Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Three months and one foiled plan until the wedding
T he viscount was as good as his word, and while Phoebe’s shoulder burned as though a barrel of underwhelming highwaymen had used her for pitchfork practice, she was in a very comfortable bed.
She was also staring at one of the largest murals she’d ever seen. At least, she assumed it was a mural, because not one of the smiling cherubs had actually moved, and if she had passed over to the other side she would have expected far less chintz – unless she’d gone to that other place .
There was a knock at the door.
‘I’ve brought a supper tray?’ a young female voice ventured, before the door creaked open.
Phoebe sighed in relief. She was pretty sure they didn’t do room service in that other place, either. She struggled up on her good arm as a mob-capped maid walked towards her, bearing a laden tray.
‘Well, it’s good to see you awake!’ She smiled, setting the tray beside Phoebe. ‘Though you mustn’t put any weight on that arm just yet!’ she said. ‘We weren’t sure if you was gonna make it when you first arrived, what with you having the fever an’ all. But then Mrs Jennings said you’d be as right as rain once the fever broke, and Doctor Chappell agreed you had the constitution of an ox . An ox, he said!’ the maid repeated, clearly keen that Phoebe share her awe.
Phoebe blinked, suppressing a mix of feelings.
‘Which is just as well, as you was nearly run through good and proper!’ the maid continued. ‘I could scarce believe my ears when m’lord said you fought a dangerous highwayman! How brave you are miss … sir… Oh!’
She turned, but not before Phoebe witnessed her flushed confusion.
‘Mrs Jennings said I was to draw your curtains while I was here!’
The maid hurried towards the window while Phoebe willed her fogged brain to clear, not least because she appeared to be wearing a suspiciously frilly night-dress, while bits of ‘Fred’ were hanging on the nearest armoire.
‘How long have I been here?’ she croaked.
‘How long?’ the maid repeated over-brightly, yanking the curtains violently in a bid to cover her embarrassment.
‘Well, let’s see … m’lord brought you back here just before supper time yesterday, and sent for Doctor Chappell right away. He said the ride from the Bridgwater Road most likely inflamed the wound, hence your delirium, and a good rest would sort you out. He also said that if you was a bigger … person … the wound mightn’t have cut too deeply, but what with you being a … when they found out you was a… As you’re quite small ,’ she recovered triumphantly, ‘that highwayman got you good and proper! Anyway,’ she beamed, ‘it’s really good to see you have some colour today, miss, and if you start eating right, there’s no telling where you’ll be in a few days!’
She smiled in relief then, while Phoebe stared back with growing horror.
A few more days … when they found out… Thomas!
She sat bolt upright and regretted it instantly.
‘I have to get dressed,’ she forced out, her head spinning faster than Matilda’s nursery top, ‘there are people who will be missing me!’
‘Now then,’ the maid clucked maternally, ‘you’re no use to no one as you are! Far better you follow Dr Chappell’s orders, and stay put for a few days. Besides, His Lordship broke his journey to Bridgwater to bring you here, which he don’t do easy for anyone! He set off at dawn again this morning, course, but I don’t think he’d take too kindly to the news you’d finished yourself off after all the trouble he’s taken. He’s such a kindly gentl’man, m’lord…’
She tailed off mistily while Phoebe pictured the viscount with his perfect arched eyebrows and immaculate Hessian boots, demanding the landlord’s best horses. She couldn’t imagine him doing, or saying, anything that was in anyone’s best interests but his own, and the idea that he’d divert his own journey to rescue an injured nobody seemed entirely implausible – unless it benefitted him in some way.
She flushed. And now there was also the indisputable fact that the maid, the doctor, the viscount – and indeed his entire household – knew he’d rescued a girl dressed like a boy, who’d been pinked by the most unimpressive highwayman south of Bristol. Her flush deepened as she recalled the moment she’d fallen in front of his gleaming boots, and how the glitter of his eyes had said everything. Now, he’d think her every bit the scoundrel he’d assumed her to be at The Swan Inn, or perhaps worse. Perhaps, the extent of her disguise would intrigue him enough to make enquiries that would completely undo her, and bring Thomas to her bedside!
Phoebe’s eyes widened as the weakness of her plan presented itself in monstrous, chandelier-lit letters. She hadn’t considered such a dramatic diversion, and if injury meant her plan to escape to London was thwarted, what next?
