A Treacherous Engagement

Chapter One

Fortunately, the sun had dried up the puddles, so the road to Dorchester was good. They made speedy progress, and the clocks had barely chimed eleven when she was set down outside Paulet's Bookbindery, Printers and Stationers in Church Street.

For the hundredth time, Phoebe peeped inside her reticule to make sure her reply to the advertisement was still safely ensconced there, then stepped down and ordered the coachman to take the carriage around the corner.

As she entered the gloom of the shop, the smell of freshly tanned leather mingled with the bitter smell of ink, oil from the press and the comforting, edifying smell of paper assailed her. The place was busy, and her heart jolted in fear that it was filled with mature women with an ardent desire to do Grand Things for the Foundlings' Hospital. Fortunately, the only other females amongst the throng of gentlemen were two very elderly ladies, poring over the bookshelves.

With her newspaper under one arm, Phoebe marched purposefully to the counter and placed her application letter into the hands of the clerk.

"Here is a response to this advertisement." She unfolded the Dorset and Devon Herald and pointed at the front page. Her cheeks reddened as the clerk read the notice aloud, alerting the entire shop to her business. She pulled her bonnet forwards and prayed there were no acquaintances present to complete her humiliation. Or pass the word on to Molly.

Reaching behind him, the man hunted through a sheaf of papers and books before retrieving a folder. As he placed her precious paper inside, she saw to her relief the folder was empty—her application was the first. Dared she hope it would be the only one today?

"You have made sure to include your directions?" the clerk enquired.

"I have, indeed. Thank you, and good morning."

She had just turned to go when a movement beside her resulted in the crash of broken china, a masculine exclamation, and the feel of something wet hitting her ankle.

"Oh, madam, I am so sorry. How ridiculously clumsy of me. Sir, have you a cloth? Some blotting paper mayhap?"

At first, she failed to pay any attention to the speaker. All she could focus on was the grim black stain spreading across her cream-coloured stockings and the hem of her gown. Someone had dropped—and broken—a large bottle of ink right at her feet.

A space was cleared around her and there was much muttering, but it seemed she was the only victim of the spill. How utterly, entirely depressing. She'd been trying so hard to economise and was making all her gowns last as long as possible, but it would be a miracle if she could get the ink out of this one.

"Permit me." The perpetrator of the disaster was now kneeling by her feet, dabbing at her shoes, and knocking broken fragments of stoneware out of the way. The clerk had come out from behind the counter to support her by the elbow as the stranger continued his ministrations.

She found her voice. "Enough. Thank you, gentlemen, but I fear there's no more you can do."

The stranger coughed politely. "May I make recompense to you for the damage done to your gown, Miss—?"

"Duvall." Recompense would be excellent—she could no longer afford to be above such a thing. But she couldn't take a man's money here, in a shop, like some doxy plying her trade.

"Sir, may we discuss this outside?"

"Certainly." He turned to the clerk. "My apologies to Mr Paulet. I shall, of course, pay for the ink and its container and any other property I may have damaged. Many, many apologies."

He hustled Phoebe out the door and into the sunny street. Then he looked down at himself, stretched each long leg out in turn, and twisted to check for blots. Which drew her attention to what he was wearing—a yellow jacket and breeches, with a frill of lace cuff protruding from the sleeves. She hadn't noticed the gaudiness of his attire in the comparative gloom of Paulet's.