The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (31 page)

“Indeed it shall,” he said, and began to lead her back to the group. He glanced over his shoulder—the footmen were at work lighting the torches, but Phoebe had disappeared.

The next day dawned hot and dry. The dust of a dozen or more carriages seemed to choke the air from the sky as the rest of the guests arrived. Most seemed oblivious to the stifling heat, however, and swarmed around the hall and the grounds.

And again today, Will’s siblings were on their best behavior. He wondered—hoped—that they’d turned some sort of invisible corner, that they had, after four months under his watch, become good, upstanding citizens worthy of their august name.

He was so pleased, in fact, that he made a special trip to see his father that afternoon, speaking in glowing terms of their accomplishments in the midst of so many guests.

There was only one thing that marred an otherwise perfect day for him—Farley told him that Frieda, the young woman who had helped Phoebe create such beautiful clothing for his sisters, had run away.

“Run away?” he asked, confused. He rather thought that the terms of employment he offered were very generous.

“It would seem she has found herself in a delicate situation, my lord,” Farley said.

At Will’s look of confusion, he leaned in and whispered, “With child.”

“Who?” Will asked instantly.

“We cannot say for certain, my lord. It would seem that Frieda was rather free with her charms.”

“Are you certain? There is no man to be held responsible?”

“Not that I can determine, my lord.”

“Then good riddance,” Will said gruffly. He wondered where Frieda might have gone—and assumed she’d gone to her family. It was just as well, for he would have been forced to dismiss her. He could not have her working under his roof—society could be very hard about such matters.

There was only a tiny recognition in the back of his mind that Frieda’s situation was rather uncomfortably close to Phoebe’s.

Phoebe learned of Frieda’s disappearance from Mrs. Turner. “Carrying a bairn, she is,” Mrs. Turner said, her disgust evident. “I warned her to mind herself, but she paid me no heed.”

“Where could she have gone?” Phoebe asked, horrified to think of a distraught Frieda out there in the world with nowhere to go.

“Who can say? Out of Bedfordshire and to London if she knows what’s best. At least there she might find herself a position before her condition is obvious.” With a cluck of her tongue, Mrs. Turner shook her head. “Serves her right, it does, for being so careless with her virtue.”

Phoebe’s belly did a queer flip; she looked at the tiny scrolls she was embroidering on the bodice of a morning gown that matched the scrolls carved into the shrubbery in the gardens. She wondered if Mrs. Turner suspected anything about her own wretched behavior. She couldn’t help herself—she stole a glimpse at the housekeeper.

If Mrs. Turner suspected anything, she did not show it. She was examining a pair of day gowns that hung from hooks on the wall. “Such lovely work,” Mrs. Turner said admiringly. “I hope you’ll be able to finish without Frieda.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “We were almost finished.”

“Well, then!” Mrs. Turner said, and moved toward the door. “I’ve quite a lot to do, what with all the guests.”

“I will miss Frieda,” Phoebe blurted. “She has been my friend.”

Mrs. Turner paused and looked at Phoebe, her mouth set in an unforgiving line. “Then I am glad she is gone, Madame Dupree. It would not do to have a respectable missus like you lie about with pigs.” With that, she walked out.

Phoebe sank onto her seat, her heart pounding. Frieda. Dear, poor Frieda. It infuriated her that the man who had put the child in her belly would not be made to suffer as much as Frieda. Phoebe truly appreciated what her brothers-in-law were trying to accomplish, how important their success was for women like Frieda, who had made the mistake of falling in love with a rogue. Of course Phoebe had known of other women who had fallen, too—but all of them had the protection and resources of a powerful name behind them. Their mistake was hidden from the world, and they certainly weren’t made to seek refuge in some awful employment.

Frieda, however, would never be able to hide.

Without the distractions of Jane and Alice, and in spite of her worry about Frieda, Phoebe completed Alice’s morning gown that day. She worked well into the evening, until her fingers were aching.

She paused in her work to open all the windows— the late afternoon had made the room stifling. As she opened them, she guessed all the windows in the house were open, for she could hear laughter filtering up through the chimney and the windows open below her. She was reminded of the first day she had come here, when she had heard nothing but arguing.

How gay this house sounded with laughter. How happy Will must be at this moment.

