The Counterfeit Countess

by Diana Campbell

  “Mr. and Mrs. Philippe Peticolas,” he announced. “Mr. Edward Peticolas.”

  “The Peticolases,” Papa hissed. Apparently he had abandoned his notion of directing Lord Worsham’s attentions away from the odious French, for he tugged Selina to a position just beside the Earl and stood back to evaluate the effect. “If you’ve no objection, milord, I should like to form a small receiving line. I wish all my guests to have the honor and pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

  If his lordship did have an objection, he had no chance to voice it: Papa took the place at the head of the line, the Peticolases swept into the drawing room, and the ball was officially under way. For the ensuing three-quarters of an hour, the guests arrived in a fairly constant stream, were announced by Jonas, greeted by Papa and prodded on to Selina. After pronouncing her own welcome, Selina presented the new arrivals to “the Earl of Worsham, our guest of honor,” and he conducted a brief chat with each—a chat so brief, Selina soon decided, as to verge upon the discourteous. During the occasional lulls between arrivals, the Earl assumed a pained expression and gazed into space, as though wishing he might be miraculously transported to any other spot in the entire world. Attractive or no, Lord Worsham was hardly an engaging person, and on the whole, Selina would much have preferred Mama’s amethyst-and-diamond choker to the dubious pleasure of his company.

  As Papa had promised, Sy Gilliat, unchallenged by the orchestra, fiddled throughout the arrival period, and by half past nine, a number of guests were dancing to his sprighdy tunes. At a quarter before ten, Papa stated that it was time to begin the waltzing and proposed that Lord Worsham, as guest of honor, should stand up with Selina for the first set. The Earl’s countenance suggested that he regarded this prospect with much the same degree of enthusiasm Selina did—i.e., none—but as Papa signaled the orchestra leader, his lordship took Selina's elbow and propelled^her to the center of the room. They danced for several minutes in utter silence, Lord Worsham staring over Selina’s shoulder at the faded wall hangings, till eventually her tenuous patience evaporated.

  “Do not feel yourself compelled to continue shoving me about the floor,” she said frigidly.

  “Was I shoving?”

  He transferred his lavender eyes to hers, and to her dismay, Selina found his gaze exceedingly unsetding. “No," she muttered. In fact, he was a superb dancer. “However, your boredom is abundandy evident, and I shouldn’t wish to exacerbate your misery. Indeed, now Papa has shown you off, I daresay he would permit you to excuse yourself and seek a more appealing entertainment.”

  “What entertainment do you recommend, Miss Hewson? I returned to Richmond yesterday afternoon— a day early—and thought to attend the theater last night. I discovered there are no theaters.”

  “There is a reason for that,” Selina said. “The theater burned down some three and a half years since, shordy after Papa’s and my arrival, causing an appalling loss of lives. Above seventy people, as I recollect; at any rate, it has not yet been rebuilt.”

  “That is appalling,” the Earl agreed. “Were the hackney coaches devoured in the same conflagration? The paving stones? I should not have supposed they would burn. The barns were obviously destroyed; the livestock in the streets appears to outnumber the human population.”

  “For a world traveler, you demonstrate a shocking lack of tolerance, Lord Worsham,” Selina said warmly. “Richmond is not London, but I am given to understand that few places are. If you cannot survive without the amenities of London, I fancy you should have stayed there.”

  “Actually my family home is in Wiltshire,” he said mildly.

  “Then you should have stayed there," Selina snapped.

  She expected him to terminate the dance at once, but to her amazement, he flashed a rather sheepish grin. His mouth was a bit too thin, she noticed, but he had splendid teeth.

  “You are quite right. Miss Hewson, and I apologize if my behavior has in any way offended you. The fact is, as I told your father, I’ve been away from England nearly two years, and I daresay I’ve grown a trifle homesick. Not as tolerant as I should be.”

  “Umm.” His smile lent him a distinctly boyish aspect, but Selina was not yet prepared to forgive him. Lest she succumb entirely to his charm, she peered down at his disgraceful boots. “Then I should think you might have returned well before now.”

