The urge was particularly strong when dealing with the obnoxious baron. Rosehurst gravitated toward rudeness to begin with and compounded that character flaw by prancing around the house as if he owned the place. More than once Phee held her tongue while Cal gently but firmly put the man in his place, and Miss Cuthbert apologized for her father’s behavior. Cal had said he would handle it, but damn it, Phee wished Violet would get on with her part of the plan and snag another man.
This afternoon at the lake was supposed to be a picnic. On the lawn near the shore, footmen arranged chairs and tables laden with crisp white linens and an impressive array of food and drink. It was essentially an outdoor tea, complete with fluffed pillows on the chaise.
The aristocracy were strange folks.
In her youth, a day at the lake had meant minimal clothes, splashing water, and squealing children who ended the afternoon pink from the sun. Now, apparently, they needed cut crystal and bone china to make a proper outing.
Phee straightened her cravat and tugged her hat down to shade her eyes against the blazing sun in question. The last things she needed were more freckles by the end of the day, thank you. And Lordy, what she’d give to be cool in a light muslin gown like the one Emma wore. A breeze under the hem and only a dress and chemise rather than all these layers sounded like heaven. She sighed. Soon. Not today. But soon. Winter—just when she would be grateful for the layers and the tall boots. Oh, irony. Thou art an evil bitch.
Tufts of white clouds floated like bits of cotton in a sky so pure blue, she wished for a wild moment that she possessed the ability to capture the scene on canvas. A light breeze saved the day from being oppressively hot and lifted the fine curls at her nape.
Cal’s smile caught her, blinding white and intimate when she approached where he and Gaffney stood. Asking how the meeting went would have to wait, but Cal had to know that conversation was coming. Her enthusiasm for hearing about Gaffney’s business venture fizzled into a cold lump of dread as several servants rowed around the willow tree in wooden boats gleaming with fresh coats of paint. The women along the shore clapped at the prospect of being on the water, and the men began joking and bragging about their prowess with oars.
No way in hell was Phee getting in a boat. A rickety, wooden, easily tipped or sunk boat—not an option. No matter how many layers of paint they’d slapped on the hull or how shiny the brass hardware securing the oars, each dinghy transformed in her mind into a faded gray wood boat with oars that splintered your palms. Those oars had turned a dark inky brown from her bloody hands after she’d managed to drag Adam back into the boat.
Only Cal appeared to notice Phee shaking her head. He reached out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. “Adam, if you’d like to remain on shore, I’ll stay with you.”
She blew out a breath. “Thank you, I’d prefer that.”
He moved closer and whispered, “I’m sorry. Mrs. Hodges changed the outing, and I didn’t know until now. We were supposed to play croquet, damn it.”
Removing herself to a comfortable chair seemed wise while he found the last few stragglers places in the boats. A footman offered a glass of champagne—perfectly chilled, naturally. It wouldn’t do for the Earl of Carlyle to serve tepid champagne.
Considering she’d been battling panic moments before, this was the best possible outcome. Phee smiled her thanks to the footman and took a deep drink. With a seat in the shade and servants on hand to tend to any needs that may arise, her day had just turned around. Best of all, she wasn’t getting on a boat anytime soon.
One by one, the boats full of guests launched with a sturdy footman in the bow, in case the gentlemen’s boasts were empty and someone needed assistance returning to shore.
Cal was handing the last lady into a dinghy when a footman arrived, slightly out of breath. “Pardon me, milord,” the servant said. The men leaned their heads together and lowered their voices.
It was a minute thing. Had she been paying less attention or not possessed the knowledge of a close friend and lover, Phee would have missed it. His eyes went blank. Not polite. Not cool or distant. Cal wasn’t angry or scared—just suddenly empty. Devoid of emotion.
He sent one more wave to the boat, then launched the guests with a nudge of his boot and walked toward the house with the footman. Not a glance back or a word to anyone else—Cal’s gaze stayed firmly fixed ahead and composed.
