Secrets of a Proper Countess (11 page)

Her body stirred at the memory of his touch, ingrained forever on her skin. She shivered, and decided at that instant she hated him.

“C
harles Maitland has come into money,” Phineas told Adam in the privacy of the study. Marianne's guests had gone up to the nursery to collect the young Earl of Ashdown, and Augusta had excused the gentlemen as no longer necessary.

Phineas quelled his annoyance. He'd come to give Adam some information, not to take tea with Charles Maitland's dreadful female relatives. Isobel Maitland had a way of setting his teeth on edge just by being in the same room.

Her gown had been particularly awful today, a dark blue atrocity trimmed with black ribbon and buttoned tight enough to choke her. She'd looked like a crow, perched on Augusta's jaunty cherry and green striped settee.

Until she blushed. The soft flood of color improved her. Slightly. He had quickly noted that he made her nervous, and he took malicious pleasure in that. She probably thought she was too good to be in the same room with a rake like him. It irritated him that he found her so distracting when he was in her company, when she obviously held him in such low regard.

“Has he?” Adam murmured, only half listening. He was looking over a letter Phineas had brought him, written by Lord Philip Renshaw to his wife, and stolen by Phineas before the lady ever received it. When Adam was finished,
he would take it back to her, and use both the information and the lady's reaction to her husband's message to further their search for him.

As always, Adam studied every word of the brief note with painstaking care. Restless, Phineas crossed to the window and stared out through the rain-washed glass. Out of habit, he scanned the sidewalk and park square in front of the house for anything suspicious. There was nothing, of course, since it was pouring rain, and this was Mayfair, not the London docks, and respectable people remained indoors in such weather.

He turned back to Adam. “Maitland paid several large gambling vowels last night,” he reported, trying to hurry him along.

“Perhaps he won at the tables, then. A lucky throw of the dice. It's bound to happen once in a while to even the unluckiest gambler.”

“Yes, but he usually pays only his smallest debts when he wins, and only because no one would game with him again if he didn't. He does it with bad grace. Or he did, until last night. I don't think I've ever seen Maitland smile before. It's an unpleasant sight.”

“Really?” Adam picked up the letter yet again. “Odd, Philip's letter is two weeks old. If I read his code aright, he's telling Evelyn she'll receive money too, just like Charles. I assume that's what ‘await a visit from my man of affairs with a draft' means.”

“I don't think it's a code, Adam. If it says await money, that's what it means. Philip is not a subtle man. The only question is what, or who, the source of these windfalls might be. Philip has more debts than Charles.”

Adam frowned. “Charles is likely only a smuggler. A man that dull could hardly be connected with Renshaw's plans. We can ignore him for the moment. We need to find Renshaw
as quickly as possible, before the plot to kidnap the French king becomes a monumental disaster. I have men watching the ports, but there's been no sign of trouble, or Philip, for that matter, other than this letter. We're also keeping a close eye on King Louis, just in case. Any theories as to where Philip might be?”

“Philip is somewhere near the sea, probably on this side of the Channel,” Phineas replied. “The messenger I took this letter from still had sand on his boots, and he smelled of fish. The man swears he doesn't know anything, and was simply given a handful of coins to come to London with a letter to deliver to London along with his catch.”

Adam sniffed the letter, which of course smelled of nothing more than parchment and perfumed ink. “No one else was able to figure out how Philip was sending messages to his wife. The post is watched, and so is everyone who comes in or goes out of that house. How did you get hold of this?”

“One of Evelyn's maids is from Hythe. The girl receives regular visits from her brother, with packets of fish and gifts from her mother.”

“Yes, our man reported that some time ago,” Adam said.

“Did he notice that the maid's brother is a different man every time?”

Adam grinned. “You're brilliant, my friend.”

“So is Philip Renshaw, Adam, or at least he's more clever than we thought. We still don't know who he's working with. He's a step ahead of us, and that's dangerous.”

