The Counterfeit Lady_A Regency Romance

by Alina K. Field

  Fox tugged her up the stairs to the door of her bedchamber and turned her to face him. Dark smudges hollowed his eyes.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “You didn’t sleep at all after Lady Jane’s arrival.” He was dead on his feet and she’d only just now noticed.

  Selfish, spoiled aristocrat.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will.” She opened the bedroom door and pulled him in.

  “Your father—”

  “Won’t find us in this comfortable bed together. Much as I’d like that. I’m going to help Jenny and Jane in the kitchen.”

  “Perry.”

  She dropped a kiss on his chin. “We can’t talk sensibly when you’re exhausted and going into battle. Take my bed and sleep.”

  She hurried out and leaned back against the closed door, trying to still her hammering heart, blinking back tears.

  Boots clacked on the stairs and she hurried down, greeting her father and Kincaid as she passed.

  “Are they all right, do you think?” Jenny asked. The girl glanced at the case clock for the hundredth time, sending Perry’s nerves skittering. It was well after midnight in the short summer darkness, but not one of them would sleep.

  “Do pay attention to the game,” Perry said, trying to keep the crossness from her voice. She was as much on edge as Jenny. She dealt another card in their game of hearts.

  “Do be patient, girls,” Lady Jane echoed, pulling a needle through the fabric of Perry’s trousers as peacefully as if she were embroidering a chair cushion in the morning room at Shaldon House. The window rattled and Lady Jane jerked her head up frowning.

  So perhaps her calm was a deception. She certainly had seemed a bit restive when she’d yanked the mending from Jenny’s hands and ordered both of them to play cards. And the expression on Lady Jane’s face when she’d seen his lordship in his black jumper and trousers had inspired a great deal of speculation and questions that Perry had put aside until now―now when the time wore at her nerves like the waves wearing away the cliffs.

  Like, for example, why had Jane followed Father here? Father could have ordered Charley and Graciela here, or Bink and Paulette.

  “It is kind of you to stitch my trousers, Lady Jane,” Perry said.

  “Well, I ply a good needle, if I do say so,” Lady Jane said, “I can repair anything from fine lawn to stiff leather.”

  “But I must say, Jenny is far better at hearts than you,” Perry teased.

  “Then it is a fair exchange. Jenny, if you are to be a sought-after lady’s maid, you are going to have some sewing lessons with my maid.”

  “Your former maid,” Perry said. Lady Jane’s maid, Barton, had left to go into trade with a French modiste, Madame La Fanelle. “And if you engage Barton to train Jenny, Barton will want an investment to start a school for ladies’ maids.”

  Jane laughed. “To be sure. She has an excellent mind for business. I shall be seeking employment from her someday.”

  The wistfulness in her voice caught Perry up again. Lady Jane had very little income. She was living on charity and she hated it.

  Perry had not fully realized that until now.

  A soft rumbling snore came from the sofa, and Jenny giggled. “My brother used to snore like that when we could find a bed to sleep in.”

  Perry looked over to where Pip lay, the huge black shawl cocooning him, and she thought about their interview earlier. Pip had recognized Sir Richard and kept silent.

  Like her brothers had kept silent about Father’s business, or what they’d known of his business. It was an art she must learn if she wanted Father’s trust.

  She sighed. Father’s trust was hard-earned. Likely he’d obliged Davy to leave Pip with them, because he didn’t trust Davy entirely. For his part, Davy had seen that Pip, who was inclined to run about on his own, would be safer with them.

  Pip had settled in well, eating his way through two plates of a very acceptable dinner Jenny had prepared herself from provisions brought in by the new arrivals. She’d hinted that MacEwen had been teaching her more skills in the kitchen.

  Perry smiled. And perhaps on the kitchen cot, as well. Jenny seemed happy. She’d brought up their tea and they’d compelled her to join them. They’d built a fire in this parlor against the evening chill, and Jenny had listened closely as Perry read Pip to sleep from a book of fairy tales she’d found in the study.

  Jenny pressed her hand against a yawn.

  “None of that.” Perry tapped the table. “Wake up now. It’s your draw.”

  She would not sleep until the men returned.

