The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount Read Online Free PDF Page A

was a hearth, a chest of drawers, and a small vanity. The paint was peeling from the walls; the floors were wooden and scuffed.
    “And the workroom,” Farley said, walking to an interior door. It opened onto an adjoining room.
    Her workroom was covered in a thick layer of dust that suggested it had not been used in some time. Several pieces of broken furniture lay around the room. The fabrics and dressmaking tools Mrs. Ramsey had sent ahead had been tossed haphazardly into a corner. At least someone had had the presence of mind to put down a canvas cloth to keep them from the filthy floor. As in the other room, paint was peeling from the walls and a large water stain marked the plain ceiling.
    But the room was at the end of the wing and at the front of the house, and on three walls were pairs of six-foot windows. Phoebe moved through the debris to look out the windows. She grazed her hand against the casing and leaned forward. The views below the windows were of lush greenery and vivid gardens, and, Phoebe noted, the front drive.
    “Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper, will deliver you a bucket with water and lye, as well as rags and mops, on the morrow,” Farley informed her.
    “Oh?” Phoebe said, her brow wrinkling in confusion. “Do you mean…?”
    “A footman will be along shortly to start a fire in the hearth,” Farley continued, clearly meaning precisely what Phoebe feared—she was expected to clean these rooms herself. He nodded politely. “If there is nothing else?”
    “No, thank you,” she said, a bit rattled.
    He bowed and left her to her rooms. Phoebe stood there a moment. She closed her eyes and imagined a famous modiste in a wonderfully appointed workroom. With a sigh, she opened her eyes, removed her gloves, and tossed them along with her bonnet and reticule onto a broken chair. She looked around at the mess. It would take quite a lot of work to make the room functional, she thought, and apparently, she would have to do it herself. It seemed she would have to reimagine her fantasy somewhat.
    Phoebe idly walked to the windows facing west and looked out over the sublime landscape in the day’s fading light. There were rolling green lawns, extensive gardens, and a deer park beyond. She smiled, shifting her gaze to the lawn just below, and imagined the feel of the cool grass beneath her bare feet.
    As she gazed at the lawn, two figures emerged from the house. One was an elderly man with thinning white hair, seated in a wheelchair. His body was covered by a lap rug, and his hands were folded neatly on top of it. The person who rolled him out to the middle of the lawn was Summerfield—she recognized his riding coat.
    They paused near the fountain, and the two men watched the sun sink into the woods until the light faded and Phoebe could no longer see them.

Three
    N o one thought to bring Phoebe any supper, and as she was entirely unaccustomed to foraging on her own, she retired early and hungry.
    She was jarred awake sometime later by the sound of raised voices rising up to her through the flue. She sat up with a start and stared into the darkness, straining to hear. There were at least two men involved in the argument, and a woman was crying.
    The arguing shocked her. She lowered herself and pulled the coverlet up under her chin, folded her pillow around her head to block out the sound of the voices, and tried to sleep.
    But it was impossible—the arguing continued until the morning hours, and it felt as if she’d hardly slept at all when she was startled awake by the sound of hammering. At the first heavy thud, she shot up with a gasp, and then groaned when she realized what it was.
    She felt very cross as she washed and dressed. It was so early the night mist had not even lifted from the ground. Who could be working at such an ungodly hour? Phoebe could only guess how long it would be before someone brought her lye and water. Or a bit of food, for heaven’s sake.
    Perhaps she could walk around the