The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (41 page)

He picked up the pencil
lying on the sill and, turning to an empty page, began to draw. Might
as well see what he was capable of.

* * *

“So your Uncle is
visiting a sick friend?” As the numbers at Venetia’s party
dwindled, Tally and her constant escort, along with a few other
couples, had escaped the stuffy ballroom for fresh air. Strolling the
length of the terrace, it was the first time they were relatively
alone and, to her mind, the perfect opportunity for her to inquire
further about Monsieur.

Mr. Dubuc confirmed
that his uncle was away at a dying friend’s bedside, but he said he
had no idea how much longer Monsieur was going to be away.

“Is there no way I
can contact him by post?” She hated to be so insistent, but she was
becoming desperate for Monsieur’s return. Aside from worrying about
him and hoping for his help regarding Reed, she needed to begin
selling her paintings. Living in London was a lot more expensive than
she’d expected and their funds were dwindling frighteningly fast.
“On my father’s behalf, naturally.”

“I suppose if you
write a letter, I can try to have it delivered to him.” He appeared
to ponder the intricacies of that idea. “But I can make you no
promises. Antoine is a man unto himself and one never knows what he
will do next.”

That didn’t sound
like the Monsieur Moreau she knew, but she supposed his nephew knew
him better than she did.

“If you provide me
with your particulars, I will have the letter delivered to you.”

“
Mais
non, Mademoiselle
Lawton, if I am going to act as your
emissary, then I shall at least insist on a forfeit for the service I
render.”

She must have looked as
shocked as she felt, because he began to laugh. “
Non,
non
, you misunderstand me. I can assure you I have nothing
underhanded in mind when I strike this agreement with you,
Mademoiselle
. I am
merely offering to take you for a ride in the park, the day after
tomorrow, in exchange for attempting to convey a letter to my uncle
on your behalf.”

“On my father’s
behalf,” she was quick to correct him. He may be Monsieur’s
relative, but she’d guarded her secret too long to give it up
easily.

And now she was
committed to spending a few hours in the park. She was worried about
being seen in public. She’d wear her coal-scuttle or perhaps the
gypsy bonnet, whichever hid her features best. Joseph would have to
accompany her. She didn’t imagine Mr. Dubuc would be pleased if Mr.
Mason joined them and, besides, she was no longer certain of the
Scot’s loyalty.

What if the men who
were trying to kill her followed them to the park? In the open air
like that, she’d be vulnerable.... Nevertheless, she had to go. She
couldn’t pass up the chance to contact her mentor. Somehow, she
knew he was the key to resolving all her problems.

And now Mr. Dubuc was
pressuring her to allow him to escort her home tonight.

“Thank you for your
kind offer, Mr. Dubuc, but–”

“Victor, please, call
me Victor, like everyone in your family does when we’re in private.
They’ve all known me since I was a young boy.” His patience was
obviously wearing thin.

“But I haven’t, and
I am younger and unmarried. I think it would be best if we maintained
the formalities, so we don’t make a mistake and appear too
familiar, don’t you agree?” Using his family name would also help
her maintain some distance. But would he agree to help her contact
his uncle if she didn’t give in on this? “My sister has gone to
the trouble of making arrangements for my ride home and it would be
ungracious of me to disrupt them.” She gentled her voice. “I’ll
see you in two days as we’ve arranged.”

She wasn’t pleased
about their proposed outing. She felt obliged to agree to the
arrangement. Oh, he’d done it in a teasing manner, but she had no
doubt that underneath that charm, Mr. Dubuc was a very determined
individual.

Still, despite the risk
of being attacked, she intended to honor her promise to go for a ride
with him. He was so calm about his uncle’s departure that she was
now thinking she’d been worrying about her mentor needlessly.
Monsieur must be all right, but she still needed to get hold of him
soon. If for nothing else, she had to know why her father’s
signature was being forged on her paintings.

On the way home, her
thoughts followed the one track they insisted on taking since Reed’s
unorthodox arrival in her life. Like when she wasn’t satisfied with
a painting and kept coming back to it, searching for the flaw and
finding none.

