Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  “And who might that be?” Isobel asked, stiffening her spine, steeling herself to hear the name without reacting, but Marianne surprised her, turning her spine back to jelly in an instant.

  “That’s where I need your help. Do you know anyone who might be suitable? You watch carefully, observe people at every event. You must know a lady who might be—”

  Isobel leapt to her feet in astonishment. “Oh, Marianne, don’t ask me that!” she cried, her frayed nerves snapping under the strain. Careful and observant, was she? What would Marianne say if she knew the truth? She could no more help her friend choose a wife for Phineas than she could fly. Oh, how she wished at this moment that she could! Unfortunately, she was rooted to the earth, with Marianne’s curious gaze fixed on her.

  “Why, Isobel, whatever is wrong?” Marianne asked, as stunned as Isobel by the outburst. Isobel watched in horror as her friend’s eyes widened with sudden understanding and her hand flew to her mouth “Oh! Oh, of course, now I see.”

  Isobel’s stomach rolled. “You do?” She waited for Marianne to recall that the lady in pink looked very much like her. Sitting down again, she tried to think of an excuse, a reason for her behavior, a convincing lie. She felt as if she’d spent weeks doing nothing but making up lies.

  But Marianne patted her hand. “Of course I understand. You were very much in love with your husband, weren’t you? I mean, you must have been, to mourn him for so long after—”

  The shocking supposition had Isobel back on her feet in a second. “No!” she said, the word torn from her. “No, Marianne, you are quite wrong. I didn’t love Robert Maitland. Nor did he love me!” She couldn’t bear to have her friend think that she had loved a man as dull and hateful as Robert.

  “You didn’t love him?” Pity warred with shock in Marianne’s eyes.

  Isobel knew she had said too much. She bit her tongue until she tasted the iron bitterness of blood, and stared at the ducks, still listening with pebble-eyed fascination.

  “Please don’t ask me to suggest someone for Blackwood. I cannot.” Her heart clenched in agony as she retreated behind a mask of bland placidity, trying to calm her emotions.

  “Well of course not! I can only imagine you have a very poor opinion of marriage, if your own was so unhappy,” Marianne said. She rose to her feet and laid her hand on Isobel’s arm. The soothing touch, and the pity that came with it, were most unwelcome.

  “Have you considered marrying again?” Marianne asked. “For love this time?”

  Isobel swallowed the bitter lump that rose in her throat. “I can never marry again.”

  “Why not?” Marianne asked. “Many widows take a second husband. Not all men are bad. Westlake is a wonderful husband. You’re young, and you’re pretty. I’m sure if you came out of mourning, you’d have more offers than you could count.”

  Isobel clenched her jaw on the despair that hovered just below the surface of her skin. Her legs were trembling with the effort of staying calm. A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts, as intimate as Blackwood’s caresses.

  Marianne leaned closer. “Have you considered taking a lover?”

  Isobel’s jaw dropped, and Marianne giggled. “It’s not so shocking as that, Isobel! Many ladies do, you know. Someone discreet.”

  Marianne’s expression sharpened and she tapped a gloved finger against her chin as she scanned the selection of gentlemen in the park. Isobel couldn’t force an objection past the leaden lump clogging her throat. She didn’t want another lover. She wanted—

  “Blackwood!” Marianne’s eyes lit up as she turned to Isobel with a wide grin.

  Isobel shut her mouth with an astonished snap. Marianne laughed.

  “Oh, Isobel, I’ve shocked you yet again. I didn’t mean taking him as your lover, though gossip says he’s very accomplished in bed. I meant that he is sure to know someone. Phineas spends enough time lurking in the shadows of the demimonde, and Adam says that he knows everyone in London.”

  Isobel put a hand to her temple, where a headache was starting to throb. “Marianne, if Honoria knew I was even having such a conversation, you can’t imagine what she would do, what she could do!” she pleaded. She cast a desperate look at Robin, soaked and happy.

  She doubted very much Blackwood would be at all discreet once he stopped laughing at his sister’s request. Everyone in London would laugh.

  Everyone except Honoria.

