Courting the Countess (30 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Courting the Countess
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“Who wants a drink?” a drunken male queried to his companions.
There were numerous voices of concurrence. The panes of glass from the other door reflected the blurred movements of the library’s occupants. Brook guessed there were four or five people. One or two sat while the others seemed content to explore the room. She allowed her head to rest against the rough exterior stone and prayed no one would come out onto the balcony.
“Pour me a drink,
mon ami
. And do not be stingy with the earl’s sherry,” Carissa Le Maye said, boldly stepping out onto the balcony.
Brook watched from her hiding place in wide-eyed horror as Mallory’s former mistress braced her arms against the railing and sighed. The humiliation of discovery might have been bearable if it had been anyone but this woman.
“Your drink, madam,” a male voice called out. “Unless you want company out there.”
Tell him no,
Brook silently begged the widow, and inched deeper into shadows. The balcony was embarrassingly overcrowded as it was.
“
Non
,” Mrs. Le Maye replied, giving up her view with a mutter of regret. “The night is too young for exclusive games.” She turned away and returned to the library’s interior.
It took everything within Brook not to whimper in relief.
There were some indistinct murmurs, and then, a woman giggled. One lady with a high grating voice asked, “Did he beg you for an introduction?”
“Who? Lord A’Court? Yes. I refused, naturally,” the woman to the right of Brook replied. “The poor man must be
besotted with the little widow to humiliate himself in front of the
ton
as he has lately on her behalf.”
“I met the lady once. I recall she had a comely face,” a gentleman interjected.
In an amused tone, Mrs. Le Maye retorted, “When did you look, my lord? Your inclinations are decidedly below a lady’s neck.”
Everyone chuckled. Brook peered over the side, realizing she was too high off the ground to slip off the balcony unnoticed. She was a prisoner until the merry little gathering abandoned the library.
“Someone told me her face was the only part of her body that is not scarred,” the high grating voice confessed, sounding horrified and pleased by the notion.
“I heard Lyon used the cat on his countess.”
“Naw, a whip is too brutal,” the drunken gentleman disagreed. “She is a bitty thing. Likely to cut her in two.”
Two of the ladies gasped.
“I heard it was birch.”
“Or maybe the earl burned her flesh with an iron.”
Brook buried her face in her hands, trying to block out their speculation about how her husband had marked her. Amidst their laughter and murmurs she could summon in her mind an image of Lyon chasing her. His gray eyes glinted like the winter sun on ice as he pushed her to the floor and used his body and fists to keep her there. She could have told them that her husband had not used a whip or an iron on her. Lyon had used his teeth to tear, his sharp nails to gouge, and the ring on his finger to slice her flesh.
She bit her finger to prevent her teeth from chattering.
“Why would Lord A’Court want to marry someone so—damaged?” the woman on the right wondered aloud.
“Perhaps this sickness infects all of the A’Court heirs,” Carissa Le Maye suggested. Brook could envision her tiny shrug of indifference. “I suspect the A’Court family prefers
to keep the widow away from polite society. What better way than to marry the new heir?”
“A’Court seems interested in making a place for the countess and himself in town,” a male companion said, unconvinced by Mrs. Le Maye’s reasoning.
“It is simply a ruse to gain her trust, you fool!” the widow snapped. “Just wait. A’Court will be making excuses to send her away once his betrothal ring is on her finger.”
“You just do not like the thought of Mallory Claeg courting Lady A’Court,” the lady with the high voice said slyly.
“Mr. Claeg does not court widows. He beds them. I should know. I have heard him say those words often enough. He should adopt them as the family motto.”
“What a wicked thing to say, Carissa!”
“When has she been anything else?” the drunk quipped.
The ensuing silence troubled her. Leaning to the side, she tried to see what they were doing. Realizing the widow was standing close with her back to the open doors, Brook quietly retreated.
“I tire of this waiting. Let us leave,” Mrs. Le Maye said, her voice warming to the idea. “He can catch up to us later.”
