Page 3 of The Lady Sparks a Flame (The Damsels of Discovery #2)

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If in such strivings, we…see but imperfectly, still we should endeavor to see, for even an obscure and distorted vision is better than none.

—Michael Faraday

“Bee. You must look here.”

Phoebe had been combing through the bookshelves in her father’s library. As with most of the ton, the books were for show. There was no way her father had read The Elements in the original Greek. Not in English, either.

Still, a library was the perfect place to keep a secret, and the reason Phoebe had returned to England was to protect her mother and sister from the consequences of her own “secret.”

The best protection would be if Karolina married a good man who had money enough to keep her and Moti in comfort and shield against scandal if Phoebe’s crime were revealed.

With her obligations to family satisfied, Phoebe could take the next step on the path toward a future less clouded with shame.

A future of her own making, as plain Phoebe Hunt with only a handful of dresses and forty dollars to her name.

A woman without a past who might someday earn redemption.

Phoebe leafed through the pages of her father’s books, making certain they contained no letters or invoices to set the ton aflutter with gossip. A habit handed down in her family from her great-great-grandfather, who never trusted his sons. Even decades later they would find slips of paper—receipts, promissory notes, even love letters—hidden between the pages of Laurence Sterne’s, A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy , or a falling-apart copy of Moll Flanders .

Not a single treatise on science stood among the hundreds of tomes.

This was deliberate. Most wealthy families took pains to show off their classical educations, often displaying a collection of Bacon’s work or a copy of Note on the Orbit of Halley’s Comet .

Phoebe’s father had removed them years ago when his children first showed an interest in the natural sciences. No daughter of his was going to fill her empty head with facts . Too much knowledge rendered a woman infertile or hysterical or whatever state it was women were relegated to when they had learned enough to ask questions.

To say no.

“Come in here instead, Moti. I don’t want to lose my place on the shelf.”

“Bee, have you seen this?”

Phoebe returned a Bible with its pages still uncut to the shelf.

“No, Moti. What is it?” Phoebe held out her hand and Moti gave her a calling card.

“Yesterday while we were listening to the Fenley man, Mr. Lionel Armitage stopped to call. When he heard we were with a guest, he left this card and a message, if we please, he will return on Thursday when we are At Home. This is not good, Bee.”

Phoebe recalled only one Armitage, Fanny, a terrible woman with horrible taste in clothing who had a great dislike for the women of Athena’s Retreat.

“Why are you worried?” Phoebe asked, assuming her mother’s concern was rooted in superstition.

It was impossible to predict what Moti might find unlucky as there were as many Lithuanian superstitions as there were stars in the sky. Her skin was nearly translucent in the harsh light streaming through the library’s windows. It smelled like paper and mold in here, this room having been mostly unused while the marquess was alive. Her father had never been a loll-before-the-fire-with-a-pipe-and-good-old-Euclid-at-his-side man.

“Lionel has taken over for his uncle, Victor,” Moti explained. “He is head of the group, the Guardians of Domesticity.”

Ugh. Them.

Lapping at the toes of the aristocracy and blaming women for the ills of society, the Guardians were a group of men who had an unhealthy interest in women. Not a sexual interest, although Phoebe believed frustrated sexual urges did have something to do with their rage, but an interest couched as a celebration of the traditional British family and women’s role as keeper of the hearth.

Keepers of the bloody hearth her arse .

They had been peripherally menacing before Phoebe left, hanging about Athena’s Retreat and haranguing the women who came to hear lectures on science in the public spaces.

In America, they were occasionally mentioned in the broadsheets, mostly for riling up male doctors against country midwives or apothecaries who treated women prostitutes or those abandoned by their men. They didn’t want women using prophylactics, but they didn’t approve of menstrual induction, either.

Did they even understand how babies were made?

“His uncle was disgraced, but the nephew, Lionel, is a hero. He did something brave for the Queen, I can’t remember what. They have a magazine, the Gentlemen’s Monthly ,” Moti explained.

“I can’t imagine Karolina would encourage a suit from a man like that .” Phoebe grimaced when she realized how that might be taken.

Yesterday, Sam Fenley had made them an offer on Hunt House and left them speechless. He’d taken advantage of the silence and asked Karolina to ride with him in the park the next day.

