The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife

by J. Jade Jordan

  The Viscount’s Counterfeit Wife

  By J. Jade Jordan

  Author name: J. Jade Jordan

  Date: 2014

  V1.0

  Cover artist: Rae Monet, Inc.

  Ebook formatting: Jesse Gordon

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without expressed written consent of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  J. Jade Jordan website

  www.jjadejordan.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Thanks Mom,

  for always believing in me...

  even if it has taken a lot longer

  than expected!! I love you.

  Chapter One

  Bone-chilling damp permeated his body. He hadn’t given this dreadful climate a thought when he decided to come home for good.

  Not too late to change his mind! Almost no one knew he was back.

  Even his solicitors, he decided with a grimace. They’d been advised to have the house prepared for his return. Yet he saw no signs of that having been done. True, he’d told them not to hire any servants, so he couldn’t complain that no one was in the house. But shouldn’t it at least look less deserted?

  To make matters worse, the blasted key didn’t fit. “They’ve changed the damned lock!” he muttered to himself.

  There had to be a mistake.

  He lifted the knocker, wanting to vent his ire by banging it loudly, then, he dropped it. What was the point? The place was obviously deserted. He’d only succeed in rousing the neighbors. Not that many of them would be about this early in the year. The Season proper didn’t begin until next month and there were few year-rounders living in this area.

  He pulled his collar higher. Thick fog almost obscured his townhouse and the quiet street looked desolate at two hours past midnight. This was not the homecoming he’d envisioned. A locked door and not a glimmer of light to welcome him home after six long years.

  Better that than to be greeted by the Duke’s dreadful daughter as a wife! Which was what would have happened if he’d remained in England and let his father have his way.

  Not that he regretted leaving. His years away had been fruitful in all aspects of his life and he was almost grateful to the Earl for unintentionally forcing him to go.

  Now, Reed Gordon Eames, Viscount Selwich was able to cope with adversity as well as any one. Often, better than most. He was far from being a cosseted noble. He hadn’t, in fact, used his title since he left England and wasn’t sure he wanted to wear it again now that he was back. He liked the neutrality of no noble trappings.

  Many were the nights he’d bedded down in a dried-up riverbed or on the desert floor, when finding a better place to sleep had been elusive… or unwise. But he’d not expected to meet such trials his first night back in London. He’d looked forward to the once-familiar comforts of his own home.

  He peered into the drawing room window, but couldn’t see anything. Annoyed, he strode back to fetch his bag.

  Where was he going to sleep tonight?

  His club was out. He dared not chance being seen by the wrong persons before he delivered the documents. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was lurking about, waiting to ambush him, just as he’d been doing for months on his circuitous journey home.

  He didn’t really think any body would be lying in wait tonight. His Marylebone townhouse was a well-kept secret, with only Jace, Max, and his brothers knowing about it. Still, it paid to remain alert and watchful. He… they... were too close to accomplishing their goal now to take chances.

  He’d be glad to end this mission. Right from the start, he’d been gripped by the human tragedy being enacted and had been grateful to have the chance to help put an end to it. He clenched his fists. White slavery. Such cruelty to women made his stomach turn.

  When his brothers’ two friends had come to Egypt on a mission as part of the “Chief’s Crew” — a group of select gentlemen who had been recruited by the Earl of Hallmoor, whom they good-naturedly called “Chief”, to investigate crimes by their fellow nobles — he’d been so outraged that someone of his own kind would commit such evil that he volunteered to join Jace and Max in bringing to justice the monster causing so much suffering. Little had he known it would take the three of them over eighteen months to complete their inquiry or that, by the end, they would add rampant, indiscriminate murder to their quarry’s list of crimes.

  Reed was going to enjoy bringing Traubridge down. The vulture’s ruthless preying on weaker individuals, unable to defend themselves, revolted him. Over the months of their investigation, the trio had conducted numerous covert recoveries of ill-fated, kidnapped young British women, who had been terrified at the horrific prospect of being auctioned off and never seen or heard from again. Not knowing how many ladies had already vanished into purdah, and seeing the innocent victims of countless murders perpetrated by that fiend, had carved a sharp edge into his artist’s soul. It would be good to live free of that and of the need for secrecy and courting danger at every corner.

  Looking around at the quiet London street, he heaved a sigh of relief. It might be cold and dank, but it was home. Their work was almost over. He felt lighter already!

  By now, Jace and Max would have received word that he was safe in his townhouse. He hadn’t wanted to send news of his delayed arrival sooner, for fear of it being intercepted by someone working for the wrong side.

  But it was too soon to allow his vigilance to slacken. Not only his life was on the line here. One wrong move and the man their morbid sense of humor had them dubbing “The Vanisher”, would make sure Reed and those connected to him were the next ones to vanish.