Will. She missed him terribly. If she were in London, if she’d met Lord Summerfield there, she would be seated across from him at some supper party. Everything would have been so very different—he might have actually courted her, and she…

Phoebe suddenly tossed aside her work apron. “It is far too hot,” she muttered to herself, and tossed her napkin aside. As everyone would be engaged in supper, perhaps it was a good time to take some air. She’d walk on the east side of the house, near the stables, so as not to disturb anyone.

When she’d made her way out of the house and onto the drive, Phoebe paused to toss her head back, close her eyes, and breathe deeply. Even in the heat, the air here was so much fresher than that in London—it enlivened her.

Phoebe continued on, her arms swinging. She was walking so quickly up the path to the stables that she scarcely heard the girlish laughter at first. She paused and cocked her head—there it was again. Phoebe turned toward the shrubbery that lined the path to the stables, trying to determine precisely where the voice was coming from. When she heard it again, she also heard the low voice of a man.

Clearly, the antics of the country house party had begun already, and most of the guests had only arrived today. She intended to creep quietly away, to go back the way she had come and try a different path—but then she recognized the woman’s voice.

“You must go now,” Alice said in a husky voice. “My brother cannot possibly dine forever.”

“He’s got enough to keep him occupied for a time,” the young man said. “Come on, then, Alice…come with me. I know a place on Tanner’s Hill.”

“No,” she said pertly. Her refusal was followed by silence—and then the rustling sound of shrubbery being pushed aside.

Stunned, Phoebe twisted about, frantically looking for a place to hide. She ducked behind the shrubbery just as Alice and Mr. Hughes emerged from the other side. They were whispering together, and from where Phoebe hid, she could see the shine in Alice’s smile. The two lovers paused once to embrace; Mr. Hughes kissed her passionately until Alice bent away from him with a laugh. Then, with hands clasped, they hurried in the direction of the stables.

Stunned, Phoebe stood rooted to her spot, her breath coming in rapid gasps of surprise and alarm. Alice had sworn she no longer saw him. Alice was deceiving them all.

The irony was clear—Phoebe could hardly fault Alice when she was in the throes of deceit, too. Her whole existence was a lie!

She stumbled from behind the shrubs and turned back, moving in the opposite direction of Alice. Her thoughts were raging—everything she thought she understood about herself was suddenly suspect. She was so lost in thought that she took a familiar path without thinking, and ended up in the parterres. It was of little consequence—she could still go in the servants’ entrance and avoid the guests.

As she walked through the parterres, she saw two footmen ahead of her, lighting the rush torches that would illuminate the gardens. They hadn’t seen her yet, she realized as she neared them, and one of them laughingly made a rather crude remark about a haystack and a pair of stockings. They were speaking of Frieda, Phoebe knew.

The other footman laughed low at the crude joke and glanced at the house. “Truth is, I’d have had her, if I’d wanted.”

“What?” the other scoffed. “And you didn’t want to have her, is that it?”

The second footman made a remark Phoebe did not quite hear, but that had both of them snickering.

“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said coolly, startling both men.

“Madame Dupree,” said the second footman, whom she recognized as Edward. “We did not see you standing there.”

The first footman, Beck, looked especially chagrined. “You ought not to have heard us,” he said sheepishly.

“But I did. And I wonder if either of you have thought about a young woman who is now lost in this world while her friend continues his employment unscathed?” she demanded, surprised by her anger.

“Come now,” Edward scoffed. “He might have shot the fateful bullet, aye, but Frieda should not have lifted her skirts, eh?”

Phoebe’s face flamed. “Nevertheless, it is hardly fair. There were two people involved in the tragedy, not just Frieda.”

Edward snorted. “Why would a proper missus defend her?” he asked, his tone challenging. “Perhaps the rumors are true then, eh, Beck? Perhaps Frieda is not the only one who’s lifting her skirts.”

Phoebe gasped with shock. Edward laughed at her reaction, but Beck seemed as startled as she. Phoebe gathered up her skirts and marched away, cringing at Edward’s laughter, which floated after her.

Mortified, she ran up the steps to the terrace, turning the corner in the staircase just below the terrace, where she inadvertently almost collided with one of the guests.

