The Counterfeit Mistress (14 page)

The second letter also came from London. It bore a seal he had not seen in over a year on any missive to him. He read its message. The Duke of Penthurst had just invited himself to visit. That he dangled a gift and a good excuse did not make the notion sit any better.

Cursing, he walked toward the house to write responses to both.

M
arielle did not find the note until she shook out the second petticoat in the bundle of garments. It had been buried inside the white cotton cloth and it fell to the floor like a leaf. She snatched it up and unfolded it. She should have guessed Dominique would hide a letter in the garments. She should have unfolded each one yesterday and looked for this, and not merely hung out the dresses.

There's men watching. Some across the way who never leave. Another who walks the lane and thinks he is sly in how he watches, but I noticed him three days ago. I don't think they are together. I hope one of them is a friend.

As for your visit with the viscount, I remind you that an English lord's protection is not to be refused lightly in these times, especially with what you might now face, and with what I suspect you plan to do. Other women have the luxury of standing on their virtue in ways we do not. I'd ensure his help myself if I were younger, but those days are past me now.

The women keep coming and I went and brought back engravings from Monsieur Ackerman. There is work, at least, and no one will starve.

Dominique's attempt at discretion amused her. Better to have saved the ink and just written,
Use your body to
forge an alliance with this lord.

She could not muster any indignation at the advice. Ever since the attack in the alley, a tight cold fear had twisted beneath her heart. It seemed every day since she had learned things that only made it clench more. The news that Lamberte had left the manor near Savenay. The sight of Éduard and Luc, beaten cruelly before being killed. The intrusion on her house and now, according to Dominique, unwelcome interest from strangers who watched and waited.

For what? Her, perhaps.

She tried to explain it all away. An argument could be made that her friend out of fear now saw men watching who merely walked the lane to go about their business. Dominique would never feel really safe again. She carried a knife at all times, didn't she?

The intruders might have been a coincidence, and only men who hoped to steal something of value. Éduard and Luc could have fallen victim to smugglers that they crossed, perhaps even Garrett himself.

Her mind wanted to nod after each explanation. Her soul heard none of it. She knew as surely as she breathed that the danger was real. Ever since those men grabbed her in the alley, she had known.

The only respite from nervous vigilance had been when she was with Lord Kendale. The only peace had come while he embraced her in the night garden.

She looked around her pretty chamber. If not for her long-awaited duty, she might gladly stay in this prison forever. It was time to leave it, before its safety sapped her of all her strength. She might follow Dominique's advice and arrange for Lord Kendale to protect her, but she could not stay here.

H
e had said he would not go to her, and he wouldn't. He approached her door only as a message bearer.

He could have sent Old Pete, of course. Even Angus, or one of the others. He didn't.

She answered his knock and faced him in the shadows. Three candles on a far table gave enough light so he saw her clearly enough, limned in golden glows that turned her hair into spun bronze. She wore a dress he had not seen before, a light purple one with a tiny pattern of something flicking it. He assumed it was one of the dresses brought up from London.

She cocked her head, curious. “Do you want something of me?”

Despite her coolness he heard it as a taunt. Hell, yes, he wanted something of her. He burned from what he wanted.

“There will be visitors tomorrow. One will be a countryman of yours. I would like you to come down and meet them.”

“Visitors? How interesting. I had heard that you never entertain, and rarely partake of others' entertainments graciously.”

The information probably came from Emma, Lady Southwaite. The reference to lack of grace probably came from Cassandra, Lady Ambury.

“I am not entertaining. These men will be coming for other purposes. I would like your thoughts on the Frenchman, so I want you to meet him.”

She stepped closer and looked in his eyes, searching. “Do you want my thoughts on him, or his on me?”

Damn, she was a suspicious woman. Shrewd too. “The other visitor will be a duke. Penthurst. They are traveling together. It can only help you to meet such an important man.” He did not play society's games much, but after a lifetime watching he could not help but know the rules.

The duke's arrival intrigued her. “You may not entertain often, but you are very successful in your guests when you do. Is he a friend?”

“He has been a friend, yes.”

“A strange way to respond.” The oddity did not hold her interest. She turned and strolled into her chamber, then turned again. “A duke. Perhaps he will ask me to be his mistress if I provide what little amusement he is likely to enjoy tomorrow.”

Another taunt. His head almost exploded. “That is not likely.”

