Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  He’d spent years cultivating his image as the worst rogue in London, until even his servants believed he was. It was damned irritating at times. He played his role so expertly he hardly knew which half of his personality was the real Phineas anymore. Was he the rake, the gambler, the seducer of ladies young and old, or was he still an honorable man who just happened to handle the crown’s dirty work?

  Annoyed, he threw back the covers and sat up awkwardly. Burridge’s eyes widened, and Phineas glared as his servant choked on a laugh, turning it into a cough.

  “Just get it off, would you? It’s been plaguing me for hours.”

  Burridge immediately came to undo the clasp that still held the sword against Phineas’s hip. He fumbled for a few minutes then looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, but it appears to be stuck fast. A bit rusty, perhaps. Should we summon Mr. Crane?”

  Phineas gave the belt an angry tug. The last thing he needed was his dour butler seeing him in such a state, and thinking the worst.

  “No. I’ll dress first, then I’ll find Crane myself.”

  “Yes, my lord. What will you wear? Will you be going out this morning? Riding in the park, perhaps?” the valet asked as he crossed to the dressing room.

  “Yes,” Phineas mumbled, still fiddling with the belt. “On second thought, no. At least not until I get this damned sword off.”

  Half an hour later he was in the salon, dressed in fawn breeches, polished Hessians, and a crisp white linen shirt. He’d dispensed with a coat to allow his staff better access to the sword that clung to him like an eager lover who refused to be dismissed. Crane had given up after twenty minutes of undignified jiggling and tugging and suggested they send for the gardener, who arrived with an astonishing assortment of tools.

  Phineas pretended to read the newspaper and tried his best to maintain his dignity while his staff knelt at his feet and worked to free him. If the ancestor who owned the sword had been present, he would have run the bastard through with it. After he’d tortured the secret of its removal out of him, of course.

  A maid came in with coffee, her eyes widening at the unusual sight. Phineas watched as she set the tray down and poured, nearly overfilling the cup as she kept one eye on the activity. She sidled away at a sharp warning from Crane, only to pause near the door, her lip caught between her teeth.

  “What is it?” Phineas snapped.

  All eyes turned toward the girl, who bobbed a nervous curtsy. “Begging your pardon, my lord, and Mr. Crane. If I might suggest it, I think Thomas could be of assistance,” she said.

  Crane frowned. “The footman?”

  “He had, um, special talents with locks and such before he entered service,” she explained, her face reddening.

  “You mean he’s a picklock?” Phineas asked, and the maid blushed.

  “Oh, he isn’t anymore, my lord! I mean, I’m sure he still remembers a few tricks o’ the trade, but he’d never ever do any such thing now, of course.” She twisted her hands together. “Unless you wanted him to, and it was an order.”

  Crane stood. “That will do, Mary.”

  Phineas looked at the gardener. The man was eyeing the hatchet that lay at his feet. It was the only tool he hadn’t yet tried. “Send for Thomas,” Phineas said wearily, and regarded the gardener coolly. “If he fails, then you can try lopping off my leg.”

  When his grandfather arrived, and entered the room without being announced, Phineas was still seated in the chair, with three members of his staff kneeling at his feet, watching in fascination as Thomas the footman, former picklock, worked at the clasp of the sword belt.

  “What in blazes is going on, Blackwood?” the Duke of Carrington demanded, glowering down his beaked nose at his heir. He didn’t bother to say hello, and Phineas felt his gut clench, ready for another confrontation. He should have realized that no pleasure was without punishment, and Yasmina had been exactly the kind of sinful indulgence that attracted retribution.

  The servants almost knocked each other over trying to rise and bow to the duke at the same time, and Crane snapped to attention. “May I announce His Grace, the Duke of Carrington?” he intoned.

  “Never mind, man, I’m here already!” the duke growled.

  Phineas crossed his legs casually. “Good morning, Your Grace. ’Tis only a masquerade costume gone wrong. Forgive me for not getting up.”

