The Strange Case of Finley Jayne
Page 12
Before changing into her nightclothes, Finley went to the other girl’s room. She dismissed the young maid for the night, so that she could help Phoebe get ready for bed.
Finley felt as though they had become quite close over the past few days. Perhaps not the best of friends, but at least confidantes. She hadn’t told Phoebe her secret, and the girl hadn’t asked, but Finley definitely felt comfortable around her.
They made small talk for a few moments, talking about the play they’d seen—a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Ideal Husband, which had been equally hilarious and surprisingly serious. Finley had quite enjoyed it.
“May I ask you a question?” Finley asked, as she loosened the laces of Phoebe’s damask corset.
“Only if I may ask one of you,” the girl replied, holding on to one of the posters of her bed. “Good lord, Finley, you’re going to lift me clean off the floor!”
“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Finley gentled her actions. Sometimes she forgot her own strength.
Phoebe smiled over her shoulder. “What is it you wished to ask?”
“Why are you marrying Lord Vincent?”
“How is it you can leap from a second-floor window and not even twist an ankle?”
“Usually how this sort of thing works is that you answer my question before asking your own.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I will answer yours after you answer mine.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Finley sighed. “I don’t know how I’m able to leap out a window and remain unharmed, only that I can.” It was an honest answer, if a poor one.
Dark eyes narrow, Phoebe turned to face her, popping the hooks in the front of her corset, beneath which her chemise was stuck to her skin. “What else can you do?”
“I agreed to one question,” Finley dodged. “Now you must answer mine. Why are you marrying Lord Vincent? You obviously don’t want to, so why?”
Phoebe glanced away, clenching her jaw in an almost petulant manner.
“Are you going back on our agreement?” Finley demanded.
“I agreed that you could ask me a question. I did not promise to answer it.”
“Oh, that’s honorable of you.” She should keep her mouth shut. This girl was not her social equal. One word to her mother and Finley would be out on the street—again. But she was hurt, insulted and a little pissed. “I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else and you won’t extend the same courtesy. That’s just lovely. Good night.”
She made it perhaps two steps before Phoebe reached out and seized her by the wrist. For a second, Finley was in a poor enough temper that she was tempted to catch the girl’s wrist in her own hand and squeeze until the delicate bones rubbed together.
“Finley, wait.” An expression of real distress crossed her face. “Don’t go. Please.”
With a mulish set to her jaw, Finley turned, relaxing her posture enough that Phoebe dropped her arm. “I’ll stay.”
Phoebe’s thin shoulders sagged. “Good. Why don’t we sit down?”
They sat beside one another on the edge of the bed. Phoebe had slipped into a robe to protect her bare arms from the slight spring chill in the air. Finley waited patiently for her to begin.
Licking her lips, Phoebe tangled her fingers in her lap, thumbs rubbing together nervously. “Surely you noticed that Papa did not attend the theater with us this evening?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought to be honest.”
“No,” Phoebe said softly. “I suppose you wouldn’t. And it’s not as though it’s unusual for an engaged girl and her mother to attend the theater with the girl’s fiancé.”
Finley wouldn’t know what was unusual and what wasn’t with the upper classes—not really. “Did your father’s absence upset you?”
Phoebe’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose. “No. You asked me why I’m marrying Lord Vincent?”
It took a second for Finley to realize that her companion was waiting for her confirmation before she replied. Raising both brows, she gave a small nod. “Yes. I did.”
“My father…” Phoebe frowned, tucking in her lips. “My father prefers to spend his evenings at his club or with his cronies.”
Finley shrugged. “All right.” What the devil did this have to do with Lord Vincent?
“He enjoys horse racing and cards.” Dark eyes darted away from hers. “Perhaps too much.”
She could have smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. Lord, but she could be dense at times! She should have already made this assumption—because it made the most sense.
“Lord Vincent paid off your father’s debts in return for marrying you.”
More pink flooded Phoebe’s cheeks. She was quite flushed now. “Yes. So you see now why I cannot simply break the engagement to be with Robert.”
Finley nodded. “I assume that Vincent has also agreed to continue covering any debts your father racks up?”
“Yes. It is very good of Lord Vincent to do this.”
Who was she trying to convince? Finley or herself?
“No matter how much your father owes, it’s not what you are worth,” Finley remarked.
The dark-haired girl turned to her. There were tears in her green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered before dissolving into sobs.
What the devil was she to do now? Finley didn’t have a lot of experience with crying—her own or that of others. Slowly—and a bit awkwardly if she was truthful—she slid her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and patted her back a bit.