“I am not pretty enough? Not fashionable enough?”

“You are pretty enough, and you know it. It is still not likely.”
Because I will kill him first.

She considered that, her arm crossed over her body and her other arm rested on it so she could cup her own chin in thought. “Is it not likely because he will assume I am your mistress if I am here?”

“No.”
Yes
. “He already has a mistress to whom he is currently devoted. He is not looking for another one right now.” The lie came out too easily. He'd be damned if he allowed Penthurst to even entertain the notion of making Marielle a mistress, or let Marielle think she could achieve such a victory.

“That is too bad.”

She smiled at him, her eyes glittering the way they did when she found something amusing. That did nothing for his temper. She knew what he was thinking. She saw the desire in him. Smelled it. Women like her were never ignorant of their effects on men.

He still stood on the threshold. He had not placed even one foot inside the chamber. Her gaze dared him to take the step.

Instead he took a deep breath. He was being the worst ass. How often had he mocked men for this? Hadn't he seen how lust often made men jokes, and sometimes victims?

He turned, not even taking his leave, and forced himself to walk away.

To his astonishment she followed.

Damnation, the woman had no sense. He refused to acknowledge her step behind him. If he looked at her, he—

He threw open his chamber door and strode in.

“You lied,” she said.

He turned then. He had to. Blood pounded in his head and his whole body seemed taut as a stretched bow. She was the one now standing right outside the door, looking in.

“What lie?” There had been a few.

“When I asked if you wanted something of me, you did not answer truthfully.”

“I did.”

“I do not think so. One of the others could have told me about these visitors. You came yourself.” She looked down at her feet and the doorway. Slowly, elegantly, she toed at the invisible line with her soiled, silk slipper.

His whole being urged her to cross that line. He did not give a damn that it might compromise his honor, or make him one of those jokes.

She watched her foot trace her debate on the board. Then she stepped inside and closed the door. She walked over to him. “What do you want of me, m'sieur?”

He looked down at her, ridiculously elated and relieved and instantly as hard as he had ever been.

“Say it, Lord Kendale. What do you want?”

He pulled her forward and lifted her in an embrace. “You,” he muttered. “You.”

I
t did not take him long to get her clothes off her. She managed to avoid him ripping her dress to shreds in the process.

They tumbled onto the bed together. She knew how it would be if she did not take matters in hand. She found his impatience charming and his hard passion exciting, but there were times when one preferred more finesse.

She plucked at his neckpiece while she kissed him. “Perhaps you can remove this. And the boots.”

He stopped and looked down at her. Then turned his head and looked down his own body toward those boots. He sat up and had them off in a flash.

She knelt behind him, circling his neck with her arms. She slid off his coat and reached around to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. “You do not mind, do you? If I see you as you see me?”

“Of course not.”

“After all, I too would like to kiss skin and not wool and linen.”

She fell back on the bed while he undressed. He did it like the soldier he had been, methodically, neatly, quickly. He never took his eyes off her either, so she taunted him a bit, crossing her arms behind her head so her breasts rose, raising her leg to caress his chest with her foot while he finished with his lower garments.

Finally he was done. He joined her, lowering into her arms. An entwining embrace brought them close, touching everywhere in warmth, surrounded by sensual, physical scents. He kissed her furiously, his mouth claiming and devouring. She felt the explosive passion in him.

She pushed at his chest. Eventually he noticed and rose up so she was not pinned down. She pushed again, turning her body so he lay on his back. She straddled him, sat back, and admired what she saw.

Bending forward, she kissed a line across his chest. “You want me, and I want you. It is good, no? Tonight let us have each other in a special way. Let us enjoy this as if we know we will never know pleasure again with anyone, ever.” She smiled at him. “It will be as if we are drinking the very best wine. Slowly savoring each drop.”

She showed him what she meant by caressing him in long, careful strokes that let her feel him inch by inch. She closed her eyes so the sensations filled her awareness and created memories of touch and scent. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply, slowly. Her breasts barely touched his chest, teasing her.

His arms surrounded her. He rolled so she was on her back. “Like wine, you say. That is all about taste.” He kissed her mouth, his tongue tasting and moving, creating thrills. He moved to her neck in a slow exploration of other tastes, finding the spots that made her sigh. She explored too, her fingertips learning the details of his shoulders and back. She discovered ridges, long lines of scars. They felt like the one forming on her hip, only worse. Wounds, she guessed. Officers do not only dress up in nice uniforms. This one at least clearly had not.

