Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  The blood drained from her limbs, and she sat down heavily on the little chair before the mirror. The portrait of Robin was missing. She hadn’t noticed until now.

  She knew exactly where it was.

  Chapter 20

  The ladies of Maitland House gasped as Phineas arrived for tea, uninvited and unwelcome.

  He stood beside his sisters and Adam and smiled charmingly at the three females gaping at him.

  Honoria’s pale blue eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

  The second woman stared at him like he was a cream cake and she was starving. Her eyes roamed over him, and she gave a shivering little gasp and laid a hand to her cheek. No one bothered to introduce her.

  Isobel blinked at him in pinch-lipped shock as if a cat had dragged him in bloody and left him on the rug at her feet. “Lord Blackwood,” she murmured through clenched teeth, as though his name was a second corpse. “We didn’t expect you.” She dipped a stiff curtsy and turned away, her cheeks scarlet.

  “Jane, more teacups will be needed,” Honoria said as she dragged her eyes off Phineas and looked at the bemused woman beside her. But she didn’t move. She was still gazing at him, her eyes wide, her lower lip caught in her teeth, so he smiled at her again, and watched hot color flood her sallow face, knowing besotted females were often the most useful.

  “Jane Kirk!” Honoria said more loudly, elbowing the woman so hard she nearly fell over. “Go and fetch the tea, I say!”

  Miranda sidled closer to Phineas under Charles’s stare, which even made Phineas queasy. He squeezed his sister’s hand and crossed the room to take the seat Honoria indicated, a chair well away from her own.

  The salon’s decor reminded Phineas of an expensive brothel, where the art, the lavish fabric, even the vases and knickknacks, were chosen for their extravagant cost, rather than any real sense of taste. The effect of such things in a countess’s sitting room was garish. Given Isobel’s long mourning, he had expected the house to be a shrine to Robert Maitland, but there wasn’t a single portrait or memento to be seen.

  He decided that the room must owe its extraordinary decorations to Honoria and Charles rather than Isobel. Honoria held court in an expensive ruffled fuchsia gown, cut in a style meant for a debutante, not a plump matron of sixty. Charles looked like an overfed pasha, in a green silk waistcoat and sporting a large ruby in his cravat.

  Isobel was a respite for the eyes. Her dove gray gown was soothing amid the clutter, like shade on a hot day. Her vibrant hair was a bonfire against the ashen dress. He had to admit she looked elegant and rather pretty, even with her back and neck stiff with indignation at his presence.

  She took a seat across from his, and left the responsibility of serving tea to her mother-in-law and Jane. He watched her, refusing to believe such a dull woman could be in charge of a ring of smugglers. She was probably afraid of the dark, and he’d wager she never touched strong spirits. She obviously had no passion for silk or French lace.

  She caught him staring, and her eyes widened as she met his speculative gaze. Hot color rose in her cheeks and she looked away, pursing her lips. He damned her for being so outraged that he had dared to enter her home. He stretched out his legs, made himself comfortable. She pretended to concentrate on her tea.

  Her hands on the china cup were long-fingered and delicate. She cast another bird-quick glance at him, her eyes bobbing over him in hasty appraisal, from the knot in his cravat to the toes of his boots, before darting away again. Her becoming blush deepened, and he noted the throb of her pulse above her prim collar.

  Phineas was well aware of the effect he had on women. He shocked them, like Honoria, or bemused them, like Jane Kirk, but Isobel’s reaction baffled him. She acted as if he’d caught her naked. It was a most intriguing reaction from the dull widow.

  He made her nervous just by sitting across a room from her. She kept a pale imitation of a polite smile on her face, but a perpetual blush belied her agitation. From time to time she sent him sideways looks from under her lashes, and he found himself waiting for those glances, counting them.

  He wondered how she would react if he touched her hot cheek, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Arousal stirred unexpectedly and he shifted in his seat.

  The devil! He was not attracted to a frumpy little snipe like Isobel Maitland. He would, of course, do his duty if he had to, but bedding her for information about Charles would hardly be a pleasure. Well, perhaps for her.

  He forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the conversation.

  “I understand you hold a property down the coast from my own, Countess. A place called Waterfield Abbey?” Adam said, subtly steering the discussion.

