by Jayne Davis
Phoebe glanced from him to Marstone, then stood.
“I bid you good night, sir,” she said. Turning, she took Alex’s arm and they left the room.
Alex stopped on the upstairs landing and turned to face her. Lit only by their candles, it was difficult to make out her expression. Thoughtful?
“Phoebe, Bella’s plan requires me to maintain the pretence of courting your cousin. She thinks your aunt may need some incentive to stick to the new story.” He wanted to know she understood—that he was not slighting her.
“I gathered that.” She smiled up at him.
There was so much more he could say, but now was not the time. Bella’s plan, dubious as it was, would be spoiled if the comtesse or her daughter saw them together like this.
“I need to see if Marstone has any further instructions before he leaves for town,” he said. “Sleep well.”
“Good night, Alex.”
He watched until she had entered her room and closed the door, wishing he was on the other side of it with her.
Chapter 47
Three mornings later, Phoebe awoke to see blue skies that promised another fine day and got up to have an early breakfast. The trip to Pevensey had been both enjoyable and frustrating—Lord Carterton had provided an interesting commentary on the ruins, but she’d had to watch Alex pretending to court her cousin. She smiled as she recalled Hélène’s disappointment after dinner that night when, instead of joining them in the parlour, Alex and Lord Carterton had ensconced themselves in the billiards room.
Yesterday she’d taken her small easel and paints into the woods to the south of the house. She wasn’t quite satisfied with her efforts, and Bella had told her about a pretty glade with a stream flowing through it that sounded an ideal spot for today’s attempt.
After returning to her room to collect her pelisse and painting materials, she saw the comtesse and Hélène in the corridor. She stepped back, hoping to avoid their notice, but her aunt had already seen her.
“Good morning, Phoebe,” the comtesse said. “Are you going painting again?”
“Yes.” Did her aunt have other plans for her? “The day looks as if it will be fine.”
“You must make the most of the grounds while you are here,” the comtesse said. “Living in London doesn’t give you much opportunity for painting scenery. And it is a lovely day for a walk.”
Phoebe let out a breath of relief, surprised at her aunt’s friendly attitude.
“Will you go back to where you were yesterday? The woods must be beautiful at this time of year.”
“Near there, madame. Lady Carterton said there is a stream nearby with—”
“Perhaps you should take a walk, too, Hélène,” the comtesse said. “After breakfast, naturally,” she added.
“Phoebe!” Georges hurried down the stairs. “Can I come with you?”
Phoebe stopped to wait for him, letting her aunt carry on to the breakfast parlour. Miss Bryant was descending the stairs at a more sedate pace, clad in her pelisse and carrying Georges’ outdoor coat.
“Are you not going riding again?”
“My behind is sore,” he admitted ruefully.
“He’s spent most of the last two days riding,” Alice said. “We will find something else to do.”
“Botany?” Phoebe suggested. “There are some lovely flowers in the woods.”
“Flowers are for girls,” Georges began, but stopped when he caught Phoebe’s eye.
“Ask Miss Bryant to tell you about Sir Joseph Banks,” Phoebe said. “He is famous for knowing all about plants. But yes, you are welcome to accompany me.”
Phoebe arranged for a footman to show her the way to the stream, and to bring a picnic basket, and the four of them set off into the woods. The trees were still bare, allowing the sun to light up the clumps of wild daffodils and the primroses and celandines scattered amongst the grass. Phoebe breathed deeply, happy to be in the fresh air in such beautiful surroundings.
The glade was as pretty as Bella claimed, and Phoebe spent some time choosing her viewpoint before setting up her stool and easel. Georges and Alice gathered handfuls of flowers and settled down on a rug to look at them in detail. Their voices were a gentle murmur in the background as Phoebe laid down her initial washes of colour. Birds chirped in the trees, and the sound of the bored footman whittling a stick merged with the slight breeze sighing in the branches.