His mouth moved lower, to her breasts. More tasting with lips and tongue. Gently at first. He created a luscious excitement that made her want to purr. She could not control it long, however. The pleasure built and changed and began denying her contentment. The arousal spread low in her body and into her head until she could not bear how good it felt. He palmed the tips lightly, then firmly, learning what made her cry out and moan.

He savored, the way she had asked. He took forever. When his kisses lowered yet again, to her stomach and hips, her whole body reacted. The anticipation almost unhinged her.

New kisses, high on her thighs. He tasted the soft flesh there. Higher yet, so that his breath flowed over her mound, making her tremble. Then he spread her legs wide and truly tasted until she groaned. Her sense abandoned her and she cried out each time the pleasure increased, sharpened, astonished. The most profound tremor began deep inside her then began contracting, getting tighter and tighter until she feared she would die. Then in an exquisite instant it snapped and unwound all through her, carrying the most perfect release all through her body.

He came up over her and bent one of her legs. He entered her, holding her thigh to his hip so he went deeply. He stayed there a moment, tension hardening his shoulders and back. Then he moved in slow, deep thrusts, as if he really did believe he would never know pleasure again and needed to savor the sensation now in order to remember it forever.

Eventually the pleasure conquered him too. It ended as it had almost begun, powerfully, hard, and with command. He took and she let him until finally the release cracked his control and shuddered through them both. She wrapped her legs around him and held him to her so they would remain joined in the aftermath.

H
e watched her eating her breakfast. She took little bites that barely needed chewing, but ate more than he would have expected.

Her tumble of hair had been brushed but still appeared that of a woman in bed. Her old-fashioned dress hung on her, as if she had once weighed a bit more, or perhaps the woman who used to own it before her had been bigger.

He tried to decide if Penthurst would find her suitably shabby and beneath his interest, or be intrigued and want to buy her the latest fashions. His own reaction had been close to the latter option, but that did not mean another man's would be too. Still, as the hour wore on, he considered if having Marielle look this much a waif would be in his own best interests.

“Are you finished?” he asked when she set down her cup. “Come with me.”

He led her to the stairs. She skipped up beside him. “Have you no manners, Lord Kendale? To impose on me again so soon after a night of imposition is considered a little rude.” She giggled even as she said it, and gave him an impish glance.

“Don't tempt me,” he said. “We aren't going back to bed.” His mind started calculating if they could and still be presentable at one in the afternoon.

“Then what?”

“Here, I'll show you.” He opened the chamber nearest to his. Her eyes widened on seeing its appointments.

“This was the apartment of my brother's wife.”

She drifted around, sliding her hand over the furniture and fingering the silk drapery. “She enjoyed fine things.”

“They meant the whole world to her.” Acquiring luxuries had consumed Caroline, if truth be told. He had never understood how any person could have such a single-minded pursuit of objects. For years he disliked her for what seemed an unhealthy avarice. Eventually he concluded that in some way her luxuries substituted for something else she could never have. Perhaps the affection of his brother, who treated her as little more than another piece of expensive furniture herself.

He walked into the dressing room. “I hope that you will not be insulted if I offer you the use of her things.” He pointed to the wardrobes. “With a duke coming, I thought you might like to change into a different dress.”

She threw open one of the wardrobes. “
Mon dieu!
Look at these gowns. I do not suppose this duke will stay for dinner and require me to wear one of these?”

“I believe he will not stay that long.” Damn, he hoped not.

She pouted, and passed the gowns and pulled out a dress instead. She held it to her body and looked down to see how it might fit. “Why would I be insulted?”

“You might think I did not consider your appearance suitable as it is now.”

She laughed. “
Of course
it is not suitable. I thought you were mad to consider having me meet a duke, looking like this, instead of telling me to hide in my chamber. Your scullery maid, if you had any maids here, would appear less poor.” She peered into the wardrobe again. She pulled out another dress. This one had a very recent look to it. That made her joy dim.

“She passed not so long ago, if this was her dress.”

“Two years. They both were in a carriage accident.”

“Perhaps I should not—”

“I want you to. She would too. There is no reason to leave them here to rot. I should have removed them long ago, but—” It was the apartment of the Viscountess Kendale. There was no such woman now, so the door could be closed and its contents ignored while he threw himself into other things.

