Page 102 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Squeezing her aunt’s fingers, Phee smiled tenderly. “We’ll have to see that you attend some parties.”
“Oh, I’ve no time for that. Did Somerdale inform you that I had a letter from Wigmore’s solicitor?”
“No, he didn’t.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “Good news, I hope.”
Her aunt leaned toward her. “Wigmore left me a considerable sum. Of course, his cousin Bartlett and his wife will be moving into Stillmeadow as he is next in line for the title. Fine fellow. I like him very much. He’ll be a good earl. They’re packing up my things so I don’t have to go back there. Ever so nice of them, I say.”
It was nice of them. She’d once met Bartlett. He seemed a decent enough fellow, certainly better than the man he was replacing. “We shall have to find you a residence in London.”
Her aunt’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m not staying, dear. I’m going to travel once I’m strong enough. Somerdale assures me that I can see quite a bit of the world on the money that has been left to me.”
Phee couldn’t help herself. She grimaced. “Auntie, I’m not certain I would take financial advice from Somerdale. He means well, but as I understand it, he hasn’t seen after his own inheritance very well.”
“What about this handsome fellow then? I wouldn’t mind clapping eyes on him again before I leave.”
Phee released a small laugh. God, it felt good. The last time she’d laughed ... had been with Drake. Before she’d remembered everything, before she understood the depth of his betrayal. “He’s a commoner.”
“Ahhh.” She nodded sagely. “I see.”
Her words, few as they were, carried a measure of disappointment. “What do you see?”
“Your father believed a man was born to his place in this world and should never seek to move beyond it. I daresay you believe the same.”
Phee did wish she’d already drunk her tea so she could busy herself by pouring another cup. She didn’t like the earnestness with which her aunt was studying her, waiting for an answer. “Perhaps once. Now I ... I don’t know any longer.” She thought of the long hours Drake put in, all the things he oversaw. He’d earned his success, earned respect from those who had trusted their business to his care.
“What does he do, this Drake Darling? He didn’t dress like a commoner, so he must engage in some sort of worthwhile business.”
“He manages—no, he’s the owner of a gentlemen’s club.”
“Indeed. A businessman. Perhaps I should write to him and see if he can advise me regarding my inheritance.”
Phee shook her head. “No, as I mentioned earlier, he’s exceedingly busy.”
“Pity.” Her aunt looked out onto the gardens. “I feel up to a walk. Care to join me?”
“I’d like to very much.” And she wanted to be there to provide her aunt with support should she discover she wasn’t as strong as she assumed. Helping her aunt from the chair, Phee offered her arm.
Their steps were slow and small, but they were steps. Phee was grateful her aunt seemed steady.
“Your father loved my sister very much,” Auntie Berta said, “and I am thankful for that. But he was a hard man who was resistant to change, believed in the old ways. However, I say if the old ways were so good, no one would come up with new ways.” She leaned against Phee. “Invite that handsome gent to dinner.”
“It’s complicated, Auntie.”
“Most things worthwhile are, dearest.”
It was not the proper time for a morning call, but then she wasn’t calling on the aristocracy, although she was attired as though she were. She stood on the stoop of a townhome waiting for the door to be answered. Her gaze was locked on the residence next door. She wondered if Drake were asleep, if he were even there. Perhaps he’d gone to the club. It was best to end their association quickly and cleanly. No lingering. No more apologies or questions or regrets.
The door finally opened.
“May I help you?” Marla asked.
Phee knew that clothing could make a person look very different, be perceived differently. Still she thought she would be identifiable. “Marla.”
Marla’s eyes widened, her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Cor. Phee? I didn’t recognize you.”
Because she hadn’t looked closely. Because she’d seen a fine dress and hat, gloves. Blond hair without a strand out of place. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton’s hair did not fall across her face, did not have to be blown back with an odd twist of her lips and a quick breath.
“Did you remember who you are?” Marla asked.
