Page 48 of An Alleged Rogue

“It was wrong of me to leave you at the edge of the dance floor on Saturday.” Lord Dunsbourne’s voice was low. “You have my sincere apologies.”

If the tension in his face was any indication, this was as difficult for him as it was for her.

“Your actions were understandable. They were caused by my thoughtlessness. It is I who should be apologizing.”

“You should never apologize for telling the truth, Miss Hadford.”

“I may have been reporting what was said about you, but it was not the truth.”

He stopped and stared at her. “You truly believe that?”

She met his shocked expression with one of conviction. “Completely.”

He searched her eyes. She did not waver. Slowly, his smile appeared, and he offered her his arm. It was Phoebe’s turn to smile. She placed her hand upon his sleeve, and they started toward the stables again.

“I saw Mr. Derrick Webb yesterday,” she said. “He was driving a curricle that he won in a card game.”

“It does not surprise me.”

Phoebe glanced at him. “It does not?”

“Derrick Webb has been playing games of chance for as long as I have known him.”

“How long is that?”

“Since childhood. We grew up in the same neighborhood and attended the same schools.” He paused. “As far as I can tell, the only new development in his behavior is that he is choosing to conceal his gambling more now. During our school days, he made no effort to hide his reputation as the luckiest student at Eton. High-stakes poker was his game of choice.”

Phoebe remained quiet, her thoughts tumbling over each other as she considered Mr. Webb’s hypocrisy.

“How could he say such things about you when he is far more culpable of wrongdoing?”

“He may not consider his bent toward gambling as reprehensible,” Lord Dunsbourne said. “As a pupil, he was excessively proud of his winning streaks.”

Phoebe frowned. “By pointing his finger at you, he deflected attention from himself. Mr. Webb is not one to do that unless he has good reason. Winning streaks do not last forever. Perhaps things have not been going so well for him recently.”

“With the exception of a new curricle,” Lord Dunsbourne said dryly.

“True.” She suppressed a shudder at the memory of Mr. Webb’s insistent invitation that she ride with him. “He seemed excessively proud of it.”

“So I imagine.”

Their conversation lapsed into silence again, but this time, the discomfort was gone. They approached the stables, and Lord Dunsbourne slowed his steps. Phoebe lowered her hand from his arm.

“I am most appreciative of your faith in my character, Miss Hadford. Particularly as I have given you no reason to be so inclined.” He gazed off into the distance as though seeing something no one else could see. “I am not in a position to share a great deal with you, but this much I will say: I have never been—nor will I ever become—a heavy drinker or a gambler.”

Phoebe swallowed the lump in her throat. “If I may beg to differ, my lord. I believe that in one sentence, you have shared more with me than most gentlemen would ever willingly assert.”

He offered her a small smile. “Then we are even.”

Memory of her awful declaration of the rumors attached to him washed over her, leaving her face warm and her heart sick.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

“As I told you before, there is nothing to forgive. I pressed you for information. You complied.”

Phoebe chewed her lip. “I have written to Emily. I . . . I did not want to lose her friendship, even if I had lost yours, and I hoped that perhaps we could continue to . . .” The amusement in his eyes caught her off guard, and her words petered out.

“Were we friends, Miss Hadford?”