  The duke strode forward and assessed the situation. His sharp black eyes traveled over the sword, then swept up to glare at Phineas. “That’s the Archer sword, you fool, not a masquerade costume! Get out of the way, all of you, before you damage it. It is a priceless family heirloom, captured at Agincourt by one of the first members of the Archer family.”

  Phineas had heard the tale before, of course. That Archer, who humbly shot arrows for a living, had captured a French knight in battle, and wisely kept him alive. He’d won the sword, a rich ransom, and the king’s favor.

  His grandfather reached for a large ruby near the hilt of the sword and pressed. The belt parted, and he caught it before it fell to the ground. The staff sighed with relief.

  “Out, all of you,” Carrington commanded, then turned to his grandson as they scrambled to obey. At least he waited until the door was closed, Phineas noted, before beginning his lecture.

  “I suppose I should not be surprised by this. You have always treated your heritage carelessly,” he began, and picked up the untouched cup of coffee and sipped. He grimaced, set it down without a word, and crossed to pull the bell. “Hot coffee,” he ordered when the door opened almost at once. Phineas rolled his eyes. Crane had obviously been hovering, waiting for a chance to serve the duke.

  “To what do I owe the rare honor of a personal visit, Your Grace?” Phineas asked. “You usually just summon me to Carrington Castle when you wish to give me a dressing-down.” It was almost two years since he’d seen him last, yet his grandfather never seemed to age. He always seemed as ancient, cold, and impenetrable as the very stones of the ancestral keep, even when Phineas was a child.

  Carrington’s eagle eyes roamed the salon of Blackwood House, examining the heirlooms and art that decorated the walls, and stopped on the dark space on the wallpaper where the sword normally hung. He replaced it on the hooks before turning back to Phineas.

  “I am here because your sister is in Town.”

  “Which sister, sir, Miranda or Marianne?” Phineas asked. He hadn’t seen his younger sister Miranda since the duke sent her to school in Scotland, and it was months since he had a visit from his elder sister. He missed them, but circumstances forced him to stay away. They did not belong in his world, and he had not been welcome in their circle for years. He was eager for news of them, but didn’t let it show.

  “I’m speaking of Miranda. She’s making her come-out this Season.”

  Phineas looked at his grandfather in surprise. “Her come-out? Surely she’s too young for that. She can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen at the most.”

  “She’s eighteen!” Carrington snapped.

  Phineas said nothing. How had little Miranda reached the age of eighteen without his noticing?

  “Most girls come out at seventeen. I’ve made her wait an extra year, Blackwood, in the vain hope that you’d marry and reform before she was exposed to your disgraceful behavior. I cannot wait any longer. She is the granddaughter of a duke, and I have only one great-grandson to date. If the worst should happen to Marianne’s son, and you fail in your duty to marry and get an Archer heir, it may fall to Miranda to breed the next Duke of Carrington. If I might remind you, you have a birthday of your own coming up in a few weeks. You will be thirty-two.”

  “I doubt you’ve come to wish me a happy birthday,” Phineas said lightly.

  He went over the long list of his most recent misdeeds in his mind. It was too soon for his grandfather to have heard about his tryst in Lady Evelyn’s garden. Unless he’d spoken to Burridge on the way in, of course. He wondered how long it would be before Carrington—and all
of London—knew he’d come home last night with the buttons to his breeches in his pocket.

  “I’ve come to invite you to Miranda’s debut ball,” the duke said. He withdrew an envelope from his coat and tossed it on the table. Phineas picked it up and opened it, scanning the elegant engraved invitation briefly.

  “Should I convey my regrets to you or Great-Aunt Augusta? I assume you do not actually wish me to attend.”

  “I do not,” the duke confirmed. “But your sister does. Most heartily, in fact, so I’ve come to insist on your attendance.”

  “Then for Miranda’s sake, I shall be there,” Phineas replied stiffly.

