The pad of feet on the carpet snapped her attention in the direction of the door. She groaned. Not another visitor. The endless stream of well-wishers her aunt had allowed into the house had become a nuisance. Before she could think of an excuse to deny her aunt's latest visitor, the door opened and her cousin entered.
"Ty," she said with relief. "I didn't know you were back in London."
He crossed to the couch where she sat and lowered himself onto the cushion beside her. "You sound glad to see me."
She laughed. "I am, of course, but I'm just as glad you're not another gossip monger come to see for herself how it's possible that the daughter of a traitor snagged a marquess."
He draped an arm over the top of the couch. "As bad as all that?"
She grimaced. "Worse. How have you been? I haven't seen you in some time."
"The damn property Albery has in Coventry is giving me trouble," he replied. "I've had a devil of a time with the carpenter hired to reconstruct the walls in the blue bedroom."
Phoebe frowned. "I was there three years ago and didn't notice that house was in such disrepair."
He shook his head. "Wood rot. I only just discovered it myself."
He couldn’t be any more surprised by the wood rot than she could by his caring about the house. Was her cousin finally accepting responsibility for the property that would one day likely be his?
"I understand congratulations are in order," he said, and she was even more startled by the brotherly expression on his face.
"Oh. Yes, thank you."
His brow lifted. "You don’t seem ecstatic."
"As I said, the never ending visitors have grown tiresome."
"That'll end soon enough," he said.
"Not nearly soon enough."
"Surely that can't have you so disheartened? What's wrong? Has something happened with Ashlund? Is he getting cold feet?"
Embarrassment rushed through her at the realization that Ty must know what had transpired between her and Lord Ashlund. Of course, that made sense. Her uncle might not tell him, but his mother, her aunt, would.
"Not at all," Phoebe replied with light airs. "If anything, he's too ardent."
"If he's giving you trouble, I'll pay him a visit."
She snorted. "If he gave me any trouble, his father would deal with him." Damn the duke.
Ty scrutinized her. "You're not keen on his suit."
"You're aware that I am not interested in marriage."
He shrugged. "I knew you weren't interested in any of your recent suitors, but surely you knew marriage was inevitable?"
"I did not."
"Ahh," he intoned. "You believed you would be left to amuse yourself with your inheritance."
"Why not?" she replied irritably, then released a sigh. "Forgive me, Ty. You're being kind, and I'm not."
"Ashlund is filthy rich. How could he possibly need your paltry fifteen thousand pound yearly income?"
"He said I could keep the money," Phoebe replied.
"There you have it. Once your new husband has his heir, you'll be free to go on as you always planned." Ty rose. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
Frustration welled up in her, but she nodded.
"Chin up, Cousin," he said. "You love a good party. Especially of late." With that he was gone.
Phoebe stared at the door after he'd closed it, wondering what had inspired her cousin's familial interest in her, and what he meant by 'especially of late.'
*****
Kiernan looked up from the article in the Satirist. The newspaper wasn't his regular read, but he'd found it with his morning mail, sent from someone signed A Friend. He could well imagine the friend was any number of London society women who delighted in vicious gossip. Even a so-called gentleman or two might be the culprit. Either way, by now, all of London society would have read or been told about the article.
Regan took a swallow of coffee, then set the cup on its saucer and picked a piece of bacon off the plate that sat alongside a platter of scrambled eggs. "Miss Wallington is going to be none to happy with this turn of events."
Kiernan set the newspaper on the table beside his breakfast plate. "News of our time together in Scotland was bound to reach London. She was foolish to think otherwise."
"True. But one wonders who filled in the intimate details."
"Yes." Kiernan looked at the paper and the headline, London Heiress kidnapped by the Marquess of Ashlund.
"Who do you think sold the story?" Regan asked.
"No one in my household," Kiernan said. "It must be someone in Phoebe's house."
"Her coachman, Calders?"
"Perhaps, but it's just as possible one of her other servants got their greedy hands on my father's letter to Lord Albery."
As if Kiernan had summoned the duke, he appeared in the doorway.
Regan rose. "Your Grace."
"Sit down, Regan," he said, his eyes on Kiernan, "What is it?" he asked as he seated himself at the head of the table.
Kiernan passed the newspaper to him and poured coffee for his father, then refilled his and Regan's cups.
A moment later, his father folded, then laid the paper on the table. "A year's engagement is unreasonable. Every move you and Miss Wallington make will be scrutinized."
"Phoebe has expressed an interest in returning to Scotland," Kiernan said with caution. "We won't be under the critical eye of London society."