“Does the countess know she shares him with you?”
“Not for long,” the widow assured her companions. “Men may be initially charmed by innocence, but they lose interest once it has been corrupted.”
Brook listened to the fading laughter and ribald jesting as the door closed behind them. With her arms crossed against her chest in a protective gesture, she leaned against the wall and made her own plans.
 
Mallory was not in the best humor when he climbed into the coach’s compartment and glared at Brook. “I have been searching the Haslakes’ town house from top to bottom for you.” Since he calculated the chances of her jumping from a moving coach as remote, Mallory signaled the coachman to
commence. “The evening is not half over. When I came across Lady Haslake, she told me of your leaving. What is all of this about, Countess?”
“The concept should not be difficult, sir. I am going home.”
The interior was just too dark for him to see her face clearly, but he did not like the flat quality in her voice. “Did someone say something to upset you?”
Brook choked on a bitter laugh and shook her head. “Spoken or unspoken, it no longer matters to me. I was a fool to hope enough time had passed for …”
“For what?”
“For everyone to forget!” Brook stifled a sob. “Oh, just go back to your mistress. She and your friends are waiting for you.”
“Have you been drinking the Haslakes’ punch? You are making less sense than you usually do,” Mallory muttered, not understanding what had caused her upset.
The countess lunged forward. Instead of attacking, her goal was the small trap door that allowed the occupants within the compartment to issue instructions to the coachman. While Mallory held her trembling figure, Brook pounded on the door. “Stop the coach!” The coachman called out and the horses slowed at his barking command.
“Countess, let me get you back to your parents’ house. Then you can tell me what happened at the ball that has you acting crazy.”
“I am not crazy. I am ending this bout of madness,” she hissed. “Get out!”
Suspicion had him narrowing his eyes. “Is this about Carissa?”
Emitting a low growl, Brook opened the coach door. Fearing she was planning to climb out, Mallory blocked her escape. He had fallen neatly into her plans. As she braced herself with her arms, Brook kicked him in the chest. He fell
backward through the open door. Mallory landed on his back. The impact of the dirt street knocked the wind out of him.
While he gasped for air, the countess poked her head through the opening. “Farewell, Mr. Claeg.” She slammed the coach door and ordered her man to proceed.
Brook had left his pride as bruised as his arse.
Mallory decided in view of her hostility and his raging need for retribution to allow the night to pass before he forced a confrontation the lady well deserved. The following morning, he discovered the countess had been one step ahead of him all along.
Brook had returned to Loughwydde.
“Gill, I expect you to visit Mrs. Lane in my absence.” Mallory placed his hand on her shoulder and gazed down sternly at her. “Since I am depriving her of an empty stomach to cook for, it would not hurt if you ate whatever she put in front of you. For appearances.” He winked.
“Aye, Claeg. I could probably choke down a few of her sweets for your sake.” The young girl shrugged. “Messing surely doesn’t need ’m. Too many of his parts are drifting south, if you catch my meaning.”
Hooting with laughter, Mallory impulsively kissed her on the top of the head. “Do not tell Messing. I prefer that you keep your fingers intact. I will need my apprentice when I return.” He mounted the gelding.
“How long will you be gone?” She squinted at him, pretending that his answer did not mean anything to her one way or the other.
“For as long as it takes.” He looked down and realized she was unhappy with his reply. “Do not worry, Gill. I am not abandoning you. If you need anything, tell my housekeeper or go to my sister. She is residing at Sir Thomas Bedegrayne’s town house. Do you remember the street where he lives?”
She scrunched up her face. “I can see to myself, Claeg.”
“I haven’t the time to debate you, imp. It would please me if you stopped by the Benevolent Sisterhood, too.”
“A house of charity.” She sneered. “Not even for you.”
“Fine.” Mallory let the matter rest. For now. He could introduce Gill to Miss Maddy Wyman when he returned with the countess. “I will miss you, Gill. Keep out of trouble, if you please.” He touched the brim of his hat and nodded. He clicked his tongue and signaled the horse with his heels.
