Having shouldered himself into the disgusting yellow jacket and breeches—which were far too tight a fit—Robert left the room and pounded down the stairs into the cheerful May sunshine, swinging his walking cane.
First, he repaired to Paulet’s to see if any other ladies looked as if they were replying to Addyman’s advertisement about helping out the Foundling Hospital. Though certain it was a smokescreen for the man’s very uncharitable activities, Robert had every hope of securing an invitation to one of the fundraising events and having a good poke around while he was there.
There was nothing happening in Paulet’s, so he sauntered over to contemplate the contents of the haberdasher’s window. This gave him a perfect view, via a wavy reflection, of the banker upon whom Addyman usually called every market day.
Next-door to the banker’s establishment was a lawyers’ office, from which a handsome young woman was issuing. Robert peered at the glass, then looked covertly over his shoulder. It was Miss Duvall, the lady who’d replied to the advertisement last week, upon whom he’d spilt the ink so he could get her name. Any potential employee of Addyman’s was a person of interest.
She looked extremely agitated—pale, with her small pink lips clamped tightly, and the brunette curls spilling from beneath her bonnet in disarray, as if she’d been tugging at them. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to tuck a letter into her reticule. What had she learned in the lawyers’ office to upset her thus?
Most likely, it was something to do with money. Robert sighed. It wasn’t right that a member of The Quality should be forced to seek employment. As he had been, in fact. Although in his case, it had turned out very well.
He was just about to make himself known to her when he spotted a familiar face in the crowd of pedestrians. Charles Addyman. Dark of hair, dark of eye—the man looked both handsome, and charming—a devilish disguise for the blackness of his heart.
Robert held back. He watched Addyman stalk past Miss Duvall without a second glance, and enter Mrs Grissom’s Tea Rooms. It was apparent they did not know each other, so no interview had yet taken place.
As a trip to the tea rooms was a variation on Addyman’s routine, Robert was immediately interested and crossed the road, only to collide with Miss Duvall, too intent on her reticule to notice where she was going.
“My dear Miss Duvall, what a splendid happenstance! I had hoped we might meet again.”
“Please excuse me, Mr Goodrich. I have an appointment.”
Had she, indeed? “Of course, of course. I have no wish to detain you. But before you hurtle away, I must compliment you on the watered-silk ribbon on your bonnet. Utterly delightful.”
“Thank you, sir. Forgive me, but I cannot delay.”
He leaned in close and saw that her hazel eyes were stormy with trouble.
“May I be of assistance? You seem perturbed.” He offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your next port of call.”
“No need, sir. I am virtually there already. Good day to you, and thank you for your kindness.”
Kindness had nothing to do with it. This woman was a potential associate of Addyman’s, and therefore worth cultivating. The fact he found her dashed alluring had nothing to do with the matter. Or the fact he was partial to hazel eyes.
“Very well. I consider myself dismissed,” he said without rancour, tipping his hat.
She offered no more than the rictus of a smile before ducking into the tea rooms.
Interesting. Was there, perhaps, an interview about to take place?
As nonchalantly as he could, Robert strolled past the window and glanced in, in time to see Addyman pull out a chair for Miss Duvall. It would be too obvious if he were to enter himself in hopes of eavesdropping, so he must find somewhere to kick his heels while he decided which of the pair to stalk once their meeting was adjourned.
Inspiration struck. Humming tunelessly and tapping his cane in time, he meandered into Messrs Lovejoy and Barrett, Attorneys at Law, the establishment which had cast Miss Duvall into such a fit of the blue devils.
A bewigged clerk passed him in the doorway, presumably in search of luncheon, while a boy of around eleven years scurried about in the office, hauling piles of ledgers.
At that precise moment, there were no adults in sight, so Robert hissed to get the lad’s attention, and flicked a silver sixpence in front of his nose. “The young lady, Miss Duvall, who just left—do you happen to know her direction?”
Seizing the coin before Robert could flick it again, the lad answered, “She’s at Blacklands House, sir, west of here, on the Bristol Road.”