  Chapter 29

  The south had been Shaldon’s destination all along, that questioning of Perry only a test. The man was a pain in the arse.

  Fox crept up next to the Earl. Before they’d left for the cove, he’d pulled the man aside and asked him to stay behind.

  Carvelle’s traitorous cousin, Lady Kingsley, had been arrested some weeks ago, before she could escape on the yacht of the Duque de San Sebastian. And Sir Richard bore Shaldon a grudge. The assassins might well be targeting Shaldon and not King George.

  The stubborn man wouldn’t listen.

  The stars backlit a soft mist that had settled over the beach, high enough that they could still see the vessel coasting along on the water, turning toward shore, and low enough for the damp to settle into a man’s pores and drip down his nose.

  They’d stationed a lookout, and spread out in pairs, he and Shaldon, Farnsworth and Kincaid, along with four dragoons brought up from Norfolk.

  Another group of dragoons had gone north with the MacEwens. Whether they could trust these outsiders was anyone’s guess, but Scruggs’s guest at the inn, the local Riding Officer, had not been included in any of the plans.

  The soldiers had orders to arrest only one man, should they encounter him. Shaldon wanted Carvelle alive.

  They’d not issued orders about Sir Richard. Shaldon was keeping those suspicions close to the vest.

  Carvelle was somehow tied to the Spaniard and that damn painting. The Spaniard’s lust for the return of his family’s artwork made no sense to Fox, but then, none of the power-lust stirred among men by Napoleon did either.

  Shaldon’s need for revenge? That he understood, and he’d help him take it.

  Soreness seared his chest where Carvelle’s man had, a month ago, sliced him.

  Hell, it was his revenge, also. He signaled the Earl an all ready.

  As they watched, a boat lowered, three men aboard. He slid his glass from his pocket, looked through it, and handed it to Shaldon. They watched the oars churn, silent against the louder noise of the surf, and waited. The clear path to the beach was before them, but so far, a greeting committee hadn’t arrived.

  Whilst a second boat with more figures in it launched from the ship out at sea, one man fought the surf to climb out of the first one, waves lashing at his boots. Carvelle.

  With only himself and MacEwen to keep a watch on the inn, the man had slipped away back to his ship.

  He’d been distracted by Perry, and, oh hell, if she was correct, her father had known that would happen, just as he probably knew of the Scot’s interest in the little maid. Which meant, he’d been willing to risk Carvelle’s escape.

  Did that mean that, all along, Carvelle had not been the real target? And would this bastard of a spy lord have let them know so Fox could have done more to keep his daughter out of danger?

  Hell, he might have seduced her the very first night and kept her close to home, and didn’t that notion send heat through him? The only thing keeping his prick limp was this miserable dampness.

  A rock fell behind him.

  That wasn’t right. The others were arrayed elsewhere.

  Before he could turn, a voice came out of the dimness. “So, you chose the path I set for you.”

  Rougher, deeper, surer, the voice was, but he knew the speaker. Fox turned slowly. Two men stood there, one big man and a smaller
shadow.

  “Good evening to you,” Lord Shaldon said, sounding bored. His hands brushed, pulling a knife. A practiced move, unseen from the two men’s point of view.

  Fox slid a blade from his own sleeve and got to his feet, the steel at his side.

  “Ah, Goodfellow. Put the blade away. My man here has a very fine pistol he took off your manservant. Was it only last night? Whatever happened to that fellow? You didn’t mention he’d gone missing.” He chuckled. “Harv’s not a crack shot, but this close he’s bound to hit something.”

  “Harv has a gun?” Fox said. “Is that so? I can’t see it.”

  Harv’s hand came up. “Loaded and primed.” He pointed it at Fox’s chest. “Want proof?”

  This was the weasel who’d punched Perry. A bigger man would have broken a rib or shredded her kidney. Harv would die tonight.

  Steel flashed and Fox dropped. Powder exploded above him and his own blade clattered.

  He lunged at Harv. A knife had stuck in the man’s shoulder and the pistol was gone. Fox grabbed the man’s flopping arm, just as Harv yanked the Earl’s knife from his shoulder and slashed with it. He ducked, spotting Shaldon atop Sir Richard, rolling over and over down the rocky hillside. Behind them, men shouted, and more shots rang out, powder swirling in the air.

