The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (38 page)

“Ah…” Whatever excuse Phoebe might have made was lost, for that was the moment Will walked out onto the terrace. He saw her immediately, and as he began striding toward her, Phoebe’s heart began to race painfully.

“I was quite certain Ava told me you were at Broderick Abbey,” Lady Purnam said as Will reached them. “When did you come back from Broderick Abbey? I was not informed.”

Will glanced at Lady Purnam, who had yet to see him on her right.

“I, ah…well, no, actually, I was not at Broderick Abbey. I’ve been here. I have been, ah…retained here.”

“Retained?” Lady Purnam all but shouted. “Whatever do you mean, retained? Lady Phoebe, is the marchioness aware that you are even here?”

“The marchioness?” Will repeated, startling Lady Purnam.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Purnam asked, tilting her head back to look at Will.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, taking off his mask, too. “I am Lord Summerfield. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Oh!” Lady Purnam said, sinking into a curtsy. “My lord, Lady Agatha Purnam at your service.” She rose up and smiled brightly. “I was just asking Lady Phoebe what on earth she is doing here instead of at Broderick Abbey.”

“Broderick Abbey…” he said, looking curiously at Phoebe. “Do you have a commission there as well?”

“A commission?” Lady Purnam repeated, then snorted. “I can’t imagine what sort of commission her sister, the marchioness, might have arranged.”

Will blinked. He looked at Lady Purnam, his gaze intent. Phoebe could feel the life draining out of her.

“The marchioness,” he repeated.

“Lady Purnam, please—allow me to explain—”

“—The Marchioness of Middleton, my lord,” Lady Purnam said proudly. “Lady Phoebe’s sister. Oh, the two of them and their cousin, Lady Radnor, are thick as thieves. I was assured by the marchioness not two days ago that Phoebe was summering at Broderick Abbey but would return to town before the start of the Little Season.”

Phoebe groaned; Will’s gaze went from hard to confused. He gaped at Lady Purnam as if she were a lunatic. “I beg your pardon—am I given to understand that this…this woman is—”

“Lady Phoebe Fairchild,” Lady Purnam offered proudly as two men raced up onto the terrace and looked wildly about. “The daughter of the late Earl of Bingley and Lady Downey, may God rest her soul.”

Will turned his head and looked at Phoebe. His eyes raked over her so hard that she could almost feel it slicing through her skin. It took a moment to find her voice. “I can explain everything, if you will—”

“Are you not acquainted with Lady Phoebe?” Lady Purnam interrupted, and just as abruptly, she suddenly giggled. “Oh dear, I had not realized! Lady Phoebe does usually care for parlor games, you may ask anyone in Mayfair—I hadn’t realized she was partaking in the games of the masque.”

Phoebe had never seen such a look as she saw in Will’s eyes in the moment he comprehended she had lied to him, that she had deceived him. It felt as if her heart had been pierced and all the blood had been let out of it. “I can explain—”

But she was interrupted again by the two men who raced to Will’s side. One of them caught him by the arm in what seemed like a dream. Will turned slowly, the light of the torch catching his golden hair.

“My lord, forgive us,” the man said. “You must come!”

“Not now,” he said gruffly, and shrugged off the man’s hand, stepping forward and grasping Phoebe by the elbow.

“My lord!” the man cried with alarm.

“Not now!” he snapped—he only had eyes for Phoebe. “If I may, Lady Phoebe, I should like a word,” he said, and began steering her past the potted plants onto the small side terrace. Once they were out of sight and earshot of the others, he pushed her away from him with disgust. “Lady Phoebe?” he said acidly. “What sort of cruel game are you playing?”

“It’s not a game! I can explain if you will just listen,” she said desperately. “I don’t…I never meant to deceive you.”

“Oh no? So by presenting yourself as some seamstress and assuming a different name you did not mean to deceive, you meant to…to what, Phoebe? What did you mean to do?” He was furious; his hand clenched and unclenched at his side, and his eyes were blazing with anger.

“I did not…” She closed her eyes a moment, sought her breath. “It is so complicated, Will,” she said, opening her eyes. “I was forced into this. Mrs. Ramsey blackmailed me into this work—”

“Blackmail!” he scoffed.

