Yours, etc.,
P.K.
Phoebe left the letter to her anonymous friend with the flower girl, then started upon her walk. Berkeley Square was not so fine as Grosvenor Square, but Number Fourteen had been her home during every Season from the time of her childhood. Her father had bought it, nearly new, and she had measured her years by the growing trees in the middle of the square.
A maid walked behind her, just far enough back to give Phoebe the illusion of privacy. This allowed her to pretend, for a brief time, that she was not a maiden in her third London Season, but an independent woman.
Miss Applegate’s insinuation two evenings previous, that Phoebe had been unsuccessful in finding a husband the previous years, had nettled her. Unlike most women who went charging about, looking for the wealthiest husband they could attract, Phoebe had first come to London with roses in her cheeks and romance in her heart. She had made that vow to her friends, of course, and had meant it with all the zeal of girlhood.
She had planned everything, perfectly, before stepping foot on London soil. The first half of her Season, she would come to know as many gentlemen as possible, and make new friends who were as good as those she had left behind. There would be one gentleman, she knew, who would stand out. A man worthy of her heart, and the promise she and her friends had made.
Phoebe paused on her walk and looked across the Berkeley grasses to the young trees reaching for the heavens the way she had once reached for her dream of a gentleman to hold her heart.
No such man had ever appeared. No matter. She had drawn up her plans for her second Season, and just when she thought to give up, she had met Harold Brookston. He had flattered and flirted, made her blush, danced with her at every opportunity. Then he had started pushing for an engagement, and she’d demurred, uncertain of her heart.
That uncertainty had saved her. His family had fled in the night, but they were caught and brought back to London to stand trial. Harold and his father went to debtor’s prison, their estate seized by the Crown.
He had wanted her money, and nothing more.
People married for worse reasons. Phoebe knew that.
But she’d fled to the country, humiliated, and shredded her plans to bits. Then she wrote up a new plan, with a list of names. Romance was not for her. She would find another way to happiness in mutual respect. That would be enough.
With such melancholy thoughts distracting her, Phoebe did not notice Mr. Fenwick until he stood at her side. “What are you looking at with such intensity, I wonder?”
She jumped and covered her heart with one hand. “Mr. Fenwick.”
He gave her a lop-sided grin and bow. “Miss Kimball. Greetings.”
Phoebe glanced toward the trees, then back to him. Where had he come from?
“I must say, Miss Kimball, that running into you is becoming a habit. I cannot yet discern, however, if it is a good one I ought to keep, or a bad one I must attempt to break.” He sighed dramatically, then offered her his arm. “What do you think?”
She accepted his escort, almost without thinking about it. “I hardly see that what I think matters. We seem rather doomed to such meetings.” She looked down at her bracelet, peeking out at her from beneath the sleeve of her spencer. “Or fated, depending upon your perspective.”
Surprise colored his tone. “I had rather expected you to put me in my place again, Miss Kimball. Not offer your agreement upon the matter.”
“I have not agreed with you,” she argued at once. “And I cannot put you in your place, sir, because I know not where you belong.” There. Let him puzzle that out. Odd man.
“I suppose I belong wherever I am at the moment. If we believe in fate, that is.” Mr. Fenwick clicked his tongue upon the roof of his mouth. “That would mean, Miss Kimball, that I belong right here. With you.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat before she saw the glimmer of laughter in his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth. Of course he had not meant anything serious by such a statement. She hastily put aside her odd reaction to his words.
“Do you ever get tired of teasing?” she asked darkly, shaking her head at him.
“Never. It does little harm, if any, and usually makes people smile.” He kept his steps measured, short. Perhaps for her benefit. Perhaps to prolong his time in her company for more verbal torture.
Phoebe’s thoughts turned, and an excited sort of flip took place in her stomach. Why not play his game? She could tease and torture as well as he, and it had proved rather amusing at the dinner table the other evening.
That thought gave her the perfect topic to pursue.
“It may surprise you to know, Mr. Fenwick, that I have given some thought to your words from the other evening. On marriage.”
He coughed away a small gasp, turning his head from her. His voice sounded strained when he spoke again. “I thought we had said all that was necessary on that particular topic.”
“Have we? Or are you merely reluctant to reenter the conversation on the chance that I might come out the victor this time?” She tipped her head to the side and attempted to appear more innocent than conniving.
Mr. Fenwick’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware we were keeping track of points in our conversations, Miss Kimball. But do go on. You have my interest.”
“Thank you.” Phoebe lowered her gaze to the walk. “I should like to begin the topic, Mr. Fenwick, with an inquiry. I have wondered why a man of your age would persist in claiming no interest in marriage. While I concede that gentlemen may take longer at such a choice than ladies, you are rather in your dotage, are you not?” Teasing him served him right, after he had amused himself at her expense more than once of late.
His head turned abruptly, and she sensed his eyes upon her, studying her. “Dotage, Miss Kimball? I’ll have you know I am younger than you are.”
Phoebe stopped walking and turned toward him, releasing his arm. “Sir, I cannot believe you would say such a thing. You are not. You must be nearer thirty than twenty.” She narrowed her eyes and studied the charming, tiny lines near the corners of his eyes; they grew deeper as he smiled. At her. He had a rather nice smile.
“I will have you know that I have only marked my birthday on six occasions.” His eyes glittered, bluer than gray in his amusement.
Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest. “That is absurd. Indeed, the most absurd thing I have ever heard.”
He mimicked her stance. “I swear to you, on my honor, it is the truth.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again and stared hard at him. There was a puzzle in his words somewhere, and she would find the answer. Perhaps his family had not done anything on the anniversary of his birth to mark the occasion. That might be what he meant. Yet she had heard, from Caroline, all about the Fenwick family. They sounded as though they were all quite close, and if they had produced someone such as the gentleman before her, they likely did not ignore excuses to celebrate.
“Six birthdays.” She wrinkled her nose.
His grin turned almost cocky. He offered his arm again. She accepted it. “Six,” he confirmed. “I will wager you have celebrated twenty years of your life passing.” Their walk continued, even slower than before.
“I have.” Drat and bother. “Six marked birthdays. What happened during the unmarked anniversaries?” She ought to hate how curious he had made her. Yet she had always had a weakness for riddles. Especially those with logical conclusions.