The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (3 page)

Nevertheless, she was blessedly happy to be put out of the coach in that quaint little village. Her instructions were to wait for a carriage from Wentworth Hall.

Stiff and sore from the long drive, Phoebe put a hand to her back and bent backward.

“Madame Dupree?”

She whirled around to look at the top of a man’s head. He was small and impeccably dressed, and as he swept his hat off his head he revealed a pair of unusually pointed ears. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. I am Mr. Addison, sent from Wentworth Hall to fetch you.” He bowed so low that Phoebe could see the perfectly round bald spot at the crown of his head. “I beg your pardon that my French is less than adequate, but may I say, Enchanté, madame.”

“Oh, thank you,” Phoebe answered in English—she hadn’t imagined anyone speaking French to her until this moment. “But I am English, sir.” Mr. Addison looked surprised. “My husband was French.”

“Ah. Very good, madam,” Mr. Addison said, inclining his head. “If you will follow me, the wagon is just here.”

Wagon?

He gestured to the trunk she’d brought; a young man picked it up and settled it on his shoulder and winked at Phoebe.

“This way,” Mr. Addison said, and walked briskly around the corner.

Phoebe quickly followed him.

The two men settled her on the wagon’s bench between them. On the drive to Wentworth Hall, Mr. Addison took great pains to point out some of the landmarks. Phoebe thought it beautiful countryside, particularly in the fading light of the day. A blaze of yellow rape, a flowered fodder, blanketed the fields outside the village. At a distance, sheep and cattle dotted the hills, and as they moved toward the woodlands, Mr. Addison pointed out a herd of seven or eight horses grazing near the ruin of an old crofter’s cottage. As the coach neared, the horses loped away.

“Wild horses,” Mr. Addison said. “You might see them about the hall from time to time, but if you draw too close, they will bolt. No one has been able to corral them since they moved into the area to foal.”

Wild horses! She could think of nothing more thrilling or exotic! And they were beautiful, too—red and brown, with white socks, their bodies sleek and tall. Her mission was definitely becoming more appealing. Madame Phoebe Dupree, maker of fine clothing and tamer of wild horses.

The wagon rolled on, through stands of Scotch pines mixed with oaks, their roots covered with delicate, lavender wildflowers, their boughs more than thirty feet above Phoebe’s head. The wagon rumbled over an old stone bridge, past a ruin of some sort, and then up, winding around a hilltop. When they crested the hill, Wentworth Hall came into view, and Phoebe sat up with a start, taking it in.

Oh, but it was grand. It stood four stories high with a dozen or more chimneys, situated in a lush, green dale. They rounded a corner, passing through a stone gate and by a stone gatehouse, and up the road to a circular drive built around a large fountain and green where two peacocks pecked the grass for grubs. In the distance was a stone gazebo next to a small lake on which several swans glided.

It was beautiful, an idyllic picture that belonged in a painting in some grand drawing room. It reminded Phoebe of Bingley Hall, where she’d spent the happiest moments of her childhood. She had long harbored a secret hope that she might one day live again in the country. She imagined children—she wanted squads of children—and pets and various wooded paths to explore and astonishing vistas to sketch and paint.

“The Darbys have resided at Wentworth Hall for more than two hundred years. It was built in the late sixteenth century for the first Earl of Bedford,” Addison told her. “He was a favorite of Queen Elizabeth.”

“It is quite impressive.”

“His lordship is in the process of making several great improvements,” Mr. Addison said proudly. “When he has finished the renovation of the house, there will be none grander in these parts.”

Phoebe’s imagination began to soar—she was mistress of this grand house, standing at the door to greet her guests as they arrived, wearing a gown with crystal beading, which naturally matched the beading of her shoes. She would host lovely gatherings with music and games and suppers on the terrace. She assumed there was a terrace. All grand houses had terraces.

The wagon rolled to a halt on the drive in front of the mansion. Mr. Addison stepped down first, grabbed a box under the bench and set it on the ground, then helped Phoebe down as two footmen opened the pair of doors at the entrance and hurried down. Once she was on terra firma, the wagon rumbled on, kicking up a great cloud of dust. Phoebe coughed and waved the dust from her face.

“This way, Madame Dupree,” Mr. Addison said.