  The duke fixed him with an icy glare. “On one condition, Blackwood. I insist you curtail your whoring and gambling for the duration of Miranda’s stay in London. I also expect, as I do every year, that you will avail yourself of the opportunity of being in polite company to find a suitable bride. It is past time you got an heir. If you do not, then I shall be forced to—”

  “Leave every penny that’s not entailed to Marianne’s son,” Phineas said, completing the familiar threat. The duke scowled. They both knew it was groundless. Carrington would never destroy the wealth and power of the dukedom, no matter how much he despised Phineas. It would break four hundred years of Archer tradition.

  “Don’t be flippant, Blackwood. You’ve had your years of freedom and frivolous behavior. It is time to accept your responsibilities and think of the future. I do get the London newspapers at Carrington Castle, you know. I’m fully aware of everything you get up to.”

  “And I thought I was being discreet,” Phineas quipped, and watched his grandfather redden dangerously. Fortunately, Crane entered with the coffee.

  Phineas waited until he set the cup before Carrington. “Whisky, please, Crane,” he said, and watched his butler’s eyes dart to the duke for permission. “Now,” he ordered, and Crane crossed the room to the decanter.

  There was no point in arguing with his grandfather. Still, the situation presented a number of problems. Either Whitehall or the duke was going to be very unhappy with him. He could not be rake and gentleman both. Duplicity made people suspicious, less trusting, and less talkative.

  He took the tumbler of whisky Crane offered and downed it at a swallow under the duke’s censorious gaze. “Another,” he said.

  “It’s not yet ten o’clock, Blackwood,” the duke said primly.

  But he swallowed the second tumblerful as well. Discreet behavior was not how he did his job. This wasn’t going to be easy. Or pleasant. Pleasure reminded him of the lovely Yasmina. Such encounters would be impossible if his sister was present. Still, he’d dare much to have her again, to touch her soft skin, hear that sigh, feel her nails in his flesh as he—

  “Why are you grinning like that?” the duke demanded, shaking Phineas out of his erotic daydream.

  “I was thinking of Miranda’s debut, of course,” Phineas answered.

  The duke glared at him. “Well don’t smile like that at her. It’s most unpleasant, and I was in earnest when I said that I expect you to behave yourself while she’s in Town.”

  Phineas got to his feet. “I’m sure someone will be providing you with regular reports of my activities once you return to Carrington Castle.” He cast a pointed glance at Crane, who had the grace to blush.

  The duke raised his brows at the dismissal. “I’m staying in Town. When Miranda receives an offer of marriage, I must be available. As a matter of fact, I will be staying here.”

  “Here?” Phineas asked, his stomach sinking. “With Great-Aunt Augusta, you mean?”

  “Here,” the duke replied with a thin smile. “In this house.”

  Chapter 4

  Isobel reluctantly opened her eyes and blinked at the toast and tea that had been left on her bedside table. Both were stone cold.

  She squinted at the clock on the mantel and gasped. It was nearly noon. She threw back the covers and would have shot out of bed, but every muscle in her body ached. It was a very pleasant ache, and she lay back and smiled. She felt warm, satisfied and rested, and she tried to recall the last time she had woken this late, or feeling this good, but it was something that simply had never happened before.

  Blackwood!

  She hadn’t dreamed it. Every single caress had been gloriously real. Robert had never made her feel this way. Not even in the early days of their marriage when he still pretended to like her.

  She listened for footsteps in the corridor, but the house was silent, so she burrowed back under the covers. She touched a fingertip to her mouth, marveling that she’d really dared to—she let her lips spread into a wide grin—in Evelyn’s garden, for heaven’s sake! She suppressed a giggle, but it bubbled out as a sigh.

  Blackwood!

  He’d more than lived up to his reputation, far surpassed her wildest dreams of what it would be like to—She gasped as heat pulsed through her body, pooled in her belly, breathless at the images that flitted through her mind. His eyes, his mouth, his hands, oh, his hands! It had been a daring risk, but well worth it, she gloated. It wouldn’t matter if he was discreet or not. He had no idea who she was. She grinned and stretched like a wanton cat.

  Her bare foot popped out from under the covers into the cold air of her room, shocking her back to reality. What was she thinking? Her behavior had been shameful! She should never have taken a simple flirtation so far. There would be terrible consequences if Honoria found out.

