The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  Chapter 31

  An hour later Lord Shalcross and his wife sat down to an early luncheon with Michael, Iris, and Winthrop in Damien’s private room.

  “I have decided upon a plan for the five of us during the night,” he said as soon as everyone was seated.

  This announcement did not appear to surprise anyone at the table, with the exception of Emily. When and where had her husband devised this plan? He had been more than attentive to her in their bridal bed. She couldn’t have put two words together during the attention he paid to her. He must have been plotting over breakfast while she slept.

  “It is a simple plan of action,” he began, “but its simplicity does not make it any less dangerous. We all know Michael is an experienced horseman. He also has an ability to live on his own resources if necessary.”

  Emily glanced at her brother’s grinning face. “What are you asking him to do?”

  “To ride to as many of the villages where revolts are to take place as he can and sound a warning.”

  “He could get killed,” Emily exclaimed.

  “It’s better than dying of boredom,” Michael replied.

  “Why should anyone take a rascal’s word on a matter so grave?” she asked.

  Damien glanced at Michael. “He’ll carry papers from the Home Office. By virtue of a signature and royal seal, he’ll be fed, his horse will be exchanged for another, and he’ll be praised for his intervention. It’s not as if he’s the only former soldier who is supporting England.”

  Emily frowned. She had a feeling that this had been prearranged long before breakfast. “What about Iris and Winthrop?” she asked, noting Damien looked uncomfortable at the question.

  “Iris and Winthrop have a different assignment.”

  “Assignment?” Emily said, her voice rising. “Does Iris know about this?”

  Iris paled. “This is the first I’ve heard of it, and I’m hoping I misunderstood what his lordship just said. You aren’t asking me to be a spy, are you? Because, honestly, I don’t even know how to use a pair of field glasses.”

  “What do you expect her to do?” Emily demanded. It was one thing to have married Damien in the name of duty. She was not convinced that her timid maid needed to be sacrificed as well.

  “Iris and Winthrop are to be employed as temporary servants at Viscount Deptford’s party,” Damien said. “They’ll hold positions beneath their current ones. As guests, you and I can only witness so much. They can be the eyes and ears inside the castle.”

  “It won’t appear suspicious, the pair of them suddenly in service at the castle?” Emily said.

  Damien shook his head. “It’s not uncommon to hire temporary help when one is hosting a large affair.”

  Iris gave Emily a helpless look.

  “I don’t know if I approve of this, my lord,” Emily said. “You’ll have to give us more details before we agree.”

  • • •

  To be involved in an espionage plot to protect her country was an honor to which, honestly, Iris Brookshire had never aspired. What lady’s maid had the time to indulge in political intrigue when her mistress had just become a countess? What sensible woman would choose the uncertainty of spying over the security of domestic service? Still, Iris understood the hierarchy of obligation. Never mind what happened in London; it was her primary obligation to help her mistress establish a house worthy of her title and wealth.

  That the unremarkable Miss Rowland, despite her efforts, had not hooked Mr. Jackson as a husband but instead had landed an earl of infamous lineage was a coup that would be lauded in domestic gossip for years to come. Iris now worked for a countess who would start her own aristocratic dynasty. It was a privilege to serve as a lady’s maid in a prestigious house.

  Iris, had not, however, envisioned herself becoming an espionage agent alongside a conceited-looking valet as a condition of her promotion. “I do not know the first thing about being a spy,” she protested again to Emily and the earl over her cake plate.

  “You’re an expert at it,” Michael said as he poured her a splash of brandy. “Think of all the schemes you and Emily have enacted over the past five years.”

  Iris made a face as her first sip of brandy went down. “All those schemes failed, by the way.”

  “The last one didn’t,” Michael said pragmatically, popping a sliver of cake into his mouth. He swallowed before adding, “Emily has leg-shackled a husband.”

  “Must you use that vulgar expression?” Emily said, frowning at him.

