Chapter 7

The ladies descended on Phileas after a long time, sequestered in Melody's room. They had been assessing Melody's wardrobe brought back from Egypt. Rebecca's opinion was that most of her gowns were fine with minor alterations for the sake of present fashion. But none of it would be of use when fall arrived.

Rebecca said, "Your wife will catch pneumonia if she tries to wear those light dresses. The evenings are already getting cool again. She needs to build a winter wardrobe."

It would be Melody's first shopping trip since her arrival. She had been looking forward to it with great excitement. Phileas had been glad to see her in lighter spirits. Since their talk, she had been in a reflective, quiet mood.

Nothing ever cheers a woman more than the prospect of spending hours on end running from shop to shop. The downside of it would be the bills Rebecca would stack on my desk afterward with this excuse to outfit Melody from head to toe for the fall party season. Restraint would be thrown to the wind, I'm certain of it.

The two women had become even closer friends over the last several weeks. He had facilitated it by having Rebecca stay with Melody anytime he left the house in the evenings. News from Egypt spoke of no direct signs of graft or smuggling, but there were officers in his command living higher than their pay would afford. However, they had been in Egypt longer. Whatever it was, likely had been in force before Major Anderson's arrival. Peter was still sniffing that out.

Phileas bid the ladies goodbye and headed into his study to read the letter Rebecca had given him before leaving. If this reference wasn't found of a better tone, he would take the task back from Rebecca and find his own ambassadors. People who knew something about tact and loyalty among friends.

As he opened the envelope, he registered the handwriting as familiar. There was no name or address. Inside, he found a friendly note and a formal letter from his old friend Vance Lancaster, Sir Vance Lancaster now.

Phileas smiled broadly, remembering the sandy-haired, blue-eyed agent he had once been so close to. They had been excellent friends as junior agents. They had partnered together on several missions and many a night's mischief. Vance's career had taken him to South Africa, where he had fallen in love with the warm climate and established a residence. Phileas had been sent to the Far East. Their correspondence had been difficult to maintain and ended altogether.

Rebecca said she had found him at Whitehall preparing for his retirement and had gladly agreed to provide a reference.

"Vance won't let me down."

The note read thusly.

Dear Old Phileas,

I give my most hearty congratulations on your finding a lady to wed. I was given the news by your charming cousin a few days ago and was happy to take on the duty of providing you a reference. I must admit however, that I didn't think you had it in you. But I was once just as adamant to remain a bachelor. I have since married and have three children, a girl and two boys. We can reminisce on all that after I return to London next month, if you can spare an old friend the time.

Yours, Vance

Phileas smiled at the note as fond memories of missions shared and carousing together. Rebecca should have mentioned she had seen Vance. We could have had dinner at the club together before he left town.

He settled on reading what his old friend had to say to his brother-in-law.

Dear Mr. Charles Anderson,

I write to you concerning an old friend, Mr. Phileas Fogg, who is to marry your sister, whom I am told is a fine young lady of sweet temperament and of gently reared background.

I know my friend to be a good man over all with many fine attributes. He was an excellent man in a pinch when we worked together. He is a crack shot and smashing good sport. We have ridden to hounds together frequently in the past.

Phileas had to sit up a bit and mentally scratch his head. Was Vance referring to our two-day ride through the Crimean wilderness to get intelligence through enemy lines? That had been a hunting expedition of note to be sure; but one where we had been the foxes, not the hunters.

Phileas read on.

But I must say, for a young lady of your sister's reported fine character may be unprepared for this prospective match. A quiet young lady of good breeding would seem out of place with the man I knew before leaving England. Phileas Fogg has never had trouble attracting the ladies, but the ladies he has pursued in the past have always been, to put it delicately, somewhat less than the finest flowers of England. More of a frank, uninhibited, outgoing nature. Women whom I would say made friends of men easily. But alas, I fear Phileas Fogg was always somewhat fickle. Those friendships were never of long duration.

I advise you against allowing your gentle sister to become enamored with this man. He would surely tire of her quickly and break her heart.

Sincerely, Sir Vance Lancaster

Phileas swore in the quiet room several times in several languages, increasing the volume and crudeness with every word. This–brutally honest assessment of his life in his twenties was just what he did not need Charles Anderson to be apprised of. He will be here in a trice to take Melody away after reading this. He felt a flush of terror, realizing just how much he didn't want that to happen. Melody was his wife… and he wanted it that way.

"I will wring Vance's neck when he returns! And wring Rebecca's when she gets back. Why did I allow her to start this?"

Passepartout was following Kathy on her way to serving Master Fogg his tea. They were just making their way down the hall to the door of the study with his steam-powered teacart. Kathy had not taken to it immediately, but had learned to operate it, beginning to appreciate his inventive streak, too. They were on the dot on time, as Passepartout had instructed.

Both froze in the hall, startled as something large and heavy hit the wall on the other side, in the study. The word damnation exploded right after whatever crashed into the wall. They looked at the wall that separated them from their furious employer.

"Gracious," Kathy whispered. "What in the world?"

The prudent valet, who had served this house much longer, backed the teacart and the maid back into the kitchen. His master rarely swore at the devil so strongly, and even more rarely did he throw things, or had he hit the wall with his fist?

"Perhaps the tea being too hot," Passepartout said. We should let it cool in the kitchen in a nice traditional English teapot until fit for the Master's drinking."

"Perhaps you're right," Kathy said. "Ten minutes should do it."