Page 28 of The Elusive Phoebe (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #1)

Chapter Twenty

LADY MARGARET THORNFIELD'S YORKSHIRE MASQUERADE

L ady Margaret Thornfield had been looking forward to this assignment with barely concealed glee. After fifteen years of playing the perfect widow in genteel society, the chance to be someone else entirely was irresistible.

She had chosen York specifically because no one there knew her, and because the city's mixture of ancient grandeur and modern commerce would provide the perfect backdrop for a wealthy widow seeking new investments.

Margaret's interpretation of Lady Smalling was quite different from Charlotte's theatrical grief. She had decided that her version would be a practical, business-minded widow, overwhelmed by sudden wealth and seeking advice about property management.

"I confess, I find myself quite out of my depth," she told the banker she'd arranged to meet on her first morning in York. "My late husband managed all our affairs, and now I discover he's left me with... well, rather more than I expected."

Mr. Whitmore, the senior partner at York's most prestigious banking house, leaned forward with interest. "How may we assist you, Lady Smalling?"

"I need advice about consolidating properties. Robert left me with holdings scattered across England—estates in Hampshire, houses in London, property in the northern counties..." Margaret paused, looking overwhelmed. "I hardly know where to begin."

"Perhaps we could review the portfolio together?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly share all the details here," Margaret said quickly. "Some of Robert's investments were rather... unusual. Connected to his government work, you understand. I'm not entirely certain what's appropriate to discuss."

She had perfectly judged the banker's personality. The mention of government connections and unusual investments had his full attention, while her apparent discretion only made him more curious.

"Of course, my lady. Perhaps we could arrange a private consultation?"

"That would be most helpful. Though I should mention, I may not be staying in York much longer. I have appointments to view properties in Scotland, and there are some rather urgent matters requiring my attention in London."

Over the next three days, Margaret established herself as the most intriguing client the banking house had seen in years.

She arranged meetings to discuss "property consolidation," asked detailed questions about investing "substantial sums," and generally gave the impression of a woman with far more money than experience.

But her real masterpiece was her performance at the estate viewing.

Margaret had arranged to tour Thornfield Manor, one of the area's grandest properties that happened to be for sale.

She arrived in a hired carriage, wearing her finest widow's weeds and accompanied by two "servants" (actually local women she'd hired for the day with strict instructions to look impressed by everything).

"Lady Smalling," the estate agent greeted her with the deference reserved for serious buyers. "Welcome to Thornfield Manor."

"How lovely," Margaret murmured, gazing up at the imposing facade. "Though I confess, after Robert's northern estate, I find myself preferring somewhat... smaller... properties."

"Your late husband had property in the north?"

"Oh yes, quite remote. Necessary for his work, of course, but terribly isolating." Margaret sighed dramatically. "I spent two years there after his death, settling his affairs. Such a relief to finally escape to civilization."

As they toured the house, Margaret peppered the agent with questions that painted a picture of vast wealth and complex inheritance issues.

"This ballroom is charming, though smaller than the one in our London house. Still, for Yorkshire society, I suppose it would suffice." She paused thoughtfully. "Of course, if I purchase a property here, I'd need to consider the security arrangements."

"Security, my lady?"

"Oh yes. Robert's government work made us rather.

.. visible... to certain unsavory elements.

There are people who believe I have access to information they'd prefer remained private.

" Margaret lowered her voice. "Irish revolutionaries, mostly, though I suspect there are English parties involved as well. "

The estate agent's eyes widened. "How concerning!"

"Indeed. That's why I require properties with multiple exit routes, secure communication methods, and staff who can be trusted with... delicate matters." Margaret smiled serenely. "My requirements are rather specific."

By the time the tour ended, the agent was convinced he was dealing with the widow of a high-ranking government official who possessed dangerous secrets and unlimited funds.

But Margaret's true theatrical triumph came during her visit to York Minster.

She had timed her arrival to coincide with the afternoon service, when the cathedral would be full of local society figures. Dressed in her most impressive mourning attire, she made a grand entrance just as the service was beginning.

During the prayers for the dead, Margaret made a show of being overcome with grief, requiring her "companion" (another hired actress) to support her as she wept dramatically for her "dear Robert."

