The Counterfeit Lady_A Regency Romance
Page 4
Concentrate, Perry. If she must defend herself and pierce those firm muscles, there would be ribs there blocking her dagger. Her sister-in-law Paulette had shared the knife lessons she’d learned. That chest wasn’t a good target.
His strong corded neck would be the place for a blade.
The thought sent the brandy sloshing. She set the glass down. She could never do it. And besides, he could take the dagger away and push it into her if he wished.
Warmth tugged at her insides. If he wished he could push something other than a dagger in her. She would resist, of course, as best she could.
Probably. At least for a while.
His hands went to his hips bringing her gaze along, sending her pulse into a brisk tattoo. He was aroused and not at all trying to hide it. Her thoughts tangled and twisted, the heat melting her insides from the top of her head to her very toes.
“Perry,” he said softly, eyes dark, glittering. He saw her desire but how could he? She’d not moved. She’d not revealed anything. She felt as stupid as one of Charley’s society marks.
No, stupid was not the right word here. She felt addled yet focused, numb yet alive, weak-kneed yet strangely powerful. She pushed back at the desire, trying to remember why she’d come here.
“Perry. Why are you here in your nightgown? You should be in bed.”
He’d packed his questions with a sentiment more like brotherly frustration than a lover’s teasing, helping to tame her wild heat.
“To talk.” She flung a hand out. It landed on the sketchpad.
His gaze shot to the pad. He took a step closer. She flapped the cover open.
And lost her breath completely. The woman looking up from the page sparkled and smiled in a way she knew she never did in real life. She looked…beautiful. The face beamed a joy she’d rarely experienced in ten years. Only her horses, her nephew, and her new sisters could bring out this smile.
She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Fox since her mother’s death, all of them last winter. When had he seen her smile like this?
Blood clanged in her ears bringing warmth to her cheeks. And why, of all subjects, had he drawn her? That could not be her father’s commission, could it?
She flipped another page and there she was in the distinctive gown and headpiece she’d worn to Bakeley’s wedding ball. Another page, and she was inclining her head in a country dance.
She felt suddenly foolish, naked here in her nightclothes with her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Tame Fox? She was an idiot.
She jumped to her feet. “Never mind. Talking to you is like talking to Father or Bakeley or Charley. Keep your secrets and lies.”
Fox saw the moment she realized the drawings were of her. Another woman might be flattered, might decide to climb into his bed and relieve this throbbing reaction.
Perry would never be that easy. As a girl, she’d always become churlish and defensive. There was more to her reaction now, though, a shakiness within her. The drawings had frightened her. The rod in his trousers had frightened her. Her desire—so palpable in this small room—that had frightened her the most.
“And this…” She clutched the pad close to her chest. “I’m keeping this.”
That he couldn’t allow. He reached for the pad, and his hand landed on her forearm, jolting him more. He peeled back her sleeve and saw the dagger, its grip cheap and worn in a tattered sheath.
In the quiet, the only noise was her shallow quick breathing and the pounding of his heart.
Shame washed through him. Damn Shaldon. Damn the villain he was pursuing for Shaldon, Gregory Carvelle. Damn Bonaparte and the Georges and all the others who drove the world into madness. He should not be here, in this house, with the girl he’d shamefully lusted after, the girl he’d frightened so much she’d come to him armed.
Her tension flooded into him. He held on to her for long moments until he could finally speak calmly.
“I won’t hurt you, Lady Perpetua, but this is wild country and it’s good that you’re armed. I have a better blade in my trunk. I’ll dig it out and give it to you tomorrow. Did you bring pistols also?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to use them? No, wait, of course you do. Just please don’t use them on me. I won’t hurt you. I’m here with your father’s permission, doing some sketching and painting.” He dropped her arm and took a step back. “When you need a footman or groom, I can fill that role. Otherwise, I’ll stay out of your way.”