Karolina’s acceptance had been hesitant, and afterward, Phoebe had asked her sister if she already had a favorite suitor. Karolina had only raised and dropped one shoulder the tiniest fraction of an inch, pasting on a false smile.

“I am too busy worrying about Moti to think of marriage,” she’d said.

She was difficult to read, since Phoebe did not know her well. Karolina was the youngest by seven years and the favorite of their mother. When her father was in London, Moti and Karolina had often stayed behind at the estate.

Hiding, Phoebe supposed.

The only sister to write regularly to Phoebe in America, Karolina’s letters came once every few months; simple recountings of everyday happenings on the estate and in town. She’d an eye for the absurd, however, and Phoebe appreciated the humor when nostalgia made her morose.

Moti flitted about the room with the ribbons of her cap fluttering like cabbage moths, stopping to touch a book spine, then drifting off in her pale gray skirts to touch the frame of a mirror or the top of a chair.

“Lady Tremount has been kind since your father died. She has invited Karolina to dinners and balls and even her country house,” Moti said. “Lionel was there, at Tremount’s last house party. His wife was still alive then, but ill.”

Halting opposite the marquess’s chair on the other side of the great oak desk, Moti spoke to the empty chair like a penitent, giving Phoebe chills.

“He paid much attention to Karolina, more than was seemly for a married man. Flattering her, making her laugh and talking about…I don’t know what. Books?”

What books was Karolina reading that would appeal to a man like Lionel Armitage? Phoebe didn’t know her sister well enough to answer that.

“He is not suitable, Bee.”

He certainly was not.

“I agree,” Phoebe said. “We cannot allow Karolina to marry the head of the Guardians. They are narrow-minded and ignorant.”

“Psssht.” Moti made a sound that meant she’d decided not to have an opinion on a subject because it was one that invited strong opinions, which meant it was an improper subject for well-bred ladies.

She looked away from the empty chair and whispered, “She cannot marry him because the servants say Lionel… punished his wife.”

Like an avalanche of boulders those words conjured the worst days of Phoebe’s childhood when her father had the energy and strength to dole out his own “punishments.” Relieved she was already sitting, memories of pain and humiliation washed over her, threatening to choke the breath from her.

They never spoke of it, Moti and her sisters and her. An unwritten rule they’d adhered to even in the worst times. Never say aloud that the marquess laid hands on them and others in the household.

They turned their attention to escape because none of them were strong enough to stand up to him.

I don’t want to do this, but you’ve made it unavoidable.

Her father’s voice was flat and cold when he meted out his punishments. If they would simply behave as they ought, be silent and comely, know what he wanted before he could say a word. If only they could please him, he wouldn’t have to discipline them.

“Simply refuse to see the man,” Phoebe said once the room stopped moving and she could breathe again.

“No, Bee. Armitage is too powerful. His magazine is read by the men at your father’s club. They have written terrible things about dear Lord Grantham and his new wife. Terrible enough they left London for a time. If he wants to court Karolina and we offend him, he might take his revenge in his magazine.”

Ah. The revenge would be an article about Phoebe. She’d left the house only once, but inevitably someone would see her. Four years was not long enough for the gossips of the ton to lose their fascination with her. There would be talk. While Grantham might be persuaded to let Phoebe stay to take care of Moti, the rest of the men who had sentenced her were without sympathy.

If she didn’t finish this business fast and return to America as soon as possible, Phoebe would find herself in prison.

···

“Have you lost all sense?”

Sam assumed his sister Letty’s question was rhetorical and did not bother to answer. Instead, he spooned more pudding onto his plate, remembering how still Lady Phoebe had held herself—how still they’d been in that vast parlor they couldn’t afford to heat.

Stoic or stupid? He hadn’t decided yet.

“He hasn’t lost his sense, he’s lost his heart,” his younger sister Sarah said. “Margaret Gault went and crushed it when she wed Lord Grantham.”

Now she was old enough to be employed by the family’s emporium, his sister insisted on being called her given name, Sarah, not her baby name of Sadie.

“It is grief, obviously,” countered Letty. She crossed her arm over the table to pat Sam’s hand. “Fermat has only been gone for three months.”

Fermat.

