Scandalous Innocent (7 page)

Two grooms accompanied them to open gates, and soon the ladies were joined by friends and hailed from carriages which, on any other day, would have contented Phoebe. But while she scanned the green tree-studded acres to find what might be a party from Ham House, her attention wandered and her admirers could hardly fail to note that something had happened to dampen her usual equanimity. So when the whisper went round that she’d been staying at Ham while the great Duke himself was in residence, the reason for her preoccupation became plain. The scandal concerning the Duke’s handsome secretary was only three years old, and a man had died for love of Mistress Laker.

When at last her impatience was rewarded with a distant sighting of Sir Leo Hawkynne on his unmistakable grey Andalusian surrounded by a group of friends, Phoebe’s courage deserted her. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered to Mrs Overshott. ‘He’s with his friends. What will it look like? I shall not know what to say. Let’s go home. I feel sick.’

‘That’s not like you, love.’

‘I know. I’m
not
me.’

Never having met the Duke’s secretary, Mrs Overshott would have liked to persevere, but knew better than to insist when Phoebe was already heading for home.

On the next day, ostensibly to satisfy Mrs Overshott’s burning curiosity to see the recent additions to Ham House, Phoebe donned another of her modish riding habits, this one of deep gold and black, to call on her friend the Duchess who would presumably welcome the chance to conduct another admirer through her rooms.

The Duchess was, naturally, happy to see them both, but did not for one moment believe that this alone was the reason for Phoebe’s return so soon after that contentious visit when nobody’s plans had been effective. She saw how the light disappeared from Phoebe’s expressive eyes when she was told that the Duke and his secretary were out riding with Elizabeth and Katherine that day. ‘And their brother too,’ the Duchess added. ‘Thomas arrived yesterday, quite unexpectedly. What a pity you’ve missed him. I know he’ll want to see you again. How long has it been?’

‘Oh, dear,’ Phoebe said, recalling the distant figures she’d seen in the park the day before, ‘we seem to spend our lives just missing each other. Whenever I arrive at Court, Thomas has just left on some mission or other.’ Smiling ruefully at Mrs Overshott, she followed the Duchess into the dining room above the hall where the high white-plastered ceiling and blue curtains came as a relief from so much gold leaf.

Thomas Tollemache was one of the Duchess’s sons by her first husband. The eldest son, Viscount Huntingtower, had extensive estates to manage in distant counties but, being nearer to Phoebe in age, Thomas had known her better than his two sisters. His chosen career in the army had kept him away from home for months at a time, and for him to be at home at the same time as his stepfather was most unusual.

‘Court life is a very hit-and-miss existence, my dear, as you know well,’ said the Duchess, leading them through a succession of doors with a vista of rooms that spanned the length of the north front. ‘Even Sir Leo has seen the need to have a place of his own these days. He’s taken them to see it.’ She smiled indulgently, waiting for Mrs Overshott’s murmurs of praise. ‘I think he’s been inspired by my renovations. He’s spent a fortune on having it brought up to date.’

This was news to Phoebe. ‘His own house? Where, my lady?’

‘Just across the park from you, in Richmond. Now, from the drawing room we go into the long gallery, which,’ she said, turning to Phoebe, ‘has too little light for my taste. Portraits…ancestors…mostly mine. And the late King Charles up there. And through there is the Duke’s library on one side, and the state apartments on
this
side.’

Inwardly, Phoebe groaned. ‘Will he be living there soon?’ she asked.

‘I believe that’s his intention, my dear, but it will all depend on his work with the Duke, I suppose. John tends to work his staff very hard.’

‘I didn’t realise he could afford to—’ Phoebe stopped, aware that she was thinking out loud. ‘I thought…well…’

The Duchess looked at her and waited, observing the conflict between polite interest, blatant curiosity and the matter that still weighed heavily on Phoebe’s heart. ‘You thought he was a fortune-hunter like many men of his age? But didn’t he tell you—no, he wouldn’t, would he?—that his father died a year ago? He’s inherited, you see. He’s a wealthy man now, Phoebe dear, and I dare say,’ she added, smiling at Mrs Overshott, ‘that he might have mentioned it if you’d not been too busy snapping at each other’s heels.’ The reciprocal glance verified what Mrs Overshott herself had thought, that Phoebe’s most pressing need was not for more vistas of rooms but for some motherly advice from her two most trusted friends. The Duchess led them onwards a little more briskly through bedchamber and closet, staircase and passage until on the ground floor she opened the door to a pretty new room looking south and east. ‘Now this,’ she told them proudly, ‘is what I shall call my White Closet, Molly dear, when my white silk hangings are up. I had Verrio do the ceiling for me. Divine Wisdom presiding over the Liberal Arts. What do you think?’

