Secrets of a Proper Countess (14 page)

She watched the lights of Mayfair waver through a haze of tears.

It took just a single glance from him to melt her determination. Even now, despite the fact that she'd very nearly been caught in Blackwood's arms, her body craved his. Disaster had loomed over her and still she wanted more. Charlotte indeed.

She was just like her mother.

She shut her eyes. She regretted everything now—her costume, her weak will, even the decision to attend both this ball and Evelyn's.

But most of all, she regretted that he'd left her so soon.

“T
hey brought in a man we need to talk to,” Adam explained. “He came across the Channel with documents that suggest they plan to move against King Louis sooner than we thought. Sorry I had to interrupt you. We can't wait to question him.” He spoke with quiet formality, and didn't sound sorry in the least.

“You do understand why I had to interrupt you, don't you?” he asked then, a tinge of irritation in his voice. “Beside the fact that my wife was giving a ball not twenty yards away and my son was asleep upstairs.”

“You sound like my grandfather,” Phineas said.

“Was it her? Your mysterious masked lady?”

Phineas's mouth tingled from kissing her, and his body ached for more. He didn't want to share her with anyone, especially Adam, but he knew Adam would keep asking. “Yes. It was her.”

Adam sighed. “Good. At least you know who she is now.”

Phineas didn't dare answer that. He knew she wasn't married. He knew she had a tiny mole on the back of her neck. He knew she liked cherries, and him. But
her name
remained a mystery. One he would have solved by now if not for Westlake's bloody interruption.

“Well? Who is she?”

“You saw her. Did you recognize her?” Phineas countered.

“I saw her for all of fifteen seconds before you whisked her away. She was wearing a mask and a wig. Apart from that, the only thing I noticed was—” He stopped, and Phineas bristled.

“What?” he demanded, knowing the answer but determined to make Adam say it anyway. He pulled his hand into a fist in readiness, wanting a reason to fight, any reason.

“Her costume was rather low-cut.”

Phineas was about to launch himself at his brother-in-law when Adam began to laugh. “What the hell is so funny?”

“You. I've never seen you twitterpated over a woman. It's fascinating.”

“Oh, is it? I suppose it's never happened to you, you stiff, unfeeling—”

“Of course it has,” Adam said blandly, ignoring Phineas's anger. “The moment I set eyes on your sister.”

Phineas fell back against the squabs, the wind knocked out of him. Adam
loved
Marianne. But he wasn't in love. He wasn't the kind of man who fell in love, and despite his grandfather's edict, he wasn't the marrying kind either. He would probably wake up tomorrow morning and realize he'd had his fill of the mysterious Yasmina, and her charms had paled in his imagination.

Except he knew by the stubborn jut of his erection that wasn't going to happen.

They arrived at Horse Guards and the coach came to a halt. He didn't wait for the footman to open the door.

“Phineas?” Adam caught his sleeve.

He turned so sharply he nearly knocked Adam flat. “What?”

“Just remember you don't know who she is. She might be a spy, or a courtesan, or someone completely inappropriate to be a marchioness. Don't lose your heart to her. Or your nerve. Not now.”

He met Adam's eyes with a hard glare intended to tell the
nosy bastard it was none of his business. He was in complete control, as always. When he got back to the conservatory he'd see to it that she answered every question. He turned to climb the steps.

“Come on. Let's get this over with.”

 

Illuminated by only a single candle and the scant light from a brazier, a man sat tied to a wooden chair in a basement cell. The contents of a battered leather satchel, including opened letters, a knife, a pistol, and a few personal items, lay on a table.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the man demanded in English, eyeing the costumes Phineas and Adam wore. Phineas ignored the question and looked at him carefully. He was dressed like an ordinary English fisherman, right down to his heavy, salt-caked boots. He held Phineas's eyes boldly, as if daring him to find anything wrong with his disguise.

“You're French,” Phineas said quietly.

He flicked insolent eyes over his captors. “I can't tell what you two dandies are. I've never seen clothes like yours before. Why am I being kept here?”

“He's Henry VIII and I'm Sir Walter Raleigh. You can't get more English than that,” Phineas said. “We need to know why you're in England. Who sent you, and who were you waiting for?”

