“Indeed, and you also cavorted with her protector.”
She gave him a reproving look. "I danced with Lord Stoneleigh, nothing more—and Lord Ashlund didn't see me with the earl. Had that been the case, we would have avoided the whole fiasco."
"So why did Lord Ashlund want to kidnap Miss Ballingham?" Alistair asked.
“Hester and Lord Stoneleigh suffered a falling out.” Phoebe waved her hand in a disgusted motion. “Everything with her is a drama. She decided to teach him a lesson, and made an assignation with another gentleman. Hence, she leant me her carriage.”
A corner of Alistair’s mouth twitched. “I see. But that doesn't answer why Ashlund kidnapped you—or Miss Ballingham, as it were. He didn’t have designs of his own on her? No,” Alistair amended before Phoebe could reply. “He would have known her and wouldn’t have made off with you.” A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. “Unless, that is, he discovered his better fortune.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “He had the ridiculous idea of playing cupid.”
“Well,” Alistair said, “this fills things in nicely. You can imagine the drama that played out in my mind. I must scold you,” he added. “You should have notified me the moment you arrived in London.”
“I have been home for two hours, my lord, and already you are here. You couldn't have arrived any sooner had I sent word. I only hope it wasn’t that odious Barrister who you had watching Shyerton Hall. He can't keep a secret.”
Redgrave laughed. “No, I would not be so unkind.”
“I think it is you who needs a scolding," she said. "Why didn’t you demand my release or, at least steal me away in the night?”
“What?” Horror appeared on his face. “And be guilty of the marquess’ crime? No, thank you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “And, as I said, I was curious.”
“Your curiosity may have cost me a great deal.”
“Hmm,” Alistair intoned. “The duke wasn’t pleased with his son’s antics?”
“He was not.”
“He's insisting the marquess make things right?”
“And being quite pigheaded about it in the bargain,” Phoebe added darkly.
“The duke can afford to be as pigheaded as he pleases. He is a powerful man.”
“And he knows it," she muttered. "With your help, however, I can better deal with him.”
“You have been in the company of one of Britain’s most eligible men for two weeks.”
Phoebe stiffened. “You don't think—”
“I think nothing in particular,” Alistair interrupted. “but it isn't my tongue that will wag all over London.”
“Tongues can't speak of something they don't know.”
Lord Redgrave gave her a fool yourself if you like look.
“Calders will keep quiet,” Phoebe insisted.
“And your servants?”
“They know nothing.”
“The marquess won't pursue the matter?” Redgrave paused, then added, “Once he makes known his suit, word will be all over London in a day.”
Phoebe thought of the letter probably already read and acted upon by her uncle. “He can't force me into marriage,” she said with vehemence.
Redgrave angled his head in ascent. “Ultimately, you can refuse him, but your uncle will be pigheaded about the matter as well. Not to mention, you're likely to receive no other reputable offers. Though, fortune hunters will hound you. You will soon be a rich woman.”
She snorted. “I care nothing for offers, reputable or not. I am well past marriageable age.”
His lip twitched. “On the shelf, are we?”
“I haven't had an offer in years.”
He lifted a brow.
“A reputable offer,” she said. “Adam does not signify.”
“Adam would disagree.”
“I have more pressing matters,” Phoebe replied.
“More important than a family?” His face softened. “Do you so fear another mistake that you will deny yourself happiness?”
Phoebe blinked. “What—you don't mean—”
“You were but seventeen. Surely you understand what an impressionable age that is?”
“I realize he was a fortune hunter," she replied. "A very patient fortune hunter.”
“Patience is a fortune hunter’s greatest asset,” Redgrave replied. "You understand why your marriage to him had to be annulled?”
She regarded him. “This is the first time you asked me that question. Why now?”
“Perhaps my advanced years have given me a different perspective.”
“You're not so old. What, forty-six this year?”
He scowled. “Forty-five, my girl.”
She studied him, noticing the flecking of gray that highlighted his brown hair and, for the first time, she wondered why he had never married.
“I am no longer seventeen,” she said. “Long past the girlish idea of true love.”