The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (34 page)

Thank God. “That would be too long away from your shop, naturally,” Will averred.

“Oh, indeed it would. I expect there will be a rush from the country in a fortnight, in preparation for the Little Season. Therefore, I shall be on Monday’s public coach to London. Until then, I will share Madame Dupree’s very spacious lodgings. That is, if you approve.”

Bloody hell. Will tried to smile. “You must join us for supper, Mrs. Ramsey,” he said begrudgingly.

“Oh!” she said, her face lighting with pleasure. “I should be delighted! Thank you!”

He glanced at Phoebe; she was looking at him again, her expression full of helplessness. “If there is nothing else, you will excuse me?” he asked.

“There is…” Mrs. Ramsey said quickly. “There is one last, tiny little matter,” she said. “I have taken the liberty of preparing a bill of sale for the gowns and whatnot. I thought as long as I was here…” She withdrew a vellum from her reticule and held it out to him.

The wench was shrewd. “Yes, thank you.” Will took the vellum and opened it, his brows rising only slightly at the exorbitant price she had added for the making of the dominoes and riding habit he didn’t know he’d commissioned. He folded it and put it in his coat pocket, smiled at Mrs. Ramsey, and said, “If there is nothing else?”

“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your guests a moment longer,” Mrs. Ramsey said, and extended her hand. “A bank draft will be sufficient as payment.”

“Very well,” Will said, and shook her hand. “Good afternoon.” He glanced at Phoebe and went out.

When this fortnight of frolicking was over and done, Will intended to write Lord Middleton and voice his opinion that there were some women, such as the venerable Mrs. Ramsey, who did not need the protection of Parliament in the pursuit of their trade. That woman was very adept at taking care of herself.

Phoebe’s unwelcome bedmate snored as loudly as a bull—therefore, Phoebe was up very early Saturday morning.

In truth, she probably would not have slept much had Mrs. Ramsey been in London where she belonged. She had much on her mind, obviously—most notably, the letter she’d received from Ava, courtesy of Mrs. Ramsey, who’d almost forgotten to give it to Phoebe.

That letter forced Phoebe into a moment of frantic indecision. The very same moment she had concocted the masquerade ball.

In her letter, Ava had urged Phoebe to come home as soon as possible, for the most extraordinary thing had happened: Lady Purnam was, apparently, bound for Wentworth Hall and the Summerfield ball in the company of Lady Holland.

Lady Purnam had been their mother’s dearest friend, and after their mother’s unfortunate death, Lady Purnam had taken it upon herself to continue motherly instructions for Ava, Greer, and Phoebe. It hardly mattered that the three women neither sought nor particularly heeded Lady Purnam’s instructions; Lady Purnam was intent on giving them.

There was another thing they had learned about Lady Purnam in the years since their mother’s death—in addition to her good and determined intentions, Lady Purnam was completely lacking in social discretion. Were she to find Phoebe here, it was not possible even to guess what she might do, but one could trust it would hardly be handled discreetly.

That was why Ava had written in very firm and hurried strokes:

Come away from Wentworth Hall at once! If Lady P discovers you there one can only imagine the delirium that will follow! She will cause no end of grief, which is why I was quite adamant that you should not go through with your ridiculous plan! You must come away, darling! You must put an end to this fantasy once and for all!

Phoebe was as mortified by the news that Lady Purnam was coming as was Ava, but she could not think what to do, not with Mrs. Ramsey staring at her. It felt as if everything was spiraling out of control. If she left now with Mrs. Ramsey, she’d never have the chance to even speak with him. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Will—not like this, not so soon!

She’d made a quick excuse with the masquerade ball in spite of her fear of being discovered by Lady Purnam. But she was at terrible odds with herself and her blasted identity, all of which led to a single conclusion: She had to tell him the truth before Lady Purnam arrived.

But when? And how?

If that wasn’t enough to keep her awake, she surely would have been awakened by the voices raised in argument floating up from the flue last night.

She needed some tea, and made her way to the kitchen. She was surprised to find Mrs. Turner there, still wearing her nightcap.

“Mrs. Turner?”