“He can't hide forever. I have confidence you'll find him, even if no one else can. What about the masked woman? Do you know if she's connected to Renshaw yet?”

Phineas sighed, and paced back to the window, wondering again if the mysterious Yasmina played a part in this. He still hadn't found her, and there wasn't any place in London he hadn't looked.

Below the window, the Maitland ladies were getting into their coach at last. He watched Isobel climb in after her mother-in-law. The wind lifted the dark hem of her skirt to show a flash of trim white ankles.

“Is that a new coach?” Adam asked from beside him, oblivious to Isobel's charms.

Phineas frowned, realizing he'd been distracted by the countess yet again, and turned his attention to the vehicle. “No, the coach isn't new, but that matched pair of chestnuts pulling it was up for sale at Tattersall's the other day. They're expensive cattle.”

“So Charles
has
come into some money, and not from the tables,” Adam mused. They watched as the coach moved off down the street in the rain.

“Lady Honoria told us at tea that he's been turning a fine profit on his estates,” Marianne said from behind them, and Adam jumped.

“My dear, I didn't hear you come in.” As her husband kissed her forehead in greeting, Phineas crossed to the desk and pocketed Renshaw's letter before his sister saw it.

“Did you enjoy tea with Lady Isobel?” Adam asked.

Marianne sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. It would have been more enjoyable without Honoria Maitland eating all the cakes and monopolizing the conversation. I am convinced Charles Maitland is the dullest man on earth.”

She looked up at her husband with a worried expression. “Adam, I think he wants to marry Miranda. We must take steps to see that doesn't happen. I like Isobel, but I could not abide being tied to Honoria by marriage.”

“What
did
Honoria say about Charles?” Phineas asked, digging for information. His grandfather would never agree to a match between Miranda and Charles Maitland, but watching the man's attempt to charm his sister would be unpleasant enough. If he could prove Charles was guilty of
smuggling, it would make it impossible for him to woo Miranda at all.

Marianne made a face and sat in the wing chair next to the desk. “Oh, she told us how clever he was, and how handsome. He just purchased a curricle, and had it painted bright blue to match ‘a certain young lady's eyes.' Ugh!” She gave a shudder of revulsion.

“A new curricle?” Adam asked, casting a sideways glance at Phineas, who watched dangerous sparks flare in his sister's eyes as she noted the look.

“What is it?” she said crisply. “Do you envy Charles his new toy? I thought your ships and your collections kept you happy enough.” She rounded on her brother. “And you, Phineas. How dare you come to tea looking like you were up all night?”

He raised one eyebrow and gave her his most rakish grin. “I was, dear sister.” He'd been to three parties, hoping to find Yasmina. Then he spent several hours following Charles Maitland through the worst gaming hells in the city. The man had the stamina of a cockroach. Phineas had greeted the dawn outside Evelyn Renshaw's mansion, lurking in a cold and dirty morning fog, waiting for the messenger.

Marianne's eyes took on a rapier sharp gleam. “That means you are either taking Grandfather's edict seriously and looking for a bride at all the premier parties, or you're up to no good. Don't think I didn't see you staring at the ladies' bosoms at Miranda's debut.”

She tapped a manicured fingernail against her chin and narrowed her eyes in a way that instantly had Phineas on his guard. “My guess is that you are between mistresses, Phin. You look tired and drawn and—unsatisfied.”

“Marianne!” Adam said in a horrified voice. Phineas stood still, bemused by his sister's speculations. Was his sister trying to get him laid? Which of them was the rogue now?

“Well, he does. Look at him, Adam. Something is preying on his mind, and whatever else preys on a rake?”

Adam bristled, looking as prim as the widow Maitland. “Phineas's social life is not a suitable topic of discussion. His choice of—” Adam's mouth worked as he searched for a polite description.

“Women? Bedmates? Whores?” Marianne inserted saucily.

Adam glared at her. He was a gentleman to the very toes of his impeccable boots, and expected his wife to be a lady in all things, despite her spirited nature. “I do not wish to continue this unseemly line of conversation. Change the subject at once, Marianne, if you please.”

