Chapter 13
The day had arrived. Mary assisted Phoebe as she dressed for her wedding. Her white gauze dress, embroidered with silver, fell in a diaphanous cascade of shirred fabric.
“You look so beautiful, Phoebe. And so happy. This is truly a wonderful day.”
“Yes. We are so very blessed, Mary.”
“Are you ready, My Lady?” Mary asked for old time’s sake.
Phoebe squeezed her friend’s hand. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded. “Yes. I’m ready.”
“Shall we?”
“Yes.” Mary still held Phoebe’s hand as they descended the stairs and went into the parlour. The milling guests had quieted and assembled and Atwater stood by the mantle waiting for his bride. Phoebe’s eyes filled with tears as he smiled at her with gentle love.
The ceremony was short and lovely. Before Phoebe knew it, she was being addressed as Your Grace, and gentlemen were lining up to dance with her.
She was being twirled around the room, laughing at the compliments her partner paid her, when she caught a glimpse of something. She jerked her head only to see the slip of lilac disappear behind some revellers.
“Your Grace. Are you unwell? Allow me to escort you to a seat. Would you like some ratafia?”
“Hmm? Ah, yes ... yes, please. That would be lovely. And might I impose on you to locate my husband and send him to me here?” Phoebe sank down onto one of the sofas that were placed in strategic nooks behind huge potted plants.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” The young man bowed and walked away.
Phoebe frantically looked here and there. Maybe she’d imagined it. Still, no amount of slow, deep breathing would calm her nerves. La, where was Atwater? Her dance partner returned with her ratafia, but not her husband.
“I’ve been unable to locate Duke Atwater, Your Grace.”
“Fine. He’ll be here shortly. If I know him at all, he’s enjoying a cigar in the library.” She snapped her fan open and laughed a bit too shrilly.
After a bit of small talk, Phoebe dismissed the gentleman, releasing him to go and find another partner. She took a sip of her beverage and placed the glass on the tiny table next to where she sat. Regent Street. Her new home. She sat back, comfortable and happy but for the anxious thoughts that flitted in and out of her brain.
It had been typical wedding jitters that had put her on edge this morning from the moment she’d woken up. She perused the dancers, enjoying the multi-coloured gowns and the new hairstyles the ladies wore.
And then she saw what she thought she’d seen earlier. A frock of lilac silk. The frock made its way towards her. The face above was familiar and laughing, presumably, at Phoebe’s look of consternation.
Walking towards her was none other than Olivia McGowan. Olivia who hadn’t been invited to the party. Indeed, until Mary’s wedding, Phoebe thought Olivia had left London for good.
“Your Grace.” Olivia curtsied. “Might I congratulate you on your nuptials? You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe spoke through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?” So as not to make a scene, Phoebe spoke as quietly as she could without leaning into Olivia’s ear.
“Why I came to wish you congratulations.”
“Fine. Thank you. Now, I will ask you to leave this house at once.”
“And if I don’t?” Olivia smiled sweetly and glanced around the room. “Come now, Your Grace, you wouldn’t want a scene. You know how the peerage talks.”
“I will have you escorted quietly out. Do not try me, Olivia.” Phoebe sounded stronger than she felt.
“Do not try me, Your Grace,” Olivia nearly spat, all illusions of decorum abandoned. “I came here to wish you well, even after the way you treated me. You will live to rue this, do you hear me? You will soon lose your high and mighty ways.”
“If you mean to threaten me, or frighten me, it will not work. Now, you will leave.” Phoebe scanned the room and spied Terence standing in one of the doorways to the large room. He was watching and was immediately with them at Phoebe’s slight nod.
“Right this way, girl. You are to exit through the area. I will see you there myself.”
“Take your paws off of me,” Olivia wrenched her arm from Terence’s grasp.
“And I will thank you to keep your voice down. Do you understand me, girl? You don’t fool me with your expensive frock.” Terence ushered her downstairs. Olivia said nothing.
Terence scowled at Olivia just before he slammed the servants’ door. “I trust never to see you back here, Miss McGowan. If you are seen again, the colonel will be called, and you will be taken from this house by members of His Royal Highness’ army.”
*******
Atwater walked into Brooks’. The familiar silk rugs cushioned his steps, and he headed to one of the game rooms he rarely visited. He had no desire to see anyone with the possible exception of Tom. He had much on his mind and was looking for a game of cards to take his mind from the contents of it.
Seeing Charlotte Evans on the street, an hour before, had shaken him to the core. She’d been arm in arm with a dandy, the plume in her hat bobbing to and fro as she conversed with her escort. And, as before, he marvelled at her uncanny resemblance to Lady Judith.
