The Counterfeit Mistress (11 page)

“Three weeks. Monsieur Farmen said you were going to use English in the future.”

“We use who we can trust. Those two weren't killed on our account, that I know. There should be no danger for any others.” He began to open his door, but stopped. He held up the prints. “You give your word there are no secrets in these?”

“No secrets. They are only what they appear to be.”

“I hope so. 'Cause someone beat those two good, for a reason, probably for information. I'd not like to think I am helping a spy with these.”

“I am not a spy. Do I look like one?”

He laughed. “You look like a woman who is pretty enough to have me doing something my gut says I shouldn't.” With a little wave of the roll of prints, he crossed his threshold.

K
endale watched Marielle speak earnestly to the man outside the house. That would be Garrett, whom Beechem said lived here when he wasn't on a galley crossing the channel. Fortune had led Kendale to seek out this man instead of the other. He had remained in this alley since noticing Marielle waiting in front of the door.

Their conversation ended. Marielle took a step away from the door and man. Garrett laughed and gestured farewell with the roll of papers in his hand. The door closed on him.

Marielle walked only a few steps before stopping. She stood still, lost in thought, her shawl wrapped close to her body beneath her crossed arms.

He wished he had seen those papers better. Had it been another roll of prints? He could not be sure they contained nothing suspicious, of course, but at least then it would not be maps or letters or the sort of information that a spy might send across the water.

Worse, she had paid Garrett, not the other way around. That implied nothing of value to Garrett had changed hands. She was not a source for goods he smuggled. Garrett was a packhorse who carried what she required.

The evidence against Marielle had just ceased to be ambiguous.

He should inform Beechem at least. He should really alert the Home Office. One of their agents monitored affairs right here in Dover. If he described what he had just seen, both Marielle and Garrett would be in gaol being questioned within an hour.

He had always known what she was. He had not spent a year without good cause proving it. Now he had as much proof as was needed to have her arrested. This was one duplicitous Frenchwoman who would not ply her lies and deceptions. He had won.

He felt no triumph. Seeing her at Garrett's house had sickened him. Watching the exchange of money and documents dulled his mind and wit, rather than sharpened it. Now he watched her standing on a deserted street, out of sight of Garrett's house, looking so alone. She appeared a person who did not know where to go now. She looked lost and very frail.

Images forced themselves into his head, of what was done sometimes to encourage spies to talk. He did not know if they violated women the same way. Probably so, if necessary. His mind recoiled from picturing Marielle subjected to those pains. There was no point in contemplating it overmuch. Such things happened in war, along with so much else that debased humanity.

She moved finally. She came alive and strode on with a determined expression. He moved too.

He wished she had not come here. He wished he had not followed. He would have liked many things about the last weeks to have been different. They were what they were, however, and it had all led to this lane and this day. Now his duty was clear, and he could not pretend it was not.

W
hile she walked back into Dover, Marielle listed the things she must do.

Garrett had not seen Lamberte, as best she could determine. She would go to that tailor and ask him as well. Then she would find a way to meet others who lived on the streets where the French congregated, and quiz them. As long as she had come all this way, she would use the inconvenience to her benefit.

Even if no one had seen Lamberte in England—and she prayed not—some of them might know more of his recent actions and movements in France. A lot of gossip made its way over the water, as if it traveled on the wind.

Then she would return to London. Three weeks, both Farmen and Garrett had said. The schedule of handoffs would resume then, on the day used before, in the same alley. She would prefer not to go there again, after what had happened. Once she returned home she would write to Monsieur Farmen and give him another meeting place.

She had time to make more prints. A new image was in order now. She would make it quickly, and arrange to hire out the press at night.

Having plans always gave her heart. How much better than being Lamberte's victim, and being paralyzed by fear. She had outsmarted him once, when only a child. She would do so again, as often as necessary.

Knowing some relief, and even a bit of joy, she smiled to herself as she turned a corner.

Abruptly she could move no more. Not one step. She almost bumped right into a wall of blue superfine and white linen. She looked up into green eyes on fire with righteous fury.

She did not have to ask why he was here. She did not think much at all. He had followed somehow. He had just seen her with Garrett. He thought he knew everything and he now had the proof he had long sought.

