Secrets of a Proper Countess (27 page)

P
hineas wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the dark windows of the coach. He imagined Isobel sitting demurely inside. Then he pictured her in
his
coach, perched astride him as he made quick love to her, her face flushed as he pleasured her, her ugly bonnet askew. His finger twitched on the trigger of the pistol.

The door of the inn crashed against the wall, and a burst of noisy song and the thick smell of sour ale followed the innkeeper out of the taproom. He stalked across the yard to the coach, his shoulders hunched belligerently.

The coach window slid open and Charles Maitland's face appeared, fat and sallow in the golden light.

“Ho, there,
my lord
! Your bloody ‘package' is eating me out of house and home! Says he won't go until he's finished his meal,” the innkeeper complained. “I agreed to do this for the gold, and I'm going to need more money. Fine French wine doesn't come cheap, and he's already had three bottles of the best.”

Adam nudged Phineas. “Not Lady M, then. Any guesses as to who the gentleman might be?” he whispered.

“We'll know in a few minutes, I think,” Phineas replied. “It appears the Maitlands have come to fetch him.” He tried to see into the shadowed interior of the coach. Was the man another of Isobel's lovers? The idea knotted in his gut.

“You've been well paid, damn you,” Charles snapped. “Enough of your insolence! Send the gentleman out at once.” But Phineas noted that Charles's voice quavered and his tone lacked conviction. He mopped his face with a handkerchief.

The innkeeper folded his beefy arms over his chest, also aware that Charles was afraid, or nervous, or both.

“I said the payment wasn't enough.”

Charles's mouth worked without sound. He wasn't quick enough to come up with the kind of reply that would put the greedy landlord in his place. Phineas raised an eyebrow and waited to see what Maitland would do.

“Bring the gentleman down at once, if you please, my good man, and I'll see that you get the reward you deserve.”

Phineas's gut clenched at the sound of the familiar female voice coming from the coach.

“Honoria?” Adam croaked in surprise, a little too loudly. One of the henchmen turned and frowned suspiciously at the dark stable. Phineas set his finger back on the trigger of his gun, but the man turned away again.

“Charles, go inside, fetch him down,” Honoria commanded.

“Wait a minute—” the innkeeper began, but Charles was already getting out, more afraid of Honoria than the bully, it seemed.

“I'll pay you when his lordship returns,” Honoria promised, her tone so sweetly cajoling it made Phineas's teeth ache.

“Another hundred,” the innkeeper demanded, peering into the coach. “Or some o' the jewels you're wearing will suffice, if they're real. Is that an emerald?”

Charles hesitated, half turned, his hand fisted on his walking stick.

“Go and get Lord Philip at once!” Honoria insisted, her shrill voice making a dog bark in another yard.

“Renshaw?” Adam hissed. “Blackwood—”

He didn't have to say more. Phineas felt the same chill race up his spine. Renshaw was here to exact his revenge on the French king, and the Maitlands were clearly part of the plot. The mission instantly went from dangerous to deadly. And it was personal too, if Isobel was involved.

“And you thought Maitland was just a petty smuggler,” Adam muttered. “It appears treason is a family affair at Maitland House.”

Phineas shut his eyes. Isobel had played him for a fool, taken his game and twisted it, using him. Anger tightened his jaw, and he stared at the dark window of the coach, waiting for a glimpse of russet hair.

“Would you care for a glass of ale while ye wait, my lady?” the innkeeper asked Honoria companionably, sure now of his payment. “The gent said you've got a long journey ahead of ye tonight.”

“How indiscreet of him,” Honoria said stiffly.

The man grinned. Phineas supposed he meant the smile to be charming, but he was missing three teeth, and his eyes were hard as stone, making him frightening in any light.

Phineas wished he could see Honoria's face, but a lady bold enough to come to a rendezvous in this part of London wasn't likely to be intimidated.

“If I can be of service again, my lady, you just come and see me. I like dealing with the person in charge,” the man said. “Your son doesn't understand the business, if you ask me, doesn't know how to strike a bargain to everyone's advantage the way we do.”

