The Counterfeit Mistress (7 page)

Her brush stopped halfway down her hair. That was a piece of news she hoped she did not learn. She would ask, however, no matter how much she dreaded hearing the answer.

“You be careful,” Dominique said. “You make sure you can trust them before you ask after Lamberte. He may well have sent one of them on this boat to find you, and your own interest will pique curiosity. Better if you left the questions to me.”

“You cannot play the servant and ask highborn women about the news of their country. Will you present yourself as their equal so they will confide in you?”

Dominique shook her head. “You just be careful.”

Two hours later Marielle and her maid entered a handsome townhome on a street behind Bedford Square. She wondered if the family who lived here owned it, or if it was only let. If the latter, she wondered if the rent had been paid.

Most of the émigrés lived a precarious existence. Few of them would work, not that the aristocrats among them had skills to sell. They were gentlemen and gentlewomen after all. Her own print work was tolerated since it was better than whoring, but unkind comments still came her way, even from families who sent one of their women to sit and dab paint at her tables. A good many families relied entirely on debt to survive, and on the credit offered by tradesmen who counted on the old ways and estates eventually returning to France.

As she mounted the stairs to the drawing room, she assessed the furnishings. Either Monsieur Perdot had property in England from long ago, or the porcelains and hangings had indeed been bought by his expectations. There was too much here to have been brought over when he escaped.

The drawing room hardly soared the way they did in France's best houses, but its decorations were tasteful, and its occupants merry. Seven men and nine women sat on chairs and divans, drinking champagne and celebrating their escape.

Madame LaTour sat among them. She noticed Marielle, beckoned her over, and introduced her. One of the newcomers, Madame Toupin, a woman of senior years with white hair and very dark eyes, took particular note. She peered through spectacles mounted on a long wand, eyeing every inch of Marielle's person and deportment.

Marielle faced her down, mustering as much hauteur as what came her way. Lips pursed and eyebrows high, this woman did not hide her skepticism regarding what she saw.

“So you are the niece of the Comte de Vence. I knew him well, and am delighted to make your acquaintance.” She patted the bench beside her chair. “Come, sit with me, so we can reminisce about that good man.”

S
abine Peltier lived in a small apartment at a good address on the edge of Mayfair. When Kendale presented himself at the door, a maid ushered him into a tiny sitting room before she walked off with his card and Ambury's letter. She did not return for a good while.

He amused himself while he waited by perusing the books in a cabinet tucked discreetly in one corner. Not only French books rested there, but also new ones in English. That fit with the little he knew about the woman. Ambury had explained that the Peltiers had moved in the highest circles in Paris before Monsieur Peltier, an academically inclined younger son of a baron, had paid for his conservative philosophies with his life.

The chamber itself possessed a feminine, elegant décor that he assumed cost a bit of money. Madame Peltier bought sparingly but well. The few chairs appeared well made. The upholstered divan would be at home in the best drawing room.

Madame Peltier looked much the same when she finally entered and greeted him. Dark haired, slender, and tall, she was a beautiful woman of middle years. He guessed she was about forty, but it was hard to tell. Her ensemble and style inclined toward the exotic, as was the fashion among some ladies. The high-waist dress looked to have layers of thin fabric, all of which floated as if she flew just above the ground when she moved.

She still held the letter in her hand, and after they sat she perused it again. “Ambury is very charming. He writes that you want a favor from me, but not my favors.”

“Perhaps other men are so rude as to call on a lady as a stranger in hopes of the latter, but I am not.” It was an insult to suspect he would do that. Perhaps, however, there was a reason why it did not insult
her
.

She gave him a good examination. “I expect you are not.”

“What else does he say?” It did not appear to be a brief letter.

“He thanks me for writing to wish him well on his marriage, but very subtly and kindly discourages me from writing again in the future.” She made a sad little smile, then laughed. “Of course he must marry the daughter of one equal to himself. And English, of course. It is normal.”

It was not his place to explain that there had been little normal about Ambury's choice of wife, nor that if he had wanted to marry a Frenchwoman whom strange men called on for favors of a special kind, he was the sort to do so. “Very normal.”