The man's grin slipped a little, but he didn't reply. He slid his eyes away from Phineas's stare and looked at the embroidered bear's paw shoes Adam wore. “I like your slippers, sweeting,” he quipped. “Like I told the bastards who jumped me, I was in that tavern looking for a whore. Perhaps you'll do. I just got paid for a fine catch o'herring.”

Adam didn't even twitch at the taunt. He sat down and crossed his legs as if the ridiculous shoes were a pair of his fine Hessians.

Phineas went through the items on the table. The letters were in some kind of code, folded but without seals. The pistol was still loaded, and the knife was spotless. There was a small pouch of coins on the table as well. He picked up the handkerchief that lay incongruously amid the other items like a duchess among rogues. It was a fine square of linen, edged with lace. The monogram in the corner was a single curling letter M, pierced through with an embroidered rosebud.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It's a gift for my wife.”

“She'll be a widow, then,” Phineas said in French, and watched the man's eyes flicker. “Unless we find out what you know.”

“I don't know anything,” the prisoner said, his English accent losing the sound of the sea, becoming careful in his agitation.

Phineas picked up a letter and scanned it, pretending to understand the coded contents. “Look, Westlake. This could get him hanged for treason.” He handed the page to Adam.

Adam glanced at it. “Or as a French spy.”

“I'm not!” The man objected. “I'm not a spy!”

“Then explain this,” Phineas said, holding a second letter in front of the man's face. His complexion turned as pale as milk in the candlelight. Phineas picked up the pistol and cocked it.

“It's not mine,” the man tried. “I found the satchel on the beach.”

Phineas grinned at Adam. “I love when they lie.” He laid the pistol across his wrist and pointed the barrel at the man's long Gallic nose.

“Is that blood on your shirt?” the prisoner asked, his voice an octave higher. Phineas glanced at the cherry juice staining his ruffled linen cuff, and forced himself to concentrate, not to think of her lips wrapping around the sweet fruit and his
fingertips, or the delicate scrape of her teeth and the spurt of juice as she bit down.

“Yes,” he replied. “Your partner refused to tell me what I wished to know, and it got messy.” He spoke lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. The man shifted, and the ropes that bound him to the chair creaked, but held fast.

“Is he dead?” Adam asked Phineas, playing the game.

Phineas merely smiled, letting his teeth flash while his eyes remained cold, dead pools of shadow. He hadn't moved the pistol.

“Look, I'm only a fisherman,” the prisoner tried again, but the careful English accent failed him entirely now.

“'E say ee's a feeshermon,” Phineas mocked.

“I'd say he's a friend of Lord Philip Renshaw,” Adam said.

“Who?” The man looked genuinely confused.

“Or Robert Maitland, perhaps, the late Earl of Ashdown? Or his brother Charles?”

The man shut his eyes, gathering his wits. “Look, there's a dozen estates, and a hundred lords of La-di-dah near Hythe. I don't know any of them.”

“This could take all night,” Adam sighed.

“Not at all,” Phineas said smoothly. He aimed the pistol and fired. The prisoner screamed and the chair toppled backward. Crimson drops of blood splashed the stone wall, gleaming in the candlelight, and trickled toward the floor like cherry juice.

Adam leapt to his feet. “What the hell have you done, Blackwood?”

“I haven't got time for this,” Phineas muttered. He grabbed a pitcher of water and dashed it over the prisoner's blood-spattered face. He came to with a splutter, and Phineas righted the chair with the prisoner still tied to it. The man's left ear-lobe was gone, his rough shirt stained with blood.

“You shot me!” the man blubbered.

“Looks like I missed, actually. Blame it on the drink,” Phineas said, and passed the pistol to Adam. “Do me a favor and reload, will you, old man?”

“
T'es fou!
You are mad!” the man cried, his eyes darting from Phineas to Adam.

When Phineas took it, he felt Adam's hand clutch it tight for a moment, a subtle warning. He met his brother-in-law's eyes. “I have no intention of staying here all night. If he knows nothing, then why keep asking him?” He lowered the pistol to rest against the man's temple. The prisoner whimpered as the cold metal touched his sweaty skin. Phineas cocked the pistol slowly, the click of the mechanism satisfying, deadly.

