The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (6 page)

“That hardly makes her an expert,” Alice said petulantly.

“Lady Alice,” Addison said, smiling tremulously at Phoebe, “his lordship expressly bade you to be cooperative.”

“Oh, his lordship, his lordship!” she exclaimed angrily. “He bids me constantly!”

“You mustn’t pay her any mind,” Jane said with a sigh. “She is in a snit because she—”

“Hush, Jane,” her sister snapped.

“I won’t hush. I have just as much right to speak to Lady Dupree as you.”

“Madame Dupree, you silly child.”

“Madame is the same as Lady in English,” Jane retorted.

“It is not the same, it is vastly different, which is why you will never make a match, Jane, for you are so silly!”

“Ladies!” Mr. Addison exclaimed, his eyes wide with horror now, his ears cherry red. “I beg of you, please!”

Alice pressed her lips together, but she shifted a cold gaze to Phoebe, taking in her gown and her hair.

“I am certain Madame Dupree is eager to be about her work,” Addison said, and glanced nervously at Phoebe. “His lordship would like to know if there is anything you might require in order to do your work here?”

“He has been very kind to make Frieda available to me, sir.”

“Very good,” he said, already backing toward the door. “If there is nothing else?” He’d already stepped through the door. Phoebe could hardly fault him—but the moment he was gone, she felt outnumbered.

She looked uneasily at her charges. Alice was sprawled in a chair like a beggar. Jane was twisting a lock of hair around her finger like a little girl. How could the daughters of an earl possibly be so ill-suited for society?

“Shall we get on with it, Madame Dupree?” Alice drawled. “I have better things to occupy my time than being fitted.”

“Heavens, Alice, you are always so cross!” Jane said with a huff. “It’s as if you blame Madame Dupree for keeping you from Mr. Hughes.”

Alice instantly colored. “Hush, Jane!”

“Why don’t we take some measurements?” Phoebe tried.

“I won’t hush,” Jane said haughtily, ignoring Phoebe and glaring at her sister. “Alice is in love with Mr. Hughes,” she said in a singsong voice. “But he is the son of a blacksmith and Will says that he is not the sort of match the daughter of an earl should expect to make, particularly before she has been presented to society.”

“I swear I shall throttle you, Jane!” Alice cried. “It is hardly a servant’s concern!”

Jane laughed derisively. “All the other servants know it—why shouldn’t this one?”

“Which of you would like to be first?” Phoebe asked, holding up the string she would use to measure them, feeling a bit like a piece of furniture.

“At least there is a gentleman who finds me worthy of his consideration,” Alice snapped. “Unlike you, who have never had a gentleman so much as look in your direction—”

“That is not true!” Jane said fiercely.

“What do you like in a gown, Lady Alice?” Phoebe asked, stepping in between them.

Her question seemed to startle Alice. She jerked her gaze to Phoebe and looked at her as if she were mad. “Nothing!”

“That certainly gives me quite a lot to work with. Do you prefer silks? Brocades? Perhaps velvet?”

“Isn’t that your task?”

“You are absolutely right. Shall we measure you?”

“Do you mind, Madame Dupree?” Alice snapped. “I am speaking to Jane!”

“You weren’t speaking, you were shouting,” Jane said. “Just as you shouted at Will for telling you that you cannot see that horrible smithy before he banished us to Cousin Mathilde’s house in Leicestershire—”

Alice gasped. “How dare you, you horrible, willful, spoiled brat!”

“All right, that is quite enough!” Phoebe cried, looking at both of them. “On my word, I have never seen two ladies behave so abominably! This is neither the time nor the place for your silly arguments, so Lady Alice, please do stand so that I may take your measurements.”

Alice gasped again and gaped at Phoebe. “How dare you speak to me thus?” she demanded as she came to her feet. “How dare you?”

“It is clearly time someone spoke to you,” Phoebe muttered. “Hold your arms out like this,” she said, demonstrating. She would not be cowed by Alice’s supercilious behavior, particularly if it meant prolonging this interview one moment past what was absolutely necessary. Complete censure in London seemed preferable to enduring such childish bickering.

“You must think very highly of yourself, Madame Dupree,” Alice spat as she flung her arms wide, “to presume to speak to me, the earl’s oldest daughter, in such condescending fashion!”

