Duchess Material

Four

P hoebe stared out the window of the hackney as modest brick buildings gave way to tidy town houses and finally the grand classical-style mansions of Belgravia. At this hour the streets were mostly populated by pairs of finely dressed ladies no doubt heading to pay afternoon calls to other finely dressed ladies to trade thinly veiled insults mixed with bits of gossip. Phoebe suppressed a shudder and sat back in her seat. She already missed the vibrancy of her neighborhood.

As the carriage pulled up in front of a property that took up the top portion of a crescent of terrace houses, dread bubbled low in her belly. Her parents had caused a minor scandal when they bought two adjoining mansions years ago and combined them to create Park House, named for the impressive back garden. Her father had been inspired to commit this architectural offense while on a business trip to New York by the enormous Fifth Avenue mansions populated by robber barons and the nouveau riche. He liked to say that he had brought a little bit of that splendid American gauche to the West End . And while a number of neighbors whispered their disapproval, even more followed suit as soon as they could. Phoebe had once admired her father’s unwavering commitment to riling London society at every opportunity, but the older she got, the more it felt like a gigantic waste of energy—to say nothing of the expense.

The carriage had long since rocked to a stop, but Phoebe took another moment to collect herself. She pasted a bright smile on her face before she stepped onto the pavement and had nearly made it to the front door before it swung open. “Good afternoon, Munson!”

The family’s stodgy old butler gave a short bow as he stepped aside. “Miss Atkinson.”

Munson was a relic inherited from her maternal grandmother’s much more formal household, which made him a horrible snob who disapproved of Phoebe’s living arrangements—not that he would ever be vulgar enough to show it. However, the housemaids liked to talk and they all claimed he was the biggest gossip in the neighborhood.

“Is my mother in?” She pulled off her gloves and cast a subtle look around the grand entryway.

“Madam is in the pink room. Follow me.”

“Goodness, Munson. It hasn’t been that long since my last visit,” Phoebe joked, but the butler remained stone-faced. “I can find the way myself,” she added quietly.

“As you wish.” He then gave another short bow before shuffling off to grace another part of the house with his sparkling presence.

Phoebe let out a soft sigh and headed down the hall. According to family legend, when her newlywed parents were planning out Park House, her mother balked at her father’s overtly masculine designs for the study and insisted on a separate space of her own. Her father jokingly replied, “I suppose you’ll decorate it all in pink as well!” And she did just that.

While the composition of Park House may be considered gauche by some, few could find fault with the elegant interior thanks to her mother’s impeccable taste and eye for detail. Walls were either painted in soft shades of blue and cream, or papered in one of William Morris’s exquisite floral prints, while the floors were accented with carefully matched rugs or intricate tilework.

Phoebe knew Marion didn’t really understand why she lived in their little flat with the leaky roof that was too cold in winter and too hot in summer when she could stay here. Or why she bothered to work at all when she could spend her time going to balls and marry a perfectly nice man and have perfectly nice children. But Phoebe wanted no part of a society marriage’s gilded cage, nor the largely unspoken rules expected of a wife.

Even her parents, who had most certainly married for love, could not entirely escape these expectations. Phoebe had watched her mother, an intelligent, curious woman, take up and discard a dozen different hobbies over the course of her childhood: painting, sculpture, astronomy, landscape design, flower arranging, and, for a brief, torturous period, the harp.

Unlike most husbands of their class, Phoebe’s father doted on his wife and was indulgent of her many disparate pursuits, but they never veered from what was considered appropriate for a lady. A wife. A mother . And yet, Mrs. Atkinson was still considered an eccentric. Luckily she didn’t seem to care. “You must try to do what makes you happy , my dear,” she had told Phoebe once. “And as often as you can. No one else is as concerned with your personal happiness as yourself.”

But at home Alex was their father’s golden child, while Winifred was content reveling in the superficial delights of the ton with their mother, which often left Phoebe feeling like the odd one out. So even though the little flat with the leaky roof was too cold in winter and too hot in summer, Phoebe could come and go as she pleased without interacting with at least half a dozen other people and their expectations of her, both silent and spoken. She could wear what she wanted and eat what she wanted when she wanted. Phoebe could, in short, just be. If the cost of that freedom was having to wear extra stockings in February or change her chemise twice a day for a week in August, that seemed like a fair bargain.

Phoebe paused outside the door to the pink room and took a steadying breath before knocking. At her mother’s muffled response, she entered. Just like the rest of the house, this room was the picture of muted elegance. Phoebe didn’t even particularly like pink, but her mother had dressed the space in warm, welcoming shades, silky textures, and sumptuous pieces of furniture that practically begged visitors to sit. Phoebe always felt immediately calmer as soon as she stepped across the threshold. Even her father couldn’t resist the siren’s call of the pink room—though he would never admit it. But on more than one afternoon he had been found dead asleep on the plush chaise.