Honoria didn't answer. The innkeeper took it as encouragement and leaned closer to the window. “Now you and I, my lady, I think we could rub along together very well indeed. I have friends willing to expand the business, take in lace and fancy wine as well as brandy and gin. I know a few gentlemen o' the sea who also have goods to sell, if an inves
tor such as yourself makes it worth their while. More money for all of us, to my way of thinking.” He spoke smugly, addressing the pompous Dowager Countess Honoria Maitland with the familiarity of a fellow conspirator.

“Pirates too?” Adam hissed with a shipowner's dismay.

The door opened again, and Philip Renshaw appeared, pulling on his gloves. Charles followed him. “I barely had time to finish my meal, inedible as it was,” Renshaw complained.

“My lord, time is of the essence,” Honoria called from the coach, waving a handkerchief to get his attention. She leaned out, adorned with a fortune in jewels that would make any smuggler or pirate drool.

“I trust all is in readiness?” Philip said gruffly.

“Of course! Everything is just as you wished. Get in at once, if you please,” Honoria said, opening the door herself and beckoning with a satin-clad hand. She turned to the innkeeper as Philip got in. “Open the gates at once. You have delayed us long enough.”

Someone leapt to obey her imperious command, but the innkeeper grabbed Charles roughly by the collar before he could board the coach. “Not so fast,
my lord
. What about my money?”

The flash of the gunshot lit the inside of the coach, the roar deafening. The innkeeper spun, lifted into the air as his face dissolved in a red mist. Phineas swore and cocked his pistol, on his feet now, ready for trouble. Adam was on one knee, taking aim at the nearest man, yelling for his sailors to move in.

“Charles, get in,” Honoria shrieked as the big man fell into the dust.

Leaderless, the innkeeper's men panicked. Torches crashed to the ground and died, leaving the inn yard nearly dark. Charles clambered onto the coach as the driver's whip snapped over the horses' heads. In the chaos, Honoria was
screaming orders to hurry as the landlord's men began firing at the vehicle and anything else that moved.

As the coach passed the stable door, already picking up speed, Phineas leapt onto the side. He couldn't let them escape, and he had to know if Isobel was inside.

The pain in his shoulder was sudden and intense, tearing the strength out of his arm. As the coach took the corner hard and fast, he landed on the greasy cobbles, the breath driven out of his lungs. He could feel hot blood flowing over his shoulder, mixing with the icy mud that instantly soaked his clothes. He couldn't do anything but watch the Maitland coach disappear down the dark street at a full gallop. He shut his eyes in frustration.

Where the hell was Isobel?

 

Adam helped Phineas into the salon at De Courcey House, and he collapsed onto the settee. “Send for a doctor,” he ordered Northcott. “And wake her ladyship. We'll need some bandages.”

“I'm all right, Adam,” Phineas grumbled. His arm was mostly numb, though his shirt was soaked and sticky with his own blood. Adam's men had splashed rum over the wound and forced a goodly measure down his throat as well. He smelled like a sailor on a payday binge.

He forced himself to sit up. As soon as she finished wailing over him, Marianne was likely to shoot him again for getting blood on her new settee. He held his head in his hands and waited. A glance at the makeshift bandage showed blood leaking through the linen. The wound needed stitching.

“Her ladyship is not at home, Lord Westlake,” Northcott said calmly. “She went out a little while ago. Perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“Went out?” Adam asked. “Where is she?”

“I don't know, my lord.”

Phineas drew in a sharp breath, which was a mistake. His head spun and spots appeared before his eyes, threatening to pitch him into oblivion. He leaned forward.

There was a crumpled letter half hidden under the tea table. He reached for it with his uninjured arm.

The smell of Isobel's perfume hit him like another bullet.

Adam was grilling Northcott for clues as to where Marianne might be.

“Perhaps at Lady Porter-Penwarren's?” the butler suggested.

Phineas turned the letter over. Odd. It was addressed to him at Blackwood House. How the hell had it ended up here, on the floor of Adam's study? He knew, of course.

Marianne.

He read it, and read it again. The pain in his shoulder disappeared as every sense came to alert. A rush of dread ran over his battered body like a runaway horse.