A quarter of an hour, then a half hour passed while Phee observed the guests’ antics on the lake from the safety of the shore. They frolicked happily, occasionally splashing each other with oars or slapping the water with a hand to bellows of laughter and squeals.
Concern made Phee feel each of those minutes like a month. Something was wrong. Cal had excluded her from the meeting with Gaffney, then hadn’t invited her along to deal with whatever was happening now. For nearly two years she’d been the one he went to when he needed help fixing something. Sure, this month had been light on work, but certainly that was only due to safety concerns. A private business meeting was one matter. After all, she wasn’t privy to every business conversation he had. But anything that made him abandon his guests was something she should help deal with.
What if Roxbury had shown up? The rotter couldn’t be the one to tell Cal about Emma’s baby. Containing the news would be impossible if their host throttling Lord Roxbury became the highlight of this house party. Rationalizing the need to follow wasn’t hard.
Of course, she could be overreacting to a piddly minor event. There might be a servant matter to deal with or some such lord-of-the-manor thing. In which case, slipping away for a few minutes of privacy while the others were on the lake would be a better way to pass the time than quaffing champagne on the grass.
Phee set aside her champagne flute and rose. There, that wasn’t so hard. She had perfectly valid reasons to follow Cal.
At the house, a male voice came from the direction of a drawing room off the main hall. Curious. Someone uninvited had arrived. Lordy, Roxbury must be here. Cal would be irate. Emma was on the lake, so there might be time to deal with her ex-lover before the guests returned.
Now that she was closer to the drawing room door, which stood open by several inches, she could identify the voice. It was the marquess who’d called, not Roxbury. That didn’t strike her as preferable, given the Violet situation. Cocking her head—as if that would somehow help the men’s voices carry more clearly—she tried to follow the conversation.
Out by the lake on Cal’s first night here, he’d said Eastly had never been to Lakeview. That this was a home without ghosts or bad memories. After years without an invitation, the marquess had to know he wasn’t welcome, and the tone of the voices wasn’t exactly friendly. Impotent irritation made Phee’s lip curl as she grasped the door handle.
Eastly’s voice slithered around the polished wood doorframe, at once cajoling and demanding—as if he knew he wouldn’t be denied but wanted Cal to feel good about caving to his wishes. She’d heard the tone before, and usually it meant Cal would do his best to comply. “The baron has been more than patient, Son. He’s bought a special license. Time to be done with it. Violet is under your roof. Marry the girl and she can be in your bed too, if she isn’t already. Not a hardship at all, eh? Your fiancée is a fancy little piece. The perfect countess, if I say so myself.”
A bark of laughter she’d heard countless times over the years made her stomach sink. “A rushed wedding invokes scandal, and no countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.”
Phee’s chest went hollow. A dead space. Cal’s words—not a denial, and not surprised that Eastly still expected him to marry Violet Cuthbert—echoed off the walls of her ribs, taking chunks from her heart.
Son of a bitch, he’d said he’d handle it.
He’d said he loved her.
He’d promised this would come to nothing, but evidently he hadn’t made that clear to his own bloody father. And God knew Eastly always got what he wanted. Cal never denied the man anyt
hing, just walked behind him, cleaning his messes and paying off people left and right. Hell, she’d delivered those payments more than once. Even now, after professing his love for the hundredth time when she’d left his bed this morning, he stood in that room not telling Eastly to take those wedding plans to the devil.
No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
That eliminated Phee as an option, now didn’t it? He’d spoken of a future, but had he ever actually mentioned marriage?
It didn’t take long to search her memories. Happy, joy-filled memories, with promises she’d cherished and held close to her heart. He’d never mentioned marriage. Not once.
Lordy, she’d been taken in by the oldest trick in the book—that future he talked of wasn’t marriage. He wanted a mistress. A secret relationship, where she’d spend the rest of her life hiding, as she had for so long already.