Luckily, two soft-boiled eggs and some crusty bread provided a happy distraction from this question for a short while, but by the time the maid had left, Phoebe had begun to consider that she might actually be the very worst kind of heroine that time or tale had ever known. She had no contingency plan, no means to send word to dear Fred that she was safe, and worst of all, his shirt and breeches seemed to have entirely disappeared.
It was as she was pondering her sad misfortune to be born this pitiful creature, destined to live without one truly noble, heroic adventure – that didn’t include an unimpressive highwayman, dubious dandy viscount or husband old enough to be her grandfather – that she finally fell into a hot and fidgety sleep.
* * *
Phoebe shifted uncomfortably. The burn in her shoulder had quietened into a throb she couldn’t ignore, while the pale light spilling across the thick Turkish rug confirmed it was after midnight. It was the sort of light that used to make her think of smuggler rings and forest fae, but tonight she could only see the extra hours she’d allowed to slip through her fingers. She must have fallen asleep the moment the maid left the room, and now she’d spent the best part of two nights in the dubious viscount’s home unaccompanied!
A cold shiver began to web across her skin. Taking the coach to London and sending word to Fred was one thing, spending the night in the country residence of an arrogant bachelor viscount, quite another – one had the hallmark of adventure, the other only scandal. Phoebe conjured his intricately tied cravat, perfectly cut coat and mocking eyes. She had no evidence he was a rake, but something made her believe he was precisely the sort of gentleman her mother would have warned her against.
Everyone would assume something had happened.
Of course, she had no idea what that something was, only that her mother and friends always lowered their voices when they spoke of it, and that it was important when it came to marriage. This was a fact that had always perplexed her – after all, how could a lack of knowledge be an asset in any way?
Cursing in a way that would make her brothers proud, she forced herself to sit up and swing her legs to the floor. Thankfully, someone had had the foresight to place a pair of woollen booties and dressing gown beside her nightstand, which she pulled on a little awkwardly. She couldn’t quite manage to tie the whole frilly ensemble together with only one good arm, but reasoned most of the household would be asleep, anyway. Then, pausing only to wonder what Effie and Flora would say if they could see her now, she pushed herself onto her feet.
For a moment everything swayed, like the corridor at The Swan Inn. Then slowly the room steadied again, and she managed a few tentative steps towards the window. Grimacing to suppress a wave of pain, Phoebe pulled at the heavy brocade curtain, before pausing to stare.
The viscount’s garden was a moon-drenched, landscaped fairytale!
There were wide, rolling lawns in perfect descending terraces; climbing trees and secret, winding paths as far as the eye could see; and right in the centre, where no one could miss it, a huge marble fountain was supported by an army of celestial cherubs.
It was the sort of midnight garden that belonged to the dreams of children, not a dubious, dandified viscount.
‘Sometimes, this world really wants for sense,’ she muttered, steeling herself for the walk to the door.
A few minutes later she was leaning against her bedchamber doorframe, fighting another wave of pain, but feeling a lot steadier on her feet. Carefully, she twisted the handle, and squinted into the murky, panelled corridor. It smelled of boot polish and lavender, while a pale stream of moonlight danced along a scarlet carpet. A week ago, she might have been deterred by the thought of the viscount’s ghostly ancestors, but right now her thirst was past ignoring.
She stepped outside, the carpet muffling the pad of her booties as she crept along the corridor, which turned into a small staircase, which turned into a longer corridor. Yet she could tell she was approaching the main part of the house because the viscount’s gilt-edged relations were getting younger.
Finally, she paused at the top of a grand staircase, lit only by a pair of flickering chandeliers, and peered down into the viscount’s hallway. She rolled her eyes. Everything from the dark, moody paintings, to the display of majestic antlers, to the polished mahogany floor was just like him: cold, arrogant, gleaming.
‘I expect he levitates over the floor with the help of the fountain cherubs,’ she muttered as she gripped the banister.
Slowly, she began easing her way down the wide marble stairs, until she reached the ground floor, where a suit of armour loomed out of the shadows to greet her. Phoebe gasped, and instantly felt ridiculous. She could hardly claim to seek adventure, and then faint at the slightest thing.
‘Mary Shelley wouldn’t look twice!’ she muttered to herself.
She’d borrowed Frankenstein from Fred during one of his long summer holidays, and it had made such a welcome change from her usual library novels that she was minded to keep it. Sadly, Fred had other ideas.