  Fox ducked again, pulled Harv off balance and laid a punch on his wound. Harv howled and lunged drunkenly. Fox took the opening to lock the wrist of Harv’s knife hand, and the man charged again, teeth flashing in a stench of onion.

  Perry had smelled this.

  He dodged a bite from those putrid teeth and whipped Harv around by the wrist. Bone cracked. The knife went in clean to Harv’s back with a pop.

  Like a damn Christmas pudding being poked.

  Fox slid Harv to the ground. Shaldon was gone, as was Sir Richard. The fighting on the other side of the path had settled. The second skiff had turned back, the first one drifted out empty. Bodies littered the rocks, some of them starting to pick themselves up. He hurried down to the beach.

  Chapter 30

  A keening cry made Perry look up from the game of Patience spread before her and pull her shawl closer.

  It was only the wind, soughing through the fireplace where the wood had ceased its spitting, the fire having long died down. Outside, the waves still crashed ceaselessly.

  Jenny raised her head from the table where she’d fallen fast asleep. Lady Jane put aside the book she had been staring at for long minutes.

  And then she heard another sound—men’s voices, growing louder.

  Whoever they were, they were not being at all subtle. The tones were choppy, urgent. And soon enough they were right outside the oak paneled main door.

  She glanced at the pistol on the mantel. Speaking so loudly, these surely must be their men.

  “Wait.” Lady Jane ran right behind her to the door, pulling her back from the latch.

  On the other side, a key rattled into the slot. Perry yanked the door open.

  Alarm raced through her. Fox juggled a big body between himself and Farnsworth, the head drooping and swinging, the dark hair spraying droplets of dampness.

  “Put me down now, you bluidy sods.” That voice was Kincaid’s.

  “Save your breath,” Fox said. He moved a hand up to bolster his grip on Kincaid.

  Fox’s hands were crusted with blood. The wet coming from Kincaid’s head dripped red too.

  “Clear the sofa,” Perry called.

  “No,” Fox said. “He needs a bed. Let’s get him upstairs.”

  Perry caught a glimpse of other men, crowding in behind. “Have you sent for a surgeon?”

  “No bluidy surgeon,” Kincaid said.

  “Mac can sew him.” Farnsworth said. “Send him up, when he comes. You there,” he called to a man, “Help the maid fetch hot water and towels.”

  “I’ll get my sewing kit,” Lady Jane said. “Sewing up Kincaid can’t be any tougher than stitching a hide.”

  “We’ll put him in my bedchamber,” Perry said. “It’s the biggest.”

  “No,” Farnsworth said. “Take him to the chamber Shaldon was using.”

  Perry’s heart seized. Was using, Farnsworth had said.

  “Where is Shaldon?” Lady Jane whispered.

  “Missing,” Farnsworth hissed.

  “Taken,” Kincaid croaked. “He’s alive. I set men to follow them. We’ll find him.”

  “Aye,” Farnsworth said, “and let’s get you upstairs before you bleed all over the carpet.”

  Fox watched Perry fussing over Kincaid as he lay in the small bedchamber, his back propped on a pillow, his bandaged chest carefully draped by a clean sheet.

  The last hour had been a flurry of stripping, washing, and stitching the Scotsman. Fox’s own wounds, and those of the others, had been no more than scrapes and bruises.

  He’d not had a chance to tell her about Harv. Face frozen in a frown, she’d insisted on washing the big man’s wounds, demanded to thread the needle for Lady Jane, and not flinched a bit as the stitching began.

  His heart ached with pride in her, and relief that she’d stayed behind. He must find a way to get her father back.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, the dragoons drank coffee, waiting for orders and guarding the guest Fox had shoved into the pantry.

  The door opened and the MacEwens slid in with Davy, taking the last bit of breathing room. Fergus carried over a steaming cup. “A tisane.” He handed it to Kincaid who sniffed it suspiciously.

  “’Tis whisky and summat for the pain. Drink up.”