Mrs. Atkinson, dressed in a fetching pale green silk afternoon gown, was looking at her reflection in a large gilt-framed mirror and adjusting her matching hat, but her hands stilled when she noticed Phoebe.

“Oh, hello Bee. I was just on my way out to see Lady Kirby. Is Freddie expecting you? She’s having a lesson with Monsieur Laurent.”

“No, Mother. Actually, I… I came here to speak to you. I need something.”

Mrs. Atkinson let out a surprised laugh and whirled around to face her daughter. “I don’t think you’ve needed anything from me since you were twelve years old.”

Phoebe glanced away from her mother’s deceptively sharp gaze. “It won’t take more than a moment.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Atkinson sat down on the sofa and patted the space beside her. “Come here.”

Once Phoebe had dutifully taken her seat, Mrs. Atkinson began inspecting her. “You’re looking a bit tired. Perhaps you need a break from that school.”

Her mother was always suggesting she take a break. Though Phoebe knew her concern was well meant, it was incredibly irritating.

“I’m fine,” Phoebe grumbled.

“Is this about a suitor?”

She ignored the hope in her mother’s voice. “It’s about the school, actually.” Before her mother could make any more guesses, she explained the situation while Mrs. Atkinson listened patiently.

“And since the headmistress has put me in charge of forming a committee, I thought I’d ask you for advice,” she added.

Mrs. Atkinson gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sure you don’t only want my advice , darling.”

“No,” Phoebe admitted. “Obviously the headmistress would like it if we could attract the same people who attended the garden party, but we won’t have anywhere near the same funds to spend.”

Her mother didn’t look concerned. “We will come up with something. Lady Montgomery’s event was always lovely, but she was mostly concerned with keeping up appearances. If you’re looking to compel people to open their purses, I have a few ideas.” She paused to tap her chin. “Lady Graham and Mrs. Abernathy also have a fierce philanthropic rivalry we could exploit.”

But Phoebe was too distracted to comment on her mother’s scheming. “You… you attended the garden party?”

“Of course I did,” she said, offended. “Every year, in fact. Did you think I wouldn’t support the school my own child worked at?”

“No,” Phoebe replied hastily. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just… you never said anything.”

“Well, you haven’t been around very much. And when I do see you, we have far more important things to discuss than what society functions I’ve attended.”

Phoebe looked down. It was true that her visits home had grown more and more infrequent since she started working at the school three years ago. Lately they were mostly relegated to holidays or family birthdays, as that was all Phoebe could take.

Though Mr. Atkinson had dutifully paid for Phoebe’s education at Bedford College, a local women’s institution, after she refused to endure another London season, he hadn’t understood her desire to teach.

If you insist on working, come down to the office. I’m sure your sister can find something productive for you to do.

But Phoebe immediately rejected the suggestion and her father had gone on to treat her job as little more than a lark.

Let me know when you grow tired of reading nursery rhymes to street urchins and are ready to join your sister and do some real work.

Phoebe chose to avoid him instead. Besides, even if she had wanted to work for their father, it only would have caused more strife as she could never measure up to Alex, who had started working for him while still in the schoolroom.

At first it was something to occupy her busy mind when she grew bored with their governess’s admittedly limited knowledge and Father found her in the library halfway through The Wealth of Nations . But not only was Alex brilliant, she had an uncanny knack for spotting incredibly lucrative business ideas. It was largely thanks to her that Atkinson Enterprises had grown into one of the top financial firms in the country.

But Phoebe didn’t have a head for numbers like her sister, and she certainly didn’t care about enriching their father’s already wealthy clients. Alex viewed it as a kind of game, but to Phoebe it felt like the worst sort of excess. And recently, in a moment of frustration, she had told her sister just that.

Well that excess , as you call it, helped pay for your education.

The immediate rejoinder, delivered in Alex’s famously cold, crisp voice, had been haunting her for weeks now. Phoebe’s tendency to reverse numbers ensured that she would never follow her sister to Lady Margaret Hall at Oxford, but Bedford College had been all too happy to have her—and her family’s money.

“I’ll help you, Bee.” Her mother’s warm words cut through the ugly memory. “Only let me give it a think. I’ll speak with Lady Kirby as well. She has far too much money as it is. She may as well spend some of it on a school instead of that racehorse she keeps going on about.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Mrs. Atkinson held up a hand. “Before you agree, there’s something I’d like from you in return.” Phoebe braced herself. She knew what was coming. “When your father and Alex come back home, I want all of us to have dinner together on Fridays. Like we used to. And no arguments.”

