The Counterfeit Mistress (17 page)

“He might have written a love letter. Did you consider that? He may have written that he cannot live without you.”

She tried to imagine Kendale writing a love letter. The effort amused her so much that she laughed for the first time in a week. “I think it is safe to say it is not a love letter.”

Dominique wagged her finger. “You read that now or I will open and read it for you.”

With some trepidation, she broke the seal and smoothed out the paper.

It was not a love letter. Of course not. His words made her smile anyway. Or at least the ones that did not make her worried did.

My dear Marielle,

I have resisted the impulse to call on you to explain what I write here. I keep telling myself that decision is a wise one.

I want you to know that you are still being watched. Perhaps you noticed. There are men across the lane in an apartment that looks over the street. There is also a man who passes your house several times a day.

The men in the apartment are mine. I am inclined to leave them there until whatever intrigue you are pursuing is over. The man who walks by is not mine, however. He has been followed, but his various destinations shed no light on his intentions. Perhaps I worry for naught. Take care, nonetheless.

Should you have need of my men, the dark-haired one is Jacob and the fair one is Pratt. They will send for me if you ask, or you can yourself should that be necessary.

In a fortnight or so I may be gone for a while. Ambury thinks highly of you for helping his wife, and I am confident that any request of aid from him will be honored.

Your servant,

Kendale

Dominique took it out of her hand and read it. “He invites you to send for him.”

“If I am in danger.”

“Which you are.”

“We do not know that.”

“Don't we? Then send for him merely to enjoy his company. He will not care what the reason is. That is the letter of a man who has not turned a page where you are concerned.”

Her heart wanted to agree. She imagined the joy of seeing him. Just the fantasy brought her happiness.

“I dare not.”

“Why?” Dominique cried in exasperation.

She took Dominique's hand. “Because he will try to stop me. And when this man tries such a thing, he normally succeeds.”

Dominique's fingers tightened around Marielle's. “Stop you? From what? My God, what have you been thinking this last week while you walked these boards so long into the night? Yes, I have heard you. Tell me now, so I can prepare myself.”

“It is time. It is past time. If I wait longer, and discover a faster return would have made a difference, I will never forgive myself. Already it may be too late.”

“Lamberte—”

“That is why it is time now. I do not know if he came here in the hopes of finding me, or if he has gone to Paris to ingratiate himself. All I know is I am told he is not in Savenay. I may never have such a chance again.”

Dominique shook her head over and over. “Your father does not expect you to come for him. He does not want you to risk yourself to free him. No father would want that. I have told you this for six years, Marielle.”

“Perhaps he does not. It is my decision, however, not his. I do not only do this for him.”

Dominique rose and paced, throwing up her hands while she muttered. She turned, fresh worry creasing her brow. “He will know it was you, of course. If you go there, and succeed, he will know you are alive for certain. Who else would help that particular prisoner escape?”

Marielle picked up the burin and carefully filed its tip on a sharpening stone. “I expect that is true. He will probably realize it was I and that I made it out alive.”

“He will guess you have those records. The ones in the little book that you hide in the wall.”

“Perhaps.” She blew the tiny shreds of metal off the stone, then continued filing the burin.

“He will surely come here then, if he has not already.”

“If he does, he will be one more poor émigré. He will have no power, no army. He will be in a strange land with no friends and many, many enemies.” She turned back to the copper plate. “Let him come.”

I
t turned out, as Kendale learned to his annoyance, that avoiding a woman who distracted you did nothing to resolve the distraction itself. Rather the opposite.

He spent the next days planning for the journey he would take soon, but even that did not hold his attention the way it should. He would pore over maps and plot routes but suddenly the lines and papers would disappear while his mind wandered to memories of Marielle at Ravenswood. Not all of the images were erotic. A laugh, a smile, a taunt—he dwelled for long stretches of time on details that had entranced him.

He took to spending his afternoons boxing and fencing and riding hard through the parks, trusting the activity would help him sleep. And every night he lay abed for hours, too conscious of a void in himself where he never realized one existed before.

Three more days of this torture led him to a decision. Actually Mr. Pottsward led him to it. The valet had a talent for making one see the obvious.

He was examining a map of the coastal waters when Pottsward brought in his morning coffee. After pouring and laying down linen and spoon, Pottsward glanced at the map, then the papers strewn over the table.

“Will you be consulting your solicitor before you go, sir?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I thought you would need to leave instructions of what to do in the event you do not return. Is that not expected of peers? That matters of inheritance and such be clarified?”

Not return
. The notion, while not welcomed, could hardly be called preposterous. All the planning in the world, and all the bravery, could not account for all eventualities. In a truly fair world he would definitely return, but he knew better than most that he could not count on it.

“I suppose I should meet with him.”

“If you want, I will arrange a meeting tomorrow for you. Shall we say three hours? That will allow you time to alter your will if you choose. That last one was written in such haste and with such little care on your part that you may conclude it requires alteration. Should you want to provide for longtime retainers, for example.”