“Can’t sleep either, can you?” Mrs. Turner said as she methodically sliced bread. “It’s a wonder anyone could sleep with all that shouting,” she said, and when Phoebe admitted she didn’t know what had happened, Mrs. Turner told her in a hushed voice that Alice had been discovered in the gazebo with the young smithy late yesterday afternoon, and Will had all but turned her out for it.

“I cannot imagine what the child was thinking,” Mrs. Turner said despairingly, shaking her head and dislodging wisps of dark hair from her cap. “Apparently they’ve been going on about it for a time, even though she swore she’d not see him.”

Phoebe said nothing, but felt the guilt rise up in her.

“His lordship has locked her away in her rooms until he can think what is to be done about it,” Mrs. Turner continued cheerfully as she munched on a piece of bread. “Imagine! And what will happen with all these guests underfoot?” she said, gesturing fitfully to the ceiling.

“What will he tell them?” Phoebe asked.

“That Alice has taken ill and is indisposed for a time. We’re all to say it.”

“Poor Alice,” Phoebe sighed.

“Poor Alice!” Mrs. Turner scoffed. “He’s only doing what’s right for her, he is. Why, just last week, I saw that bloody chap in Greenhill chatting it up with Molly Fabian.”

“Who?”

“A serving girl at the Horse and Feather,” Mrs. Turner said. “Everyone knows that she and Mr. Hughes are bedmates. Oh, he’s a bloody rooster! He’ll peck every hen he can catch and then crow about it.”

Phoebe swallowed hard at that unappealing description. “I honestly believed…I thought Mr. Hughes loved Alice,” Phoebe said thoughtfully.

“Loved her?” Mrs. Turner snorted into her tea. “You’ve quite a fanciful notion of love, Madame Dupree.”

That was an understatement. The good Lord knew the concept had filled her thoughts and dreams of late. Still, Phoebe had great empathy for Alice—she understood what it was to be a woman in love with a man she could not have.

She felt so deeply for Alice that in the evening, when Mrs. Ramsey went down for supper, Phoebe sought Alice out.

She knocked lightly on Alice’s door; Alice called out a terse “Come.”

She peeked around the edge of the door and saw Alice seated at her desk, writing furiously. She scarcely glanced at Phoebe. “Aha. Even the great London seamstress has come to gawk at the inmate,” she said sourly.

“I have not come to gawk,” Phoebe said. “I have come to offer you my…my…”

When she could not think of the proper word, Alice looked up with a bit of a sneer. “Condolences? Advice? What could you possibly have to offer?”

“Sympathy,” Phoebe said, ignoring her bitterness. “My deepest sympathy.”

“Why should I want your sympathy, Phoebe?”

“Because I understand your feelings for Mr. Hughes. Because I know what it is to love someone you cannot have.”

“Oh, do you indeed?” Alice sniffed and turned back to her writing. “And who have you loved that you cannot have—my brother?”

Phoebe gasped.

Alice snorted. “Don’t look so gobsmacked. Everyone knows it.”

“Lady Alice, I assure you—”

“Oh, please do not attempt to dissuade me,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “I hardly care.”

For a moment, Phoebe couldn’t breathe; she sank onto the edge of Alice’s bed and braced her hands against her knees.

“Honestly, Phoebe,” Alice said with a cold laugh, “you must be very naïve to think you could keep company with my brother and escape the slightest detection. You must know that his every move is watched.”

Apparently, Phoebe was more naïve than she had ever realized. Ava and Greer were right—they’d certainly warned her of it often enough. They would be beside themselves if they knew how Phoebe had compromised herself so completely.

“Don’t look so glum,” Alice said as she dipped her pen in the inkwell. “At least you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said, surprised by how weak her voice sounded.

“I, on the other hand, must suffer in agony at this wretched place for the rest of my life.”

“It is a cruel fact,” Phoebe said unevenly, “that among the haute ton such things as pedigree and fortune have more bearing on a match than compatibility and emotion. And I…I know how deeply you feel for Mr. Hughes, Alice. I thought only to offer you my friendship.”

“There, then, you have offered it,” Alice said, bent over her letter. “So now you may toddle off to your needles and thread, for I have a number of letters I should like to write.”

“Alice—”

“No,” Alice said, with a glare for Phoebe. “I will not hear words of advice from you, of all people.”