One by one the emotions she’d entrusted to Cal withered into a deadened lump, like a flower that dared bloom too early, only to succumb to frost. Air stalled in her lungs, and she was afraid that if she drew in a deep enough breath, it would become a wail. Not the whimpering tears of a broken heart, but the battle cry of a lover betrayed.
What had she expected? That the rich and powerful Earl of Carlyle would—what? Marry a nobody like Ophelia Hardwick? Had she truly thought the man who spent his time finding new ways to make money and suppressing his family’s scandals would marry her when he could save his father’s hide for the umpteenth time and gain a healthy dowry to boot?
Hell, Phee didn’t even technically exist on paper. How ludicrous to think for even a second he might wait for her to inherit, then marry her once she’d assumed a new name.
The hand on the doorknob curled into a tight fist until the tendons in her forearms protested with a sharp ache. She’d trusted blindly, for the first time in years, believing everything he told her. Somehow, he’d even maneuvered Phee into planning a house party for the woman Eastly wanted him to marry.
How dare he.
Out of the cold remains of her heart, a thick hedge of thorns grew around where she’d once been soft and vulnerable. Maybe he hadn’t lied outright, but there could be no doubt he’d omitted, manipulated, and played her for a fool.
Despite the fury roiling in her, a sob broke through. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. He wouldn’t see her cry. Phee’s vulnerability and softness weren’t his to witness anymore.
In fact, he wouldn’t know she’d discovered the truth until she was damn good and ready to tell him. Two could withhold information. The thought settled deep into her new blessedly numb state.
Since the day of the accident that killed her brother, she’d lived by a plan. Phee needed to retreat to that place in her head where claiming her inheritance and disappearing were the most important things. No more beautiful earls who looked like fallen angels and lulled her into believing she could live a fantasy.
If ever there’d been a time that called for action, this was it. When she finished with Cal, she’d be free.
Piece by piece, like a puzzle coming together, a new plan formed. One that would not only help her but prove to Cal once and for all that the street scrapper he’d sent to investigate his problems could solve her own problems, thank you very much. The brilliance of it made her lips curl in a twisted imitation of a smile.
The dull thuds of her footfalls echoed off the fine marble tile as she made her way out of the house. At the lake, the boats were returning to shore, and servants bustled about in their fine livery, as if caring for the pampered guests was the only thing in the world that mattered. As luck would have it, Miss Cuthbert’s boat pulled to shore when Phee joined the party with studied casualness. Pasting on a cheerful smile, Phee offered her hand to Miss Cuthbert as she disembarked.
“I hear felicitations are in order. The Marquess of Eastly is at the house and let slip about your understanding with Lord Carlyle.”
Miss Cuthbert stared down at her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Hardwick. Our fathers arranged the match.”
There’d been no misunderstanding, then. A tiny seed of fragile hope she didn’t even know she had been sheltering died. Phee offered a shallow bow. “Best wishes on your wedding, Miss Cuthbert.” Phee let go of the dainty gloved hand as quickly as possible and turned to the occupants of the next boat. “Lady Emma, might I have a word?”
Emma dimpled prettily. “Of course, Mr. Hardwick. Shall we walk?”
They strolled side by side away from the party, following the curving shore of the lake. Phee clasped her hands behind her back and said, “There’s much I want to say, but by talking to you now, I am trusting you. Are you trustworthy, Emma?”
Emma’s fingers worried at the edge of her glove. “You’re privy to my biggest secret. Except for Roxbury, and possibly my maid, you are the only one who knows. We might be bound by secrets, you and I.”
The success of the next step of Phee’s plan relied on Emma being a willing participant. “I haven’t shared my secrets with you. I’d like to rectify that now.”
Emma tilted her head. “I’m listening.”
The guests of the house party were well behind them, with the lawn swallowing the sharp, trilling scales of laughter and rumbling conversation. Phee glanced over her shoulder, but no one seemed to care that they’d wandered off on their own. “I’ve been impersonating my brother, waiting until he would have been old enough to inherit.”