“Do you have any last words you'd like us to give to Lord Philip, or Napoleon, or whomever is in charge of this fool's errand you know nothing about?”

The man blubbered. The acrid smell of urine filled the room as he wet himself in terror. “It's not Lord Philip!” he screamed.

“Then who's in charge?” Phineas insisted, grinding the muzzle into the man's cheek. “I want his name!”

“It's not a man!” the prisoner screamed in French. “It's a woman, for God's sake. An
English
woman.”

“Who is she?” Adam demanded, grabbing the man's rough collar. “What's her name?”

“I don't know, I swear it,” the man sobbed. He swung his eyes toward the table, not daring to move his head against the pistol. “The handkerchief is a token. I was to give that to the man in the tavern, and he would pay me for the letters. That's all I know, I swear. I am a carpenter from Normandy, I live in Gravelines. Someone asked me if I wanted to make some money. My wife is with child and I—”

A cold slick feeling of dread crept down Phineas's spine. He felt Adam's eyes on him.

“Phin,” Adam said. “Is it her, your masked woman? Who the hell is she?”

But Phineas's eyes were on the prisoner. “Yasmina.” He growled the name. “Does that mean anything to you?” he demanded.

The Frenchman miserably shook his head.

Twenty minutes later they were back at De Courcey House. Many of the guests had gone, and Phineas and Adam hurried toward the conservatory. Four footmen accompanied them, armed with pistols and lanterns.

The soft light of dawn crept through the glass ceiling. Phineas searched the shadowy folds of the plants and found nothing. He looked at Adam, who stood waiting grimly as each footman shook his head.

Phineas dug his fingers into the bark of the cherry tree and looked at the discarded fruit on the ground. He bent to pick up a small silk rosebud, lost from the wig she'd been wearing. A rose like the one stitched on the handkerchief.

“My lord?” A footman dropped something in Adam's palm. He examined it and then held it up to Phineas. A small portrait dangled at the end of a broken chain.

Phineas held it up to the light. “It's a child. Is it Jamie?”

“No. This doesn't belong to Marianne,” Adam said. “Jamie's hair is fair. This child has brown hair, or perhaps it's red. Hard to tell even if it's a boy or a girl.”

Phineas clutched the little portrait in his palm. “She said she wasn't married.”

“Phineas, we have to find her,” Adam said soberly.

“I know,” he replied.

This time it was more than a personal quest for an intriguing lover. If she was a spy, then she was damned good at it. She'd tricked him, fooled him twice and slipped away. Now, for the honor of England and his own sanity, he had to find the delectable Yasmina, and outwit her.

“O
ur first ball at De Courcey House was a marvelous success, I must say,” Marianne gloated as she and Isobel strolled through the park the next afternoon. “I believe it was one of the premier events of this Season. I shall have to convince Adam to make it an annual event. I shouldn't admit it, but there were so many guests I didn't have the opportunity to greet everyone. That would be quite unforgivable if it hadn't been a masquerade. You were there, weren't you?”

Despite the warmth of the spring sun on her face, Isobel felt cold.

Marianne hadn't recognized her?

She forced a smile. “Of course I was there. Your town house is lovely.” Especially the conservatory.

Marianne put her arm through Isobel's. “Good, then we can gossip. What was your costume?”

It hardly seemed possible. Marianne had
seen
her. So had Lord Westlake and a library full of sharp-eyed
ton
matrons. Afterward she hadn't slept a wink, certain gossip and scandal would follow her out of the conservatory like the ills of Pandora's box.

“I was Char—er, a shepherdess,” Isobel choked out the lie. “Blue muslin, with a yellow ribbon on my hat.” She pulled her black woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders as Marianne frowned, trying to recall the costume.

Isobel watched her son playing happily by the pond with Jamie and felt shame. Was there a person in this world she loved as much as she loved Robin? Oh, what she'd risked for a few moments of selfish pleasure!

Desire for her lover stirred.

