The Counterfeit Mistress (4 page)

More likely she said he was
not fit
for polite society. “She has noticed that I cannot abide all the chatter over insignificant things. The scandals. The fashions. Why anyone gives a damn about it all is beyond me. Always was.” He wondered if Lady Cassandra, now Lady Ambury, had offered the information about his lack of social skills as part of that insignificant chatter. Perhaps Marielle had been probing for it instead.

The latter notion pleased him. That made him curse inwardly. Hell, he could be an ass at times.

She ate some food before turning her attention on him again. The bruise on her face was turning ugly, but it really did not detract as much from her delicate countenance as it should. Her eyes appeared clearer than they had all day. “You are a soldier, no? An officer.”

“Did Cassandra tell you that too?”

“No. It is in you, however. The way you stand, the way you ride. It is in your face and your eyes. I have seen many soldiers in my life.”

“If you mean the rabble that is now the French army, I must ask that you not insult me.”

“Not all the current officers are such rabble. But I speak of the past, from when I was a girl.”

If she had left France when a girl, how would she know who was rabble in the army now or not? “I was an officer. When I received the title, I sold out my commission. There are some peers who are army officers, but very few.”

“It is the same everywhere. The duties do not allow for this other life too, I think.”

“No.”

She cocked her head and looked directly and deeply. “You miss it.”

Did he? He missed the higher purpose, that was certain. Fighting to protect a nation possessed a clarity that poring over the account books of an estate never would. Or that sitting through interminable arguments in parliament, while small-minded men jockeyed to protect their own interests, could match.

He missed other things too. The easy camaraderie of men. The simplicity of life in the field. The whites and blacks of honor and dishonor. He missed the physicality of the life and the waking at dawn.

Mostly he missed the certainty of knowing he was doing what he had been born to do.

“I miss some things. Not others.” Not the deaths, or the betrayals.

He would be wise to remember the latter now, especially the worst betrayal, and the lessons learned from it. Foremost had been not to trust pretty Frenchwomen who can make men into fools with a smile.

He concentrated on eating his meal, trying to ignore the lovely Frenchwoman sitting so close he could smell her. She did not carry only the scent of that alley and of blood. Musk and flowers drifted to his nose distinctly. She wore clothes that were decades old, but she also wore perfume. Probably French perfume. Probably smuggled in. Possibly it was part of her payments from whomever sent her orders, and to whom she sent rolls of documents.

He did not have to look up from his plate to see her, they were so close. So he noticed when she set down her fork. Her pale, small hand rested on the table near the dish. A soft hand, as he knew from her touch earlier. She probably lathered creams on them at night. French creams.

His mind began itemizing the evidence against her, stacking each detail like a stone in a wall. It did not fortify his resolve about her as much as he assumed it would. Her wounds and bruises and the role he had played today encouraged tendencies to feel protective and sympathetic. Her bright eyes and flirtatious smiles and that scent tempted him to feel other things.

Finally the meal ended. He drank some wine and waited for her to excuse herself and retreat to the other chamber. Instead she relaxed in her chair and drank wine too, glancing over its rim at him while her lips pursed along the edge of the glass.

“So, m'sieur le vicomte, I am fed. Evening falls and I am still here, as you required. May I ask now—what are your intentions?”

A few ignoble ones entered his mind. “I told you. I intend to see that you follow the physician's orders and rest a few days. There may be other wounds from those blows. Internal ones.”

“That is all you want?” She favored him with one of her coquettish, worldly smiles.

It demolished the wall in a flash.
Hell, no. I also want to take you on this table, on the floor, against the wall, on the divan, and everywhere else I can think of.
“You are too clever for me. The truth then. I intend to see you follow those orders, and after it is clear you have suffered no as yet unseen damage, I want to continue my interrogation.”

“Do you intend to torture me during this interrogation?”

“Of course not.” What kind of woman even asks such a question, or considers torture likely? Not a normal one, but a spy taught that it could happen.

“You are insulted. I am sorry. It is not unheard of,” she said.

“You know that, do you? Is that another memory from the past, when you were a girl, or a more recent one, from your alliance with that rabble?”

Her expression froze. Her bright eyes turned icy. “I have no such alliance.”

He downed the rest of his wine.
The hell you don't
.

I
t was time to leave this place and this man.

Oh, he would not torture her. Not in the normal ways at least. But he would be intrusive and relentless and pick away at whatever she said. She would have no relief from being careful with every word and nuance.

