The Counterfeit Mistress (9 page)

“That is kind,” she said. “You have already helped me enough. I am alive, aren't I?”

“The men in the alley—they spoke French. I heard enough. Are your own people after you? If so, the Home Office will protect you if you cooperate with them.”

“Do you mean if I turn? If I tell them all about the spies sent here, and what I know of France's intentions? They will make sure I am not harmed if I agree to this?”

“Yes.”

She reached over and placed her hand on his. Her touch felt cool, too cool, and unbearably soft and fragile.

“Then it is a great pity that I am not a spy, and have nothing to sell in such a bargain.” She stood. “I must push you out now. There is much to do above and I should not leave it all to Dominique and Nicole.”

She walked him to the front door. He waited for the door to close behind him, then went to his coach and retrieved a pistol. He walked down two blocks, turned the corner, and circled back through the alleys and gardens behind the buildings on the other side of Marielle's lane.

He let himself into a building across the way and two doors down from hers. Up one level he knocked on a door.

A short, wiry, fair-haired man with gray eyes opened the door. “Milord!” He hurried inside to grab his coat and slip it on.

Kendale stepped in and inspected the bedsitting chamber that had been let a few days ago. Its occupant had carved areas for the bed at one end and a little library at the other. “Are you comfortable here, Mr. Pratt?”

“Fair enough, milord. I slip out to the tavern for food, or they will bring it if needs be. It is not so nice as Ravenswood Park, but better than a barracks, so I am content.”

“Good. Today, did you remain on duty all day?”

“Of course, milord.”

“Even after the lady left her home? Did you watch all afternoon?”

“Had to, didn't I? No way to know when she came back if I was not watching. Not to say I would have been derelict if there had been a way. You know me, sir. I obey orders.”

Richard Pratt obeyed orders with singular diligence. If his commander told him to hold the crossroad and let no one pass alive, he would kill every man who approached. If told to watch that blue door, he would sit at the window from dawn to midnight staring at it.

“Did you see anyone suspicious lurking around, Mr. Pratt? Anyone taking a particular interest in the house?”

Pratt thought hard, frowning. He shook his head. “Nah. Was very quiet. No visitors. No women coming. Course most of them don't go right up to that front door, do they? Too proud, I suppose. They enter that little portal in the alley between that house and the one beside it, and pretend they are just cutting through to the street behind. Not unusual for folks to do that. I expect those women then go into the house through the kitchen.”

“Did anyone at all go into that alley and use the portal?”

“One man. Not too tall. Fat fellow. Dark hair. That is all I remember.”

The man in the alley had been dark-haired and fat. Kendale placed the pistol on the table that served for eating and writing and whatever else Pratt might need it for. “I am going to leave this. Someone intruded there this afternoon. I need you to be extra vigilant now, and to watch for ne'er-do-wells who might be around. If you have cause for concern, send me a message. I will be sending Jacob to join you, so you can take turns and remain alert.”

Pratt picked up the pistol and inspected it. “I'm trusting that if I use this, milord, that you will be explaining matters to the magistrate on my behalf.”

“I do not think you will use it. But with today's event, I want to know you have it should it be needed.” He set out some coin. “Once Jacob arrives, go out and buy powder and balls.”

“I understand, sir. Just to be prepared in the unlikely case, as you said.”

“Be sure to alert me to anything odd.”

“Such as what, sir?”

Hell if he knew. Belligerent visitors. Men creeping along the roof. Marielle Lyon walking out with something hidden in her deep pockets and under her long shawl.

“Just use your judgment, Pratt, and let no harm come to the women in that house.”

M
arielle pushed her mattress back onto its ropes. She pulled the sheets into place and tucked them. Standing back, she examined her chamber. All had returned to its normal order now. Nothing showed of the violation of her home.

Whoever intruded had torn this space apart, emptying drawers and wardrobe, dumping the contents of an old trunk on the floor. He had even turned over her dressing table, as if he expected to find something of value tied beneath it. He had learned to his sorrow that no treasures hid in these bedchambers.

Which was not to say that none could be found in the house elsewhere.

Night had fallen. Dominique slept in the chamber next door, her soft snores sounding their familiar rhythm. Tomorrow would be a long day. Before the women arrived to work, the engravings had to be inspected to see which had damage and which could still be colored. Marielle did not look forward to calculating the cost of the ones she could not return to their printer.