It was then she noticed all the guests were assembled on the terrace, and Will, her Will, was standing by the balustrade with Miss Fitzherbert’s hand clinging possessively to his arm.

L ord Duckworth was a man who enjoyed his vices—cigars, whiskey, and women. It was common knowledge that his wife and pastor threatened him with hell frequently, but it did not deter Lord Duckworth in the least, and when he saw Phoebe, his eyes lit up like a man who had just found a diamond amid a cart full of coal.

Will watched him twirl around and catch Phoebe by the arm, clamping his beefy hand down on her. At almost the same moment, Caroline clamped her hand down on his arm.

“Ho, there, who have we here?” Duckworth asked gleefully as he peered at Phoebe, all the while chewing on the end of his cigar.

“I do beg your pardon,” Phoebe said, politely removing her arm from his grasp. “I didn’t realize anyone would be about—”

“Madame Dupree?” Will called down to her. “How good of you to join us.” She looked up at him with an expression full of dismay. “Madam, are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, mustering the thinnest of smiles. “I beg your pardon, my lord, I didn’t realize…I…I thought you were all to supper,” she stammered.

“It’s much too hot to eat just yet. Thank goodness for it, too, or we might not have found you,” Duckworth said, and smiled at Phoebe’s décolletage as he grabbed her hand and clasped it tightly. “Allow me to help you to the house.”

“No, really, you mustn’t trouble yourself—”

“I insist,” he said, looking at her mouth. He even withdrew the sodden cigar from his mouth and carelessly tossed it into the pot of a plant before turning a tobacco-stained grin to Will. “Who are you hiding from us, Summerfield?” he called up. “I don’t recall being introduced to this exceedingly lovely young woman.”

“Of course you’ve not been introduced, my lord, as you are not in need of a gown,” Caroline said silkily.

Will had almost forgotten she was standing beside him.

“The lady’s hand you hold so dear belongs to a seamstress,” she added.

“Ah, the seamstress,” Duckworth said as if that pleased him. He smiled broadly at Phoebe’s bosom. “What a treasure you are—”

“For God’s sake, Duckworth, if you are going to bring her up, kindly do so,” Will said sternly.

“Oh no, I really should not,” Phoebe tried.

“You heard our host,” Duckworth said cheerfully, and proceeded to lead a reluctant Phoebe up the stairs.

She gave Will a doleful look when they reached the terrace—he had the impression she would rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

“Come now, Summerfield, why have you been hiding your seamstress?” Duckworth asked jovially. “Had I known you had one under your roof, I would certainly have sought clothing for Lady Duckworth.”

“Allow me to make a proper introduction,” Will said coolly, looking pointedly at his hand on Phoebe’s. “Madame Dupree, may I present Lord Duckworth?”

“How do you do.”

Duckworth’s arm fell away from Phoebe, but he could hardly tear his eyes from her. Of course he couldn’t—she was a beautiful woman, and uncommonly so in the evening light.

“And from where do you hail, Madame Dupree?” Duckworth asked, clasping his hands behind his back. “I should like to commission a new wardrobe for my wife.”

“Unfortunately,” Will cut in, “Madame is rather exclusively engaged at the moment.”

“Oh?” Duckworth asked, his disappointment evident.

“Indeed, my lord. When I have finished here, I am committed to an engagement elsewhere.” She did not look at Will, did not see how her words sliced across him.

“London, you’ve said, no?” Caroline asked coolly.

“Yes. London,” Phoebe confirmed with a glance at Caroline.

Will hardly wanted to be reminded. “Madame Dupree, we do not mean to keep you.”

“Thank you,” she said quickly. “I will leave you to your guests.” She backed away, curtsying politely.

But Duckworth would have none of it. “Nonsense, Madame Dupree,” he instantly interjected. “You must join us.” He shifted his gaze to Will. “She is the perfect companion to Miss Dumbarton, our governess. She would delight in Madame Dupree’s company, I am certain of it.”

Phoebe seemed frantic to be gone. “My lord, I cannot impose.”

“It is no imposition,” Will assured her.

“Yes, do, please, Madame Dupree. Your presence would make Lord Duckworth and Miss Dumbarton incandescently happy,” Caroline said wryly.

Duckworth alone laughed at that.