* * *
Alex stood by his window, looking gloomily out at the sky. The overnight heavy rain had cleared, and the weather would provide no excuse for avoiding Hélène this morning. As he watched, he saw Phoebe set off with Georges, his governess and a footman.
He’d thought Bella’s scheme idiotic from the first, and doubted the comtesse was silly enough to walk into Bella’s trap, but she had. Now he was faced with another tedious day suffering Hélène’s sycophantic prattling, when he’d much rather be spending his time with Phoebe.
He turned to the mirror, checking that his neckcloth was properly tied and his hair was neat. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the door and headed down the stairs. He’d put off the evil hour as long as possible by being deliberately late to breakfast, but if he were any later Bella would come looking for him.
“What a lovely morning it is today, Westbrook,” the comtesse said brightly when he entered the breakfast parlour. He made a noncommittal noise as he crossed the room and took a plate, filling it from the dishes set out on the sideboard.
“Just the day for a turn about the grounds,” she added, raising her voice to be heard above the clatter he was making.
“The ground may still be rather wet,” he said, adding another unwanted sausage to his plate. Turning back to the table, he saw Bella’s gaze sharpen. He sat down at an empty place and began to eat.
“Nonsense, Westbrook,” Bella said. “It will be dry in an hour. Particularly if you stick to the lawn and don’t go into the woods. I’m sure Madame de Calvac would enjoy a stroll.”
He almost choked on his bacon at the image this suggestion planted in his mind. A quick glance at Bella’s face—now suppressing amusement—showed him she’d done it on purpose.
“Oh, no, not me,” the comtesse said, her gaze flicking between him and Bella. “I have… I have some urgent letters to write this morning. But Hélène would be glad of your escort.”
He wasn’t going to escape, so he should get on with it. He turned to Hélène. “Would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a turn around the grounds later this morning, Lady Hélène?”
“Why, thank you Westbrook,” she smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
“There’s a summerhouse at the edge of the south lawn,” Bella added, her expression guileless. “Just the place for a rest if the air is still chilly.”
“That sounds lovely,” Hélène said, a little breathlessly.
Alex saw her gaze slide towards her mother, and caught a movement of the comtesse’s head from the corner of his eye. They intended to close their trap this morning.
“In half an hour, then?” he said, waving a fork at his plate.
Hélène fluttered, and then excused herself to go and change. The comtesse followed her.
“Wicked, Alex!” Bella said. “Only half an hour to change her dress?” Alex shrugged and concentrated on his breakfast. The dress she had on had looked perfectly acceptable to him. The comtesse’s voice drifted in from the hall, the words barely distinguishable but the tone unmistakably demanding.
Bella rang the bell. When Andrews appeared, his face was carefully expressionless, but the tension in his jaw betrayed some irritation.
“My lady?”
“Please ensure there is a fire lit in the south parlour, and show Ladies Jesson and Lydenham there when they come down.”
“Yes, my lady. Madame de Calvac has requested the same thing.”
“They won’t be here much longer, Andrews,” Bella added.
“No, my lady,” Andrews said, relaxing.
Watchi
ng the man turn and leave the room, Alex reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one making sacrifices. Of course, he was the only one who would have his life ruined if this went wrong.
“How can you be sure they will attempt an entrapment?” Alex asked. “Hélène is a beautiful girl, if tedious, and should have little difficulty attracting a titled husband.”
“Why else were they so interested in the summerhouse?” Bella asked. “They may not, of course, but there are several reasons why I think they will. There are not so many unmarried peers, or their heirs, as you might suppose, if you discount the ones twenty or more years older than Hélène.”
“The comtesse wouldn’t let an age difference bother her.”
“No, but Hélène and her father are likely to want someone nearer her own age. Then there’s Harlford—he was enamoured, but apparently no longer, so the most eligible prospect of the season has already escaped her. Our counter story may allay the gossip, but it is not guaranteed. And here you are, apparently the heir to an earldom, and a wealthy one at that. You are the next best thing on the market.”
