Page 11 of An Alleged Rogue

“Very well.” If possible, she would like to avoid further contact with the baron until she had determined how to act around him. “Let us make our way quickly.”

The trail meandered down the slope through clumps of bracken and around blackberry bushes laden with underripe fruit. In a matter of weeks, there would be a bounteous crop of berries. As though wishing to stake its claim, a starling landed on the nearest bush. The weighted branch swayed as the bird trilled a warning song. Aria flicked her tail impatiently, but the stable boy eyed the berries with interest. Phoebe smiled. The horses may not have much interest in the blackberry patch, but the young man was a definite threat.

The ground leveled off, and before long, they reached the river. The apple orchard was closer now, and Phoebe could see the fruit hanging on the branches more clearly. Up ahead, a flash of color caught her attention, and with a start, she realized there were two ladies sitting on the ground beneath the tree nearest the water. Her heart sank even as her gaze darted to the trail. She had not deviated from the prescribed public path, but she would be passing within a few feet of them.

One of the ladies looked up as she approached. Phoebe recognized her immediately and felt the stiffness in her shoulders subside. Miss Norton’s dark hair was pulled up in a tidy plaited crown—a far sight better than the coiffured monstrosity she’d sported at the Palmers’ gathering. She wore a simple green day dress, and she was sitting on a plaid blanket with a book on her knee. Beside her, an older lady with gray hair pulled up into a severe bun sat with her hands clasped around knitting needles, a ball of wool on her dark-blue skirt.

“Miss Hadford!” Miss Norton rose to her feet and greeted her with a shy smile.

Phoebe reined Aria to a halt beside the women. “Good afternoon, Miss Norton.”

Miss Norton gestured toward the older lady. “Miss Hadford, this is my former governess, Miss Glover. Miss Glover, this is Miss Hadford. She lives at Charwell Park, not more than a mile away.”

Moving stiffly, Miss Glover came to her feet and bobbed her head politely. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Hadford.”

“And I you,” Phoebe said. A former governess. And yet still a permanent resident at Dunsbourne Manor. Perhaps Miss Norton had not been so completely alone in the house as Marianne believed.

Miss Norton glanced nervously from Miss Glover to Phoebe. “You are out for a ride, then?”

“Yes. But I had no intention of encroaching on Dunsbourne land. Forgive me if I have disturbed you.”

“There is nothing to forgive. The public path has been here for decades.” She tightened her grip on her book. “I enjoy coming out here when the weather is fine. It is a good place to sit and enjoy the sights and sounds of the river.”

“And read an engaging book.” Phoebe pointed to the volume Miss Norton was holding. “What are you reading today?”

A hint of color touched Miss Norton’s cheeks. “A Discourse of English Trees. I . . . I was hoping I might learn more about the trees in the orchard. Unfortunately, I have yet to read past the growing need for oak trees to supply the navy with warships.”

Phoebe smiled sympathetically. “Not quite the same, is it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Perhaps there will be something about apple trees later in the book.”

“Perhaps.” Miss Norton looked doubtful. “I daresay my brother could tell me all about them, but I was hoping to do this on my own.”

“Your brother takes an active interest in the orchard, then?”

“Oh yes. He is out checking on the trees long before I rise in the morning and often does not return to the house until much later in the day.”

Phoebe’s suspicion that she had seen Lord Dunsbourne near the apple trees was confirmed, but the schedule Miss Norton described did not sound like the lifestyle of a hardened gambler. She wanted to believe that with regard to betting away his inheritance, at least, the baron had learned his lesson and reformed. But a wholesale transformation seemed unlikely. Could a gentleman bet on an apple harvest?

“He must be quite anxious about this year’s crop.”

“I believe he has high hopes for it.” Miss Norton bowed her head, and Phoebe’s stomach clenched. What was causing the young lady’s distress? Was it something Lord Dunsbourne had done?

“I do not mean to pry, but you seem somewhat uneasy. May I do anything to help?” Phoebe asked.

Slowly, Miss Norton raised her head until her dark-brown eyes—so like her brother’s—met hers. She swallowed hard. “My brother wishes me to have some new gowns made.”

Whatever Phoebe had been expecting, it was not this.

“I see,” she said, although, truly, she did not. Why would the anticipation of such an enjoyable endeavor cause a young lady to quake in her slippers?

“You saw the gown I wore on Saturday. It was . . . it was . . .” Miss Norton shook her head. All at once, she looked dangerously near tears. “I would rather not feel so out of place at a social function again.” She took a deep breath. “Miss Selfridge, the village seamstress, is coming to the house to measure me for two new evening gowns the day after tomorrow, but I have no idea what to ask of her. By my own admission, I am sadly lacking in my understanding of fashions or fabrics.” Her cheeks pinked. “You were the most elegantly dressed lady at the Palmers’ house, and I wondered . . . I wondered if you would be willing to assist me.”

“You wish my help in choosing evening gowns?”

“Unless it would be too great an imposition.” Miss Norton’s book would soon come loose from its spine if she continued to mangle it as she was now.