  That was why he hadn’t wanted any servants hired. No innocent people would be put in danger on his account.

  But the first item to resolve was where he was going to sleep tonight. He began moving to the front entrance, where he’d left his bag. The safest choice would be to find a small, anonymous inn outside of Town.

  Setting off again was the last thing he felt like doing but what choice did he have?

  Wait! The broken latch! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He shook his head. Maybe because he was older and wiser now!

  Still… it had been an exceedingly long day and it would solve the matter of where he slept tonight quite tidily and more to his satisfaction.

  Bounce back in hi
s step, Reed rounded the corner and headed for the rear of the house. He’d stash his bag under the thick shrubs next to the dustbin, where he trusted it would remain until morning. Weary as he was, once he reached his bedroom, he was not coming back down to fetch it tonight!

  Ah, there was refuse in the dustbin. So someone had been here cleaning the place up! Good! If he was lucky, his solicitors might have gotten someone to stock the larder too, so there would be something to eat. He wouldn’t have time to buy his breakfast in the morning before delivering the documents to the Chief. That had to be his first order of the day tomorrow. He was already much later arriving from Egypt than expected. Eluding his foes had cost him valuable time. Meeting with Jace, Max and the Chief came at the top of the list. He’d have plenty of time afterwards to rest up and feast on his favorite English dishes.

  Soon, he stood below his bedroom window at the back of the house. He wagered they hadn’t had the faulty latch repaired. He was counting on it.

  He shook the trellis, testing its strength.

  Seemed sturdy enough.

  Grabbing the vine with one hand, he tugged. Would it hold his weight?

  A bitterly cold blast of wind decided him against removing his great coat.

  Ah hell, he was so tired he’d almost forgotten the vellum documents sewn into its lining. They were too important to take chances. No one seemed to be dogging his footsteps tonight, but one could never be certain. He gave a careless shrug. The coat would protect him against the worst of the branches, and if it was ruined, he could well afford a new one.

  Reaching up, he grasped a wide stalk with both hands and pulled himself upward to find a foothold on a thick intersection between branches. Once started, he grabbed vine after vine, making his way steadily up the wall.

  Not bad. Not all of his youth had deserted him, though the depravity he’d witnessed during their investigation made him feel ancient.

  Damn! The trellis ended here! Now he’d have to rely solely on the ivy.

  It had been many years since he’d last resorted to this hazardous method of entering his house. Too many years, he decided, as he felt the sleeve of his coat rip under the arm. Yet, he was almost enjoying the challenge.

  If it weren’t so late, if he hadn’t just spent almost twelve continuous hours in the saddle, and if not for the weight of his coat dragging on him, he’d have found this exhilarating. He shouldn’t have changed into his own clothes once he’d arrived in London. The cleric’s disguise he’d worn to ride to London would have been lighter and he wouldn’t have minded ruining it, with its uncomfortable collar and tight jacket. He hoped never to have to wear it again.

  Lord, the teasing he’d be subjected to, if any of the Spares learned of this latest escapade. He’d never hear the end of it!

  He tested the vine above him. Safe enough. He hoped! He climbed higher, the leaves rustling and shredding as he scrabbled his way through the small forest of snarled stalks.

  Reed chuckled under his breath as he imagined the gardener’s puzzled, yet irate reaction to such ill treatment of the vines.

  Suddenly, one of the vines loosened. Hell! Not now!

  He stilled for seconds to let the vine settle. But when it began to give way completely, he grabbed for its neighbor. He had to hang on. He was almost there.

  He looked up at the window he was aiming for and noticed it was slightly ajar. Excellent! They must be airing out his room. At least he wouldn’t have to struggle to push the window in while hanging so precariously.

  The closer he came to his goal, the thinner the branches became. Alarmingly so. He felt another one pull away from the wall and he halted abruptly. He swayed there for a moment or two, sending a heartfelt, if rusty, prayer flying upwards.

  He was determined to sleep in his own bed tonight! He willed the damned vine to hold until he reached the window. He only needed a few more inches… His hand reached for the next branch only to find himself swinging, unmoored, haplessly in the air. The vine had pulled completely away from the wall!

  * * *

  Talia Mazzarini Lawton awoke in an instant!

  What had roused her so thoroughly from sleep?

  There, the sound came again — a burst of surprised laughter, quickly stifled. She’d swear it was right below her window! The thrashing and rustling of leaves that followed turned her blood cold.

  Oh my god! Someone was climbing the wall outside her window! He wasn’t even trying to hide it. What manner of maniac was this?

  Choking out a horrified gasp, she leapt from her bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Undiluted fear tore through her and she wanted to run screaming from the room. She forced in a few deep breaths, striving for some of her usual calm. Then she remembered her pistols.

