Today's Reading
The scientists of the Retreat were a lively bunch, and Sam secretly enjoyed lending a hand when they got into various scrapes and tight corners. Although Letty and Violet were mothers now, they still put time into their scientific studies. Their third compatriot, Lady Phoebe, was no longer a member of the Retreat.
She'd gone and shot Violet's husband, then gotten mixed up with some sinister plots. Did she go to jail for this? No. She was shipped off to America and given a job because of her father's title.
Fecking titles.
What ailed Sam specifically was that his latest attempt to invest in a railway consortium had fallen flat. The consortium he'd approached had been full of second and third sons of barons and earls and that sort. Some secret code passed among them allowing them to recognize one another—a code excluding anyone who didn't bleed blue.
Grantham wanted to talk to him about love?
How about influence? That is what Sam needed.
"You remind me of myself before I married Margaret," Grantham said. The stupid half smile grew into a full-blown grin when the earl mentioned his wife's name.
"Carefree and ridiculously handsome?" Sam asked.
"At loose ends and needing to put your energy into something lasting, like a marriage."
"Marry." Sam scoffed. "Why would I want to do something so boring?"
The low throaty chuckle and knowing look Grantham threw him made Sam want to cast up his accounts.
"Marriage is anything but boring," said the earl, his smug tone grating in Sam's ears. "Weren't you lately seen with Flavia Smythe-Harrow? You could do worse than to marry a scientist."
Sam had indeed taken the scientist Flavia Smythe-Harrow out for a drive. Once her father heard of it, his further invitations were declined.
Flavia Smythe-Harrow was the granddaughter of a duke.
Sam was the grandson of an itinerant laborer.
"If marriage to a scientist is wonderful, then why didn't you marry the first one with whom you were engaged, eh? Lady Phoebe Hunt?"
Grantham's smile disappeared like quicksilver.
Sam turned to the window and studied the bark-brown clouds of fog creeping over the buildings' roofs.
"She was a founder of Athena's Retreat, has a more elevated title than yours, and was a villainess of majestic proportions to boot," Sam pointed out.
"Sam—" Grantham began with a warning in his voice.
"That's what's missing in my life. A feckin' title. A man who works as hard as I do gets nothing while Lady Hunt gets away with murder simply because her father's title is older than dirt," Sam continued, warming to the subject.
"Sam—" Grantham's voice rose an octave, and satisfaction washed through Sam. About time Grantham heard a few truths.
"In fact, the only thing a woman with a title is good for—"
"Sam!"
The reflection in the window shifted, revealing a dark figure behind him, backlit by the doorway. A cold brick of embarrassment sent Sam's stomach plummeting to his ankles.
"She's standing behind me, isn't she?"
Phoebe pulled air in through her nose and held it until her lungs hurt, then let it release. This was a trick she learned early on in her sojourn to America. Before then, words would spill from her mouth at the slightest provocation. Words with blades attached, meant to draw blood and flay skin.
Words that got a woman in trouble if she had no protector. Luckily Phoebe had found a profession that taught her how to protect herself.
"Hello, Grantham. Mr. Fenley."
...