At the time, his stomach had sunk. Presently, he continued to have an uncomfortable feeling, even after he’d downed a brandy at the bar before ascending to the game rooms.
“Psst. Your Grace.”
He turned. “Tom.”
“I can see you aren’t feeling social.”
“Well, it’s a peculiar circumstance when one needs to visit one’s club to clear one’s head. How can I be unsocial here? I should have stayed at Regent Street, but if I barricaded myself away from my wife, I should feel guilty.” He laughed a wry chuckle.
“And she, no doubt, would be worried about you.” Tom waited for Atwater to respond, and when he said nothing, Tom asked him straight out. “It’s that maid, isn’t it? Olivia? I saw her at your wedding party.”
“She was at your wedding party also.”
“I know, I was with Mary when Olivia approached. She spoke in circles. I told Mary that evening that the girl was jealous and only wanted to cause a stir.”
“I don’t know about that, Tom. I find it better never to underestimate a desperate person.”
“Is she so desperate? She was wearing an expensively made frock. I thought maybe she’d caught herself a wealthy old geezer, tired of a fat wife.”
“I don’t believe so. No, there’s something peculiar about her showing up to both of our nuptials. She threatened Phoebe, you know.”
“What? My God, Robert. What did she say?”
“The day Phoebe terminated Olivia’s employment at Wimpole Street, the girl told Phoebe that she would be sorry she’d done so.”
“Sounds ominous despite being so vague. And because of this threat you think Olivia is desperate? Because she has that kind of audacity?”
“Phoebe let her go without a letter of reference. The girl, I daresay, is having quite a time of it trying to procure employment.” Atwater smirked.
“She caused much consternation for Mary. Mary told me the awful things Olivia had said to her.”
“Which is why Phoebe dismissed her. And in all good conscience, she couldn’t give Olivia a good reference. Phoebe did vow not to discuss the maid with anyone. She offered to keep any ill feelings to herself,” Atwater offered.
“So Phoebe isn’t allowing any good news to circulate about Olivia, but she’s promised not to circulate anything bad. Is that about the gist of it?”
“Yes. The kind of jealousy Olivia has for Mary festers. There’s no place for it in any household. And I know Phoebe, and I presume Mary, both want loving homes,” Atwater said.
“Yes.”
“And on my way here, I saw our Lady Judith imposter.”
“No! She certainly is a cheeky one. I wonder how long she’s been in the city. And what do you think she’s doing for mone
y?” Tom wondered.
“Maybe she never left. She might have laid low for a bit. Her husband or paramour ... he robbed the bank where he worked. I feel sure she got the money, but there’s no way to prove it. And he was nowhere in sight when I saw her. I would venture to say she’s being kept.”
“A step up for one with such devious machinations and schemes as Charlotte Evans has had.”
“Yes, I suppose it is, Tom. She won’t find domestic work ... everyone knows how she impersonated Judith. There’s no lady, I daresay, who would want her in their circle, studying her mannerisms, planning how best to impersonate them.”
“Were you able to find any details about Judith’s death in Spain? Is there a record of what she succumbed to?”
“The only details we have are that Judith reputedly left this earth during the night. The very night that Charlotte impersonated her at the ball in Seville. Presumably with Judith gone, Charlotte came up with the idea to keep the ruse going. I believe she planned to take over Judith’s identity indefinitely.”
“But there is no proof that Judith is actually dead. Is that correct?”
“Oh Tom. Ever the lawyer you are. Yes, it’s true. But where is Judith if she’s alive?”
“I can’t venture to guess. But, if she is dead, I don’t believe it was from illness.”
“Tom, I can’t begin to imagine that as a possibility.”
“Well, you might want to begin, Robert. And do we share these thoughts and information with our wives?”
“I think not, Tom. I believe it would only serve to upset them.”
“Hmm. Yes, I believe you’re right, Your Grace. Come ... instead of cards, let us have some dinner downstairs.”
“Private room?”
“Yes, I believe His Grace, the Duke of Atwater, can have that arranged.” Tom laughed and slapped his friend on the back of the shoulders.
*******
“Susan! Hurry girl. I want you to go over to the baker ... get three loaves ... three loaves that were baked today, don’t let him swindle you with yesterday’s bread. I need two dozen eggs, butter, and get some flour from the miller. Ten pounds. Dan brought the wagon to carry us and the goods back to Regent Street.”
“Yes, Mrs Crabtree. Anything else?”
