Secrets of a Proper Countess (22 page)

“H
ave you considered seducing Isobel Maitland?” Adam asked.

Phineas stared at his brother-in-law across the width of the oak desk.

“For information, I mean, about Charles's activities, and his connection to Philip Renshaw,” he added, smugly cheerful about the idea. “I understand the idea has no personal appeal, but it's for England, and the sake of this mission.

“Surely you've had to charm unattractive women before,” Adam continued, mistaking his hesitation.

Phineas wanted to punch the superior smirk off his face, but it was true enough. He steered the conversation in a safer direction. “Has anything turned up about Maitland's midnight activities at the Bosun's Belle Inn?”

Adam sat back in his chair. “No, not yet, but one of my sailors is working for the landlord. He'll report to me directly if there's anything important. It might take time, though, and there are faster ways to learn what we need to know.”

Phineas ignored the hint. “Does your man know Charles by sight, or Philip Renshaw?”

“No, but Gibbs knows a gentleman when he sees one, especially if he's as out of place as a mermaid in a net full of herring.”

Phineas didn't laugh at the joke, and Adam frowned, obvi
ously disappointed, and shifted in his seat. “You're on edge, Phin,” he said. “That makes me nervous. Isobel might know something that could speed our investigations considerably.”

“Isobel Maitland is Marianne's friend, Adam. What's your wife likely to say about this?”

“Do you think Isobel would tell her?” he asked. “Surely ladies don't discuss their conquests. Women are discreet creatures when it comes to intimate matters.”

“You're discreet, Adam. Marianne is like a ferret on a mission to sniff out every secret in London, and if ladies didn't talk about their conquests, my job would be impossible.”

“Marianne doesn't gossip. She's merely observant. If I were to put it delicately, I'd say it ran in the Archer blood.”

Adam held Phineas's mocking stare for a moment before getting to his feet and crossing to look out the window. “Ah, well, never mind Isobel, then. I suppose every man has limits to what he's willing to do for his country. I don't blame you.”

He turned, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes that set Phineas's teeth on edge. “There is another way. We could use Miranda. Charles Maitland is interested in marrying her. We could use her as bait, lure him in and—”

“No,” Phineas said, loathing for Charles and dislike for Adam warring in his gut.

“No?” Adam asked softly, waiting for Phineas to agree to use Isobel instead. He didn't.

“Charles is a dangerous man, Adam. I've spent years apart from my family to keep them safe. Using Miranda is out of the question.”

“I see. Then it looks like tumbling the widow is the only way, wouldn't you say?”

“Do you ever think of anything other than who you can use for your own ends?” Phineas demanded.

“Not my ends, old man. For England.”

There was a knock at the door. “Come,” Adam said.

The butler entered and bowed. “Her ladyship requests your company for tea, my lord. Her guests have arrived.”

“Thank you, Northcott. We'll be right down. Come and join us, Phin.”

“Who's here?” Phineas asked, straightening his coat.

Adam grinned at him. “Isobel Maitland.”

 

“I hope you don't mind that we're in the morning room for tea,” Marianne said as she welcomed Isobel into the sunny yellow room. “It's such a pleasant room, and I don't feel I have to stand on ceremony with you.” The furniture was more comfortable than fashionable, and the windows were thrown wide to take advantage of the warm day and the lovely view of the garden.

“Good afternoon, Lady Isobel,” Gilbert Fielding said, rising to greet her.

“You remember Mr. Fielding, don't you, Isobel?” Marianne chirped.

“Yes, of course. How nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Fielding.”

“Isn't it?” Marianne gushed. “Now you sit here, Isobel, and Mr. Fielding can take the chair beside you. There. Isn't that cozy?”

Isobel took her seat, noting that Gilbert Fielding looked uncomfortable in the intimate surroundings. “Should we save a place for Lady Miranda?” he asked.

“Oh, Miranda won't be joining us today,” Marianne said. “But Adam will be here shortly, and we'll be as happily paired as turtle doves.”

Turtle doves?
Isobel felt her face heat, and Gilbert Fielding cleared his throat, his cheeks as red as her own. Marianne smiled sweetly at them both, as if she had a dove trapped behind her teeth.