Phoebe looked up at the house. She expected the interior to be full of fine paintings, French furniture, and Belgian carpets. Yes, she would very much enjoy her time here. She would be inspired to create beautiful gowns in such serene surroundings.

She followed Mr. Addison, but as he started up the wide stone steps to the entrance, they were both brought to an abrupt halt by a horrific, bloodcurdling cry. A moment later, a young woman rushed out the door, her golden hair flowing loosely down her back, her day gown stained at the knees and lap. “I shall have your head, Roger!” she shouted. “I shall pike it at the gate! Will! Will!” she shrieked as she fled past Phoebe down the steps.

Shocked, Phoebe watched the girl dart recklessly into the path of a rider who was fast approaching. The rider reigned up sharply to avoid hitting her, cursing as he wheeled his horse about.

“Will! You must come!” the girl pleaded, oblivious to the calamity she’d just avoided.

The rider glanced to his right; Phoebe met his hazel green, sloe-eyed gaze for the briefest of moments before he looked again at the girl. Phoebe had never seen a man sit a horse quite like he did. He dismounted with smooth agility and strode to the girl, clamped a massive gloved hand on her shoulder, and said something only she could hear.

The girl turned and looked at Phoebe. “I beg your pardon, mu’um.”

At a loss as to what to do or say, Phoebe curtsied.

The man put his arm around the girl and strode forward, bringing her along, pausing on the step where Phoebe stood. He was tall, over six feet, and his figure was muscular and athletic. He squeezed the girl’s shoulder and sent her hurrying inside, then looked at Addison. “Have the post brought up to my rooms.”

“Yes, sir. If I may, milord, may I introduce the seamstress, Madame Dupree?”

His gaze slid over Phoebe; she noticed his eyes were more green than brown and flecked with gold—colors that reminded her of autumn. He was dressed in fine clothing—a riding coat that fit his form tightly and to perfection, a neckcloth that was tucked neatly into an embroidered waistcoat, and Wellingtons polished to a high sheen. He was not wearing a hat, and his golden hair had been streaked white by the sun. His clean-shaven face was tanned. He was dressed like most men, but there was something about him that was unlike any other man she had ever met, in London or elsewhere.

This man made Phoebe catch her breath in her throat—she felt an energy about him that seemed to swell around her. He was robustly masculine and completely untamed.

She tried hard not to gape at him like a silly child, but found it impossible to avert her gaze from him.

He nodded. “How do you do.” He turned away, toward his horse, without waiting for a response.

“Actually, my lord,” Phoebe said, “I am a modiste.”

Beside her, Addison jerked a wide-eyed gaze to her as the tips of his ears began to redden.

Summerfield turned slowly and looked over his shoulder at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Phoebe smiled sunnily. “I am a modiste. A seamstress sews. A modiste designs the article of clothing.” He cocked a brow. Phoebe could feel a bit of a flush in her cheeks. “It’s a French word.”

Summerfield turned completely around. He looked a little surprised. “Thank you for pointing that out,” he said, in a voice rich and deep and with a slight accent Phoebe could not quite place. “I was not aware.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be, really,” Phoebe said breezily. “It’s a word used exclusively in relation to women.”

“Ah,” he said, and looked her over once more. “Welcome to Wentworth Hall, Madame Dupree. Addison will show you to your rooms.” He shifted his gaze to Addison, then turned around again, strode impatiently to his mount, and swung up.

As he wheeled his horse around, Phoebe could see a recklessness in the set of his broad shoulders and the grip of his thighs against the horse. He set the horse to a gallop and rode around the corner of the house at much too fast a pace.

Addison cleared his throat; Phoebe realized she’d been staring after Summerfield and blushed. “This way, if you please,” he said, and led her into the house.

Into chaos.

The renovations Addison had spoken of were in full swing. Scaffolding in the foyer drew her eye up, to where the ceiling was being painted. Great swaths of cloth covered the marble floor. Addison introduced Phoebe to the butler, Mr. Farley, who briskly showed Phoebe up to her quarters. As they climbed three flights of stairs, the sound of sawing and hammering was heard on every floor, and a fine layer of dust covered everything.

Somewhere in all that noise, Phoebe heard a door slam and the sound of raised voices.