More rollicking cupids in very solid clouds, with huge females, was what Molly Overshott thought. ‘Wonderful,’ she whispered. ‘Truly remarkable.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Come and sit a while. I do my letterwriting in here, and yes,’ she added, noting the interest, ‘that’s my own dear mama on the over-mantel. They say there’s a likeness, but I cannot see it.’

There was indeed a likeness, though the mother had a gentler forehead and none of the pouches beneath the eyes that years of childbearing and high living had conferred on her daughter. The bronze bust of the mother gave them no indication about the origin of the Duchess’s red-gold hair, either.

‘My lady,’ said Phoebe, settling into one of the lacquered cane chairs, ‘I owe you an apology for what happened. It was quite inexcusable. Not how a guest ought to behave.’

‘No need to apologise, Phoebe, dear. Really, no need at all.’ The Duchess leaned forwards to lay a kind, podgy hand on her guest’s. ‘It was too much to expect that your differences could be resolved in two days. Quite unrealistic.’

‘But our quarrel was made public, and that was not what any of us wanted, least of all me. I don’t know why I took part in that ridiculous contest, except that my anger got the better of me. It was certainly not the best way for me to take my revenge, was it?’

‘With a man of Sir Leo’s calibre, probably not, in hindsight, but I thought the outcome would be an agreement, not a deeper rift than ever. That was the disappointment, for me. If it was revenge you sought, then it really was a waste of time. You must have realised that Sir Leo would win.’

‘I never thought it would solve our problems, my lady, but I wanted to salve my pride, vent my anger and teach him a lesson.’

‘Ah, this pride we women hold so dear.’ The Duchess sighed, rolling her eyes towards Mrs Overshott. ‘But when it’s a Scot you’re dealing with, Phoebe, you may as well put your pride in your pocket. Scots have enough and to spare for the whole of the British Isles. I should know. My family are Scottish, too.’

Phoebe was unresponsive for so long that Mrs Overshott felt obliged to say what her friend clearly found difficult to say for herself. ‘I think, my lady, that Phoebe has never come across a man quite like Sir Leo, who apparently cares less for her than she does for him. She has always been able to choose quite freely, and none of her friends has ever been so critical of her. It’s difficult to be sure how Sir Leo feels towards her when he’s so provoking.’

‘Then you can take it from me, dear,’ said the Duchess, ‘that if Sir Leo was not
very
interested in Phoebe, he’d most certainly not have expended so much energy in something as one-sided as a fencing match with a woman. What he was hoping for, as were the rest of us, was for Phoebe to accept defeat gracefully.’

‘Which I could not do, my lady,’ Phoebe said, more forcefully than she intended, ‘when the only indication of his feelings for me were of disapproval. His manner has been very far from lover-like. Quite the opposite, in fact. I dared not risk it.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, as though the admission was too shaming to be heard. ‘I was afraid.’

‘Of Sir Leo? You thought he intended to chasten you?’

‘I thought to chasten him, one way or the other.’

‘Then the rapiers
were
the wrong weapons, weren’t they? I ought not to have…er…’

Immersed in her own thoughts, the hesitation meant little to Phoebe, but Mrs Overshott glanced enquiringly at their hostess with a sudden dawning of comprehension. This was quickly followed by some energetic but furtive searching of her bright eyes which, to the other two, appeared to be studying the folded hands on her lap. In no time at all, Mrs Overshott’s observations had exposed an anomaly in the perfectly appointed private closet where not even a fringe was askew: a slender box of polished wood with silver mounts lay across the curved stretcher below the Duchess’s writing cabinet, a box long enough to be a case of rapiers.

Chapter Four

F
rom the Duchess’s delaying tactics, tea, a visit to the stillroom and dairy, it was clear that she hoped her family would return before her guests’ departure. But it was on the first mile out of Ham that they met the Duke of Lauderdale and his entourage on their way home from Richmond where they had been treated to an inspection of Sir Leo’s latest acquisition.