After the service, she was immediately surrounded by sympathetic locals offering condolences and assistance.

"Such a terrible loss," murmured the Bishop's wife. "Was your husband ill long?"

"Oh no," Margaret replied through her tears. "It was quite sudden. A carriage accident on those treacherous northern roads. He was traveling on urgent government business—something about Irish troubles—when..." She broke off with a sob.

"Government business? How noble!"

"Yes, Robert was dedicated to serving the Crown. Perhaps too dedicated." Margaret dabbed at her eyes. "There were those who didn't appreciate his... discoveries... about certain seditious activities."

Within minutes, she had established herself as the tragic widow of a government hero who died in service to his country, possibly murdered by Irish revolutionaries.

the Crowning moment came when a suspicious-looking man approached her outside the cathedral.

"Lady Smalling?" he asked in a barely concealed Irish accent.

Margaret turned, allowing her face to show immediate fear. "Yes? Though I wasn't expecting... that is, how do you know my name? "

"I represent certain parties interested in your late husband's work."

Margaret glanced around nervously, noting with satisfaction that several cathedral-goers were within earshot. "I... I was afraid this might happen. Ever since I left the northern estate..."

"Perhaps we could speak privately?"

"I suppose we must." Margaret allowed herself to be led aside, but not so far that their conversation couldn't be observed by concerned bystanders.

For the next quarter hour, Margaret played the perfect combination of terrified widow and loyal wife.

Yes, Robert had been involved in dangerous work.

No, she didn't understand the details. Yes, he had mentioned something about Irish activities, but she was just a simple widow who wanted only to live quietly on her inheritance.

The man pressed her for specifics about documents, locations, and contacts, but Margaret deflected each question with feminine helplessness and apparent confusion.

"I keep all of Robert's papers locked away," she finally admitted. "Too dangerous to carry them about, you understand. They're safely stored at... well, I suppose I shouldn't say where. But somewhere no one would think to look."

"Where are you staying now? "

"Oh, I never stay anywhere long," Margaret said quickly. "Robert always said that moving frequently was the key to staying safe. From York, I believe I'll go north to Scotland. Or perhaps south to Canterbury—I have religious obligations to fulfill there."

She could see the frustration building in the man's eyes as she gave him multiple contradictory destinations and no useful information.

"I really must go," she said finally. "I have an appointment with an estate agent about purchasing property here, though between you and me, I'm not certain Yorkshire is quite remote enough for my needs."

She swept away, leaving the agent with the impression that Lady Smalling was a scatterbrained widow with dangerous secrets, multiple properties, and no fixed destination.

The next morning, Margaret departed York with great ceremony, making sure to tell the hotel staff, the carriage driver, and anyone else who would listen that she was "bound for Scotland to view castles, though I may stop in Durham first if the roads are good."

As her carriage pulled away, she could see the suspicious man frantically preparing his own departure, no doubt eager to report that Lady Smalling had been located but was frustratingly mobile and unhelpfully vague about her future plans.

Dearest Lady Joanna,

I am pleased to report that York now considers itself honored to have hosted the mysterious Lady Smalling, widow of a government hero and possessor of dangerous secrets.

The local banking house is convinced I'm seeking to invest vast sums in Yorkshire property, while the cathedral congregation believes I'm a tragic widow fleeing Irish revolutionaries.

The estate agents think I'm looking for a secure fortress, and the hotel staff are certain I'm bound for Scotland (or possibly Durham, or perhaps Canterbury—I may have given conflicting information).

I was approached by one rather persistent gentleman with an Irish accent who seemed most eager to discuss dear "Robert's" papers. I convinced him that I'm a helpless widow who moves frequently, stores important documents in secret locations, and has no fixed plans for the future.

The performance at York Minster was particularly effective—I believe I may have accidentally convinced the Bishop that my late husband was assassinated while preventing an Irish uprising.

I do hope our Irish friends enjoy chasing me across the Scottish Highlands. I've given them enough false destinations to keep them busy for months.

Your devoted actress, Margaret

P.S. - I may have accidentally purchased a rather lovely hat while in character. Lady Smalling apparently has excellent taste in millinery.