“And you, milord. Do you have such a normal marriage?”

Madame Peltier had broached an intimate topic with alarming speed. He decided to discourage her from spinning any webs. “I intend to one day. Very soon.” He added the last part in response to a rapacious gleam that entered Madame Peltier's far too interested dark eyes. It reminded him of the lights in the eyes of men who view a horse at Tattersalls that they would not mind owning.

“Bien.”
The word sighed out of her. It signaled resignation, from the tone and from the less flirtatious way she gazed at him. “Tell me what you want. I will try to help you and one day, perhaps you will help me.”

He had not expected this to be without cost, but her bluntness surprised him. He noticed that she spoke very good English as she clearly articulated the bargain. Almost as good as Marielle. Unlike Marielle, however, she had lost little of her accent and it caused the sentences to inflect oddly, and to rise when native English might fall. She was one of those whom Marielle considered lazy for not listening and trying to imitate. Of course Madame Peltier had never been trained to listen and imitate. Either that or her accent lent her charm in London so she had little incentive to lose it.

“I have come to ask you to tell me what you know about Marielle Lyon.”

“Ahh.” She looked toward the window, thinking. “Little Marielle.” She tsked her tongue lightly. She returned her attention to him. “I know her, of course. We all know each other.”

“Do you believe her story?”

“I have no reason not to. And yet . . . all is not right there, to me.”

He hoped his silence would encourage her to continue. Eventually it did.

“It is too much,” she said. “The old dresses that make her appear both lovely and helpless. I picture her carefully tearing the lace just so, for effect. The long shawls—they become her too well. How convenient that she owned them and was able to bring them out with her. The way she dirties her hands with that odd studio. There are ways to make one's way beyond starting a little factory, no?”

“I expect so.”

“I know the suspicions that she is a charlatan. I have been there when she is put to the test. She makes no mistakes.” She leaned toward him like a conspirator. “None at all. It is not normal. We all forget things from our youths. But poor Marielle, she remembers it all. The name of the comte's horse. That he liked currants in his porridge. Little things that his own daughter might not remember, Marielle can recite like a lesson.”

“I admire your perception.”

“Then there is the way she speaks,” she added, ignoring his flattery.

“Her English?”

“Her French. Usually it is most correct. The language of Paris, as would be taught to her in a good home of a comte's niece. One day, however, not long after she arrived, I was at the home of a family with three children when she visited. She was still much of a child herself then, and she went to play with them. When I went into the garden, I heard her. No longer did she speak like a Parisienne, but with an accent most provincial. I recognized it as a voice from the west. I had family who lived in Nantes, and she spoke like them.”

She locked her gaze on his meaningfully. He missed whatever significance she gave to this discovery. He never thought Marielle had come to London from Paris.

She rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “Milord, she does not claim to come from the
west
, but from the
south
. The comte lived in Provence, and Marielle says she lived nearby. That at least is not true, I think.”

And if one detail were untrue, how much else?

“Do you know her well? Have you seen her among us?” Madame Peltier asked.

“I have only seen her among English people.” Mostly he had seen her as a lone figure in the distance. Of course recently he had been face-to-face with her, and very close. Too damned close.

Madame Peltier lowered her eyelids and gazed down in thought. “You are not the first to wonder. Not even the first to ask me about her. Your government has shown interest before. You, however, are the first who did not threaten me before you asked your question. And the first to come with a letter of introduction, as a sign of respect.”

“Did you tell the others what you told me?”

“I only answered their questions. They did not ask about her speech, or ask for my opinions.”

“I am glad you decided to receive me. I have learned something new from you it seems.” Damned if he knew what to do with it, though.

He rose to take his leave. She stood too, but paced over to the window overlooking the street. Abruptly she turned.

“Would you like to see her among her own? There is a gathering right now to welcome some new arrivals. She may be there. She likes to learn if they brought things to sell. She gives them to that auction house and takes a piece for her efforts. Our little Marielle is most shrewd in going between the English and us.”