She brushed past him, leaving her scent, a floral mixed with a fear that shamed him. When the door clicked shut, he gripped the glass, tossed back the liquor, and stalked the few feet to the easel, throwing back the drape of the canvas.
Upon his arrival, he’d started the painting in a frenzy of work. It was incomplete, yet no one could mistake the model. She stood tall and defiant, her hair cascading over strong shoulders and delicate breasts, her nude body draped with the sheerest of veils.
This would have frightened her more. The shape of her breasts and her hips, he’d imagined, watching her move through the crowd at her brother’s ball, watching her dance. Women’s dresses now were not as blissfully revealing as they’d been a decade ago, but he’d seen enough women to guess at her nude shape.
He should destroy this. On the other hand, if she saw it, if he could cajole her past her fear…
Posing for an artist unleashed some women’s inhibitions. But he wouldn’t use Perry that way.
A movement outside caught his eye. He extinguished the lamp and stood to the side of the window, straining to see. A shadow moved through the fog below.
A figure steered his horse silently, slowly, stealthily up the drive. Any clomps of the horse were swallowed by the relentless beating of the surf on the rocks below.
Fox pulled on his coats, sheathed his knife, and quickly loaded a pistol, his thoughts going to Perry. In all good conscience, he had to convince the girl to leave. She couldn’t stay here.
Chapter 6
Perry turned up the lamp she’d left burning as a night light and carried it to the table.
She traced a finger over the first picture. The neckline of the gown was the same as the one she’d worn the day he’d brought her the designs she’d commissioned for the ballroom floor. Had she smiled like that? Not for him.
The second and third were from her brother’s wedding ball, where Fox had danced with her, a waltz, holding her breathlessly close the entire time.
She turned the page. It was another sketch of her, on a street, her maid at her side, as if he’d spotted her through a window.
She stared into the lamp’s flame. After she’d seen his painting in the shop window and discovered his direction, she’d escaped from her carriage one day, and hurried off to his street, looking for his lodging. The landlady had said he wasn’t at home. Perry had scribbled a note and handed it over with a few coins to the happy woman, who had no doubt already extracted another coin from Fox for his lie.
The dressing room door squeaked.
“What’s that, miss?” Jenny leaned over her shoulder. “Why that’s you and Gladys!”
“Yes.”
“It’s Mr. Fox’s work?” Her eyes were saucers.
“Yes. Did I wake you?”
Jenny bit her lip. “I heard you go up the stairs.”
She flipped through more pages. They were all sketches of her. Some from several months ago, some of her as a young girl at Cransdall.
“And he gave you that?” Jenny’s voice held awe. “They are very like.”
“I took it. I don’t think he wanted me to see it.”
Jenny clasped her hands together. “He’s sweet on you, miss.”
Jenny’s eyes held a look far too dreamy and romantic. “There is nothing sweet about Fox.”
The girl pressed her lips together on a smile. “He’s handsome, miss. And a good enough cook. But you would know best.”
A door opened somewhere below.
They went to opposite windows.
“Over here, miss,” Jenny hissed.
Perry turned down the lamp and hurried over. The stable door that she had latched so securely stood open.
Alarm bells rang in her head. Chestnut and the other horses might be in danger.
“Mr. Fox went down, do you think?” Jenny asked.
“Or he might be in the kitchen ready to spring out. I should join him.”
Two men exited the stables, a tall one and a very tall one.
Her nerves jangled. There was no mistaking Fox. “Fox has a visitor.”
Jenny drew in a sharp breath.
“What?” Perry whispered.
“That’s Fergus MacEwen.”
“Who?” She shook her head. “How could you possibly recognize the man from this distance?”
“You recognized Mr. Fox, miss, clear as a bell. On account of him being so tall. And Fergus—I mean, MacEwen—well, look at him. No one else walks with that swagger, as if he’s God’s gift.”
She pressed her nose to the window. The second man did look familiar. Fergus MacEwen. “One of Kincaid’s men.”