Marianne sent Phineas a look that suggested the conversation was not at an end, and he could expect to be badgered about his personal life later. Adam should use her to spy for him, Phineas thought. She'd be a master at it, especially interrogation. There was no hiding a secret from her.

“What do you wish to discuss instead?” Marianne asked sweetly, clasping her hands in her lap, sitting in the big wing chair like an angelic child.

“Begin with why you decided to announce a masked ball at De Courcey House
next week
.”

“Brilliant, wasn't it?” Marianne crossed to the decanter of whisky on the side table and poured a small amount into a tumbler. Phineas expected her to offer it to her ruffled husband, but she sipped it herself.

“A masquerade ball will be a tremendous amount of work. Have you thought of that?” Adam asked.

“Well, the masked part was Phineas's idea,” Marianne said, finishing her whisky and grinning at her brother.

Adam looked at him sharply. “Yes, it was, wasn't it?”

Phineas kept his expression bland and studied a small watercolor painting of Augusta's late husband that hung on
the wall behind the desk. His sorrowful countenance was a poignant reminder that marriage killed a man early.

“We'll have to find you a suitable costume,” Marianne mused, circling her husband, examining him like a modiste with a challenging client. “A pirate perhaps, or Sir Francis Drake. Something suitably nautical.”

“Even if Phin doesn't, I hate costume balls,” Adam said, his eyes still boring into Phineas.

“Unless they serve a purpose?” Phineas suggested.

The light in Adam's eyes kindled, then flared to full comprehension.

It was a fool's bet that Yasmina would attend Marianne's ball, of course. He knew that. But if there was one chance in a thousand that she'd appear again in the delectable harem costume, with the pink half mask over her teasing eyes, he'd gladly take those odds. He was looking forward to facing the challenge of all those tiny pearl buttons once more. He hadn't had a woman since he met her at Evelyn's. No other woman held the appeal she did. His sister wasn't entirely wrong about the reason for his haggard appearance.

“A purpose?” Marianne jumped on the comment. “What purpose could a masquerade serve?”

“To open our town home in grand style,” Adam said, kissing her. “Have you made a guest list?”

“Do be sure to ask Evelyn Renshaw for her list of invitees,” Phineas murmured.

Marianne was neatly distracted, like a hunting dog thrown a scrap of meat. “Of course. I hear the Renshaw ball was a triumph.”

“Who would have imagined Lady Isobel was there?” Adam marveled. “Did you happen to see her, Phin?”

Phineas felt his lips twist at the mention of her name. He'd been busy that evening with far more delightful company, and he left early, with his buttons in his pocket.

“I must have been in another part of the room. I never bother with the wallflowers and shepherdesses.”

Marianne glared at him. “Well then, you must tell me who to invite to please you, Phineas. Remember that Miranda will be present, and likely dressed as a shepherdess. It is one of the few costumes considered appropriate for young ladies, widows, and sensible matrons.”

“Then we can expect you to come dressed as a shepherdess?” Phineas teased, and Marianne rolled her eyes.

“Certainly not! I plan to be the belle of the ball. In fact, I think the whole affair will be delightful, don't you, Phineas? Do try to convince Adam that this will be fun.”

Adam groaned in dread, his eyes pleading with him. Phineas hoped that in return for his suffering, Yasmina would be there.

This time he'd know everything about her before the evening was over.

I
sobel looked at the two costumes Sarah had set out side by side. Honoria had chosen the first one, and even Sarah was scowling at the black nun's habit. It was made of rough and shapeless linen, poorly dyed to an unidentifiable color somewhere between green and black. The heavy wimple resembled an angry bat, poised to attack unfortunate sinners.

“You're certain Lady Honoria has left for the evening?” Isobel asked, grimacing at the horrid costume. “And Miss Kirk went with her?”