  “I have to go,” Isobel said, and picked up her skirts, moving quickly toward Robin.

  “Isobel, wait,” Marianne called, hurrying after her. “Surely you want to be happy.”

  Tears threatened now, but Isobel refused to let them fall. Oh, yes, she wanted to be happy, but she would never consider trading Robin’s happiness for her own. She was not Charlotte, not now in the crisp light of day after a night of indescribable passion, not ever.

  She fixed a placid smile on her face, hiding behind Isobel the Invisible’s imperturbable mask once again. “I like my life the way it is, Marianne. I have Robbie to raise, you see, and that’s quite enough.”

  Marianne sighed. “But if that’s true, why are you crying?”

  Isobel touched her hand to her cheek. It came away wet. She had not shed a single tear since her mother left. Not when her cold marriage was arranged, not when Robert died, nor even when his will was read. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew who her tears were for.

  Blackwood.

  Chapter 18

  “What a glorious morning!”

  Phineas glanced dubiously at Miranda as she rode beside him on the pretty little mare. Above them, dark clouds threatened rain before the morning was out, and a brusque wind swatted irritably at the feather in her fashionable hat. She seemed scarcely aware of the horse under her, though his gift delighted her when he presented it, and for a few moments she’d been the girl he remembered.

  Today the polished debutante was back, and she was preening and posing for the other riders they passed. She flirted shamelessly with the gentlemen of means and good ton, and looked down her pert nose at everyone else.

  “Have you named her yet?” he asked, gesturing to the mare.

  Her gaze turned coy. “I think I may have to call her Kelton.”

  “Kelton?” Phineas frowned. “Whatever for?”

  She giggled, and the insipid sound grated across his nerves. “Oh, Phineas! After Viscount Kelton, of course. I think he’s the one I will marry.”

  “Kelton?” Phineas demanded again, more sharply this time. “The man is an idiot.”

  “He’s heir to an earldom, and he has eighty thousand a year.”

  “He has a ridiculous lisp that makes it impossible to have a conversation with him without getting wet, and he’s about as bright as a burnt-out candle.”

  “I think he’s charming, and his estate in Hampshire is said to be one of the most beautiful homes in England. I am looking forward to redecorating it.”

  “If it’s so beautiful, why redecorate?” Phineas asked.

  “Oh, Phin, you are silly. It’s what new brides do. I will put my stamp on his heart and his home.”

  “It will be difficult to put a stamp on Kelton’s heart. I doubt he has one. I saw him kick a puppy once,” Phineas muttered.

  She sent him a look that said he was trying her patience, and straightened herself in the saddle as another gentleman rode down the track toward them.

  Phineas was relieved to see it was Gilbert Fielding, someone sensible to talk to. “Gil!” he called, beckoning to him. Gilbert came, but his eyes were on Miranda. “You bought that stallion, I see.”

  “And you bought the mare,” Gilbert replied, tipping his hat to Miranda, who blushed under Gil’s scrutiny. “She suits you well, Lady Miranda. She is almost as lovely as her rider.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fielding,” Miranda said, and batted her lashes as she stroked the horse’s neck.

  “Isn’t it a fine morning?” Gilbert asked her, and Phineas cast another glance at the glowering sky, then looked a
t Miranda.

  She smiled. A real smile, not a simper, the kind with teeth and warmth. Phineas frowned. That kind of smile used to be reserved only for him.

  “Yes, it is a lovely morning. I was just telling Phineas it was, but he disagreed with me.”

  “Phineas, how unchivalrous you are,” Gilbert joked, his smile as bright as Miranda’s. “I daresay wherever Lady Miranda goes, it’s a lovely day, no matter what the weather.” Phineas stared at Gilbert. Odd. He’d never sounded like an idiot before.

  Miranda blushed and made a show of patting the mare again, and the silly conversation turned to banalities about parties and horses. Phineas stared down the track, waiting. He had things to do, mysteries to solve, a lady to find.

  He’d spent the wee hours of the morning sitting in his study with the few scant clues to Yasmina’s identity lined up on the desk before him.