She had to admit that Blackwood was her lover now. He made her feel alive and happy, and if she had the chance to make love to him again, she knew she would be powerless to resist the temptation. Even now her body ached for him, ignoring common sense. The only solution was to stay as far away from him as possible.

She smoothed her fingertips over her cheek where the skin was still tender from his kisses, and resisted the urge to sigh.

Marianne shook her head at last. “No, I'm certain I didn't see you, but the crush was dreadful.” She leaned in to whisper, “I think there might even have been a few people present who were not invited guests.”

Isobel's eyes widened. “Really? How do you know?”

“Well, for one, there was a most extraordinary lady with my brother, dressed in pink. I most certainly didn't know
her
.”

“Oh?” The light spring air suddenly grew thick, difficult to draw into her lungs.

Marianne pursed her lips. “I can only assume she's Phin's latest amour.” Her expression turned avid, hopeful. “Did you see her? She had a beautiful costume, all pink satin, lace and ribbons.”

“Er, no,” Isobel croaked. “Did you see her face?”

“Well, I might have, but her costume—well, I mean, it was very…” Marianne held her gloved hands in front of her chest. Quite a way in front of her chest. Isobel felt her face heat. “It was very—
distracting.
Fortunately she disappeared almost as quickly as she appeared, which was for the best. A single hop in one of the country dances and she'd have been Blackwood's newest scandal, and Adam can't abide a scene.”

Isobel stumbled. Scandal. Ruin. Disgrace.

“Oh, good heavens, I've shocked you,” Marianne said.

Isobel's icy fingers crept up to her collar, wrapping her shawl around her neck so tightly she nearly choked. She made herself let go.

Blackwood's newest scandal.

Honoria was sure to hear about the lady in pink
somewhere
. She loved gossip. Her mother-in-law would ask her if she'd seen the woman. What if Charles remembered her costume?

“Let's sit down, shall we?” Isobel said, and sank down on a nearby bench without waiting for Marianne to agree. Under her dowdy gray gown her heart pounded.

The ducks immediately congregated at their feet, paddling in place, eavesdropping. They'd quickly learned to avoid the corner of the pond where Jamie and Robin were playing.

“Actually, I'm quite worried about my brother,” Marianne said, sitting beside her.

“Really?” Isobel asked, curiosity mixing with icy dread.

“My grandfather wants him to marry this year. He's thirty-two, you see, and I heartily agree it's time, but Grandfather has chosen the Duke of Welford's daughter, Lady Amelia, for him.”

Jealousy ignited in Isobel's chest. She didn't even know Lady Amelia, but hated the duke's daughter Blackwood would share his life with. She studied her gloved hands and tried to still the black emotions churning in her belly.

It was ridiculous. She couldn't marry him, and she couldn't keep letting him make love to her in dark corners at masquerade balls. She resolved to refuse any future invitations to masked events, and to strictly avoid even speaking to Blackwood.

Especially at his wedding.

“Mind you, I want him to find a bride,” Marianne said,
“but I do hope it won't be Lady Amelia. She isn't the right sort of girl to make him a good wife.”

Isobel forced her hands to unclench from the painfully tight fists they'd formed. “Why isn't Welford's daughter right for him?”

Marianne snorted. “He'd be bored in a week with a milk-and-water child like Amelia! He would look for amusement elsewhere, with someone like the lady in pink, and he'd be just as miserable as he is now. He needs a woman of spirit to bring him to heel and keep him there.”

“And who might that be?” Isobel asked, stiffening her spine, steeling herself to hear the name without reacting, but Marianne surprised her, turning her spine back to jelly in an instant.

“That's where I need your help. Do you know anyone who might be suitable? You watch carefully, observe people at every event. You must know a lady who might be—”

Isobel leapt to her feet in astonishment. “Oh, Marianne, don't ask me that!” she cried, her frayed nerves snapping under the strain. Careful and observant, was she? What would Marianne say if she knew the truth? She could no more help her friend choose a wife for Phineas than she could fly. Oh, how she wished at this moment that she could! Unfortunately, she was rooted to the earth, with Marianne's curious gaze fixed on her.

