Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  How positively domestic.

  Kit tapped his fingers on the glass, mulling over the way his life was unfolding. A bachelor one day, a married man the next.

  He usually dined at a chophouse before seeking out the enjoyments of the night. Theaters, gaming hells, private rooms abundant with women.

  He’d return to that soon enough.

  In the meantime, they’d find a way to live comfortably together as husband and wife, learning each other, discovering how to make a marriage work.

  There would come a time when Tamsyn would welcome him in her bed. The getting of an heir would be an agreeable thing—for all of her trepidation, he felt her desire for him. At the proper moment, he would show her the many pleasures of the flesh. And then it would be good. Extremely good.

  A fizzy feeling bubbled up in his chest, as though he’d had too much sparkling wine. It took him several moments to realize it was a sense of expectation. It had been too long since he’d felt that.

  This was a new beginning.

  Today, at five o’clock, he would go see Mr. Flowers and then—and then he could begin working on the dream he’d held close to his heart for many years. The pleasure garden was a hope he shared with no one but his own thoughts. It would be his, at last.

  Finally, he could be free of the War’s lingering darkness.

  “What’s going on?” Tamsyn whispered.

  Concerned, she followed Nessa down the hallway and into a small alcove.

  After checking to make certain no one was within listening distance, Nessa spoke quietly but quickly. “I didn’t want to tell you yesterday because it was your wedding day and such.”

  Tamsyn put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Tell me what is happening.”

  “Got a letter.” Nessa pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “There’s a problem.” She handed the missive to Tamsyn, who read it with a sinking heart.

  There was, indeed, a problem. Due to her uncle’s decision to sell Chei Owr at some point in the near future, the villagers had gotten panicky. They had elected Fred Wren, one of the village men, to bring the latest shipment of smuggled goods closer to London in advance of Tamsyn finding a buyer. Fred had found shelter for the merchandise at a cousin’s barn halfway between Newcombe and London. But the cousin had grown nervous and declared that Fred had to take the contraband and leave within the next few days. Yet Fred didn’t know where to go. While he dithered, several hundred pounds’ worth of brandy and lace languished in a barn because there was nowhere to store it in London. So he’d written to Nessa in a terror.

  “We’ve got no buyer to trek out to the barn to inspect it, and bloody Fred is worried that without anywhere to put the stuff in town,” Nessa said apprehensively, “he’s stuck.”

  “I’ll have to find a place to warehouse everything,” Tamsyn replied, feeling an odd comfort stealing through her. She had been ripped from one world to be forced into another—from touring her sumptuous new home with Kit into a colder reality, where starvation and danger lurked. But this was a world she knew, and knew well. It was far more familiar to her than navigating marriage. “It’s been damned difficult trying to find a buyer here, let alone somewhere to store the goods.”

  Nessa wrung her hands and made small fretting noises while Tamsyn tried to work out a solution.

  “There must be someplace that will suit our needs,” she muttered to herself. “Somewhere large enough, but close at hand so that we can ensure the goods’ safety.”

  Her whole body snapped to attention.

  “How much of this house have you seen, Nessa?” she demanded.

  The other woman shrugged. “Not much. The butler, Mr. Stockton, he showed me where I’ll sleep and also the room where the servants take their meals.”

  “Take me to Mr. Stockton.”

  With a puzzled frown, Nessa led Tamsyn down the stairs to the ground floor, before they descended a narrower set of stairs leading to the kitchen. Curious servants watched, likely surprised that the mistress would deign to visit the working part of the house. The kitchen was already bustling with preparations for tonight’s dinner, but Tamsyn didn’t have time to introduce herself to the cook.

  “This here is Mr. Stockton’s office,” Nessa said, pointing to a door standing ajar.

  Tamsyn approached and knocked. She entered when the butler called for her to do so.

  “If you’re wanting tomorrow night off, John,” Mr. Stockton said, bent over a ledger on his desk, “the answer’s still no.”