“Yes. He and his cousin Boyd work for Mr. Kincaid. He brought them back from Scotland with Mr. and Mrs. Gibson after their wedding. Fergus has been gone from town for the last few months.”
Kincaid’s man. Who would also be her father’s man, a rough and ready man, somewhere between a soldier and a spy.
Her head pounded. Fox and his guest were heading for the kitchen entrance.
“I’m sorry, miss. Looks as though we’ve been discovered by your father.”
Found with Fox in a house with naught but a maid to shield her reputation. She would, if word got out, be ruined enough that Father would rush her and her substantial dowry into a marriage of his choosing.
Except, Father had sent one of his spies. It wasn’t her brothers raging through the door.
Of course, not a one of them would force her to marry the man she was caught with: Fox.
A thought niggled at the back of her mind. Her father had, somehow, manipulated all of her brothers into the marriages he wanted. He’d been most forthright with Bink Gibson, her eldest brother. But then, Bink, being a by-blow, was the one least under the forceful thumb of the Earl of Shaldon. Father had been devious with Bakeley, and manipulative with Charley.
Last month, he’d begun dropping the names of men he’d welcome into the family as her husband, and Fox’s wasn’t one of them.
Which, with Father, proved nothing. If she was contrary, like Bakeley, she might work directly into his plans. If he’d maneuvered her into visiting this house, as he’d set Charley on the mission that’d led him to his bride, she’d suspect Father wanted her to marry Fox. But he hadn’t.
Except…it had been easier than she’d expected to find the papers naming the property that would come to her when she married. As well, he’d joined in on a discussion of the names of Yorkshire families with Sirena’s dear friend, Lady Jane Monthorpe, and Charley’s wife Gracie. And Father knew she planned to travel north with Charley and his new bride to their estate not much more than a long day’s journey from here. And Fox claimed he was here by Father’s instruction.
Could Shaldon want her to marry Fox?
Pure heat rippled through her again, and then she remembered Bakeley’s hard stare when Fox had led her onto the dance floor the night of the ball. Fox was not good ton. Heavens, Fox had no place in London society—he was an American. And a mere painter of portraits and landscapes. As bad to some as a tradesman.
She, on the other hand, was the Earl of Shaldon’s only daughter. No matter her age, her extravagant dowry would allow her to entice a peer to the altar—if she would but forfeit all prospects for happiness.
No. Father had sent this Fergus MacEwen to ferry her back to whatever lord he had in mind for her. And she was not going.
“He’ll want a hot meal. They’ll be in the kitchen.”
Jenny pulled the ugly black shawl around herself. “Will we need the pistols, miss?”
A laugh bubbled up. She pictured Fergus MacEwen trying to carry her off into the dark night.
It wouldn’t come to that. She would refuse to return, and if they tried to force her, well, she had a set of men’s clothing packed in her bag and a very good horse. Just let them try to catch her.
“We’ll forgo the pistols tonight. What do you know about this Fergus MacEwen, Jenny?”
“He’s handsome as a devil and knows it, miss. Cocksure and full of himself.”
Something in the girl’s tone made her stop on the stairs. “A flirt?”
“Oh, yes, miss.”
Fox stirred the embers of the fire and started a kettle. “There’s a stew in that pot over there.”
MacEwen lifted the lid, sniffed, and grunted. “’Twill do. Have you not got something stronger than tea?”
“Some rotgut brandy from the local smuggling ring. I’ll have to fetch it from upstairs.”
“Never mind.” MacEwen pulled a bottle from one of his many pockets, took down two cups and poured. “Who made the stew, then?”
“I did.”
“Good. I’d not trust one made by someone from this shire. His lordship sends his steward all the way from Cransdall to look over this wee house. Kincaid comes himself sometimes. Boyd and I have been here at times, checking for squatters.”
They’d found loads of smuggled goods piled in the stables: casks of brandy, reams of silk cloth, and lace straight from Holland. Fox had heard the stories already when he’d first met Boyd and Fergus in Rotterdam.
