Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,16

Fenwick.”

The butler opened the door. The maid had already disappeared through the servants’ entrance below street level. Phoebe stepped inside, but the instant before the door shut, she had a bolt of understanding.

Phoebe threw the door open again and went to the top of the steps. Mr. Fenwick had already attained the pavement.

“Mr. Fenwick,” she called.

He spun, looking up at her. He took a step closer. “Is something the matter, Miss Kimball?”

When her grin burst across her face, her elation taking hold of her, he froze as though stunned. Good. A man like him ought to be surprised once in a while. Phoebe delighted in his full attention as she solved his riddle.

“You were born on a leap day. Then you would be near thirty, but with only six birthdays celebrated.”

His grin flashed, and he bowed to her, right there upon the street. Phoebe laughed, then covered her mouth with one hand. What would the neighbors think?

“Good day to you, sir.” She spun on her heel, walked into the house, and did not look back as the befuddled Lawler shut the door behind her.

Chapter 5

List of Suitors

To My Unknown Friend,

I have confirmed what you told me, sir. I must thank you again, even as I cross Mr. Carew’s name from my list. That must sound callous to you, that I keep a list of potential suitors. Or perhaps you understand. I am inclined to think you a sympathetic man, given your kindness to me thus far. You must know something of what it is like for ladies, to risk our future happiness upon men we hardly know by more than reputation.

It occurs to me that I might save myself time, having a friend such as you, by sharing my list. If this is presumptuous, do forgive me. But this may save you from future correspondence with someone as woefully uneducated on the bachelors of London as I seem to be.

What think you of these gentlemen? I have listed them alphabetically by surname.

Mr. Henry Brockton

Sir William Carter

Mr. Bartholomew Kenley

Mr. Howard Lambleigh

Lord George Pewton

Mr. Alfred Waymont

Yours Most Gratefully,

P.K.

To The Clever P.K.,

While some might find your list-making presumptuous, I am only intrigued. You appear to be an intelligent woman. You have given your future a great deal of thought, and I am most sympathetic toward you. Here is your list given back, with my notations.

Mr. Henry Brockton (A slave to his mother. I cannot imagine an independent woman enjoying such a thing.)

Sir William Carter (Has announced his intentions to marry a Frenchwoman of his acquaintance.)

Mr. Bartholomew Kenley (A possible candidate, if one does not mind his obsession with insects.)

Mr. Howard Lambleigh (He is a confirmed bachelor with no interest in the fairer sex. Not even a lady as lovely as you.)

Lord George Pewton (While an agreeable man, I must warn you: his hair is not his own.)

Mr. Alfred Waymont (I cannot imagine you wishing to spend more than a moment in conversation with him. He is intolerably stupid.)

My friend, I cannot say what it is you see in these gentlemen. There is no pattern I can detect here, or else I might provide you with a list of men who are more suitable candidates. Do share your requirements with me, P.K., and I will do my best to aid you in your search.

Most Humbly,

Your Friend

Griffin waited in the park, having an idea when Miss Kimball would appear to collect his letter from the flower girl, Anna. The child had agreed to keep his identity a secret, and keep acting as messenger, without even asking a copper of him. She seemed delighted to take part in an intrigue, and he promised to purchase flowers from her every day for the rest of the Season.

He checked his watch, then glanced up at the gray sky. If it rained, Miss Kimball might change her plans. He would need to change his, too, given that he had no umbrella with him.

At three o’clock she appeared, wearing a walking dress and bonnet festooned in emerald green ribbons. She had no maid, which meant she did not mean to go farther than the square. Perhaps she would only pick up her letter and then vanish again inside the house.

As soon as she was on the walk, her back to where Griffin stood in the shade of a tree, he started to follow. Not because he wished to speak to her, necessarily. But seeing her reaction to his letter would amuse him. Finding fault in each of her listed bachelors