The man-boy had filled out nicely. He was taller than Phoebe in her heeled boots, and his well-cut suit displayed his broad shoulders and strong legs to his advantage. He'd a handsome if unweathered face, white skin that had never seen a desert sun, thick blond hair, and eyes the color of a loch she'd once seen in the northernmost part of Scotland.
Rather like Grantham, when he had been younger and oh so impressionable.
Comprehension deepened the blue of Sam's eyes. "Ah. My apologies, Lady Phoebe. I have been too long away from the pleasures of serving the ton and forgotten how uncouth it would be for you to converse with someone as lowly as a clerk."
Phoebe smiled in appreciation at the line Sam strode between obsequious and mocking. He smiled in return and an understanding passed between them; she would grant him permission to mock her pretensions and he would do exactly as she directed.
"Well done, Mr. Fenley," she said. "As I was saying, I need an advert placed in your broadsheet."
Sam took a seat behind a cheap oak desk and drew a pen from a pewter holder. He stared at Phoebe and raised one brow in expectation.
"Auction to be held for building and furnishings at Hunt House, Number 2 Blexton Place, December first. The auctioneers are Singer and Sons and—"
"What are you saying, Phoebe?" Grantham asked, concern drawing lines across his forehead. "Your mother is selling Hunt House?"
"Mmm." Phoebe made a sound of agreement, certain there was no expression on her face other than boredom. They might be attacked by a swarm of locusts in the next second and her expression would remain fixed. She'd honed this skill in circumstances far more terrible than biblical catastrophes. "In addition, you may print a notice for sale of Prentiss Manor, North Cumbria."
"You cannot mean to sell your family's estate as well?"
Phoebe leveled a bored stare at Grantham. "I mean everything I say. You should know."
Shaking his head to dislodge her last words from his brain, Grantham spoke to her as though she were simple.
"I know your father died last winter—my condolences—but isn't his estate entailed?"
"It is not," she replied.
Grantham's pity softened the angle of his jaw, but his loyalty to England outweighed his compassion. "You were sent notice of his death eight months ago, yet you arrive now? Unannounced?" He glanced over at Sam and swallowed his next words.
Thoughtful of Grantham not to say anything else in front of the man-boy about Phoebe's ostracism. She'd been assured that only a handful of people knew what she'd done and the extent of her punishment.
No need to set fire to already dry kindling.
That was a handy little Americanism she'd picked up along with a slew of curses that called into question her knowledge of anatomy.
Phoebe again drew breath and held it deep within her. The memories and shame roiling her stomach when she'd caught sight of Grantham—memories of who she'd been and what she'd done the last time she was home—she pushed into a tiny ball beneath her diaphragm.
Ever so slowly, the air trickled out of her nose and a delightful numbness spread through her.
That was how one dealt with a conscience. One strangled it. Time for Grantham to leave.
"What do you care how long it takes for me to come and mourn my father, George?" she asked. Grantham's head jerked back when she spoke his given name. Phoebe took a step toward him, boring her eyes into his guileless stare. "Do you regret having given up on marrying into one of the oldest families in England? Are you second-guessing your match with a woman in trade? I hear your wife works closely with her male customers."
If Phoebe hadn't numbed herself, the cold that entered the room with her words would have chilled her. Grantham's sympathetic expression melted into contempt, and Phoebe felt nauseous. He stood, bowed to Sam, turned on his heel, and left the room without giving Phoebe a second glance. His abrupt exit was so cold, there should have been frost on the doorknob when he left the room.
"His wife is a woman beyond reproach."
Same's eyes had cooled to the color of a winter morning and his hand gripped the pen, knuckles white.
"Yes, I know," Phoebe said. "I've met her on a few occasions. Brilliant woman."
Grantham did have a penchant for women smarter than him. Before he'd reunited with Margaret, he'd considered marrying his best friend, Violet. Before that, he wanted to marry Phoebe. Both times, the earl saw himself as saving these women by offering them his protection, literally and figuratively.
His wife, Margaret, was the first woman engineer in England—all of Europe actually—to open an engineering firm. A woman like Margaret didn't need anyone to save her. Instead, from what Phoebe surmised from months-old gossip magazines and the occasional letter home, Margaret was the one to save Grantham in the end.
Sam blinked. "Oh, I see. You wanted Grantham out of your business and instead of telling him politely, you insulted him."
"I am, after all, a villainess of majestic proportions." Phoebe smiled.
