The Houseparty (21 page)

"They caught me in Michael's room this morning," she confessed with a trace of defiance.

A delicately shaped eyebrow rose. "Did they, indeed? This sounds most promising. I suggest we go for a drive and escape from their
overwatchful
eyes. Then you can tell me all about it."

Elizabeth looked at her flawless beauty, the warm, friendly smile, and remembered
Wat
Simpkin
and the midnight strolls. "I would love it. It won't take me a minute to get my pelisse."

"I'll come with you," the
contessa
offered. "That way no one can give you the bear jawing they're obviously longing for." She smiled up at Elizabeth's superior height. "And we can pour out our girlish hearts and give each other much good advice, I don't doubt."

"I'll do my best," Elizabeth said, determined to learn more than she would offer.

It was obvious the
contessa
had the same object in mind.
"I
am certain you will," she replied in dulcet tones.

It had turned into quite a lovely day. As Elizabeth, attired
in a walking dress of green merino that set off her sherry-colored eyes and chestnut hair to perfection, seated herself next to the
contessa,
she had to stifle a slight twinge of disappointment that Michael
Fraser
was nowhere about to admire her toilette.

It was through a kind fate that they had managed to avoid Sumner's condemning figure bearing down on them as they left the house, and his large, expressive blue eyes had a petulant expression in them as he turned and murmured something in an aggrieved tone to Rupert St. Ives, who scarcely looked more conciliatory. Rupert shook his head, placing a restraining hand on Sumner's well-muscled arm, and responded to Elizabeth's saucy little wave with a curt nod that nevertheless revealed a great deal of admiration in his cool, hazel eyes. But it was too late, my dear Rupert, she thought sadly as she climbed into the landau. At the age of seventeen there would have been nothing she would have liked better than to have excited such admiration from her brother's mature and glamorous friend. But now he merely seemed like a somewhat staid older brother. Her romantic fantasy was wrapped up elsewhere.

It was a beautiful spring day. Small puffs of white clouds were off in the horizon, the green grass had a delicious damp smell, promising new growth, and daffodils were out in the park. It made midnight excursions and French spies and ghastly executions seem a figment of a fevered imagination, far more fanciful than any French novel Elizabeth had ever read. But the mature and possibly dangerous woman beside her was real, and so was the danger to her brother Jeremy and others.

Elizabeth had little doubt the
contessa
was offering to divert her in order to give her confederate, whoever he really was, time to search the castle for that incriminating list of spies. But Sir Henry was alive on all counts, Rupert was even more suspicious than she was, and a famous soldier such as Sir Maurice with the cold, cynical eyes wouldn't let anything past him. She leaned back against the squabs and viewed the bright day gloomily.

"You look rather down in the dumps," the
contessa
observed, handling the reins with a deft expertise that Elizabeth admired. "Has young
Fraser
been difficult?"

Elizabeth jumped, startled, and gave the
contessa
a brilliant false smile. "Why should Captain
Fraser
have any effect on my state of mind?" she questioned brightly. "I was merely worried about
Brenna
and my brother," she added pointedly.

The
contessa
smiled with unimpaired good humor. "You needn't
worry,
Sumner saw me disappear with Adolphus last night and has decided I'm beyond saving. I'm sure, if you just leave well enough alone, your brother and Miss O'Shea will arrive at a mutually satisfactory understanding before the weekend is out. Sumner has had his fling and will be the better husband for it."

"It must be convenient for your conscience to believe that," Elizabeth said with some asperity, remembering Brenna's miserable green eyes.

"I have no conscience, Miss Traherne." She laughed. "I've knocked about this world for far too long and been in far too many tight places to allow myself the luxury of one. But then, I doubt I ever had one in the first place. One doesn't when one is brought up in Billingsgate."

"Billingsgate?"
Elizabeth echoed, thinking she must have misunderstood.

"You wouldn't know it to listen to me now, would you?
I
was born Lonnie Castle to a Billingsgate fishwife and some sailor she couldn't even remember. I learned to fend for myself early on, aided and abetted by certain generous gentlemen who helped me with my accent and manners. By the time I was twenty, I was no longer Lonnie Castle of London but the
Contessa
Leonora
di Castello,
and I haven't looked back once."

Elizabeth was silenced for only a moment. "Why are you telling me this?" she demanded suspiciously.

"I thought we should be honest with each other. Too much is riding on the outcome of this weekend's work. The future of this country, a country I'm surprisingly fond of, and my own personal future. I want to live a more settled existence, and I've decided Sir Adolphus will suit me just fine."

"Does he agree?" she questioned curiously.

"Oh, I have little doubt that he will. I have a way with men," the
contessa
murmured with a humble smile.

"I wish you all the luck in the world," said Elizabeth. "What can I do to further your success?"

"Don't care for him much yourself, do you? That's all right. He's a generous sort, full of juice, and that's the sort of gentleman I find most appealing. Not that I don't admire broad shoulders and a rakish air, but I learned long ago that Michael
Fraser
isn't for the likes of me."

Elizabeth's profound depression settled back over her. "Nor for me, either."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. He's paid you far more attention than
I'
ve
ever seen him waste on a young lady in the seven years I've known him. Of course, he was married to that tiresome Marianne for part of that time, but the fever carried her off quite fortuitously."

"Fever?"
Elizabeth echoed. "I thought it was childbirth."

