Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  He’d just stood there, staring at her, his expression unreadable, until she thought her heart would pound its way out of her chest and land at his feet.

  Even now, hours later, as she drove to the theatre with Honoria and Charles, he wouldn’t leave her be. She stared out at the passing city, knowing he would be at the theatre. Her body prickled with nerves, and she pressed a hand to the throbbing pulse at her throat.

  “Charles, you’ll have an opportunity to pay your respects to Miranda tonight,” Honoria said to him. “Take Isobel with you to the Westlake box. She’ll keep Marianne busy so you may speak with Miranda more intimately.”

  “What do you want me to do, Mother, propose, or have my way with her while Isobel distracts her family?” Charles barked a laugh at his own jest.

  “Really, Charles, there’s no cause for that kind of talk,” Honoria said. “Are you drunk?”

  “I wish,” he grumbled. “Look, the chit doesn’t like me. I’d marry her fast enough, if only for her fortune, but she hasn’t shown the slightest bit of regard for me.”

  Honoria shifted in her seat. “Isobel, I can only lay this at your door. Have you been using your influence with Marianne?”

  Isobel’s stomach churned. At least in the dark she didn’t have to smile. “Of course,” she lied. “But Marianne says that His Grace expects Miranda to not only marry money, but a title.”

  “A title, eh?” Charles growled. “I’d have one if not for—”

  “Charles!” Honoria stopped him, but Isobel felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

  If not for Robin.

  If her son didn’t exist, Charles would be Earl of Ashdown, and fit to marry a duke’s granddaughter. She glanced at her mother-in-law’s shadowed profile, waiting for Honoria to defend Robin, but she said nothing, and fear jabbed at Isobel. A connection to a duke would benefit Honoria as well.

  Panic shook Isobel to action. “Did Mr. Hart meet with you yesterday?” she asked in a rush. “He came to see me while you were out, and he says there are repairs that need—”

  Charles buried his fists in the collar of her cloak, jerking her forward. Isobel struggled to pull away but he held her fast.

  “You spoke to Hart?” he snarled. “You dare to interfere with things that don’t concern you?”

  Isobel struggled against his grip.

  “You met with Jonathan Hart?” Honoria demanded. “Alone? Charles, let her go. She can’t tell us anything if you’re choking her.”

  Charles released her, and Isobel fell backward against the seat, gasping. “Since Robert saw fit to leave everything in my capable hands, he must have believed you did not have the sense to manage important estates. He wanted you to concentrate on raising Robin.”

  But she didn’t raise Robin, Isobel wanted to scream. She had no say at all in how her son was brought up. She felt ice cold sweat prickle between her breasts. She swallowed, but the knot of fear remained. “No one was home. He insisted on seeing someone, and Finch thought—”

  “Do not lay this at Finch’s doorstep!” Honoria said shrilly. “It’s the kind of thing your mother would have done, sneaking around behind our backs. You owe us everything, Isobel, including the roof over your head. I hope you haven’t forgotten that. We shelter you, clothe you, and ask only obedience in return. If you weren’t the mother of Robert’s heir, you could do as you like, go where you wish, but Robin must be brought up without the taint of scandal attached to his name.”

  “Yes, Honoria,” Isobel said through clenched teeth. Anger and fear warred in her breast as the familiar threat rose up like the grim reaper. They could take Robin from her, and she would be powerless to stop them. She clenched her fists. She would never, ever let that happen. She straightened her spine.

  “Mother, I think the time has come to do something more final,” Charles began, but Honoria waved her hand, a shadowy, frightening thing in the semidarkness of the coach, which silenced him at once.

  “We will discuss it later, Charles. In private.” She turned to Isobel again. “What did Mr. Hart say to you about Waterfield, Isobel?”

  That Robert had died there, shot by smugglers. Isobel wondered what other falsehoods lay buried with Robert. Anger rose, but fear advised her to tread cautiously.

  “H-He said nothing of importance, really. He merely said that seed was needed for the spring planting, and several cottages had been damaged by winter storms and wanted repair.” The lie marched off her tongue neatly enough, but it sounded false, and she braced for a blow or a pinch from Charles. It didn’t come. Isobel wondered if they could hear her heart pounding.