“Trouble? Heed the warning yourself!” she called out to him. “I’m not heading off to Cornwall after a lady who likely wants your head on a pike!”
 
Mallory headed east, hoping to see Amara before he left town. The obligations to his father had delayed his departure by a day. He was not overly concerned, since he was not traveling by post chaise.
Unlike the countess,
he thought with grim satisfaction.
The congestion of horses, equipage, and pedestrians forced him to slow the bay’s gait. Maneuvering the animal around one carriage and then another, he jerked on the horse’s reins abruptly when he recognized the lady.
Edda Henning.
The bay whinnied and shook its head at the abuse. Mallory had a few things he wanted to say to this woman. It was apparent his sudden appearance distressed her. She bent down and murmured to the child sitting beside her.
Until then, Mallory had not noticed the little girl. Mrs. Henning had birthed a child. Viewing her as a mother was almost beyond his imagination. The girl saw him and smiled. She looked like a beautiful doll. Her long blond hair already had a hint of her mother’s red coloring and was curled. The pair wore matching carriage dresses and bonnets. He estimated the child’s age to be around five years.
His blood congealed at the revelation.
“Order your man to halt!”
Something in Mallory’s forbidding expression must have frightened her. Mrs. Henning called out to her coachman. He
followed closely, wondering if she was so foolish to think she could escape him. Impossible. Mallory intended to get some answers from the lady.
Tethering his horse, he approached them, deliberately putting the child at ease with a friendly smile. “Mrs. Henning. A pleasure to see you again.” He shifted his gaze on her daughter. Mallory softened his voice. “And who is this?”
Wary of him, and rightly so, Mrs. Henning placed a protective hand on her child. “Mr. Claeg, this is my daughter. Effie, Mr. Claeg is a friend of your Mama and Papa’s.”
Beaming at him, she suddenly was overcome with shyness and buried her face into her mother’s bosom.
“What a fine little lady you are, Miss Henning,” Mallory said admiringly, fighting the thickness forming in his throat. “And how old are you, pretty?”
She held up five tiny fingers.
His gut churned with acid, threatening to betray him. “Well, that is deserving of a celebration, do you not think?” At the girl’s eager nod, he said, “Gunter’s is in sight. Why do we not let the coachman watch over our horses while we sample some sweets?”
“Mama?” the girl pleaded.
“Two against one,” Mrs. Henning said faintly. “How can I refuse?”
 
“You never mentioned that you had a child.”
Mallory had treated the ladies to pineapple cake at Gunter’s. Afterward, he had suggested that they walk the square. Mrs. Henning reluctantly agreed. They set a leisurely pace behind Effie as she raced ahead attempting to capture a butterfly.
“That is not unusual. Gentlemen rarely have the tolerance to listen to an indulgent mother.”
He ignored the weight in his heart. “Is she mine?”
Edda Henning pursed her lips in contemplation. “No, Mr. Claeg, she is mine.”
Forgetting about not wanting to frighten the child, he grabbed the woman’s arm harshly. “Try again.”
“You want to know who is the father of my child?” The corners of her mouth slyly curled. “Honestly, I do not know.”
She was toying with him. Contemptuously he released her arm. “I do not believe you. I can add, madam. I wager if I ask Effie what month she was born, I could place her conception around the time of your husband’s infamous country house gathering.”
Edda Henning did not deny his accusation. “Oh, those were the days, were they not? My husband always preferred gatherings that were rather wild and dissolute. I warrant most of the participants awoke with few memories of the previous night’s activities.”
And some never awoke,
he mused, thinking of Mirabella. “I recall enough, madam, to know there is a
possibility
.”
She glanced away from him and shouted to her daughter, “Effie, dear, do not wander so far from us!”
“Yes, Mama.”
While he debated on how to get Mrs. Henning to answer his questions, she solved his dilemma by saying, “You may not believe this, but my husband loves me. He could take to his bed a thousand lovers and still he would return to me.”