Phoebe ignored her, and quickly measured her arms before turning around and putting the string to a yardstick. “Now the waist,” she said briskly.

“My brother will certainly hear of your impudence,” Alice said as Phoebe wrapped the string around her waist. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he dismissed you at once.”

Good Lord. What hell was this? “Then I shall owe him a debt of thanks,” she said as she went down on her knees and measured Alice’s length. “I never imagined I’d be forced to endure such childish behavior!”

Apparently, Alice feared she might thank Summerfield for her dismissal, for she didn’t say anything as Phoebe finished measuring her, and Jane laughed.

By the time Phoebe had taken both sets of measurements and forced the two young women to look at the fabrics instead of argue, she had learned that Alice was desperately in love with Roland Hughes, that the bane of Jane’s existence was her brother Roger, and that their other brother, Joshua, was a source of constant trouble for the earl and Summerfield.

They had just begun to argue over the fabrics for their first formal gowns when there was a knock at the door. Phoebe eagerly looked up, hoping it was Addison or Farley come to fetch them—but it was Summerfield, and she felt an uncharacteristic flush heat her face. She was not a new debutante or inexperienced in the presence of men, but she suddenly felt as if she were.

“Will!” Jane cried happily, running to him. Alice turned away from him.

Summerfield kissed Jane’s cheek and walked over to the table to have a look at the bolts of fabric on the table.

He glanced at Phoebe and gave her a bit of a smile. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Madame Dupree. I had hoped to introduce you to my sisters myself, but I was unavoidably detained.”

“Are you going to offer for Miss Frederick?” Jane asked brightly. “Alice says you won’t.”

“Alice says many things,” he said, looking pointedly at the older girl, who pretended to study a silk. “And you should not ask such things, Jane.”

He was dressed impeccably, Phoebe noted, which should hardly have surprised her, having noticed in her short time here how meticulous Addison was about his own clothing. Summerfield’s attire was cut with a perfection she envied. The brown coat fit his shoulders flawlessly, as did the waistcoat that tapered into his trim waist. And the black trousers that fit him like a glove were cut exceptionally well.

So well that the heat in her face deepened as she recalled the feel of him—all of him—at her back.

He lifted a white silk and felt it between his fingers; Phoebe caught sight of what Mrs. Turner had called the mark of the beast. He was, if Mrs. Turner was to be believed, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Why did that titillate her so?

“Quite nice,” he said absently.

“I chose the white for a ball gown,” Jane said. “Lady Dupree said it would go well with my hair.”

“Ah,” he said, and glanced at Phoebe again.

Lord, those eyes. A woman could be in serious danger if she held his gaze; Phoebe averted her eyes to the fabrics.

“Which did you choose, Alice?” Summerfield asked.

“I hardly care,” she said petulantly. “Let the seamstress decide.”

“She chose the lavender silk,” Phoebe said, and lifted it up for him to see.

He looked at the fabric, then at Alice, and smiled so fondly at his sister that even Phoebe felt a little tug in her chest. “An excellent choice. She will be beautiful.”

There was an instant change in Alice. Not so much as a smile, oh no—the girl was determined not to smile—but her shoulders seemed to square a little and her expression seemed much less sour.

Summerfield walked around the table to Alice’s side. He cupped her face in his big hand and kissed the top of her head. “When you are through here, Alice, I should like a word with you in Father’s library.”

“I suppose Cousin Mathilde sent a letter reporting our behavior?” she asked caustically.

“No. But I shall inquire of Cousin Mathilde straightaway.”

Jane groaned, but Alice looked away with a bit of a smirk.

“When you are done,” he said again, and glanced at Phoebe over the top of Alice’s head. “Thank you, Madame Dupree. I will leave you to your work.” And with that, he left the room.

Both Alice and Jane waited until they could no longer hear his footfall. “What have you done, you witch?” Jane hissed at her sister.

“Nothing at all,” Alice said, prompting another round of arguing.

It took several minutes to entice them to leave, and when they had gone, Phoebe put her back to the door and took several deep breaths.

She very much would have liked to pull every hair from Mrs. Ramsey’s head for this. It was going to be a very hot summer with those two.

At that very same moment in Greenhill, several women had gathered for afternoon tea to celebrate the arrival of Miss Rebecca Callinghorn’s Scottish cousin, Lady Amanda Waters, to the county.

