“I’d say she’s adjusting quite well,” Seraphina commented with a grin, and elbowed Phoebe gently. “One never knows who might rise above their disreputable past.”

Two strikes of the bell and a long whistle blast signaled the train’s departure. As the locomotive began to pull away from Alton Station, Phoebe felt a hollowing sadness inside. There was something melancholy about a train whistle, the twin notes bracketing the air like an empty set of parentheses. Overcome by a longing that, for once, had nothing to do with Henry, she nudged aside the edge of a gold-fringed curtain to look at the platform.

Among the milling of passengers and porters, a lean, dark form stood with a shoulder casually propped against a support column.

West.

Their gazes met across the platform as the railway carriage passed. Phoebe stopped breathing, waves of alternating heat and chills leaving her shaken. It wasn’t just physical desire—although that was certainly a considerable part of it. In the measure of a few days, a connection had formed between them. An inconvenient, painful connection that she hoped wouldn’t last for long. She stared at him without blinking, trying to keep him in her vision every possible second.

With a faint curve of his mouth, West reached up to touch the low brim of his hat. Then he was out of sight.

Chapter 20

Essex

Three months later

Phoebe looked up from her writing desk as Edward Larson’s tall, lanky form strode into the front parlor of Clare Manor. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

A warm smile crossed his lean face. “A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“Naturally.”

As always, Edward was impeccably dressed and groomed, the perfect picture of a country gentleman. His medium brown hair was parted on the side and arranged in neatly trimmed waves. He was clean-shaven, but not by choice: he’d once tried to grow a pair of fashionable sideburns, but his facial hair had come in as sparse and patchy as a young lad’s, forcing him to abandon the attempt.

“It looks different in here,” Edward commented, glancing around the room. “What have you changed?”

“The curtains.”

“These are new?” he asked, regarding the cream silk curtains.

Phoebe laughed. “Don’t you remember the brown brocade ones that were there for the past thirty years?”

He shrugged, his brown eyes smiling. “Not really. In any case, I like these.”

The curtains had been part of a redecorating project that Phoebe had undertaken as soon as she’d moved back to the Clare Estate. She had been dismayed to discover that even after two years, the entire house still had the atmosphere of a sickroom. It had been quiet and musty, the rows of sash windows shrouded with heavy curtains, the walls and carpets dingy. Compared to her family’s airy, light-filled home in Sussex, it had been appalling. If her children were to live here from now on, she had decided, it would have to be aired out and redecorated.

Using funds from her jointure, she had sent to London for books of wallpaper, fabric and paint samples. She had hired local painters to cover walls with cream paint, and craftsmen had sanded the floors and woodwork down to a natural finish. The ancient carpets had been replaced by hand-knotted rugs from Kidderminster with sage or cream backgrounds. Deep-buttoned chairs and sofas had been reupholstered in green velvet or floral chintz. Although Phoebe was far from finished, she was pleased by the results so far. The smells of mustiness and decay had been replaced by fresh paint, wood polish and newness. The house was alive again, emerging from its long spell of mourning.

“Shall I ring for tea?” Phoebe asked.

Edward shook his head and bent to kiss her cheek. “Not on my account. Regrettably, I can stay only for a few minutes. I have a bit of business to discuss with you.”

“You’ve brought the account ledgers?” she asked hopefully.

Edward hung his head in a show of penitence.

Clearly, he hadn’t.

His boyish charm did nothing to ease Phoebe’s irritation, which stung in several places at once, as if she’d been surrounded by a swarm of bees.

For reasons she still didn’t entirely understand, Edward had taken it upon himself to remove the entire mass of account books, including all the home farm and tenant ledgers, from the study at Clare Manor. He had transferred them to the private offices he and his father shared in the nearby market town. Not only did the Larsons manage their own property, they also superintended farmland for many well-to-do families in the county.

When Phoebe had discovered the Clare Estate books were missing, Edward had apologized for having forgotten to tell her, and explained it was easier for him to manage the estate farms from his father’s place of business. He had promised to return them as soon as possible, but every time Phoebe reminded him, he had a convenient excuse for delaying.

“Edward,” Phoebe said reproachfully, “It’s been three months since I first asked for those ledgers.”

“I knew you were busy with the redecorating.”

Somehow Phoebe managed to keep her voice calm, despite the crawling annoyance. “I’m capable of doing more than one thing at a time. I would like the account books returned as soon as possible. You’ve come to visit at least twice a week—happily for us—but on any of those occasions you could have brought them.”

