A Proposed Hoax (The Sirens #2)

Chapter 1

The village of Tansy Hollow passed in a blink, not because the hired chaise was traveling particularly fast but because the village offered little beyond a church, bakery, and row of terraces.

Later, she hoped to find a reason to explore.

If all went as she expected, as she needed, this would soon become her home.

Her attention shifted to the man on horseback.

With a touch to the brim of his cocked hat, the outrider met her stare. “Twenty minutes, Miss Whittington,” he promised over the carriage groans.

She leaned back and tugged at her gloves to avoid her maid’s anxious gaze. What said lady’s maid did not know was that the outrider accompanied them not for protection so much as to ensure Phoebe did not escape. Again.

This time, she had no intention of diverting course.

As far as she was concerned, the sooner they arrived at Lobelia Hall, the better.

Then, she would be that much closer to marrying the earl and becoming the Countess of Collumby.

Oh, she did not covet the title or the husband who came with it.

What this marriage meant was independence from her father and freedom from her past transgressions.

It also closed the curtain, with great finality, on that fairytale fantasy called love, a play in three acts she was altogether too familiar with and hoped never to attend again.

“I’ve never been to Shropshire,” she said aloud, restless.

Startled, her maid stared wide-eyed at her mistress, obviously uncertain as to what to say or if anything ought to be said.

“I’ve been to Gretna Green, or very nearly there,” Phoebe added, losing her battle against the onslaught of unpleasant memories, “but never to Shropshire.”

The maid asked, “You met his lordship in London, then?”

“No, Fanny, I’ve never met the Earl of Collumby.”

“But…”

But indeed.

Phoebe answered the unfinished question with silence, her thoughts on the earl’s most recent letter to her father, one of renewed interest. It was an invitation that set her heart racing, not with romance, but with relief: her future might yet be secured.

With each tug of her gloves’ fingertips, her heart pitter-pattered.

With this one chance to right her wrongs, her only chance, she swore to be on her best behavior, to make certain the earl remained pleased with his decision to take her into his home.

She dared not think of the consequences otherwise.

Then, there was no need to fret, was there? She knew he would love her at first sight. He had to.

Without cause, she began to laugh aloud, giddy over the weight of matrimony.

Lest Fanny think her mad, she said, “The least amount of effort on my part should win his affection, don’t you think? After all, I’m me, and he’s… well, he’s him. Hardly fair, really. The only challenge is should he take one look at me and be so pleased, he falls over dead.”

Fanny’s upper lip twitched. “At least he’d die with a smile.”

Phoebe laughed harder. She had to. The laughter hid her deepest fears, for the earl was her only hope.

So intent on rehearsing her only asset—her beauty and how best to wield it—she missed the entrance gates entirely.

The chaise slowed with a grind of its wheels on gravel as it circled a large fountain, the latter spraying a little too merrily for her mood, then rocked to a stop before the grand E-shaped facade of Lobelia Hall.

She swallowed. If so much were not at stake…

With a tilt of her chin, she masked her fears behind a veil of expectation.

The carriage door swung open, and she accepted the proffered hand to step down. Feet firm, she pressed her palm to her fluttering stomach and looked about her. No one to greet her? No servants? No master? They knew to expect her. Where was her welcome?

Her smile quivered. Oh, not from nerves, she tried to convince herself, not from a terrible sense of foreboding, but rather from the sheer rudeness of being kept waiting.

But what if…

What if her reply had not reached the earl in time? Impatience had urged her to travel the moment her father received the earl’s letter. Despite her father’s insistence to wait for the earl to offer his own carriage, she had pressed him to dispatch her nearly the next day. Had she been too hasty?

Or worse, what if…

Phoebe blanched.

What if he had already married?

Nonsense. It had taken her only days to reach Shropshire.

If he had not married in the year since his first proposal, he would hardly have rushed to the altar so soon after offering her a second invitation.