Adam arrived at last. “There you are, my dear. I expected
to find you in the salon. Isn't that why we had it redecorated, so you could show it off to guests?” He kissed his wife's cheek.

Behind him, Blackwood stood in the doorway.

Isobel felt her heart tie itself into an intricate knot.

He merely brushed her with an impersonal glance before he fixed Fielding with a hard glare. Isobel's heart unraveled again. Without his eyes on her, she was able to fold her hands in her lap and paste a calm smile on her face.

He took the seat opposite to hers, a few feet across the room. He was at once too close and too far away. She was aware of every small movement he made, every breath he took. He hardly seemed similarly affected. He crossed his legs with casual ease and frowned at Gilbert Fielding. He appeared to be measuring the distance between her chair and Gilbert's with a cold eye. She noted the tic in the taut muscles of his jaw.

Perhaps he was angry that Fielding had tried to steal a kiss from Miranda. Whatever it was, with the lion's share of his attention on Gilbert today, she felt shut out of the sun.

“I didn't expect to see
you
this afternoon, Phineas,” Marianne said. “Did you come by for a reason, or are you just here to see if Adam can come out to play?”

“Do I need a reason to visit?”

“Of course not, but I would certainly have planned to take tea in a larger room if I knew we'd have so many guests,” Marianne replied. “I was only expecting Isobel and Mr. Fielding. I asked Northcott to fetch Adam to keep the numbers even, male to female.”

Turtle doves, Isobel recalled. And now there was a hawk in their midst.

Blackwood raised his eyebrows. “Then I suppose I am the gooseberry. Was there to be dancing later? We could ask Northcott to send a carriage for Miranda to make six.”

Gilbert Fielding brightened at once. Marianne glared at
her brother. “Don't be silly, Phin. There's hardly room for dancing.”

“Perhaps if we moved the chairs back a little,” Adam offered. “Mr. Fielding seems quite crowded. Phineas could move over there, next to Isobel.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Adam. Mr. Fielding isn't crowded at all. In fact, I think if we asked him, he'd declare himself to be very comfortable indeed next to Isobel. Isn't that so, Mr. Fielding?” Marianne asked.

“Any closer and the lady's reputation would be in tatters,” Phineas muttered. Isobel met the ice in his eyes with a quelling glare of her own. Whatever was the matter with him?

“I am indeed comfortable, Countess,” Gilbert said, looking anything but, in Isobel's opinion. She blamed Blackwood.

“You would have a wonderful view of the garden, Gil, if you were to lean to the left and look out the window,” Phineas suggested. And it would move him away from her, Isobel realized with a frisson of annoyance.

“And you have a charming view of Isobel, Phineas,” Adam said brightly. “May I say that's a lovely, um, bonnet, Countess?” he said awkwardly, after searching her person to find something admirable. Her hat was a poor choice. It was plain black straw, with no adornment at all. Isobel blinked at the earl, and was surprised to see him blush.

Phineas was glowering at her bonnet as if it were indeed the dullest piece of millinery in the world. She gave the black straw a defiant pat as an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

“The weather is very fine today, don't you think?” Isobel asked Gilbert, trying to make conversation with the least threatening person in the room.

“Indeed, Countess,” Gilbert replied, smiling politely. “It reminds me of the kind of spring days we get in Kent, don't you agree?”

“Kent?” Marianne brightened. “Yes, I understand you have a property by the sea, Isobel. Waterfield Abbey, isn't it? Adam counts a fascination with the histories of England's great houses among his interests.” She elbowed her husband in the ribs.

“Waterfield was a convent until the Reformation,” Adam recited. “Henry VIII dismantled it, and gave the lands to the Denby family.”

“Don't you think that's fascinating, Mr. Fielding?” Marianne asked. “Does your father's manor lie very near Waterfield?”

“Yes, indeed. I grew up hearing the stories of those times,” Gilbert said.

“Fine bedtime stories, I can imagine,” Phineas drawled. “Nuns raped, chapels looted, crops burned.”

Everyone looked at him in surprise.

“I can't imagine what's keeping the tea,” Marianne murmured, for once having nothing to say. “Phineas, if we're keeping you from an appointment, don't feel you must stay.”

