Page 15 of An Alleged Rogue

With a smug grin, Freddie watched through the window. Tim wove around two ladies and the footman walking in their wake before breaking into a run and pushing open the doors of the bank. Freddie narrowed his eyes, wishing he could see through the bank’s shrouded windows. This was the only part of his current charade that was completely out of his control. He hated that fact, even as he recognized its necessity. Everything hinged on the bank teller recognizing Tim from the local shop and making the currency exchange with no questions asked.

He paced across the width of the narrow shop, turned on his heel, and paced back. The bank door remained closed. Freddie fingered his pocket watch. Five minutes. That was as long as he would wait. If Tim did not reemerge before then, he would walk away. The doorbell jangled, and Freddie swung around. An older woman entered, dressed in the coarse cloth of the working class. She bobbed a polite curtsy in Freddie’s direction before walking over to the buckets of fresh vegetables.

Freddie shifted. He was within an arm’s length of the door but could still see the bank through the shop window. Behind him, the woman was gathering carrots and placing them in her basket. Outside, three boys ran past, chasing a dog. The dog barked, swerving as the bank door opened. Freddie tensed. Tim ran down the steps and started toward the shop. In his hand, he held a fistful of bank notes.

Smoothing down his waistcoat, Freddie straightened his shoulders and schooled his features into a relaxed smile. The door flew open, and Tim burst in.

“I have the notes, sir.”

The female customer had moved from the carrots to the turnips. At Tim’s startling pronouncement, she looked up. Freddie turned slightly so she could not see his face.

“Nicely done, Tim.” He reached for the money, gratified to see that it was a mixture of ten- and five-pound notes.

“Will you be paying fer your tea now?”

“Absolutely.”

Freddie had all but forgotten about the small brown-paper package sitting on the counter. He stepped closer and picked it up. While Tim hurried to the other side of the counter, Freddie slipped another ten-pound note out of the pocket in his breeches and replaced it with the money Tim had given him.

“Take this,” Freddie said, handing the shopkeeper’s assistant the ten-pound note. “Keep the change. That should cover any inconvenience your trip to the bank may have caused.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “But, sir . . .”

“Good day to you, Tim.”

Freddie already had the shop door open. An empty hackney carriage was approaching, and he hurried down the shop’s front steps to hail it. The driver spotted him and slowed his vehicle. Freddie moved to the edge of the pavement and prepared to make his escape. It may be some time before the bank teller discovered that the young man from the local shop had passed him a forged fifty-pound note. Afterward, someone may be bright enough to question the authenticity of the ten-pound note currently in Tim’s possession. But by then, Freddie would be far from Piccadilly Road.

The Hadford carriage rolled up Dunsbourne Manor’s drive. Phoebe slid a little closer to the window and watched the beautiful house come into view. The late summer sun was shining, making the windows gleam and giving the warm-colored brick a rosy glow. Deep-green ivy clung to a portion of the walls, the color reflected in the abundant and magnificent trees and shrubs surrounding the house. It was, perhaps, the most inviting house she’d ever seen. And that was not what she had anticipated of a house owned by a gambler and a tyrant.

Phoebe pressed her hand to her stomach to quell the nerves fluttering there. Surely she had no need to fear. Miss Norton had invited her to visit, after all, and Phoebe would not be the only stranger on the premises. Her maid, Lucy, would be by her side, and the Hadford carriage, along with its driver, would be awaiting her outside. No matter if Lord Dunsbourne kept his sister trapped on his property, he could not prevent Phoebe from leaving when she was ready.

The carriage stopped opposite a white portico. The driver stepped down and opened the door. Phoebe took a deep breath and allowed him to help her alight.

“Wait here for me, if you would,” she said.

“Very good, miss.” He moved aside as her maid joined her.

“Are you ready, Lucy?” Phoebe asked.

Lucy grasped the large basket in her hands more tightly. “Yes, miss.”

Raising her chin, Phoebe mounted the stairs and knocked on the door. Moments later, the door opened to reveal an aging butler.

“Good day, Miss Hadford,” he said with a bow. “Please come in. Miss Norton is expecting you.”

The feeling that she was stepping into a prison dissipated the moment Phoebe entered the house. She had anticipated an atmosphere of dark foreboding. Instead, a brightly lit hall decorated with a large vase of freshly cut flowers and an assortment of paintings depicting the village of High Brodmore and the nearby countryside met her gaze.

“My name is Thompson, Miss Hadford,” the butler said. “May I take your bonnet and shawl?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Phoebe untied the ribbons beneath her chin and handed her outerwear to the butler.

“Very good, miss.” He set them on a nearby table. “If you will follow me. Miss Norton is in the drawing room.”

With Lucy a few steps behind her, Phoebe followed the butler down the passageway on the right. The first door was ajar, and Thompson stopped, gave a light knock, and pushed it open.

“Miss Hadford to see you, miss,” he said.

Phoebe stepped into the room in time to see Miss Norton come to her feet with a welcoming smile.