Griffin rose, mouth agape. He realized too late what he had done. Her letter.
“Of course, most of my reading is quite frivolous by scholarly standards.”
He had thought on it and responded as though she had spoken the words to him rather than written to the anonymous him. If she was not suspicious before, she certainly would be now. But perhaps not. Coincidences happened.
His mother stood too, napkin in hand. “Oh, dear girl. Here, let me help with that. Come, right this way.” She took Phoebe’s arm and led her from the dining room, obviously to tidy her up.
Just before the door closed upon them, Phoebe looked back, her eyes as wide and large as a full moon.
She knew.
“Most of my reading is quite frivolous, too.”
Phoebe had never admitted to having such habits, using such words, to anyone before she had written that letter. When Griffin had said that single word, frivolous, everything in her mind had come together. By the time his mother had finished helping her clear the stain, and then the damp, from her dress, Phoebe had a clear picture in her mind of what had happened.
Griffin had introduced her to the gambler, Mr. Milbourne, before understanding why she wished to meet him. As a favor to Caroline, and perhaps out of guilt for performing the introduction, he had written that first note. And he had been present when she spoke with Mr. Peter Carew, so he had seen the shift in her interest and had warned her away again. She had mentioned loving the theater in a letter, and then Griffin had invited her to see a play. He even dared write, anonymously, to tell her he had seen her present. She had shared a favorite book, and then Griffin had read it and given it to his mother to read, too.
That very day, she had written and asked to meet him, only for them to have dinner together. Griffin was her mysterious friend. He had to be. Everything aligned perfectly.
And I was too stupid to see it.
Mrs. Fenwick surveyed Phoebe’s gown again. “There we are. No one would ever know. Come, let us go back to the table. It is nearly time for dessert.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Phoebe followed her hostess as slowly as she could. What was she to say, or do, when she put eyes upon the man again?
What had he been thinking, writing her so many letters? Even putting forth his own name as a suitor! And to think she had been halfway in love with the letter writer, and certainly rather smitten by Griffin himself.
When she entered the dining room, she immediately lowered her eyes. What if she looked at him and saw laughter in his eyes? He had to know she had discovered the secret at last. Surely, he knew, and thought her a dull, foolish girl to have not realized it sooner. Perhaps he had even been laughing at her all along.
Pressure at the back of her eyes indicated that tears would come on, if she allowed it. But Phoebe pushed back the desire to cry.
“Is everything all right, Phoebe?” Joseph asked, his brotherly concern not as comforting as usual. He knew nothing of her plight. He could not help her.
Lowering herself into her seat, she looked across the table to her brother. “Yes, of course. Dear me, I do apologize for that interruption. I will not be so clumsy again.” She would not look at Griffin. Not for a thousand pounds did she want to meet his gaze and read his thoughts in his eyes. They sat so near, if he wanted, he could lean over and touch her, yet all she felt was his gaze upon her.
The conversation resumed around her, and if anyone wondered at her silence, they likely thought it an effect of her embarrassment.
She did not want to be right. If her charming friend with his witty letters that served to cheer her and distract her, and Griffin Fenwick who acted foolish and sincere at different moments, were the same man, what did that say about him? What did that mean for her growing feelings toward—well, either of them?
If Griffin had received her letter from that day, he knew of her desire to meet the letter-writer.
Phoebe winced when Mr. Fenwick spoke his son’s name.
“Griffin, were you not telling us about your plan to tour the old churches of London? It does not sound like an activity for one such as myself, but perhaps these younger people might be interested in joining you.” He looked pointedly in Phoebe’s direction.
“I do not intend to see them all at once,” Griffin’s pleasant tenor said from beside her, sounding as relaxed as ever. Oh, what a clever actor he was. “But I thought I would begin with All-Hallows-by-the-Tower. Situated that close to the oldest buildings in London, most of those I have talked to agree it is the oldest Christian church in the city.” He shifted in his chair, but Phoebe refused to look at him. “Then St. Helen’s and St. Giles.”
“That sounds rather delightful.” Caroline’s eyes fairly glittered with excitement as she turned to Phoebe. “What do you think? Ought we to form part of Griffin’s expedition? Exploring old churches would be a pleasant diversion after all the teas and parties. I know you prefer quiet to such noisy occasions.”
What was Phoebe supposed to say? The noisy occasions were where women found husbands. She needed them. But Caroline’s expression, hopeful and sly at once, indicated she thought Griffin a suitable exchange for all the bachelors at musicals and salons.
Phoebe looked to Joseph, her expression pleading.
“I think it sounds like a most excellent undertaking. I will attend myself. Our family prefers small, private gatherings to the more boisterous assemblies.” Joseph had misinterpreted her look entirely, thinking she needed encouragement rather than a rescue.
“Miss Kimball?” Oh, no.
Phoebe slowly turned toward him, bracing herself for his deceitful grin.
Instead, she found his dark eyes pleading with her. His chin was tucked close to his chest, his eyes wide. When he spoke, she caught the slight rasp to his voice, though she doubted the others heard. “Would you accompany me to All-Hallow’s? If you enjoy the outing, you might help me plan the next.”
Phoebe lowered her head, uncertainty creeping over her like a chill. “Of course, Mr. Fenwick. Name the day.”
She looked up at Caroline to find her sister-in-law with lips pressed flat and eyebrows drawn together. “Lovely,” she said, then abruptly turned to Mrs. Fenwick and changed the topic of conversation entirely.
Griffin leaned close, voice low. “Miss Kimball, if you will allow me to explain—”
“Not now.” She shivered and took up the new fork that had been placed on the table in her brief absence. She stabbed at a carrot, rather wishing she could stab at Griffin instead. Her humiliation was quite complete; the moment dinner finished she pleaded a headache.
Somehow, she made it out the door without saying another word to Griffin and avoided his gaze almost entirely. A man such as he, known for tricks and frivolity, could never have meant for their correspondence to mean as much as it had meant to her.
Chapter 12
Botheration
Discarding one letter after another, Griffin did not sleep. With his parents’ words of concern ringing in his ears, he left their home for his rented rooms in something of a daze. With one sentence, he had ruined all his own plans.
Not that he had actually decided how to tell Phoebe he had been the one writing her anonymously. But he had started working on a plan. Almost. Mostly he had at least started thinking about it. When Phoebe’s letter arrived asking to meet, something cold and icy, and rather like dread, grew in his chest.