“Yes. They went to a card party at Lady Conrad's,” Sarah replied. “She's a second cousin of Miss Kirk's uncle, or some such connection. Miss Kirk said that Lady Conrad is expecting the Prince Regent to attend, and there are two dukes and a royal mistress on the guest list. Lady Honoria wasn't about to pass up an opportunity like that for the costume ball of a mere earl. She insisted that Lord Charles attend Lady Westlake's ball, though. Will he notice if you switch costumes?”

“He only just arrived back in Town this afternoon. Honoria won't have had time to discuss my masquerade disguise with him,” Isobel said. She looked longingly at the other costume and reached out a hand to touch it. The shimmering pink satin warmed under her fingertips like living flesh.

The gown had been her mother's, a confection of lace and
satin in the latest style of two decades past. Lady Charlotte Fraser had been as famous for her sense of fashion as she was infamous for her scandalous love affair.

Sarah picked up the fan beside the gown and opened it, blushing at the painting of a scantily clad lady sailing through a rose garden on a swing that unfurled. She turned her attention to the powdered wig, covered with dainty silk rosebuds, and the embroidered dancing slippers. A pair of lace gloves so delicate that a spider might have spun the threads for them completed the ensemble.

Isobel imagined her mother wearing this gown, flirting shamelessly with a man who looked just like—

Blackwood.

She snatched her hand away from the satin as if it burned and twined her fingers together in a tight knot of resolve. She would not—could not—think of him tonight. Nor would she think of her mother, for whom pleasure had been more important than her only child.

“Where did he go?” Sarah asked.

“What?” Isobel struggled to focus on the maid's plain and honest face without seeing the delectable marquess.

“Lord Charles—he was gone for nearly a week.”

“He went down to Waterfield, I believe,” Isobel murmured. Not that anyone told her where Charles had disappeared to for six days. She had seen the yellow sand on his boots as his valet carried them past the door of her room earlier, on his way to polish them. Waterfield Park was the only Maitland holding by the sea.

Actually, it was
her
holding, inherited from her uncle. She had spent her summers there as a child, playing happily on that same golden sand. Visits to Waterfield had stopped when her mother left. For months afterward she had nightmares of walking along that yellow beach, searching for Charlotte. She swallowed the bitter taste of her mother's
betrayal and looked away from the satin gown, to consider the nun's costume.

How ironic that Honoria chose it, since Waterfield had once been a medieval abbey. In Isobel's opinion, the satin would make a far better disguise than the habit, given that her usual wardrobe resembled the drab garment so closely.

If she wore the lovely gown, and Honoria caught her, there'd be more penance to pay than any nun ever endured. But Honoria was out for the evening.

She took a deep breath. “I'll wear the pink satin,” she said, and Sarah grinned like a conspirator as she bundled the horrid habit into the bottom of the wardrobe.

Isobel stood before the mirror and raised her arms as the maid slipped the petticoats over her head. Waves of taffeta and lace washed over her with a sibilant swish, cascading to her ankles. A second layer flowed over the first, then Sarah held the satin gown high and Isobel ducked under it.

It skimmed down over the curves of her body from breast to hip like a second skin, settling itself gracefully over the petticoats. Dried rose petals and sprigs of lavender fell from the folds of the gown, and the ghost of their scent circled the room and hovered.

Isobel gaped at herself in the mirror. She was the image of her mother. The russet hair was the same, and so were the hazel eyes, except she remembered that her mother's eyes perpetually glowed with mischief and merriment, unlike her own sober gaze. The familiar longing for her mother sprang unbidden, tightening Isobel's throat. She recalled the sick sensation of disbelief she felt when her mother had left.

Harlot!
The image in the glass flinched as she heard her father's harsh voice caw the word in her mind. The day his wife fled, he had made his daughter kneel in front of her mother's portrait and listen to a lecture on the wicked nature of women, and the particularly lewd character of Lady Charlotte. She
hadn't wanted to believe any of it. Her beautiful, laughing mother couldn't be
bad
. And she couldn't be gone. But she was.

