“Probably not.” Without a care in the world, Frederick tapped his knee. “Who was it that was just here?”
“Honoria. I’m surprised she didn’t push her way back in for a third time, taking down the door with her. Though the way she tied those ropes indicates a decided lack of strength—”
“Ropes?” Frederick’s eyes darted around, landing on the pile around his chair.
“Yes. Never mind those.” Dermont went on, “For a moment I thought I was going to have a real problem on my hands.”
“A woman alone in your study in the middle of the day? With ropes, no less. How rakish of you—”
“She wanted a favor—not like that.” Dermont’s scoff combined with a derisive scowl ensured Frederick stifled his laugh. “At least, I don’t think like that.” He winced at the thought, unsure if the instinctual reaction was more a reflection of his appallment at her audacity or the troubling sensation of curiosity at her potential request.
“She must have snuck away from the parlor to submit her request,” Frederick mused.
“Who’s in the parlor?”
“All eight Harrington sisters, from the sounds of it. Though I didn’t count. Along with a screeching Phoebe.”
His body stiffened into a rod of steel thinking something was wrong with his sister. “What happened?”
“She’s fine. With all the commotion I had to peek in, but I wasn’t going to throw myself into that melee.”
“Why was she screeching?”
“You know your sister, Dermont. Prone to theatrics. As far as I could see, tea had been spilled.”
“That’s it?”
“Can’t say with absolute certainty…but the majority of the room appeared intact.”
“That girl is going to be the death of me.”
“What are you going to do about it? She’s twentyfour. Doesn’t she want to marry?”
“Of course she does, but no man will put up with her…peculiarities.”
“Ah…yes.” Frederick resumed the drumming of his fingers. “Perhaps she needs more feminine guidance.”
Despite his devil may care attitude, Frederick was an intelligent man, quite insightful in fact, hence their friendship. The idea of having a woman impart wisdom upon Phoebe was not a new idea. They’d tried—and failed several times before. Each time Phoebe balked at the social censure and restrictions, enough to spurn the good soul attempting to help her find her place in society. “You don’t recall all the previous attempts at that?”
A bark of laughter split the air. “First of all,” Frederick counted on his finger, “are those mothers really the role models that will work for Phoebe?”
“You might have a point there.”
“Of course I do. I know those women. Better than most,” he tagged on with a smirk.
“I suppose you have someone in mind who would be up to the task?”
“I just might…”
Dermont crossed his arms, tapping his fingers on his bicep. “Are you planning to share this information?”
“In due time, good sir.”
“I’m not sure I should trust you.”
“Nor am I. But I’m all you’ve got if you want Phoebe to realize any margins of success this season.”
Over the years, Frederick had machinations of all kinds, including sneaking piglets into their classroom, racing phaetons at breakneck speed through Hyde Park, and swimming in nature’s garb in the middle of the night. None of these schemes screamed of credibility in their capacity to train a lady in the ways of society.