Finley felt as though they had become quite close over the past few days. Perhaps not the best of friends, but at least confidantes. She hadn’t told Phoebe her secret, and the girl hadn’t asked, but Finley definitely felt comfortable around her.
They made small talk for a few moments, talking about the play they’d seen—a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Ideal Husband, which had been equally hilarious and surprisingly serious. Finley had quite enjoyed it.
“May I ask you a question?” Finley asked, as she loosened the laces of Phoebe’s damask corset.
“Only if I may ask one of you,” the girl replied, holding on to one of the posters of her bed. “Good lord, Finley, you’re going to lift me clean off the floor!”
“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Finley gentled her actions. Sometimes she forgot her own strength.
Phoebe smiled over her shoulder. “What is it you wished to ask?”
“Why are you marrying Lord Vincent?”
“How is it you can leap from a second-floor window and not even twist an ankle?”
“Usually how this sort of thing works is that you answer my question before asking your own.”
Phoebe shrugged. “I will answer yours after you answer mine.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Finley sighed. “I don’t know how I’m able to leap out a window and remain unharmed, only that I can.” It was an honest answer, if a poor one.
Dark eyes narrow, Phoebe turned to face her, popping the hooks in the front of her corset, beneath which her chemise was stuck to her skin. “What else can you do?”
“I agreed to one question,” Finley dodged. “Now you must answer mine. Why are you marrying Lord Vincent? You obviously don’t want to, so why?”
Phoebe glanced away, clenching her jaw in an almost petulant manner.
“Are you going back on our agreement?” Finley demanded.
“I agreed that you could ask me a question. I did not promise to answer it.”
“Oh, that’s honorable of you.” She should keep her mouth shut. This girl was not her social equal. One word to her mother and Finley would be out on the street—again. But she was hurt, insulted and a little pissed. “I tell you something I’ve never told anyone else and you won’t extend the same courtesy. That’s just lovely. Good night.”
She made it perhaps two steps before Phoebe reached out and seized her by the wrist. For a second, Finley was in a poor enough temper that she was tempted to catch the girl’s wrist in her own hand and squeeze until the delicate bones rubbed together.
“Finley, wait.” An expression of real distress crossed her face. “Don’t go. Please.”
With a mulish set to her jaw, Finley turned, relaxing her posture enough that Phoebe dropped her arm. “I’ll stay.”
Phoebe’s thin shoulders sagged. “Good. Why don’t we sit down?”
They sat beside one another on the edge of the bed. Phoebe had slipped into a robe to protect her bare arms from the slight spring chill in the air. Finley waited patiently for her to begin.
Licking her lips, Phoebe tangled her fingers in her lap, thumbs rubbing together nervously. “Surely you noticed that Papa did not attend the theater with us this evening?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought to be honest.”
“No,” Phoebe said softly. “I suppose you wouldn’t. And it’s not as though it’s unusual for an engaged girl and her mother to attend the theater with the girl’s fiancé.”
Finley wouldn’t know what was unusual and what wasn’t with the upper classes—not really. “Did your father’s absence upset you?”
Phoebe’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose. “No. You asked me why I’m marrying Lord Vincent?”
It took a second for Finley to realize that her companion was waiting for her confirmation before she replied. Raising both brows, she gave a small nod. “Yes. I did.”
“My father…” Phoebe frowned, tucking in her lips. “My father prefers to spend his evenings at his club or with his cronies.”
Finley shrugged. “All right.” What the devil did this have to do with Lord Vincent?
“He enjoys horse racing and cards.” Dark eyes darted away from hers. “Perhaps too much.”
She could have smacked herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. Lord, but she could be dense at times! She should have already made this assumption—because it made the most sense.
“Lord Vincent paid off your father’s debts in return for marrying you.”
More pink flooded Phoebe’s cheeks. She was quite flushed now. “Yes. So you see now why I cannot simply break the engagement to be with Robert.”
Finley nodded. “I assume that Vincent has also agreed to continue covering any debts your father racks up?”
“Yes. It is very good of Lord Vincent to do this.”
Who was she trying to convince? Finley or herself?
“No matter how much your father owes, it’s not what you are worth,” Finley remarked.
The dark-haired girl turned to her. There were tears in her green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered before dissolving into sobs.
What the devil was she to do now? Finley didn’t have a lot of experience with crying—her own or that of others. Slowly—and a bit awkwardly if she was truthful—she slid her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders and patted her back a bit.