  “It was one of my uncle’s estates, my lord. I have not been there since I was a chi—”

  “Did you know Charles controls seven estates?” Honoria interrupted, directing the question to Miranda, who blushed, unsure how to reply.

  “How many of them are by the sea?” Adam asked.

  “Oh, Adam!” Marianne rolled her eyes. “Do forgive my husband, Lady Honoria. He grew up by the sea, and is obsessed with ships and tides and the stars.”

  “I see,” Honoria said, as if such an occupation was highly improper for an earl. Her predatory smile returned as she looked back at Miranda. “Are you enjoying your Season in London, my dear? I hear your name everywhere. You are quite the most successful debutante this year. Charles is considered one of the most eligible gentlemen, you know.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Miranda said, her tone wooden. “I am enjoying the parties very much, and I like to ride in the park when the weather is fine.”

  “Do you?” Honoria cried. “Charles! You must take Lady Miranda riding! Actually, he has a brand new curricle you might enjoy taking a turn in. The chestnuts he bought to pull it are perfectly matched, almost twins.”

  “Thank you,” Miranda replied, “but I’m sure I have appointments arranged for some time to come, my lady.”

  “Perfect!” Honoria crowed, undeterred. “We have a week or two yet until the finest weather is upon us. By then, no doubt, you will have plenty of time. I shall write to your great-aunt so she may put it on your calendar.”

  Miranda looked ill.

  “It has been a very mild spring, hasn’t it?” Adam tried again. “The flowers are a welcome sight, but I am looking forward to seeing my roses bloom. Do you like roses, Countess?”

  “I prefer violets, my lord,” Isobel said quietly.

  “You must come and see Adam’s conservatory, Isobel,” Marianne said. “He collects exotic plants, including violets . . .”

  Phineas watched Isobel blush again, and slide an anxious glance at her mother-in-law, who was still grinning at Miranda like a tiger with prey in sight. Isobel did not look at him, though her eyes went everywhere else as Marianne prattled on.

  It didn’t matter. He was remembering the conservatory in the dark, with far more luscious company. He and Yasmina had probably crushed quite a number of Adam’s exotic plants in their haste to renew their acquaintance, violets included.

  He shifted in his chair and looked around the room again, making note of the cabinets and drawers. Later, when he returned at night, he would know where to search.

  “Perhaps it’s time we took our leave, my dear,” Adam said to his wife, interrupting Honoria before she could launch into more gushing praise of Charles. “We wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  “Of course. I’ll go up to the nursery and fetch Jamie. Isobel, will you show me where it is?”

  Phineas got to his feet. “I’ll accompany you as well, if I may. I haven’t met Jamie’s new friend.” He met the look of horror on Isobel Maitland’s face with a firm and steady gaze. She quickly looked away, and he had an unexpected urge to put a hand under her chin, to raise her face and read what was hidden in her eyes.

  “Charles and I will happily keep Lady Miranda and Lord Westlake company until you return,” Honoria said. “Jane, accompany Isobel up
stairs, in case Lady Marianne needs anything.”

  Phineas watched Isobel’s lips tighten as she led the way out of the room. Marianne linked arms with her friend as they climbed the stairs, and chattered in her ear.

  Phineas glanced at the doors leading off the hall. One stood ajar, and he paused, feigning interest in a painting, peering through the open door. A large desk squatted in the center of an unremarkable room. “I see Lord Charles keeps a library,” he said to Jane Kirk conversationally.

  “He uses it as his study,” she simpered. “There is a collection of old books, which I believe belonged to the countess’s father, but she is the only one who reads them,” Jane added, looking daggers at Isobel’s back as the two countesses climbed the stairs.

  “Are there any family portraits?” Phineas asked. Jane’s thin brows slammed together in bafflement. “I have an interest in portraits,” he lied, giving Jane an encouraging smile. A widow as devoted as Isobel probably kept a life-sized picture of her dead husband hanging over her cold, lonely bed, if only to hide a safe full of yellowing love letters. He very much wanted to see her room.

  “Portraits,” Jane parroted. “Well, there are three paintings of Lady Honoria in the house, one of Lord Charles, and one of the late earl, Lord Robert.”