  The jeweled slipper would be more at home in a harem than in dirty London.

  The portrait miniature was a fond and indistinct watercolor of a baby, but there was no name or date to give him a clue. The child gazed out at him with bronze curls, solemn eyes, and a rosebud mouth that might have belonged to any infant in England.

  The last two items disturbed him most. The monogrammed handkerchief was made of the finest Irish linen and the most delicate French lace. It was a smuggler’s token, a symbol of betrayal and treason. The embroidered rose looked much like the tiny silk flower Yasmina had left behind in the conservatory. Too much. He still had the uneasy feeling in his gut that usually meant trouble. It haunted him, like the soft sweetness of her perfume, her damned drugging kisses, her luscious body. He shifted in the saddle, silently cursing a very inconvenient erection.

  “Phin, do pay attention. I’ve asked you twice if you’re ready to ride on!” Miranda said, and he turned to her. She tossed her head, making the feather in her saucy hat bounce for Gilbert’s sake, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes with a mischievous half smile. She kicked the mare into a trot. Phineas nodded to Gilbert and followed his sister, fully aware that Fielding stood by the track and watched them go.

  “Planning on naming the mare Fielding instead?” he asked.

  Miranda sighed. “Possibly. What is Lord Fielding’s title?”

  Phineas grinned. “Lord Fielding is his father’s title. Gilbert hasn’t got one. He’s a second son. His father is an earl, though.”

  “Does he have a fortune?” she asked.

  “Not a farthing.”

  Annoyance kindled in her blue eyes. “Does he have anything to recommend him other than a handsome face, a fine horse, and a charming manner?”

  “Well, he’s a decent shot, an honorable fellow, and pleasant company. Isn’t that enough?” Phineas said. “And those were his own teeth he was grinning at you with, I believe.”

  “Teeth!” Miranda muttered. The debutante was back, raising her chin in disdain. “Too bad. I shall have to marry Kelton after all.”

  Phineas noted that she completely forgot to flirt with the next gentleman they passed, much to the man’s dismay. She glanced over her shoulder instead, to where penniless, titleless Gilbert Fielding was riding away, sitting tall in his saddle.

  Phineas wondered if Gil would christen his stallion Miranda.

  Chapter 19

  “There’s a gentleman from Waterfield Abbey to see Lord Charles, my lady,” Finch said, hovering in the doorway of the library where Isobel was pretending to read. Blackwood’s face filled every page. She put the book down.

  “I see. Does Lord Charles wish to use this room?”

  “Er, no, my lady. His lordship is out, and so is Lady Honoria. The gentleman has asked to speak with you,” he said, his tone apologetic. “He’s come a long way, and it seems urgent, if I may be so bold. I told him I would see if you are at home.”

  Isobel hesitated. She should ask Finch to tell the man to come back when Charles was available, but Waterfield Abbey was hers. If there was urgent news, didn’t she have the right to hear it?

  “Please show him in, Finch.” She got to her feet and clasped her hands, waiting. The man entered the library and stopped near the door. He bowed, his expression grim, as if unsure of his welcome.

  “Good day, my lady. I’m Jonathan Hart. I’m the steward at Waterfield Abbey.”

  Isobel smiled. “Of course. I remember you from my time at Waterfield as a child, Mr. Hart. Do sit down.”

  He took several more steps into the room but remained on his feet, holding his hat before him like a shield. “I’d prefer to stand,” he said grimly.

  His expression was respectful but hardly friendly as he met her eyes briefly before lowering his gaze to the carpet. Confused, Isobel sat down in the chair nearest him. Her bold confidence in her ability to handle the matter on her own quailed.

  “Finch mentioned there is an urgent matter you wish to discuss. I’m afraid Lord Charles isn’t here—”

  “Actually, I was hoping to see you, my lady.”

  “Me?” Isobel asked, surprised.

  “It’s about conditions at Waterfield. The servants haven’t been paid, and Lord Charles has dismissed many of them from their posts. There’s also a number of repairs that can’t wait.” His eyes kindled with frustration. “I’ve sent a number of requests to Lord Charles for money to buy livestock and seed and the supplies I need to keep the place in good repair, but I have not received anything from him. When he’s there, he ignores me. I can’t run the place on nothing.”