Quickening her pace, she crept along the corridor and past numerous closed doors, until at last she reached a large, moonlit kitchen. Then, mumbling pithy comments about the number of preserving pantries any viscount might reasonably need, she downed two glasses of water before holding a cold, damp compress to her wound. The relief was immediate, calming her fractious mood and soothing her nerves until, armed with a full jug and fresh compress, she felt like starting back.
Carefully, and with one eye on her jug, she made her way back along the corridor. It was only as she reached the foot of the stairs that she heard the creak – not the creak of an old house fast asleep, but rather the creak of a body very awake. Phoebe froze, feeling every hair on the back of her neck and arms start to rise, and while she knew it to be utterly impossible, she couldn’t help but turn her wide-eyed stare towards the suit of armour, watching from the shadows.
‘Would you like some help?’ it asked softly.
She inhaled sharply, mesmerised by its glinting, jointed arms, reaching out towards her in the gloom. If she’d been the shrieking type she would have put any self-respecting ghoul to shame, but instead she simply dropped the jug, which fell with a resounding crash, emptying its contents all over the floor.
‘Hellfire and damnation!’ it swore.
‘Excuse me?’ Phoebe frowned, uncertain which rules of etiquette applied, yet recalling her mother’s distinct instruction about manners being important at all times.
‘I was thirsty,’ she added swiftly, for the avoidance of any doubt.
There was a soft laugh, which only made her frown harder; it would be just her luck to run into a sardonic ghost.
‘Not for a quart of devil’s brew, I trust?’ it returned, looming forward out of the murky darkness.
For one swift moment, Phoebe wondered if she might still be under the brain-fogging influence of Briggs’s cider. Then the puddle of ice water began reaching through her woollen booties, and she was forced to concede that not only was she extremely sober, but that any sardonic ghost was much more likely to be the one living person she least wished to see in the world.
‘Obviously not!’ she retorted, wondering what on earth he thought of her now he knew she wasn’t Fred .
She clenched her fingers, wondering why she hadn’t just stolen a horse, and put as many miles between them as possible while she still could.
‘Your feet are wet,’ he observed calmly, shrugging off his fine brocade dressing-gown, and throwing it over the puddle. ‘Come into the library, where you can dry off. The fire is still alight.’
Then he turned without waiting for a response, revealing a faintly-lit doorway just behind.
Phoebe stared, thinking furiously. She was obliged to accept her host’s invitation, of course – though in this case it was arguably an order – and he was quite correct that her booties seemed to have decided to become the actual puddle. But, in removing his dressing gown the viscount had also revealed himself to be entirely shirtless, and distractingly golden.
She flushed. She was no prude, she’d grown up with four brothers who’d spent every summer trying to drown one another in Knightswood’s lake, but she also knew that that was vastly different from spending time alone, in a suspiciously frilly nightgown, with a half-naked viscount.
Phoebe swallowed so hard her throat burned, but she could hardly stand in the corridor all night, especially since some might say she owed him a debt of thanks – no matter how regrettable. So ignoring the faint squelch of her wet booties, she followed him through the doorway.
Moments later, she was looking around at a surprisingly warm and cosy library.
She inhaled deeply, savouring the familiar scents of old paper and sealing wax, as her gaze settled on the viscount, stoking the embers of the fire. A small burst of flames responded, and briefly she wondered if everything in his life always did as he bid it.
‘Come and sit. I’ll help you take those off.’
He nodded at her feet, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be standing in his library at midnight, in a borrowed nightgown and soggy booties.
‘Is your shoulder paining you?’
‘It aches,’ she admitted ruefully.
She reached up to touch the padding of her wound, and was suddenly, starkly, aware that the half knot she’d tied had slipped undone, exposing the full waterfall frill of her ridiculous nightgown. Phoebe flushed furiously. It wasn’t exactly indecent, it was the sort of nightgown her mother would wear with lace enough for an army of bedspreads, but it was still the sort of situation that most polite society would consider ruinous.
‘I beg your pardon, my lord!’ she apologised, fumbling with her good arm. ‘I thought everyone would be abed at this hour.’
He was before her in a second, and looking at her in a way that she was sure Fred would call roguish .
‘But of course, and everything is twice as challenging with an injury. Why don’t you let me help you?’ He murmured with a new, disarming smile.
Phoebe had never in her life been quite so close to a half-dressed gentleman, let alone one quite so golden, and felt every protest dissolve at the back of her throat as he reached towards her. She could feel his warm breath on her exposed skin, glimpse flecks of gold in his jade eyes, and sense the intent behind his smile. She sucked in a tight breath, her head clouding with a thousand different thoughts and feelings. None of this could be real. She should be halfway to London with Effie and Flora by now, not protecting her virtue from some dubious rake.