A small shard of her conscience warned that there’d be no going back after this. That this path would change everything forever.
Emma’s eyed widened. “You aren’t Adam Hardwick?”
“My name is Ophelia. You may call me Phee in private if you wish.” Phee forced herself to stand still as that information settled across Emma’s face and the irrevocable truth was laid bare.
If she’d thought Emma’s eyes were wide before, they were nothing compared to the expression the girl wore now. Slowly, a blinding grin made her mouth gape open. “No. You—you’re a woman? Does Cal know?”
Phee’s ears burned, and she cursed her redheaded complexion. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “He knows.”
Emma giggled. “Ah, that’s how it is? Who’d have thought it from my brother, of all people? Lord Anti-Scandal is certainly comfortable with a friendly bit of hypocrisy, isn’t he?” Her glee faded when Phee didn’t smile in return. “Wait, what’s he done?”
“He promised he wasn’t marrying Violet Cuthbert, but it appears he didn’t inform Eastly or Miss Cuthbert. Your father is in the drawing room right now, pushing for Cal to use the special license Rosehurst brought with him.” Phee wicked away a welling tear. Damn it, the last thing she needed to do was start crying now. This was the time for fighting, not wallowing.
“Why must men be awful liars?” Emma rubbed Phee’s arm sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. We’re both dealing with heartbreak, then.”
Phee nodded toward Emma’s belly, where the girl’s hand rested. “Do you know what you’ll do yet?”
Golden curls bounced against her cheeks when she shook her head. “No. I need the impossible—a husband who won’t mind the pregnancy. Preferably someone I can tolerate.”
Phee drew in a deep breath. No, there’d be no going back. But the only things behind her were lies, and she had to do something. Given the choice between letting pain consume her or rallying a battle cry in response to this betrayal, her path was clear.
Time to enact the plan.
“On paper, I’m a man. We could help each other. Marry me.”
Chapter Twenty
For better or worse, Phee and Emma were in this together—and would say so in front of witnesses as soon as possible. But first, they had to deal with Emma’s father.
Emma went into the house first, making sure Phee could meet with her father without having to deal with Cal. “Leave most of the talking to me,” Emma said before they entered the same drawing room, where a lifetime of heartbeats before, Phee had overheard t
he marquess and Cal talking. Eastly smiled when Emma entered, and gave her a hearty buss on the cheek in welcome.
“Hello, beautiful girl,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Papa. I—we, rather—have something to discuss with you. May we sit a moment?” Emma had turned on her charm full force, with dimples on display and her sweetest tone of voice to showcase her genteel training and social graces. Over her head, Eastly shot Phee a questioning look.
They sat, Emma beside her father, and Phee on the nearest chair. Emma didn’t waste time. “Papa, we’d like a special license so we may wed as soon as possible.”
No wonder the man lost his bets—he wouldn’t be able to bluff if his life depended on it. Eastly’s confusion over the diamond of the Season wishing to marry a nobody like Adam Hardwick was so apparent, Phee nearly snickered.
Emma pressed on. “You see, Papa, Adam will come into his fortune when he weds, so he’s not without prospects. And of course, my dowry is generous, because you’re the best father in all the world.” She patted Eastly’s hand. That might have been laying it on a bit thick, but the marquess smiled indulgently, so what did Phee know?
“Darling, you can have any man you want. But you can’t marry a mere land steward, even if he has a fortune waiting for him. Why, I have it on good authority that the new Duke of Gaffney is at this party. Cast your net there instead.”
“Adam is my friend, Papa. I want to marry him. And I’m afraid time is of the essence.” With a rather pointed look at her father, she rested a hand on her still-flat belly.
The marquess stared at her hand, his face growing redder as the silence stretched between them. He turned to Phee with an expression that promised not only murder but a slow death. “You did this.”
Phee schooled her features into a polite and nonconfrontational expression. “No, milord. The babe’s not mine. But as Emma said, we are friends. I will accept responsibility.”
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