Charlotte the Harlot, the servants had taken to calling her. The ugly whisper filled the empty house, split it wide open, becoming a mighty wind that filled the whole world with her mother's shame. The more people sniggered at the scandal, the more her father despised Charlotte's daughter.

Charlotte the Harlot's motherless child learned to become Isobel the Invisible. Only Lord Denby, her mother's brother, had tried to comfort her. He brought her gifts and curiosities from his travels abroad, but never what she really wanted, which was news of her mother. Isobel knew he visited his disgraced sister in Italy, but Lord Fraser had forbidden anyone to speak of his wife, and Denby's visits with Isobel were carefully supervised. If Charlotte ever wrote to explain, or thought about her abandoned child at all, Isobel never knew of it.

After her uncle's death, Robert had decided that his principal home at Craighurst was to be rented out, and her uncle's personal items, which included several trunks filled with her mother's belongings, were packed up and shipped to Maitland House, where they were stashed carelessly in the attic, of no interest to anyone but Isobel. She prowled the attics on rainy days, searching for some clue to her mother's flight, but found nothing except memories in the perfumed gowns and garments of the finest silk and satin. If Honoria had known that Charlotte Fraser's belongings resided above her head, she would have ordered them burned.

Isobel watched in the mirror as Sarah laced the back of the gown and drew the ribbons tight. The snug, low-cut bodice thrust her breasts upward, turning them into two luscious peaches in a frothy bed of lace that barely concealed them. The more Sarah tugged, the higher her breasts rose, and Isobel stared at the plump mounds in amazement. It was an excellent disguise. Even if she didn't wear a mask, no one
would recognize her, since she doubted anyone would be able to raise their eyes above the lush display of pulchritude under her chin.

“You'll want to cover those up,” Sarah said, and tied a lace fichu over Isobel's décolletage. She stood back and looked at her mistress critically. “You still look too pretty by half, my lady. Pink becomes you well.”

Then she removed the wig from the box and made a face. “Mind you, this horror will fix that quick enough.”

Isobel touched one of the pretty silk rosebuds that adorned the hairpiece. “It just needs a little dusting, perhaps.” She blew on it, and a cloud of white powder flew about the room. Sarah coughed and waved her hand, holding the wig at arm's length.

“Are you certain, my lady? This old thing is probably filled with rats' nests, or hordes of biting fleas.”

“Nonsense,” Isobel said, sweeping her skirts aside so she could sit at the dressing table. “It's been carefully stored. With that on my head, I'll be completely disguised. Not even Lady Honoria would know it was me.” But it wasn't Honoria she was worried about.

Blackwood.

She kept her spine straight and stared fiercely into the reflection of her own eyes in the mirror as Sarah set the wig in place.

I will stay away from Blackwood tonight, she pledged. Far away.

Surely that wouldn't be difficult, she reasoned, now that she knew how arrogant he was, how superior. He was a cad, a womanizer, a rake, and—

And it was no use. Listing his faults made no difference. Just the thought of his slow, lusty grin made her heart flip. What would she do if he smiled at her that way tonight?

The wig transformed her. The hair swept back from her forehead in thick waves, swirling into a cloud of curls so
delicately blond they were almost white, before it rose high at the back of her head in an artful twist of ribbons and roses to reveal the naked length of her neck. Isobel smiled.

No one else was going to say it, so she silently complimented herself. She looked beautiful. Just like Charlotte. She opened the patch box and applied a tiny black half-moon to her cheek. Charlotte stared back at her from the mirror, elegant, seductive, and flirtatious. Everything Isobel knew she was not.

Sarah set to work pinning the wig firmly into Isobel's hair so it wouldn't come loose. “You'd better stand very still tonight,” she warned her mistress. “If this wig doesn't fall off, then that low bodice is sure to fail you.”

“I will be very careful indeed,” Isobel promised. Extremely careful. She would not allow herself to be tempted.