Unlike Mr. Dubuc, who
talked to her as if she were a young girl needing to be cosseted but
not taken too seriously, Reed treated her more like a friend, a
cherished friend, someone with whom he could be himself.

Ha! Be himself! He had
no idea who he was. How could he be himself?

Although, he was
probably being more himself now than at any other time in his life.
Because he had no memory, he had no social guise to hide behind. He
didn’t remember how not to be himself. If this was who he really
was, she found him quite… nice. Attractive even. He treated her
with respect. And, if he was a touch too protective, possessive even,
it might be that being stripped of his identity made him feel
vulnerable. Like most men — other than artists who were so
self-centered they never took anyone else’s welfare into account —
he believed he was responsible for her well being.

As if she wasn’t
perfectly capable of taking care of herself! Well, most of the
time... She had to admit that coming to London had shaken her
confidence on that score.

She gazed unseeing out
the window into the night, brightened by the full moon. She’d
learned something useful this evening. There was someone else who
could help her locate Monsieur. His friend and colleague, Monsieur
Beauclaire. Many years ago, she’d overheard her parents saying that
the man was an eccentric but, other than Mr. Dubuc, he was probably
in the best position to help her locate her absent mentor.

* * *

“Foster! Why are you
awake? I told you not to wait up for me! You need your sleep.”
Tally scolded him but she’d known he’d never go to bed until she
came home. Another reason not to become caught up in the social whirl
of the Season! It would be bad for her dear butler’s health.

“I’ll sleep better
knowing yer home safe and sound.” He hung up her pelisse and patted
her back with gnarled hand. “How was your evening?”

“I expected worse,
but there were a few anxious moments. I saw the Baron, but only from
across the room, and I managed to avoid him.”

She handed him her
gloves. “Then, Spencer showed up.”

“Blast his eyes! What
was he doing there?” Foster was furious. “Didn’t he promise not
to contact your family?”

“But he didn’t.”
At his dubious look, she insisted. “No, truly, I know Spence. If he
said he didn’t, he didn’t. I’m worried about who else knows I’m
in Town and where I live! But there’s much worse. Guess who else
showed up?” She drew the words out, mostly to tease him, though she
was feeling trepidation at the thought of what tomorrow was going to
bring. “Grandma Lawton arrived.”

His eyes goggled.
“Darnation! Forgot all about her. Should we be expecting her here
tomorrow, then?”

“You can be sure of
it.” She led the way to the kitchen. “Our biggest challenge will
be making sure she doesn’t meet our guest.”

“Humph! Not so easy
now that he’s out of bed and moving about the house.” He abruptly
shifted to another topic. “You know, I don’t think the opium is
affecting him much anymore.”

“But why not?”
She’d been thinking the same thing. “Why has it stopped working?”

“The way I see it,”
he said, “is he has far too much energy and is too clear-sighted
for someone taking two doses a day.”

“I did decrease the
amount,” she admitted. “I didn’t want him to become too
attached to it.”

“Funny thing.” The
old man sounded suddenly too casual, which immediately alerted her
that something was awry. The more nonchalant he sounded, the more
shocking his disclosures. “Joseph heard the gardener complaining
about some brown substance being splattered over the vines and shrubs
beneath yon Gordon’s bedroom window.”

Oh no! She couldn’t
believe how complicated life in this house was becoming! “I’ve
been adding a little chocolate to the milk most nights,” she
confessed. “He was grumbling about taking the hot milk and I hoped
it would mask the bitter taste better.” She paused. “So you think
he’s been throwing it out the window?”

He nodded.

“But–” her hand
suddenly flew to her mouth. “For how long?”

Dio!
Had he not really been asleep during those nights when she had
bandaged his wound? Had he been faking it? She quaked at the idea.

Then she squirmed,
utterly mortified, as she reflected on some of the things she had
done, thinking him asleep. Things like running her hands over his
smooth muscles and silky skin. Or pressing kisses to his chest or…
Oh lord!
… nuzzling
his nipples that had always reacted to her moist caresses. She’d
imagined that happened in his sleep, now she worried he’d been
awake the whole time!

