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 aperson, 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 agirldressed 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 arenotrogues!’ 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.
‘Andif 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 oftheRoger 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 Iappropriate,keep company withrogues, or sell mywares!’
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.