  “Would it be possible to see them?” Phineas asked. “I knew Lord Robert. I would be most interested to see if the artist did him justice.”

  Jane looked as if she might melt if he smiled at her again, so he did. “Ohhh.” She raised a trembling hand to her flushed cheek and led him upstairs.

  By the time they reached the second floor, Isobel and Marianne had already disappeared up the stairs to the third. He waited as Jane opened a set of oak doors just wide enough to slip into the room.

  The countess’s suite was decorated much like the salon downstairs. Insipid shades of lavender and purple assaulted the senses. The cloying scent of perfume hung heavy in the air. Unfortunately, the door to her bedchamber was closed.

  “There it is,” Jane said, pointing to a portrait of Robert Maitland that hung in the place of honor over the fireplace. Robert looked back at Phineas, a thinner, fair-haired version of Charles. His pale blue eyes were Honoria’s, as was the thin, selfish mouth.

  “He was a handsome man,” Jane sighed. “This painting doesn’t do him justice.”

  Phineas turned, and found a picture of Lady Honoria gazing down at him from the opposite wall. Now why would Isobel keep a portrait of a woman she disliked in her rooms?

  “How extraordinary. I would have thought such an impressive portrait of Lady Honoria would have pride of place downstairs. Of perhaps in her own rooms,” he said.

  “Oh, but this is Lady Honoria’s room. She took over the countess’s suites when Lord Robert died. Lady Isobel has a smaller room down the hall. Lord Charles occupies the earl’s apartments, of course. And there is a portrait of Lady Honoria in the library, and another in the dining room, but this one is her favorite.”

  “Does Lady Isobel keep a portrait of Lord Robert in her suite?” he asked, hoping it would be that simple.

  Jane sniffed. “No. She has a small watercolor of the sixth earl, Master Robin, that she painted herself. She also has a miniature of her own mother, but she keeps it hidden, and thinks no one knows.” Her eyes turned shrewish. “If Lady Honoria knew Charlotte the Harlot’s portrait was in this house, she’d be very displeased. I could tell her if I wanted to, of course.”

  Lady Charlotte Fraser was Isobel’s mother?

  He remembered the bawdy songs and salacious tales of Charlotte the Harlot. The scandal was still fresh when he arrived in London. He’d been eighteen at the time. Isobel must have been a child.

  “We should find the countess, I believe,” he said, but Jane took a bold step toward him, her thin lips puckered for a kiss. He hesitated. A kiss would ensure her silence, possibly win him more help later if he needed it, but he could not bring himself to lower his mouth to meet the servant’s shriveled lips, not while Yasmina’s lush mouth filled his mind.

  “We should rejoin Lady Isobel, Miss Kirk. I do not wish you to get into any trouble for merely showing me a portrait.”

  Her jaw dropped and she stared at him. Her ugly purple blush perfectly matched the room’s decor. He kept his expression cool until she lowered her eyes.

  “This way, then, my lord. Up the stairs and to the right,” she said tartly.

  He followed her down the hall. “That is Isobel’s room,” Jane said as they passed a narrow door at the end of the hallway. By Phineas’s estimation, it was right above the library, facing the street. He wished he had the opportunity to slip inside now, to satisfy his curiosity, but Jane was already halfway up the stairs, her expression closed and unhelpful. He’d probably have to ravish her on the spot to get any more information. It would be easier—and more pleasant—to come back later and find what he needed on his own.

  Laughter bounced through the open door of the nursery, and he paused on the threshold. Jamie and the young Earl of Ashdown were sprawled on the floor playing a game of cards. Marianne sat beside them, carefully guarding her hand against Jamie’s attempts to cheat.

  To his surprise, the happy peals of laughter were coming from Isobel as she took a trick from Marianne. She was lying on her stomach, her knees bent, trim legs folded upward and crossed at the ankles.

  Phineas stopped where he was. Isobel Maitland was not just pretty. She was beautiful. He’d never seen her smile, but she was grinning at her son with so much adoration in her eyes that his breath caught in his throat and a pit of longing opened in his stomach. Something elusive flitted through his brain as he watched her.