She would not dance.

She would not flirt.

She would not so much as glance in Blackwood's direction.

Still, her mouth watered, remembering every caress they'd shared at the last masquerade ball. In the mirror, she watched the blush rise from her bodice to her hairline to belie her good intentions. She shifted restlessly, every inch of her skin alive, all too aware of what Blackwood was capable of doing to her composure.

“Almost done,” Sarah said, mistaking the cause of her agitation.

Isobel pulled the lace fichu more tightly over her breasts and fidgeted with the knot that secured her modesty. Even if she did find herself forced to speak with him tonight, for politeness' sake, she would do no more than that.

She would not allow herself to be tempted, she promised, glaring a stern warning at Charlotte's image in the mirror. She would not abandon
her
child for a moment of pleasure in a man's arms.

She would not walk with him or let him kiss her.

Not that he'd be tempted if he discovered it was plain Isobel under the eye-popping costume. If all else failed, she could remove her mask and reveal herself. That should drive him off in a fit of lust-shriveling horror. She felt a little of that shrivel herself just imagining being forced to such an extremely humiliating measure, but there was Robin to think of.

Isobel opened her jewelry box. It contained few pieces of any value. Her father had not allowed her to keep any of her mother's magnificent jewels. There was a string of pearls that were her grandmother's, a small garnet brooch her uncle had given her for her sixteenth birthday, her wedding band, and a miniature portrait of Robin. She'd painted it herself, several years ago, when he was barely two and his face was still round as a ball and baby-sweet.

She kissed the little painted cheek and handed the necklace to Sarah, who fastened the delicate gold chain around Isobel's neck. She tucked the portrait into her bodice, near her heart. It would remind her what was most important in her life.

Sarah wrapped a long dark cloak over Isobel's shoulders and helped her tie the satin mask, securing the ribbons behind her head. She handed Isobel the lace gloves and the fan that completed the disguise.

Isobel opened the fan and held it before her chin. “How do I look?” she asked her maid.

Sarah grinned. “Like no one I know.”

 

Charles was waiting downstairs in the salon, a tumbler of brandy in his hand. He wore a plain black domino over evening clothes. A black half mask lay on the table next to the half-empty decanter. He tossed back the rest of his drink and turned to glower at her as she entered in a rustle of petticoats, her costume hidden under the black cloak.

“It's about time you made your appearance,” he muttered,
hardly looking at her. “I've been waiting for nearly an hour. At this rate we'll be the last to arrive.”

He stomped out of the house without bothering to offer his arm. He didn't assist her into the coach either. The footman took her hand while Isobel struggled with the unfamiliar bulk of her old-fashioned skirts. She settled across from Charles as the coach jerked forward.

“Well disguised, aren't you?” he said, peering at her in the dim glow of the streetlamps. “I wouldn't recognize you if I didn't know you.” He took a flask out of his pocket and drank deeply. Lamplight flashed on silver, and the acrid smell of brandy filled the coach. Charles was surely drunk, or well on his way to being so.

“Isn't that the point?” she dared to ask, her lip curling in disgust as he took another swallow of brandy. “To be well disguised?” He hadn't even bothered to put on his mask.

“Mother left word that I'm supposed to watch you tonight, but I have better things to do than nursemaid you, so just stay out of my way and behave yourself, d'you understand?”

“Of course,” Isobel glared daggers at him from the dual protection of her mask and the darkness.

“Did Lady Marianne tell you what Miranda will be wearing?”

She had indeed. Miranda would be dressed as a medieval princess, forsaking the shepherdess costume for something more unique. “She'll be dressed as a Greek goddess,” she told Charles. “I assume I can find you in the card room as usual if I do need you?”

“Did I not just tell you to stay away? Are you simpleminded?” Charles demanded, his breath a dragon's plume of brandy fumes. She turned her head away and didn't bother to reply. She knew which of them was simpleminded, and it most certainly wasn't her. Anger and disgust made her bold.