  “Shalcross doesn’t mind,” Michael said.

  Damien stared at his brandy. “Yes, I do. I prefer to think that she will be shackled to me, if there is any shackling to be done.”

  “That is completely off the subject,” Emily murmured into her glass. “I don’t like the idea of my maid exposing herself to danger with only your valet to guard her. That is not to demean you, Winthrop.”

  “I’m not keen on the idea myself,” Michael admitted, with a quick look at Iris.

  She did not return his look. There was another benefit to Emily having married an aristocrat who’d live far from Hatherwood. Iris could hope she might find her own husband one day in the earl’s employment.

  “Of all the plots we pulled off,” she said aloud, “I never imagined I’d be involved in treason. My French is barely passable.”

  She noticed Winthrop put his hand to his mouth as if covering a smile. Smug thing. “We are not at war with France anymore, Miss Brookshire. You won’t be required to speak that language during our work together. Although, if it makes you feel more at ease, I can provide you with a list of common phrases to memorize.”

  He had cunning eyes behind those spectacles, she realized, shrewd and an inscrutable shade of brown. He appeared to think so highly of himself that Iris decided she would not get along with him at all. Not a humble bone in either his or the earl’s lithesome bodies. “I’m sure I won’t need a list of common words, sir,” she said. “Simple phrases I know well enough.”

  “You misunderstand me, miss.” he said, setting down his drink. “I have no doubt you are more than competent to pass as a chambermaid. After all, you serve in a higher role as lady’s maid and confidante.”

  She glanced away, catching Michael’s eye. The big cad was grinning, as if he knew Winthrop was overstepping his bounds. She supposed, however, the valet had meant to mollify her by his last statement. It was a polite attempt to smooth her feathers. She would accept it for now, to show her manners, but she had a sense the pair of them would not see eye to eye on other issues.

  At least it would separate her from Mr. Rowland. He’d be looking for a wife of his own soon enough, and Iris did not have the heart to witness that courtship. He would not have to go to outrageous lengths to attract a young lady. The village girls always knew when Michael had come home. His wandering challenged them.

  “You shall have to travel as man and wife,” the earl said unexpectedly.

  “Man and wife?” Iris and Winthrop said in horrified synchrony.

  “Well, you do not remotely resemble each other. It would be difficult to deceive anyone into thinking you’re brother and sister,” the earl said, sipping his Madeira.

  “This is going to be awkward,” Iris said, “living and travel arrangements, I mean.” Her voice quivered. “I do have standards to maintain.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Winthrop,” the earl assured her. “He is a professional. He will find a way to convince everyone that you are living in connubial bliss together without taking the smallest liberty.”

  Iris stared across the table. “I’m not sure I can do a believable job of this. It isn’t in me.”

  “Oh, Iris,” Emily said. “You’ve done more unconventional things for me.”

  “That was different.”

  “How?” Emily asked with a faint smile.

  “You were the one whose reputation was at risk. Now I shall be the lone agent.”

  Winthrop stared at her. �
�I will be your partner, Miss Brookshire. You can trust me all the way.”

  “I trust him,” Damien added in his valet’s defense.

  Emily lifted her brow. “All the way?”

  “Well, yes. You and I are trusting each other all the way, aren’t we?”

  “That is not the same thing,” Michael observed. “You and Emily are actually married. Trust is implicit in a marriage. It is not in a deception.”

  Winthrop rose from his chair. “I would like to speak with Miss Brookshire in private about our mission. It’s essential to show her the layout of the castle, the guest list, and to warn her of the dangers we might encounter. While the viscount’s demise might be the primary intention, the rebels will presumably not hesitate to eliminate any obstacle that threatens the plot. We need an agent who understands discretion. Miss Brookshire, I think you are ideal for the job.”

  Chapter 32

  Two days had passed since Iris’s interview with the earl. Now she found herself traveling with his valet in a public coach. As if they had known each other for years.