"Not with Marianne. She made certain her life wouldn't be cluttered up with the little creatures. I have little doubt the fever that carried her off was brought on by getting rid of one. Not that I disapprove of such drastic measures in certain circumstances, but she carried it too far. She really was the most wretched creature. Always whining and complaining when Michael was around and then casting those sly blue eyes at anything in pants when his back was turned. He should have known better than to have married to please his family. Even they agreed it was a miserable mistake."

"Blue eyes?"
Elizabeth echoed, remembering Lady Elfreda's words.

"Blond-haired, blue-eyed, no bigger than a minute.
One of those fragile, clinging types, always weeping and complaining."

"But Lady Elfreda said she looked exactly like me!"

"Haven't you learned by now that you cannot trust a word that old harridan has to say? I can't imagine two creatures more dissimilar than you and Marianne. You can be sure that Michael knows the difference." She cast a questioning look out of her saucy eyes. "But what I'm more interested in right now, my dear Elizabeth, is what
Wat
Simpkin
had to say to you when you pretended to be me yesterday morning."

Elizabeth hesitated but then decided that frankness might avail her of more information. "I didn't pretend to be you. He merely jumped to that conclusion."

"A matter of semantics," she replied, dismissing Elizabeth's words airily. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Elizabeth countered.

"Because he's disappeared.
I suppose he realized his mistake and didn't care to be around for the consequences. Or perhaps our mutual friend Fredericks got rid of him. Or he might have decided, quite righty, that his services are no longer required. Whatever, he's gone, and it's up to you to tell me how indiscreet he's been."

Elizabeth wavered for only a moment. The
contessa
had been more than frank so far, and her only hope of learning more seemed to demand an equal frankness. "He told me that a French agent named
LeBoeuf
had hidden a list of English agents active in France right now somewhere at Winfields and that one of the guests there is a French agent determined to retrieve that information, no matter what the cost. He didn't tell me who, but he did say that the government suspected the culprit. And I gather you might want to find the paper first and sell it to the government.
Or to Napoleon?"

"Never.
Wat
Simpkin
didn't know my reputation very well if he thought I'd get involved in that sort of stuff. I'm out for myself first of all, but elastic as my sense of morality is, it doesn't include selling out my country. Did he tell you where the paper was hidden?"

"He didn't seem to know. Do you?"

"Haven't the foggiest. At this point I presume only our friend the spy knows."

"Do you mean Michael
Fraser?"
Elizabeth's voice was surprisingly strong as she asked the question she dreaded to hear answered.

A small smile curved the
contessa's
ripe red lips. "You'd like me to tell you, wouldn't you? And do you know what would happen if you were to find out that the spy is Michael
Fraser
or some other member of this jolly little
houseparty
? You would probably not survive another hour. The person we're dealing with is cunning, desperate, and quite, quite ruthless. It would mean nothing to him to kill you."

"Is it Michael?" Her voice cracked in desperation.

"I'm not going to tell you," the
contessa
replied simply. "What you should do, my girl, is return to Winfields and glue yourself to Lady Elfreda. Sit there and tat, or read sermons, or play silver
loo
, or stare out the window. And ignore everything that seems the slightest bit untoward. You've been far too rambunctious so far, and I can't answer for the consequences if you don't do as I tell you."

"I have no intentions of doing anything unless you are honest with me."

"Wretched girl!"
The
contessa
shook her head ruefully. "It's no wonder Michael's half out of his mind with frustration. I wonder your brothers haven't strangled you long ago."

"They're too afraid of me," she shot back. She eyed the
contessa
speculatively, hesitating for a moment. "I wonder if I could ask you a
question?
"

"Not if you're going to ask me who the spy is."

"Nothing to do with that.
Or not much.
I wondered
. . .
in light of your varied experiences . . . you must have seen a great many gentlemen without their shirts on."

The
contessa
smiled with reminiscent fondness. "That I have,
dearie
."

"And I don't doubt you've seen Captain
Fraser
without his shirt," she continued, stifling the pang that assailed her at such a thought.

The
contessa
nodded. "Not that it's ever done me much good. He's the one that got away, I'm afraid.
A bit too fastidious to be interested in the likes of me.
Ah, well, it's his loss."

"Is . . . that is, do most gentlemen look like Captain
Fraser
without their shirts?
In the general run of things?"

"In the general run of things Michael
Fraser
has one of the most delightful bodies I've ever seen on a man. And I've seen quite a few," she added with a smile that could almost, on a gentleman, be called a leer. "Fancy him, do you?"

"Heavens, no!"

"Heavens, no!" she mimicked. "I've got eyes in my head, missy. Do as I tell you, and everything might just possibly come round right. Keep interfering, and heaven knows what will happen!" She cast a sharp look at her companion and let out a small sigh of exasperation. "You are the most frustrating girl!"

Luncheon was a prolonged, exceedingly boring affair, the entire proceedings enlivened only by the fulminating glances
Brenna
kept casting at the cow-eyed and repentant Sumner. Apparently the
contessa
was right, and he had seen the error of his ways. Elizabeth could only hope it wasn't too
late. Brenna
O'Shea was possessed of a good

Irish temper, and the recent blow on her head hadn't helped it any.

On Elizabeth's left sat a preoccupied Rupert St. Ives
, .
who
spent fully as much time glaring across at Michael
Fraser
as
Brenna
did staring at Sumner. On Elizabeth's other side sat the taciturn General Wingert, who had obviously decided she was a flighty female who didn't know her place. To her wittiest overtures the dour Sir Maurice returned only monosyllabic answers, reserving the majority of his attention for his subdued adjutant.