“Adam, you'd better look at this,” he said, and held out the letter.

Adam's face paled as he read the scrawled note.

“Why would Isobel Maitland write to you for help? She barely knows you.”

Phineas didn't reply. “Northcott, did they bring my horse back?” he asked, forcing himself to stand.

Adam held up a hand. “You're in no condition to go anywhere, Blackwood. I'll send someone—”

“Marianne is with her, Adam. I found the note here, on the floor.”

He watched the emotions cross his brother-in-law's face as Adam puzzled out just what that meant. It took only seconds. It was the first time Phineas had ever seen him sweat.

“Northcott, get my coach,” Adam said brusquely, then turned to Phineas. “You can explain on the way to Maitland House.”

 

“How the hell could you let this happen, Blackwood?
My wife
is in danger,” Adam growled after Phineas told him everything. The thought of Marianne in peril had Adam crazed, his usual dignity forgotten. “You might have told me the truth before now. If someone hadn't saved me the bother, I'd shoot you myself.”

Phineas gritted his teeth against the jolting of the coach and his own fears. “Marianne wouldn't be in danger if she hadn't stolen the letter. Neither would Isobel.”

The bullet wound ached, and he clenched his fist against the pain. He stared out the window, gauging how much longer it would take to reach Maitland House.

“When this is over, I intend to marry Isobel,” he said aloud.

Adam drew a sharp breath. “Marry her? Don't be a fool. The woman is a traitor.”

Phineas frowned. “She's in danger, Adam, a victim.”

“Is she? I seriously doubt it, but your gullibility has certainly put Marianne in jeopardy.” He leaned forward. “Look at the evidence, Blackwood. That's supposed to be what you're good at, isn't it, when lust isn't clouding your judgment?”

Phineas felt his stomach twist as Adam counted Isobel's offenses off on his fingers. “She prevented you from searching Philip's office the first time you met. Does a respectable widow strike you as the kind of woman who goes around seducing strangers?”

The idea nipped at Phineas with sharp little teeth. “It wasn't like that,” he muttered.

Or was it?

“And the night of Marianne's ball, she seduced you again. I had to drag you out of her embrace to question a suspect. A suspect with Isobel's handkerchief in his possession, if you'll remember.”

“Coincidence,” Phineas said. “There's no proof the handkerchief belongs to Isobel.”

But the sick feeling grew. M was for Maitland.

Adam sat back. “If it's any comfort, you weren't the only one fooled. Her disguise is brilliant. She plays the role of a mousey widow to perfection. I was certainly gulled. Unfortunately, so was my wife.”

Phineas didn't reply. Doubt rushed in, stabbing mercilessly, and Adam twisted the knife. “There is also the additional evidence that Isobel's husband and her brother-in-law have both been involved with smuggling. And Renshaw, of course. Isn't Evelyn a friend of Isobel's?”

“She's a friend of Marianne's as well,” Phineas objected. “Isobel was a girl when she married Maitland!”

“And shortly after her marriage she inherited Waterfield Abbey. That's when Robert was killed, Phineas, while smuggling, or worse. I think it's clear his widow has moved on to greater misdeeds.” He had the gall to look pitying. “I'm sure you could think of other times when Isobel's behavior was suspicious. I doubt you've told me everything.”

There was the scanty lace negligee she wore the night he'd confronted her in her bedchamber, a most unwidowly garment. And her desperate fury when she denied the handkerchief was hers.

Phineas shut his eyes. Adam was right. He must be. The evidence was clear enough. He'd been utterly fooled by a spy cleverer than himself, and Marianne had walked right into the ultimate trap Isobel set for him. If he'd received the letter, been lured into her web of deceit, he wouldn't have been at the Bosun's Belle tonight.

His skin prickled.

When they got to Maitland House, he didn't bother to knock.

“W
hat are
you
doing here?” Jane Kirk demanded rudely as Phineas strode down the hall. She stood in his path at the foot of the stairs, glaring at him. “It's too late to be paying calls, my lord. Far too late.”

“Where's Countess Westlake?” Phineas asked the insolent servant.