“Yes, blackmail! If you would just listen to me! She blackmailed me and threatened me with scandal and said she would derail the reforms my brothers-in-law would see through Parliament, and I thought…I thought there would be no harm in doing what she asked because I was not acquainted with anyone in Bedfordshire.”

“Would you now have me believe that you just happen to have the skills of a trained seamstress and then fabricated your entire life?” he said, incredulous.

It sounded ridiculous, even to her. “It is complicated,” she said again. “There were other people who had to be considered, and if you…just please try and understand me—”

“How many lies did you tell me?” he asked flatly.

“I—how many? I don’t know,” she said as her belly began to churn. “My life—but not about us. Never about us!” she cried, seeing the look of disbelief in his eyes. “Will, you must believe that I never meant to hurt you. I was going to tell you everything! Tonight! Tonight I was going to tell you everything!”

“Yes, well, that seems too little, and far too late, madam. You must think me a bloody fool.”

He said it with such disgust that Phoebe bristled. He looked at her as if she were some sort of villain, as if she’d concocted some elaborate plan expressly to deceive him. Her fear mixed with a sudden surge of anger. “I wouldn’t have lied to you at all, I would not have spoken to you, had you not persisted in seducing me!” she said sharply.

Will’s eyes widened with surprise. “I beg your pardon!”

“You cannot deny it!” she said heatedly. “You pushed and pushed me, even while you were planning to marry someone else!”

“How ironic it is that the thing I had to tell you to-night, the thing that could not wait another moment, was that I was not going to marry anyone else, for I love you, Phoebe. I…” He drew a quick breath as if he’d just been struck. “I love you!”

“Dear God, Will…you must know that I love you, too.”

“I don’t know what I know, Phoebe, except this: The difference between us is that I will never be certain you love me because I can never be certain of you again. But you can always be certain I loved you because I was never anything but completely honest with you!”

“What do you want from me?” she cried, throwing her arms wide. “What do you want me to say? I am sorry I deceived you. It was never my intent! But once it started it mushroomed out of control and I am trying desperately to explain it to you! But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you!”

“Do you?” he sneered. “Or is that yet another of your damnable lies?”

Phoebe gasped; the venom in his voice made her physically ill.

At the same moment, a gentleman stepped around one of the potted plants and clamped a hand down hard on Will’s shoulder. “Will,” he said sternly.

Will hardly spared him a glance. “Henry, please. I—”

“Joshua has been called out.”

Will dropped his mask. Phoebe gasped and covered her heart with her hand; everything around her seemed to stop. The wind, the flickering of the torches—everything.

“By whom?”

“Mr. Fitzherbert.”

Will blinked. “Where?” he asked simply.

The gentleman pointed toward the lake, and Will was suddenly striding away from Phoebe.

The air seemed to thicken, but Phoebe shivered. She felt suddenly cold on the inside and out, and folded her arms tightly around her, trying to stop the shivering as she followed the two men past the potted plants.

Lady Purnam was still there, up on her tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd that had gathered on the terrace. “Have you heard? I cannot imagine such ill behavior!” Lady Purnam declared when Phoebe touched her arm. “But I’ve heard woeful tales of this family. You’d do well to keep your distance.” She glanced at Phoebe and frowned. “What on earth were you doing with him?”

“Lady Purnam, I must return to London straightaway,” Phoebe choked out. “At morning’s first light.”

“What? You cannot mean it, darling. We’re to stay until Sunday. And besides, I came in the company of Lady Holland—”

“No,” Phoebe said, and suddenly gripped Lady Purnam’s arm. “I must go as soon as possible, and you have to help me! Have a carriage brought around at dawn, please!”

Lady Purnam gasped. “Good Lord, child, are you ill?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said as tears filled her eyes. “I am on death’s door. I have to leave here.”

“Oh my dear, I think with a bit of rest—”

“Madam, will you please just once do as you are asked and not debate it?” Phoebe cried, earning a look or two from those around them.

Lady Purnam reared back. “Very well. I will speak to Lady Holland and see if we can’t borrow her coach to take you home.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said. She glanced down to the lake’s edge, where dozens of people had gathered. She could see Will’s golden head at the center. She could not see his face or his eyes, but God help her, she could feel them. They were still burning through her, still slicing her open.

She abruptly turned and ran into the ballroom, leaving her battered and bleeding heart on the terrace.