“Are you deliberately being morbid, Pottsward? Is it your way of saying you do not approve of this?”

Pottsward made efforts to tidy the papers. “It is not for me to approve or disapprove. If it is the only way to finally resolve your anger over the loss of your comrades, perhaps it is for the best. Better like this than if you were still in uniform, acting recklessly in battles. I merely remind you that righteousness does not make a man immortal or invincible and that even the virtuous fail sometimes. It is the sort of thing one thinks about as one gets older.”

He did not expect to fail. He certainly did not intend to die. He had not ignored the possibility that he might, but he had not dwelled on it either. Now he did, thanks to his valet.

He considered what he might lose and what he might regret. He viewed his plans and decisions from a new prospect. The only thought that made him pause, and the only moments that evoked a wistful sense of true loss, were when his mind turned to Marielle.

He perused his mail in a sober mood. Invitations had begun to arrive daily as the Season got underway. He glanced at each and made two stacks—a big one for balls and parties he would not attend, and a very small one of those that might have guest lists that included people whose company he did not find tedious.

One in particular caught his attention. Taking the letter, he had Pottsward call for his horse.

A short time later he tied up his mount on Albemarle Street and entered Fairbourne's auction house. Men moved through the large exhibition hall, cleaning and sweeping and hanging paintings. The manager, Mr. Nightingale, noticed him and hurried over.

“Lord Kendale, you honor us. How can we be of service?”

“I am hoping that Lady Southwaite is here.”

“Lady Southwaite? Here?” He frowned in puzzlement at the question, as if it had been asked in Chinese.

The lady in question appeared in the office doorway at the rear of the chamber. With a warm smile she walked over. “Lord Kendale, how pleasant to see you. Do not be alarmed, Mr. Nightingale. Lord Kendale is a dear friend who knows all. He will be discreet about my continued involvement here.”

She invited him back to the office. “We are very cluttered now. The days we hang are busy and unsuitable for visitors.”

“My apologies for intruding then.”

“Do not apologize. Please. I am always happy to see you.”

She moved a small bronze statue of a nude woman from a chair so he could sit beside the desk. She perched on her own chair nearby.

He liked Lady Southwaite. He had liked her before she married and still did. Forthright and not given to the affectations of society women, she had proven herself to be as honest a person as he knew. They had shared at least one experience of the type that forged a bond between people. He expected that to make this conversation easier, although it would be one he had never had the likes of before.

He set the invitation that he carried on the desk. “Thank you for inviting me to your first grand preview of the Season.”

She was not a beautiful woman in the normal way, but her direct gaze could compel one's attention. It had captivated Southwaite, and now captured him. “I hope that you will come.”

“I would like to, thank you. However, I am curious to know if someone is on your guest list. I thought perhaps you would tell me.”

“Someone you want to avoid?”

“Not necessarily. Have you invited Marielle Lyon?”

Her gaze cooled. “I always invite her. She does not come, however. I know you mean well, and that you believe her to be dubious at best, but I count her as a friend and am sure the rumors about her are untrue. If you think to warn me off associating with her, please do not.”

“I did not come here to warn you off. I came to learn if indeed you counted her as a friend.” He chose his next words carefully. “I was wondering if you would receive her here, or in your home.”

“Her blood is better than mine, Lord Kendale. She is amusing, even fascinating. Why would a hostess not receive her?” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “The real question is whether they would receive
you
, sir.”

He laughed. It was the damned truth, he supposed. Few besides Emma Fairbourne would say it outright, however. “Since you say that I am not sought after, my next question must be rephrased from how I had planned it. Would I be more acceptable or less acceptable if my name were linked with hers?”

Astonishment. Even shock, perhaps. Her mouth gaped a fraction. She stared at him. “Do you mean what I think you mean, when you say linked?”

“I believe so. There is no way to know for certain without being indelicate.”

“Indelicate? Oh, my.” She tapped her fingertips on the desktop, nervously. “Does Darius know? Does Ambury?” A thought made her frown. “Does
Marielle
? Forgive me. That sounds odd, I know, only I just realized that perhaps she was not aware that you had
indelicate
intentions.”

“She knows of my interest in her, Lady Southwaite. I think she has known longer than I have. As for my intentions, I hope to formalize those soon. The matter of discretion needed to be addressed. With the world at large, of course there must be much of it. With my close friends, keeping a liaison a secret would be nigh impossible, and very awkward. I would not want to cause her to be insulted, however. So I am trying to determine if you, and perhaps Lady Ambury, would receive her and remain friends with her if you knew.”

“How thoughtful of you. Truly. I assure you that I am the last person to cut a woman for this. I cannot speak for Cassandra, but I do not believe she would be cruel to Marielle for any reason.”

“Thank you.” He stood. “I will remove myself from what appears to be a busy day for you.”

He opened the door.

“Lord Kendale, one moment.”

He turned to her.

“Lord Kendale, have you . . .” she stammered, but collected herself. “Have you ever done this before?”

He just looked at her. She flushed deeply all the way up to her hairline.