  Her mother-in-law would not understand that Blackwood was utterly irresistible and she had been rendered mad for one foolish instant by his smile, his eyes, his—

  What had she done?

  Perhaps she was just as wanton as her mother after all. With her face burning, Isobel got up and wrapped her robe around her body like protective armor, knotting the sash so tightly it nearly cut her in two. She held her breath and waited, but there were no shrieks of rage from Honoria’s rooms, no pounding feet on the stairs as they came to demand an explanation for her behavior.

  Not that she had one, except that it had been Blackwood. How could she have acted otherwise?

  She gulped down a cup of cold tea to steady her nerves. She ignored the toast. She couldn’t eat with her stomach in knots, her heart in a tangle, her mind and limbs mush from—

  Blackwood.

  She crossed to the basin to splash her face with cold water before reverie could carry her off again. It hit her like a slap, and she looked at herself in the mirror that hung above the basin. She didn’t look any different. Well, her eyes were brighter, perhaps, and her cheeks rosier. Her lips looked—well, they looked soft and plump, like she’d spent the night in a dark garden kissing someone.

  Not just someone.

  Blackwood.

  She sucked her moony grin into a tight pucker and scrubbed her glowing face with a cold wet flannel.

  Isobel rang the bell and waited for her maid to arrive. After a few minutes with no Sarah, she went to the wardrobe and chose a suitable dress herself, gray serge with a black edging, plainly cut and suitable for a respectable widow. Honoria had chosen it. Isobel put it on, knowing she had been anything but respectable last night.

  It was over, she told herself. It would not be repeated, and the whole thing was best forgotten. She buttoned the hated half-mourning gown all the way to her chin and sighed. Such an encounter could never be truly forgotten. Tucked away perhaps, for private reflection, but who could forget Blackwood?

  She picked up her comb, horrified to note that her hazel eyes still glowed and her cheeks shone. She pulled her russet hair into a matronly bun and practiced looking sober and sensible. Perhaps if she kept her eyes downcast and didn’t meet Honoria’s gaze, her mother-in-law wouldn’t notice anything amiss. She shut her eyes and tried to banish Blackwood to a secret corner of her mind.

  There was a knock on the door, and Isobel spun, but it was only Sarah, her maid, come at last. “’Morning, Countess. You rang for me?”

  “Yes, some time ago,” Is
obel replied with a smile, giving her hair a final pat with nervous fingers. A veritable forest of pins, twice as many as Sarah would have used, held her unruly curls in submission.

  “I’m sorry. Her ladyship had me help count the silverware again,” Sarah said. “I couldn’t get away. If so much as a teaspoon goes missing…”

  She let Sarah complain. Honoria often pressed Isobel’s maid into helping with menial chores. Counting silverware was not part of the duties Sarah had been hired to perform. Nor was polishing crystal or sorting linen. Isobel had objected, carefully, but Honoria insisted if the girl was unwilling to work she should be dismissed. Isobel couldn’t bear to lose Sarah.

  Sarah kept her secrets.

  “Never mind, Sarah, I’m dressed now. I’m going up to the nursery to see Robin,” Isobel said, patting the maid’s shoulder sympathetically. “We’re going to feed the ducks this afternoon.” She held the door as Sarah carried out the breakfast tray.

  Isobel climbed the stairs to the third floor, catching herself humming. She clamped her lips shut before anyone heard her, but a thrill crept up from her toes, and she took the last few steps two at a time like a giddy girl.

  Blackwood!

  At the nursery door, she smoothed her gown and went in, a smile of anticipation on her face. Her five-year-old son looked up from his lunch and grinned, and for the first time since she’d left Evelyn’s party, all thoughts of Blackwood vanished.

  “Mama!” the Sixth Earl of Ashdown crowed with delight, and threw himself around her knees, burying his face in her skirt. Isobel didn’t care that he’d been eating tarts and her gown now sported wrinkles and small jammy handprints. She ignored Nurse’s offer of a napkin to wipe it away and ruffled her son’s soft curls.