MacEwen grinned at him, reading his mind, probably. Tough and strong, he’d be a good man in a fight. Shaldon trusted him, and Kincaid. He, on the other hand, was not well-acquainted, nor did he know why MacEwen was here.
Unless he’d come after Perry.
His protective instincts kicked in. Whether she realized it or not, the girl’s lust for him had matched his own for her, which was probably why she hated him.
He watched MacEwen stirring the stew, belting back shots of whisky. Handsome, tough and tall, he was a bit taller than Perry. She would like that.
Blast it. Perry was having a moment of freedom. If anyone took her back to her father, it would be him, not some Scottish spy.
“I’ve information for you,” MacEwen said, “Gregory Carvelle was spotted in Rotterdam two weeks ago, waiting for a boat.”
“Two weeks ago? No boats other than fishermen arriving since then. The weather’s been bad or the coastal patrol has been lingering. No words of any cargo arriving either. What news from Scarborough?”
“None. The coastal boys have been making their presence known there.”
So, no news, more waiting. “I’ll work on my report tonight.” He needed to do the blasted encryption. “You can take it back to London with you in the morning.”
Without Perry. The girl would have a few more days of freedom.
But that left him alone to defend her, and this might be a very dangerous place very soon.
MacEwen raised one eyebrow. “I’ve not been in London these past months. My orders are to stay here with you, play the servant. Our man doesn’t know you or me. When he shows up here, I’ll take a message. We’ll have some others along as soon as Fat George gets his crown.”
It was Fox’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Such disrespect for your king.”
The other man snorted. “We Scots warmed up his majesty’s troops at Culloden. Got them good and comfortable and overconfident so you Americans could win your revolution a few years later.”
“We are allies then?”
“Aye and both of us working for Fat—” MacEwen’s gaze flew to the door and he shot to his feet. “What the—”
Fox took the kettle off the fire. “We have guests, MacEwen.”
“My lady.” MacEwen bowed, his face unreadable. Then Jenny
walked in and his mouth went slack.
Holy hell, the man was about to drool over the maid. Fox swiped a hand on his face, squashing a smile. It just lacked this, it did.
“Jenny,” Fox said, “Fetch two cups and the tea and whatever biscuits you brought.”
Chapter 7
Perry saw the shift in Jenny and tried to fathom what about the girl revealed her attraction to Fergus MacEwen. Though she didn’t smile, Jenny’s face softened and brightened, her eyes went to MacEwen, then flitted away, then back again. Was that how she herself looked around Fox?
The heated looks were not all one way either. There would be mischief between these two.
She hadn’t thought Jenny capable of more than lock-picking, perhaps some pocket picking, and some complicity in sneaking around. She’d never had a maid who showed interest in men, not in Perry’s presence, anyway.
She glanced at Fox. He was fighting to hide a most irritating smirk.
Mischief, and that on top of the disturbing comments made by MacEwen. When he shows up here, I’ll take a message. Drat that they’d not arrived sooner to hear who was supposed to arrive.
If he’d even mentioned it. Perhaps he was like Father, never giving anything away. Since Father’s return a few years ago, she’d been observing his habits and techniques. Father never revealed anything he didn’t have to, and he always pretended to know less than he did.
She lifted her chin. “What is your name, man?”
MacEwen was all polite deference introducing himself, but she’d heard his remark about the King. Never mind that she agreed with him, at least about George being a ridiculous figure, staging a ridiculously extravagant spectacle when some of his people were lacking in regular food. The undercurrent here of two rebels cooking up mischief under her roof made her uncomfortable.
“I’ve seen you with Mr. Kincaid.”
“Aye, miss.”
“You serve my brother, Mr. Gibson?”
“When your father or Mr. Kincaid tells me to do so. My cousin and I are distant kin of Kincaid and Mrs. Gibson.”
She abstained from rolling her eyes. Weren’t all the Scots distant kin of each other?