“I refer to the
formalizing
that you mentioned, sir. Have you experience in it? I would not like to see her insulted anymore than you would.”

“I have no experience at all, but I expect I will manage.” He bowed and left, wondering how long he had to settle this before Ambury showed up to give him lessons.

Not long enough, as it happened. Ambury charged into his apartment just as Mr. Pottsward was brushing the coat he would wear that afternoon.

Ambury halted his stride right at the dressing room door. “Damnation. All those curious questions.
Marielle Lyon?
I thought you believed she was a spy.”

Pottsward's brush paused a moment, then brushed on more purposefully. “You did not tell me you were calling on a lady, sir. I wish you had before I chose the coats.”

“Does it matter?”

Pottsward sighed. He shot Ambury a glance. Hell, it was as bad as having Southwaite here.

Ambury stepped in and considered the coats. “He will have to do, Pottsward. Just a less formal knot in the cravat, perhaps, and a patterned waistcoat—”

“He has no patterned waistcoats, sir.” Pottsward plucked at the cravat's tie and loosened it, then reached for a fresh linen. “I have told him repeatedly that he should have some made, but, well . . .”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

They fussed around him like two tutors preparing a pupil for his first public recitation. Kendale suffered it.

“There, that will do. Thank you, Mr. Pottsward,” Ambury said.

Kendale checked his watch. “You just dismissed
my
valet, Ambury. Did you forget once again that I am in the chamber?”

“It would not do for him to hear us as we review your strategy.”

“You have convinced me that you employ no worthwhile strategies. I am therefore on my own.”

“What are you bringing with you? What jewels?”

“I am bringing no jewels.”

Ambury grimaced. “See, that is why I came. You are ill equipped to do this on your own. It is customary, especially when a man broaches the topic you intend to broach, to bring a very nice gift.”

“She can have gifts aplenty. Whatever she wants. But I will not bribe her today.”

Ambury groaned. “It is not a bribe. It is a
gift
. As for her having whatever she wants, do not say that, whatever you do. She could ruin you if you make a promise like that.”

“She will not ruin me. More likely she will refuse everything.” Even him. Since he had never pursued a woman, he had never been rejected by one. He steeled himself for that possibility. It would probably be unpleasant in the least.

Ambury crossed his arms. “What are your plans, then? You must know before you go. Will you offer a house? An allowance? Do you intend to bring her here? Go to her home? Rendezvous out of town? Does she get a new wardrobe? A coach? A—”

“A wardrobe. Yes, I think she would like that.”

“And the rest?”

“She and I will talk about it and decide, I expect.” He took his gloves off the table.

“Where will you be meeting her? You are not going to call at her house, are you? A coach like yours will attract the attention of the entire neighborhood. Do you want her shredded by gossip?” Ambury pointed to the table. “Put down those gloves, and write what I tell you. You will ask her to meet you in the park during the fashionable hour.”

He dutifully sat and wrote what Ambury dictated. Satisfied that he had shown his pupil the proper approach, Ambury departed, proffering tidbits of advice all the way out.

As soon as he was gone, Kendale crumbled the letter in his hand, picked up his gloves, and went down to his carriage.

M
arielle noted the time and hurried to the front of the drawing room. Behind her the women chattered. A new stack of engravings had arrived, so the tables had filled with willing hands, some now rough from months of color soaking them when they dabbed the rags into the basins of thin paint.

She positioned herself so she could look out on the street but not be obvious herself to passersby. Unless something had changed, and she hoped it had, the mystery man would stroll past within the next fifteen minutes.

Kendale said he had been followed, so she had never followed herself. If he did not slow as he passed her windows, if he did not always study the façade and alley, if his dark eyes did not remind her of a hawk's, she might believe he lived nearby, or had his employment in the neighborhood, and walked this route with regularity due to his day's occupations.

She spied him at the end of the block, taking his time, ambling like a man with nothing else to do. She watched him come, memorizing again his countenance and form. Was he French? Perhaps so. She wished she knew for certain.

Noise came from the other direction. The racket of a carriage rumbled louder. She turned her head to see it stop right in front of her house. It bore no escutcheon, but it looked much finer than any carriage to roll on this lane. The matched pair of bays did it proud.

Everyone noticed. Children emerged out of nowhere to circle the horses. Neighbors appeared at windows. People walking by slowed their pace. Even her mystery man appeared curious as he approached.

The gathering talk outside attracted Madame LaTour to the window. She peered at the coach and nodded with approval. “Very handsome. My God, look who it is. That lord who visited before. He has come to call on you yet again, Marielle.”

Indeed he had. Dressed like a man of the highest society making calls on important people, Kendale stood near the door of the carriage after he stepped out. He turned and said something to his coachman. While he did, her mystery man began passing between the coach and the house.

At just that moment Lord Kendale stepped toward the door, right into the hawk-eyed man's path. They both stopped and looked at each other. She could see Kendale's face, but not the other. He gave the other man a glare that could cut stone. He made no attempts to move.