  “Is that all?” Honoria said.

  “Yes,” Isobel managed.

  Honoria let out a heavy sigh. “How impatient of the man! Charles has been busy touring the other Maitland holdings. If Hart was a better steward, then he would have managed these things himself. He should be dismissed, Charles. There are plenty of competent men—”

  “No!” Isobel cried.

  “It is not your business,” Charles grated.

  “But Mr. Hart worked for my uncle. He was at Waterfield when I was a child. It would be wrong to turn him away after so many years of good work.”

  “You see, there’s the proof that Robert was right,” Honoria said. “You are too stupid, too sentimental, to manage important estates.”

  Isobel’s indignation made her unwary. “But I haven’t been to Waterfield since I was a child. If I went there, saw what was needed, perhaps I could help. I could take Robin there for a few weeks. There’s a beach, and he might—”

  “Damn you, Isobel!” Charles snarled.

  “No.” Honoria’s tone was ice. “The boy would fall behind in his lessons. It’s best he stays in Town. He needs constant discipline.” Bitterness filled Isobel’s mouth. Silence fell over them like lead.

  “Actually, now that I think about it, I might allow you to take Robin for a holiday in the country after all,” Honoria said a few minutes later.

  “Mother! Not to Waterfield, surely!” Charles hissed.

  “I was thinking she might go to Ashdown Park, or to a more secluded manor, perhaps, with Jane.”

  “His tutors could travel with us,” Isobel said, snatching at the possibility, but again Honoria waved her hand for silence.

  “If I decide to allow it, you must do something for me in return, Isobel.”

  “What?” she asked, bracing for whatever dark favor Honoria might ask of her.

  “At the interval of the play tonight you will accompany Charles to the Westlake box. You will advise Lady Miranda what a wonderful husband Charles would make her, and you will be convincing. I want to see her smile at him, to accept his invitation to go driving in the park.”

  Isobel shut her eyes. They wanted her to lie. She would rather tell Miranda that the lowest footman in her grandfather’s service would make a better husband than Charles Maitland.

  The dilemma gnawed on her resolve with small sharp teeth. Could she ruin an innocent girl’s life to get Robin away from Charles and Honoria?

  “Isobel? Do you understand?” Honoria prompted. “There will be no visit to Ashdown if Charles does not wed. In fact, if he does not marry Miranda, I cannot see that there is any point in continuing your friendship with Marianne Westlake at all. Perhaps that connection should be severed for good.”

  A wave of despair left Isobel trembling. They would take everything. Her son’s happiness, her only friend, even the job of a loyal steward she cared about. How she hated them! Her mind worked frantically to find a way around helping Honoria and Charles to ruin another woman’s life the way they’d destroyed hers.

  “Do you understand what I expect you to do?” Honoria demanded again.

  Isobel’s jaw tightened. She needed time to come up with a way out, a way to protect her son. For now, there was only one thing she could do.

  “I understand perfectly,” she said succinctly.

  Chapter 22

  Miranda clutched Phineas’s s
leeve as the curtain fell for the interval of the play. “Oh, good heavens, Charles is coming over here!” He felt his sister shudder as Honoria waggled her fingers at Miranda across the theatre.

  Marianne waved back, and Miranda grabbed her sister’s hand. “For pity’s sake, Marianne, waving will only encourage them!”

  Marianne tugged her hand away and raised her opera glasses to follow Charles’s progress. “At least he’s bringing Isobel with him!”

  Phineas’s gut tightened. He was supposed to be on his way to Maitland House, but if he left now it would look like a snub to Charles and Isobel. Not that he cared what they thought of his manners, but Charles might be suspicious, and his job was easier when no one suspected a thing. The arrest of the French agent was sure to have made someone nervous.

  The Duchess of Welford rose. “We really must be getting back to Welford. He slept through the whole of the first act. If I don’t go and wake him, he’ll sleep through the second act as well. Come, Amelia, bid Blackwood good-night.”