Worse, he would interfere with her sorting through what today meant to her life and safety too. He would delay action when time might be critical. Right now other things needed her attention, like deciding if she needed to flee London entirely, and if so how obscure she should become.

His questions would have to wait. With luck, she might never answer them.

Nor would staying here be comfortable. To remain here, even if she locked herself into that chamber, would mean having to worry about him. The lack of servants made it all too intimate. Too domestic. Even this simple meal had begun making them too familiar.

She doubted he would allow her to walk out the door. He had imprisoned her, no matter how he chose to cast it. She calculated how to escape. Despite her resolve, a feather bed beckoned. Her head hurt and her back had stiffened and that bed held appeal. She guessed tomorrow she would have trouble moving, however, and then escape would be impossible for a while. She had to leave now.

“I will return to the chamber and see you in the morning,” she said. “There is still clean water from the morning there for me to use. Without a servant here, who will provide for you?”

“There are boys in the street who will bring up whatever I want in return for a coin.” He gestured at the tray and plates.

“Who does for you in other ways when you have no servants with you?”

“I do for myself, as most men do.”

She angled and examined his side, from head to toe. “Today you have a bad stab wound in your side. I do not think you will enjoy removing those high boots on your own. Is it even possible in your condition?”

He thought about that, then shrugged. “I will sleep with boots on, it appears.”

“You should have had that physician aid you while he was here. As he did with your coats and shirt.” She stood. “I will do it. It is a small payment for my life. Sit over there, on the divan and I will pull them off.”

He began to object. She walked away before he could. “Do not argue, m'sieur. I have done this before, for my father. It is a small thing.”

She heard him stand, then pause. She assumed that wound was taking its toll on him as the hours passed. Any movement of his torso would pull at the injury. She kept her back to him, so he could collect himself without her seeing his pain.

He walked to the divan and lowered himself slowly, pushing aside her shawl. Expression stoic and hard, he eased back against the divan's cushion.

“I would have thought your father had a valet to remove his boots,” he said. “He was the brother of a comte, wasn't he?”

She managed to keep her face impassive, but inwardly she cursed herself. “And you are a viscount, but here you are without
your
valet. Such inconvenience occurred for him too at times.”

Looking up at her with some amusement, he raised his left leg. She bent, grabbed the back of the boot's heel and its toe, and yanked it off.

Impressed, he began raising the other foot. It did not get far before he tensed, grimaced, and lowered it. He closed his eyes a moment and did not move a hair. When he opened them again, the pain had passed. “It appears I will sleep with one boot on after all.”

“Nonsense.” She knelt in front of him. “I will get it off.”

It passed in his eyes then, his awareness of her proximity and the suggestiveness of her position. Other than his jaw tightening he gave no reaction, however.

She assessed the boot's tightness with her hands, skimming up the sides of the leather. He watched her and did not notice how she made sure her finger hooked her shawl. The patterned silk slid off the divan onto the floor beside his foot.

It was not easy getting that boot off with him only angling his leg out. She worked from the bottom and eventually felt his foot slide up. Then she pulled the boot away and held it up triumphantly. He took it from her and set it aside on the floor.

She sat back on her legs and admired him in his dishabille. He had managed to button most of that robe, but without a shirt beneath it a good deal of his neck and upper chest still showed.

“I might as well do this too.” She began sliding her hands up his leg, to release his hose.

He did not stop her. He did not object. He just watched.

The air between them filled with the soundless chords that played when a man wanted a woman. This might be dangerous if not for his wound. Even earlier in the day, before his body rebelled at the injury, he might have given her trouble.

He truly sat in dishabille now, his legs bare from the knees down. Nice legs, she decided. Shaped by action and exercise, as was the rest of him. Trusting that she had not misjudged his interest, she once more slid her hands up, this time on skin. A subtle flexing tightened through him. When she looked at his face again his eyes were like embers burning in the darkest forest.

“You should stop that,” he said.

She continued caressing the skin on his legs, feathering up to his knees. “Do the bruises make me ugly and stop you from wanting me? Or perhaps I misunderstood about that.”

“You misunderstood nothing, and you could never be ugly. You know that, as all beautiful women do.”

“Then why should I stop? It is no imposition by you.” She skimmed higher, over his knees and the fabric of the pantaloons buttoned there. Never taking her eyes from his, she unfastened the buttons.

He closed his eyes for a moment. She could see how he forced some control on himself during that long blink.

“It will make no difference,” he said. “There is nothing for you to win with this.”