“Don't you mean Isobel, your whore?”

Phineas ignored the taunt. “Answer me!” he bellowed.

Jane flinched. “Lady Marianne isn't here.”

Phineas glanced up the stairs, but Jane quickly stepped in front of him. “Leave this house at once!” she ordered, but he saw the panic in her eyes.

“Why, Jane? Who
is
upstairs?”

Her eyes widened as he loomed over her. He caught sight of himself in the mirror behind her. His shirt was bloody, his coat torn, and his eyes were hellish hollows of fury. He looked more like a brigand than a marquess.

“You can't see Isobel!” Jane insisted shrilly. “They're sending her away. This is
my
house now. I'm going to marry the earl, and I'll be countess, and bloody Isobel will be nothing.” She gripped the banisters with ugly claws, a mad gargoyle guarding a treasure.

“Isn't he a little young?” Phineas asked. Had Jane gone mad? It appeared to be a hazard of living in this house.

“Not the child,” she smirked. “Children die all the time.
Charles
is Earl of Ashdown. Or will be very soon.”

Phineas's blood ran cold.

Isobel's letter wasn't a ruse.

She wasn't part of the Maitlands' plots. She was a victim, and so was her son. Relief flooded through him, then dread, as he read the gleam of madness in Jane's eyes.

“Where is the boy, Jane. Is he upstairs?” he asked, advancing on her.

She laughed. “He's gone,” she said merrily. “Gone with Honoria and Charles for a holiday.”

His heart skipped a beat. It meant Robin had probably been in the coach at the Bosun's Belle. Phineas shoved past her to climb the stairs; he had to find Isobel. He prayed it wasn't too late. Jane came after him and grabbed hold with surprising strength, tugging on his wounded arm. “You can't go up there!”

With a grunt of pain, he pulled free. Jane shrieked as she lost her balance and tumbled down the stairs.

Phineas didn't turn to see what had happened to her. He climbed the stairs. Adam would be coming in through the back any minute, and he could see to the servant.

The door to Isobel's room was locked. He didn't have the time or the patience for niceties. He drew his pistol and kicked the door in.

A figure by the window thrashed, and Phineas spun, aimed, and found himself menacing a pair of curtains that billowed in the breeze coming through the open window. “Isobel?” he called.

He opened the wardrobe, checked behind the bed curtains, but the room was empty.

He crossed to the open window and looked down. Had she fallen, or jumped, or been pushed? The wild hatred in Jane Kirk's eyes sprang to mind, and his heart skipped a beat.

Then he remembered how Isobel had watched him climb out of her window.

“She wouldn't,” he murmured. But someone had. The bushes below were crushed and broken.

Clever girl!

She'd waited in vain for him to come in answer to her letter. Her son was in danger and she'd had no other way. His breath caught in his throat as he imagined her trying to climb down the side of the house for what was undoubtedly the first time, afraid, alone and in the dark.

Stupid woman!

He looked again, expecting to see her lying beneath the window, neck broken, but the shadows were empty. He frowned, searching the street. If she'd survived the climb, then where the hell was she?

He looked around the room for a clue. The bed was rumpled, the wardrobe empty. The soft hint of Isobel's scent floated on the air, coming from the overturned bottle of perfume on the little desk. Out of habit, he crossed to open the drawer. Locked. He broke it open. Sheets of monogrammed stationery lay in an orderly stack next to quill pens, sealing wax, and a signet with her initials.

Everything was in perfect order. But perfect order always made him suspicious. Order hid the deepest secrets. He reached into the back of the drawer.

Phineas shut his eyes as a thin panel of wood shifted at his touch. Isobel had secrets after all. The kind of secrets she kept behind a false panel in a locked drawer.

Angry, he ripped it out, reached inside, and touched—

Silk?

He pulled it out and held it up. A silk chemise, pale pink, unfurled with a sigh and warmed in his grip.

