The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount

W illiam Darby, Viscount Summerfield, Baron Ivers, rode the last mile to Wentworth Hall full bore. The letter from his father’s secretary was in his breast pocket, stained red by the sands of the Egyptian desert, smelling of salt from the passage across the Mediterranean, and tattered at the folds from Will’s frequent reading of it.

The earl has suffered a terrible fit of apoplexy that has left him paralyzed. You are needed at home, sir.

In the six years since Will had left Wentworth Hall to take his grand tour of Europe—a tour his father had urged a restless young man of two and twenty to take before duty and responsibility claimed him—he’d received many letters from his father. In the first letters, the earl had exulted in the sights Will had seen and the adventures he’d experienced, as related weekly in a letter home. The tour was supposed to have lasted two years, but Will had gone on to India instead of coming home as expected, and his father’s letters had changed in tone. While the earl still enjoyed the tales of Will’s travels, he often reminded his son of his responsibility to his family and as the future Earl of Bedford, and asked him to come home.

Will always wrote that he would, and truly, he always meant to come home. But invariably he’d meet a fellow traveler who would feed his wanderlust with a tale of the Himalayas or searching for treasure in the oases of Africa, and Will would be off again.

In the last two years, his father’s letters had cajoled and pleaded with Will to come home and marry as he ought, to provide an heir before it was too late, before the earl was gone. His father professed a longing to hold his grandchild in his arms. Will was confident he would fulfill that wish, but he believed there was ample time for marrying and fathering children.

Then had come the last letter from Mr. Carsdale, the earl’s secretary. It was delivered to Will in a Bedouin tent by his loyal manservant, Addison, who had been with him since his eighteenth year and had traveled the world with him regardless of whether he liked it or not. Addison had come from Cairo on a Bedouin train and was wearing a kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, his clothing and eyes red from the stinging sand. When Will read the letter, the words seemed to sag on the vellum under the weight of what they related.

He’d left Egypt at once, of course. He’d taken the arduous Bedouin route to the sea, and had booked passage on a ship that sailed through a stormy sea and the Straits of Gibraltar, which had almost cost him his life when the clipper was shipwrecked. It had taken him three months to reach England’s shores. Another week was spent purchasing a horse and arranging to have his things and Addison sent to Wentworth Hall, and yet another week riding across the rain-soaked English countryside.

At last, Will and Fergus—the Welsh pony he’d acquired—were riding up the lane to the majestic hall that had housed his ancestors for centuries. The sight of the mansion warmed his heart. It was built in the shape of an H, and stood four stories high. Ivy covered the corners, and row upon row of six-foot paned windows looked out across the woodlands, the deer park, and the fields where the estate’s sheep and cattle grazed.

He reined to a hard stop in the drive, surprised and unsettled that no footman or groom hurried to attend him. Will flung himself off Fergus, shoved his cloak over his shoulder, and reached for the letter. Clutching it in his gloved hand, he vaulted up the steps to the double-door entry, flung them open, and strode inside.

The foyer was empty. Completely empty—devoid of furniture and accoutrements. The only things left were the very large paintings of mythical scenes that filled an entire wall. Will walked on, vaulting up the stairs to the family rooms on the first floor. But as he reached the first-floor landing, he stopped, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. A broken chair was lying on its side. Papers were strewn across the carpet as if they’d been scattered by wind. A large black area in the carpet appeared to be the result of a burn, and the candles in their wall sconces had been left too long, the wax having melted onto the silk wall coverings and the carpet beneath them.

Stunned, Will moved on, pausing to look in every room and finding them in the same condition. The rooms smelled musty, as if they had not been aired in months. The sitting room was strewn with trash and books and, inexplicably, ladies’ shoes. In the grand salon, furniture had been shoved up against the walls and it looked as if a game of lawn bowling had been interrupted, with balls scattered across the floor and a porcelain vase lying in pieces.

He reached the library last. In that room, books were out of their shelves and stacked in various configurations; a thick layer of dust on the floor was marked with foot traffic.

Will turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. As he turned toward the hearth, where a mound of blankets had been piled, he caught sight of a figure rising from the chaise longue. It was a young woman whom he’d obviously awakened. She stood up, blinking at him. Her gown was too small for her lanky frame and it looked rather old. Her hair was pinned awkwardly to the back of her head, and her blue eyes were the only spots of color in her pale face. But something struck him as familiar, and Will squinted at her. “Alice?”

The woman did not respond, but he was certain it was his sister standing before him. She had been eleven years of age when he’d left home, a little wisp of a girl who’d followed him about and peppered him with endless questions or begged him to take her riding or to play with her in the garden.

“Who’s there?” a hoarse male voice demanded, piercing the silence.

It appeared that what Will had believed to be a pile of blankets was actually another person. That person came up on his elbows, knocking over an empty glass when he did, and blinked in Will’s direction.

“I think it is our brother,” Alice said uncertainly, staring curiously at Will.

“Who?” the young man asked, pushing himself up and struggling to his feet. It was no easy task. His shirt-tail was hanging to his knees, his trousers were covered in dust, and the rest of his clothing was in the pile of blankets, for all Will knew. His hair was standing on end and he had the scraggly growth of an unshaved beard.

“Joshua,” Will said, looking at his brother, the sibling who was closest to his own age, who’d been only fourteen when he’d left. “Do you not know me?”

“Will! What are you doing here?” Joshua demanded, peering closely at him. “Who sent for you?”

“Did you not receive my letters?” Will said, moving cautiously forward. “Where is everyone? Where are the servants?”

With a snort and a flick of his wrist, Joshua said, “Gone. They’ve not been paid in ages. Only Farley and Cook remain.”