  Marianne lowered her opera glasses and turned to her sister. “Quick, Miranda, go with Her Grace and Amelia to the Welford box. If Charles follows you there, then go on to Colonel Lord Hollister’s box, with Her Grace’s permission, of course.”

  “Oh, Mother won’t object,” Amelia said eagerly. “Anthony is here with his mother. Lady Hollister is my godmother.”

  “Isn’t it undignified to be racing about the theatre to avoid someone?” Adam asked. “Miranda could simply remain here, preserve her dignity and say hello if he comes over. There is no guarantee he’s even heading this way.”

  “He most certainly is, Adam. I know it in my bones,” Marianne argued. “Off you go, Miranda, or it will be too late.”

  With a giggle, Miranda and Amelia fled.

  Marianne fixed her husband with a scathing glare. “One would almost think you wished to see her married to that toad!”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll go and order some champagne. I’ll leave you to your wicked schemes, my dear. Coming, Phin?”

  Phineas rose to go, but Marianne caught his arm. “You can’t leave me alone to greet Charles Maitland! Whatever will I say to him? We need to give Miranda time to make her escape. You don’t mind, do you, Phin? Wouldn’t you like to say hello to Isobel?”

  He most definitely did not wish to say hello or anything else to Isobel. He wished to go and search her brother-in-law’s desk, and rifle through Isobel’s drawers, but a lady’s entreaty, even when that lady was your sister, left a gentleman no choice but to bow and acquiesce to her wishes.

  Phineas pasted a smile over gritted teeth and sat down, hoping there’d still be time to slip away once Marianne began to chatter to her friend. He tapped his fingers on his knee as he waited impatiently.

  He leapt to his feet when Isobel Maitland entered with Charles.

  “Isobel! What a lovely gown,” Marianne gushed. “How pretty you look tonight.”

  Phineas glanced at her dress. The subtle blue-green shimmer of the silk enhanced the copper of her hair, brought out the golden lights in her eyes and made the soft flush of her cheeks, well, charming. The delicate embroidery around the neckline of the gown drew his eyes to her bodice and the feminine curves beneath. He felt his chest tighten, and told himself it was merely curiosity, not interest in what lay beneath her clothing.

  Still, as she passed him to reach Marianne, her gown brushed over the fine wool of his breeches, a caress as sensual as skin on skin, and he felt a jolt of awareness of Isobel Maitland as a woman.

  “Where is Lady Miranda? Charles asked, not bothering with greetings.

  “Off to pay her respects to the Duke and Duchess of Welford,” Marianne replied. “Isobel, do sit down. Adam went to get some champagne. Would you like a glass?”

  “I shouldn’t,” Isobel murmured.

  “Oh, go ahead. It might loosen your tongue,” Charles said cryptically, and Phineas watched Isobel blush.

  “Stay here with Countess Westlake,” Charles said. “I think I’ll go pay my own visit to the Welfords.” Then he left as he’d come, with no regard to anyone.

  Even Marianne was momentarily stunned into silence by his rudeness. Isobel stared at the floor, her face as red as her hair, as Marianne recovered enough to organize everyone.

  “Take Miranda’s seat, Isobel. She won’t be back until the play ends. The duchess will keep a close eye on her. What do you think of the play?”

  Isobel gracefully took the seat in front of Phineas, and sitting behind her, he only half listened to the conversation. Etiquette demanded he remain until Adam returned, and he stared at the back of Isobel’s head, cursing the delay. As usual, her hair was twisted in a matronly bun, drawn upward with skin-pulling tension, every strand as stiff as a bowstring.

  She ignored him completely, so he moved his feet to remind her of his presence, and she jumped and shot him a wary glance.

  So she was aware of him. The tightness in her shoulders said so as she turned away again. She was nervous, but whether that was due to him or another cause, he couldn’t tell. She sent sidelong glances at the Maitland box from time to time, where Honoria sat like a great pink silk spider in the dark, the glittering orbs of her opera glasses alternately trained on Charles, still racing about the galleries behind the boxes, and Isobel.

  Poor Charles arrived at the Welford box just as the lights dimmed for the second act, only to find Miranda and Amelia had gone on to the Hollister box, and all he could do was pay brief respects to Welford before taking his leave, since the duke did not invite him to sit.