  Isobel stared at him. Honoria had boasted to Marianne that Waterfield was making a good profit under Charles’s brilliant management. Charles had recently bought new horses and an expensive curricle.

  “I hadn’t heard. Is there some mistake, perhaps?”

  Mr. Hart thrust a sheet of figures at her. “I have the expenses listed, my lady. I know you likely hate the old place now, in light of what happened there, but it’s prime land, and the people are good-hearted, hardworking souls. It’s a shame to see it fall to ruin under the circumstances—”

  “In light of what happened there?” Isobel repeated, confused.

  “Yes, my lady. We were all very sorry, of course. Our condolences were sincere, I assure you, but—”

  “To what are you referring, Mr. Hart?”

  “Why, to Lord Robert’s death, my lady.” The man looked as confused as Isobel. He cast a quick look at the door, as if he wanted to summon help, or flee.

  “But what has my husband’s death to do with Waterfield? He died at Ashdown Park.” She wondered if the man was befuddled. He’d been steward of Waterfield for nearly thirty years. Was age making him forgetful?

  He shook his head, and she noted his eyes were sharp and clear, his expression sure. “The Earl of Ashdown, Lord Robert, your husband, died at Waterfield. I was there when they brought his body up from the beach. I helped bury him in the churchyard, in accordance with Lord Charles’s orders.”

  Isobel’s stomach knotted itself. Honoria had told her Robert died of a fever in his bed at Ashdown Park. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Honoria had not even allowed her to attend the funeral. He’d been interred quickly, she said, for fear his illness might be catching.

  “How did he die?” she asked quietly.

  The man shifted his feet, looking at her as if he feared she might be daft. She held his gaze steadily. “Why, he was shot of course, Countess.”

  Heat rose under her collar and she clutched the list of expenses in her lap, barely aware of the crackle of the paper in her hand.

  “Shall I call someone for you, get you a glass of water, perhaps?” he asked, his brow wrinkling in concern.

  “Under what circumstances was he shot?” she asked.

  Hart looked sympathetic. “Smugglers, my lady,” he said in a half whisper. “They told me it was a highwayman, but there are no highwaymen on the beach at night. They’d be on the roads, wouldn’t they?”

  “I see.” Isobel rose to her feet and crossed to the window, staring out
at the street without seeing it.

  They’d lied to her about her husband’s death.

  Robert had been shot by smugglers. Surely that wasn’t possible. There was some mistake. But in her gut she knew Hart’s account was true. He had no reason to lie.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but about the list, and money?” Mr. Hart asked after a few moments, his tone desperate.

  She shut her eyes, realizing that she was powerless to help him. She had no access to her own funds. She turned to look at him. “I have your list, but I must speak to Lord Charles.” His face fell, and she held out a hand. “Truly, I’ll do what I can, Mr. Hart.”

  “I see.” Hart sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Then I shall do my best to speak to his lordship when he’s next at Waterfield.” He made a stiff, awkward bow. “Good day to you, Countess. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He turned toward the door.

  “Mr. Hart?” Isobel called after him.

  “Yes, my lady?” he said, and his eyebrows rose hopefully.

  “How often is my brother-in-law at Waterfield?”

  “Why, very often, my lady. Once a month or more.”

  “I see. Will you wait?” She hurried past him and went up the stairs, furious. They had lied to her about her husband’s death. She opened the door to her room and crossed to her jewelry box. She took out her hated wedding band, and the emerald betrothal ring too. If Mr. Hart sold them, they might fetch enough to pay a few months’ wages. Her hand hovered over her grandmother’s pearls for a moment before she scooped them up. She turned to go back downstairs.

  She made it as far as the doorway, then turned and stared back at the jewelry box.

  Dread closed her throat.

  Her fingers crept up to her neck, but there was no chain there. She moved toward the dressing table and reached out with numb fingers to touch the edge of the lid. She whispered a prayer as she opened the box again.