  Thank you, Foster, for insisting on cleaning and priming my guns! She silently voiced her gratitude to her long-time champion. She picked them up carefully from the bedside table and sat in the armchair facing the window. It was fortunate that, from this angle, the glow of the banked fireplace provided enough light to give her a decent shot. Sitting there, in tense silence, she set one gun on the small candle table beside her and kept the other in her right hand, ready to fire.

  Moments later she heard fumbling sounds, a muffled shout followed by a series of pungent curses.

  The vine had given way! She almost stood to go help... then, angry at her folly, she sank back down on the chair. Fool! She should be relieved... elated! If he fell, that would solve her problem and she wouldn’t have to shoot him.

  Or maybe she should slam the window on his fingers! That’s what she should have done in the first place — shut the window and lock it! Again she half rose to act on that inspiration then realized it was too late.

  Frozen with fear, she watched a gloved hand grope about, trying to catch hold of the inside of the window ledge. In horrified fascination, she sat back down and stared as large hands grappled for and caught hold of the casement. The window opened wider, one foot came through and stretched to settle on the floor. Expelling a breathy laugh of victory, the man turned to edge in backwards through the window, casually, as if he were coming through the front door.

  Her heart thundered. Her hand trembled so badly she had to steady it on the arm of the chair. She waited until both his feet were on the floor, then — almost paralyzed with fear — she commanded, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

  He jerked around abruptly and, instinctively, she pulled the trigger. He must have heard the sound of the pistol being cocked, because the intruder dived for the floor. There was a dull thud and then, silence.

  Tally jumped to her feet. She grabbed the second pistol, aimed it in his direction, and held her breath, waiting for him to stand up. Shivers of fear and an odd excitement quaked through her.

  Why was he so still? She hadn’t done more than graze him. Her shot couldn’t have been that far off the mark. She was a good shot. Foster had seen to that. There was no way her bullet hit anything vital!

  Was there?

  She’d been careful to aim for his arm. But he’d moved, so her shot might not have hit its intended target. Cold chills rippled down her spine. Needing better light to see him, she picked up the oil lamp from the candle table and hurried to the hearth to stir the embers to light it. She kept looking over her shoulder in case he rose to attack her from behind. Taking the taper she’d used earlier, she crouched to light it from the glowing cinders and transferred the fire to the wick on the lamp. Her hands shook so badly, it took several tries. She cast another furtive look back. She hadn’t been smart. She should have gone to fetch Foster before taking the time to light the room.

  The flame caught. She stood, turned and raised the lamp. The intruder was not a short man, nor a slight one. She stepped gingerly toward the inert form.

  Was he feigning death?

  Quaking, she inched closer, holding the lamp lower to see more clearly.

  Gracious, this was no ordinary burglar. No common thief wore such a fine woolen great coa
t, nor such exceptionally crafted leather boots. His head was turned away, so she saw only his black locks, overlong but well cut.

  Were there gentlemen thieves in London? She’d never heard of them, but then she knew very little of what normally occurred in London.

  Gingerly using the toes of her right foot, she tried to turn the man over onto his back. He was no lightweight, that was for sure. She put the lamp down on the dresser to use both her hands to roll him over.

  “Sweet heavens!” He was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Although his beard was well past shaving time, lending him a dark and dangerous air with that strong jaw and bronzed skin…. He looked like a beautiful, but fallen angel.

  A large, dark stain dampened his chest. Blood! Dio mio!

  As ever, when frightened, her mother tongue came flying to the fore. She fell to her knees beside his body. Her ball must have hit him in the chest! Was he was going to die here on the bedroom floor? Panic, sheer and uncontrolled, rushed through her. She hadn’t meant to kill him! She pushed his unbuttoned coat and jacket aside and, yanking his shirt from his pants, she pushed it up to his neck, frantic to find the wound and stanch the blood.

  For a breath-stealing instant, the sight of that wide expanse shocked her. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest up this close. Never imagined… well, had imagined… but it had never looked like this!

  Blood streaked his left side, yet Tally was transfixed by his perfectly sculpted muscles. She hesitated. It would be wonderful to paint such a chest. Her hands reached to touch…

  Don’t be a fool! She pulled them back and fisted her hands. How could she be so shallow? To think of painting him at a time like this!

  But... where was the wound? Where was the blood coming from? She pulled his shirt away from his skin and slid her hand up his arm, under his shirt. Just above his elbow, she was unable to move any higher without shifting his body onto the side. He was heavy, so she just barely managed to lean him sideways enough to push her hand up under his clothes at the back, to feel where the ball had entered. It appeared to have hit him in the shoulder, but she wasn’t able to find the entry point.