Mallory knew he would murder anyone who laid a hand on the woman he loved. “I am pleased it is a love match for you,” he said sarcastically.
“Oh, it is,” she assured him. “Two years passed in our marriage before we had to face that my husband could not get me with child.”
“How do you know—” He halted at her eloquent expression. Her carnal appetites had been relentless and she had been given her husband’s blessing to sample other men’s
beds. At some point, it was obvious, she had miscarried a child who was not Henning’s.
“By the time we had met you and Mirabella, I had grown weary of our life. I desired children but had a husband who was incapable of providing them. The solution seemed simple.” She had the audacity to laugh at his appalled expression. “Oh, Mr. Claeg, if you could see your face.”
“You stole that child,” he said, feeling used.
“On the contrary, she was given to me unreservedly and quite gratifyingly. It was all carefully planned. The gentlemen invited were handpicked. Wine and narcotics flowed freely to vanquish any inhibitions.”
“Why me?”
She offered him an odd glance, since the answer seemed apparent to her. “You were unexpected. I did not know my husband had invited you and your wife. It added spice to our game. He knew I was attracted to you, so perhaps you were there to present an enticing challenge.”
“And what of my wife? Her feelings?”
“I am not a cruel woman. She would have never known.” She frowned, thinking about that night. “My husband never cared about the others. We have never spoken of it, but I can only assume that jealousy prodded him into summoning your wife when he found us in bed.”
“What?” he starkly demanded.
“You do not remember? I am not surprised. It is one of the side effects of the potion. I confess, you imbibed more than the others, but they were not as resistant to my charms as you.” She emitted a soft sigh of remembrance. “Once you forgot about your wife, you were magnificent.”
“And Mirabella?”
The pleasure left her face. “My husband had told her that you were searching for her. He helped her check each room, saving our bedchamber for the last.”
Mallory’s jaw grew rigid in anger. “She saw us together.”
Edda Henning nodded guiltily. “I noticed her when I peered over your shoulder. She did not remain long.”
The pain of the past surged forth renewed. Although he had been a victim to the Hennings’ machinations, too, Mirabella had died believing he had betrayed her. He staggered a few steps, sickened.
“Effie is my daughter.”
“I cannot say, Mr. Claeg.”
“Damn you! Cannot or will not?”
“All games of sport have rules,” she said calmly. “Mine were simple. My husband insisted that I bed all five of the handpicked gentlemen within a specified amount of time. It was his way of ensuring that the identity of Effie’s true sire could never be ascertained.”
“Are you telling me the truth? You do not know who fathered her?”
“Mr. Claeg, I have no reason to lie. I risk nothing even if I stood here and confessed that you are indeed Effie’s sire. No court would favor you with rights and the
ton
would ridicule you if you tried to get them. The purported mother in question is a reputed whore. My daughter could have been sired by anyone. Let it be.”
There was no way for him to learn the truth. Mallory had spent so many years tormenting himself over his wife’s death. Was he planning to squander the remainder torturing himself over a mere possibility? “I should escort you back to your carriage. I am leaving town for a while.”
“Mr. Henning and I are also arranging another trip. I doubt we will meet again.”
Mallory nodded. He stood quietly as Mrs. Henning summoned Effie to her side. He knelt down and said farewell to the child. Her resemblance to her mother was striking. He saw nothing of himself in her. The fact that the child had blue
eyes and her mother had brown meant nothing. He was not the only man she had bedded who had blue eyes. The relief he desired never surfaced.
“Know one thing, my lord. Mr. Henning loves his daughter. She will be denied nothing.
“Except …” she let the word hang between them, “ … a brother or sister. Would you consider …” She licked her lips and grinned wickedly.
Mallory stalked off without replying. He did not think he could stop himself from striking down the manipulative witch, because her version of the truth left him wondering if this was just another game to her. Only this time, she was the one who made up the rules.

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