Foster was staring at
her, wondering why she’d stopped so abruptly in the middle of the
hallway.

“I’m starving,”
was all she could think to say. Thank goodness Foster had taken over
changing Reed’s dressing. What further liberties might she have
taken with his body had she continued! She groaned inwardly. Face
burning, she spun around and resumed walking to the kitchen. “I
hope Mrs. P has something good in the pantry for me to eat.”

“Didn’t they feed
you at the party?” he asked. “I thought they’d serve all manner
of fancy food.”

“It was fancy, all
right. Food like… ladies’ fingers and such.” She mimicked her
sister. “Tonight was
une
soiree à la française
!” A French style of party, she
translated for him. “That meant no sit-down supper. She claimed
that was how it was done at one of the best
soirees
she attended in Paris!” She adopted her sister’s expression as
well as her voice.

Foster chuckled.

“Mind you, it made
sense. She had such a short time to prepare and you know she wouldn’t
do anything less than lavish. This way, she was able to serve canapés
and champagne.” She again took on her sister’s voice. “`Now
ladies, be sure to remove your gloves or they will become terribly
soiled.`”

He shook his head. He
could well imagine it, she knew, having dealt with her family for
many years.

“She called it the
latest French vogue, but her group didn’t care if it was or not.
They all thought it great fun! She had servants walking around with
trays filled with a wide variety of hors-d’oeuvres, while guests
stood around talking as they ate.” She frowned. “Not my favorite
method of eating, I can assure you. My feet are aching from all that
standing. But it did have the advantage of not having to talk to the
same two or three table companions for the whole meal.”

Foster grinned at her
sly humor.

“I kept dropping my
food. Can you imagine how filthy those floors must be now?” She
grimaced. “The disadvantage is that it’s not polite to talk with
food in your mouth, so you never get to eat more than a morsel or two
in between responding to people’s queries. That’s why I’m
hungry.”

She needed to eat
something filling. Anyway, she was too keyed up to sleep.

“You can go to bed
now that I’m safely home.” She patted his shoulder
affectionately. “I’m going to take some bread and cheese up with
me to eat in my room.”

He bade her goodnight
and went on his way. She cut some bread and chunks of cheese, poured
a glass of wine and took them with her upstairs. He had so surprised
her with the news that Reed was most likely throwing his nightly dose
out the window that she’d forgotten to tell him about their “guest”
following her to the party and Mason being caught. She’d tell him
tomorrow.

She stopped at her room
to change into her night clothes. Then she donned a thick velour
dressing gown over her nightgown and left her room to go up to the
studio.

There was a beautiful
moon tonight and, on the way home, she’d imagined coming up here
and sitting on the window seat to gaze at the moon and draw.

It was the first full
moon since they’d come to London and, for once, the sky was
cloudless. She’d been sitting up there the past few nights, making
the most of the brief snatches of bright moonlight in between the
long stretches of overcast sky. She’d already imagined how
ethereal… and exciting it was going to be like, bathed in the full
glow tonight.

She didn’t try to
muffle her steps because she had no idea anyone was… could be... up
there. So she was taken aback to find Reed gazing out the window,
sitting right where she usually sat.

“Oh…” She stopped
dead, stunned into silence. “I didn’t know you were up here.”
She crossed the room to put down her plate and drink on a small table
beside the window seat. He must wonder what kind of a wife was
surprised to encounter her husband in their own home. “Didn’t I
tell you not to come into my studio again,” she said, but there was
no real heat behind her words. Tonight was not a night for strife.
Her mood was mellow, softened by the moonlight, by being in the
studio surrounded by her art and, she might as well admit it, by
finding the person she most wanted to be with already here, waiting
for her.

He flashed an innocent
smile. “How selfish of you, to forbid someone this view of the moon
on a night like this.” He rubbed his hand over the smooth wooden
seat. “I like it here. I like the feel of the wood, the smells.”
He paused, at a loss to explain further.