Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  But what if Isobel was involved in Charles’s illicit activities? Then he himself could be compromised, possibly even implicated in any treasonous schemes the Maitlands were involved in. Hell, he might be already, if Isobel had taken note of him following Charles the other night. If she’d warned her brother-in-law, then the game would be lost, and he would be to blame.

  He sat back against the squabs. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it now. He could only wait, and hope that Isobel Maitland was not a mistake that would cost him everything.

  “Look, there’s the Earl of Clifton’s daughter,” Carrington said, forcing him back to the present. “She’s not as wealthy as Lady Amelia, but she would make an excellent marchioness. And Lady Wheaton is here with her niece. Fine lines to her. Good breeding stock.”

  Phineas wondered if each lady had been tested for soundness of wind and limb before Carrington allowed her inclusion on the guest list.

  “Well? Where will you sit, Blackwood? There’s a space open next to the very wealthy Miss Caroline Petry.”

  Phineas suppressed a smile as Lord Henry Morton took the spot and Caroline turned her horse-toothed grin on the man, dazzling him before his bottom had even hit the seat.

  Then Isobel entered the room, and he wasn’t aware of anything or anyone else. She stood out like a black rose in a posy of wildflowers. He waited for her to look at him, but Marianne accosted her and steered her toward Gilbert Fielding.

  Jealousy swept over Phineas as Marianne made the introduction herself and Gilbert smiled at Isobel, his eyes roaming over her with polite interest.

  He vowed that if Fielding so much as touched Isobel’s hand, he would call him out and shoot him. He realized he already had his glove off in readiness, and put it back on and smoothed his expression into a bland smirk.

  Carrington chuffed as eligible young ladies took their places next to eligible young men. “You’ve waited too long yet again, Blackwood. Amelia is already seated next to Lord Collingwood,” he growled.

  “Shall we tell him to move?” Phineas asked, and Carrington reddened.

  “You’ll have another opportunity to speak to Amelia at supper. I expect you to present yourself to her and the other young ladies I’ve mentioned. Pick one. I will see you at breakfast tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, and I want the name of your chosen bride by then, is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Your Grace,” Phineas replied, his gaze drifting back to Isobel as Gilbert bent close to listen to some remark she was making. He imagined the satisfying crunch Gilbert’s jaw would make under his fist.

  No one was going to make love to Isobel tonight but him. He would be the one surrounded by her hair, her perfume, her body, the one who heard those soft little noises of pleasure she made in the heat of passion.

  As if she’d read his mind, Isobel turned to look at him. She blushed from the modest neckline of her drab gown to the roots of her hair as he raised one eyebrow and smiled, making it clear what he was thinking. Her lips parted slightly, and he read suppressed desire in the stiff lines of her body.

  Then he heard the snap all the way across the room.

  Chapter 30

  Isobel felt Blackwood’s stare like a caress, a touch on her skin that she could feel everywhere at once. She felt the distance between them and the intimacy of their connection.

  He smiled. How could she make polite conversation when there was no mistaking what he was thinking? She could not give in to temptation tonight. She had to speak with him, find a few moments of privacy to—The fragile ivory fan she was holding snapped in her fist, as overwhelmed by the tension as she was.

  “Isobel!” Marianne cried, and Mr. Fielding reached for her hand.

  “Are you injured, Countess?” he asked. He took the broken fan and held her hand gently in his. “Perhaps if you remove your glove—”

  But Isobel felt Blackwood’s eyes on her more strongly than she felt Fielding’s tentative, careful touch. Her skin heated anew and she snatched her hand away. “I’m quite fine.”

  “How kind of you, Mr. Fielding,” Marianne said. “Are you certain there is no injury?” she asked Isobel.

  “It’s plain to me that she’s perfectly well,” said Miranda, glaring into Isobel’s eyes instead of looking at her hand.

