‘Welcome to The Swan, ladies and gentlemen,’ a pompous voice boomed over the hustle and bustle. ‘An establishment of quality, serving persons of quality, the very best in quality food!’
‘I wonder what he saves for everyone else then?’ the farmwife muttered beside Phoebe.
‘This way to our comfortable tap room where we will be pleased to serve you from our fine selection of wines and brews! I’m sure you’ve worked up a thirst, and you’ll be hard put to find a finer local brew south of Bristol! And if it’s a bite to eat you’re after, I can personally recommend the roast beef!’
The landlord’s throaty sales pitch nearly deafened Phoebe as she absorbed her new surroundings. She cast his portly figure a covert glance as he stood on the freshly scrubbed step of The Swan Public Inn, rubbing his hands together and beaming his welcome amid the chaos in the courtyard. He looked every inch the sort her brother would call aright rum’un. And yet there was no denying the grumble of her stomach, either.
Indeed, it was just as she was pondering whether sampling the local brew might actually be something Fred would do, and therefore entirely in keeping with her new character, that a new commotion rippled through the courtyard.
‘Lawks, Ma! I swear, it’s the devil hisself!’ the farmwife’s daughter gasped, as a high-perch phaeton and two spirited greys thundered into the courtyard at such speed, that Phoebe felt sure they must run straight into the crowd.
A second gasp rippled through the courtyard as the carriage flew past, yet the tall driver appeared quite unconcerned, and merely executed the tightest of turns, before drawing to a sharp halt behind the stagecoach.
Phoebe caught her breath.
Could Thomas have discovered her already? Or was it Fred come to warn her that Thomas was on the warpath?
She had to concede that the latter was a little unlikely since she hadn’t even written to Fred yet, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She pulled down the brim of her hat and took a swift step backwards, straight into the farmwife’s dimpling daughter.
‘Oi! Watch me toes!’
‘Oh! I’m … so sorry,’ Phoebe mumbled, as the driver jumped down and strode around the rear of his equipage, the high gleam of his boots heralding his importance.
‘Lawks, I’ll live!’ The daughter grinned. ‘You’re so light-footed a gentl’man, I barely felt it at all!’
Phoebe smiled distractedly, trying to side-eye the newcomer’s boots and decide if he had Thomas’s impatient stride, or something more like Fred’s country snail pace. She sucked in a breath as the crowd parted, and then exhaled inrelief.
He had neither.
She squeezed the girl’s hand in a momentary lapse.
‘Thank you, I’m such a clumsy oaf at times!’ she breathed, as the girl dimpled beneath a monstrous straw bonnet tied with a garish pink ribbon.
Phoebe shrank back, suddenly aware that certain mannerisms acceptable from Miss Phoebe Fairfax, could be construed as something else entirely from Mr Alfred Fairfax.
‘That I’m sure you ain’t, is he, Ma? But you can buy me a cider to make up for it … if y’like?’
She stared, uncertain what to make of this dimpling girl, twisting a bonnet ribbon around her finger in a way that clearly meantsomething. Before she realised. The farmwife’s daughter was giving her ‘the eye’ as Fred would call it – she was flirting with her!
Phoebe felt a very undignified bubble of laughter threaten to surface, just as the landlord’s pompous voice filled the courtyard again.
‘Ah, Viscount Damerel! How lovely to see you, sir! If I’d known you were coming, I’d have reserved the best parlour. As it happens, I’ve only the smaller of the two left…’ He tailed off hopefully as the imperious-looking driver of the phaeton approached.
‘Water for my horses, Briggs!’ the gentleman returned bluntly.
‘Of course, sir! Right away, sir! You, boy, wake up!’ he relayed sharply. ‘Take the viscount’s horses to the stables and no dawdling!’
A young ostler sprang into action as the crowd jostled for abetter look at the viscount, who’d managed to change thepompous landlord’s whole demeanour with one witheringlook.
Phoebe’s eyes narrowed.
Viscount Damerel looked exactly the sort of gentleman over whom Sophie would swoon, given half the chance. He was tall and well groomed, with hair swept into some fashionable style Phoebe vaguely remembered Fred attempting to copy – he called it a Wyndham Fall or some such thing, or perhaps that was the tie of his cravat, she could never quite recall. He was also impeccably dressed: his coat fitted like a glove, his pantaloons were spotless, and his Hessian boots gleamed more than any pair she’d ever known. Yet despite all this, his nose was a shade too aquiline, his chin excessively proud and there was something in the tight press of his lips that did little to recommend him at all.
In truth, he looked the sort of gentleman who never climbed a tree, despite all the freedom afforded him.
She bristled involuntarily.
Her brothers would undoubtedly call him a ‘Corinthian of the first water’, but his puffed-up self-importance said only one thing to her:dandy.And whatever he thought about having the smaller of the two parlours was lost entirely as he strode inside, leaving the open-mouthed landlord in his three-caped wake.
