Chapter 3

Phoebe and Helen made their way up the steep brick road to Mr. Blackstock's grand two-story residence to find that even he was in a dither over Lord Farley's return to the district. It seemed that in his youth he'd been the previous Lord Farley's confidant. As a result, the return of the younger Lord Farley had stirred up a wealth of memories in him.

"'Tis a grand day for Swansford, a red-letter day. There's nothing like having the lord in residence. It benefits the whole countryside," he gushed, taking the books Phoebe returned to him.

"Mrs. Leake shall certainly benefit," Phoebe remarked. "Farley's housekeeper was purchasing everything in sight. How many people are in his party, anyhow?"

It was an innocent question, perfectly logical. Yet for some reason Mr. Blackstock averted his gaze and began restlessly to search the disorganized surface of his desk. "He, ah ... I understand he has two, ah ... guest. And of course, several additional servants to assist them."

"Two guest? Are they from London also? We haven't had any toffs in these parts in a very long time."

Mr. Blackstock cleared his throat. "I'm not certain about that. Here, Phoebe." He located what he was searching for on his desk and presented a neatly penned document to her. "This establishes you and your sister as your mother's heir — just as she was your father's heir. You and Louise are each half-owners of your family property on Plummy Head. You haven't heard from Louise yet, have you?"

"I doubt she's even received the letter I sent her in London." It had been over two years since they'd had any word from Louise. Not a Christmas letter, nor a note to Helen for her birthday, and of course, not a penny to help support the fast-growing child. No matter how many letters Phoebe sent, pleading for Louise to write her daughter even if she couldn't send money, the letters were never answered

If Phoebe hadn't become inured to her sister's selfishness, she might have worried that something dreadful had befallen her. But Louise would always land on her feet, to the detriment of anyone standing too near. Louise's response to the news of their mother's death would probably be little more than a shrug and an "Oh, well."

So much for being Emilean's favorite daughter, the beautiful one who, as a child, could do no wrong. The irony was that Louise had fled Plummy Head and Swansford just as soon as she possibly could, leaving Phoebe to deal with their aging parents.

Repressing a spurt of resentment, Phoebe scanned the document Mr. Blackstock had prepared, and then signed as he indicated. Louise would write or show up when it was convenient for her to do so, and no sooner.

Meanwhile, Phoebe wanted to inquire further about the goings-on at Farley Park. But it was plain to her that Mr. Blackstock had no intention of gossiping about the exalted son of his exalted friend. Phoebe was no fool, though, and she drew her own conclusions. She might be a country bumpkin, well on her way to becoming a spinster. But she read widely, and she knew something of the world. Besides, her sister was an actress on the London stage and the most notorious woman to ever hail from Swansford. During her last visit four years previously, Louise hadn't minced any words — at least when their mother wasn't around - and the still impressionable Phoebe had soaked in every scandalous conversation.

So it seemed obvious to her now. If a bachelor lord had arrived unannounced at his country estate with two guests that a respectable gentleman like Mr. Blackstock could not acknowledge to an unmarried young woman like Phoebe, well, it must mean something improper. Most likely of women with questionable reputation.

Phoebe considered that a long moment as she stared blankly at the painstakingly penned document in her hand. How shocking if that were true. Certainly it would account for that housekeeper's short temper.

But it was no concern of hers.

"Now, Phoebe," Mr. Blackstock continued, clearing his throat. "Have you given any thought to what I said about selling the farm?"

She gave him an impatient look. "I'm sorry, but I'm still not ready to make that decision."

"You may be forced to do so. I cannot much longer ignore the fact that the taxes on your farm are seriously in arrears, child. How are you to assemble such a sum unless you sell out-" He broke off, then his lined face brightened in a hopeful smile. "Or perhaps if you were to settle on a husband? That's what you need, you know, a good hard-working husband to take care of matters like this for you-"

"Mr. Blackstock," she interrupted, barely repressing her frustration. Her mother hadn't been made particularly happy by marriage to a hard-working man. "I appreciate your concern for my financial predicament, but I came to town for another reason entirely. It seems we have a thief in our midst."

He blinked. "A thief?"

Though Mr. Blackstock was duly outraged by Phoebe's tale, his conclusion did not jibe with Phoebe's. "We haven't had a thief in Swansford since that Thornley lad was arrested eight — no, nine years ago. Robbed Leake's till he did, but we figured it out fast enough. No, he's the only thief from Swansford, 'less you count Dirty Harry and his habit of overcharging his customers once they get too soused to notice. So you see, Phoebe girl, it must be Gypsies. They're known to head up along the coast once the weather begins to warm up."

"It hasn't warmed up very much. Besides, Gypsies are more likely to steal chickens and goats."

"Well, now, I'm sure Gypsies use baskets and buckets like anybody else."

"And garden benches?"

He frowned, turning his bushy brows into one long gray line overhanging his eyes. "Maybe they took it for ... for firewood."

"With a forest full of wood available for the taking? Besides, have Gypsies been seen anywhere in the district of late?"