“Why, Isobel, whatever is wrong?” Marianne asked, as stunned as Isobel by the outburst. Isobel watched in horror as her friend's eyes widened with sudden understanding and her hand flew to her mouth “Oh! Oh, of course, now I see.”

Isobel's stomach rolled. “You do?” She waited for Marianne to recall that the lady in pink looked very much like her. Sitting down again, she tried to think of an excuse, a reason for her behavior, a convincing lie. She felt as if she'd spent weeks doing nothing but making up lies.

But Marianne patted her hand. “Of course I understand. You were very much in love with your husband, weren't you? I mean, you must have been, to mourn him for so long after—”

The shocking supposition had Isobel back on her feet in a second. “No!” she said, the word torn from her. “No, Marianne, you are quite wrong. I didn't love Robert Maitland. Nor did he love me!” She couldn't bear to have her friend think that she had loved a man as dull and hateful as Robert.

“You didn't love him?” Pity warred with shock in Marianne's eyes.

Isobel knew she had said too much. She bit her tongue until she tasted the iron bitterness of blood, and stared at the ducks, still listening with pebble-eyed fascination.

“Please don't ask me to suggest someone for Blackwood. I cannot.” Her heart clenched in agony as she retreated behind a mask of bland placidity, trying to calm her emotions.

“Well of course not! I can only imagine you have a very poor opinion of marriage, if your own was so unhappy,” Marianne said. She rose to her feet and laid her hand on Isobel's arm. The soothing touch, and the pity that came with it, were most unwelcome.

“Have you considered marrying again?” Marianne asked. “For love this time?”

Isobel swallowed the bitter lump that rose in her throat. “I can never marry again.”

“Why not?” Marianne asked. “Many widows take a second husband. Not all men are bad. Westlake is a wonderful husband. You're young, and you're pretty. I'm sure if you came out of mourning, you'd have more offers than you could count.”

Isobel clenched her jaw on the despair that hovered just below the surface of her skin. Her legs were trembling with the effort of staying calm. A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts, as intimate as Blackwood's caresses.

Marianne leaned closer. “Have you considered taking a lover?”

Isobel's jaw dropped, and Marianne giggled. “It's not so shocking as that, Isobel! Many ladies do, you know. Someone discreet.”

Marianne's expression sharpened and she tapped a gloved finger against her chin as she scanned the selection of gentlemen in the park. Isobel couldn't force an objection past the leaden lump clogging her throat. She didn't want another lover. She wanted—

“Blackwood!” Marianne's eyes lit up as she turned to Isobel with a wide grin.

Isobel shut her mouth with an astonished snap. Marianne laughed.

“Oh, Isobel, I've shocked you yet again. I didn't mean taking
him
as your lover, though gossip says he's very accomplished in bed. I meant that he is sure to
know
someone. Phineas spends enough time lurking in the shadows of the demimonde, and Adam says that he knows everyone in London.”

Isobel put a hand to her temple, where a headache was starting to throb. “Marianne, if Honoria knew I was even having such a conversation, you can't imagine what she would do, what she
could
do!” she pleaded. She cast a desperate look at Robin, soaked and happy.

She doubted very much Blackwood would be at all discreet once he stopped laughing at his sister's request. Everyone in London would laugh.

Everyone except Honoria.

“I have to go,” Isobel said, and picked up her skirts, moving quickly toward Robin.

“Isobel, wait,” Marianne called, hurrying after her. “Surely you want to be happy.”

Tears threatened now, but Isobel refused to let them fall.
Oh, yes, she wanted to be happy, but she would never consider trading Robin's happiness for her own. She was not Charlotte, not now in the crisp light of day after a night of indescribable passion,
not ever
.

She fixed a placid smile on her face, hiding behind Isobel the Invisible's imperturbable mask once again. “I like my life the way it is, Marianne. I have Robbie to raise, you see, and that's quite enough.”

Marianne sighed. “But if that's true, why are you crying?”

Isobel touched her hand to her cheek. It came away wet. She had not shed a single tear since her mother left. Not when her cold marriage was arranged, not when Robert died, nor even when his will was read. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew who her tears were for.

Blackwood.