Rexanne Becnel Read Free Page B

sister of a baron, Phoebe’s mother had been prone to forgive the titled almost any sin. But even she had cautioned her two daughters that, rich or poor, men were lustful creatures who could never be trusted. A marriage contract was a woman’s only insurance. Consequently, a man still not committed to marriage by the ripe age of thirty must be looked at with some mistrust.
    But whether the viscount was an upright bachelor or a debauched rake was none of Phoebe’s affair, so long as she could still trade for what she needed from Mrs. Leake.
    Phoebe and Helen made their way up the steep brick road to Mr. Blackstock’s grand two-story residence to find that even he was in a dither over Lord Farley’s return to the district. It seemed that in his youth he’d been the previous Lord Farley’s confidant. As a result, the return of the younger Lord Farley had stirred up a wealth of memories in him.
    “’Tis a grand day for Swansford. A red-letter day. There’s nothing like having the lord in residence. It benefits the whole countryside,” he gushed, taking the books Phoebe returned to him.
    “Mrs. Leake shall certainly benefit,” Phoebe remarked. “Farley’s housekeeper was purchasing everything in sight. How many people are in his party, anyhow?”
    It was an innocent question, perfectly logical. Yet for some reason Mr. Blackstock averted his gaze and began restlessly to search the disorganized surface of his desk. “He, ah…I understand he has two, ah…guests. And of course, several additional servants to assist them.”
    “Two guests? Are they from London also? We haven’t had any toffs in these parts in a very long time.”
    Mr. Blackstock cleared his throat. “I’m not certain about that. Here, Phoebe.” He located what he was searching for on his desk and presented a neatly penned document to her. “This establishes you and your sister as your mother’s heir—just as she was your father’s heir. You and Louise are each half-owners of your family property on Plummy Head. You haven’t heard from Louise yet, have you?”
    “I doubt she’s even received the letter I sent her in London.” It had been over two years since they’d had any word from Louise. Not a Christmas letter, nor a note to Helen for her birthday. And of course, not a penny to help support the fast-growing child. No matter how many letters Phoebe sent, pleading for Louise to write her daughter even if she couldn’t send money, the letters were never answered.
    If Phoebe hadn’t become inured to her sister’s selfishness, she might have worried that something dreadful had befallen her. But Louise would always land on her feet, to the detriment of anyone standing too near. Louise was more likely too involved with her latest lover and her acting career to care about any of her family. Louise’s response to the news of their mother’s death would probably be little more than a shrug and an “Oh, well.”
    So much for being Emilean’s favorite daughter, the beautiful one who, as a child, could do no wrong. The irony was that Louise had fled Plummy Head and Swansford just as soon as she possibly could, leaving Phoebe to deal with their aging parents.
    Repressing a spurt of resentment, Phoebe scanned the document Mr. Blackstock had prepared, then signed as he indicated. Louise would write or show up when it was convenient for her to do so, and no sooner.
    Meanwhile, Phoebe wanted to inquire further about the goings-on at Farley Park. But it was plain to her that Mr. Blackstock had no intention of gossiping about the exalted son of his exalted friend. Phoebe was no fool, though, and she drew her own conclusions. She might be a country bumpkin, well on her way to becoming a spinster. But she read widely, and she knew something of the world. Besides, her sister was an actress on the London stage and the most notorious woman to ever hail from Swansford. During her last visit four years previously, Louise hadn’t minced any words—at