Phineas's eyebrows rose at the thinly veiled dismissal. “I have no plans at all for this afternoon, Marianne, and I am most interested to hear Gil's stories.”

“But surely you cannot be interested in what Isobel and Mr. Fielding have in common,” Marianne said, her gaze so pointed it would have punctured and deflated a lesser man than Blackwood.

“You'd be surprised what interests me,” Phineas said, glaring at his sister, who glared back. There seemed to be a whole unspoken conversation going on between them, one that made Isobel extremely uneasy.

At last the butler arrived with tea. “Thank God,” Gilbert murmured under his breath. Isobel overheard, and they grinned at each other with complete understanding.

“What's the jest?” Marianne asked eagerly.

“Nothing at all, Countess. Just a thought about Kent,” Mr. Fielding managed, and smiled at Isobel again, a warm conspirator's grin.

“I see,” Marianne purred. She shot her brother a sharp look of triumph.

She poured the tea then, and Isobel handed out the cups. Phineas's fingers brushed hers under the saucer, and she met his eyes. His gaze was filled with a cool speculation she didn't understand. He took the cup, breaking the contact between them.

Marianne served the cake. “Mmm, Cook has sent us a bowl of cherries. Isobel, you would hardly believe it, but Adam grows cherries in the conservatory.”

Isobel stared at the ruby fruit in the china bowl. She dared not look at Blackwood, but she felt his eyes on her. She flicked her tongue over her lip, almost tasting the juice.

“Try one,” Marianne said, and held them out to her.

She didn't have to taste them. She already knew how intoxicating they were. She remembered the coolness of the fruit and the heat of his mouth, the taste of the sweet juice mixed with the salt of his skin.

She could not look at him now, didn't dare, knowing he was also remembering the intimate details of that night. A surge of longing swept over her like a tidal wave.

“Adam worries they're not as tasty as wild fruit. I find them very sweet,” Marianne continued. “We would be glad to have your opinion.”

“They are a cross between English varieties and a type from the South Seas,” Adam explained, but Isobel barely heard. Whatever their origins, they were the most succulent, delicious, erotic cherries in the world.

She took one in her naked fingers. The flesh was cool and firm. It glowed like venal sin.

Her mouth watered as she brought the fruit to her lips,
caught it in her teeth, felt the shocking spurt of juice hit her tongue. She drew a breath and looked at Blackwood. He stared back, his eyes heavy lidded, a banked fire in their depths. She felt desire stir, tighten her nipples and swirl between her thighs. She stared at his mouth, remembered his kiss, flavored by the tang of the fruit. She swallowed the cherry, pit and all.

“Well?” Marianne asked.

“Delicious,” Blackwood murmured.

Marianne swung to look at him. “You haven't even tried one!”

“No, but I've enjoyed them before.”

“Ah, yes,” Adam murmured. “You're no stranger to the temptations of my conservatory, are you, Phin?”

Did Westlake know?
Isobel felt her skin heat, but Blackwood looked unaffected as he glared at his brother-in-law. She remembered Adam's voice in the dark doorway at the masquerade ball. She licked her lips but tasted the sweetness of the fruit again.

Obsession.

Sin.

She wanted more.

She read the heat in her lover's eyes, felt awareness and desire threaten to overwhelm her. She dragged her gaze away from his.

“I really should be going. Robin has a fencing lesson this afternoon.” She could not remain in Blackwood's disturbing presence, not with cherry juice on her lips, and act as if nothing had ever occurred between them.

“One of my ships is in port,” Adam said. “I am taking Jamie down to see it this afternoon. Perhaps Robin would like to accompany us,” he suggested.

“I have no doubt he would love it, but his fencing master is waiting,” Isobel hedged.

“Adam has men on board who would be glad to show the lads their skills with a blade,” Marianne coaxed. “He could still have his lesson.”

“But Honoria is expecting us.”

“Send a note home with your coachman, and stay,” Marianne pleaded. “I'm sure Mr. Fielding would be delighted to see you home later.”

“Or perhaps you could do it, Blackwood,” Adam suggested. Isobel's heart leapt in surprise.

“But Mr. Fielding would be
delighted
to take care of Isobel.” Marianne glared at her husband.