“You are well-informed. Thank you.” Then, to allay suspicion that he might be something more than a vain coxcomb, he added, “Would you care for some snuff? I must say, those are very fine buckles you have on your shoes.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “If you’ve taken a fancy to her, sir, you’d be wasting your time. I’ve heard her called an avowed spinster, which is why she’s so upset about—”
The hairs rose on the back of Robert’s neck. There was a story here, but the boy had clamped his mouth defiantly shut and pushed the sixpence deep into his pocket.
“An avowed spinster, eh? Well, I’ll make up my own mind about that.” He tapped the side of his nose, gave the lad an extravagant bow and left the lawyers’ offices before anyone came out to demand his business.
Foolish Miss Duvall! What a waste of those doe eyes and brunette cascading curls, that pert, pink mouth, and those delicious curves. What would make such a beauty swear off men? A broken heart in her youth? A sailor swain missing at sea? A precious inheritance needing to be protected from the hands of greedy fortune hunters?
Intriguing. He liked the element of mystery. A shame, then, that she was keen to be employed by Addyman, and therefore could not be trusted.
Duvall. Duvall. As Robert emerged back onto the street, he realised he’d heard that surname before, but in connection with a man, not a woman. But what was the context?
He’d been recruited to spy on Addyman, not only because he knew the layout of Donhead Castle, but because he had the most to gain from bringing the traitor down. He’d received some training in the craft of espionage, some of which had involved wrestling with codes and cyphers.
Hadn’t one of those codes been invented by a man named Duvall?
Excitement prickled up his spine. He was onto something; he could sense it. A trawl through his notes was sure to throw up some facts concerning Duvall.
He picked up his pace and returned to the Cock and Barrel, exaggerating his mincing walk, and fluttering his ridiculously lacy handkerchief around. No sooner had he reached the privacy of his room, than he threw down the powdered wig and dragged off the odious clothes in favour of a pair of moleskin breeches, a plain shirt and cravat, and a dark jacket and waistcoat. This new outfit made him look like a country parson, rendering it easy for him to evade notice when he wanted to, or win trust when it suited him.
Plunging his hands into a basin of cold water, he splashed and wiped his face, scrubbing away the make-up until he felt himself again. He regarded his reflection.
“Good, excellent.” Then he packed his bag and cantered down the stairs, whistling. But when he called for his horse, it was to be told that Merrydew had a problem.
“That mare do have a bit of gravel wedged in her shoe,” the ostler informed him. “If her’s not dealt with, she’ll go lame on the road. I can get her over to Gandy—that’s the farrier—for you right now. He’s the best in town, I can promise.”
Cursing his ill-luck at being delayed, Robert handed over a shilling. “Take her to Gandy then, and be quick about it. I have urgent business today.”
The man touched a grimy finger to his cap, bit down on the shilling, then tucked it in a pocket. “Won’t be no more than half an hour, I’d say.”
“I’ll meet you back here then.” Damn. Now he had to waste time in Dorchester when he ought to be researching the Duvalls, or watching Donhead Ca
stle.
Was the traitor still in town? With that hope in mind, he strode off to Mrs Grissom’s Tea Rooms but alas, by the time he reached the place, it had closed, and his quarry was gone.
Perhaps he could go back to the printer’s and find out about Duvall. Or why not try the offices of the Dorset and Devon Herald? They would surely know the names and histories of all the noble families hereabouts.
As he walked, he wondered if his name—or his sister’s—was still to be found in any gazetteer of the nobility. Robert Goodrich-Bligh, Viscount Atherton. Aurora Goodrich-Bligh, charming and beautiful enough to have married a prince. Or had they both been eradicated from history?
He’d been a mere lad of eight when his father was disgraced. The family’s steward, Fanbridge, had claimed Papa died of a broken heart but Robert, cynical for one so young, was sure it had been drink which hastened his father’s demise.