  Isobel was aware of Blackwood watching, but he did not come forward to see if she was hurt. It was better he stayed away, she thought. She would surely melt if he touched even just her hand. The idea made her quiver.

  “Places, if you please, ladies and gentlemen!” Augusta’s butler called.

  “Mr. Fielding, if you would escort Isobel—” Marianne began, but Miranda put her hand on his arm, interrupting.

  “Look, there are still two seats in the front, Mr. Fielding. Shall we take them?” she asked, sweeping him away without a word of farewell.

  “Miranda!” Marianne called after her, but her sister was gazing at her escort, and he had obviously forgotten Isobel. “Well of all the cheek!” Marianne began, but Isobel caught her sleeve.

  “Lord Westlake is trying to get your attention,” she said, and Marianne hesitated. “Go ahead. I’ll find a seat on my own.”

  Isobel walked toward the back of the room, and Blackwood watched her move in his direction. She clasped her hands together, drawing her wits around her like a cloak. “I need to speak with you, my lord,” she whispered in a rush as she passed him. “Is there somewhere to talk?”

  She answered the teasing question in his eyes with a flat stare, and he bowed, sobering. “Meet me in the corridor after the violinist finishes his first piece.”

  She forced herself to nod, to step away from him and take her usual seat among the dowagers and wallflowers.

  Phineas gritted his teeth as the violinist raised his weapon to his chin and brandished the bow like a cudgel. He left the room at the instrument’s first scream and paced the corridor. He needed a private place to ask Isobel to be his mistress before he seduced her, but every room of Augusta’s magnificent mansion was open to guests during her parties, so that they might see and envy her magnificent collections of art and silver.

  There was a small sitting room on the second floor, currently being used by an artist Carrington had hired to paint Miranda’s portrait. The masterpiece was to remain unseen until it was unveiled at Miranda’s betrothal ball. It was the one room that would be closed to guests tonight, making it perfect for private discussion.

  The wail of the violin ended with a squeal, like an animal in pain given a merciful death. Phineas stood in the shadows and waited until Isobel stepped out of the salon. He felt a jolt as her eyes met his, and she put a hand to her throat. The evidence of her desire did nothing to soothe his own. He curled his fingers against the fine wool of his coat, resisting the urge to touch her.

  “Upstairs, third door on the left,” he murmured. “I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

  In the salon, the trill of a feminine voice rose, filled the room and spilled out into the corridor in search of more distant victims. Phineas fled, taking the stairs two at a time, following the faint echo of Isobel’s perfume.

  Beyond the half-open door the room was dark. He could smell the earthen odor of paint and the tang of turpentine. He grabbed a candle off a side table and carried it inside.

  “Isobel?”

  “Here.”

  He heard the rustle of her gown in the dark. Her face was white in the gloom, her eyes bright. He kicked the door shut and set the candle down on the table.

  She was looking at the portrait of Miranda, and he crossed to stand beside her. A pair of familiar laughing eyes gazed at them from the canvas.

  “She looks like you,” Isobel said. “Only blond.”

  “She looks like my mother,” Phineas corrected. He glanced at Isobel. She was stiff and uncertain, not daring to look at him. Not the bold Yasmina who had torn open his breeches to get what she wanted.

  “I take after my father,” he said, looking back at the painting, feeling
a trifle uncertain himself, now that he’d come to the moment of asking her to be his mistress. “The Archers are dark haired and tall with plain gray eyes.”

  She looked at him. “Gray eyes remind me of the sea. Robert’s eyes were brown.”

  His gut twisted at the mention of Robert Maitland’s name. Had she loved him?

  “You wished to speak to me, Countess?” he said a trifle sharply.

  She drew off her gloves, twisting the black satin in white hands. “Yes,” she breathed, “I—I did. I do.”

  She hesitated, blushing.

  “I think I know what you want, Isobel,” he said, and stepped forward to caress her hot cheek. She let her eyes drift shut, reveling in the simple touch, making it erotic. He brought his other hand up, held her face, brushed his mouth over hers, a mere prelude to the kiss he hungered for, but she pulled away.