She knelt high and leaned against his legs so her body pressed his shins and her breasts rested on his knees. “There is pleasure to win. I expect nothing more.” Down, out of view between his legs and her body, she lifted her shawl. With her right hand she caressed higher on his thigh while her left hand smoothed the shawl's silk over his lower legs' skin, again and again.

He looked ready to grab her, so fierce his eyes had become. “You forget that we are both wounded, and ill suited for pleasure now.”

“You are charming. And very English.” She caressed higher, along his inner thighs. The evidence of his arousal bulged against the fabric of his garment. She did not think he would stop her now. She did not think he could even if he wanted to. “I, on the other hand, am French. Remember? We know ways to pleasure that will not aggravate our wounds.”

He understood. The mere suggestion caused his lips to part and his teeth to clench. He watched her, and she guessed he felt only her right hand on his thigh, not the other one working the shawl.

“Close your eyes,” she said softly. “I am still shy with you on some things.”

He did not close them right away. Not until her hand ventured to the buttons over that bulge. Then he did, and his jaw squared so hard it might have been chiseled in stone.

She loosened the buttons, trying to ignore how her fingers skimmed against the hardness of his arousal. She forced herself to suppress a deep stirring that this game had incited in her too. She would not mind knowing pleasure with this man, even if that would be all it could ever be. They could both close their eyes, and pretend whatever they chose for a while.

With his pantaloons unfastened, she had to move fast. She allowed herself a caress of his bare chest, just to see if it felt as she expected, hard and warm and so alluringly male. Then she looked down at his legs and her shawl. Satisfied, she stood and quickly walked away, refusing to allow the stiffness in her back and limbs or the throbbing in her head to delay her.

“
What the
hell—
”

She had taken ten steps, no more, before his voice rose in fury. She glanced over her shoulder as she began to run.

“Damnation
. You
bitch.
” The viscount glared at her while he bent over, grimacing while he tried to untie her shawl and free his legs from the silken chain she had made for them. His furious expression raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

She threw the door latch, swung the door, and fled. Kendale's curses followed her all the way down to the street.

“I
t is a wonder you are alive,” Dominique said while she dipped a rag, then gently squeezed warm water over Marielle's shoulders. She clucked her tongue while she assessed the bruises, evident in all their mottled darkness as Marielle bathed in the house's kitchen.

Marielle and Dominique had been together since leaving France six years ago. No one, not even the other women who sometimes took refuge in this house, knew how close they were and how she relied on Dominique for advice and sometimes sympathy.

“Will he be looking for you now, this lord you escaped after he saved you? You said he was angry that you left. No doubt he expected a show of gratitude first.”

She had not explained
everything
to Dominique. Not that Kendale had expected only what she appeared to be offering. As for his anger, a man both thwarted in his expectations of pleasure and hoodwinked by an adversary at the same time would not be happy, now would he?

“Hopefully he will wash his hands of me. We must put that aside and think about the rest of it. About how those two men replaced Luc and Éduard today, and knew about me.”

Dominique poured water over her hair, then took some soft soap and began washing. “I suppose Luc and Éduard will take another's coin as quickly as yours, and sold you out.”

“But how did anyone even know to offer them coin?”

“The images were traced back, it seems. You knew that was a danger—that Lamberte would look for whoever made those prints and might realize they came from England.”

She had known that. She had hoped that if Antoine Lamberte suspected that, he would assume it was the English government behind it, trying to undermine him. Lamberte was conceited enough to believe himself worthy of such attention.

How well had those men seen her in that dark alley? It had all happened very fast, and after Kendale was done with them they might not remember much at all. “I do not think they knew whom they met. Éduard and Luc did not know who I was, other than a woman who handed them something to bring to the coast.”

“You can be described to Lamberte by these men, if he sent them.”

“I no longer look like anyone he ever knew. I am no longer a young girl. A description will tell him nothing.”

“It is never wise to count on your enemy being a fool, or less shrewd than you want to believe him to be.”

It was a lesson she believed she had learned today and would never forget. She doubted she could think of Kendale as Stupid Man again.

“Lamberte has survived where most others would have fallen long ago. He is bolder than most, and smarter, and he will eventually wonder if there is a connection. You must take care now. More than before,” Dominique admonished.

Marielle did not argue. The older woman possessed the kind of wisdom that only comes from seeing the world at its best and its worst, and realizing that a thin border separates the two. Born into an aristocratic family, Dominique had escaped the guillotine by using her body to bargain with men susceptible to such things. It had been Marielle's good fortune to share a boat across the sea with Dominique, and to receive her motherly affection and help ever since.