  “Countess!” Jane Kirk interrupted the fun, a pruny look of disapproval on her face as she glared at Isobel. “The marquess has come to fetch his sister and Lord James.”

  The smiles on all four faces instantly faded. He felt like a storm cloud over a picnic. Isobel righted herself in a lithe, graceful motion, covering her shapely legs and ankles, taking Robin’s hand to stand silently before him, her face scarlet. Through tight lips she introduced Phineas to her son, both of them regarding him with solemn hazel eyes, as if he, and not Jane Kirk, had spoiled the game.

  It was a look he was used to. He’d seen it often enough in the eyes of his family, and anyone else who imagined they were better, smarter, more respectable than he was. He felt his mouth twist bitterly.

  “It’s time to go, Marianne,” he said, still looking at Isobel. She was flushed from playing, and a few fragile curls had crept free of the tight hairpins to frame rosy cheeks. He couldn’t seem to look away from her. Didn’t want to. Her eyes held his, her thoughts unreadable in the luminous depths.

  Then Jamie launched himself onto Phineas’s leg, where he clung like a fox terrier, demanding attention. Phineas grinned and ruffled his nephew’s dark hair.

  “Phin, the Maitlands are also attending the theatre tonight,” Marianne said. “I thought Isobel might sit with us, but she won’t agree. Use your famous charm to convince her.”

  “I’m sure Lady Honoria would not approve,” Jane Kirk said, and everyone looked at the servant.

  “Why ever not?” Marianne asked, eyeing the bold servant coldly. Jane had the good sense not to answer.

  “It’s a kind offer, Marianne, truly,” Isobel said, “but I really must keep Honoria company.”

  “I’m sure Lord Charles would be pleased to sit with you, Countess Westlake, especially if Lady Miranda is attending the play,” Jane Kirk suggested pertly.

  Marianne glared at her. “Hold your tongue! You have forgotten your place, Miss Kirk. I am speaking to the countess, and you are interrupting.”

  Phineas hid a smile. Marianne sounded like Great-Aunt Augusta, but it needed to be said, and it appeared that Isobel was too busy staring at the floor to rebuke Jane.

  There was more here than just an impertinent servant. Jane Kirk was glaring at Isobel from the corner of her eye. She’d even moved to stand between the two counte
sses. Perhaps Jane was a poor relative and had more standing in the family than he thought. Under her withering glare, Isobel’s expression was fixed once more into placid nothingness. All traces of the radiant beauty had flown.

  “Come, Marianne, Adam is waiting,” Phineas murmured.

  Isobel came out of her trance and bent to kiss her son on the top of his head. “I’ll see you later, Robbie,” she whispered.

  “He has lessons this afternoon, Countess,” Jane reminded her, and again Phineas waited for Isobel to correct the impudent servant, but she did not.

  He moved aside to allow Marianne, Jamie, and Isobel to precede him out the door. He pointedly stepped in front of Jane Kirk.

  Isobel’s back was stiff as she descended the stairs ahead of him, her shoulders tight. She had pride, and it had obviously been wounded. Whatever she was in this odd household, it appeared that Jane Kirk had some power over Lady Isobel. Another secret, perhaps?

  His senses tingled. Now that he knew the layout of the place, he would come back tonight. This odd visit had tripled the number of questions he wanted answers to.

  Chapter 21

  Isobel couldn’t believe it. Blackwood had been in her salon.

  Well, not her salon, Honoria’s, which was worse. Honoria had raged over the infamous rake’s audacity all afternoon, saying he quite ruined the mood of the day, though Isobel could not see how, since he’d said almost nothing.

  He just sat staring at her.

  He made her feel as if she were a curiosity in the Tower Menagerie, or a clockwork toy that might be amusing if only it were wound. She was wound, all right, so tightly she thought she’d break in half with the tension.

  She’d almost run out of the room in sheer relief when Marianne suggested they go upstairs to the nursery, but he asked to come along. He disappeared with Jane, and she’d hoped he had decided to wait downstairs after all.

  She’d been giddy once the terrible strain of his presence was lifted, and perhaps she did get a little carried away while playing in the nursery, but she hardly expected him to appear in the doorway and catch her sprawled on the floor.