The Counterfeit Mistress (20 page)

He used some bread to sop up the sauce from the stew, which also gave her pleasure. “I am committed to go at some time. I await some information first, so the exact day is not clear.”

“But it will be soon?”

“Yes, I think so.”

She had assumed that his suggestion that they try this affair for two weeks had something to do with this journey's start. She had made her own plans accordingly. Now she wondered how she would make changes if his own departure were delayed.

Her brain began calculations but her heart hoped he would be delayed forever. If so she would not be able to execute any plans, and be free of them for a while, and instead continue this idyll of pleasure and safety. How quickly this cottage lulled her into forgetting the world that waited back in London, and in France.

“Where are you going?” The question emerged without her choosing to speak. Her heart gave it voice, not her head.

He said nothing.

“I am sorry. You would have spoken of it if you wanted to. Of course you cannot tell me.”

“Why do you think I cannot?”

A good deal of joy instantly vanished from the little chamber. Rather suddenly he appeared very much an army officer again. “You cannot because you do not know who I am, as you once said. I am a mystery and might yet be the spy you suspected.”

He reached for her hand and held it firmly. “Why do you think a spy would have interest in this journey? I could be planning a circuit of the family properties.”

“I suppose I thought—that is, I assumed that—your discretion on it alone suggested it was something more.” She stammered, uncomfortable now, and guessing each word she said only made it worse. “And those men, the ones who come here to talk to you—”

He smiled, much to her relief. “You may not be a spy but you would make a good one.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, which relieved her even more. “To speak of it would only spoil our time together, and perhaps cause you unnecessary concern.”

Just the mention of concern caused her some. She had assumed he was going to conduct some surveillance somewhere, of some other possible spy, or of the southern coast, or whatever it was he did. “Are you up to something dangerous? Is this about that colonel and what happened at Toulon?”

“Let us not talk about it. I am trying to spare you
unnecessary
concern, remember?”

He did not say it would not be dangerous, however. So while her
unnecessary
concern dimmed, it did not go away.

She cleared the remnants of the meal. As she did, that odd cylinder of muslin kept distracting her. When she was finished she pointed to it. “What is that?”

He turned his head and looked at it over his shoulder. He gazed its way a long time. One might think he had forgotten he had brought it with him. With resolute abruptness, he stood and walked over and picked it up. “It is something for you.”

He carried it over and untied the muslin. As soon as he did the fabric fell apart and a roll of paper unfurled on the table.

It was a stack of her own engravings. The ones she had lost in the alley. Only they had not been lost, since he now had them.

She fought the urge to scold him for lying to her. She wondered why he had taken this long to return them. She stared at them, fighting anger and disappointment, telling herself that of course he had lied to her. He thought they were secret documents that day. Perhaps he even wondered if she hid information among the figures and words.

He sat, and rested his fingers on the edge of the top print. “They are not colored. They are more of the ones you send to France.”

She nodded.

“I am told you make them yourself. Not only ink the plate and pull the print, but use the burin to carve the lines.”

“Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

Perhaps Emma had told him. That was how Emma found her in the first place. Or maybe Cassandra. Or even Madame LaTour, who was too impressed with the visits from a viscount to remain discreet. Or someone else might have revealed it. She had kept this skill and work a secret as best she could, but eventually people figure some things out when they have nothing else to do.

“It is true.” She did not look at him. She did not want to see how he regarded her. A few minutes ago she was at least possibly the niece of a comte. Now, unless he truly was Handsome Stupid Man, he knew she was not. It changed everything. Everything.

“Who taught you? It is not a skill one learns on one's own.”

Her heart weighed heavily in her chest. She wished they had never left the bed because whether he intended it or not, he was at long last interrogating her the way he had initially planned that day they first spoke.

She considered what to say and whether to speak at all. She could refuse, and wait the long hours before André arrived pretending to sleep in one of the chairs.

“My father taught me. It was his skill and trade.” There, now he knew. Her birth was far below his. She was not a woman to whom such a man as he gave affection. If he took a woman like her, it was not a romantic liaison, but something baser.

She did not think she could lie with him ever again now. She would not want to see if it made a difference in how he treated her, or kissed her. She would know if it did with the first touch.

“How did you know how to—” He caught himself and stopped.

She finally looked at him. Instead of a new scorn she mostly saw intense curiosity. “How did I know how to act like a lady? Is that your question? How was my birth not obvious every time I spoke or took a step? My mother worked in the household of a baron. I would visit her there, and see the ladies and how they moved and spoke and carried themselves. So much is in the carriage. Even more is in the mind. It was not hard to imitate. Even as a child I had started doing so, although there were those who thought me bold to dare such airs.”

“I was not going to ask that. I was going to ask how you know so much about the comte with whom you claimed a relationship.”

“Ahh. Well, you see, while I was a lowborn woman pretending to be a lord's niece, someone else was a lord's sister pretending to be a lowborn woman. Dominique is the true relative of the comte, and filled me with the descriptions and information I needed. She hides in her caps and simple clothes and unpainted face. She never wants her true birth known and none have questioned or guessed. She came very close to being killed and has never felt safe since. She is one for whom the terror never ended, so you must promise to keep the secret.”

“Of course I will keep the secret.”

Curiosity still burned in him. She waited to see if he would swallow it, or interrogate her further. She was not sure there was much more she could say that would not spur yet more questions, some of which she must not answer.

His fingers moved, until they rested on the image of Lamberte. Her heart beat harder. There were many ways to ask about the image of Lamberte. Some of them would require her to lie, unless she wanted to tell him everything.

