‘A warning?’ echoed Phoebe blankly.

‘To me,’ nodded Ianthe. ‘A warning that danger threatens my child. There can be no doubt that Matilda is meant to be me, after all.’

These naive words struck Phoebe dumb for several moments. It had not previously occurred to her that Ianthe might identify herself with The Lost Heir’s golden-haired sister. Having very little interest in mere heroes and heroines she had done no more than depict two staggeringly beautiful puppets, endow them with every known virtue, and cast them into a series of hair-raising adventures from which, she privately considered, it was extremely improbable they would ever have extricated themselves.

‘Though Florian is not Fotherby, of course,’ added Ianthe, unconsciously answering the startled question in Phoebe’s mind. ‘I think he is just a made-up character. Poor Nugent wouldn’t do for a hero. Besides, he is Baron Macaronio: everyone knows that!’

The unruffled complaisance in her face and voice provided Phoebe with the second shock of the day. This one was not of long duration, however, a bare minute’s reflection sufficing to inform her that the grossest of libels could be pardoned in an author who painted Lady Henry herself in roseate hues.

‘And Harry was Sylvester’s twin brother,’ pursued Ianthe.

‘Count Ugolino’s brother was not his twin!’ Phoebe managed to say.

‘No, but I daresay the author was afraid to make it all precisely the same. The thing is, Ugolino was a usurper.’

‘Lady Henry!’ said Phoebe, speaking in a voice of careful control. ‘You cannot seriously suppose that Salford is a usurper!’

‘No, except that there have been such things, and he was a twin, and I have often thought, when he has encouraged Edmund to do dangerous things, like riding his pony all over the park, all by himself, and climbing trees, that he would be positively glad if the poor little fellow were to fall and break his neck!’

‘Oh, hush!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Pray, pray do not say so, Lady Henry! You are funning, I know, but indeed you should not!’

An obstinate look came into Ianthe’s lovely face. ‘No, I am not. I don’t say it is so, for I can’t think Mama-Duchess would have changed the twins-for why should she? But Sylvester has never liked Edmund! He said himself he didn’t want him, and although he pretended afterwards that he hadn’t meant it I have always known it was the truth! Well, why does he hate Edmund?’

‘Lady Henry, you must not indulge your fancy in this way!’ Phoebe cried, quite appalled. ‘How can you suppose that a foolish romance bears the least relation to real life?’

‘The Lost Heir is no more foolish than Glenarvon, and you can’t say that bore no relation to real life!’ countered Ianthe instantly.

Phoebe said: ‘I know-I have reason to know-that the author of the book was wholly ignorant of any of the circumstances attaching to Salford, or to any member of his family!’

‘Nonsense! How can you know anything of the sort?’

Phoebe moistened her lips, and said in a shaking voice: ‘It so happens that I am acquainted with the author. I mustn’t tell you, and you won’t ask me, I am persuaded, or-or mention it!’

‘Acquainted with the author?’ Ianthe gasped. ‘Oh, who is she? You can’t be so cruel as not to tell me! I won’t breathe a word, dear Miss Marlow!’

‘No, I must not. I should not have spoken at all, only that I felt myself obliged, when I found you had taken such a fantastic notion into your head! Lady Henry, my friend had never seen Salford but once in her life: knew nothing more of him than his name! She was struck by his strange eyebrows, and when she came to write that tale she remembered them, and thought she would give Ugolino brows like that, never dreaming that anyone would think-’

‘But she must have known more!’ objected Ianthe, staring rather hard at Phoebe. ‘She knew he was Edmund’s guardian!’

‘She did not. It was-she told me-nothing but the unhappiest of coincidences!’

‘I don’t believe it! It could not have been so!’

‘But it was, it was!’ Phoebe said vehemently. ‘I know it for a fact!’

There was a momentary silence. As she stared, a look of comprehension stole into Ianthe’s eyes. ‘Miss Marlow! You are the author!’

‘No!’

‘You are! I know you are! Oh, you sly thing!’ cried Ianthe.

‘I tell you, no!’

‘Oh, you won’t take me in, I promise you! I see it all now! What a rage Sylvester would be in if he knew-when he has been so condescending as to make you the latest object of his gallantry, too! I only wish he may discover it.’ She saw the widening look of horror in Phoebe’s eyes, and said: ‘I shan’t tell him, of course: you may be easy on that head!’

‘Indeed, I hope you won’t tell anyone, for it is untrue, and absurd as well!’ replied Phoebe, trying to speak as though she were amused. ‘And pray don’t mention either that I am acquainted with the real author! I need not ask you: you must perceive how very disagreeable it would be for me-bound not to divulge the secret, and-and besieged with questions, as I should be!’