Phoebe’s cheeks flushed. “Then tell Father to respect my job and stop acting like I’m a glorified nanny.”

“I will speak to him about that,” she promised. “But you must admit that calling him morally bankrupt didn’t exactly help.”

Phoebe winced. God, Christmas had been awful. Cook had made the punch stronger than usual and it had loosened all their tongues.

“I only said that because he called my students street urchins. And even if they are, what of it? Don’t they deserve to learn to read?”

“They do,” her mother agreed. “And your father did apologize for saying that. You don’t have to like everything he does, but all of you need to be more respectful of each other. Your father and Alex both work hard, and though you might not see it, they try to do good in their own way.”

Phoebe sensed she wasn’t going to win this argument and simply nodded in reply. Her mother looked relieved.

“Oh, I’m so glad. I’ll start planning the menu tonight. We’ll have everyone’s favorite dishes. You do still like lobster patties, don’t you?”

Phoebe couldn’t help but smile at her mother’s enthusiasm. “Yes, that sounds nice.”

“Wonderful! Even Cook will be excited.” Mrs. Atkinson then glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’m sorry, darling, but I really must be going. Lady Kirby will have likely fallen asleep in her chair waiting for me.” Phoebe rose with her mother and accepted her cheek kiss. “Now make sure to see Freddie before you leave. She’ll be terribly put out if you don’t say hello.”

“I’ll go right now.”

Mrs. Atkinson patted her cheek. “That’s my dear girl. Be well! And come again soon!” she called over her shoulder as she glided down the hall with an enviable combination of purpose and grace.

As Phoebe made her way to the ballroom, she could hear Freddie arguing with Monsieur Laurent from down the hall—but that was nothing unusual.

“You dropped your arm.”

“I did not!”

“You did,” he calmly insisted in his delightful Parisian accent.

Then the sound of foils clinking commenced. Phoebe paused in the doorway and watched as her sister smoothly dropped to the floor to avoid Monsieur Laurent’s lunge and thrust her foil against his chest. She let out a triumphant cry as she rose.

“That was perfect !” Freddie tore off her mask.

“It was better,” the monsieur allowed as he much more gracefully removed his own mask and ran a hand through his dark hair. Then he noticed Phoebe and bowed. “Mademoiselle Atkinson.”

Freddie turned and gave her a wide smile. “Did you see? We’ve been practicing that move all afternoon.”

“Very impressive,” Phoebe answered honestly.

Freddie immediately turned back to her instructor and gave him an arch look. Even the formidable Frenchman couldn’t completely suppress a smile. “It was better,” he repeated.

“I’ll take it,” Freddie said with a grin.

“I will see you next week then,” he said as they shook hands. Then he gave Phoebe a wink as he strolled past her and inclined his head. “Mademoiselle Atkinson, always a pleasure to see you.”

“And you, Monsieur Laurent.”

Freddie rolled her eyes and sat down on a bench. “You’re blushing.”

Phoebe turned back to catch one last glimpse of the man in his tight fencing whites as he headed down the hall. “Can you blame me?” Then she faced her sister. “He really is so charming.”

“It’s the accent,” Freddie said as she unbuttoned the collar of her fencing jacket. “He’s an absolute monster.”

Phoebe laughed and joined her on the bench. “You’re getting awfully good though.”

“Oh, he’s a splendid teacher. I can’t fault him there. His kissing, however, was quite lackluster.”

“Freddie!”

“It was nothing,” she said with a dismissive wave. “We both agreed it was a mistake that will not be repeated.”

Phoebe frowned at her impertinence, though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Freddie didn’t place much importance on kisses. Or men in general. She had barely entered her first season when she became engaged to a young marquess—and the most eligible bachelor in London at the time. But then she just as quickly called it off, and blamed her initial acceptance on the novelty of being proposed to which had dimmed considerably once she considered the reality of being a wife.

It had been a shocking turn of events and their mother had taken her abroad the following year rather than risk another scandal. But unfortunately Freddie was even more popular on the Continent and collected proposals from an Italian prince, an aging Texan oilman, and a chap claiming to be one of Napoleon’s descendants before Mother hauled her back to England. Since then Freddie had behaved. Mostly. Or at least learned to keep her indiscretions well under wraps.

She pulled the jacket off and dropped it on the floor. “Much better,” she said as she fanned herself with her hand. “Now then, what are you doing here?”

“I can’t visit my favorite youngest sister?”

Freddie huffed. “You never want to come to the house anymore. I always have to meet you somewhere.”

Phoebe bit her lip. She may be at odds with Alex, but she had always gotten along with Freddie. Everyone got along with Freddie. She made it impossible not to. “I needed to speak to Mother, actually.”

