Page 33 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

“So, who else might know what your Frenchwoman was like?”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “My mother was at her dressmaker’s. It’s possible that lady saw the meeting, but I don’t know anything about her other than that she had her business in Soho Square over twenty years ago. And if my mother was out in her carriage, she would have had her maid with her. And a coachman, and probably a footman too. She never went out without an entourage suitable for a duchess.”

Phoebe nodded, her face suffused with triumph. A little soon for that. “Then we must find those servants and question them. Do you know their names?”

Gabriel cast his mind back. “My mother’s personal abigail was Miss Hawkins. She’s now the housekeeper at my father’s house in Grosvenor Square and known as Mrs. Hawkins, although she’s not married. You think she might be able to help?”

Phoebe shrugged. “She might. It would depend both on her memory and on what she actually saw. We can’t know until we ask her.”

“We?”

She frowned. “Well…you. I can hardly call on your stepmother in Grosvenor Square and ask to interview her housekeeper. Surely you’re well positioned to do something like that?” She paused. “And what about the coachman and footman? Or it might have been a groom if horses were concerned. Where are they now?”

Gabriel tipped his hat back on his head and squinted at the sunless sky. “God alone knows. I might be able to discover their names from my father. I suppose Mrs. Hawkins might be able to tell me herself.”

These were good suggestions. It hadn’t occurred to him before to consider he might be laboring under a misapprehension. Belief in what his mother had told him had clouded his vision. Of course she might well have lied to keep him for herself. But did that make her a bad person? He refused to think about that. She was long gone, and there was little he could do about it now. He refused to allow it to spoil his memories of her.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes, passing couples like themselves with maids in discreet tow, nursemaids with children and babies, several street vendors calling out their edible wares. A normal day, and yet not normal at all.

Phoebe broke in upon his reverie. “Can you take me with you?” Her eyes shone with interest. They were quite beautiful, with little gold flecks amongst the deep brown. “I mean, into the rookery? Can you?”

He had to give himself a mental shake. It seemed he’d been right about her thinking it might be an adventure. Perhaps he should have prevented her from accompanying him to Denmark Street and meeting his employees and Dr. Armstrong. A good thing she’d not met any of the children. Did she think every outing with him would be like that?

He strove to think of why he couldn’t take her, although really, he’d already set a precedent with Cecilia. Not that he intended to tell her that. “You’re a lady. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“But I’m different. I’m not a proper lady.” She glanced over her shoulder at Atkins, no doubt anxious lest her maid overhear and report back to her aunt, especially so scandalously declaring she wasn’t a lady. But Atkins was peering towards the Serpentine, perhaps hankering after refreshment from the lodge there.

“You are indeed a proper lady. You’re the daughter of an earl.”

“Ah, but I’m also the granddaughter of a man most of the ton might, no would, call a cit. You must already know that, and many would consider it taints my bloodline, even though my grandmother came from the highest echelons of society.”

He nodded. “You’re right. I do know your history. I pride myself in having a good knowledge of every person possessing pretensions to grandeur, and believe me, many are only pretensions. Do you imagine those with the proudest lineage didn’t have to start somewhere much lower? You should be proud your grandfather was a self-made man.”

She nodded. “Oh, I am very proud of my grandfather. I remember him well as rather an ancient gentleman who would take me on his knee and tell me stories about where all the fine goods everyone in society seeks to possess came from. He could tell tales of the Far East, of the Japans and Cathay. He was a great storyteller for Toby and me.”

“Then have no fear of being different to others. Be proud of your differences, as I am of mine. You could not come from a more lowly beginning than I do.”

She smiled. “But no one knows about your beginnings, do they? So no one can point a finger at you in accusation. I know they do at me. Granddaughter of a filthy-rich cit.”

He pulled a face. “My problem is that I know nothing about my origins. Everything is speculation. I don’t even know if what my mother told me about how she found me was true. She might have come by me some other way.”

“Let’s hope that bit was true or we’ll be stuck.”

He chuckled. “You are a very practical young lady beneath all that clumsiness and your dainty appearance. I’m most impressed by your acuity. But I can’t escape the fact that I feel I have no roots. I don’t know where I’m from.” He widened his eyes in mock shock. “I might even be Belgian. They speak French there, you know.”

Phoebe smiled. “But you still fit in. Everyone thinks you are who you appear to be. I know I’ve said I’m proud of my grandfather and his origins, but I do very much feel that I don’t fit in.” She paused. “Like at the ball where we met. I was like…like the proverbial fish out of water. I was not in my natural habitat. Mattie was. She loved every minute of it. She fitted in. I just became more clumsy and gauche the more the night wore on. Think yourself lucky you got the first dance with me, for later on in the evening I grew even worse. There might even be gentlemen whose toes need amputating thanks to me.”

He burst out laughing. “You talk yourself down too much, my lovely Phoebe.”

Her eyes widened; was it because he’d called her lovely? The word had just slipped out and now it was too late to take it back. Besides, she was lovely, in the delicate way an autumn leaf was, or a sparrow in his hand, fluttering against his fingers. Good heavens, whatever was he thinking?

She must have guessed his discomfort because she leapt in for the kill. “So, if I cannot question your stepmother’s housekeeper, which I very much want to do, you must say you will take me with you into St Giles. For I would like to help you find this woman who was your true mother, and also see for myself the things you’ve described. I know you loved your adoptive mother, but I think finding this Frenchwoman, if she still lives, is vitally important to you. I at least know who I am, but you don’t, and you won’t until you find her. I think I can help you.”

For someone trying to pass herself off as a shy violet she sounded all of a sudden very confident about her abilities as a sleuth. He watched her for a moment, but she showed no signs of backing down. Perhaps he would take her into St Giles. Most of the members of the ton could do with visiting it as well, but, as they found Bedlam fascinating for its entertainment value rather than finding its sad inmates objects of pity, it was doubtful if it would open their eyes.

“You’ll have to have a disguise then,” he said. “And we’ll have to work out how to get you on your own so you can go.” He tossed a glance at Atkins. “You can’t go walking in there, even in disguise, with a maid in tow.”

Phoebe also glanced towards Atkins who appeared now to be watching them. Keeping her voice low and her face bland, she gave him the smallest of nods. “I’ll find a way, have no fear.”