“It would be useful to see her being shrewd, but I would not like to intrude.”

“There are often English friends at such assemblies, so introductions can be made that might be of use. You can escort me.”

“If I escort you, will there not be talk?”

She laughed musically. “How gallant of you to worry for me. There is always some talk. What else do we have to do, but talk and wait and pray, and talk some more?”

M
arielle avoided the quizzing by Madame Toupin as long as she could. She engaged the others sitting nearby in conversation. Before the hour was out she knew the identities of all of the new arrivals, and from where they had hailed.

One man in particular held a special interest to her. A native of La Rochelle, he had visited his home before slipping away. La Rochelle was not Savenay, where Lamberte wielded power, but both were in the west.

She contemplated how to escape Madame Toupin so she could pull that man aside. Deciding to be direct, she began rising from the bench, excusing herself. Unfortunately that brought Madame's attention on her.

“My dear, you must not go so soon. We have not had time to talk.”

“Of course, Madame.” She sat again, but turned her head in the direction away from Madame. Dominique stood right behind her, and moved close when she gestured. Dominique bent low to hear her whisper. “Monsieur Marion, over there with the green waistcoat. Ask him to meet me in the garden in half an hour.”

Dominique nodded and eased away. Marielle collected her wits and turned to face Madame.

“I was so sad, hearing about your uncle. It makes me grieve even now, all these years later,” Madame said, patting her hand.

“We all have much to grieve, Madame. I thank you for remembering him in your prayers.”

“I expect the house was taken. And the lands.”

“Of course.”

“How sad and unfair. Your family's land was stolen too, no doubt. Was your father executed as well, after his brother?”

Such matter-of-fact discussions of death were normal in their community, but Marielle found them disconcerting. Death had become so commonplace during the revolution that no one treated the losses as deserving special reverence anymore.

“Our property also was taken and my father indeed died soon after my uncle, but of a long illness. I think that you have misunderstood my relationship too. My father was not the comte's brother. Rather my mother was his sister. The comte's only brother passed away years before the unpleasantness started.”
You will have to do better than that, Madame.

“I do not think I ever met your mother.”

“Most likely not. She did not make an approved marriage, and did not get invited to my uncle's balls and house parties. She was not disowned, however. My uncle allowed us to visit privately, and he purchased for her the house in which we lived.”

“How fortunate that you could have the advantages of visiting that magnificent home. My memories of it are full of light and beautiful gardens. There was a maze in one. It took me over an hour to make it to the center, and the statue of Apollo there.”

Marielle began to respond, but a ripple of excitement distracted her. Heads turned and whispers buzzed. She looked to the drawing room's entrance and saw the reason. Madame Peltier had arrived. Late, of course, so she would make a grand entrance.

This entrance appeared grander than most. While Madame Peltier presented a lovely face and figure, and one more stylish than most in the chamber due to suspicious sources of support, the attention she now garnered seemed extreme.

The crowd parted and Marielle saw why. The whore was on the arm of Viscount Kendale!

Madame Peltier made sure she and her escort secured glasses of the champagne that had been smuggled out of France with the émigrés. Then she surveyed the chamber. Her gaze came to rest on Madame Toupin. No doubt she considered Madame Toupin the most impressive woman among the newcomers.

With Kendale in tow, she moved in their direction, introducing Kendale to all she passed. For a man reputed to have no interest in social affairs, Kendale appeared gracious enough about the fawning attention coming his way.

Marielle refused to watch. Such a display was gauche. If Sabine wanted to play the courtesan for the nobility of England, that was her business. One might hope she would be more tactful, however, and not parade her lovers about like this, interfering with important business that Marielle had to conduct.

Madame angled so she could see around Marielle while she tipped her head to whispers pouring in her ear. “A viscount? How wonderful. I must be sure to meet him,” she said. “I am told it is impossible to get anyone in the government here to listen to a petition. He is very handsome, isn't he? Although perhaps not amiable. Of course I knew he was of the blood as soon as I saw him.”

