What thought you of Sir Francis? I rather wished I had the ability to throttle the character. Eleanor deserved someone far less reticent in telling her how he loved her. But that is the way of it at times; not everyone can wed someone deserving of their devotion.
I find I must address your curiosity now. You asked for a hint as to my identity. I fear I would choose poorly and send you on to an entirely wrong assumption. Or perhaps I would give you a hint that would reveal immediately who I am. Neither situation suits me at present.
Perhaps one day, in the future, I might tell you who I am. Until then, know that your letters are safe in my care. I have the greatest respect for you and for your family. When I wrote to you the very first time, it was the only choice I had to make you aware of the scoundrel at your door.
Tell me, did your Mr. Fenwick seem willing to introduce you to those other gentlemen I mentioned?
Your Friend
Phoebe sat in the parlor, waiting for Daphne Windham’s arrival. Somehow, Daphne had contrived to come without her mother and only a maid for company. Thank goodness. What Phoebe wished to discuss was not for Mrs. Windham’s ears. Mrs. Windham was terrible about keeping secrets, especially when they might be of use to her.
The latest letter written by her anonymous friend was in her sewing basket beneath the couch. She had already read through it several times, each time trying to puzzle out if there was any hidden meaning to any of the man’s words. The first time she read it through, she blushed and smiled, feeling he paid her compliments and perhaps even flirted. Then she read it again and thought he pushed her toward Griffin. Another reading and she had nearly convinced herself that the writer cared not at all for her, only for propriety.
“I am being nonsensical,” she said aloud.
“No one would ever accuse you of that, Phoebe. Except for perhaps those of us you convinced to swim in the pond at midnight.” Daphne had arrived in the doorway, without Phoebe realizing she had even entered the house.
Phoebe rose and went to her friend, arms extended. “Daphne. Here you are at last. Oh, my dear, how are you?” They embraced more like sisters than friends and soon were upon the couch recounting the last week to each other. All the friends wrote fairly regularly, but with Daphne so near they had exchanged letters almost weekly.
“My parents are still trying to find a wealthy husband for me, but I am not interested in a mercenary marriage. I am still hoping for a love match. But things have grown much more complicated lately, what with…” Her voice trailed away, and her eyes lost focus.
A twist of worry made Phoebe lean forward. “With what?”
Daphne shook her head and a bright smile reappeared upon her face. “Nothing. I am certain everything will come to rights in the end.” Phoebe nearly pressed her, but Daphne continued speaking. “Do tell me more about you, Phoebe. In your letter you made it sound like there was something rather particular you wished to discuss.”
“There is.” Phoebe chewed her bottom lip a moment, carefully watching Daphne. “Let us settle in with our refreshment first.” She led the way into the room. Her friend remained silent while Phoebe poured out for them. It was only after the two of them were seated that Phoebe tried to work out how to begin.
Her friend appeared as calm as ever, sipping her tea and waiting patiently. While Phoebe had always been the one with a plan, Daphne had always provided a quiet and steady presence, usually with a smile upon her face. She had always been easy to confide in. But this confession bordered on scandalous.
“As you know, I have decided I must find a husband this Season. Someone suitable to my tastes, equal to my family in status.”
“And someone you love,” Daphne put in quickly. “As we all promised.”
Phoebe looked away, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. “At this point, I think we ought to agree that promise we made was very well and good for children. But as we are all adults now, and with varying situations in Society as in life, we must be more realistic.”
Daphne sighed and set down her tea. “A year ago, I might have rejected that idea outright. But London has a way of making one doubt her own mind. Why is it that love is so difficult to find?”
Considering that Daphne had always seemed the one most determined to keep the promise they had made, Phoebe’s heart ached for her friend’s discovery that reality was not so romantic as they had dreamed it. Perhaps they would all come to that conclusion, in time. She studied her friend, trying to smile past her concerns. “I will continue to hope for the best for you, Daphne.”
Her friend returned the gentle expression. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
Phoebe pulled in a careful breath. “What I wish to tell you is that in my pursuit of a suitor, I started to receive notes from a stranger. Someone who wishes to remain anonymous. But he has helped me more than once by informing me of things I had no way of knowing, and saving me from making mistakes by courting the wrong gentlemen.”
Daphne blinked. “What do you mean, a stranger is writing you letters? How? And are you certain the stranger is a he?”
“I am. You can tell by his writing. And by the way he says things. Here. See for yourself.” She reached under the couch and plucked the letter from the basket, handing it directly to Daphne.
Her friend gave her an odd look, then hurried to read the letter. Phoebe watched for a reaction, desperate to know how her friend interpreted the words penned by the unknown gentleman who had promised to help Phoebe.
When Daphne lowered the letter to her lap, she looked at Phoebe with wide eyes. “Honestly, reading this, it sounds as though the writer rather admires you and wishes to court you himself.”
The relief which flooded Phoebe’s mind caused a light laugh to escape her. “Oh, I am glad you think so. That is what I thought, too, when I read it. But then I was so worried—”
“Phoebe.” Daphne stopped her, though her voice was hesitant. “You know nothing about him. He might be fifty years old with twelve children. He might even already be married.”
The tightness returned to Phoebe’s chest. “Yes. I had thought of that. I wondered if I ought to ask him, but then I think he would know what I suspected, or he would be insulted.” Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back, most unladylike, on the couch. “But he writes such charming letters. And every time I receive one, I cannot help but feel some excitement.” Indeed, she could feel herself blushing just speaking about it.
Daphne sat back as well, eyeing Phoebe curiously. “Charming, you say? I suppose there is as much a chance of him being young and handsome as there is of him being fifty and married.” She tugged restlessly on one of her red-brown. “Excitement and mystery are all well and good, I suppose. But you are taking care, aren’t you? Not to be discovered?”
“I will not be discovered.” Phoebe sat up at once. “I have been very discreet, as has the gentleman. He has never even approached me—”
“That you know of,” Daphne corrected. Then she tapped the paper with one finger. “What about this Mr. Fenwick? It sounds as though your gentleman likes him. Did you enjoy his company at the play?”
Phoebe waved a hand dismissively. “I always enjoy Griffin’s—Mr. Fenwick’s company.”