The house erupted into chaos when Mr. Fitzherbert, who’d had very high hopes of marrying his only daughter to Viscount Summerfield, stumbled upon her in a compromising position. Not with the viscount, unfortunately, which, some would argue later, might have sped along a happy ending for the Fitzherberts. But with the viscount’s brother, Mr. Joshua Darby.

That could not be a happy ending for either family.

A debate would rage for several months in Greenhill as to whether Miss Fitzherbert had welcomed the young man’s advances and had, indeed, loved him, or if she had been caught completely unawares, having mistaken Mr. Joshua Darby for Lord Summerfield on that dark and hot, sultry night of the masquerade ball.

Whatever had happened, by the following day, it was all over the county. Mr. Fitzherbert had called out Joshua Darby, intent on avenging his daughter’s honor. It was a fabulous scandal, one that rocked the household staff and titillated the many guests. Fortunately, a duel was averted by Summerfield’s quick thinking and actions. He extracted an agreement from Joshua and Caroline that they would marry straightaway, thereby making it impossible for Mr. Fitzherbert to risk killing his future son-in-law in a duel. The agreement was sweetened by a favorable negotiation for the Fitzherberts regarding a dowry.

The crisis was averted, but nevertheless, everyone remarked on the stunning deceit between the brothers, and in that furor Phoebe had slipped back to London.

No one seemed to notice she’d gone—except Billy, who’d helped her load her things on the carriage. And Addison, whom Phoebe begged to deliver a letter over which she had labored all night. It was for Will. In it she tried—admittedly, very badly—to explain everything.

Only Phoebe knew the extent of the deceit Will had suffered that night: His sister, his brother, and his lover had all managed to deceive him in the space of one week.

A t Middleton House, where Phoebe had taken refuge after she’d fled Wentworth Hall, Ava tried daily, and vainly, to bring Phoebe back into the fold of proper society, particularly with the Little Season upon them—but Phoebe would not have it. She could not face Lord Stanhope’s attentions or any other attempt at matchmaking.

Ava persevered as only Ava could. Everyone was coming back from the country, and Ava finally managed to extract from Phoebe a promise to attend a soiree one evening. It was to be held at the home of the venerable Lord Murdoch, but the numbers would be small, as debutantes had not yet been presented to court, and gentlemen had not yet begun to trawl the ballrooms of Mayfair in search of potential matches.

But as Phoebe seemed resigned at best, Ava took it upon herself to review Phoebe’s trunk full of gowns and select one that would present her sister in her best light. She was digging through the many gowns when she suddenly whirled around and said, “I forgot to tell you what news I have had from Lady Purnam!”

“I can scarcely wait,” Phoebe drawled. She had her nephew, Jonathan, on her hip and was trying to rearrange the tresses of hair he had managed to work free from her coif.

“Lady Purnam tells me that the ladies of the haute ton are quite displeased with wretched Mrs. Ramsey for having lost Madame Dupree,” Ava said gleefully as she pulled the pale green silk and chiffon gown Phoebe had made and held it up to herself in the mirror. “It seems there is no suitable substitute for her exquisite gowns, and ladies across Mayfair are taking their commissions away from Mrs. Ramsey. More threaten to do so if she does not produce a suitable modiste before the start of the Season next year.”

“Oh?” Phoebe asked, perking up a bit as she put Jonathan down on his wobbly legs. She never tired of hearing how well her gowns were received. Or how far Mrs. Ramsey might fall.

“I, for one, am surprised the slatternly woman hasn’t come around to convince you to continue,” Ava said pertly.

“Ava!” Phoebe cried with a laugh, and turned around, to where Jonathan had fallen onto his bottom and was crawling toward a skein of yarn from which Phoebe was attempting to knit a cap for him. “You shouldn’t speak so carelessly in front of my nephew!”

Ava flicked her wrist at Phoebe before holding the gown up to her. “He doesn’t understand me, and besides, she is slatternly. Oh, this is wonderful, Phoebe! It is the perfect gown for you!”

“I do not believe she has the courage to even speak to me,” Phoebe said, trading Jonathan for the gown and walking to the full-length mirror to have a look herself. “And besides,” she added absently, “on the day I went to her shop to demand that she never speak of Madame Dupree again, she had a bank note from Lord Summerfield and seemed to be quite done with the whole ruse.”