  Tamsyn cleared her throat, and the moment the butler glanced up, he shot to his feet.

  “My lady,” he exclaimed. “Your presence here is an unexpected pleasure. I am Stockton, the butler.” He bowed.

  Damn. He seemed terribly principled. That wouldn’t work in her favor.

  “My apologies for disturbing you,” Tamsyn said with as much warmth as she could muster. “It’s not my habit to stalk my employees to their dens.”

  “No need to apologize, my lady. I am at your disposal, as is the rest of the staff. Shall I fetch Mrs. Hoskins, the housekeeper? You will have much to discuss with her, I imagine.”

  “Perhaps later,” Tamsyn said hastily. “I have a request of you.”

  “Anything at all, my lady,” the butler answered.

  “Could you tell me if there’s a storage room here in the house?”

  If her request was an unusual one, Mr. Stockton was too well trained to show it. “We have a sizable space here belowstairs where we keep spare furniture and other items not in current use.”

  “I would like to see it.”

  “Please, follow me.” Mr. Stockton led Tamsyn and Nessa from his office and into the hallway. With a key, he unlocked a door, pushed it open, then stepped inside.

  Tamsyn and Nessa followed. It was, as the butler stated, a goodly sized room that contained several tall-backed chairs, a demilune table, and a few pictures covered with protective fabric. Most of the low-ceilinged chamber stood empty.

  “This room looks to be about twenty by forty feet,” Tamsyn speculated.

  “I imagine that you are right, my lady,” Mr. Stockton said, “though I can have it measured, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Tamsyn exchanged a glance with Nessa, who nodded her approval. Now came the more difficult part of this process. “Mr. Stockton,” Tamsyn began, “I do not mean to be vulgar, but I must approach this directly.”

  The butler gazed at her with a puzzled frown. “My lady?”

  “I hope,” she went on, “that you are paid an amount commensurate with your estimable skill.”

  “I am . . . comfortable,” he allowed.

  “What would you say if I told you that I can generously increase your wages?” she asked.

  “I would say that I am most interested,” Mr. Stockton replied. “While I enjoy my employment, I am getting older, and I need to think of my future.”

  “I’ve need of two footmen,” Tamsyn continued. “Men of physical strength who would also like to supplement their income. It is extremely important that they be trustworthy and not given to gossip.”

  The butler nodded. “I know just the fellows.”

  Better and better. “A shipment of goods will arrive within the next few days,” she explained. “It must be brought into the house and stored here. This is the most crucial part: my husband cannot know about it. Not a word can be whispered to anyone—most especially the master of the house.” Despite Kit’s reputation as a libertine, the very fact that he had been honored for his military service meant he had considerable loyalty to the law of the land. He’d said as much shortly after their wedding. He’d be furious if he knew about her illegal activity, and repudiate her without a second thought.

  She might be his wife now, but she had it from his own lips how much he valued king and country. He might even report her to the authorities.

  “I see,” Mr. Stockton murmured.

  “If you agree to this,” Tamsyn went on, “you a
nd the footmen you select will get a percentage of the sales of these goods.”

  He was silent a moment, and Tamsyn could only wait. She understood from experience that people could not be hurried, or else they would get nervous and all negotiations would be spoiled.

  “These . . . goods, as you describe them,” he said speculatively, “what are they?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered. “All that matters is the money lining your pocket if it’s stored here securely.”

  “This isn’t legal, is it?” Mr. Stockton asked with a raised brow.

  “It isn’t condoned by the Crown, no,” she allowed.

  The butler’s eyes widened slightly. But he did not sputter in outrage, nor give notice. Slowly, very slowly, he nodded his head.

  Silently, she exhaled. “When the shipment arrives, you must notify me immediately. I will direct the operation from there. I cannot stress enough that all of this must take place with as much discretion as possible. Should the master or anyone on the staff—or indeed anybody at all—have the slightest inkling about what we are doing, it will be disastrous for everyone. Further, the percentage I promised you will never materialize.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed again. He said with a gleam in his eye, “I thought I detected a hint of Cornwall in your accent.”

