle would sound as lovely, or as though it might rival Mayfair and Grosvenor Squares.” Miss Kimball’s lips twitched, though she did not fully smile. “Mr. Fenwick, I was correct when I settled upon your birthdate at our last meeting, wasn’t I?”
Griffin bowed, theatrically. “You were most correct. I was born on February the twenty-ninth, in 1784.”
Her eyes brightened, and she leaned slightly closer, though a foot of space still separated them. “So you have been alive eight and twenty years, with only six birthdays, because the year 1800 had no Leap Day. Am I correct?”
He grinned at her. “You are.”
“You must take great delight in vexing people with that riddle.” She did not laugh, though he suspected she wished to do so. “That brings me all the way back to my original question, sir. A man of your advanced years seems oddly opposed to the idea of matrimony. Why is that?”
Griffin shrugged. “As I have said, I have not found a lady to my tastes.”
“Pity for you.” An ominous rumble rolled across the sky, causing Miss Kimball to look up and assess the clouds. “Dear me. It seems neither of us will have our walk.”
“Afraid of a little rain, Miss Kimball?” he asked, disappointed she would leave before they’d had a chance to enjoy a verbal duel.
“I am afraid of ruining my bonnet.” She touched one of the swirling green ribbons.
“Then I will walk you to your door.” Griffin glanced at the reticule on her wrist as she put her hand upon his arm. “Are you not particular about your choice of gentleman, Miss Kimball? I imagine you are on the hunt for a husband, as every single woman in London is on the hunt.”
“You make it sound as though I actually have a wide variety of choices.” She shook her head, her eyes upon her house rather than on him or the park. “No woman truly does, you know. I am limited by my family’s position in Society—”
Griffin interrupted. “Which is fair, given your address.” Berkeley rivaled Grosvenor when it came to fashion.
Her eyes narrowed. “My father was fortunate to purchase the house at a time when it was quite affordable. But as I said, my family is not noble; my father is only a gentleman. That narrows the options. Then there is the matter of my dowry; it is too small to tempt those looking to increase their riches or save themselves, yet my family connections are not remarkable enough to entice those that are solvent and only looking to better position themselves in society. We also must take into account my age and appearance. The pool of gentlemen narrows still more with other factors, such as my determination to have intelligent conversation rather than simper at a man as most would desire.”
Griffin laughed, a hearty sound that made her shrink and look about as though to make sure he had not drawn attention to them. They crossed the street to her house, but Griffin did not give up her arm immediately.
“Any man who would censure you for speaking your mind would only do himself a disservice.” Griffin looked down at her, wondering if he dared try for an invitation into her home. It would save him from the rain and provide entertainment.
What made him laugh turned her sober. “It intrigues me that you think so. My own brother is forever telling me to curb my tongue.”
“That is a shame. I find myself amused whenever we have an opportunity to converse.”
“Amused?” she asked, eyebrows drawing downward.
Griffin nodded and released her arm. “It is rare a woman speaks her mind as you do.”
“And a woman speaking her mind is…amusing.” Her tone remained flat, which he ought to have taken as a warning.
Griffin only widened his smile as he continued speaking, ready to explain how much he enjoyed their verbal battles. “Of course. It is refreshing to hear a woman converse with such lightness and wit. Most cannot take what you say seriously—”
Miss Kimball raised her hand, halting him mid-sentence. “That is quite enough.” Then she balled that delicate gloved hand into a fist, lowering it to her side while her cheeks turned red. “Most, in fact, do not take what I say seriously. I always thought that a mark against their intelligence, not my own.”
As she spoke, Griffin’s horror grew. Something had gone terribly wrong in their conversation. “Miss Kimball, if you will let me explain—”
She cut him off again, at the same moment a large raindrop fell past the brim of his hat. “I have no desire to converse further. I apologize for ending your entertainment this afternoon, but the show cannot go on in the rain. Good day, Mr. Fenwick.” She turned from him and ran up the steps. The door opened and when it slammed shut behind her, the sky broke open above.
Griffin stood like an addle-pated dunce, staring at the closed door. The rain did not care that it soaked him and came down all the harder.
At last he turned, walking away. What a fool he was. Even if they had come along in their relationship, apparently, she knew him less than he did her. He needed to mind his tongue. The conversation had turned too quickly, and now he needed to make amends. But when? And more importantly, how?
Phoebe paced her bedroom, the glow of the gas lamp the only light. None came from outside, despite the early evening hour, due to the heavy clouds storming above Town. The rain beat against her window, the sound soothing her troubled thoughts.
The letter from her anonymous friend lay open upon her writing desk, a blank sheet of paper beside it.
“Do share your list with me…”
Dare she? Having one man laugh at her that day had shaken her. Mr. Fenwick had seemed like the sort of man one might befriend, but knowing he only spoke to her because she amused him had stung.
Phoebe put her hand over the red beads of her bracelet, rolling the accessory down to her wrist again. How she missed her friends. If only they were near to one another and could laugh away their troubles as they had at school.
What would they advise?
She went to the desk and sat, staring at the neat handwriting of the man with the rampant lion seal. Who was he, and why had he taken an interest in her? Enough of an interest to warn her not once, but twice?
He had to be a gentleman. At least, that was what she hoped. But was he an elderly fellow merely doing her a kindness? Somehow, she doubted it, given the firm hand he used. And the humor in his words.
It was dangerous for a woman to write to a gentleman, let alone a stranger.
But the little flower girl would warn her if there was something amiss, wouldn’t she?
The memory of Griffin Fenwick’s smirk, his hurtful words, goaded her at last.