Thank heaven for Fanbridge, for it was he who had smuggled Robert and the baby Aurora to Venice, to begin a new life in Italy, free from the taint of the past.
Shaking away the grim memories, Robert turned around to head for the newspaper offices. En route, he passed the lawyers’ factotum, looked the boy full in the face and was not recognised.
With a smug expression, he continued on his way—he was becoming good at espionage, he reckoned, or at least good at disguise. He should congratulate himself on having devised two characters for himself, which made it much easier to follow people without them realising.
He was about to step through the door of the Herald when a carriage with a familiar coat of arms rattled past. Foolishly, he looked up, eager for a glimpse of the delicious Miss Duvall. Foolishly, because she happened to be peering out of the carriage window at that exact moment. Their gazes locked. The incredulity in her dark eyes and the parting of her lips confirmed his worst fears. He’d been recognised.
Just his luck. A possible employee of Charles Addyman now knew both his disguises, and when Miss Duvall found out Mr Goodrich was Addyman’s near neighbour, she was certain to say something that would completely unravel his plans to oust the man from Donhead.
He couldn’t let a mere gentlewoman—not even one with the most delectable hazel eyes—come between him and his family’s inheritance. Miss Duvall was now a problem. How the devil was he going to ensure her silence?
Chapter 3
Barely a week after her meeting with Mr Addyman, Phoebe’s future, and that of Aunt Molly, was decided. Phoebe had been offered and had accepted the post.
When they’d met in Mrs Grissom’s Tea Rooms, she’d been impressed by Addyman’s comparative youth and dark good looks. It was a puzzle why a man with such advantages should still be a bachelor—but she would no doubt discover more in time. She hoped he didn’t turn out to be utterly abominable beneath the veneer of charm, like so many of the gentlemen she’d met since Papa’s disappearance. It seemed that shallow, deceitful fellows were attracted to unprotected young women like moths to a candle flame.
Aunt Molly draped a dust sheet over a treasured cabinet, inlaid with different woods. “I do hope we’re doing the right thing,” she said, for what must have been the twentieth time that day. “It seems such a big step to take, leaving Blacklands for terra incognita. I don’t know how I let myself be persuaded to do it.”
“Of course, we’re doing the right thing. And it’s not as if we’re going far—little more than a few hours’ ride away. But face the facts—I need to be married in three months, or my half of the trust fund will be stolen by my wretched cousin. I’d been relying on that to settle with our creditors. If we can’t fix that roof, Blacklands will be reduced to a crumbling pile, and you’ll be in the Mineral Hospital suffering from damp on the lungs, and I’ll be in the poorhouse.”
She knew she was spreading it a bit thick, but Aunt Molly had a tendency to be stubborn once she had a doubt in her mind. With their debts piling up, this was not the time for doubts.
“If only they’d made the roof properly in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go through all this turmoil.”
“If it’s tiring you out, Aunt, I’ll get the servants to help me cover the furniture.”
Molly shook her head. “I’ll do a little more, while I feel able. But I genuinely don’t like it.”
“Nobody likes being uprooted from their home.” Phoebe unfolded another old sheet and shook it out. “But we’d probably have had to move out at some point, while the roof was being fixed. Look on this as a temporary arrangement, either until my new husband agrees to use the trust fund money to refurbish Blacklands, or I have access to my own funds.” She took in a wavering breath—she would only have access to her own money if, God forbid, Papa’s death was proven. “The husband route will be much quicker.” And less morbid.
“It doesn’t seem fair, pressuring you into a hasty marriage like this. If that foolish lawyer hadn’t neglected to inform us about the marriage condition until the very last moment, you could have gone about things in a far more regular fashion. And why did Benjamin never mention that clause before he set off on his jaunt? If my brother does turn out to be still alive, I shall give him a piece of my mind.”