Surprising, perhaps, and most definitely titillating, but
hardly criminal. Distracted, he crammed it into his pocket and reached for another hidden garment, a gossamer nightgown, sinfully cut, as fine as the one she'd been wearing the last time he was there. He swallowed hard, imagining—

“What's that?” Jane Kirk demanded. The garment was so sheer he could see her right through it. She was leaning against the open door, her eyes burning in her pallid face. She crossed the room and snatched the nightgown out of his hand, examining it with a gasp of shock. “This is silk, and expensive! She isn't allowed to wear such things!”

“Why can't Isobel wear silk?” Phineas asked.

“Because of the
will
,” Jane hissed. “Because she might get ideas if she were allowed clothing such as this. Ideas like
you
.” She dropped the garment as if it burned. “It hardly matters now.”

Her cold smile chilled his blood.

“Where is she?” he demanded. He would have grabbed her shoulders, shaken the information out of her, but his arm was throbbing and fresh blood dripped from his sleeve.

Jane laughed and approached him. “You don't need her. If you want the Countess of Ashdown, my lord, then take me.” She rubbed a hand over her breast and grinned. “This is my room now, my bed. I'll wear the silk, even put on her perfume, if you like.”

Phineas felt revulsion coil through his gut, and fought to keep it from showing on his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the embroidered handkerchief, holding the rose and the letter M before Jane's eyes. “What about this? Will you hold it, caress me with it?” he asked.

Her smile faded. “Where did you get that?” she whispered, not touching it.

“Who is Lady M, Jane? Is it you?”

She squinted at him as if he were daft. “M? It isn't an M.”

She moved back toward the door. “You want to know? I suppose there's no danger in showing you, since it all belongs to me now.”

Phineas followed her down the hall to Honoria's suite, his pistol tucked in his belt where he could reach it. Where the hell was Adam? Perhaps he'd found Marianne. His heart clenched, fearing the worst, since nothing good had happened tonight.

Jane held the candle high and gazed around the room with a satisfied smirk. “When I marry Charles, I will make Honoria give up this room. It will be mine, and so will the jewels,” she said. “They will all need to be reset, since they belonged to Isobel's harlot of a mother, but I don't suppose stones hold a taint. There's an emerald as big as my eye. Honoria doesn't think I know, but I see everything that goes on in this house, I know all their secrets.”

Phineas's flesh crawled at the cold pride in her eyes. Every nerve was on alert as she pointed at Honoria's portrait.

“There.” Jane's bony finger cast a black shadow across her mistress's painted visage. She scuttled forward to touch the wooden paneling under the portrait, her nails scrabbling on the wood. A hidden latch clicked, and she opened a small recess filled with documents and a stack of velvet jewelry cases. She pulled out a narrow box.

“See?” she said, pointing to the monogram on the box. “It's the same W, the same rose.” She gave him a mocking smile. “It's not an M, it's a W, for Waterfield. That handkerchief belonged to Isobel's mother. There were more, but Lady Honoria sent them off with letters to a certain friend of hers.”

“Philip Renshaw?” Phineas guessed.

Jane's eyes narrowed. “How did you know?” She opened the box and gasped. “No!” She threw the empty case to the floor and picked up another.

Phineas leaned against the wall and stared at the embroidered W.

It was the symbol for a place, and a plot, not a person.

“They're gone!” Jane howled. “All the jewels are gone! Honoria took them with her!”

Adam appeared in the doorway. He looked haggard, his pistol drawn. “Marianne isn't here. I found the servants locked in the cellar, but they swear they don't know anything.” He frowned at the sight of Jane, still searching the empty cases, moaning. “What's happening in here?” he asked.

Phineas bent to pick up the handkerchief Jane had dropped and held it out. “You are wrong about Isobel. Her note said that she and Robin were in danger. It wasn't a trick. Charles and Honoria took the boy with them earlier. He was probably in the coach at the inn.”

Adam's jaw tightened. “Miss Kirk, where is my wife?” he demanded, grabbing her arm.

Jane looked up, her brow furrowed. “How would I know?” she asked rudely.

“You seem to know more than any servant should,” Adam replied. “Was my wife here this evening to see Lady Isobel?” He shoved his pistol against her temple. “Answer me!”

Jane jumped away from the gun with a cry, and bumped into the heavy gilt frame of Honoria's portrait.