Excited, she bent and gazed in the looking glass atop the dressing table. She fingered some pins strewn on the table's surface. “It is not inappropriate? You are sure?”

“I am sure. I will leave you to it. Make use of whatever you want.”

P
enthurst arrived in early afternoon. Kendale went out to the drive to greet them and to call off the dogs. The duke stepped out of his coach and made no attempt to hide his interest in the property. His gaze scanned the building and grounds while he and Kendale passed pleasantries.

His companion, Monsieur Calvet, did not impress with his person. Of average height, and slightly built the way the French could be, his dark hair already had thinned despite his not looking older than Kendale and Penthurst. Intelligence marked his eyes. They struck Kendale as the eyes of a man who sees clearly. Such a man, if he were a writer, would be dangerous to any government if he indulged inclinations to describe the world he saw.

While the duke examined the property, Monsieur Calvet examined his host.

“We finally meet, Lord Kendale,” he said. “His Grace informed me of your interest in our introduction. It is rare that I am useful to anyone these days, let alone a lord of England. I would be delighted to find I am not completely irrelevant now.”

“I asked for the introduction because I have some questions about France that you can perhaps answer. I would have called on you in London, however. You did not have to come here.”

“His Grace concluded that your return to London might take some time. He had cause to travel past this place, and decided I should journey with him.” He glanced at Penthurst. “I would not think there were questions your government does not know the answers to already.”

“They are not the kinds of questions the ministers care about. There is also someone I want you to meet. Her name is Marielle Lyon. Have you heard of her?”

“She is well-known among us, by reputation. I have not met her, however. What do you want me to learn from her? Are you trying to discover the truth about her history? Whether she is a charlatan as some claim, or a noble orphan as she does?”

His determination to unmask her felt a betrayal now. He kept one eye on Penthurst, who had delayed their entry into the house by stopping to peer inexplicably at the small windows that gave into the cellars of the building. “I do not seek to discover anything in particular about her. However, if you have anything notable to say about Miss Lyon after you meet her, please wait to tell me until I arrange for us to speak privately.”

Calvet glanced at Penthurst, then made the vaguest nod.

Kendale called for Penthurst to join them while he brought Calvet into the house. And thus he found himself not only entertaining, but offering hospitality to a man whose society he had avoided. No doubt Penthurst felt free to call because of that dinner at Ambury's. Ambury had a lot to answer for if that surprise had led to this.

He noted with relief that the footmen who rode the steps of the coach did not bring in baggage. His own footman, in the person of Angus, who had been once more forced into both the role and the necessary coats, opened the door to the library with a good deal of flourish.

“Please have Miss Lyon informed that our guests are here,” Kendale said as he passed.

Calvet made himself comfortable in a chair. Penthurst continued to peer around, checking the prospects from windows and examining appointments. Perhaps he thought that if he appeared distracted, Kendale would ask the questions he had for Calvet in his presence. If so, he was much mistaken.

“You have been missed,” he finally said, taking a chair for himself. His deep-set eyes gazed over expectantly. “Southwaite said he thought you had gone to the coast. I thought perhaps you had left the country.”

“I would not leave the country without informing someone.”

“Well, now, we both know that is not true. However, I was relieved to receive your return letter, indicating my own had found you here.”

Mr. Calvet glanced from Kendale to Penthurst, and back again. He proved he possessed the intelligence his eyes had suggested by keeping silent.

“Relieved? I am touched that you worry for me.”

“Not relieved for you. For myself. Pitt received word that some of our army entered France via the southeastern coast. Since no such action had been authorized, he quizzed me very closely regarding those of my friends who are known to sometimes act independently. Southwaite and Ambury are in London and absolved of suspicion. That left you.”

“You should tell him that you are not responsible for the decisions of your acquaintances. However, if our correspondence will allow the Prime Minister to sleep better, I can only be happy.”

“Regrettably, it did not entirely appease him. He began asking awkward questions about your household.”

“Is that why you are here? To examine my domestic condition?”

“I am here to facilitate your meeting with Mr. Calvet. When I was called to one of my properties, I realized I would pass within a few miles of Ravenswood. Mr. Calvet was good enough to see the sense of accompanying me so the two of you could meet.”

“Of course I am grateful you did, Mr. Calvet.” Kendale moved the conversation to his true guest. “I understand that your decision to become a guest of England was precipitous.”