  “Not all of us Cornishmen and women participate in this trade,” she felt obliged to point out. As of eight years ago, her own hands were entirely clean. “Now, bring the two footmen to me.”

  “I’ll fetch Dennis and Liam,” he said with another bow before briskly leaving the storage room.

  Nessa let out a gusty breath. “Thank the heavens. I thought we’d be sunk for sure.”

  “I won’t disappoint Newcombe,” Tamsyn vowed. “We’ll have to get word to Fred. Let him know that we’ve finally got a place to house everything. He’ll have to move quickly, in case any customs men are prowling around.”

  Two young men in livery cautiously entered the storage room. Tamsyn noted with approval that they were both tall and sturdily built.

  One of them said warily, “Begging your pardon, my lady. Mr. Stockton said you wanted a word?”

  “Who are you?” Tamsyn asked.

  “Liam,” he answered, coming into the room. He wore the livery of a footman. “Liam McBride.”

  “And I’m Dennis Bell,” the other piped in.

  “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room,” Tamsyn said firmly. “If you feel that you might have trouble keeping secrets—even from your families—you must leave immediately.”

  Both footmen exchanged glances. Finally, Dennis spoke. “What’s in it for us?”

  “Money,” she answered without prevarication. “Enough to substantially supplement what you make now.”

  “I don’t know about Dennis,” Liam said quickly, “but I’m game.”

  “Me, too,” Dennis threw in.

  As briefly as possible, Tamsyn explained the situation to them. While she spoke, their eyes went wide, but neither of them looked outraged.

  “Will it prove to be a difficulty?” she asked pointedly.

  Both footmen shook their heads. “My family back home has no love for the law,” Liam added.

  “And do you care for legalities?” Nessa demanded.

  “I like having a steady job and a full belly,” Dennis said, “but it don’t hurt to have a little extra in my coffers.”

  Though she was pleased with the arrangements as they fell into place, she pressed, “And which of you two grew up poorest?”

  Dennis shrugged, but Liam raised his hand. “Left Ireland as a tyke and lived in a Whitechapel rookery until I was old enough to go into service.”

  “What do you know about buyers here in London?” Tamsyn asked. “Buyers of things that aren’t precisely sanctioned by the Crown.” When Liam hesitated, she added encouragingly, “Trust me, Liam. I won’t turn on you.”

  “There’s a bloke,” the footman finally said. “A jeweler in Clerkenwell. Mr. Jayne. He’s known for doing some selling on the side. Might be able to help you, too.”

  “Thank you,” Tamsyn said, feeling a slide of relief. “You can go now.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Liam answered fervently.

  The footmen bowed before hastily exiting through the door.

  “At least that’s settled,” Tamsyn said, and exhaled. “We might have ourselves a buyer. In the meantime, I’d better get back to Lord Blakemere.”

  She started for the door.

  “You think we can do this without him knowing?” Nessa wondered.

  “We’re going to have to,” Tamsyn said over her shoulder. “The alternative is too calamitous to contemplate.” The best she could hope for was transportation. As for the villagers, she would never incriminate them, but they would starve without the smuggling profits.

  She hurried out and made her way back up the stairs, hoping Kit wouldn’t be too concerned about her prolonged absence. She found him in a small parlor at the back of the house. He stood in front of the fire, hands braced on the mantel as he nudged the decorative andirons with the toe of his boot as if to test their weight.

  He glanced behind him at her entrance, and his smile was warm. It shot straight into her chest, and she felt momentarily giddy. Ah, he was a fine thing to look upon. How bloody lucky for her that her best candidate for husband also happened to be the handsomest.

  She had to remember to stay alert and not be distracted by his good looks or charm.