  “Don’t!” she said, her voice husky. She held up a hand to ward him off, took a step backward. “I won’t be able to say this if you touch me. We’ll just end up on the floor, or on that settee.”

  Phineas read desire in her eyes and her fierce struggle to control it. It took all his strength to stay where he was. His senses were on alert, his nerves on edge, and he was hard as a rock. Her eyes flicked over him and paused, aware of his condition.

  She moaned, a small, breathless sound that made him harder still.

  Then she drew herself up, lifted her chin, and her eyes hardened.

  “Lord Blackwood, I am in need of your services.”

  He blinked. It was hardly the passionate, husky cry of desire he’d hoped for, but it would do for a start. He grinned.

  “Then perhaps the settee won’t be so bad after all?”

  She glanced at the room’s sole piece of comfortable furniture and pursed her lips. He stepped forward, put his hands under her elbows and pulled her close. She slid her hands into his coat, pressed her palms against the fine linen of his shirt, and he began lowering his lips to hers with an agonizing slowness meant to tease. His mouth watered in anticipation, his need for much more than a kiss rampant. She sighed, clasped her hands around his neck and raised herself on tiptoe. She moaned with relief as his mouth touched hers at last. She tasted sweet, and he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, caressing the supple curves of her back, her hips, and her buttocks through the dark silk of her gown. She rubbed herself against his erection.

  “God, Isobel, why is it always like this with you?” He looked down into eyes glazed with passion, and tugged her toward the settee, holding her with one hand, loosening his cravat with the fumbling fingers of the other.

  She jerked out of his grip and shot across the room, as far away from him as she could get. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes.

  “Isobel?” he demanded, setting his hands on his hips, staring at her in frustration. “What the hell are you playing at? Do you want this or not?”

  She did. Even from across the room he could read the answer in her eyes. “I need to talk to you, and if you’re touching me, I can’t even think, never mind speak. Stay there, if you please, until I’m through.” The last was a tart little command.

  “And then?” he asked, unable to resist.

  She blushed again, and it was all the answer he needed.

  “Say what you will, then.” He leaned against a table, folded his arms over his chest, and gave her his full attention.

  “I may be wrong about you, Blackwood, but I don’t think I am. You came to my room, got into the house somehow,” she said. “And then you climbed out the window as if it’s something you do all the time.”

  Alarm prodded his spine like the cold barrel of a loaded pistol. She was searching his face. He set his features into unreadable lines.

  “You’re not the only lady in London with a window,” he suggested, but she tossed her head.

  “You saw Charles come out of the house with those men. That’s why you left. They aren’t Maitland servants, by the way. I’ve never seen any of them before.”

  “It was dark,” he suggested. “You may not have seen what you thought you did.”

  “Then I did not see you ride after him?” she demanded.

  A pair of sharp daggers joined the pistol. He narrowed his eyes and met her question with a guarded scowl.

  She looked away first and began to pace, making short, nervous circuits of the rug. “Look, I know Charles is involved in things that can only be done in the dead of night. I am not as stupid as they imagine. Perhaps Honoria has no idea, but I know there’s something wrong, something sinister, going on.”

  “Every gentleman in London goes out at night, Isobel, and most don’t tell ladies what they’re up to. It may seem sinister, but it’s probably just—”

  “How many gentlemen load their coaches with heavy crates to visit clubs and brothels?” she demanded.

  None that he knew of. He waited, keeping his face blank.

  She sent him a look of entreaty. “If you are what I think you are, then I am hoping you’ll help me.”

  “And what do you think I am, Isobel?”

  “A Bow Street Runner, perhaps. Someone who investigates people engaged in suspicious activities.” She cast a glance over him, took in his elegant evening clothes, from his fine linen cravat to his patent leather shoes, and he saw uncertainty bloom in her eyes. She snapped her gaze back to his face. “If that’s what you are, Blackwood, then I need to hire you,” she finished.