Phoebe swallowed a bitter lump of exasperation and regret. She forced herself to stand. “One day, you will regret your demeanor,” she said quietly. “One day, you will need a true friend.”

“If I am ever in need of a friend, it will not be you,” Alice muttered indifferently.

Nevertheless, Phoebe could see the high color in Alice’s cheek and neck, the telltale puffiness around her eyes that indicated she’d been crying. Instead of walking out of the room as she should have done, she walked to where Alice sat and put her hand on her shoulder.

Alice did not shrug her off; Phoebe squeezed her shoulder affectionately and went out, leaving Alice to her private demons.

A t dawn Sunday morning, Will was waiting impatiently for Phoebe at the stables. He’d saddled Fergus and another horse and was anxious to be away before the stable hands arrived for their morning chores. He was acutely aware that any more scandal might irreparably harm the Darby family’s reputation.

He could scarcely believe what Alice had done—just thinking about it made him ill. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against Fergus’s neck. What had possessed her? What inferior logic or intellect had allowed her to believe she could deceive him so blatantly and avoid discovery?

To be discovered in the gazebo with the smithy’s apprentice while more than two dozen guests were under his roof was unfathomable. He supposed he ought to thank God she hadn’t been discovered in flagrante delicto, but merely engaged in something of a chaste kiss. Or so he’d heard from Roger—he’d missed the tumult when several of the guests had wandered down to the lake to race small boats in the late afternoon. He’d been escorting Miss Franklin through the portrait gallery, nodding and smiling as she gamely and subtly tried to present her accomplishments for his consideration. He’d been thinking that try as she might, the poor girl could not seem to distinguish herself in a favorable way from Caroline Fitzherbert, when Henry had joined them and asked if he might have a word.

Will had been very glad to see Henry. He’d arrived the day before from business in London—a euphemism for his affair with a married woman. Upon arrival, Henry had quickly taken stock of the many unmarried ladies and grinned. “Allow me to cull the herd,” he’d said playfully, and had sauntered off, heading right for Phoebe and Miss Dumbarton.

Will had intercepted him, had pointed him in the opposite direction.

“But I find her quite comely,” Henry had protested, nodding toward Miss Dumbarton.

“She’s a governess. Your mother will never approve.”

Henry had looked at Miss Dumbarton and winced. “Bloody hell,” he’d muttered as he’d gone off in the direction in which Will had pointed him, where other, equally delightful women would welcome his attentions.

But Will’s delight in Henry’s interrupting his walk with Miss Franklin in the portrait gallery was short-lived. When they’d made their excuses and Miss Franklin had left them, Will sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “You have saved me once more.”

“Unfortunately, I have not,” Henry said. “I’ve some wretched news.” And he’d told Will about Alice.

Will had paled as Henry talked, could feel his gut sink with despair. When Henry finished, he put a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Will,” he’d said sincerely. “I wish that I could help you.”

But nothing could help Will—it was the social ruination of his sister.

Now Will raised his head from his horse’s neck because he heard Phoebe before he saw her. She came striding around the corner of the stables, her arms swinging. She looked quite determined about something. He’d never seen a more welcome sight.

How odd it was that Phoebe was the only person who made sense to him at the moment. The only person he felt he could trust completely. Having been so gravely deceived by his sister, that trust was very important to him.

“I worried you’d not get away,” he said when she reached him. “I am thankful you have, for the last couple of days have been very trying,” he said, and cupped her chin, lifting her face to kiss her.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I have heard.”

Of course she had—the entire county had heard of it by now. Will gestured impatiently to the horses. “We must be gone before we are seen,” he said, and took her by the waist, lifting her up and setting her on the little roan mare he’d saddled for her. He fairly leapt onto Fergus’s back and paused just to let his eyes run over her before spurring Fergus forward.

As they moved deeply and quickly into the woods, Will realized that his pulse was pounding—not with the anxiety of being discovered, but with disgust. He despised the situation he’d created with Phoebe. What had started out as an opportunity for physical release had developed into something much greater, much deeper, and to treat it as anything less seemed tawdry.

His feelings for her were anything but tawdry.

But Alice’s indiscretion had made it near to impossible for him to even see Phoebe. Alicia’s scandal had tainted the entire family, and for him to add to it would only make the situation worse for all of them, Alice and Jane in particular.