  “I did plan to return several months ago. I had visited the Continent, Africa, South America and Canada, and I was waiting to embark on the first ship out of Halifax. However, word came that the war had ended, and I could not resist the opportunity to see the United States as well. I consequently traveled via coastwise schooner to Boston, New York and Norfolk and, at last, to Richmond.”

  “At last?” Selina echoed, her eyes flying back to his face. “You intend to leave from here then?”

  “On Monday.” The Earl nodded, and his dark-blond hair seemed briefly lighter in the flickering glow of the chandelier overhead. “On the Nightingale."

  “Monday.” Selina quelled an irrational stab of disappointment. “I fancy your family will be delighted to see you.”

  “My parents are deceased,” his lordship said, “but I am sure my sister will be thrilled to see me.”

  Had an undertone of sarcasm crept back into his voice? Selina hoped not, for she liked this new, ingenuous Earl far better than the world-weary aristocrat she had met at the door. “Is your sister older or younger than you?” she asked, before his mood could change altogether.

  “Harriet is four years younger—eight and twenty— but one would think she is my senior. Not in appearance, but she became Lady Preston shordy before my departure, and Viscount Preston is excruciatingly prim.” Lord Worsham drew himself up and thrust out his chin in a most forbidding manner, and Selina could not repress a giggle. “Though I shouldn’t poke fun at Simon: he’s an excellent chap at heart, and he’s provided very handsomely for Harriet. They have a lovely townhouse in Brook Street, not far from Grosvenor Square . .He stopped, and his lavender eyes grew distant again. “But I shall see it soon enough, shall I not?”

  “Soon enough,” Selina concurred. “Indeed, perhaps you might consider staying on in Richmond a day or two. We do have entertainments; I could take you to die Haymarket Gardens . .."

  She could not imagine what had impelled her to issue such a bold invitation, and she looked hastily back at his boots. Lord Worsham gendy lifted her chin, and his eyes roamed, with frank appraisal, over her face.

  “I find you very handsome, Miss Hewson,” he said at last.

  Selina felt her cheeks positively flame; since his lord- ship was wearing no gloves, she marveled that his fingers had not been blistered. Maybe they were blistering, she amended: the Earl rather hastily dropped her chin and took her hand once more.

  “However," he continued, “I really must advise you that your and Mr. Hewson’s matchmaking is to no avail. I have been engaged for some years to Isabella Bradley—a Wiltshire neighbor of mine—and she and I shall be wed as quickly as possible after my return to England.”

  “Allow me to tender my congratulations," Selina choked. It was the most mortifying moment of her entire life, and as she groped for some means by which

  to salvage a tiny shred of pride, her eyes fell on Matthew, who was gamely guiding Miss Sevier about the floor. “As it happens, neither Papa nor I had the slightest view toward matchmaking, for I am engaged as well. To Sir Matthew Platt, who is the grandson of the Marquis of Shackleford.”

  “Indeed?”

  The Earl’s eyes followed Selina’s, and Matthew, evidently perceiving their scrutiny, gave them a friendly nod. Selina was pleased that he had chosen to stand up with Miss Sevier, who—though young—was fully two stone overweight and had a perfectly wretched complexion.

  “Please accept my best wishes, Miss Hewson,” his lordship added. “I hope I shall have an opportunity to congratulate Sir Matthew as well.”

  “Oh, no, you mustn’t!” Selina blurted out. “That is to say, our
engagement is a—a secret, and I must ask you not to mention it to anyone.”

  “Your engagement is a secret from Sir Matthew?” Lord Worsham’s hay-colored brows knitted in puzzlement.

  “No, no, of course it isn’t, but he instructed me to tell no one, and I fancy he would be most overset if he knew I had told you . . .”