Lady Amanda was said to be seeking the warmer climate of Bedfordshire, but Miss Caroline Fitzherbert knew that she had come to join the ranks of those young ladies vying for a marriage proposal from the viscount. Anyone who said otherwise was a liar or a fool. There wasn’t a woman in this room who wasn’t actively pursuing a match for a daughter or a niece or herself.

And as if to prove her point, the conversation inevitably turned to Lord Summerfield. Of course it did—there was hardly anything else worth mentioning in this backwater county.

There was some speculation as to who would win Summerfield’s hand, but Lady Kealing brought it to a halt by being very haughty.

“My Bertha will not be among those eligible,” she said with a sniff. “There’s something a bit off about him, if you ask me.”

“Martha, really,” Caroline’s mother said. Unlike Lady Kealing, her mother was quite keen to see a match with her daughter. “I shall never understand why a bit of a mark on the man’s wrist should cause such consternation. It hardly says anything about his character at all.”

“Indeed it does, Lucy!” Lady Kealing protested. “And besides, it is not just that ghastly mark. My husband saw him one night standing in an open field where the wild horses often graze, just staring up at the moon—he knew it was him by the color and length of his hair. Imagine, a grown man standing in the middle of a field and staring up at the moon without as much as a dog to keep him company!”

Miss Callinghorn and Lady Amanda exchanged alarmed looks.

“Is it a crime to look at the moon?” Caroline’s mother demanded.

“Of course not, Lucy,” Lady Kealing said with a withering look for her. “But you must admit it is odd. And with that mark on his wrist…Well,” she continued, straightening her back. “I should not like my daughter to marry a heathen.”

Caroline’s mother bristled. She shifted in her seat and put down her teacup a little too forcefully. “I scarcely think a heathen would have saved all those sailors from drowning,” she said crossly. “Or be so good to the poor earl. He’s taken quite good care of him.”

“Indeed he has,” Mrs. Frederick opined. “We had Summerfield for supper one night, and he was very kind to my girls. Very polite.” She cocked her head and frowned a bit. “But he did bring a peculiar sort of liquor to share with Mr. Frederick that made him quite ill. I cannot recall the name, but he said it came from the Orient.”

“I am not surprised. He’s not attended church services in weeks,” Lady Kealing said darkly, and sipped her tea.

Stupid woman, Caroline thought. He was the best bachelor this county had seen in ages. Who could fault him for Mr. Frederick’s weak constitution? Who could claim that his refusal to sit through another of the vicar’s exceedingly tedious sermons was a mark against him? She thought him rather clever for it, actually.

“Speaking of church services,” Mrs. MacDonald interjected shyly, “my husband has asked me to pass along some news I hope you will all welcome….”

As she proceeded to go on and on about some church matter, Caroline looked at Bertha. She suspected the real reason her mother would not throw her name into the melee was because the girl was far too plain to attract the eye of a man like Summerfield.

No, a man like Summerfield required someone far more comely and clever, and Caroline knew precisely who it should be.

A fter a long and busy day, Phoebe retired again that night to the muffled sounds of arguing floating up from the flue.

The next morning, exasperated at having been awakened at dawn once again by hammering, Phoebe was up and dressed. She had no fear that either Alice or Jane would be roused before noon—Frieda said they slept until one or two o’clock every day.

She tried to work, but it was impossible—the hammering annoyed her no end. By late morning, she was feeling out of sorts and left the house with her sketchbook under one arm. She paused in the massive foyer to rearrange freshly cut hothouse flowers that were rather tragically stuffed into a vase, and then went out into the morning.

Phoebe lifted the hem of her skirts and marched around the house and through the gardens and toward the lake, to a stone gazebo that had been erected, she suspected, to house small orchestras in the summer. She sat on a stone bench attached to the wall and began to sketch the line of firs that formed part of the walkway to the lake, thinking of a lavender gown for Alice.

As her eye moved down the line of firs, she spied, much to her private delight, Lord Summerfield at the lake’s edge.

The feral horses were there.

Summerfield had his back to her, and was standing perfectly still. He was wearing buckskins tucked into a pair of Hessians, and a lawn shirt tucked into the buckskins. He had left off a waistcoat or coat, and by his foot was a hat, tossed carelessly aside.