The day had exhausted her and left her sore. Her bed beckoned, but she lifted the candelabra and left the chamber. She descended the stairs and moved through the silent house to the studio. Three times she froze, to listen to sounds that made terrible fear shoot through her blood. She had always felt safe in this house, but she no longer did. If they came once, they could come again.

She set the candelabra on the worktable closest to the paneled wall that flanked the long windows at the rear of the chamber. Feeling along the molding on the left panel, she found a metal hook. When she pressed it, the panel swung open to reveal a hidden cupboard.

They had lived in this house for three years before she accidentally found this hiding place while dusting. It was the sort of secret one expected to have in fine homes and châteaus, not in cottages hugging the London wall. The normal thief would never guess to look for it.

She set aside a box of burins and other tools that lay on a shelf, and a sack of jewelry waiting to go to Fairbourne's auction house. She grabbed the heavy sack of coin that she had painstakingly collected over the years. Its undiminished weight gave her heart.

Then she lifted out a stack of copper plates. The ones on top were unused and new and she set them aside. She laid out each of the others to make sure none had been taken.

Several depicted London views. Upon first casting about for some employment, she thought engraving pretty pictures would feed her. Even after adopting a fictitious male name, however, they had not sold enough to justify continuing. She still made them out of vanity, but often they did not sell well enough to be worth the cost of hiring the press to print them.

The others proved more lucrative. Satirical prints, they poked fun at the powerful and famous. Such images had helped bring down the monarchy in France. The people of London had an insatiable appetite for them too.

They did not display the careful technique of the views. She deliberately made them cruder, so no one would think the same hand had made them. The name on them—Citizen John—would never be thought the real name of the artist. They bore no address.

She lifted a special one, made not for London but for export. “Citoyen Jean” this time claimed credit and all the words were in French. In it a man sat on a throne composed of farmers and tradesmen who strained under his weight. A line of people placed coins on a table in front of him. With one hand he slid two coins into a strongbox labeled “taxes.” With the other hand he pocketed every third coin. The words he spoke said, “One for Savenay, one for Paris, one for me.”

Was this what the intruders today looked for? Either to take it, or to discover if she was responsible for its creation? Or had they merely been thieves who saw an empty house on a fair day, ready for the picking?

Most likely the latter. Kendale had a suspicious mind in general, and she should not give his judgment on such things too much weight.

And yet— She thought about the news she received today from Monsieur Marion. Lamberte had departed Savenay, presumably to visit Paris. He saw the chance to rise, and would want to cleanse any old stains on his reputation. He would not want the past to interfere with his ambitions now.

She turned to the cupboard once again, and felt along its side. High up her fingers touched a little interference. She clawed at it, and pulled a little book from where it hid behind the wooden framing.

Flipping its pages, she scanned the numbers and, at the back, the names.
Run, and take this to Papa. Tell him to use it to bring this bastard down.
She looked at the little book, then at the plates. Did Lamberte just assume that whoever made the images had seen this book that contained the proof of his thefts? In the least, perhaps he hoped so, and might get it back. He could not sleep well knowing it was somewhere, waiting to reveal everything.

She returned the book to its hiding place. She stacked the plates, and put them back in the cupboard. She could either sit here and wait for whatever might happen, or she could try to discover whether Lamberte had sent those men to that alley. She should determine whether he pursued her, either to stop a nuisance of an engraver, or to silence a witness to his crimes. Her own plans depended on it. She might not have the time to save the rest of the money she needed. If not, she wanted to know so she could find another way.

It was time to learn what she could, so she would not be a sitting goose.

“I
am curious about something,” Kendale said. He rode beside Ambury in Hyde Park, and had allowed some time to pass before casually broaching his subject. “You are probably the best person to consult.”

“It is rare of you to flatter me, or anyone,” Ambury said. “Your curiosity must be intense.”

“Not at all. It is a passing question that came to me as I watched those women back there gossiping.”

“They may have only been chatting. The subject could have been art or literature, not gossip.”

“The way they whispered and laughed after another woman passed indicated otherwise.”

“You do have a talent for noticing the least favorable sides of people. What question did this inspire in you?”

