‘It’s glued,’ Phoebe complained.
‘No, it’s not, it’s dressed, dearest – there’s a difference!’ Sophie frowned, adding another pin before Phoebe could dismantle her tumbling creation, duly powdered with wig powder until her dark copper locks looked almost blonde.
‘Now it’s perfect, so don’t you dare touch it again! I want everyone to meet asophisticatedMrs Mary Smith, not one who falls out of trees!’
‘I haven’t yet fallen out of the tree,’ Phoebe objected. ‘I scaled it twice today, just to practise, and didn’t so much as snag a stocking!’
‘Anyway,’ Sophie continued, rolling her eyes, ‘the Upper Assembly Rooms will be a squash tonight – or so the modiste said when we collected our ribbons – which means it should be relatively easy to mingle without fear of anyone identifying you.’
Phoebe raised her inky eyes to Sophie’s cornflower-blues, knowing exactly to whom she was referring.
She still couldn’t quite believe the universe had crossed her path with the viscount’s again – and in a modiste’s in Bath of all places. She closed her eyes and felt the humiliation anew. He already thought her a hare-brained fool, and now she’d confirmed it with her childish pirating antics – in front of one of the most dislikable matrons of the ton. She recalled his supercilious stare, and the way his eyes had gleamed when she’d met his gaze.
‘It seems to me, Miss Phoebe Fairfax, that if gallivanting around the countryside dressed as a bourgeois tallyman is your idea of freedom, you’re in need of your brother’s protection more than you realise. Young ladies of quality don’t get to be heroines.’
And why were her traitorous thoughts determined to keep reminding her what he thought?
She squeezed her fingers as she drew a deep breath. Let him think what he liked, she was a Fairfax first and would never apologise for it.
‘In truth, I’m just looking forward to actually seeing a little of Bath, without anyone having a fit of the vapours,’ Phoebe shrugged, picking up the spectacles and trying them.
‘Really?’ Sophie quizzed. ‘And here I was thinking you might have more pressing matters on your mind.’
Phoebe glanced at her wily sister. It was true she was feeling the ticking clock on her nuptials more than ever, but it seemed a little ambitious to hope an alias might attract a new suitor who was not only willing to overlook a peculiar dress sense, but was also desperate to marry within seven short weeks.
‘Well, I can’t wait to hear all about it,’ Sophie continued, leaning forward to rub rouge on her sister’s scowling face. ‘Bath is much more relaxed than London, so it should be easy for Mrs Mary Smith to have a little fun before the dreaded betrothal announcement…’
Her sister chattered on brightly as Phoebe conjured a picture of herself standing at an altar, next to the earl. She suppressed a deep shudder. She might laugh with the rest of her sisters, but in truth, the thought of calling herself the Countess of Cumberland in less than two months was terrifying. And it wasn’t so much the wedding day – she could grit her teeth and get through that – it was the thought of what came afterwards that haunted her.
She closed her eyes and swallowed the ready rise of nausea. There was time yet, and she was determined to use it.
‘Do you think old purple-face will be there tonight?’ Matilda asked, retying her cream sash as a trusty sword belt.
‘No one could be that unlucky!’ Phoebe returned with feeling.
ChapterTen
Eight weeks and one game of Questions and Commandsuntilthewedding
The Earl of Cumberland wasn’t at the Upper Assembly Rooms.
It did seem, however, as though most of Bath were, and from the moment she’d shinnied down the old maple with her petticoats tucked into her stays and ball slippers between her teeth, Phoebe had begun to feel quite hopeful, indeed. The private Hackney carriage hire had proven a lot easier to navigate than the packed stagecoach, no one had stared suspiciously at her powdered hair, and the cap had elicited only respectful glances – including one sympathetic nod from a society matriarch.
The Assembly Room was also just as Sophie predicted: full of starry-eyed debutantes, a handful of eligible gentlemen – and a concerning supply of ineligible ones, too.
All in all, apart from one small misunderstanding with a nosy footman – who actually turned out to be the Assembly Room announcer – Phoebe was convinced things had started as well as they could for any girl in search of adventure.
She sipped her ratafia and allowed herself a small smile. She’d made it – she’d escaped, and so far, no one had given her so much as a second glance.
‘Mrs Smith?’ a lady in lime chiffon, with a matching ostrich plume enquired. ‘Do excuse me, but I believe the announcer mentioned your family name was Kemble? Are you, by chance, any relation to the wonderful Sarah Kemble? I believe her stage name is Sarah Siddons?’
Phoebe swallowed, feeling as though the first chink may have just appeared in her otherwise very shiny plan.
‘Oh, why, yes!’ She smiled, praying the lady’s knowledge of the actress was limited. ‘I’m amuchyounger cousin, recently bereaved.’
‘Oh, I was hoping you’d say so!’ the lady exclaimed, clasping her hands dramatically. ‘I mean in regard to the cousinly connection,’ she added hastily. ‘I just adored her Lady Macbeth!’
She lowered her voice and fluttered her fan.