In truth, what young bride would take his intentions seriously other than her?

No, Phoebe was unnecessarily fraught. Confidence was needed here. Always confidence.

She brightened her smile with dimples and fluttered her lashes towards the door—half flourish, for the benefit of any eyes that might peer from behind the mullioned windows, and half defense against the dust of the drive—long at last here to meet her betrothed.

The outrider rapped the doorknocker.

The thud echoed, swallowed by silence.

Phoebe curled and uncurled her toes in her slippers, heat prickling at the back of her neck.

They waited.

Too long.

Far too long.

The dry taste of dust and disillusion stuck in her throat.

At last, the hinges creaked as the great wooden door opened. A murmur of voices, the hushed exchange between footman and outrider. Phoebe leaned forward, expectant.

A shadow stirred, and then a man emerged.

Phoebe’s breath hitched, and then… oh, only the butler.

The butler.

In black livery.

Her smile faltered. Black. The color of mourning.

Her world tilted as she swooned.

Phoebe’s eyes fluttered open. Soft afternoon light streamed through the windows, dust motes sparkling. For a dizzying moment, she did not know where she was. As disconcerting, she wished she had remained ignorant. Reality flooded back on the scent of lavender salts.

Muffled voices waved in and out of focus until, with the second whiff, every sensation sharpened.

She jerked to escape the smelling salts, regretting the movement when a throb of pain pulsed along her leg, presumably where she had landed in her crumple on the drive.

Not her finest first impression, to be sure.

Hovering over her, and in crisp focus, was the housekeeper. “There you are,” the straight-browed woman said.

Rather than help Phoebe right herself, she stepped back, whispering something to the butler.

Phoebe sat up, gingerly, wincing each inch.

A sweep of the room answered her two most pressing questions.

She was in the drawing room, and the only inhabitants were she, her ever-anxious lady’s maid, the housekeeper, and the butler.

Ah, yes, the butler, sporting his mourning attire.

As did the housekeeper. Whether the heat behind her eyes was anger that the earl had not waited at least another week before kicking off this mortal coil, long enough to exchange vows, or if the heat was the welling of tears to realize all was lost, she did not wish to explore in front of strangers.

The housekeeper offered, “We are most grateful you did not fall upon the marble.”

Phoebe pressed a tender hand to her leg. “I prefer rugs for my collapses. They are more forgiving.”

In answer, the housekeeper nodded with approval.

The butler bent with the stiffness of age, voice barely above a hush. “We understand you came to call on the late earl. Might we ask your purpose, madam? Perhaps we may be of assistance.”

With a slight angle of her head, she declared, as though it were explanation enough, “I’m Phoebe Whittington.”

If she expected, which she did, their expressions to light with recognition, perhaps a subtle tug at the forelock to meet their almost-countess, she was mistaken. The two exchanged glances and looked back at her in confusion. They were too polite to say as much.

“I am his… I was his… I… I was invited by the Earl of Collumby to… discuss a delicate and personal matter. He and my father exchanged letters. I was expected.”

Surely, the earl had spoken of her, had prepared his staff for her arrival.

The stretch of silence and perplexed expressions said otherwise.

Right, then. So, this was the end. Back to London. No opportunity, no alternative, no chance to reorient herself or plan anew.

Another exchange of glances, unreadable, before the housekeeper spoke again. “The journey from London is no small one. If it would ease you, madam, the hall may offer you a chamber. At least for the night. Mr. Ellison, the clerk, will wish to attend you regarding the late earl’s affairs.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe replied, her smile fixed though her stomach roiled. “I accept.”

Although what she was to say to the clerk was beyond her faculties at present.

She could not very well blurt out she was the earl’s almost-betrothed.

What would it serve? All was finished. She was finished.

London waited, with its whispers and disgrace.

Unless… unless the clerk proved useful. And with that fraction of a thought, she renewed hope, or delayed defeat, rather, for here was an opening.