  He stood very still. She was extremely perceptive. In all the years he’d been doing this, no one else had ever suspected he was anything more than a bold rake. He groped for the right words, some platitude to dismiss her suspicions, allay her fears, shut her mouth, but he was curious.

  “You wish to hire me? To do what, Isobel?”

  She bit her lip, and he read fear in her eyes. “Charles has, um—suggested that if Robin were dead, then he would be Earl of Ashdown. He believes he could marry Mir—well, marry anyone he wished, if he had a title.” He saw the glitter of tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away and looked at him fiercely.

  “I don’t want you to harm Charles. I just want you to find out what he’s doing, so I can have something—some knowledge, a threat of my own—to keep my son safe.”

  He scanned her face and saw that she believed what she was saying, that she could save her child by confronting Maitland with her knowledge of his sins.

  She had no idea that a man ruthless enough to harm a child would have no scruples about killing the boy’s mother as well if she got in his way. A pit opened in his chest and filled with revulsion for Charles Maitland.

  “Why don’t you simply take Robin and leave Maitland House? Wouldn’t that be easier?” he asked.

  “Robin is Charles’s ward. I cannot take him anywhere.” Her tone was a hard pebble of frustration.

  “But you’re his mother. When Sir Alan Denby died, he left you his fortune and several estates, did he not?” She looked up at him, eyes wide, as if surprised he knew that, but it was common enough knowledge.

  Especially if one happened to be a spy, or a Bow Street Runner.

  “Why not just take Robin and go to one of your own estates? Surely the Maitlands could be bribed.”

  Dignity warred with humiliation in her eyes. “I have no money.”

  His brows shot up. Isobel should be one of the richest women in England. Unless Charles had lost her fortune as well as his own at the tables.

  “Then how did you propose to hire me?” he asked softly.

  She bit her lip for a moment and blushed. “I will become your mistress for a time,” she said.

  He almost fell off the edge of the table. It was that easy? No house, no jewels? He reminded himself to keep his wits sharp, especially now. “For how long?” he asked.

  A flicker of irritation passed over her features. “I suppose we’ll need to come to an agreement, but will you help me?”

  He crossed the room slowly, half expecting her to flee, but she stood her
ground. He read a kaleidoscope of emotions in her eyes as he approached, hope and fear and courage and embarrassment and desire. She had bared her soul to him, and it lay in his hands. He kept those hands at his sides, knowing she was right. If he touched her now, they wouldn’t get this conversation finished.

  She began to babble, and the closer he got the faster the words tumbled out. “There’s something happening at Waterfield Abbey, I think, in Kent. My steward—well, Charles’s steward, since I don’t manage the estate—needs money, and I don’t understand why there isn’t any. I have not been there for many years, not since my mother’s…”

  She paused as he reached her, standing so close she had to tip her head back to look at him. She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, but he let her go on. “I think Robert died at—” The rattle of the door latch froze the words on her lips. She gasped as the door slowly swung open, a look of horror transforming her face.

  They were seconds from being discovered.

  Chapter 31

  The rattle of the latch was as loud as a rifle shot in the quiet room. Isobel spun, too stunned to do anything but watch the polished handle lift. It glinted in the candlelight, and the door creaked open. Yellow light raced across the floor to touch her shoes and climb her skirts.

  Caught.

  With Blackwood, his newest scandal.

  Except this time it would be her scandal, and it would cost her everything. Horror turned her limbs to stone.

  She barely felt his hands on her shoulders as he tugged her into a curtained alcove she hadn’t even noticed and pulled her tight against his chest in the scant space. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart under her own. She tried to push him away but he held her. The makeshift closet was narrow and dark, filled with the shadowy shapes of easels, paintbrushes, and canvas. There was no room to stand but in his arms. She gasped, and the sweet reek of linseed oil invaded her lungs.