Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,38

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.

“Turf and thunder,” he muttered, tearing yet another letter to pieces. “Botheration.” Truly, the situation merited more colorful language, but Griffin had no desire to add to his sins, at present.

Dawn crept into the room through the window, with him slumped in a chair before the embers of a fire. Cream-colored balls of paper were scattered about the room, or torn to bits and laying about like forgotten snowflakes.

“It shouldn’t matter this much.” He addressed his comment to his stockinged feet. He’d kicked his shoes off and tossed his cravat over a chair at some point in the night. But the sheer panic with which he had written and scratched out an explanation for what he had done, for writing her and then deceiving her, proved that he could not cast his worries aside. He needed to ask himself a different question entirely. “Why does it matter this much?”

He had begun to consider courtship, and to consider what it might mean to enter into a formal commitment with Phoebe. But he’d hesitated in declaring such intentions. He had never courted anyone, because that meant making plans. Making plans hinted at a level of seriousness he had never felt quite prepared to accept. There would always be more time, another year, and plenty of women in England to consider.

Except for the last fortnight, he had only thought of Phoebe. He had laughed over her letters, admired her determination, and found her irresistibly intelligent and beautiful. He wanted to be near her, to come to know her better.

The last letter she had written him, before the fiasco of a dinner, she had asked to meet her anonymous friend. Perhaps he could convince her to meet him, still. Rather than explain in another letter. If he visited her home, the chances of them having a private audience were slim.

But if they met in the park, perhaps he could make things better.

He went to the curtains in his room, already open enough to allow a trickle of sunlight inside. He threw them open, wincing a bit. Then he took the edge of his desk and pulled it into the light. He had used all the paper, but he found a piece he could trim down and uncrumpled it on the flat surface.

Griffin chewed on his bottom lip, tapping his fingers with the pen between them upon the desk. Then he wrote.

To P.K.,

I understand that you are upset. I understand if you are angry. But please, will you give me the chance to explain? We could meet, as you suggested, at the tree in Hyde Park. I will be there.

Please come, as I remain, with my whole heart,

Your Friend

He sealed the note, the shortest he had ever written Phoebe. The rampant lion appearing rather angry with him.

Griffin found his cravat and tied it on rather sloppily, then went in search of his shoes. The flower girl would be there even that early. She had an entire cart of flowers in the mornings, so grand houses might put flowers upon ladies’ breakfast trays and upon dining tables.

He flew out the door, uncaring that his appearance might startle anyone of his class who saw him. The only person whose opinion mattered was the recipient of his note.

Phoebe stayed in bed as long as possible. She had not slept much. Mostly she had tossed about in bed, trying to recall every word she had written to her anonymous friend. Had there been anything truly embarrassing? Anything that would compromise her standing in Society besides the letters themselves?

Not that she thought Griffin would attempt to expose her in any way. Not intentionally.

She pulled a pillow over her face, ignoring the sounds of life outside her window. “I cannot trust anything he said. Because he lied.”

Another part of her mind argued that her statement was false. Griffin had never spoken or written a falsehood. She had reread all his letters in the middle of the night, then folded them up and retied them in the red ribbon.

Even without the lying, Griffin had deceived her. What she could not understand was why he had kept writing once he had accomplished his purpose of warning her, or why he had continued to