‘Although it seems such a shame to hide this pretty nightgown,’ he added, his eyes darkening suggestively.
All at once everything seemed to slow, and Phoebe was aware only of the beat of her heart overriding every logical, self-preserving thought. She opened her mouth and willed something clever to come out, but all she could see were his eyelids lowering, and a look on his face that quickened her own breath.
As though in a dream, she watched his lips part and fingers drop to brush the cotton bodice of her nightgown. She gasped at his touch, which set a million tiny candles alight across her fickle body, and knew then that the question in his eyes somehow matched the delicious rise of something from the pit of her stomach, that this was fast turning into what Fred would call a situation .
Which had to be exactly what the viscount intended.
It was the only thought she needed for a second rise within her – much like the one that had seen her banished to her bedchamber for a week for landing Tom Bilch, the butcher’s boy, a right leveller. She still thought it wildly unfair when he’d been the one to call her a hornswoggler , but that was beside the point. The viscount was a cad!
Instinctively, Phoebe brought up her good fist in a cross-body punch that would have impressed any one of the Bilch boys, and let it crash into the side of his jaw, watching in delight as his wolfish smile was replaced with shock, pain and finally, fury, as he stumbled backwards. She grinned in momentary jubilation, and then an eruption of fiery pain engulfed her right side.
‘Ohh!’ she gasped, holding her shoulder and running towards him.
She had no desire to stay in the same room, let alone get any closer, but she’d spotted his glass of iced brandy beside the armchair, and right now it was all she could think about.
In a breath, she’d snatched up the glass and pressed it directly against her fiery wound. The relief was instant, and she exhaled heavily.
‘Do you need it?’ she asked stiffly, noting the viscount’s reddening chin with satisfaction.
She’d dealt him a ringer, but he deserved it.
‘Yes,’ he growled, grabbing the glass and tossing back the contents in one gulp.
She stared, watching the muscles tense in his neck, and sensing she’d hurt his pride far more than his face.
‘Who the devil are you?!’ he added, massaging his jaw as he flicked the stopper from the brandy decanter.
‘And I’ve the drinking problem?’ Phoebe muttered, eyeing his movements warily.
‘As least I don’t prey on respectable customers, in respectable premises, with a ring of scoundrels and scallywags!’ he retorted, refilling the glass. ‘And don’t even bother trying to defend yourself! You were wearing the worst disguise I’ve ever seen! Did no one ever tell you that no self-respecting gentleman would ever touch a brown leather hat, no matter how bourgeois?!’
Phoebe stared, her brief moment of sympathy replaced with a rise of simmering heat that resembled one of the twins’ ambitious experiments.
‘Prey upon customers?’ she repeated. ‘Worst disguise you’ve ever seen? Ring of scoundrels and scallywags?!’
The viscount looked her up and down, scowling.
‘I speak as I find,’ he returned artically. ‘Why else would a young, unaccompanied female be gallivanting around the countryside in the company of rogues – and dressed like a tallyman to boot!’
His eyes narrowed to slits.
‘In my experience, a chit like you has only one ware to sell!’
Phoebe felt a flare of anger reach through to the roots of her unbrushed hair. She was starkly aware of how wild and dishevelled she looked, and how her shoulder felt as though it was newly afire, but it didn’t give him the right to insult her so abominably.
‘Is that why you brought me here?’ she demanded, ‘because you thought … you thought I was a … a bit of muslin ?’
The words sounded so implausible, even to her own ears, that she had the sudden and uncontrollable urge to laugh. She’d weathered all sorts of insults from her siblings in her time, but no one had ever levelled such an accusation. Thomas and Fred occasionally made veiled comments about women who kept gentlemen company, particularly actresses, but that he could assume such a thing of a girl, dressed as a boy, travelling in the company of farmers, said far more about the viscount than it did her.
‘You aren’t?’ he asked, a genuine frown settling above his perfect eyebrows.
Phoebe sucked in a long breath through gritted teeth.
‘Even assuming, for one fraction of a second, that I was such a person , do you think rescuing me from a ridiculous highwayman and bringing me here – to your home – entitles you to … anything ?’
She seethed as he eyed her uncertainly.
