Phoebe’s eyes were very wide. She began to have an inkling of the possibilities. But supposing it didn’t work. Supposing Cato was horrified, disgusted. Supposing he found her so unappealing in any guise that…
“It might be a bit risky,” Portia said, reading her mind. “I don’t know how straitlaced Cato is. Anyone who’d marry Diana has to be pretty rigid, I would have thought.”
“He married Diana for the alliance with my father,” Phoebe pointed out. “Just as he married me. For that and an heir,” she added.
“Mmmm.” Portia nibbled her bottom lip, thinking. “I have an idea,” she said, swinging her legs off the window seat. “We’ll try something first, just to see how he reacts.”
“What?”
“Clothes,” Portia declared, heading for the door, carrying Alex. "Bring Evie, will you? It’s time for her nap. And then I’ll show you what I mean.”
Phoebe scooped up Eve and followed Portia, agog to discover exactly what Portia had in mind. But Portia said nothing until both children had been handed over to the nursemaid and Phoebe and Portia were in Portia’s chamber with the door firmly closed.
“Now, do you have money?”
“Money?” Phoebe frowned. “What do I need money for?”
“To buy things with, of course. Rufus left me with some, but I don’t think it’s enough for what I have in mind.” Portia opened a small leather pouch and shook the contents onto the bedcover as she spoke. A shower of gold coins scattered over the green taffeta quilt.
“Five guineas. It might do.”
“I can’t use your money.” Phoebe was bewildered and growing impatient. “Even if I knew what it was for.”
Portia hitched herself onto the end of the bed. “New clothes,” she said distinctly. “What you’re wearing now must have been made for you when you had no bosom or something.”
“It was,” Phoebe agreed, unperturbed by this brutal truth. “My father didn’t believe in wasting money on my wardrobe. Diana’s was a different matter,” she added acidly. “But I’ve never really cared about such things. There’s too much else to think about.”
“Well, it won’t do,” Portia said firmly. She surveyed Phoebe with her head on one side. “You need gowns that make something of your figure.”
“No, I don’t,” Phoebe said with asperity. “I need to hide it. There’s too much of it.”
Portia shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong, duckie. You have all the right curves in all the right places. You need to make the most of them, not cover them up. And you shouldn’t walk with your shoulders hunched as if you’re trying to hide your breasts. They’re beautiful and round and firm. I wish I had a bit more on offer… although,” she added, patting her own bosom with a speculative air, “they do seem bigger than usual these days because of feeding Alex.”
“Does Rufus like big breasts?” Phoebe asked, growing fascinated by this discussion.
“I expect so… most men do. But he has to put up with what he’s got,” Portia said cheerfully. “Anyway, we’re not talking about Rufus, we’re talking about Cato. If you want him to notice you, then you’re going to have to force yourself into his line of vision. Which brings us back to money.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t have any. I’ve never needed any. When the peddler comes, Olivia and I buy what we need and Cato pays him. There aren’t any fairs because of the war. There’s nothing to spend money on.”
She frowned. “I suppose I could get the seamstress here to make me up a new gown. I don’t think Cato’s quite as parsimonious as my father.” She remembered his indifferent acceptance of the economical wedding dress and added a shade doubtfully, “Although I’m not certain.”
“That won’t do at all,” Portia declared. “You don’t want a homegrown gown. We want something exotic. And for that we need money. What about pawning something? Jewels or something?”
Phoebe thought. “There are some rings that belonged to my mother.” She knew she ought to find the idea of pawning her mother’s rings horrifying-wicked almost-but somehow she couldn’t summon up a shred of conscience.
“Good.” Portia jumped off the bed. “Now, where’s the nearest sizable town? I don’t know this area.”
“Bicester or Witney. But how do we get there?”
“Ride, of course. How else?”
Phoebe could think of several objections to this plan. She didn’t like to ride. They’d have to take a military escort; no one traveled the roads unarmed these days, and so Cato would have to be told of the excursion without being told its purpose. And he’d be bound to find that peculiar, and then things would get very complicated and she’d be bound to let something slip. But her imagination was fired, and the prospect of taking some kind of action was too heady to be given up for the sake of minor details.
“I’ll ride pillion with you, and we can take Decatur men as escort, so I don’t have to tell Cato. I’ll just tell the housekeeper that we’re going for a ride. The housekeeper’s used to me going out all the time anyway. No one will think anything of it, as long as we’re back by dark.”
Portia nodded her approval. “You fetch the rings and I’ll see if Olivia wants to come too.”
Olivia was as intrigued at the prospect of the excursion as Phoebe. Town visits had been very few and far between in her sixteen years. “I think you should get a velvet gown,” she announced. “B-black velvet. Or something really dark.”
“Since when have you been interested in such things?” Portia asked in surprise.
Olivia considered. “I don’t really know,” she said, sounding as surprised as Portia. “It just seemed to happen. But I’m sure I’m right.”
“Yes,” Portia agreed, surveying Phoebe with a speculative eye. “I think you are.”
Chapter 6
Phoebe gritted her teeth as a groom helped her onto the pillion pad behind Portia. It was all in a good cause, she told herself. And kept telling herself throughout the ride into Witney, some five miles’ distance. Portia made no concessions to her passenger’s fears and gave the mare her head across the flat fields.
They rode into the small market town just after noon and left the horses and their Decatur escort in the stable yard of the Hand and Shears. Portia for once was wearing a riding skirt over her britches, but it did nothing to constrain her long, rangy stride as they set off in search of the golden balls that would denote a pawnbroker.
Phoebe was astonished to find herself behaving as if she did this kind of thing all the time. She seemed to be driven by a compulsion that had come from nowhere and was as exciting as it was irresistible. She marched into the gloom of the pawnbroker’s, unwrapped the silk scarf that contained the rings, and laid the small hoard on the cracked pine counter. “I want twenty guineas for them,” she heard herself say, bold as brass.
“Oh, do you now?” The pawnbroker peered at her through a monocle. He was wondering what straits could have brought three such young women of obvious breeding to his door. Most unlike his usual customers. They seemed very self-possessed, and not in the least supplicant. The dark girl was strolling around his shop examining his wares with an air of purposeful curiosity. The tall redhead merely stood against the door, arms folded, as coolly as if she owned the place.
He turned his attention to the rings. The settings were old-fashioned, but the rings were worth a deal more than twenty guineas. He wondered why the young woman hadn’t asked for more. She was tapping her fingers on the counter in obvious impatience as he made his examination, and he came to the odd conclusion that she’d fixed on the sum she wanted and wasn’t in the least interested in anything more. She couldn’t be in some kind of trouble, he thought. People in trouble behaved very differently. It was most intriguing.
However, after his inspection he merely nodded and unlocked a silver-bound chest. He extracted twenty guineas and gave them to her without a further word.