Her gaze caught Mr. Fenwick’s by chance, but she saw the twinkle of amusement there, and the way his lips turned upward. He tipped his head, as though in salute.
Phoebe suppressed her smile and gave her soup another cursory sip. “Mr. Fenwick, what are your particular favorite activities? Besides lobbing dough about in London’s finer parks.”
Rather than appear contrite, or even remotely rebuffed, the man’s slight smile grew into an approving grin. “I tend to find amusement wherever I may be, Miss Kimball. Though I do rather enjoy the parks, most of all, and gardens when I can spare the time. Spending time out of doors is far more enjoyable than sitting about in stuffy parlors.”
A sentiment she readily agreed with, but she could not let him know that. He was ruining her opportunity with Mr. Carew, after all. “Stuffy parlors? Oh, but all the ladies of London spend our time in parlors, you know. Drinking tea, embroidering, and hoping to entertain callers. What a loss your company must be, when you are out in flower gardens.” She turned to the side, sensing Mr. Carew’s attention. “As an architect, sir, you must have things to say upon the enjoyment one might find in a well-constructed home.”
Mr. Carew’s cheeks pinked. He swallowed abruptly. “Well, I am certain—that is to say, my interest lies more in public buildings. But I have set about designing a house. My own, that is. For the future.” He stumbled about in his words the way a drunkard might stumble out of a tavern.
Poor man. He must be painfully shy.
Not like Mr. Fenwick, who joined their conversation uninvited. “A future house. If you are to build your own, Phillip, perhaps you should wait until you are ready to wed. I imagine a bride would prefer to have some say in a new construction.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. They are only rough plans, and I should like to consult the future lady of the house.” Phillip coughed into his hand, and his eyebrows rose as he looked over her head at Mr. Fenwick, as though he was trying to communicate without speaking.
How odd. And suspicious.
Phoebe turned to Mr. Fenwick, lowering her lashes and curling her lips into a smile. His expression faltered a moment, then returned to cheerful ignorance. Did he mean to pretend she had not caught him frowning darkly at Mr. Carew? Why was Mr. Fenwick determined to put himself into their conversation?
“What of you, Mr. Fenwick? Would you make such concessions for a lady?”
He leaned just a touch over the arm of his chair toward her. “For the future Mrs. Fenwick, of course. But as I have no plans to wed at present, nor any plans to build a new home, I believe I am safe from such a concern.” His teeth flashed white as he grinned.
The soup course was taken away, the fish replacing it.
“A true loss for the ladies of London,” Phoebe quipped, but her dart had no effect. Mr. Fenwick’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “It is rare a bachelor in London would so baldly state that he has no plans to wed, though I imagine a good deal of gentlemen might keep such a desire secret. What, pray tell, causes the hesitation on your part?”
He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, though he kept his gaze upon hers. “It is not hesitation, I assure you. Merely disinterest.”
“In marriage or in young ladies?”
“Marriage itself is not an unpleasant idea.” He sipped from his cup at last and lowered it back to the table. “But if I entered into that blessed sacrament with the wrong young lady, I imagine I would equate marriage with torture.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose before hastily recalling a lady ought never to do so in public. “Are your requirements for a bride so particular that you have not come upon one woman who happens to meet them? You must have exacting standards.”
“Not at all.” His eyes twinkled at her as he twirled his fork in one hand, then speared his fish. “I would prefer a woman of good humor, sound judgment, wit, and the ability to hold a pleasant conversation. That is not asking too much, is it?”
The simplicity of his words could not possibly reveal the entire truth. No man would be content with so little. Her own brother had easily rattled off a list of twenty requirements for the woman he wished to marry. Caroline had fulfilled nearly all of them.
Her next words were something of a dare. “I suppose a large dowry and a pretty face would not matter to you then, Mr. Fenwick?”
Mr. Fenwick finished chewing his bite of food before he made his answer, and Phoebe rather hoped it would prove clever.
“I am fortunate enough that I can marry for love rather than fortune, Miss Kimball. As to ‘pretty,’ I find that a woman is only as lovely as her character.”
Her lips parted, but no retort came to mind. Mr. Fenwick had the audacity to wink at her, then he turned to the woman seated on his right.
Phoebe lifted her fork, the course of the conversation momentarily lost. She had spent more time sparring with Mr. Fenwick than actually coming to know Mr. Carew. As he apparently believed himself the victor in their verbal sparring, Mr. Fenwick had momentarily ceased blocking her conversation. But he had left Phoebe befuddled. How did she begin anew with Mr. Carew?
The only time Mr. Carew had proved talkative was during his conversation on the history of London buildings. Uninterested though she was, Phoebe seized quickly upon the topic before Mr. Fenwick remembered her.
“Mr. Carew, will you please tell me what you think of the Tower? There is so much history in that old building. How many additions would you say it has had since the time of William the Conqueror?”
Mr. Carew noticeably perked up, and he fairly dove into the topic. “Given that the Tower was built by the Normans, one must start there, and understand where the original foundations existed before London was altered.”
As he continued to discuss the type of stone used to build the original walls about the Tower of London, Phoebe looked to the side to see Mr. Fenwick’s reaction to her victory.
He actually wore a frown and stabbed at his fish as though the food had done him harm.
Served him right. Everyone knew Mr. Carew’s mother wanted all her sons married, which made any one of them fair game. But Phillip Carew’s fortune would be in proportion to Phoebe’s, making him her favored candidate.
Batting her eyes, Phoebe turned her full attention to Mr. Carew, and tried to understand why he disliked the Tudor additions to London’s famous castle so very much.
Chapter 4
A Turn About the Square
To My Friend P.K.,
While I congratulate you on your excellent selection this time, I feel I must offer warning yet again. Mr. P.C. has not yet made it general knowledge, but he is, at present, promised to another. I should hate to see you waste your time—or worse still—your feelings, upon a man who cannot return your sentiments.
Most Sincerely, With My Good Wishes,
Your Friend
To My Mysterious Friend,
I will not bother to speculate how you are so aware of my movements that you know precisely how and when to warn me. We live in London. A thing barely happens before the gossip takes it from one end of the city to the other. I thank you for your warning.
As I do not know how you come by your information, you will understand that I must verify what you have said before acting upon your advice. Nevertheless, I am most grateful to you.