‘I didn’t bring you here thinking that…’ he began. ‘I was actually trying to assist you! The Bridgwater Road has been plagued by robberies in the last few months, and I didn’t realise you were the same boy I caught eavesdropping at The Swan. The moment I realised you were actually a girl dressed as a boy, and in the company of rogues… Look, you talk prettily, I’ll give you that,’ he amended swiftly, ‘but why else were you listening outside my parlour door? And three sheets to the wind no less?! Confess, if it hadn’t been for Briggs’s infamous cider, your intention was to appropriate…’
‘I was on my way to get some air,’ Phoebe glared, ‘and your door opened when I least expected it! I wasn’t trying to appropriate anything, I couldn’t even walk in a straight line! I’ve never drunk anything so vile as Briggs’s cider in my whole life, and I certainly had no idea it was capable of producing such ill-effects. And Flora and Effie are not rogues!’ she finished with a growl.
At this the viscount gave a small shout of satirical laughter.
‘Spare me,’ he muttered, tossing back another glass of brandy, ‘I’ve seen more honest faces at the dock!’
Phoebe sucked in a dangerous breath.
‘Well, rogues or not, they never treated me thus! And now that you have insulted me in every way imaginable, I would remind you that I was doing quite well enough before you arrived!’
‘Oh, yes, it certainly looked like it – on the receiving end of a farmer’s sword! I was there, remember?!’ he added, rolling his eyes derisively.
‘He wasn’t a farmer, he was a highwayman!’ Phoebe hissed.
The viscount snorted with derision.
‘ And if I’d had a real sword, I can assure you I would not be standing here today!’ she added.
‘What do you mean?’ he snapped.
‘I was using a theatrical épée,’ she threw furiously, ‘property of Miss Sarah Siddons, daughter of the Roger Kemble and Sarah Ward!’
The viscount stared in silent shock, though the muscle in his cheek appeared to be working excessively hard.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he challenged after a beat.
Phoebe lifted her chin.
‘I don’t lie,’ she growled, ‘any more than I appropriate , keep company with rogues , or sell my wares !’
The viscount had the good grace to colour a little this time.
‘Well, you’re a young fool to partake in any kind of duel with a dress weapon, whoever this daughter of Roger Kemble is!’ he scathed.
‘I had little choice!’ she fired back. ‘The coach was full, and someone had to stand up to that ridiculous highwayman!’
The viscount stared as if he couldn’t decide if she was stupidly courageous or downright mad.
‘You talk prettily, your hands have never seen a day’s work, you’ve no idea how to tell a farmer from a scoundrel and you’ve been taught how to fence…’ he mused darkly. ‘I’ve been toying with sending a man to find out where you boarded the stage, or you could just save me the trouble and tell me now – who the devil are you?’
Phoebe paled. It was exactly what she feared. A few discreet enquiries would swiftly elicit the information that only one local young lady was madcap enough to disguise herself as a gentleman, board the common stage and take on a highwayman. She inhaled deeply, and knew she was cornered.
‘Miss Phoebe Fairfax,’ she returned in her haughtiest tone, fixing her gaze on a candle on the other side of the room, ‘of Knightswood Manor.’
There was a heavy pause.
‘Miss Phoebe Fairfax, sister to Tom … I mean, Lord Thomas Fairfax of Knightswood Manor in Devon?’ the viscount rattled, paling beneath his scowl.
‘I think I know my own family circumstances, thank you, sir!’ She glared.
‘But … your clothing?’ he accused.
‘Belongs to Fred … Alfred Fairfax … another brother,’ Phoebe replied defensively.
A heavy silence descended in which the viscount’s eyes bulged more than Phoebe thought was probably good for anyone.
‘If you really are Tom’s sister, then why on earth are you standing in my library, in a frilly nightgown, looking like that!’ He groaned, sinking into his armchair, his face in his hands.
For a second, Phoebe wondered if he wasn’t a bit touched in the head, then she recalled his arrogant manner from the moment their paths crossed, and realised he was more likely being obnoxiously rude.
‘I’m here because you brought me here,’ she bristled. ‘And I apologise if my appearance offends you, but surprisingly enough, a quart of Briggs’s cider and a small incident with a sword haven’t exactly enhanced my complexion! I’ve also had a few other pressing matters on my mind, and I really rather think it’s none of your business who I am related to, or what I look like. I was doing perfectly well before you showed up like some fictional three-caped hero and brought me here!’
At this, the viscount stood up, looking as though he might actually like to shake her. He stepped forward, his jaw twitching madly as though working to suppress a million uncharitable thoughts, and for the first time, Phoebe drew back. She’d never seen anyone glower quite so intently.