Mr. Farley obviously heard it, too, for he quickened his step and seemed to speak louder as he pointed out various things about the house and urged her to mind her step as they stepped over tools and buckets and moved around furniture pushed to the center of the corridor to allow work to be done on water-stained walls.

“The renovations have been completed on the east wing, where the family resides,” Farley explained as they slid by a ladder. “The renovations on the west wing should be completed early next year.”

They reached the last stairway, which was considerably narrower than the others. Phoebe gathered that the rooms on the top floor were reserved for servants, whose number she would be among for the next six to eight weeks.

At the top of the stairs, a row of closed doors stretched out from the right. There were only two on the left. Farley took a key from his pocket and opened the first door and held it for her.

As Phoebe walked into the room, her heart sank with disappointment. It was hardly the sort of accommodation she had imagined would be made available for a French modiste. It was a small bedchamber with a single bed in one corner, a faded counterpane neatly placed on it. There was a hearth, a chest of drawers, and a small vanity. The paint was peeling from the walls; the floors were wooden and scuffed.

“And the workroom,” Farley said, walking to an interior door. It opened onto an adjoining room.

Her workroom was covered in a thick layer of dust that suggested it had not been used in some time. Several pieces of broken furniture lay around the room. The fabrics and dressmaking tools Mrs. Ramsey had sent ahead had been tossed haphazardly into a corner. At least someone had had the presence of mind to put down a canvas cloth to keep them from the filthy floor. As in the other room, paint was peeling from the walls and a large water stain marked the plain ceiling.

But the room was at the end of the wing and at the front of the house, and on three walls were pairs of six-foot windows. Phoebe moved through the debris to look out the windows. She grazed her hand against the casing and leaned forward. The views below the windows were of lush greenery and vivid gardens, and, Phoebe noted, the front drive.

“Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper, will deliver you a bucket with water and lye, as well as rags and mops, on the morrow,” Farley informed her.

“Oh?” Phoebe said, her brow wrinkling in confusion. “Do you mean…?”

“A footman will be along shortly to start a fire in the hearth,” Farley continued, clearly meaning precisely what Phoebe feared—she was expected to clean these rooms herself. He nodded politely. “If there is nothing else?”

“No, thank you,” she said, a bit rattled.

He bowed and left her to her rooms. Phoebe stood there a moment. She closed her eyes and imagined a famous modiste in a wonderfully appointed workroom. With a sigh, she opened her eyes, removed her gloves, and tossed them along with her bonnet and reticule onto a broken chair. She looked around at the mess. It would take quite a lot of work to make the room functional, she thought, and apparently, she would have to do it herself. It seemed she would have to reimagine her fantasy somewhat.

Phoebe idly walked to the windows facing west and looked out over the sublime landscape in the day’s fading light. There were rolling green lawns, extensive gardens, and a deer park beyond. She smiled, shifting her gaze to the lawn just below, and imagined the feel of the cool grass beneath her bare feet.

As she gazed at the lawn, two figures emerged from the house. One was an elderly man with thinning white hair, seated in a wheelchair. His body was covered by a lap rug, and his hands were folded neatly on top of it. The person who rolled him out to the middle of the lawn was Summerfield—she recognized his riding coat.

They paused near the fountain, and the two men watched the sun sink into the woods until the light faded and Phoebe could no longer see them.

N o one thought to bring Phoebe any supper, and as she was entirely unaccustomed to foraging on her own, she retired early and hungry.

She was jarred awake sometime later by the sound of raised voices rising up to her through the flue. She sat up with a start and stared into the darkness, straining to hear. There were at least two men involved in the argument, and a woman was crying.

The arguing shocked her. She lowered herself and pulled the coverlet up under her chin, folded her pillow around her head to block out the sound of the voices, and tried to sleep.

But it was impossible—the arguing continued until the morning hours, and it felt as if she’d hardly slept at all when she was startled awake by the sound of hammering. At the first heavy thud, she shot up with a gasp, and then groaned when she realized what it was.

She felt very cross as she washed and dressed. It was so early the night mist had not even lifted from the ground. Who could be working at such an ungodly hour? Phoebe could only guess how long it would be before someone brought her lye and water. Or a bit of food, for heaven’s sake.