  Selina’s voice trailed off, and to her intense relief, the music simultaneously ended. There was a suspicious quiver at the corners of his lordship’s mouth, and Selina feared she had made a dreadful cake of herself: the Earl no doubt counted her a cockleheaded adolescent, manufacturing partis from the very air. But, if so, he nevertheless escorted her from the floor with grave English courtesy and, at the perimeter, swept her another deep bow.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, Miss Hewson, I should like to offer my sincere felicitations. I trust you and Sir Matthew will be very happy.”

  “And you,” Selina mumbled. “You and Miss—Miss—” “Miss Bradley,” his lordship supplied. “If we do not speak again, I want you to know that your assembly has been the pinnacle of my visit to the United States. And

  now, if you will pardon me, I realize that I have not yet sampled Mr. Hewson’s indubitably excellent champagne.” He bowed once more and melted into the crowd, and to Selina’s further relief, they did not talk again. It did occur to her—after all the guests had gone and she had collapsed into her narrow bed—that she had not wished Lord Worsham a safe journey home. But, on second thought, she decided it didn't signify; the handsome, arrogant Earl had no doubt already forgotten her name.

  Chapter 3

  It took Selina the better part of four days to set the house aright. Toward the end of the ball, she had summoned sufficient courage to advise Mrs. Renard of her duties, and, as Selina had feared, the housekeeper reacted with exceedingly poor grace indeed. But Selina did not fathom the depth of Mrs. Renard’s displeasure till Sunday noon, when she ventured wearily down the stairs and discovered that the housekeeper’s notion of “cleaning up” had been to pile the soiled glasses, plates and napkins on the dining-room table. Selina bore everything to the scullery but irritably elected to add the actual washing to Mrs. Renard’s normal Monday tasks.

  However, the housekeeper failed to appear on Monday, as a result of which Papa was late to the Academy and Selina, extremely irritated by now, was compelled to wash the china and linens herself. Mrs. Renard did come on Tuesday, claiming to have been “ill” the day before, but when she saw the magnitude of the work remaining to be done, she suffered an immediate relapse: she collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and did not stir for twelve full hours.

  Consequently, Selina was forced to tidy up the drawing room as well, and as she did so, memories of Lord Worsham crept insidiously into her mind. He had stood just here in the reception line, she thought, sweeping the shards of a broken wineglass off the floor. And they had waltzed here, in the very middle of the room; perhaps the Earl’s dilapidated boots had left these marks upon the wood. After their dance, he had left her here;

  Selina bent and retrieved a napkin which had drifted under the walnut settee. It wasn't his lordship’s napkin, of course: he had had nothing to eat or drink at that juncture, and it didn’t smell like him. Didn’t smell dean and woodsy, like a stand of Virginia pines ...

  Selina stuffed the napkin into the ragged pillowcase she was bearing about for just this purpose and chided herself for behaving like a cockleheaded adolescent indeed. Lord Worsham might have beautiful eyes and a winsome, mischievous smile, but she didn’t care for his superior attitude at all. Furthermore, he was engaged to another woman and was shortly to return to England. Had returned, she amended, or at least departed: his ship had sailed yesterday. She would do far better to concentrate on Matthew, for she had an inkling that he was at the point of pressing his suit and would soon demand (insofar as Matthew was capable of demanding) a decision.

  Selina’s notion was confirmed the following day when Matthew accompanied a trio of his slaves to Fifth Street and lounged in the drawing room while they restored the house to its original state. Fortunately, Selina was not required to generate much in the way of conversation, for Matthew was able to discourse almost endlessly on any topic, however trivial. He devoted a full hour to a recounting of the ball, describing every guest, every musical selection, every morsel of food, as though Selina herself had not been present.

  “It was an excellent assembly,” he concluded. “But then I have often observed, my dear, that you are a splendid hostess."

  It was Matthew’s way to slip in the occasional significant remark when Selina least expected it, and she hastily changed the subject to that of Platt’s Academy. As she had hoped, this inspired Matthew to a lengthy soliloquy on the school's curriculum, faculty and students, by the end of which Selina was hard put to keep her eyes open.

  “Well, the work appears to be finished,” he said at

  last.