  She dreamt of a warm bath, a clean bed, and privacy. During her years of service as a lady’s maid, she had grown spoiled. She’d eaten good meals, worn Emily’s cast-offs, and had no cause to travel farther than to Lord Fletcher’s estate. Most assuredly she was not forced to share a carriage with ill-mannered passengers who broke wind, gossiped about their family to strangers, and trod on her toes.

  Winthrop did not appear pleased with their class of company, either. But he managed to be polite when a dowager asked him to hold her hat with ostrich plumes that poked his nose. And he kept his patience with the little girl who kept pulling a thread in his jacket until the cuff came unhemmed.

  “I can stitch that up easily,” Iris said softly, not wanting to make a fuss.

  “So can I, my pet.”

  My pet? She thought he was being snide, a young man talking about sewing and using an endearment in the same breath. But once inside their room at the inn, he took out a needle and thread, repaired his cuff, and asked immediately what she would like for supper.

  “I think, sir, that before we settle on our food we should come to agreement about our sleeping arrangements.”

  “I told you not to worry. Your virtue will not be compromised by my doing.”

  Iris closed her traveling bag. “What does that mean? That you think I might lose my wits and compromise myself?”

  He gave one of his sly smiles. “I’d never suggest such a thing. Not that it hasn’t happened before, you understand. But you can trust me to stand strong.”

  “How self-sacrificing of you. Can I also trust you to sleep outside the door?”

  “Oh no. That would look peculiar. I shall sleep behind the dressing screen. There shall be no temptation for either of us that way.”

  Iris nodded, undecided whether he had dealt her an insult or a compliment. Was he hinting that he found her a bit attractive? Attractive enough to mention temptation. As for her, she found him an impossible man to fathom. All this intrigue and then stitching up his cuff as if he’d graduated from a lady’s academy.

  “How did you learn to sew like that?” she asked, still standing in the middle of the room.

  “What do you mean?” He pulled off his spectacles. She stared into his eyes in surprise. He became a different man without those glasses. He seemed younger, unguarded. Not unpleasant to behold at all.

  “I was only curious how you learned to sew that well. Like a tailor. Was that your previous occupation?”

  Perhaps he or his father had worked on Bond Street, fashioning jackets for gentlemen. Such experience would be an asset to a valet. That would explain why Winthrop and the earl always appeared elegantly dressed. It was in the detail. Coat buttons aligned like rows of little soldiers. A pristine neckcloth handled as delicately as a christening gown. Oh, what a skill, all right. To be able to alter one’s identity with a needle and thread as deftly as Lady Fletcher did with her cosmetics.

  “No,” he said, laughing as if she’d embarrassed him with her observation. “I was never a tailor, miss.”

  “I should be proud to admit if I were—”

  “An army surgeon,” he said.

  Iris lowered her bag to the floor. “Oh.”

  “Let me get that,” he said, hurrying toward her. “Why don’t you sit by the window? Keep an eye on who’s about.”

  A surgeon? What a dreadful spy she made. Those strong hands had sawed off bones on battlefields. Fancy her picturing him in a shop. “I can’t do this,” she said, moving to the chair. “I’ll be hopeless.”

  “Why is that?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I was convinced that you had worked on Bond Street. It appears I have a better imagination than I do instincts.”

  He hefted her trunk to the table. “What on earth have you packed in there?”

  “Everything. A lady’s maid has to be prepared.”

  He sat down at the other end of the small table, withdrawing his handkerchief to sweep off a thin layer of dust. “‘Everything,’ meaning?”

  She swallowed and stared at his glasses. “Most of my personal belongings. Books, mainly. The accessories I have used for masquerades.”

  “Genuine costume balls or your mistress’s escapades?”

  She bristled. “I beg your pardon.”

  He leaned across the table and studied her so intently she felt as if he were dismantling her piece by piece. “I should be begging your forgiveness, miss . . . Iris. We must practice using each other’s first names. And you are right to be offended. What the countess did for previous entertainment is only his lordship’s business.”