Kendale hoped he appeared nonchalant. “If a man has intimate relations with an innocent, he is a scoundrel and honor requires him to redeem himself and the female with marriage. And if a man has relations with a whore, he is guilty only of a sin that none take too seriously and he owes the female nothing but the price agreed to. What, however, are the expectations if he has relations with a woman who is not an innocent but also not a whore?”

“A fallen woman?”

“An experienced woman.”

“Like a widow, you mean.”

A nod seemed the best response, even if the widow status did not fit, to his awareness at least.

“Is there a particular reason that you are asking me this question?” Ambury's voice and face hardened. “If you are in any way alluding to my wife, you risk our friendship. I know of the talk about her and I know you believed all of it, but I'll be damned if—”

“Hell, it has nothing to do with that. Are conversations about women now impossible because you will see insult around every corner?”

“You have never invited conversations about women, Kendale, so this one is very peculiar to me. I must conclude that Madame Peltier impressed you more than I expected. I even warned her off, lest she cast covetous eyes on you. I know how that annoys you.”

“Madame Peltier is looking for a husband, I think, not a liaison.”

“Let us say that she anticipates one day having a liaison that turns into a marriage. That is not uncommon in the situation you described. However, if the arrangement is clear and such expectations firmly discouraged, it is not required of a gentleman to wed an experienced woman should there be—how did you put it—intimate relations. I suggest with Madame Peltier that you clarify that before embarking on an affair, however. Make sure that she understands at the outset. No,
before
the outset.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

Kendale wondered how Ambury had raised such a delicate point with the woman, especially before having true cause to do so. He could think of no words appropriate to opening such negotiations. Did he just come out and say,
Madame, I want to share your bed and enjoy your favors, but I must be sure you understand that afterward there will be no marriage
?

And Ambury accused
him
of being hard and coarse.

“I also made clear that I would be generous in other ways,” Ambury said, warming to the lesson. “That is also customary.”

“How generous?”

“You cannot be serious. Even you are not so ignorant.”

“Only on the nuances. I have seen men driven to ruin from being generous to women. I am trying to determine how much less would suffice.”

“With Madame Peltier, I would think expensive but not ruinous jewels are required. A few gowns. The occasional delicacy for her table. The use of a coach would ensure a longer liaison than I enjoyed.”

“Ah. I see. She threw you over for being
un
generous.”

“No. I threw her over for thinking she might get a wedding after all. She is not for you, Kendale. Truly. I am delighted you are showing interest. However, you are not equipped for such as she. To start you should find some quiet, modest woman who is not too jaded and who does not have memories of the grand life of Paris in her head. Madame Peltier should not be engaged by anyone but a general, and in this war you are a raw recruit.”

Since he had no interest in Madame Peltier, he would not lose a single battle to her. Unfortunately, on his own, for all his words, Ambury had not told him what he really wanted to know.

“In such an arrangement, what else is owed? Loyalty? Constancy?” He tried to sound very casual indeed.

It did not work. Ambury stopped his horse, turned in his saddle and scrutinized his face. “I should have known these were not idle questions. There is someone, isn't there? And it is not the woman in question.”

Kendale tried to demur. Ambury would have none of it.

“Who? I demand to know. I won't tell anyone. Not even Southwaite, who would only lecture you on discretion and not contribute anything useful, the way I have.”

Kendale moved his horse forward. “You are boring me. I can ask a simple question without having you leap to stupid conclusions, I hope.”

Ambury paced on too, then stopped again. “The Lyon woman?”

“Who?”

“Is it Marielle Lyon? Madame Peltier would move in similar circles. You might have recently met her in your quest to meet French émigrés. Miss Lyon is quite lovely. Perhaps lovely enough even to get you to notice.”

“She is French.”

Ambury smiled. “All the better. And she is one of the good French.”

“You are mistaken. I have no designs on her, or anyone else.”

“That is disheartening. However, you did want to meet her, as I remember. Say! Let us ride to Albemarle Street, and I can introduce you. I just remembered that this afternoon she will be at Fairbourne's. Cassandra mentioned in passing that Miss Lyon will be bringing in a consignment of jewelry. Cassandra will be joining them to help Emma appraise its value.”

F
airbourne's auction house graced Albemarle Street with its stone façade and heavy oak door. Here Emma Fairbourne continued the business begun by her father. The world thought her brother the mind behind the business's success, but Kendale had seen and heard enough to know that Emma, now the Countess Southwaite, gave so much advice that the true captain of the ship had become at best ambiguous.

