Secrets of a Proper Countess (26 page)

I
sobel lit the candles in her room with shaking fingers. The bright flame hurt her eyes for a moment, then pushed back the edges of the darkness. She stood in the circle of light and listened to the sounds of Maitland House moving around her.

Upstairs, Robin would be in bed by now, fast asleep, unaware of the danger he was in.

No one had come for her. Not Blackwood, not Charles or Honoria. Even Sarah had not returned. But soon, now that it was dark, they would drag her away, and she would disappear forever.

She wondered how they planned to do it. Would they take her to the sea and drown her like Jonathan Hart? Or perhaps they'd just shoot her, like Robert. She imagined Robert Maitland's fleshless hand reaching for her from the grave, and clenched her own fist.

She would not go without a fight.

She crossed to the window for the hundredth time and looked again, searching the street for a tall dark-haired knight on a white horse, galloping to the rescue, but the cobbles were empty.

Her breath caught in her throat as a coach turned the corner and stopped in front of the house.

The front door opened and yellow light lit the side of the
coach. The identifying crest was draped in black, making the coach sinister and anonymous.

She glanced at the door of her room, expecting them to burst in, making herself ready to fight for her life, but it remained closed, the hall outside silent.

She turned back to watch as a long shadow slid down the front steps.

Honoria.

Jewels glittered at her throat and wrists as she disappeared into the dark vehicle in a slither of blue satin, as if she were going to a party.

Charles followed his mother. He stood on the step of the coach, and the harsh shadows made his face ugly. His fingers were fat and white against the darkness as he reached for something.

Or someone.

Isobel felt the scream gather in her throat, tear loose and rip her heart out with it.

“Robbie!” She shrieked her son's name as Jane Kirk led him out. He tottered down the steps on sleepy feet, his hair mussed from bed.

Isobel twisted the latch on the window, but her fingers were clumsy and it wouldn't budge. She pounded on the glass in desperation, clawed at it, her eyes on her child. “Robbie! Come back!” she yelled, but he didn't look up, couldn't hear her. “Run!” she howled, but Charles lifted him into the coach.

She had only a glimpse of his white face before they shut the door.

Only Jane Kirk, left standing on the sidewalk, turned to look up at her, her smile malicious.

Isobel watched as the coach carrying her son, her very life, drove away.

Jane turned on her heel and climbed the front steps. The door closed, leaving only the darkness of the empty street.

 

“Really, Isobel, you'll only harm yourself,” Jane said. “There's no one to help you.”

Isobel's throat was raw, her hands bruised from pounding on the door, calling for Sarah, for Finch, for
anyone
to release her from her prison and help her save her son.

Only Jane came, and just to mock her through the keyhole.

“I'm in charge now, and I have some of Honoria's laudanum. If you don't stop yelling, I will drug you.”

“They're going to kill Robin, Jane! Even you can't be so coldhearted that you'd let them harm an innocent child!” Isobel cried.

“Innocent?” Jane growled the word. “The brat bears the taint of Fraser blood, doesn't he? It's better if he dies.”

Isobel fought the crushing weight of desperation and tugged at the lock again. “What are they giving you to stand by and let them do this? I will give you more!”

Jane laughed. “You can't give me what I want! I'm going to take it for myself. I'm going to marry Charles, and then I shall be Countess of Ashdown, and
my
son will be the next earl, just the way it was supposed to be.”

Isobel shut her eyes, seeing a truth Jane did not. “Don't be a fool! Charles wants to marry a woman with a title, and money!”

“Money?” Jane scoffed. “In a few days the Maitlands will be back, the richest family in England. They will buy and sell titles. Unlike you, I know all the secrets in this house, and they'll do what I want from now on, or I'll tell.”

“Jane, they'll kill you if you cross them. You'll die,” Isobel whispered through the crack.

“What did you say?” Jane asked.

“Charles will kill you.”