Everyone at the table sighed in commiseration. Except for Mam. Mam sighed in relief. She’d never liked Sam’s pet hedgehog.

“It smells like rotting mushrooms, it makes a mess, and it bites you when you pet it,” Mam had complained. “What on earth convinced you to bring this creature home?”

Da had looked up from where he sat in a winged chair, holding Fermat close to his chest and cooing at the little beast.

“She has the dearest little nose, Mother. Come look.”

Da had been as enamored of Fermat as the rest of them and the hedgehog’s death brought tears to the older man’s eyes.

Mam made a sweeping motion with her hand as if to dismiss Letty’s words to the dust pail. “What nonsense. ’Tisn’t grief nor is it a broken heart. Lady Grantham is indeed a lovely woman, but our Sam has a sensible head on his shoulders. He’s going to explain himself to us again, this time with more detail, and we will see the genius in his plan.”

“Genius,” muttered Da. “Don’t know many geniuses what mess with nobility and ’spect to get the right side of the deal.”

“Letty messed with nobility and now she’s a viscountess,” said Sarah. “You ask me, Letty got the better of that deal.”

“Nobody did ask you, brat.”

“You’re the brat.”

Lucky for them only Letty and Sarah were at the table, or the noise would have risen from loud to deafening.

Letty had indeed had messy dealings with the nobility, but she and her husband, Lord Greycliff, were happily married and had produced the requisite offspring, who napped in the kitchen under the watchful eye of a nursemaid.

Sam considered the dish of pudding in front of him as he made circles in the cream sauce with his spoon. The harsh afternoon light filtered through the yellow curtains that hung over sparkling clean windows and bathed the Fenley family in a softened glow. They sat around an oval table that extended out to fit three more guests, four if they didn’t mind elbows and knees akimbo, set with serviceable gray pottery plates and cups. A well-washed but slightly stained linen covered the table and a jumble of crumpled napkins and extra spoons cluttered its surface.

His father sat at the place nearest the door and his mam sat nearest the kitchen. The Fenley siblings filled in the six seats between, and when everyone was home, they arranged themselves in order by age: Letty, Sam, Lucy, Laila, Laura, and Sarah. The room smelled of girls, cream sauce, and the cat named Puddles, who sat curled round his ankles.

Home.

Sam breathed it in, then finished his pud.

Time to leave. Maybe wander over to the pub and play a round of darts. Sam rose from his seat but his da pushed him down.

“Oh, no, boy.” he said. “You stay right here and tell us the whole story, this time. It may be your money, but it’s our name you think to use.”

Sighing, Sam settled back against the rails of his wooden chair. Despite the money he and his father made from their emporium, Fenley’s Fripperies, the family lived in Clerkenwell. In a house more fitted for a tailor’s family than a family as wealthy as theirs, Laura and Laila, the twins, still shared a room, and his mam employed a cook only for those days she stayed late at the store.

Sam did not begrudge his father those choices. His mam and da were happy and in love, and his sisters were—when not fighting and crying—delightful…ish.

This wasn’t enough for Sam, though.

“I offered to buy Hunt House and its furnishings.”

This set the fox among the chickens once again as they squawked about his foolish ideas and waste of money. Da said nothing, however, and eventually the rest of them fell silent.

“That mansion and every stick of furniture in it costs half of what it will cost to build a new emporium,” Sam continued.

“Another Fenley’s Fripperies? Why do we need more than what we already have?” Sarah asked.

A question put to him repeatedly.

Sam searched for words to convey the joy he found in visualizing, then completing a project. The freedom one felt when possessing enough money to follow a dream. The satisfaction warming his belly when something changed, right in front of him, because of his actions.

He’d never tell his sisters such a thing, however, they might think him a romantic. Instead, he gave the most logical explanation. “Our emporium cannot keep up with all the customers. Another store will accommodate more customers and wealthier ones at that.”

Da sucked his teeth in thought, but Letty had figured it out quicker than most. Pain in the arse sometimes to have a genius sister.

“You mean to turn Hunt House into an emporium on Blexton Place? What will the neighbors say?” she asked.

Sam smiled wide, like a shark who’d had tea with three tasty little minnows.

“That square is on its way down, haven’t you heard?” he asked cheerfully.

A developer had bought two other mansions on that stretch of road and broken them up into eight apartments, the perfect size for the families of barristers and bureaucrats.

