Page 7 of An Alleged Rogue

“No, my lord. But your mother had several, and when she passed, your father insisted that I leave her bedchamber exactly as it was when she was alive. I keep everything dusted, and I have taken nothing out. The late Lady Dunsbourne’s gowns are in her wardrobe still.”

Adam rarely entered his mother’s chambers, and he had certainly never considered the state of her wardrobe. “Would they fit my sister?”

“In length, I believe the gowns would be just right. I daresay the bodice would need to be taken in, but that is something a good seamstress could do in a matter of hours.”

It was a possibility, where only moments before they’d had none. “What do you think, Em?”

“Would you be comfortable with me wearing one of Mother’s gowns?” she asked.

“Absolutely. And if Mother were here, I believe it would give her great pleasure to have you do so.”

She smiled a sweet, tentative smile. “It might make her feel a little closer when I face a room full of strangers for the first time.”

Adam nodded. He had a fairly good idea of how frightened Emily was by the prospect of this unexpected launch into Society, and he was astonishingly proud of her for facing it so bravely. “You will be marvelous, Em.”

He turned to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Foster. As usual, we would have been lost without you. Would you go with Miss Norton now and help her choose a dress from our mother’s wardrobe? Then perhaps you would be good enough to arrange for Miss Selfridge to make the necessary alterations.”

“Of course, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I shall see to it right away.”

The housekeeper started out of the study, and Emily looked at him uncertainly.

“Go with Mrs. Foster and choose whichever gown you like best,” he said. “And after Miss Selfridge has finished working on it, we shall order some new ones to be made.”

“We shall?” Her wide eyes had returned.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “We shall.”

Chapter 3

The Hadfords were fashionably late to the Palmers’ dinner party. As far as Phoebe was concerned, their timing was perfect. They entered the house just as Miss Georgiana Chapman and Miss Marianne Webb returned from a tour of the gardens with Mrs. Palmer. Both young ladies appeared slightly glassy eyed, but they perked up considerably upon catching sight of Phoebe in the hall. Mrs. Palmer instantly gave her attention to greeting Phoebe’s parents, enabling Georgiana and Marianne to join Phoebe.

“Thank goodness you are come.” Georgiana slid her arm through Phoebe’s and turned her toward the drawing room. “If I had been required to exclaim over the incomparable beauty of one more flower, I might have expired.”

“I could not keep all the dahlias, asters, gladioli, and delphiniums straight,” Marianne said. “Truly. I have lived the last half hour in fear of calling one of Mrs. Palmer’s prize blooms by the wrong name.”

Phoebe laughed softly. “You have my sincere commiserations. The last time I was here, the roses were blossoming. I do believe our hostess has at least fifty varieties.”

“Fifty!” Marianne shook her head in amazement. “How could anyone remember the names of half so many?”

“I would say Mrs. Palmer is rather remarkable in that respect,” Phoebe said as the lady in question ushered Phoebe’s parents into the drawing room.

Phoebe and her companions followed them into the spacious room. The walls were painted pale yellow with white trim. Elaborate white crown molding ran along the tops of the walls and beneath the long marble mantelpiece. Wooden floors were polished to a shine, and a large floral rug lay between the two dark-green sofas and the occasional chairs. Every end table held an enormous vase of freshly cut flowers, and the paintings on the walls depicted men engaged in battle.

A quick glance around assured Phoebe that most of the guests were familiar to her. Georgiana’s father, Lord Forsness, was conversing with Colonel Palmer and Marianne’s older brother, Derrick, while Mr. and Mrs. Gosden were chatting with Marianne’s parents near the fireplace. Mrs. Palmer was leading Phoebe’s parents toward another couple whom Phoebe could not yet see well enough to recognize.

“No! I cannot believe it.” Georgiana’s stunned declaration accompanied a tightening of her grip on Phoebe’s arm. “Marianne, tell me I am not imagining things.”

Marianne was openly staring in the direction of Phoebe’s parents, her mouth slightly open. “I . . . I do not believe so, unless we are imagining the very same thing.”

“He’s truly here.” Georgiana had yet to move an inch. “And that young lady beside him must be his sister.”

“The one he has held captive all these years,” Marianne whispered.

“Captive? Who has been held captive?” Phoebe eyed her companions with alarm. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“The gentleman currently speaking with your parents is Lord Dunsbourne.” Georgiana pivoted so she was facing Phoebe. “He has not attended a social function for going on five years.”

“Why?” Phoebe could see nothing of the gentleman beyond a portion of his navy coat, tan pantaloons, and white wig.