ChapterOne
DEVON, 1820
Three months until the wedding
It was the perfect morning for a duel.
Or, at least it would have been had Miss Phoebe Fairfax lived between the covers of a novel where the heroine actuallydidthings, as opposed to watching her brothers do them all instead.
The chief offender among them was undoubtedly her eldest sibling, Lord Thomas Fairfax, currently snoring in his bedchamber after the devil’s own luck at the races, followed by an even worse run at faro. Which only made her own betrothal all the more vexing. To be betrothed by one’s eldest brother was bad enough. To find oneself promised to a gout-ridden old goat more than twice one’s age, and without so much as a by-your-leave,a downright outrage.
All of which had left her little choice but to embark on her current course of action – a dramatic yet highly essential dawn flight through the misted grounds of Knightswood Manor.
‘Papa wanted this match and you’re in no position to object, I’m head of this family now.’
A ready scowl descended as she hastened through the frost-bitten grass of her childhood home. Head of the family or not, it seemed Lord Thomas Fairfax, twelve years her senior, and her legal guardian for the last two, had little regard for anyone or anything, except washing his gambling hands of his siblings as fast as possible.
‘The earl is an old family friend, and the match will help to re-establish the Fairfaxes among the ton. Even you have to see that there is no discussion to be had; you will be the Countess of Cumberland in the spring and make the best of it!’
In truth, while becoming acountess didn’tsoundtoo terrible, she would challenge any young lady to remain in the same room as the crusty old earl for longer than two minutes without concluding it to be the very worst fate to be inflicted on anyone at all.
Phoebe conjured the image of his overstuffed waistcoat and moist, purple lips before shuddering. Quite apart from the fact that he couldn’t recall her name, their first meeting last week had only confirmed all the reasons why she should never become a countess.
‘Step forward into the light girl! Where I can see you!
‘Well, well, your brother could do with feeding you up a bit, but you’ll do… Nothing worse than a skinny countess, I say!’
She shuddered again, recalling the way his gaze had rested on her, making her feel the best prize calf her brother could offer after a long, hard winter. Except she had always been the Fairfax least expected to marry, let alone marry well.
Not that she couldn’t understand Thomas’s perspective, of course. No one had expected Papa’s sudden demise from a pernicious toe the year before and, despite being a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, Thomas was still only thirty years of age himself. Mama used to refer to it asa gentleman’s dangerous age, the time when he either married, drank himself into oblivion, or became a confirmed rake. Since Thomas had never made any mention of entering into domestic bliss, Phoebe could only assume he intended to embrace one of the latter two options, while subjecting the rest of his long-suffering brothers and sisters to hisMonstrous Marriage Master Plan, as her sister Sophie put it.
Phoebe stole a glance back at her bedchamber window, just visible in the pale clutch of dawn, and suppressed her rising guilt. Sophie was more than capable of keeping an eye on the Fairfax brood for three months, and she needed this time. She might not be able to escape Thomas’s master plan forever, but she could escape it for three months.Three precious monthsin which to live a lifetime of dreams; it was ambitious enough for any heroine.
She drew a steadying breath and hurried onto the carriageway through Knightswood’s famous avenue of oaks.
Thomas’s Monstrous Marriage Master Plan had begun the moment they lay dear Papa to rest. Phoebe’s four brothers didn’t feature of course, they were all in varying stages of education, and would have as much freedom as they wished, leaving all of Thomas’s unwanted attention directed at herself and their three sisters: Sophie, seventeen, Josephine, sixteen – and Matilda, twelve, who was already on her third governess this year.
Phoebe frowned at a burst of hopeful snowdrops, trying to escape the frost.
Even if Papa’s willhadcontained a request for his first-born daughter to make a match with his closest friend, the Earl of Cumberland – who was nearing sixty and alarmingly purple – it was a brother’s duty to protect her from such a fate, wasn’t it?
Or at least, give her a fighting chance.
Instead, he seemed more than happy to write off a London season as an expensive and unnecessary prelude, and go straight to the main marital event, which seemed just a little unfair when her younger sisters would have ample time to find suitors of a less gout-prone age.
Indeed, the more she’d thought on it, the more it seemed she’d been dealt the largest slice of ill luck since she’d won the hoopla at Knightswood Fair and Alfred, her second-eldest brother, made off with the candy floss. Yet, it was her fate all the same, unless she did something about it. And since she couldn’t imagine any of her favourite literary heroines marrying a crusty old earl without a dramatic adventure or two to sustain them for the rest of their days, she really had little choice but to embark on her current course of action.
A flicker of a smile flitted across Phoebe’s face – if only Fred could see her now, stealing away from Knightswood Manor in his old frock coat, breeches and boots, her dark copper tresses pinned up beneath a rotund country hat that had seen so many better days. Not that Fred’s lack of fashion bothered her. She was quite certain that the morebourgeoisher appearance, the less likely she would be to attract attention and the sooner she would be mistress of her own destiny. Plus, she was quite certain breeches could be the work of actual goddesses, and was in no mind to trade them for a skirt any time soon.
She paused as the bushes ahead rustled suddenly, and a juvenile doe stepped out on the path. They locked eyes briefly, before the doe bolted towards the rest of the herd in the park. Wistfully, Phoebe watched her darting path through the silver grass towards a waiting buck, his majestic antlers glinting in the amber light. She sighed. Papa used to tell stories about their elusive herd granting wishes, yet none of her siblings had ever been stolen away by moorland fae, leaving her little choice but to conclude that, at best, they were unreliable indeed.
Resolutely, she pushed on, drawing comfort from the sway of her reticule beneath her frock coat. She wasn’t such a ninnyhammer as to keep all of her pin money in one of her marvellous new pockets, now that she’d decided to board the common stage, and she still planned to write to dear Fred about a loan the moment she reached London.
A brief smile flitted across her face.
Dear Fred was the least vexing of all her brothers, as well as the one least likely to squeal to Thomas about her whereabouts once he knew the truth; plus he still owed her from the Hexworthy Racestwo years before. Briefly, she recalled the traditional Dartmoor horse race Fred had dreaded, while filling every bone of her defiant body with envy. Ladies weren’t permitted to compete, of course, but with the aid of his riding shirt and breeches – as well as another miraculous hat – she’d not only managed a very credible pass, but also brought home a highly coveted third place in his name. And now he could return the favour.
Phoebe inhaled brightly. She’d never travelled by stage before and was considerably excited by the prospect. Her old governess used to mutter about springs and padding for days after a journey, but she also had a taste for hogs pudding, which Phoebe found most suspicious. Besides which, she really had very little choice; the mail coach would be the very first place Thomas looked, and she could hardly take the Fairfax family chaise, or his favourite racing phaeton to London – there were some things even she wouldn’t do.