Alex sighed. “Don’t let me down, Bella. If that annoying wigeon outmanoeuvres me, I’m not marrying her, whatever anyone says. I’d rather emigrate.”
“Don’t worry—remember what I said about the summerhouse, and wear a warm coat.”
He grimaced as he swallowed his coffee.
“Oh, come, Alex, you’ve undertaken more dangerous deceptions, I’m sure.”
Alex offered his arm to Hélène, and they set off along the path that skirted the lawn, shoes crunching on the gravel. This side of the lawn was edged with a deep border, at present graced only by a few evergreen shrubs and clumps of daffodils and backed with a tall yew hedge. Ahead, the summerhouse was positioned to give a good view of both flowerbeds and woods.
“…lovely garden, Westbrook,” Hélène said.
What had he missed?
“Indeed,” he said. “I do enjoy being out of doors; it’s so peaceful.”
“Yes, lovely,” Hélène continued. “The sounds of the birds singing, so beautiful.”
And completely inaudible with you chattering on, he thought, his irritation growing.
“May we sit and listen to them?” she added.
Alex glanced down at her face, tilted up towards his own with a hopeful smile. He had a brief flash of doubt—had Bella mistaken the intentions of the comtesse and her daughter?
“It will be lovely to sit there together,” Hélène went on, pointing to the summerhouse.
No, she hadn’t. He turned into the path leading to the small building and opened the door.
“If you wait one moment, Lady Hélène,” he said, “I will ensure the bench is clean for you.” He wiped it with his handkerchief and stepped back outside as Hélène entered. She sat and smoothed her skirts.
“Won’t you join me, Westbrook?”
Alex leaned on the door frame, making no move to enter. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that he was in plain view of anyone looking out of the windows on the south side of the house.
“You will get cold standing there,” Hélène said. “Do come inside and shelter from the breeze.”
“I’m not cold, but thank you for your consideration.”
“But I can’t talk to you properly from here.”
“Shall we walk on, then?”
Her face fell. Alex began to feel a little sorry for her—she couldn’t know she was heading for a greater disappointment at the end of this farce. Then he recalled that she hadn’t tried to help Phoebe while they were in France, and his sympathy vanished.
“Don’t you want to sit with me, Westbrook? Don’t you think I’m beautiful?” Hélène’s brows had a small crease between them, as if she really couldn’t understand why a man would not be attracted to her.
“Do you want my honest opinion, Lady Hélène?”
“Yes, of course.” She shuffled along the bench, as if making space for him.
“I think you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen—”
A pleased smile spread across her face.
“—but your cousin is worth ten of you.”
More than ten of her.
He felt that twinge of compunction again as her mouth fell open and tears glistened in her eyes.
“Phoebe stole Harlford from me,” she said, her lips trembling. “And now you. At least the vicomte—”
“She didn’t steal anything,” Alex said. “And she is not the one desperate enough to attempt an entrapment.” He noted her widening eyes with satisfaction. “You have nothing but your looks. Little honesty or intelligence.”
Her bottom lip stuck out. “Mama says that ladies don’t need those—”
“Your mother doesn’t understand how decent men think.” He tried to tamp down his anger. With a mother like hers, how could she have the same integrity as Phoebe?
“Do you know what you are attempting to do here, Lady Hélène?” he asked. “You want people to think we have had… relations. What if I wanted to—here, in this summerhouse?”
Hélène’s face turned red, then pale, as he spoke.
“That is what you were going to say happened, is it not? What if I removed your clothing, whether you liked it or not? If I struck you?”
“You wouldn’t!” Hélène’s voice was now only a whisper.
“No, I would not.” His hands clenched into fists. “But your mother didn’t know that, did she, when she made Phoebe wear that gold dress?”
He stalked off, ignoring the sound of sobbing behind him.
* * *
After she’d painted for an hour, Phoebe went over to see how Georges’ botany was progressing while she waited for a colour wash to dry.