The prospect of a hasty marriage was terrifying, but Phoebe knew if she cavilled, her aunt would dig her heels in and reject the whole plan, even though she had no better solution to offer. “I know. A little more warning would have been useful. But if I’m going to be hosting all these events for Mr Addyman, I can cast my net wide. I’ll endeavour to find a husband who’s kind, wealthy and not at all dangerous. One who’ll be more than happy to make the repairs to Blacklands—and I shall make it a condition of me marrying him that he’ll ensure you always have a home.”
“Thank you.” Molly tugged at the lappets of her lacy cap. “I wish I was healthier and could be more use to you, my dear. I can feel one of my turns coming on right now—I’d better take one of my powders and lie down for a while. Forgive me.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.” Phoebe smiled, attempting to show a confidence she was far from feeling. As soon as Molly had departed, she collapsed into a chair and stared gloomily around the room.
They were currently dismantling or wrapping up the contents of Papa’s study. It had always been a sacred space, and as a child, neither she nor Mama was ever permitted to disturb him there. Sighing, she leaned over and smoothed her hand across the polished walnut surface of the desk. What had he been working on all the time he spent secreted in here? Purely estate business? Or had there been more to it? He’d made several journeys to France, despite the risks involved, claiming he was travelling on diplomatic missions connected with the war against Napoleon. Yet he’d never told them anything about the success—or failure—of those missions. Just a few snippets of information about the weather, the sea crossing, or the peculiarities of the native French.
Despite any misgivings or suspicions she might have had that he was up to something else entirely—like smuggling, for example—he was her father, and she knew she ought to trust his word. Getting to her feet, she stood in front of the desk and stared at it, trying to understand why he had never warned her she wouldn’t inherit Great-Uncle Charles’s money unless she was married. It would have been a useful fact to know.
A battered portable writing slope stood on the top of the desk. She’d found it tucked away at the back of a drawer the previous day, and had not yet decided if she should take it with her or leave it behind.
It contained bundles of letters about boring things to do with farming and bad seed corn, some puzzles her father had completed, and a copy of his will.
A shudder went through her. After Papa had disappeared, she’d been to the lawyers to find out where she stood, but had never touched her own copy of the document. She’d always felt that if she read it herself, she would have to face the fact she’d never see Papa again.
Perhaps it was time to face her demons. The paper trembled in her fingers as she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet but as
she did so, a smaller sheet slipped out. She caught it, turned it over, and saw her name written in Papa’s handwriting on the front, followed by the ominous phrase, “To be opened in the event of my disappearance or demise.”
A chill suffused her body as she opened up and scanned the letter. She read it, then laid it down on the desk, fighting the tears. There were no answers to the questions that assailed her, just words exhibiting a father’s concern for his daughter’s welfare should anything happen to him. He did, however, make it quite clear that he knew about the trust fund stipulation, and urged her to throw herself into the marriage mart.
Aunt Molly was right. They should sue Messrs Lovejoy and Barrett for neglecting to inform her of this until a mere three months before the trust fund matured. But where would they find the money to hire another solicitor?
The letter had been written in March 1803, shortly before Papa departed for the Continent. He must have known he was undertaking a risky venture. Why hadn’t he warned them?
There was a tap on the door, which set her heart pounding. “Who is it?” Her voice came out in a squeak.
“Cecily, miss. You have a visitor.”
She smoothed her dress, and checked her cheeks for tears as their maid ushered a gentleman into the room.
It was Mr Goodrich.
Phoebe hastily folded up Papa’s letter inside the will, stuffed the documents into the writing box and pushed it to the far side of the desk. The chill had been replaced by a heated flush. Curse it! Now Goodrich would think she had something to hide—or that she was flustered at the sight of him which, of course, she most certainly wasn’t.
“Sir, what a surprise. I don’t recall giving you my direction.”
He pranced into the room like an opera dancer and made her his flamboyant bow.
“Dear lady, you have me there. I made sure to find you out, worried you’d be too polite to ask for compensation for your ruined gown. And it seems I was right,” he added, gazing around him. “You are about to fly the coop with no concern whatsoever for my guilty conscience.”
A Treacherous Engagement Page 2