Master Thomas Tollemache’s grin stretched from ear to ear with a genuine pleasure that accentuated the likeness to his sisters. ‘Mistress Laker! At last we meet. I thought I’d have to come over and dig you out of your bolt-hole.’ He laughed.

Phoebe smiled and inclined her head to the Duke. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, ‘Master Thomas, well met indeed. And Mistress Betty, Katherine, Sir Leo. You remember Mrs Overshott, of course.’

Over shoulders, greetings were exchanged from high saddles while horses wheeled impatiently, and though Phoebe knew better than to continue her dispute with Sir Leo before the Tollemaches, she still found it difficult to smile at him as she did at his companions. Once, she caught his eye, which she thought might be showing admiration, but the memory of his mouth upon hers was still too recent, and her attention changed quickly to his hands before sliding guiltily away. With the admiration, she thought she might have detected a glint of amusement, as if he’d known the reason for her visit to Ham, when anyone with her kind of animosity would have kept well away for a time. So, while a part of her cared too much, another part urged her to bestow a wider smile in the direction of Thomas, who had always found a soft spot for her.

The Duchess’s son had filled out with the years, red-gold hair tied back with coloured ribbons, eyes of merry blue, a grin approving and teasing, losing no time in telling her, with all the insensitivity of a twenty-five-year-old soldier, what scandalous goings-on he had discovered about her recent visit to Ham. ‘So you thought to teach our cocky friend a lesson with the rapiers, mistress,’ he called, loudly. ‘Well done. ‘Tis time someone took him down a peg. I would do it myself, if I dared.’ He looked round at the faces, enjoying the laughter which he thought was at his expense. ‘Never mind, you can practise on me, now I have a few days to spare. Shall I call on you in the morning? Will you don your lad’s clothes for me, too?’

‘Aye,’ called the Duke. ‘Take the girls with you while Sir Leo and I get on with some work. Can you stand a day with this whelp, Mistress Laker?’

Phoebe’s hands clenched on the reins as she politely prepared to perjure herself. ‘Indeed, my lord. Mrs Overshot and I will look forward to it.’

Waving and calling, they parted company, with Phoebe outwardly cheerful and inwardly despairing, casting a last glance at Sir Leo’s back as if willing him to turn and reassure her that he understood. But he was already talking to his master, to all intents a passing stranger to her.

‘Damn…damn!’ she muttered, out of earshot. ‘The very last thing I want at the moment is a day of empty chatter with those three. Can you stand it, Molly dear?’

‘It’s only one day, love. We can manage one day between us.’

Phoebe’s instincts, however, told her that one of the reasons for Thomas’s eagerness was to do with the rivalry he had fostered since Sir Leo had accompanied their stepfather to Ham House. Four years older than Thomas, better looking, more athletic and more dangerous to women than he would ever be—the chances to cut Sir Leo out of the chase did not come often enough for Thomas’s liking. It was also apparent to Phoebe that, having heard about the contest from his sisters, he would assume, as the sisters had, that her outburst signified a total rejection rather than the complex emotional turmoil about which they knew nothing. Whatever tenuous understanding she had with Sir Leo would be completely overlooked by this brash young man in his endeavour to take her part against him.

She was not much mistaken, for the next few days were tediously uncomfortable and not at all how she had wanted to use her time. Each invitation from Thomas and his sisters offered the possibility that Sir Leo might also be with them, but he was not, and Phoebe was close to despair when she and Mrs Overshott were invited to an archery contest at Ham House where, they hoped, Sir Leo would be on one of the teams. At last their patience was rewarded, even though young Thomas was less than happy to be opposed by the rival who excelled at archery as much as every other sport.

Just before mid-day, they were joined at the butts by the Duchess, rather breathless and flushed as if she had been engaged in a more energetic sport than archery, which had the effect of verifying what Mrs Overshott had suspected for a few days. Sir Leo had little to say and, as long as he was there, Phoebe seemed rather subdued and content for the Duchess’s family to give full rein to their natural competitiveness. But Thomas’s sustained attempts to draw her into his rather petty arguments over scores, his gauche possessiveness put on, she thought, for Sir Leo’s benefit, and his patronising attempts to give her practical instruction she didn’t need, began to irritate and embarrass her, though to his sisters Thomas could do no wrong.