Did she? Perhaps now that he knew her true history, or at least some of it, he would no longer care what she did. Maybe he would leave her alone to do as she wanted. Even his promise tonight to protect her—it had been given to Marielle Lyon, niece of the Comte de Vence, not the daughter of an engraver.

“That is a man named Antoine Lamberte,” she said before he could choose his words. “He is one of many who rose in the revolutionary government, but who did not care about the ideals. Lamberte only cares about himself, and his own power and wealth. He committed many crimes. Such men should not be allowed to act without sanctions, or be free from justice.”

“So you make these images and send them to France to denounce such as he. So you explained before. Do you have particular knowledge of his sins?”

She shrugged and hoped she appeared indifferent to the question. In reality her nape prickled. “His excesses are well-known.”

“Not this one that you accuse him of. Stealing from the government itself. If that were well-known, his head would not still be attached to his body.”

“Perhaps it is not. I would not know.”

He reached over and lifted her chin with his hand so she had to look at him. “Do not treat me like a fool, Marielle. I have warned you about that before.”

“I am not. I am simply tired of all your questions. Why do you care about any of this?” She swept her hand across the image.

“I care because you have gone to great trouble and expense to accuse this man of a crime that could cause him more trouble than a hundred murders committed during the years of unrest. If he knows about your prints, he cannot like them. Everyone knows the power of both the pen and the burin. I think he sent men to track those engravings back to their source, much as I have tracked them from you to the coast, only in reverse. The men who tried to kill you in the alley came from him, didn't they?”

“Perhaps. I do not know.”

He raked his hair with his hand, exasperated. “Don't you? They beat two men to death to learn how to find you.” He tapped Lamberte's bearded face. “He is as bold as you, and more dangerous, if he sent killers to stop the denunciations in these satires. And even knowing that, you do not stop making them. Do you? Hell, you will probably send these over now that you have them back.”

She could not sit still while he browbeat her about the prints. She stood and paced away and tried to calm the indignation rising in her. “If I do not do what I can to stop such men, who will?”

“Someone else.
Not you
.”

“Why not me? Because I am a woman? You said you seek justice for what happened in Toulon. I would think you would understand.”

“That is different. That is personal. Let someone else bring this man down.”

She swung around and faced him. “Who? A soldier? They are all on his side now. The people? After the massacres in his region, there are none left brave enough to speak against him. The government in Paris? Not unless they are given a reason to look at him suspiciously, instead of being grateful such a tyrant keeps the rebellions from reoccurring.” She slammed her hand down on the print. “Such as this helped destroy a monarchy in France. If I have the skill to help bring this man to justice, I will do it.”

“No, you will not. Turn your attention to another if you must. This one is too sly, and too dangerous, and too close already.”

I do not want to turn my attention to another. There is no other who matters like he does
. She almost yelled it at him. She barely caught the words before they spilled.

“You have no right to tell me what to do,” she yelled in frustration.

He rose and strode to her and grasped her shoulders. “I took the right when I took
you
. I'll be damned before I let you get yourself killed over these. Find another crusade. Seek justice elsewhere.”

She jerked free of his hold and turned away so he would not see the tears filming her eyes. She had known he would try to interfere if he guessed any of it. He was that kind of man. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and fought for composure. Thank God she had not allowed their intimacy to lure her into confiding in him.

He took hold of her shoulders again, much more gently this time. His hands slid down and caressed her upper arms. She felt a kiss pressed to her crown.

“Promise me that you will not try to send these to France, Marielle.”

She looked at the table and the print showing Lamberte on his throne made of oppressed people. “I promise that these prints will not go to France.”

He turned her, and lifted her chin with his crooked finger. “Do not be angry. I only demand this to protect you.”

She knew that. She also realized that his touch did not feel different after all. Nor did he look at her any differently. “Are you not angry that I hid the truth of my birth from you?”

“I always knew you were not whom you claimed. The only mystery was who you were instead.” He backed up toward the bedroom, leading her by the hand.

There was no passion when they went to bed. Not of the sexual kind, at least. They lay together and slept. During the night she awoke, and looked into the dark while she inhaled the scent of him and listened to him breathe, and wondered what he really thought about discovering that she was no lady.

I
n the morning two carriages arrived. Kendale climbed into his and it headed west. André helped her into hers and they rolled in the opposite direction.

There was much she had to think about, but try as she might she could not remove her thoughts from that cottage and the emotions of the prior night. She had deceived him since the moment they met, but it had never felt wrong before. She had been able to tell herself there was no choice, that he pursued her for his own reasons and she would use his interest for hers. It was different now, in ways that confused her mind and hurt her heart.

Love was weakening her, perhaps. Distracting her. Consuming her so that she forgot that she had promises to keep and larger concerns than whether her lover was happy with her. Deceptions in the name of duty were not so bad, were they? He had lied about having the prints for that reason, hadn't he?

Too often as she lay in his embrace last night she had been tempted to waken him and tell him everything about herself, her history, about Lamberte and the prints and the way she had very particular knowledge of his crimes. If she explained about her father, would that make a difference? Would he stand aside and let her do what she had to do? More likely he would lock her away so she never had the chance to even try, if he thought she might come to harm.

She lost sense of time while debating it all. So it startled her when the carriage stopped. She looked out the window, expecting to see a blue door. Instead she saw only trees.

The little door between the cabin and André opened. “The way is blocked, mam'selle. Another carriage is ahead and it does not move.”