Since Madame Toupin had lost interest in her, Marielle decided to escape and go wait in the garden for the man in the green waistcoat. She took her leave but no one heard her repeatedly excusing herself. All attention in their little circle had fixed on the space right in front of her bench. She looked up to see Viscount Kendale standing right in front of her.

Short of pushing him to the side, she would not be able to leave now. She settled back on the bench.

“We do not interrupt, I hope,” Sabine said. “Lord Kendale was good enough to agree to meet our new friends and I could not deny them the introduction. Marielle, would you be kind enough to do the honors.”

She introduced Madame Toupin and the others sitting nearby. Pleasantries and blandishments flew through the air. Kendale might be the prince, for all the eager claims on his attention. Then conversation lagged.

“I fear we did interrupt,” Kendale said to Sabine, in English.

“It was no interruption,” Madame Toupin said, turning to English as well. “I was reminiscing with Mademoiselle Lyon about her family.”

“Then I am glad we arrived just now. I would be happy to know more about Mademoiselle's childhood.”

“What? Do you know each other?” Madame Toupin asked.

“We have only had two conversations, very brief ones,” Marielle said.

“Too brief,” Kendale said. “Although Mademoiselle Lyon did teach me a few things about some differences between French customs and ours.”

Marielle hoped she did not flush at his oblique reference to that afternoon in his chambers.

“How nostalgic it must be for you, Marielle, to meet someone who knew your family well. Did you have a long history with the comte, Madame?” Sabine asked.

Madame launched into an explanation of how the two families knew each other. Each breath improved her own family's stature. Marielle let her chatter on. She turned her attention to the other guests and tried to see if the green waistcoat remained in the chamber. From a nearby corner Dominique caught her eye and gestured to the window and the world outside.

“I was describing my delight in the maze in the comte's garden when you arrived,” Madame said. She speared Marielle with a sidelong glance of suspicion. “There was a statue in its center.”

“That is correct,” Marielle said, impatient with this game now. Another time she would let this woman quiz her for hours. “I am afraid your memory is a little faulty, however. The statue depicted Neptune, not Apollo. He rose up from a fountain, as if it were the sea. Remember?”

“I do now. Thank you.” Madame appeared disappointed that Marielle did too.

“I always thought the little lake more fun than the maze. The maze frightened me, but I could float a little boat on the lake. Mama would sit under the large tree on its edge and watch. A very old tree with a trunk too thick for a man to embrace completely.” She scoured her brain for some detail to end this latest interrogation. “I was so sad that summer when lightning hit it and sheared off the branches that overhung the water.”

Madame retreated into silence. Sabine did not. “Your memories are so clear. It is a wonder to me that anyone has such detail in their mind.”

“My memories are all that I have from that happy time. Therefore I take care of them like the treasures they are. Now, you all must excuse me. I need some air.” Pretending to be a little light-headed, she stood, ready to push Kendale out of the way if necessary. He stepped aside and bowed.

She sought out Dominique. “You must come with me. Eyes are watching and I claimed to need some air. It will appear odd if I go down alone.”

Dominique fell into step, making a display of concern while she fanned Marielle's face with her hand. “What is the viscount doing here?”

“Perhaps hoping for an excuse to buy Madame Peltier a fur mantle for next winter's cold.”

“Do you think so? That is too bad.”

Marielle hurried down the stairs once they escaped the drawing room. “Why too bad? It is good news. She will distract him from trailing me. She will also make him available to others who need help. You remember how useful it was when Viscount Ambury was her dear friend for a few months, don't you? We must all pray that Madame Peltier never loses her appeal to the lords of England.”

Dominique huffed down after her. “True, true. I just thought . . .”

Marielle stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned on her. “You just thought what?”

She shrugged. “He seemed somewhat taken with you, enough that if you overlooked a few failings that he possesses, the fur mantle might well be yours.”

“What a stupid notion! First, I am not a whore,” she said, speaking with whispered annoyance. “Second, and I would think this would drive such ideas away at once, he has decided I am the enemy. He does not want me as his mistress. He wants me on a gallows.”

