Page 55 of An Alleged Rogue

“Peculiar because my ankles are showing, or peculiar because I look like a maid?”

Lucy shook her head. “Neither of those things, miss. It’s only that it don’t matter what you wear; you could never pass as a servant. You are too good for my clothes.”

“That is where you are wrong, Lucy. It has taken me until today to consider being half as generous as you.” She reached for her gloves and bonnet. “Now, let us see if I can escape the house without anyone noticing my unusual attire.”

Although the day promised to be warm and sunny, the morning chill necessitated a cloak. The covering hid the better part of Phoebe’s clothing and enabled her to leave the house and request her mare at the stables with no one the wiser. If the stableboy who helped her mount noticed her gown, he kept his silence, and before long, Phoebe was riding across the fields that separated Charwell Park from Dunsbourne Manor.

Oliver was in the stable when Phoebe arrived, and he took charge of her horse right away.

“Is Lord Dunsbourne in the cart shed already this morning?” she asked.

“I believe so, miss. He’s usually the first one there.”

“What of Miss Norton?”

Oliver scratched his head. “Can’t say that I’ve seen ’er today. Course, I haven’t been much farther than the stables yet.”

From somewhere across the meadow, a cock crowed—a reminder that it was still early. Opting to try the house first, Phoebe walked the path to the front door and knocked.

Thompson answered. “Good day, Miss Hadford,” he said with a bow.

“Good day, Thompson. Is Miss Norton available?” She noted the look of hesitancy on the butler’s face. “I realize that it is far too early for a social call, but I believe she is expecting me.”

“Phoebe! You are here!” Emily’s voice rang out from the staircase, and she hurried down the last few stairs to join her.

Thompson stood aside, and Phoebe entered the main hall to greet her friend. Emily was dressed in a plain, light-blue gown and had her bonnet and gloves in hand.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course,” Phoebe said.

Emily linked her arm through Phoebe’s. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It will be a new adventure, and new adventures do not come along often enough.”

Emily pursed her lips. “Perhaps I could have used that argument with Miss Glover.” She thought for a moment and shook her head. “No. I do not think it would have won her over any more than me telling her that I wished to exercise. She is not overly fond of exercise or adventures.”

“You could tell her you are outdoors to study nature,” Phoebe suggested. She was trying not to think about how many insects they would likely encounter during today’s endeavor; she had no doubt they existed in abundance in the orchard.

Emily beamed. “I shall tell her exactly that when she joins us later this morning.”

Phoebe attempted to hide her dismay. Having Miss Glover nearby would be akin to having a black raincloud hanging over them. But she could not deny that it was another set of hands in the orchard, and that certainly had priority over her own contentment. She wished she could have brought Lucy to help—or better yet, a footman or two—but taking Charwell Park servants from their duties at home would have required offering her mother a full explanation of what she was about at Dunsbourne Manor. Given her mother’s current wariness concerning the baron’s character, she would likely have disallowed all assistance—especially Phoebe’s.

They exited the house and cut across the back lawn to the orchard. Voices reached them through the trees. Emily veered right, leading Phoebe toward the sound. They wove through the apple trees until they spotted Henry talking to a branch.

“This one and then the three next to it,” he said. “We need all these King of the Pippins in tumps by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pair of spindly legs appeared between the leaves. It seemed that the gardener was not talking to the tree after all.

“Good morning, Henry,” Emily said.

The old man looked up, and above his head, the branches swayed wildly. Apples rained down, and Henry took three hurried steps back.

“Watch yerself, Weston,” he called. “Come down ’ere and talk to the ladies.”

Seconds later, a small boy dropped out of the tree. “Sorry ’bout the apples, Uncle Henry. I didn’t mean fer them to come down on yer head like that. I was jus’ tryin’ to get meself on the ground.”