Page 117 of Her Beast of a Duke
“How are you today?”
So, this is how she will play it.
He knew from experience that Phoebe likely already knew about him questioning his staff. His daughter had a crafty way of overhearing things he thought were safe from her young ears.
“I am troubled,” he said carefully. “How are you?”
“I am fine.Bored. But what can I expect when I am locked in my tower?”
“Tower,” he mused, smiling. “Has Miss Ternan been reading fairytales to you again?”
Phoebe nodded.
“Is that how you feel? That you are locked in here, waiting to be saved?”
“I do not need to be saved,” she mumbled. “I just need to get out.”
“I know,” Charles murmured.
He took a step closer to her.
Sometimes, his daughter behaved like a spooked animal. The closer he got, the quicker she would bolt if he left a door open behind him.
He never closed her chamber door behind him. It seemed too much, too invasive of her space.
Yet he saw her eyes flick to the open door.
“You must be upset with me,” he added.
Hoping she would admit out of guilt what she had done, he dared to test his questioning.
With Phoebe, it was easier to keep his temper in check, for she regarded him with those big, dark blue eyes—the same as his—and he questioned…
Who was he to scold a little girl who had lost so much?
“No, Papa,” she said, her voice too sweet, too innocent, for the mischievous girl she was. “Not at all. I understand perfectly why I am in here.”
That gave him pause.
She never conceded like this. She was trying to sweeten his suspicions by agreeing that grounding her was the right decision.
Sighing, Charles sat down on the edge of her bed, facing her.
“Phoebe, I know you told the footman to move my painting,” he finally said.
“I do not speak to the footmen, Papa. There are lots of them, and I am only small.”
Her little, innocent voice would have made him laugh if he were not riled up.
Behind her, the sky was already darkening. He had spent all day penning letters to notorious members of the ton to apologize for what they were exposed to, trying to contain the scandal that had broken out in his ballroom the night before.
“If you were angry, I would understand,” he tried gently. “I just want to know the truth.”
She looked at him with suspicion, as if she doubted he could truly understand.
Exhaling wearily, Charles knew he would get nowhere by trying to coax a confession out of her.
“Phoebe,” he said sternly, “I need you to be honest with me because you have hurt not only me with this prank, but somebody else as well. Someone innocent, who should not havebeen involved. Someone who did not even know the painting existed.”