  She gave him a glance that said she agreed. He was smiling at her now, but in a confidential manner. Iris gathered her wits. Surgeon and spy he might be to her virgin maid, but she had not survived a childhood of cruel abuse from relatives without developing her own strategies to survive. She would make that much clear. The last time she had been physically assaulted was the day she’d come to realize she had to depend on herself.

  “Surely, sir, we don’t need to play man and wife when we are alone together?” She dropped her voice, jerking her head meaningfully toward the door. “Or do you think someone’s listening?”

  “They aren’t going to learn much if they are,” he said in a stage whisper. “We are an ordinary husband and wife traveling to fill our new positions. You’re fortunate there was no sketch made of you to be nailed on tavern doors.”

  “Lady Shalcross is fortunate that she was in disguise,” Iris said worriedly. “It’s her safety that concerns me.”

  “His lordship will watch out for her, Iris. The viscount is the intended victim. Keep your head.”

  “I don’t intend to lose my head.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Are we really going to sleep in the same room together?”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Three nights until we reach the castle.”

  Iris looked at him in chagrin as he removed his coat. “And what of our arrangements once we are there?”

  “The arrangements have already been made. We have a room in the servants’ quarters that gives us immediate access to the private stairs to the upper floors.”

  “One room?”

  He hung his coat over his chair and reached for her hand. “It will only be an act, Iris. We are to do a job.”

  Knowing that didn’t help the tingling nerves that jumped from her wrist up her arm as his hand touched hers. She recalled his nimble fingers plying a needle. His steady eyes unsteadying her, perceiving things about her that she knew could not be proper. The valet to an earl and spy. He can have his pick of any maid he wanted, and some ladies, too, she thought.

  “Are you proficient in the use of any weapon?” he asked her out of the blue.

  She blushed. Here she sat imagining he had seduced her with his stare when his mind had moved on to practical, if disturbing, matters.

  “The pistol?”
he asked, nodding in approval before she had even answered him.

  “No. Daggers.”

  He slid his hand from hers. She felt another forbidding tingle; this time it was because she had startled him, and neither he nor his master seemed the type of man easy to unsettle.

  “You’re talking about a knife as in chopping carrots or onions,” he said. “For a minute there you gave me a fright. Imagine a dagger in your delicate hands.”

  “A lady’s maid does not chop vegetables,” she replied, smiling at his confusion. “I meant what I said. I am proficient in the art of throwing knives and using a dagger, although I’ve never had cause to injure anyone. Neither has my mistress, but she’s a better throw than me.”

  He nodded in obvious condescension. “Village sport, I assume. It’s unusual that ladies are allowed to participate.”

  “Oh, I’m not talking about throwing a dart,” she said, letting a patronizing note sneak into her voice. “I have a few skills of my own, sir. Mr. Rowland taught us to throw using an apple on his head as a target.”

  Chapter 33

  Damien woke Emily early the next morning by reaching under the pillow and withdrawing a long white rectangle imprinted with an illustration. “My card!” she said, astonished enough by his discovery to forget her nakedness. She sat straight up to confiscate it from his hand. “I thought I had that hidden. Are you playing tricks on me, Damien?”

  He narrowed his eyes in speculation. “Passion? I presume this was meant to crop up in number seven’s reading. Is it a keepsake for you of what should have been?” He lifted his brow in speculation.

  “Is this your way of forcing me to make a false confession? You know how susceptible I am when I’m half-asleep.” She was susceptible to him at other times, too, but this was not a welcome awakening. How could that card have reappeared under her pillow by itself?

  “Am I going to find a cricket bat in your trunk?”

  “If you continue to be unpleasant, I might wish I’d brought one.”

  He retreated from the bed, tossing the card across the table. “I suggest you get rid of this before anyone else sees it and makes a connection between a certain countess and a larcenous fortune-teller.”