“It’s not as easy as tossing them in a satchel,” Edward pointed out. “It’s an unwieldy load.”

Phoebe’s brows rushed down. “And yet you managed to cart them away,” she said with an edge to her voice. “Can’t you bring them back using the same method?”

“Here, now,” Edward exclaimed, his tone changing. “I didn’t realize how important it was to you. I just thought . . . it’s not as if you’re going to do anything with them.”

“I want to look at them. I want to understand the state of affairs, especially where the tenants are concerned.”

“The estate is doing well,” Edward said earnestly. “The rents have come in like clockwork. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” He paused, looking wry. “I know the Ravenels have set you all atwitter about modernization, but it’s in a landlord’s interest to take a moderate approach. We don’t want you to spend all your capital on impetuous schemes. My father recommends a slow and steady course of progress, and so do I.”

“I’m not ‘all atwitter,’” Phoebe protested, disliking the implication that she was being flighty or harebrained. “I intend to learn about my tenants’ problems and concerns, and discuss reasonable options to help them.”

A fleeting smile crossed his lips. “Any tenant you ask will have a long list of needs and wants. They’ll do their best to wring every last shilling from you, especially if you’re offering to buy machines to do their work for them.”

“Surely it’s not wrong of them to want their work to be less grueling. They could be more productive with less effort, and perhaps gain some leisure time in the bargain.”

“What do they need leisure time for? What would they do with it? Read Plato? Take violin lessons? These are farm people, Phoebe.”

“I’m not concerned with how they might spend their leisure time. The question is whether they have a right to it.”

“Obviously you think they do.” Edward smiled fondly at her. “That’s evidence of a soft heart, and womanly sympathy, and I delight to find those qualities in you. Now, about the account books . . . if it will set your mind at ease, I’ll return them as soon as possible. Although you won’t be able to make heads or tails of them without me. The estate accounting system has its peculiarities.”

“Then spend an afternoon here explaining accounting to me.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Phoebe remembered the afternoon she’d spent with West . . . poring over books and maps, drinking wine, laughing at his silly quips about cows . . . and those searing minutes when she had ended up on the floor with him, half mad with excitement and pleasure. Oh God, how she wished she could forget. West should have faded from her thoughts by now, but he hadn’t.

In the past three months Edward had made careful advances, developing their friendship into an easy and undemanding courtship. There had been no declarations of wild passion, no smoldering glances or risqué comments. He was too much of a gentleman for that.

Edward’s reply jerked her back to the present. “We’ll make a day of it,” he promised. “However, I won’t have time for that until I return from my trip. That’s the business I came to discuss.”

“What trip?” Phoebe asked, gesturing for him to accompany her to the settee.

“It has to do with the dowager,” Edward said. “She called at my parents’ home yesterday morning.”

“I didn’t know about that.” She shook her head in bemusement. “How is it that I live in the same house and she didn’t see fit to mention it?”

Edward looked rueful. “I gather there’s still friction between the two of you over the redecorating.”

Phoebe groaned and leaned back into the corner of the settee, her gaze lifting heavenward. “I told her she couldn’t turn the entire house into a shrine to Henry’s memory. It was as dark as a morgue. I compromised by leaving most of the upstairs rooms untouched—I’ve even moved out of the master bedroom into a smaller one down the hall—but none of that seems to have satisfied her.”

“She’ll adjust in time,” Edward said. “In the meantime, you’ll be happy to learn she’s found a resort where she wants to winter this year.”

“Georgiana is leaving for the winter?” Phoebe asked blankly. “After badgering me for two years to move back here so she could see her grandchildren every day?”

“Are you looking a gift horse in the mouth?”

“No,” Phoebe said quickly, making him laugh. “When is the gift horse leaving?”

“In two days.”

“So quickly? Goodness gracious.”

“There’s a new resort in Bordighera, at the Italian Riviera, with furnished villas available at reasonable rates. However, there’s a catch. The resort manager has reserved two villas for us to look at, but they can’t be held for long, since they’re in high demand. Georgiana asked me to escort her there and arrange for one of them and see to it that she’s properly settled. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. At least a fortnight, perhaps longer. If Bordighera isn’t suitable, I’ll have to take Georgiana directly to Cannes or Nice and arrange for something there.”

“It’s a bit early to start wintering before autumn has begun, don’t you think?”

“Gift horse,” he reminded her.

“You’re right.” Phoebe sighed and smiled at him. “It’s very kind of you to go to such trouble for her.”