Freddie raised one dark brow. “Oh?” While Phoebe’s lighter coloring favored their father, both her sisters shared their mother’s raven hair and brown eyes. But whereas Alex was tall and willowy, Freddie was shorter with enviable curves. “Do tell.”

Phoebe explained the situation with the school and her intention to hold a charity bazaar. Freddie’s eyes lit with interest.

“That’s a splendid idea! I’ll donate a fencing lesson.”

“Really? That would be wonderful.”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised. I’d love to help.”

Phoebe lowered her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… you know how disapproving Father has been about the school.”

“He’s been an ass .”

Phoebe chuckled. “Yes, well, I suppose I’ve also liked having something all to myself. And it’s nice to go somewhere where people don’t know that I’m the great Philip Atkinson’s daughter, or the extraordinary Alex Atkinson’s sister. You know?”

“I do,” Freddie said softly. “Seeing as how you’re the unconventional Phoebe Atkinson.”

“I thought it was the unnatural Phoebe Atkinson.” She tried to say it lightly, but the bitterness bled through. She had heard all manner of jeers both whispered and not during her London season. It was why she now avoided society as much as possible.

“To some, perhaps,” Freddie said with a shrug. “But you’re trying to do good in this world. There are plenty of people who find you admirable, besides me of course.”

“Oh,” Phoebe said dumbly.

Freddie gave her a pointed look. “Not everyone I socialize with is a spoiled ninny, you know.”

“Sorry, Freddie,” Phoebe mumbled.

“It’s all right,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Have you heard anything about your student? You were so worried last time I saw you.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I went to her flat yesterday, but no one has seen her. It’s like she simply vanished.”

Freddie’s brow furrowed with worry and she clasped Phoebe’s hand. “That’s awful.”

“Something else happened while I was there,” Phoebe added. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

She gave a solemn nod. “I swear.”

As Phoebe relayed the events of yesterday, Freddie’s eyes grew wider and wider. But when she got to the part about the duke showing up, Freddie’s mouth actually dropped open.

“Will Margrave went down to Bow Street to rescue you?”

Phoebe shook her head at her sister’s incredulous tone. “I didn’t really give him much choice. And you know how loyal he is to Alex.”

Freddie didn’t look convinced. “He could have sent someone, Phoebe. I mean, the man is a duke.”

She ignored her sister’s pointed look. Time to change the subject away from Will. “I wish I knew who owned the building. Something just doesn’t feel right. The maintenance man was so outraged that I was even asking about Alice. But why would he care?”

“Well, why don’t you ask Will? He owns all sorts of properties around London. If anyone can find out I’m sure he can.” Then her sister’s eyes took on a gleam that usually signaled trouble. “Come with me to the Wrenhew ball tonight! You can ask him there.”

Phoebe’s heart beat noticeably faster at the thought of seeing Will again, and so soon, but she would rather return to Bow Street than a London ballroom.

“I have school in the morning.”

“Then don’t stay long,” Freddie tossed off, as if an early wake time was the only thing preventing Phoebe from attending the kind of event most people spent weeks preparing for.

But rather than admit to feeling woefully out of place, Phoebe simply crossed her arms. “I thought the fashionable set don’t show their faces until past midnight anyway.”

“Yes, but Will is only going because he’s courting Lady Gwendolyn Fairbanks. He’ll get his two dances in and then leave as soon as he can,” Freddie added.

Phoebe’s mouth had gone strangely dry. “I… I don’t think I know her,” she said, managing to sound bored.

“She’s Lord Fairbanks’s eldest daughter. A little too fond of herself I think, but she is very popular. Not that Will has any real competition, being a duke and all. Lord Fairbanks would probably cart Gwen over to St. George’s this second if Will proposed.”

Of course. The daughter of an earl was perfect for him. “Naturally.”

Freddie didn’t seem to notice Phoebe’s dry tone and suddenly grasped her sister’s hand again. “Oh do come with me tonight. I promise we won’t stay very late. Just long enough for you to talk to Will.”

Phoebe couldn’t deny that Freddie had a point. And a part of her was awfully curious to see the future Duchess of Ellis, though she quickly buried the pang in her chest that followed the thought. It felt distressingly close to envy and that was absurd.

“I have a gown you can wear,” Freddie continued. “It’s never quite fit me right, anyway. And Lucy can do your hair. She’ll probably find it easy after battling with mine every day.” Freddie gestured to the absolute mass of curls neatly pinned at the nape of her neck. As usual, a few strands had sprung loose around her temples, but they only made her look more fetching.

Though she had already made up her mind, Phoebe had a reputation to uphold so she let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. If you think the duke can help, I can’t really say no.”

Freddie grinned as she looped her arm through Phoebe’s. “My thoughts exactly.”