Mrs Crabtree smiled to herself ... this Susan was a godsend, much as Lady Mary had been when she was a girl. And now to see Mary as a rich, married Lady. Mrs Crabtree was proud of both girls. She had high hopes for Susan catching the eye of a well-to-do suitor. “Mind you keep those cotton gloves I made for you on your hands. Your hands are lovely, my dear. We must take pains to keep them so. A lady must have lovely hands.”
The younger woman laughed. “I think Jimmy likes my hands just fine, Mrs Crabtree.”
“Of that I’m sure, but what’s to happen if you change your mind about him? It’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor one. Now, off with you. Mind you, don’t be too long. I will meet you at the fountain.”
“Yes, Mrs Crabtree.” The girl turned away and was soon enshrouded among the shoppers.
Mrs. Crabtree consolidated the few purchases she’d made. Spices, sugar ... what else? She decided to go to the butcher ... they could use a ham at the house, as well as a goose. The newly married couple were prone to entertaining at the last minute. The housekeeper liked to keep up with their whims.
She continued walking, perusing all the items for sale and trying to keep the hem of her frock out of the mud and dung that littered the street. She ducked into the butcher shop and headed to the back to look at the special cuts. There were two women in the next row over, talking in hushed tones as they prepared to haggle the price of an oxtail.
There was something familiar about the women, and Mrs Crabtree’s tendency to delight in overhearing gossip got the best of her. She moved closer, still shielded by the shelving between that divided the rows of items.
“We have two crowns left. Get the oxtail as cheap as you can. We must get back to the hotel soon. Baby Robert will be waking and wanting his brekkie. Go on. Move.” The smaller of the two women gave the other a shove. There was no mistaking who the boss was in this duo.
Mrs Crabtree craned her neck to see who it was being so nasty to their co-worker. She’d heard that the help at Hudson House were always at each other’s throats. She had her eyes on the back of the woman’s head when the bell over the door chimed and the woman looked towards it.
Mrs Crabtree shrank against the far shelves behind where she stood. It couldn’t be. Every fibre of her being called for her to look again and assure herself that who she saw was not Charlotte Evans. But she would risk discovery if she were to do that.
Charlotte Evans ... back in London. She would have to let Her Grace know immediately. She slid along the shelves and out the shop door taking care not to let the bell chime.
Chapter 14
“Yes, Terence. I believe we’d all like more wine. Pour a glass for yourself if you like. Our sense of casual living doesn’t change now that I’m married. Am I right, my dear?”
“Quite. Please, Terence, sit. Have some food.” Phoebe smiled at the kindly butler.
“Thank you, both of your graces. I have prepared the drawing room for everyone’s after dinner entertainment. Susan, our young maid will be playing the pianoforte for your enjoyment.”
“How lovely.” Lady Mary Radcliffe was rapidly acclimating to life as a lady since Phoebe had discovered that Mary’s father had been an Irish Duke.
A letter had come to Wimpole Street for Phoebe. It had been misplaced what with the nuptials and subsequent parties. The letter’s information confirmed that Mary O’Reilly was a lady in her own right.
Since she’d stopped feeling like an interloper of the peerage, she found she was remembering the vague notions and etiquette her mother had shared with her before the age of five when Mary had been orphaned. She’d then been sent from one distant relative to the next until, finally, an elderly aunt had given Mary a domestic position so she could, at least, learn a trade and stay out of the orphanage or the poor house.
“Yes, and while you ladies enjoy that, I’ll take your husband from you for a moment, Lady Mary. Tom, may I see you in the library?”
“Your Grace.” Tom nodded, then gave Mary a light kiss, after which the women retired to the drawing room.
In the library, Atwater poured two glasses of Spanish brandy. “Cigar, Tom?”
“No, but if you have any of that snuff that was going around at your wedding party.”
“Yes.” Atwater opened the top right-hand drawer of the huge desk that had belonged to his father, the first Duke. It stood solid and imposing in a corner of the room. His adoptive father’s desk. Now his. He’d told no one … no one but Tom, about the knowledge his mother had bestowed upon him just before her death.
He’d found it almost amusing that he was now Duke Atwater, and he wasn’t even related to the man he’d thought until the age of fifteen had been his father. As it was, there were no other male relatives in the family. Robert had no issues with appropriating a title and fortune that was bequeathed only as primogeniture.
“Thank you.” Tom accepted the little snuff box and partook of the contents.
“Mind or you’ll begin to resemble that hideous cousin of my wife, Duke Carlisle.” Atwater grinned.
Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 73