  Perry’s mouth firmed grimly. “Before you drink that and pass out, first tell us what happened, Kincaid.”

  “Let him sip at it. He’s hurting.” Fox reached for her hand.

  She let him take it, her face screwed up in a frown. “He’ll be woozy. He won’t remember details. And we need to get Father back.”

  Kincaid stared into the cup. “I’ll not drink it if it puts me to sleep.”

  “Wheesh, there’s not but the tiniest drop of laudanum,” Fergus said. “I made it myself.” He grabbed the cup, swallowed a sip, and wiped his mouth. “There.”

  Kincaid grunted and accepted the drink.

  “You’d best not be flat on your back after that.” Perry glared at Fergus. “My father has been taken, and I may need every one of you to help me.” She squeezed his hand. “To help us.”

  She thought she was going with them.

  Not in a blue moon. Not the way Sir Richard had drooled over her yesterday afternoon. “Here’s what happened, Perry: we did go south. Carvelle did disembark there, and another boat was headed in and turned back. We’d set a watch for the greeters on land, but they found us first.”

  He told her about the attack, but not his killing of Harv. Not yet.

  “We should’ve been with you,” the second MacEwen said.

  “Aye.” Kincaid wiped his mouth and handed the empty cup to Jane, seated on a chair next to the bed. “Couple of the dragoons set to watch ran off.”

  Fergus swore softly. “That lot downstairs—”

  “No,” Farnsworth studied the carpet. “They didn’t run off.”

  Perry went still.

  He shook his head at Farnsworth. More details to share with her later, privately. They’d found the two men with their throats nicely sliced.

  “Carvelle is dead also,” Farnsworth said. “Shot through the heart during the fighting.”

  Kincaid muttered an oath. “’Twas Sir Richard who wanted him dead then. Our men had orders to take him alive.”

  Perry’s thumb swept over the back of his hand. “Was he working with Sir Richard then? Was Carvelle bringing in the assassins for him? And why would Sir Richard wish to kill the King?”

  She glanced all around. She still believed the King was the target.

  And he himself no longer had any doubts.

  Kincaid cleared his throat. “I saw them carry the Earl off.”

  Perry’s breath came in small audible puf
fs. Her hand in his started to tremble. “Was he…was Sir Richard your informant?”

  Farnsworth glanced at Kincaid and then paced to the window. “Sir Richard must have wanted him alive.”

  “Alive,” Perry said. “But for how long?” Perry looked from Farnsworth to Kincaid, and then at Fox. “What is going on, Fox? What are they not telling me?”

  Farnsworth exchanged a look with Kincaid. The MacEwens slouched, looking bored.

  Fox didn’t know, and he’d warrant the cousins didn’t either. Lady Jane frowned at Farnsworth. Only Davy looked on with frank curiosity.

  “It’s a fair question,” Fox said. “One I’d like the answer to, also. If we’re to get Shaldon back, we’ll need to know what you know, Kincaid, Farnsworth.”

  “Who was Sir Richard to Father?” Perry shook loose his hand and stalked to the bed. “Tell me, Kincaid.”

  “Let him rest, Lady Perpetua,” Farnsworth said. “I’ll explain. Sir Richard came to us a few months ago offering information on Carvelle. Said he’d heard we were looking for him. Which we were. I know you knew that much.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Nodded. Took a deep breath. “He was your source. And why would you doubt him? He’s a justice of the peace.”

  “We considered that.” Farnsworth paced again. “A justice of the peace. A baronet. A country man with no debts and no known enemies. There didn’t seem a reason for him to lie. Quite the opposite. He’s privy to rumors about the free trade in these parts and might be inclined to enforce the law.”

  Farnsworth turned to Fox, his gaze boring into him. The skin around his fresh scar prickled.

  “And then,” Farnsworth said, “one of our agents following up on a lead that Sir Richard provided was almost killed.”

  Perry’s gaze followed Farnsworth’s and her eyes widened. “The fresh scar on your chest.”

  The muscles in his back tightened like a death grip. Fox shrugged, trying to loosen them. Shaldon and his games—there was always more than one. “And you sent me here to recover, right under the man’s nose.”

  “He never knew the identity of our man.”