It had been a mistake to forget who he was.
What
he was, and why he pursued her.

“Lord Kendale! Such a coincidence to see you here in Dover.” She tried a flirtatious smile. It did not soften his expression one bit.

She pivoted and started to run. He was upon her at once, his arms closing around her body like iron clamps. He lifted her up and the lane moved past her eyes while he carried her away.

Squirm though she might, she could not break his hold. She kicked the legs behind her, but he seemed not to care. She managed one scream but then his hand sealed her mouth. She saw his coach waiting down the lane and bucked and squirmed more.

His coachman held the door open as calmly as if Lord Kendale dragged unwilling women into his carriage all the time. Kendale threw her in and slammed the door shut. She scrambled up from the floor, sat on the bench, and glared at his face on the other side of the window.

“Coward,” she spit while she righted herself.

“Do not try to get out,” he warned.

“Cochon.”

“If you do, I will tie you up.”

“Imbecile!”

“Give me no trouble and you will not be hurt, I promise.”

Her head wanted to burst. “And when you hand me to them? Will you stay and watch, to be sure your word is kept?” She turned her head so he would not have the satisfaction of seeing that she wept. “
Go away
, Stupid Man. Do not try to ride in here with me. I will tear your eyes out if I have the chance.”

L
ord Kendale was not taking her to London. She realized that when in the morning they made a stop at a coaching inn south of the city. It was not one her coach had used on its way to the coast. They were taking another route that circled around through the countryside.

He rode his horse alongside. She could see him out there, his back straight and his command of his animal complete. He did not look in the carriage window. Not once. Silent and stern, he transported her like a criminal.

He waited outside the necessary when she used it. He brought her food and waited while she ate it. He did not let her out of his sight, but he refused to acknowledge she existed as anything more than baggage that happened to possess human needs.

“You must promise to let Dominique know what has happened,” she said when they stopped again near midday. “She will worry. She may as well worry about the truth than whatever her imagination creates.”

He did not even nod. He merely took the crockery on which he had brought some stew and bread, and turned away.

She spent the rest of the day wondering what she would say to her inquisitors once they arrived at whatever prison he took her to. It would be someplace obscure, no doubt. Far from a village or farms, so that its prisoners would be lost should they ever escape.

Perhaps she would explain it all and tell them the truth. Would anyone believe her? She sifted through her story, deciding what could be proven, if anything.

The coach-and-four moved at a good speed. The land sped past. In such a conveyance, with such an escort, she might have been a princess, not a prisoner suspected of a crime punishable by death.

Another stop came in the middle of the night. The coachman changed the horses. This time Kendale climbed into the coach after she entered. He sat across from her and said not a word. She noticed that he favored his side while he settled in.

“Is your wound hurting you?”

“It is rebelling at so much riding. Go to sleep. I will not bother you.”

She had not thought he would bother her, or bother with her. “I should have remembered your wound and let you ride in here.”

“Your preference had nothing to do with it. I chose not to ride with you. Now, go to sleep, Marielle.”

Be silent. Do not speak to me. Do not make me aware of you
. He acted as if she had betrayed him. As if he had a reason to be wounded in other ways, and disappointed in her. She could not imagine why.

She did sleep, however. When she burst back to consciousness the sun shone overhead and tree branches formed a bower outside the window. Lord Kendale no longer sat in the coach.

She peered outside and saw him standing amid five dogs and three men. The dogs all looked at him like he was a god visiting earth. The men all looked at the carriage.

Past them the lane ended in a wide drive and circle. A very large house loomed beyond that. Its broken roofline said it had grown over the years. She judged it to be very old. It reminded her a little bit of the châteaus in France.

Kendale noticed the men were distracted from whatever he told them. He turned and saw her at the coach window. He walked over with his canine entourage and opened the door. Dog noses poked in at her, sniffing. He ordered the hounds away and they obediently trotted off.

He offered his hand so she could step down.

“Where are we?”

“This is Ravenswood Park. It is my family estate. I brought you here while I decide what to do with you.”

“And where is Ravenswood Park?”

“Too far from anywhere else for you to run away. Come with me now. We will try to make you comfortable.”

She followed him to the house. The dogs followed her. The three men followed the dogs. She examined the façade of the big house as they approached.