The Duke and Duchess were too absorbed in each other to notice their son’s mischief-making but, lifting a contemptuous eyebrow, Sir Leo pulled the arrows from the target without comment, which made Phoebe sure he was rather disgusted at the spoiling of the light-hearted fun.

Signalling to Mrs Overshott, she went with her to sit on one of the stone benches just inside the Wilderness, beyond the shooting butts. ‘We should make our excuses to leave,’ she whispered.

‘Too late,’ Mrs Overshott replied, nodding towards the house. ‘They’re starting to set the tables for a meal. Look. On the plats.’

Over on the green shapely lawns, known as the plats, white cloths were being thrown over trestles while servants had begun to file back and forth with trays of food, buckets of ice, cider and wine in bottles stamped with the Duke’s crest, massive pies and hams, loaves and fruit tarts, jugs of cream, sauces, salads and shellfish enough for a dozen families. The meal would have been the same whether the Lauderdales had guests or not, but Phoebe knew there would be no leaving now until well into the afternoon.

Both guests were surprised to find that, rather than remain at a distance as he had been doing, Sir Leo placed himself beside Phoebe before Thomas could do the same. He merely frowned, saying nothing while his stepfather was there, but the tension tightened as the sulky young man ate his meal as if he’d been cheated of the tastiest morsel, certain that it was not accidental. For her part, Phoebe felt the safety Sir Leo was offering and was relieved that he had identified her discomfort at Thomas’s unwanted attentions. Unlike Thomas, he made no show of one-upmanship, courteously helping her and Mrs Overshott to the food, as he ought, while conversing easily with everyone at the table, even gently teasing the two sisters, making them blush with pleasure. It was a performance, Phoebe thought, meant to demontrate to the Duchess’s son how to put guests at their ease.

To an onlooker, the scene must have been idyllic, sunshine on white cloths, sparkling silver and glass, colourful food and clothes, animated conversation, the discordant chink of cutlery and birdsong. Less easy to detect was the blossoming of extra senses when shoulders and arms touched in passing, the fleeting brush of fingers sent straight to the heart and held in the skin’s memory, the warmth of a rare glance that sent coded, unreadable messages. Phoebe hardly tasted anything, believing Sir Leo was experiencing the same feelings she was. It would not matter so much now, she said to herself, if they were unable to speak privately, for she knew there was little she could have said that Sir Leo could not perceive for himself. Indeed, they spoke seldom to each other, Sir Leo saying more to Mrs Overshott on the other side of Phoebe than to her, which enabled her to study his face at close quarters in the most innocent of diversions.

The Wilderness, where the shooting butts were, was laid out in radiating compartments of hornbeam hedges and maple trees, not wild at all but avenued with grassy walks and adorned in the central space with classical figures on pedestals and orange trees in boxes. Mrs Overshott wanted to explore this area where the Duchess had told her there were four small summerhouses. Phoebe politely accompanied her. Mrs Overshott walked on ahead. ‘Over here, I think,’ she called.

The family were still sitting near the house from where their argumentative tones could be heard as Phoebe tried, without bending, to read the inscription on one of the pedestals. ‘Venus de Medici. Now who was she? Molly?’ In the shade of the trees, she felt a warmth behind her and, before she could turn, an arm encircled her waist, pulling her back against a hard body which she knew instantly was not Thomas’s, for this man knew how to hold a woman helpless, how to turn her forehead towards his lips. She felt his words on her skin. ‘Just a reminder, wee lass, not to get too involved with that young lord over there. He’s not for you.’ His hand caressed and cupped her face and kept it upturned to his, showing her what he meant so that she had no opportunity to pretend ignorance. His kiss was thorough, controlling and…yes…jealous too, telling her something of the anger he’d done so well to conceal. But his reminder was unfair and not well timed, after his previous courtesies. It was unexpected and not altogether welcome; not at all what she wanted from him on such a day when feelings had started to run high, with misunderstandings building like thunderclouds. She pulled angrily at his hand, prising it away from her neck. ‘You have no right to do that,’ she spat, ‘and I need no reminders. You forfeited any rights when you told me I was free, sir. You cannot do this, Sir Leo.’