She strode through the house's first level, sticking her head into chambers as they passed, seeking a garden door.

Dominique hustled alongside. “Do not be angry with me for considering the possibility, and do not be so stubborn as to ignore it yourself. If a liaison with him helps you win the final prize, what do you care if he does not trust you? It is certain that you will be needing what protection you can find now. There is none better than an English lord who, from the looks of him and the telling of others, is still as battle ready as when he was an officer.”

Marielle spied the garden through a window in the library. Nipping inside she found a door as well. She reached out and grabbed Dominique and dragged her into the chamber. “Do not speak this nonsense again.”

“If you insist. Pity for that Peltier woman to get him, but as you say, maybe it will distract him from hunting you.”

She imagined just how he would be distracted. It did nothing for her mood. Sabine lived well, it was said. Her furniture did not show frayed fabric any more than her dresses showed long waists and front lacing. She was a goddess, a picture of fashion and elegance, and imbued with the worldly sophistication that made Frenchwomen of good breeding so alluring. In comparison, Marielle looked like a shepherdess to Kendale, she was sure.

Well, if Sabine Peltier were going to seduce Lord Kendale, one could only hope that she did so thoroughly. She probably would soften his hardness some. When she was done with him, those edges would be smoothed and rounded. Sabine would train him how to flatter and charm and tolerate society too. After an affair with Sabine, he would be just like all the other gentlemen in the drawing rooms of Mayfair most likely.

How sad.

She stood at the edge of the terrace, looking for a green waistcoat amid the plantings. When she did not see it, she cursed. “He is gone. I will have to write to him and ask him to call on me now, and who knows if he will bother.”

Dominique grasped her shoulder and pointed with the other hand. “There. He is sitting in front of that shrubbery.”

Indeed he was. Monsieur Marion appeared to be in a reverie while he admired the tulips blooming nearby. Relieved, Marielle walked down the stone steps into the garden and headed toward him.

“I
must go. I will leave the coach to take you home,” Kendale said.

Madame Peltier smiled up at him while she stood a fraction too close. She had been drinking a good deal of champagne. “Do not.”

“Do not leave the coach?”

“Do not go.” Her eyes promised much if he obeyed. Since others could see her looking at him like that, there would definitely be talk.

“I must.” If he did not leave he would go mad. It was bad enough to suffer parties like this with his own countrymen. Doing so with forty French persons made it unbearable. He understood what they said well enough, but speaking French beyond rudimentary sentences was not a skill he possessed. Not that he had anything to say in any language at such affairs.

He had never understood the appeal of these gatherings. So much talk, and so little actually said. So much falsehood and flattery and so much unkindness. Marielle had barely left the chamber before the group where she had sat began savaging her. Not because she might be a spy. From what he could tell, no one here suspected her of that. Not even because she might be a charlatan. Her handling of Madame Toupin left that at least an open question. No, the ladies tore her down for her dress, her hair, her trade, her independence. They found each other very witty as they did it too.

Now one of those ladies cajoled him to stay. Nothing she could offer would keep him here another five minutes.

She pouted. “Then take your coach too. I will hire one, or find another guest who is more sympathetic.”

“As you like. Again, thank you for receiving me today.” He bowed and went to look for the host.

It took a good ten minutes to make a clean escape. No one wanted the English lord with good connections to go. Remaining vague about his willingness to help, inwardly groaning at the line of callers he could expect in the coming weeks, he fought his way out like a soldier retreating from overwhelming forces.

He was not really free until he started down the stairs. He took his time then, assessing the orientation of the house and the likely plan of the chambers above and below. He had noticed that the drawing room overlooked the garden. Perhaps down here the library did as well. He turned and made his way to the back of the house. The few servants who noticed him did not question his presence.

Out on the veranda the late afternoon breeze refreshed him. Little fields of spring flowers gave some color to a landscape still showing barren trees. The scent of the changing season could not be mistaken, however. It reminded him of his youth in Buckinghamshire, when so much on the land promised renewal at this time of year.