As prisons went, she could do much worse.

“W
here should we put her, sir?” Angus posed the query while he tried to act as valet. Mr. Pottsward would not be down until tomorrow, and they had to make do.

The problem was young, fair Angus was not a valet. He was a Scot swordsman of great talent who knew how to use his height and breadth to advantage. He possessed a good deal of intelligence but, when it came to women, no more understanding than his master. Kendale liked him a lot.

“For now just choose a chamber on this level, so she is not bothered by the noise you fellows make up above and down below. There must be one that is suitable,” he said while he stripped off his upper garments.

Angus poured the warmed water into the bowl. “There's those that are clean enough, I guess, if that makes one suitable.”

“Then stick her in one. When Mr. Pottsward gets here he will reorder matters if that is necessary.”

Angus picked up the razor and sharpened it on the stone. “Who is to do for her? There's no women here. I suppose Old Pete can—”

“Hell if I know who is to do for her. Tell her to do for herself until we find some woman to bring here. I do for myself often enough.” To make his point, he took the razor from Angus and bent close to the looking glass.

Marielle had turned the household on its head without saying a word. It had been a mistake to bring her here. He only had come because as they approached London he admitted he could not give her into the hands of the sort who dealt with spies. Men died at those hands sometimes.

He could hardly bring her to his chambers in London either. Nor would his honor allow him to let her move freely after what he had seen. So here she was, until he sorted out his thoughts and finally, at last, had that long due conversation with her.

And if after that he concluded the worst was true of her, then . . .

He scraped away the hard stubble of beard. Angus stood there like he assumed a valet would, holding a cloth at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye Kendale noted Angus's frown.

“What is it?” he asked while the blade skimmed his neck.

“Nothing. Not really. Just, we all could not but notice that . . . she is French, from the sounds of her, such as we heard when she spoke out on the drive. Not too French, but French.”

“What do you mean, not too French? One either is or is not.”

“She is understandable, not like some of them who talk through the back of their noses. Incomprehensible they are.”

“The way you are incomprehensible with your thick brogue?”

Angus flushed. “Not the same at all. I am a Scot. She is French.”

“Just not too French.”

Angus nodded. “Like she has worked hard to sound more normal to us. I expect with time one could even forget she was French, that accent is subtle enough.”

He set down the razor, took the cloth, and wiped off the soap. “One could, but I would not. I never forget the French are the French. If you are worried she will learn something about our mission and word will get out to other French guests, or back to—”

“No. Of course not, sir. Not a man here will reveal anything, and there is nothing much for her to see that is telling. Just she has worked very hard at it, though, the way she talks not too French. I tried once to talk not too Scot, and my brain would never accept the oddness of it.”

“Get me some fresh water. I need to wash.”

“Have some right here still.” Angus dealt with the dirty shaving water in a manner no valet would approve. He carried the bowl over to the window and tossed the contents out. “I expect she will be wanting to wash too. Or bathe. Should I tell the others to start heating water to carry up to her?” He poured clean water into the bowl.

An image invaded, of a naked Marielle stepping into a metal tub set in front of a fire. Pale, soft, and lithe, she balanced on one foot while the other tested the heat of the water before settling in it. She bent to hold the edge while swinging the other leg in, and her hair fell forward, revealing the elegant and erotic lines of her back and bottom.

He shook the fantasy away and picked up the soap to wash away the journey's dust. “Put old Pete in charge, as you suggested. Tell him to show her to that chamber with the blue bedclothes. Tell him to offer her water to bathe and to follow her instructions on the rest. Then tell the cook to make a decent dinner tonight.”

Angus nodded, and walked to the door. “It will be odd, having a woman here.”

“Don't worry, it will not be for long.”

Angus looked back and smiled. “I didna say it would be odd in a bad way, sir.”

T
here were no women in this house. Not a one.

Marielle realized that when an ancient man who introduced himself as Old Pete came to her and escorted her up the stairs. Small wonder she had waited so long to be shown her prison. All of these men had probably spent an hour discussing how to manage her intrusion.

In the chamber Old Pete chose, he set about rolling a tub out of a dressing room. “My lord said to bring you water to bathe. It will be some time to heat it. He said you would not mind doing for yourself after that.”