  “I should go. The second half is beginning,” Isobel said, rising. Phineas got to his feet as well, and they came nose-to-nose for an instant. She stepped back quickly, almost falling, and he caught her elbow to steady her. The skin above her glove was unexpectedly cool and soft. She made an odd little sound of distress under her breath and pulled away as if his touch burned.

  Something about that sound, soft and needy, prickled in the back of his brain, but Marianne grabbed Isobel’s other arm.

  “Do stay here with us, Isobel—you’ll miss the start of the second act if you walk back now, and I cannot send you away unescorted. Phineas is so engrossed in the story, you see, and I know he’d hate to miss a minute. Adam should be back any moment with the champagne.”

  She fixed her brother with a conspirator’s squint, but he looked at Isobel, ready to escort her back if she wished, regardless of Marianne’s insistence that she stay. But her eyes were soft and wide, so clear he felt he could drown in them. He drew a breath of surprise as another jolt of sexual awareness shot through him.

  Marianne shook Isobel’s arm, breaking the spell. “Look, Charles is safely back with Honoria, and Amelia and Miranda are sitting with the Hollisters. Since everyone is comfortable, the matter is settled. Do sit down, Isobel.”

  Adam returned with a waiter bearing champagne, and Phineas watched Isobel’s eyes slide shut as she sipped the effervescent golden liquid, saw her lick a drop of wine from her lip in the semidarkness, leaving a gleam of wetness on her mouth. He frowned.

  Where had he seen that before?

  The curtain rose, and Isobel turned to face the stage. Contrary to what Marianne had told her, Phineas wasn’t engrossed in the play at all. He knew he should be on his way to Maitland House, but would now have to wait until there was a sword fight or a love scene on stage to keep the audience’s interest. The ton attended the theatre more to look at each other than to watch the entertainment they had paid to see. The slightest movement toward the exit now was sure to cause a hundred pairs of opera glasses to turn in his direction.

  Marianne was whispering to Isobel, a sibilant twitter that nearly drowned out the players. Phineas rolled his eyes. Did Marianne ever stop talking? Half the audience was glaring at her. At this rate it would take a fire in the pit for him to get away unseen.

  He glanced at Adam for help, but his brother-in-law was watching the play as if it were the most fascinating thi
ng on earth. Impatience fizzed in Phineas’s gut. He’d have to wait. Charles, he knew, would go on to his club afterward, but Isobel, dull widow that she was, would likely go straight home to bed. Even if she and Honoria had another party or ball to attend after the theatre, he couldn’t be certain when they would arrive home, or how much time he’d have. At this rate he’d end up lurking in the shadows outside Maitland House in the cold rain, waiting for the last light to go out. While not impossible, it would be riskier to search the place if they were at home.

  Waiting for another night was out of the question. They needed information now, and there were other leads, other suspects to tumble, if the Maitlands didn’t provide anything useful.

  Marianne was still whispering without a pause. She would chatter through the whole rest of the play, now that she had someone to talk to.

  Phineas stared at the little frill of untamed curls at the nape of Isobel’s white neck. Those wayward tendrils were the only soft thing about her. In the dark, her pale neck and shoulders looked like they’d been carved out of marble. It was easy to imagine her as a statue of a Grecian goddess in a forgotten corner of a dusty museum. The only flaw on her perfect skin was a tiny mole on the back of her neck, nearly hidden by her hair.

  Odd. Yasmina—or Charlotte—had a mole in the same place. He remembered caressing it, drawing circles around it with his fingers as he kissed her.

  Phineas’s heart skipped a beat. Then it stopped entirely as he stared at the spot. He forced himself to breathe. He blinked at it in the low light, hoping it was a speck of lint, a bit of dirt, a blemish that could be explained away or flicked off with a fingernail.

  It was indeed a mole. Horror gripped his belly, pushing the champagne back up his throat. Adam leaned in as well, putting his head next to Phineas’s, squinting along with him at the mark.

  “Spider?” he asked quietly.

  Phineas didn’t answer, Couldn’t. He stared, willed the spot to disappear. It didn’t move.