‘I had no choice, you silly little fool!’ he growled. ‘You were bleeding out faster than I or anyone else could stop! And you’d better start thinking very quickly if we’re to sort this mess out. For a young lady of quality to travel on the common stage, dress as a tallyman, get drunk, and fight off scoundrels with a theatrical épée … it’s … ruinous! What were you thinking?! And where on earth does Tom think you are?’
‘Thomas doesn’t know where I am,’ Phoebe hissed, eyeing the viscount with vehement dislike. ‘No one does, and far better it stays that way! As I’ve already said, I was being Fred and acting as he might … well, actually, he wouldn’t have got out of the coach … but I was simply trying to act a little heroically , not get stabbed and have my whole plan ruined by some dubious, interfering viscount!’ She scowled darkly. ‘Quite frankly, if I hadn’t drunk Briggs’s horrid cider and had to suffer the limitations of a theatrical épée, which had the misfortune to snap at quite the wrong moment – though it was very kind of Roger Kemble’s daughter to lend it to me?—’
‘Wait a minute – act a little heroically ?’ the viscount interrupted, his eyes now bulging so much Phoebe thought it best to take another step back. ‘So this whole charade is because you wish to have an adventure like one of the heroines in your schoolroom novels? That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve run away! Of course you have. You are the original head-in-the-clouds schoolroom chit who has run away and found out the real world is nothing like the inside of a novel! Of all the foolish, hare-brained simpletons…’
His voice shook with such derision, Phoebe actively contemplated landing him another leveller, but decided it was one thing punching a man when she was some roadside nobody, and quite another punching him when he knew her brother.
Instead, she pulled herself up to her full, frilly, wet-bootied height.
‘I am a Fairfax, and we don’t run away from anything!’ she pronounced haughtily. ‘I had a very real reason for leaving Knightswood, and the cider, the onions, the duel … they were all just distractions ! I fully expected to be in London by now, not the back of Bridgwater or wherever we are. And I most certainly did not expect to find myself being rudely interrupted by an arrogant dandy!’
‘Onions … back of Bridgwater … arrogant dandy?’ the viscount repeated faintly, before tipping his head back in another shout of laughter.
At this point, Phoebe reconsidered her suspicion that he was indeed touched in the head, and that she should have made a bolt for the door.
‘My brother says any gentleman who spends longer on his cravat than his books, is a dandy!’ she glared defensively.
‘This the same brother who considers a brown tallyman’s hat to be acceptable in polite company?’ the viscount retorted, sinking back into his armchair.
Phoebe gritted her teeth, she wasn’t about to defend Fred’s fashion sense to anyone, but the viscount had no right to judge.
‘Either way, we’re in a right mess! You know that don’t you?’ he added, running his fingers through his tousled hair again.
Phoebe was annoyed to find herself thinking it looked better dishevelled, and intensified her glare.
‘I’ve known Tom since Oxford, and he isn’t known for restraint when it comes to horses or family! He’s going to be livid, I mean pistols at dawn livid! This is a matter of honour now. You do see that, don’t you? You’ve been away a whole night, two in fact, and he will assume you’ve been…’
The viscount glanced down at Phoebe’s suspiciously frilly nightgown and to her surprise, reached out to deftly re-tie her dressing gown.
Phoebe scowled harder.
‘You’re going to respect me now that you know who I am?’ she challenged, despite the shiver snaking across her skin.
He stood up, staring intently, and for a moment she thought he might discard his new-found chivalry. Then he turned and stalked towards a fresh shirt hanging on a stand beside the library entrance.
‘I’m going to respect you more now I know who your brother is!’ he muttered, pulling it over his head, and as he did so Phoebe was conscious of the oddest pang.
Then he reached towards a pull cord.
‘Wait, please,’ Phoebe interjected, with a sudden rise of fear. ‘I can’t go back to Knightswood … not yet. There’s a very good reason I left, and if you make me go back now it will all be for nothing … I’ll lose the only freedom I ever had!’
The viscount paused to look at her with the same cold glint that she recognised from the roadside.
‘It seems to me, Miss Phoebe Fairfax,’ he drawled, ‘that if gallivanting around the countryside dressed as a bourgeois tallyman is your idea of freedom, then you’re in need of your brother’s protection more than you realise. Young ladies of quality don’t get to be heroines!’
Then he pulled the bell with fervour.