She looked up at Dominique, whose round face wore no paint and appeared softly creased beneath the edge of her white cap. She always dressed and looked like a servant now. Most people thought she was one, what with the way she answered the door each time a visitor came. Those visitors did not know that this woman of mature years would never feel safe again, and carried a knife in a special pocket sewn into the deep folds of her skirted dress. She answered the door so that she would know who entered, and could be ready to kill the wrong person should he ever come.

“I wonder if I should move to another city. Not one far away. Just not stay in London.”

“I would sleep better if you did.”

“What of the other women? They depend on the work here, and most of the printers are here.”

“We will find a way to get the work from the printers. As for the women here, Madame LaTour can continue this group. She has been doing it for three years now, and has a good head on her.”

Marielle weighed it all while water poured over her, washing out the soap from her hair. The day's attack had shaken her confidence, and her sense of safety. The latter had perhaps always been an illusion. Now she doubted that she would ever leave this house without watching the eyes of each person she passed, searching for the ones that took too much interest in her.

If she left London, she needed to choose a place not too far away, and close to the coast. She needed to remain among the émigrés too, so she would learn what news they brought from France and would hear if Antoine Lamberte still thrived, and what executions if any took place in his region. These qualifications had always limited her choices and decisions. Now they pointed to the only good option.

“Brighton,” she said. “I will move to Brighton.”

T
o say that Marielle Lyon had ruined Kendale's mood was an understatement. As a man who had little to do with women socially, he was not accustomed to being led along like that only to have no satisfaction in the end. It never happened at the brothels he visited.

He spent the next two days in a surly humor, thinking he should visit just such a place and pay for that which Miss Lyon had promised. Only it was not some nameless bawd that he wanted. It was Marielle herself. On her knees, on her back, he did not really care how. Only that would settle this particular score and level the field again.

Only then would he stop imagining her hands on him, caressing his legs and body and gazing at him with lights of passion in her eyes. He had not mistaken that part, he reminded himself. Desire had not compromised his good sense entirely.

Two evenings later he dressed to attend dinner at his friend Viscount Ambury's house. He did not do for himself because he had called for his valet, Mr. Pottsward, to come up to town. The hole in his side said he would stay in London longer than he expected, and his old batman's attendance would be needed. He also needed to stay here because a woman who lived in London could hardly be called to task while he rusticated in Buckinghamshire.

He always tried to be on his best behavior when dining with Ambury. Not because Ambury demanded it. Rather Ambury had married Lady Cassandra Vernham and the new Lady Ambury did not much like her husband's friend Viscount Kendale. Nor did he much like her, although Ambury's apparent happiness had softened his views considerably. Not wanting to cause trouble for a friend, he always made an effort to avoid doing the sorts of things that would cause Lady Ambury to complain to her husband long into the night after the party ended.

The good news this particular night was that Southwaite and his wife Emma would also be there. As for the sixth member of what was to be an intimate meal, Kendale hoped the ladies had not dug up some cousin who needed a husband and who would even put up with him if it meant becoming a viscountess. That would turn what might be an enjoyable few hours among friends into a night from hell.

He was relieved when he arrived to see that the third woman sitting in the drawing room was Cassandra's old Aunt Sophie. Colorful, witty, and a little dotty, Lady Sophie Vernham, at over age sixty, was not, he assumed, looking for a husband. Furthermore it was unlikely that his bad behavior would be criticized since Lady Sophie had a reputation for besting him in that area.

No sooner were the greetings exchanged than Ambury and Southwaite maneuvered him to the far end of the drawing room. Ambury smiled the smile that he normally used when he was up to no good, which was often. Southwaite on the other hand appeared a little sheepish, but determined.

“We need to warn you about something,” Southwaite said, in the tone of a man who expected trouble for his efforts.

“Not
warn
. How dramatic that sounds.
Inform
,” Ambury said.

Kendale waited, his gaze on Southwaite, who was more likely to have guessed the correct reaction to this
something
.

“There will be another member of our party tonight,” Ambury said. “The invitation was given late, after you accepted. I saw no reason to mention it.”

“Who is she?”

“The she who will join us to balance the table is Southwaite's sister Lydia. Her presence was required because I found myself at the club yesterday in conversation with Penthurst and decided to ask him to come tonight too.”

“Penthurst?”

“Now, Kendale—”

“You did not mention it because you knew I would not come. I cannot believe that you have schemed to have me sit at a table with him. I cannot believe that you will offer him the hospitality of your home either.”