“Charles will do as I say if he doesn't want to hang for treason! By morning you'll be gone for good, and I'll be
on my way to Waterfield.” She heard Jane's footsteps retreat down the hall.

Waterfield! Panic rose in Isobel's throat. She had wanted Robin to have a holiday by the sea. Charles and Honoria intended to give him one.

She had to hurry or it would be too late. She needed to find a coach, or at least a horse, but first she had to get out of this room, and out of Maitland House.

The streetlamp stared in the window, a soulless eye in the darkness, an intrusive busybody, just as it had been the night Blackwood came to her room.

The night he'd climbed out her window.

She crossed to the window and pushed on the unyielding sash. Taking off her shoe, she smacked the stubborn latch until it gave in at last and opened with a squeal. She leaned out, taking a deep breath of damp night air. The ground was invisible in the darkness. She shook off a wave of dread. It was the only way.

Blackwood's way.

He'd made it look easy. Isobel swung her leg over the sill and hovered for a breathless moment between two worlds. Her fingers clung to the frame, but there was no time for hesitation.

She forced herself to let go, and lowered herself over the edge.

 

Marianne sighed as she reached the quiet sanctuary of her own salon at last. It was past ten when she left her great-aunt's house after a bitter struggle with Miranda. A long talk had yielded nothing but hysterical tears and threats to elope if she could not have permission to marry the man she loved.

Augusta had sent up tea laced with laudanum, and Marianne waited until her sister fell asleep. Hopefully, Miranda would see sense in the morning, but her heart ached for her.
Gilbert Fielding was charming, handsome, and exactly the kind of first love a woman never forgot.

Adam wasn't home, and Northcott could not say when he was expected. Marianne looked up at the portrait of her husband. Were all Archer women fated to fight for a happy ending with the man they loved? She dropped her reticule and gloves with a sigh.

The scent of violet perfume rose like a shade, and Marianne smiled. She'd entirely forgotten Isobel's love letter. Reading it now would soothe away the cares of the day, give back her faith in true love.

She unfolded it and scanned the scrawled note. Her smile melted in a gasp of horror.

It wasn't a love letter.

It was a plea for help.

She dropped the note and ran to the door. “Northcott! I need my coach at once!”

“T
his is bigger than we thought, Phineas,” Adam said quietly. “According to Gibbs, Maitland's package isn't a package at all. It's a person.”

Phineas's interest kindled. He looked at Adam over the width of his desk. “Does Gibbs know who?”

“Not yet. Someone important, though. The innkeeper has made over his best room. Not just clean sheets either. That would be a miracle in itself in a dockside inn. Apparently Charles has provided silk bed curtains, Turkey carpets, French wine, beeswax candles and silver candlesticks, among other luxuries.”

Phineas's brows rose. “The French king?”

Adam looked away. “Louis XVIII is still safely tucked away at Aylesbury,” he said, dismissing Phineas's question with odd abruptness. “Any other ideas? Your Lady M, perhaps?”

Phineas felt a chill run up his spine as he met the suspicion in Adam's eyes. “Hardly
my
Lady M, Westlake.”

“For your sake, I sincerely hope not. She's proven remarkably elusive for you, hasn't she? Can I count on you to do your duty, no matter who appears at the inn tonight?” Adam asked.

Phineas felt his stomach rise. What if Isobel turned out to be Lady M? Could he shoot her, arrest her, watch her hang
for treason? He looked up to find Adam watching him, his eyes wary.

“‘For England, Anything'? Isn't that the pledge, Westlake?” he asked smoothly. Adam's shoulders relaxed and he smiled.

“Let's have a drink, shall we?” he said, and took a heavy stone bottle from his latest cargo. He poured two glasses and raised a toast. “To unmasking Lady M.”

The sweet liquor slid down Phineas's throat like acid.

 

An hour later, in the black and stinking alley behind the Bosun's Belle, Phineas felt the cold and unmistakable nudge of a pistol behind his left ear.