  He hadn’t been angry when she’d been beset by nerves last night, nor had he demanded his husbandly rights. Instead, he’d been patient and kind. That kindness presented its own dangers, because at that moment she’d felt that she could trust him with anything. Yet for her own safety, and the security of the people of Newcombe, that couldn’t happen.

  “Everything sorted out?” he asked.

  “She had a few questions about unpacking my things,” Tamsyn answered. “But I have so few possessions, it shouldn’t take long to tend to them.”

  “After today,” he said brightly, striding toward her, “that won’t be a concern. You’ll have a substantial allowance to spend however you like.”

  Hopefully it would be enough to put a down payment on Chei Owr. “That’s generous of you,” she murmured.

  He waved off this compliment. “By agreeing to marry me, you’ve ensured my future happiness. In thanks, there’s nothing I won’t give you. Within reason,” he added belatedly. His grin was sheepish. “I’m not particularly adept at curtailing my spending. The curse of the third son—to have his munificence constrained by circumstance.”

  “It’s the curse of the poor country gentry that we can never scale the pecuniary heights of our city cousins,” Tamsyn replied. “I can assure you that my financial demands will be minimal.” Perhaps now was not an ideal moment to mention buying Chei Owr. “I’ve had to learn frugality the hard way. I hold on to my pennies, like this.” She lifted her clenched hand.

  He covered her hand with his, and the gesture felt both comfortable and thrilling. “You should give yourself every luxury,” he advised.

  “Is that your express command?” she teased.

  He affected a stern look. “Do not gainsay me in this, Lady Blakemere.” Then he ruined the effect of his severe expression by grinning, looking very much like a boy who’d been given a barrow full of sweets. “Come, let’s find ourselves some luncheon. I find the prospect of inheriting a fortune increases my appetite.”

  Kit released her hands and strode from the parlor. She followed at a more sedate pace, and her gaze alighted on Dennis, standing at his post in the hallway. He gave her a wink, and she sternly put her finger to her lips. Chastened, he snapped his gaze to attention, staring into the middle distance the way a footman was supposed to.

  Storing smuggled goods right under the nose of her new husband? She must be certifiably mad. But what choice did she have?

  A knot formed in her belly. Kit might be a rec
kless libertine, but she couldn’t deny how very gentle he was with her. She hadn’t missed the sag in his shoulders when he agreed to let them have separate bedchambers, either.

  Her own disappointment had been something of a revelation. No matter what she’d told herself, it hurt to let go of her hope for romance and affection. It wouldn’t be very challenging to grow attached to Kit, to care for him.

  But it was better this way. Keeping herself guarded meant that her deception would be easier.

  “I could absolutely obliterate a pork pie right now,” Kit said cheerfully from the foyer. “Oh, and a tankard of ale. Doesn’t that sound blissful? Let’s buy the whole chophouse a round.”

  Damn and damn. How would she keep from growing closer to him? Every moment in his company proved more dangerous to her heart.

  Chapter 10

  Kit was largely unfamiliar with the industrious side of London, including those men and women who kept society functioning. It was something of a shock to see anyone doing anything at five besides riding on Rotten Row. Yet the offices of Flowers and Corran were still bustling by the time Kit and Tamsyn arrived that afternoon.

  He opted not to voice this to Tamsyn as they followed a clerk through the maze of rooms stuffed with papers tended by ink-stained young men. Though he’d secured her hand and needn’t fear her changing her mind, it was probably better that she didn’t think him entirely indolent and shiftless.

  Anxiety prickled along the back of his neck and down his spine, though he kept himself strolling with an easy gait. Why should he be anxious? He’d fulfilled the terms of Lord Somerby’s will, and now there was nothing left to do but transfer the money to him.

  He had already earmarked a portion of it for the pleasure garden. Once the fortune was in his possession, he’d get to work on making it a reality.

  “It’s like a rabbit’s warren in here,” Tamsyn murmured to him. “I’d get lost if I ran for the door.”