‘Oh, no, of course I shall not! Only fancy being able to write books! I am sure I could never do so. How clever you must be! But were you really ignorant of the circumstances? It is the oddest thing! How in the world do you contrive to think of such exciting adventures? I hadn’t the least guess how Matilda and Florian would contrive to rescue poor Maximilian, you know. I could not put the last volume down until they ran the boat ashore, and Florian cried: “Safe! Safe, Matilda! At last we stand where Ugolino holds no sway!” I almost shed tears, it was so affecting!’

She rattled on in this way for some minutes. Phoebe was powerless to stop her. She could only repeat that she was not the book’s author, which made Ianthe laugh; and derive a little doubtful comfort from Ianthe’s assurance that she would not breathe a syllable to a soul.

18

The first repercussions of this interlude began to be felt by Phoebe almost at once. She saw one or two covert glances directed at her, and guessed several times that she was the subject of a whispered confidence. She was rendered acutely uncomfortable; and when, in a few days, she received the coldest and most infinitesimal of bows from two of the Patronesses of Almack’s, and the cut direct from Lady Ribbleton, only and formidable sister of the Duchess of Salford, she could no longer attempt to persuade herself that she was imagining the whole. She did her best to maintain an air of cheerful unconcern, but she quaked inwardly. Only one person ventured to ask her if it were true that she had written The Lost Heir, and that an ingenuous young lady embarking on her first season, who was at once frowned down by her mama. Phoebe exclaimed with a tolerable assumption of amazement: ‘I?’ and at least had the satisfaction of knowing that she had lulled one person’s suspicions. Mrs. Newbury, the only other who might, perhaps, have openly taxed her with what she was fast coming to consider her crime, had been confined to the house by some indisposition, and might be presumed to know nothing about the gathering rumours.

The Dowager learned of the turn affairs had taken from her daughter-in-law, to whom had been entrusted the task of chaperoning Phoebe. It was with great diffidence that Rosina approached her, for it seemed very shocking to her that such a suspicion should attach to Phoebe, and she sometimes wondered if she had misunderstood certain remarks that had been made to her. No one had asked her any questions, or said anything to which exception could have been taken. Only there had been hints.

The Dowager, demanding the truth from Phoebe, heard what had passed between her and Ianthe, and was pardonably angry. If she understood the feelings which had compelled Phoebe to come so close to disclosing her secret she did not betray this, saying impatiently that no one whose opinion was worth a groat would be likely to set any store by the silly things Ianthe said of Sylvester. As for placing the smallest reliance on Ianthe’s ability to keep such a tit-bit of news to herself, she wondered that Phoebe could be such a greenhead. She forgave her only because she had had at least enough sense to remain constant in denial.

‘She cannot say that you told her you were the author, and as for the rest, the only thing to be done is to say that you think you know who the author is. That may readily be believed! I am sure there must be a score of persons who are saying the same. If people can be made to believe that Ianthe, after her usual fashion, added straws of her own providing to a single one dropped by you, until she had furnished herself with a nest, so much the better! If they don’t think that, they may well think that it was you who exaggerated, pretending to know more than others, to be interesting. Yes, my love, I’ve no doubt you had rather not appear in such a light, but that you should have thought of before. Don’t fall into flat despair! The case is not desperate, if only you will do as I bid you.’ She tapped her fan on her knee with a gesture of exasperation. ‘I might have known what would come of it if I let Rosina take care of you! Idiotish woman! I could have scotched the business days ago! Well, never mind that now! When is the Castlereaghs’ ball? Tomorrow? Good! It will be the first crush of the season, and nothing could be better! I shall take you to it myself, child, and see what I can achieve!’

‘Grandmama-must I go to it?’ Phoebe faltered. ‘I had so much rather not!’

‘Not go to it? Good God, do you want to confirm suspicion? You will wear your new dress-the pretty green one, with the pearl embroidery!-and you will-you must!-appear perfectly unconscious. I, on the other hand, am going to be very conscious-and never so much diverted in my life! That ought to take the trick! And it will be well if it does,’ she added, a trifle grimly. ‘I don’t scruple to tell you, my love, that if this scandal is not put an end to I have grave fears that even my influence may not avail to procure you vouchers for Almack’s. I imagine you must know what that would mean!’ She saw that Phoebe was looking crushed, and relented, leaning forward to pat her hand, and saying: ‘There! No more scolding! Dear me, what a pity Tom cannot dance, with that leg of his! I declare, I would invite him to go with us to the Castlereaghs’, just to put some heart into you, silly child!’