“I know these.” Georges indicted the gathered flowers. “And oak and holly and yew and beech,” he added, pointing to a selection of fallen leaves he’d collected. “Can I build a dam in the stream now?”
Phoebe exchanged glances with Alice, who shrugged.
“All right,” Phoebe said. “But down there,” she pointed. “Not in the part I’m painting, if you please. And don’t get too muddy.”
There was little hope of that last instruction being heeded, she realised, smiling at his enthusiasm. The footman, glancing at her for approval first, followed him.
She turned back to the governess. “Alice, I can keep an eye on him if you wish to go back to the house. I’ll need another hour, an hour and a half at the most.”
Thanking her, the governess gathered up her books and the flowers and set off. Phoebe resumed painting, aware of Georges talking to the footman, and the occasional splash as he tipped stones into the stream. She lost track of time as her picture progressed, finally standing back to assess her achievement.
It was a pretty picture, but it didn’t really capture the beauty of the spring day. She removed it from the easel and laid it to dry on top of her paint box. Georges must be enjoying himself—she would have expected him to start complaining about hunger by now. The dam-building activity produced a louder splash than usual and she smiled—he’d be quite wet and muddy by the time he’d finished.
“Oi, you can’t—”
A man’s voice. The footman?
Phoebe jumped to her feet, knocking against the easel in her haste, alarmed more by the sudden cessation of the shout than the words themselves. Had Georges fallen? Hurt himself?
She couldn’t see anyone, but Georges had been playing just out of sight.
“Phoebe!” Georges’ voice was shrill, panicked. “Phoe—”
Heart racing, Phoebe picked up her skirts and ran along the stream.
A strange man was holding a wriggling Georges, one hand clamped across his mouth. Another stood beside him, holding a stick. She skidded to a halt as both men looked in her direction.
She must help Georges… No, she could do nothing against two men—all she could do was go for help.
Her feet slipped in the mud as she spun around and st
arted to run. The ground was uneven, and she tripped over a tree root and fell to her knees. Breath now coming in gasps, she scrambled up again. Two paces later, a hand grabbed her shoulder and swung her around.
She fell again, the man’s unshaven face bending towards her.
“Help!” The scream was as loud as she could make it. “Hel—”
He slapped her face.
Chapter 48
“Well, Bella, did the plan work?” Alex asked as Bella entered the library.
“Success. Well done!” She smiled. “You should have seen the comtesse’s face when she realised that she’d encouraged her daughter to entrap Marstone’s illegitimate son. Then Lady Jesson pointed out what a juicy titbit that would be if the story spread.”
“It doesn’t feel well done to me,” Alex said flatly. “I probably said more than I should have.” He outlined what he’d said to Hélène, Bella’s smile fading as he talked.
When he’d finished, she put out one hand to pat his arm. “Don’t spend your time worrying about her,” she said. “It was time someone made it clear that her mother’s tactics do not work. If anyone’s at fault, it’s the comtesse.”
Alex shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Well, it can’t be undone,” Bella said. “Phoebe’s brother has arrived with Harlford.”
“Are they part of your plot, too?”
“Good heavens, no. Deane has come to see how his sister does. As for Harlford, I imagine our counter story has spread far enough for him to have heard it and decide he might have been a bit hasty in cancelling his engagements with the Calvac family. Calvac would have told him we’re all here.”
Alex strode over to the window. “What does he want?” he asked, his throat tight. As if he needed to ask.
“He said he had come to see Phoebe.”
“So the counter story has done its work.” He addressed himself to the window, afraid that Bella would see too much in his face. “Was today’s charade really necessary?”
“Yes, it was. As soon as she saw Harlford arrive, that woman started to say what a pity it was about Phoebe’s reputation, and how much Harlford admires Hélène. Without the threat of Maria making her a laughing stock by spreading the tale of them trying to entrap you, she’d have gone back to town and said the original rumours were true after all, hoping that Harlford would switch his attentions back to Hélène. She fears the mockery her exposure would cause more than she wants Harlford for her daughter.”