“If there are no women servants, of course I will do for myself.”

He grinned, revealing three missing teeth. “My lord finds women a nuisance. When he came back he pensioned off the ones still here. The last was sent away a few months ago. Seems that housekeeper kept telling him what to do and not do, and his mother's lady's maid kept complaining about us who he brought in to serve him, so he just paid them all off one by one. There's a few women on the estate, of course. Wives of farmers and milkmaids and such.”

“It is generous of him to allow them to remain, and not insist all his tenants live the monastic life he has chosen.”

“Monastic?” Old Pete appeared startled, then laughed. “Oh, I see. You've a wit about you. We're none of us monks, miss. 'Tis more a barracks than a monastery.”

In their essential characteristics, she could not see much difference. Except, perhaps, monks—the good ones at least—did not have any knowledge of women of the carnal kind. Soldiers, on the other hand . . .

Perhaps periodically they imported bawds so these soldiers could sate themselves, to better concentrate on their duties afterward.

After Old Pete left, she examined her quarters. She began with the window, to see just how hard it would be to leave. Very hard. She overlooked a hill, and any descent from this window would be a straight drop that could hurt her badly. She would have to find another way. She could not remain here long, that was certain.

The rest of the chamber appeared comfortable. Very much so. Much larger and better appointed than her own in London, it held good furniture and hangings. The bed felt almost new and unused and very soft. Although she resented that Kendale had abducted her, she had to admit some gratitude that she would not be sleeping on straw in some dungeon tonight. This house probably had one, if he decided he needed it.

The water arrived by way of a parade of men carrying steaming buckets. Quite an assortment they presented as each in turn poured, bowed, and left. Except for Old Pete they all had a physicality that reminded her of Kendale himself. This was indeed a barracks of sorts from the look of them.

She held Old Pete back after the others departed. “Will I be eating here?”

“I don't know.”

“If not, if I am to go below and eat with Lord Kendale, please make sure I am told an hour before I must go down.”

“My lord said we was to do what you want, and if you want to be called an hour before, that is how it will be.”

She bolted the door behind him, then began shedding her garments, eager to submerge herself in that hot water. It would be heavenly. Delicious. And tonight she would sleep in that soft bed with its expensive sheets and linens.

With a prison like this, a woman might be tempted to never let Lord Kendale set her free.

A
fter the manner Kendale had adopted on the journey to this house, Marielle expected she would in fact be eating in her chamber. She even moved a little table near the window in preparation for the tray that would arrive.

Instead Old Pete came to tell her that his lord expected her below in an hour. At the appointed time she draped her shawl around her and walked down the stairs. She wished he had not chosen to dine this way. If he remained stern and aloof, it would be a poor hour or two. On the other hand, if he chose to talk, she doubted she would want to hear what he would likely say.

He already sat in the dining room when she entered. He rose until she was seated across from him. It was a wide table. The distance between them spanned considerably more than that day in his chambers. She wondered if he thought about that when he gazed across at her. How formal this was in comparison too. The lord sat in his castle now, and one could not mistake his power.

“Old Pete said you told them to do what I wanted done,” she said after they had the soup. “I want them to bring me back to London.”

“They will accommodate your wishes
here
.”

“Then I am telling you, not them. I want to return to London.”

“You may instruct them. Not me.”

His tone brooked no argument. She gave none while they ate some fish served by a strapping young man with fair hair. He looked like he should be wielding a battle ax and his coats should be replaced by animal skins. What a very peculiar household.

“I have nothing with me,” she said after a long silence. “Not even a comb. All that I brought with me to Dover was left at the inn where I stayed when you kidnapped me.”

The young footman glanced sharply at Kendale. Kendale gestured for the young man to leave. When he was gone, her host settled his attention on her fully. “Do not accuse me of kidnapping in front of my people.”

“What should I call it instead?”

“Arresting.”

That took her aback. “You have arrested me? On what authority?”

“On the authority of being a British citizen, a member of the House of Lords, and a confidante and ally of all of the Home Office agents who monitor the eastern coast. You are here, instead of with them, because I did not want to err with you if there is an explanation other than the obvious one. So be glad for the respite, and do not insult me in front of my men.”