Sam was an investor in a similar scheme. He’d doubled his money in the first year but was limited to buying smaller houses on less prestigious streets. Invitations to buy a place like Hunt House were beyond his reach without a title.

Or a titled wife.

Letty tapped her chin, bright blue eyes narrowing as she stared at Sam. No doubt calculating the odds he would succeed—or fail.

“Hunt House is close enough to St. James’s that shoppers won’t care if they have to walk an extra street over, the rooms are already well set out, and the facade is plain enough we can do what we like to it without having to contend with pesky gargoyles or what have you like they put on their houses in France,” Sam continued.

“Hmmm.” Da made a noncommittal sound. He and Sam were equal partners in the emporium. Sam, however, had taken his share of the profits and bought the newspapers. With those profits, he’d invested in renovating great houses into smaller, more affordable dwellings for the rising numbers of middle-class folks.

“Was Phoebe there?” Letty asked. “What did she say? How did she seem?”

Sam cocked his head, unable to decipher Letty’s tone. Did she miss her friend? Wish her ill?

Lady Phoebe and Letty had been friends back when they were establishing Athena’s Retreat, but it hadn’t been a comfortable friendship. Letty would complain about Lady Phoebe’s cutting remarks and bone-deep snobbery. She believed Lady Phoebe hid her brilliant mind behind her scandalous antics in high society.

Sam got the impression Letty almost pitied Lady Phoebe, despite her exalted family ties and extraordinary beauty.

Something had passed between the Hunt women as they sat below that picture of the marquess, staring at the carcass of the deer and never at the man’s face. It wasn’t happiness, that was certain. No crowded table with sunlight and pudding for those folks.

“She said she would consider my offer and send word by the end of the week.” Sam coughed. Here was the hardest part. “I also invited her sister Lady Karolina for a drive tomorrow afternoon.”

“You what?” Letty asked.

“Asked the daughter of a marquess for a drive?” exclaimed Mam.

Sam knew he was in for another round of questioning, but his youngest sister, Sarah, saved him.

“Oi, who ate the last of the pud? I haven’t even had my first piece!”

A torrent of feminine outrage followed, allowing Sam to make his escape. He went and hid in his local pub, where the fug of tobacco and beer cleared his nose of the girl smells from home. Sawdust beneath his boots, Sam stood a drink for a handful of men from the area. They played darts and insulted each other’s mothers.

Had he lost his mind, considering courting the Lady Karolina?

If Sam couldn’t buy a title to ease his way, he could buy the next best thing. The Marquess of Fallowshall’s family name of Hunt was listed in the Domesday Book. Fallowshall’s roots in Cumbria went back to the first Saxons to hit Britain’s shores.

First, Sam would buy the house and the family’s favor, and then he’d court the sister. He might not be a Hunt, but his children would be of their line. With Lady Karolina on his arm, Sam would possess a key to those closed doors of Mayfair. No longer would he be excluded from the most lucrative of consortiums or miss out on gossip nudging him in the direction of an even greater fortune.

With a titled wife, Sam would be unstoppable.

Lady Karolina was beautiful; fair skinned with lush mahogany curls, neck like a swan, and damn but those Hunt eyes. She shared with her mother an air of delicacy, as though she were made of the same stuff as the porcelain she drank from. Translucent. Fragile.

A raucous laugh from the corner of the pub distracted Sam, and he gave another man his darts and wandered over to the bar, ordering a last tankard of ale before time was called.

Unlike Lady Karolina and her mother, Lady Phoebe did not appear delicate. She must have gone without a parasol during her years in America, for her skin was darker than the others’ and three tiny wrinkles shaped like cups extended from the corners of her eyes.

“That’s time, boys!”

The barkeep rang a bell and Sam finished his drink and walked out into the night, thinking of those tiny wrinkles and how the lady had come by them.

Lady Phoebe’s eyes were not a soft purple like pansies, they were hard, like gemstones. Sam had an urge to rattle her and watch that frozen countenance melt.

He always did have a taste for danger. Still, better he keep his thoughts on Karolina. A woman like Lady Phoebe would never settle for a man grasping upward.

Instead, she’d take pleasure in kicking the man down where she thought he’d belong.