“Well? Are you going to rob me or rape me?” he asked, carefully reaching for his own weapon.

“Stand down, lad. Lord Blackwood is on our side.” Phineas recognized Westlake's familiar voice and the pistol was withdrawn at once. “My men have orders to shoot anyone suspicious, Phin, and you most definitely fit the description.”

“What's happening inside?” Phineas asked, shoving his pistol into his coat.

“According to Gibbs, the package is already tucked away upstairs. I have men in the alley and in the taproom, but no one has been able to get upstairs to have a look,” Adam replied. “The innkeeper has an army of toughs on hand tonight, and their prime duty is keeping anyone from climbing those stairs.”

“Any clues as to who's up there?”

“No,” Adam sighed. “Gibbs didn't see her arrive—if it
is
a woman, of course.”

Phineas peered cautiously over the fence at the lighted windows of the top floor of the inn.

“If you're considering climbing a wall or scaling the rooftop to see for yourself if it's her, my friend, then don't. I
wasn't joking about the number of men waiting for trouble,” Adam told him.

“Hardly necessary, old man.” Phineas pointed through the jagged fence. “Look at all the torches in the yard. They must still be expecting someone. Or someone
else
, at least.”

They drew back against the fence as the clop of wooden heels echoed up the street. Adam cocked his pistol and held his breath, but Phineas put a hand over the barrel as a dockside whore sauntered by without seeing them. She disappeared into the inn to look for custom or to spend her wages on gin.

A distant rumble made Phineas's ears prick, and he stared down the street, waiting as the sound grew louder and closer, moving toward the Bosun's Belle. The ring of iron-clad wheels on the cobbles told him it wasn't a local wagon or a simple handcart.

“Is this it?” Adam murmured, craning to see, his face yellow in the flickering torchlight that spilled from the inn. Phineas pulled him back into the shadows as men filed out of the inn to watch the coach arrive.

“Possibly,” he muttered as the horses came into sight, a fine pair of matched grays. Charles Maitland owned a pair of grays.

You don't understand. It is I who am not what I seem!

Isobel's frantic words echoed in his mind again, and Phineas scowled at the oncoming vehicle, wondering if she was inside.

“Crests are covered,” Adam muttered.

“It's Maitland's coach,” Phineas replied. “I recognize the horses.” The shades were drawn, sealing the coach's occupants away from prying eyes, making them anonymous. His stomach clenched. Isobel, his lover, the only woman he had ever proposed to, might be inside, and she could still turn out to be Lady M.

He would be just as guilty of treason as she, since he hadn't told Adam. The parson's noose was suddenly a macabre joke.

Phineas took a breath and pushed off the wall, crouching low in the coach's broad shadow, running alongside as it maneuvered through the narrow gateway. He heard Adam's indrawn breath, knew he hesitated only a second before following.

Once inside the yard, Phineas rolled away from the vehicle, landing in the doorway of the stable with Adam right behind him. Surprised horses stomped indignantly at the intrusion. Phineas slid into the shadows and waited for the shout that would come if they'd been seen, but every eye was on the coach as it came to a halt in the torchlit ring.

He stared at it, waiting for it to open, to reveal the man—or woman—inside, but for a long moment nothing moved.

Phineas stayed motionless in the moldy straw. The acrid smoke of burning pitch stung his eyes and dried the back of his throat. He blinked away sweat and watched the yard shimmer in a haze of dust and smoke. Leveling his pistol at the door of the coach, he steeled himself to shoot whoever got out first if he had to, even if it turned out to be the woman he loved.

I
sobel dangled from the side of Maitland House in the dark, trying to find a foothold.

Blackwood made this look like the easiest thing in the world, damn him, while she had almost fallen twice.

She had no idea how long she'd been out here, kicking her feet in the wind, so to speak, but her progress was dreadfully slow.