For a moment the huge picture shuddered, as if the painted face was coming to life. Jane gasped, and stared up as it tipped forward. “Honoria!” she screamed, but it was too late. Her mistress was upon her, and the heavy frame thwacked her on the head with a dull crunch. She crumpled under the weight of the portrait and lay still.

Phineas sank into a chair, too small and delicate for a man's frame, and probably for Honoria's as well. Adam tucked his gun into his belt and turned away from the fallen servant. “You're bleeding again, Phin,” he said coolly.

He crossed and pulled the bell, and a maid appeared, her eyes widening at the sight of the legs sticking out from beneath the portrait, and at Phineas's battered appearance.

“Hot water and bandages,” Adam ordered. “Laudanum as well, if you've got it.”

“Where's Lady Isobel?” the girl gasped, forgetting her manners. She pointed to the portrait. “She isn't—”

“It's Miss Kirk,” Phineas said. “Lady Honoria knocked her senseless.”

The girl's eyes glared at the parts of Jane that stuck out from under the canvas. “She locked us in the cellar, told Nurse that Lord Charles and Lady Honoria were taking Robin away, had the poor woman in a panic, and Isobel—” She paused, eyes frantic. “If you please, my lords, where is Lady Isobel?”

Phineas's vision wavered and he leaned forward, fighting to stay conscious. He stared at the scattered jewel boxes on the floor, and the W mocked him, whispered to him. He drew a sharp breath and looked at Adam.

“It's a W, Adam, not an M. It stands for Waterfield Abbey. Honoria has been using Charlotte Fraser's handkerchiefs to indicate a place, not a person. I think it's a safe bet she and Charles are on their way to Waterfield now, with Renshaw, and Isobel is following, to save her son. Marianne is probably with her.”

He watched Adam's complexion fade to ash. “Waterfield? God, Phineas, no! They're walking into a trap!” He ran a hand through his hair.

“What the hell do you mean?” Phineas demanded.

Adam stared at him, his lips tight, his eyes flat and hard.

Phineas got to his feet slowly. There was something—everything—that Adam wasn't telling him. “What trap?” he demanded.

“The kidnappers came to Aylesbury for King Louis yesterday,” Adam said finally. “We let them abduct an imposter
so we could follow them to the real conspirators. If Renshaw is on his way to Waterfield—” He swallowed. “If Marianne gets in the way—”

Phineas felt his stomach drop into his boots. “You didn't think to tell me this?”

Adam raised his chin. “Sorry, old man. I thought you were losing your touch. All the talk of retiring and mysterious masked women. And you've been playing games with Maitland's sister-in-law. I wasn't sure I could trust you.” He hesitated, his eyes hollow. “Can I?”

Phineas didn't bother to answer. Adam's mistrust was as bitter as the pain of the bullet wound. It was going to be a long night, and a hard ride to Kent, and the pain was only going to get worse. “Any whisky or brandy available?” he asked the maid.

But she was kicking away the empty jewel boxes, reaching into the safe for a vial of laudanum. “It looks like she's taken everything, as if she wasn't coming back!” she said, and dislodged a sheaf of papers from the safe. They landed on the floor at Phineas's feet, and he picked them up, felt his head spin. He stuffed them into his pocket, gritting his teeth against the pain. He'd read them later.

“Phineas?” It sounded like Adam was speaking to him through a tunnel. “Fetch some bandages,” his brother-in-law barked at the maid, snatching the laudanum out of her hand. “I'm leaving you here, Blackwood,” he said as the maid left the room. “I'll go to Waterfield myself.”

Phineas pulled his battered body upright and knocked the vial out of Adam's grip. “There's no way in hell I'm staying behind. Isobel asked me for help, and I damn near let you convince me she was a traitor. I am going to find her and Robin, and once this mission is over, I'm resigning. I'm going to marry Isobel, and you can find someone else to do your bidding.”

“This isn't finished yet,” Adam said stiffly, and Phineas turned to glare at him.

“When it is, and I've recovered from this little injury, I'm going to punch that superior expression off your face for good.” Adam surprised him by grinning. “What's so damned funny?”