  His own blue eyes darted critically about, and Selina

  noticed that they seemed much paler than she recollected. Though perhaps that was merely in contrast to Lord Worsham’s eyes, those enormous, lavender eyes . . .

  “The house is rather small, isn’t it?” Matthew sighed. “If you and John should cease to be comfortable, I wish to assure you that there is ample space available in my own home. I trust you will advise me if you should like to undertake such a move. In the meantime, please mention to John that I entertain some doubts about his approach to Tudor history; perhaps we can discuss the matter later in the week.”

  Sir Matthew bowed and ushered his slaves outside, and Selina sank into one of the dining-room chairs. Though his parting comments might have sounded quite innocuous to the untutored ear, Selina could readily read between the lines: if she elected to wed Matthew, Papa would have a permanent home under her husband’s roof; if not, Black Jack Hewson would speedily find himself without employment. Matthew had, in short, delivered his subtle version of an ultimatum, and Selina had no longer than “later in the week” to respond.

  She debated her dilemma through the remainder of the afternoon but glimpsed no miraculous avenue of escape, and she began to ponder how best to explain her sudden engagement to Papa. She eventually decided it would be unkind, unfair—above all, useless—to assign the blame to him; he had, in fact, provided for her as best he could. No, she would simply tell Papa she had changed her mind (the ancient prerogative of womankind), and as half past six approached, she turned her attention to the precise words she would employ.

  “Selina!”

  Papa raced across the dining room and fairly collapsed in his chair, upsetting his glass of claret, which deposited a purplish pool on the lace tablecloth. Selina was sure the stain would never come out, but it didn’t signify; Matthew probably owned dozens of tablecloths. Possibly hundreds, she amended; she was desperately attempting to cultivate a positive attitude.

  “Selina." Papa wheezed again. “I have just heard the most terrible news.”

  Selina’s preoccupation was such that she fancied Papa had somehow got wind of her decision and was suffering an attack of remorse for her noble sacrifice. “There is nothing ‘terrible’ about it, Papa,” she said soothingly. “I have, quite independently, altered my opinion—’

  “The Nightingale,” Papa panted. He jerked off his neckcloth and tossed it on the floor. “The Nightingale has sunkl”

  Selina did not intitially recognize the name; indeed, it was only from the context that she inferred the Nightingale was a ship. However, as she started to shake her head, she recalled-a snatch of Lord Worsham’s conversation and bolted upright in her chair.

  “The Nightingale?” she gasped. “But that was Lord Worsham’s ship.”

  “Yes, I fear so,” Papa confirmed heavily.

  “And he?” Selina’s mouth had gone quite dry, and she took a deep swallow of her own claret. “Lord— Lord . . .” But her lips were still too parched to finish.

  “Drowned.” Papa dolefully sh
ook his bald head. “All of them. Drowned. I need a bit of fortification.” He glanced around-the table, seized Selina’s wineglass and drained it.

  “But how can you be certain?” Selina demanded. “Lord Worsham might have escaped.”

  “No one escaped.” Papa shook his head again, snatched the decanter from the middle of the table and refilled his stolen glass. “That is the most tragic aspect of the accident: it occurred literally within sight of shore. The Nightingale had stopped to take on cargo at Norfolk, and she had scarcely weighed anchor when a fearsome storm descended. She broke up less than half a mile out. There were several attempts to launch a rescue party, but all to no avail: there was a furious wind blowing from the east." Papa gulped down his second glass of wine and poured a third. “When the first rescue boats did reach the scene, hours later, there was no sign of survivors.”

  “I see,” Selina murmured, but she did not see. She could not imagine those lavender eyes forever closed, that tall, lean body eternally lying at the bottom of the cold Atlantic. “He will never go back to Brook Street,” she added distantly.

  “Brook Street?” Papa echoed. “In London? Lord Worsham stated to me that he was from Wiltshire.” “He was." Selina nodded, her head peculiarly leaden on her neck. “But his brother-in-law and sister—Viscount and Lady Preston—have a townhouse in Brook Street, and I collected that Lord Worsham would return to the city first.”