From behind the flat-topped hedge, they could not be seen from the house and Mrs Overshott was out of sight. Phoebe would like to have asked him, if he’d not provokingly told her what she already knew, to take her away from these well-meaning but meddlesome friends, to tell him how her heart was softening, to beg him for a little more time, patience, tenderness, perhaps. But the day was going disastrously wrong, and all she wanted was to go home.

‘Still fighting me, then?’ he whispered, restraining her with a hand across her bodice. ‘So why were you in such a hurry to come back to Ham when it holds such bad memories for you? Are they as bad as all that? Eh?’

Squirming and twisting, she freed herself at last, smarting at being found out before she’d had a chance to explain her reasons. ‘To show you how little I care, Sir Leo. And your warning is not needed either, thank you. When I wish to be courted, I shall not be looking for a young pup like that, nor shall I want a man to knock me over the head with his club and drag me into the nearest cave.’ With an irritable shake of her shoulders, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and turned to face him, ruffled, hurt and infuriated by his assumptions, when she had thought he was beginning to understand. ‘Now leave me to make up my own mind, if you please, about how best to live my life while you concentrate
your
efforts into keeping well out of my way. You were keen enough to do that only a few days ago, sir, so try to be consistent, will you? What’s done is done, and that’s how it will stay.’

‘If you knew how to keep your feelings on track, Mis-tress Laker, how is it that half an hour ago you were relieved to be in my company? I was not imagining that, was I?’

‘Not so difficult to explain,’ she bit back, catching sight of Mrs Overshott through the trees. ‘You were simply the better of two not-very-appealing options, that’s all.’ She did not watch his face to find out the effects of her lie, but Mrs Overshott was facing him as she approached and could see the flash of white teeth quite clearly.

Phoebe’s natural reaction to Sir Leo’s untimely warning was to enter into Thomas’s plans for the afternoon, if only to show that she needed no one’s assistance. But any pleasure she might have derived from this caprice remained beyond her reach, for by now she was thoroughly tired of his attempts to keep her engaged in self-indulgent small talk, to score points off his sisters and to bore her with tales of his soldierly exploits. Mrs Overshott, on the other hand, walked apart with Sir Leo and appeared to be sharing a sober conversation with him that took far too long, to Phoebe’s mind. The afternoon was sweltering and her whalebone stays had begun to bite into the tender flesh under her arms, her shoes stuck hotly to her feet, the midges pestered, and her straw sun-hat clamped her brow like a crown of thorns. ‘I think, Master Thomas,’ she said, ‘it’s time we were taking our leave of you. I wonder if someone would be kind enough to summon my coach.’

Regarding her with reproach, the two Tollemache sisters protested. ‘But if
you
go,’ said Katherine, as if Phoebe had a duty to consider the consequences, ‘Sir Leo will go too. I think he only stays for your sake, you know. He was on his way to Richmond this morning to his new house, but he changed his mind. I don’t believe you’ve seen it yet, have you, Mistress Laker?’

‘Not yet. I believe it’s rather splendid.’

‘Oh, yes, Mama has given him lots of advice,’ said Elizabeth. Then, in what appeared to be a renewed attempt to pull the reluctant protagonists together again, she called out to Sir Leo, who was at that moment returning from the Cherry Garden with Mrs Overshott. ‘Sir Leo, Mistress Laker would like to see your new house, I believe. Shall you allow it?’

As if that same thought had already occurred to him, Sir Leo stopped. ‘Of course,’ he called. ‘Any time. We’ll arrange something.’

Rising from her cane chair, and trying not to wince at the sharp stab of the stays, Phoebe smiled at the sisters. ‘Good. Then that’s settled,’ she said. ‘Now, we really must not impose upon your hospitality a moment longer. Molly, dear, we must go and take our leave of the Duke and Duchess. Shall we go in?’

With a last wave from the window of the coach, Phoebe sat back against the blue velvet cushions and closed her eyes with relief, snatching off her straw hat and kicking off the clammy shoes. She squirmed with the release. ‘It’s really too hot for any more good manners, Molly. I cannot wait to take this apricot thing off. The bones have made a hole in me, and there’s something inside the bodice prickling my back.’ Her fingertips explored under one arm. ‘It will have to be altered,’ she said, stuffing her lace handkerchief into the space.