He was the last person to criticize Southwaite for permitting this secret vocation. Emma Fairbourne had been born to this trade and felt estranged from her own life and person without it. Why shouldn't she exercise her God-given abilities the way nature intended? He knew what it was like when that happened, and how nothing really filled that void.

He expected she avoided gossip about it by never publicly taking the role she played. At the auctions last fall her brother oversaw everything, while she attended only as a potential patron on her husband's arm. Today he saw the other reasons why she could maintain such discretion. An auction house was not like a typical shop. It only opened to the public when an auction loomed. Otherwise no one entered. Even if they did, they would have to seek out the private office in order to witness Emma at work.

That is where Ambury took him, their bootsteps echoing in the empty exhibition hall. They found Emma and Cassandra in the office, head-to-head, examining a small cache of jewelry and debating values.

Cassandra looked up. “Ambury, what a surprise.” Her blue eyes sparked with happiness at the sight of her husband. The lights dimmed considerably when she greeted Kendale in turn.

Ambury looked down at the jewels on the desk. “Did Marielle bring these? Has she already gone?”

Emma swept her hand in a gesture over the glittering objects. “She arrived with them at my home last night. It was most peculiar. I did not mind, but after arranging last week for her to come here today, it seemed a mysterious thing to do.”

“Most irregular,” Ambury said.

“That is Marielle however,” Cassandra said with a laugh. “She works very hard at it, I think. Being mysterious.”

“Surely she gave an explanation for intruding so late and unexpectedly,” Kendale said. “I do not know our French guests well, but I have never heard them described as deliberately rude.”

“She said that due to an unexpected meeting elsewhere, she could not come today and wanted me to have these now.”

Kendale lifted one of the earrings. If Marielle had arranged last week to deliver these, she had them two days ago when intruders entered her house. She must have had them very well hidden if they were not taken. Perhaps she kept them on her person.

“Did Marielle mention where she was going for this meeting?” he asked while he judged whether a bag with these jewels would fit in deep pockets.

Silence pulled his attention away from the desk surface. Three pairs of eyes looked at him with curiosity. He realized he had spoken of her with intimate familiarity. He attempted to appear merely curious himself. “To intrude on an earl's household at night—the reason would have to be very important for the niece of a comte to do that.”

“I thought so too,” Emma said. “It worried me and she appeared very distracted and that worried me more. I asked if I could be of any assistance to her but Marielle is not one to confide or to request help. She only said that she had to leave early in the morning. It sounded like she intended a journey of some kind.”

That was not what he wanted to hear. She had been attacked and her home ransacked, and now she had probably left London. For good? He had asked if her own people might be after her. All it would take was one enemy denouncing her to the right ear and that could happen.

“She is probably only visiting some friends,” Cassandra soothed.

“Perhaps, but seeing her last night was too odd. Lord Kendale thinks so too, so I am not being dramatic.”

“Ambury, have you learned or heard anything to suggest she is . . . in trouble,” Cassandra asked. “What with the stupid rumors about her, perhaps some fool in the government decided to threaten her and she has run away out of fear.”

There were times when being a man not known for conversation had its benefits. This was such a time. Since he might be the fool in question, he did nothing to draw attention to himself.

“I have heard nothing,” Ambury said. “I will ask and see what I can learn, however, if it will relieve your concern.”

“Please do,” Emma said. “I will talk to Darius and have him quiz a few men as well.”

“If you learn the names of the knaves, please tell me first,” Cassandra said. “When I think of the kindness and help she showed my aunt, I want to have first go at anyone who drove her out of London.”

Kendale doubted that Cassandra would care much that in truth he had tried to obligate Marielle to remain in London. If she learned of his recent involvement in Marielle's life, she would blame him for frightening her away.

He took his leave of them all and went out to his horse. While he rode to the City, and the remnants of its north wall, he assessed if he had healed well enough for a night in the saddle.

If Marielle had left London, he thought he knew the direction she would take. She was heading east or south, to the coast. It should not be hard to learn which. He would ask at the coaching inns that served those routes. If Marielle Lyon had paid a fare and boarded a stagecoach, she would be remembered by any man who witnessed it.