Ambury rolled his eyes, which made Kendale want to punch him. Southwaite spoke lowly, and with sympathy. “He should have mentioned it. I said so, didn't I, Ambury? However, in his sunny state of mind since his marriage he sees no clouds, even when they are threatening to rain on him. And, let us be honest, the break between us and Penthurst—the evidence mounts that it was not as we thought. Ambury and I have both explained our thinking on this. You, however—”

You, however, won't see reason. You are the only holdout, and we decided to reconcile whether you agreed or not. You have been rigid, so we chose to force you to bend.

He wanted to have it out with them both now, but that would hardly do. Even he knew not to create that kind of scene in a drawing room where three women waited. And, he admitted, while he still held it against the Duke of Penthurst that he had killed one of their friends in a duel, he knew it had indeed not been as they had thought—the why of it, at least—not that the new ambiguity absolved the man.

Mostly he did not lose his temper or take his leave because the notion of talking to Penthurst tonight held some appeal. With his close ties to the government ministers, there were questions Penthurst might be able to answer as neither Ambury nor Southwaite could. Questions about Marielle Lyon, for example. Kendale would have never sought him out to ask those questions, but if the duke were being imposed on him like this . . .

“Fine.”

Southwaite blinked, astonished. He glanced cautiously over at Ambury whose smile did not waiver but whose eyes turned curious. “Fine? You do not mind?”

“It is your house and your food. I trust you do not think I am so rude as to object to the guests you invite, or curse them for their sins while sitting with them at your table.”

“No. Of course not. That goes without saying,” Southwaite muttered. “I assure you, no one thought that you—”

“I told Southwaite here that you did not have to be
warned
.” Ambury looked down the room and caught his wife's eye. Something passed between them in that look that made Lady Ambury visibly exhale with relief.

L
ady Ambury had worried about the wrong guest, Kendale noted with satisfaction toward the end of dinner. She spent so much time keeping the other members of her own family from embarrassing her that she barely knew he was there.

Lady Sophie concluded early on that Lydia had been invited for the eligible viscount in the party, which meant she, Sophie, was expected to be the eligible Penthurst's partner. Her graying hair, dressed in the curls of her youth, dipped toward Penthurst while she plied him with wine and innuendo.

Since they did not sit far from Kendale he overheard much of their conversation. To say that Lady Sophie flirted with a duke who at thirty-two was half her age would not be an exaggeration. Penthurst took it in stride and after his third glass of wine even flattered her back.

“I have no idea why I am here, and invited on such short notice. Do you?” Lady Lydia asked softly. She sat beside him on his left looking her normal pale, remote, soulful self. Dark hair and eyes drew attention to her face, but her eternally impassive expression discouraged any intimacy. Indeed, in the last few years talking to Lady Lydia had become a chore, much like dragging a cart up a muddy hill.

He had therefore neglected her, so entertaining did he find the conversation across the table and down two places.

He gave her his attention now, lest she add to the rumors that said he lacked social polish. “You are here to balance the table. This meal is not about you, or me, but about him.” He gestured to Penthurst.

“That is a relief. I thought perhaps my brother had convinced Cassandra to do some matchmaking.”

“If so, I was not told of it. I doubt they would ever try to match us. I knew you when you were a child, and could never think of you in that way.”

“Not matchmaking with
you
, Kendale. What a notion. That would be a match fit for hell.”

Indeed it would be, but even he thought it rude of her to say so outright. As a schoolgirl Lydia had been an impish and spirited bright-eyed, dark-haired child. Now in her twenties, she had retreated into herself with maturity in this peculiar way. Like a sphinx, she watched the world, and wore the smile of a statue if she reacted at all.

She worried Southwaite to no end with this behavior, although Kendale sometimes wondered if it was all a feint. There had been other worries in the last year regarding her that had to do with gambling and other behavior that indicated Lady Lydia could be most impish still. Kendale had reason to know that when Lydia had an accomplice that brought out the worst—one like Cassandra, the new Lady Ambury—Lydia surrendered to the impulse to be very naughty.

“You mean Penthurst, then,” he said. “I would be surprised if your brother has such designs. They may be friends of sorts again, but there is some bad business between them still.” There should be, at least.

“I hope it is bad enough to keep my brother from getting ideas. I do not like Penthurst. I do not like any dukes, now that I think about it, and I have reason to think that this one, for all his grace and condescension, is very cruel. At least he finally cropped his hair, I will give him that. He must be the last man younger than forty to do so. He also appears to have ordered coats in the current fashion as well. It was about time. He is too young to look like an antiquity.”