Her fingers ached, her arms were shaking with fatigue, and she clamped her teeth together to keep from shivering. She should have thought to bring a cloak, or a shawl. Or a ladder.

She almost lost her fragile hold on the wall as another coach turned the corner. The horses were moving fast, the clatter of hooves almost deafening in the quiet of the narrow street.

They'd come for her.

Her heart leapt in her chest, pounded against her ribs, strongly advising her to run, or fly, or climb, as fast as she could.

Turning her head, her cheek scraped the rough brick, and shock leapt through her whole body at the sting. She looked up at the window of her room, still only a few miserable feet above her. The curtains sailed outward on the night breeze,
beckoning her back to safety like a lover's arms, but she could not go back. She would not.

Robin needed her.

She lowered one foot and prayed for a toehold. Below her the door of the coach swung open, and she heard the creak of the steps being lowered. She shut her eyes for a moment, wishing herself truly invisible, a shadow on the face of Maitland House. Fear lent her courage to find the next handhold. She had to get to the ground before they discovered her room was empty and came looking for her.

She heard the sound of running feet on the sidewalk, a light, urgent, feminine staccato. Without a bonnet or cloak, the figure was immediately recognizable.

“Marianne!” she called out, her voice a rusty croak. She wondered if Marianne had even heard her, but her friend whirled, scanning the street.

“Up here.”

Marianne's face tipped upward in the glow of the streetlamp, and the shocked gape of her open mouth swallowed the whiteness of her face.

“Don't ring the bell,” Isobel said softly, but Marianne was already pushing through the hedge, coming toward the base of the wall.

“Oh, Isobel, I stole your letter. I'm so sorry, I thought—well, never mind, Adam was right all along about not interfering, it seems, though I'll never tell him so. I came as soon as I could.” She paused. “Are you going up or down?”

“Down,” Isobel panted. “They've taken Robin. I need to—” Her foot slipped and she gave a whimper of fright. Her fingers constricted on the brick, and her body pressed hard against the pitiless wall and clung.

“Isobel! Wherever did you learn to do that?” Marianne asked.

Blackwood.

His name echoed in her brain. He had not received her note, that's why he hadn't come. Still, her heart nagged, she'd refused him, run away. She shut her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate on reaching the ground, getting Robin back safely. Her foot slipped and she swallowed a cry of frustration. Oh, how she wished Blackwood here!

But he wasn't. She forced herself to move again, and her satin slipper snagged on the rough brick. Blackwood had done this in boots and his feet were bigger. The wind tugged at her skirts. Breeches, she decided, must make all the difference.

Then Marianne touched her foot, and Isobel knew she was almost safe. She sagged in relief and her foot slipped. Her torn fingers refused to hold on any longer and she tumbled backward.

The kindly hedge—and Marianne's body—broke her fall. The two countesses lay panting in the shrubbery for a moment, tangled in their petticoats, trying to catch their breath.

Isobel dragged herself upright. “Marianne, I need to get to Waterfield Abbey.” She looked at the Westlake coach, parked by the curb. “May I take your coach? They have Robin, you see, and I have to get to him before—” Tears cut off speech.

It didn't matter. Marianne grabbed her arm. “You can't go alone, and this is partly my fault. I'm going with you.”

Isobel didn't argue. She plucked a twig out of her hair and climbed into the coach.

“Kent,” Countess Westlake ordered the driver.

“Kent, my lady?” he asked in surprise. “The one next to Sussex?”

“Precisely. And hurry if you please,” Marianne said, then bent to rummage under the seat. “Adam keeps pistols here somewhere,” she told Isobel, and a moment later grinned and
held one up. The dim light gleamed on the sinister metal of the barrel.

Isobel recoiled. This wasn't a game. Guns were sober, deadly things. She imagined the pistol in Charles's hand, aimed at her son.

She swallowed the bitter taste of anguish and replaced it with determination as Marianne passed the weapon to her.

“I'll teach you how to use it.”