Mr. Calvet described his career prior to his flight. He had supported the revolution in its birth, and did not quarrel that a few heads had rolled. “I survived the worst of it by disappearing. I returned to my family's village and became a farmer like my father. Let us say that it is fortunate better skills than mine feed the people. My pen proved more lucrative, as I published under a nom de plume. My old friends knew where to find me, and I remained informed, so always had foibles and disgraces upon which to comment. There is great freedom in being anonymous.”

“Yet you had to flee all the same.”

“Ah, yes. One of those friends chose to reveal my nom de plume right after I published a booklet that he believed criticized him. I learned that it did, but had no idea he was involved in the matter I exposed.”

“It sounds like a dangerous profession.”

“In France currently, yes. With the ambitious Corsican gaining influence, perhaps I will remain in England for some years, unfortunately.”

“He is perfecting his English, so he can do for us what he did for them,” Penthurst said dryly.

Kendale debated how to remove the duke from the conversation. Penthurst already knew he wanted to ask Calvet about minor political figures in France, but it would not be convenient for Penthurst to hear the details of either the questions or the answers.

A message passed to Angus at the door obviated the necessity for the time being. Angus came over and bent to his ear. “Miss Lyon is coming down.”

“Send her in.”

With a subtle drama, Angus opened both doors at once, then stood aside. Marielle Lyon stepped in.

Three men stood. Kendale all but stopped breathing. So did his guests. Stillness fell while they all stared at how a decent dress and a bit of jewelry could enhance Marielle's beauty.

She appeared taller. The column of green fabric emphasized her willowy form. The high waist showcased her perfect, round breasts. She had put up her hair and donned a simple pearl necklace and pearl earbobs, emphasizing the snowy curve of her neck. Self-possessed and stunning, she bowed to Penthurst during the introductions.

Kendale had to tear his gaze away. She had been lovely in her rags, but this was different. She wore these garments as naturally as she wore her skin. They did not awe her. They did not merely decorate her. They completed her.

Within minutes, Mr. Calvet had engaged her in conversation. They sat head-to-head, speaking rapidly in French. Marielle's joy in having one of her own people present could be seen in her face. Their attention focused on each other, and their laughter turned familiar.

Which left Kendale to entertain the Duke of Penthurst.

“You displayed an inordinate interest in the façade of this house when you arrived,” he said.

“I do not know it well. I think I only came here once before. A house party that your brother and his wife held. You were in the army then.”

“I did not realize you had developed an avocation for architecture. Have you taken to drawing plans?”

Penthurst looked right at him. He looked right back.

“I was not measuring walls. I was looking for
them
.”

“Who would
them
be?”

“The men who do your bidding.”

“The servants do not hang from the cornices. They are where servants always are.”

“I do not mean servants. Knowing you, there are damned few of that kind of
them
here.” He angled forward, rested his arms on his knees, placed one hand on top the other, and looked up. “Did you send men into France last week? Was that army about which the French complained your army?”

“No man who obeys me is in France.”

“That is not what I asked.” He sighed, and leaned back in his chair. Over on the divan, Marielle and Mr. Calvet chattered on, their speech sounding like a long, lilting melody. “A man has gone missing. An innocent, simple draper with no government position. He is believed dead.”

“No man who obeys me would kill an innocent, simple draper.”

“Well, you can imagine the suspicion. There are rumors of English in the region, then a man disappears. The letter to Pitt accused us of a vendetta against those involved in the Toulon situation.”

“And this draper was involved. He does not sound so innocent to me.”

“It is known you are bitter about that experience. That you blame our government for neither acting decisively nor demanding any justice. It is known that your unit was all but massacred as you found yourselves outmanned and surrounded while you tried to escape. A good deal of patience has already been spent on your refusal to see the bigger picture. If you are now seeking your own justice, it will not be tolerated.”

“Were you sent here to threaten me? That is bold. A not so innocent draper disappears, and there are rumors that some English soldiers were lurking about his town, and the result is I am expected to pay heed to scolds sent secondhand from Pitt? He is a fool if he believes I will give a damn.”

“Not threats. Not a scold. Nor did he send me to you. I wanted you to know that assumptions are forming about this, and about you. If you have indeed embarked on a campaign of revenge, be careful that you do not find yourself facing our army instead of theirs, that is all.”