“And Jacobs, the footman who tends Father,” Alice offered, still eyeing Will curiously. She stood self-consciously, her arms folded tightly about her. “Are you to stay here?”

“You won’t want to remain here, I assure you,” Joshua said. He took an unsteady step and knocked over a bottle of amber liquid that spread across the floorboards and into the blankets where he had been sleeping. Neither he nor Alice seemed to notice it.

This was wrong. This was terribly, horribly wrong. “Where is Father?” Will asked in a sudden panic.

“Father? Where is he ever?” Joshua asked. “In his suite, of course.”

Will dared not ask after his two youngest siblings, Roger and Jane. He just turned and strode from the library, his footfall matching the rhythm of his rapidly beating heart. As he hurried to the master suite, his crime became clearer. He’d stayed away too long.

Will rapped hard on the door of the master suite, and was reaching for the handle when the door suddenly opened. An enormous bear of a man dressed in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat peered suspiciously at Will. “Who are you, then?”

“I am Summerfield, the earl’s son. Where is my father?”

The man’s eyes widened, but he opened the door and bowed his head at the same time. “Just there, milord,” he said, pointing.

Will swept past him. The room smelled of ointments and smoke; the drapes had been pulled shut, save one window, which provided only dim light. Yet it was enough light to see his father in the shadows. “Dear God,” he muttered in horror.

His father was seated in a wheelchair. A lap rug had been draped across his legs, and his hands, bent with apparent uselessness, were folded together in his lap. His head lolled unnaturally to one side.

But as Will drew near, the Earl of Bedford lifted his gaze, and in those wet gray eyes Will saw the light of recognition shimmer.

“Papa,” Will said. The earl moved his lips strangely, but no sound came forth, and Will realized he could not speak. Grief dealt him a crushing blow. With the letter still clutched in his hand, he fell to his knees and pressed his cheek against his father’s bony knees. He’d stayed away too long and any apology he could make was not enough.

It would never be enough.

I n the back room of the smart Bond Street boutique, Mrs. Ramsey’s Haute Couture Dress Shoppe, Lady Phoebe Fairchild stood among dozens of gowns made of China silk, velvet, satin, and muslin, gaping in disbelief as Mrs. Ramsey calmly explained that her reputation, the future of her dress shop, and indeed her livelihood depended on Phoebe’s ability to deliver gowns.

When the tall and cadaverously thin woman had finished, Phoebe was dumbstruck. No words would come, no coherent thought, no stinging retort.

“If you are unable to do as I ask, Lady Phoebe,” Mrs. Ramsey said, “I shall have no choice but to expose you to the entire ton.”

Phoebe gasped. “Madam, what you are suggesting is blackmail!”

Mrs. Ramsey smiled, her lips all but disappearing behind tiny teeth. “Blackmail is a harsh word. Charlatan, imposter…now there are two words that are not harsh enough…Madame Dupree.” She cocked one brow high above the other, letting the words fill the air around them.

Phoebe could not think. She felt entirely incapable of it. The business of making gowns—the very thing Mrs. Ramsey had threatened to expose—was a plan Phoebe had hatched with her sister Ava and her cousin Greer two years ago. It was a plan that had been born out of desperation after the untimely death of Phoebe and Ava’s mother, Lady Downey. Their stepfather, Lord Downey, had commandeered their inheritance and had made it plain he would marry them to the first men to offer. The three of them had quickly determined they needed money to put in motion their plan for avoiding such a fate. Ava had determined to marry well, Greer had gone in search of an inheritance, and Phoebe…well, Phoebe had talent with a needle. It was the only thing she had to offer.

She’d always been talented with a needle, and made a hobby of making gowns for the three of them, or enhancing the ones they bought in exclusive Bond Street shops such as this one. The spring her mother had died, Phoebe had latched onto an idea. What if she took the gowns from her late mother’s closet and refashioned them into lovely ball gowns to be sold? Ava and Greer had agreed—it would bring in some sorely needed money.

There was only one small problem: to enter the business of making gowns would give the appearance to the rest of the ton that they were desperate—which, obviously, they were. But the ton would flee from desperate debutantes and their prospects would be reduced to nothing.

So they had invented a reclusive modiste—Madame Dupree—and had introduced Madame Dupree’s work to Mrs. Ramsey. They claimed the French modiste was in much demand in Paris, but, tragically, had been made lame and disfigured in a carriage accident, and therefore could not and would not go out in society. Phoebe had very graciously offered to act as the liaison between Mrs. Ramsey and Madame Dupree. If Mrs. Ramsey would provide her customers’ precise measurements, Madame Dupree would make gowns that would delight them and be highly praised by the ladies of the ton.

It seemed the perfect ruse, and, indeed, to Phoebe’s way of thinking, it had worked very well for two years.

Until today.

Until today, Phoebe had no inkling that Mrs. Ramsey suspected she was Madame Dupree. Apparently, the shopkeeper had suspected it for some time, for when Phoebe delivered two gowns that afternoon, Mrs. Ramsey had locked the door of her shop and then asked Phoebe if she could arrange a meeting with Madame Dupree.

That was the moment Phoebe had felt the first curl of doom in her belly. “Oh, I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ramsey. I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she’d said as congenially as she could.

“After all this time?” Mrs. Ramsey asked haughtily. “Surely she trusts me by now, Lady Phoebe. I have a very lucrative proposition for her—and she certainly seems to accept you readily enough. Why do you suppose that is?”

Phoebe had been so flustered she did not respond. She could not recall a time Mrs. Ramsey had been anything but courteous—but now the woman folded her bone-thin arms over her woefully flat chest, narrowed her eyes beneath a row of tiny pin curls, and said, “I know perfectly well what you are about and I am fully prepared to tell the world of your scandal.”