Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  Her ears pricked at the unmistakable rustle of taffeta as someone crept into the room.

  She clenched her fists against the hard muscles of Blackwood’s chest, pushing, but he wouldn’t let her go. In a moment they’d find her in his arms and—

  “Come on, Evelyn. I want to see this portrait I’ve heard so much about!”

  Isobel felt her pupils expand as her knees turned to dust. Honoria!

  Blackwood pressed her face into his shoulder, stifling her gasp of horror. She sucked in clean linen, sandalwood soap, and the familiar smell of his body.

  He held her close, silently offering his protection, but it was a sanctuary with no security at all against what she feared most.

  “I believe Augusta wishes to keep the portrait unseen until it’s been completed,” Evelyn Renshaw said in a nervous whisper.

  Honoria snorted, not bothering to keep her voice low now that the door was shut behind her. “The door wasn’t locked, and the girl is going to marry Charles. Since the portrait will no doubt come to hang in my salon at Maitland House, I don’t see why I should not see it now.”

  Isobel cringed at the smugness in Honoria’s tone. She felt Blackwood stiffen, and glanced up at him. He was watching the two women through a narrow gap in the curtain. In the dim light the muscles of his jaw stood out and his eyes burned like brands.

  “Miranda Archer has agreed to marry Charles?” Evelyn asked, incredulous.

  “As good as,” Honoria murmured. “There are just the formalities to be dealt with.” She made an ugly sound of distaste. “Well! If this is the portrait Lady Augusta has been talking up all over town, then I must say I’m disappointed. It’s not really like the girl, is it?”

  “I think it’s lovely. It captures her vivid spirit,” Evelyn said diplomatically.

  “Well, that spirit will be curbed once she’s married to Charles,” Honoria said. “The Maitlands do not put up with impropriety, even when it masquerades as ‘spirit.’ One black sheep in the family is quite enough, and it has taken years to breed the Fraser whore’s influence out of Isobel.”

  Mortification heated Isobel’s skin from ankles to hairline, but Blackwood’s hands tightened, caressing her, soothing her. She didn’t want his pity. She glared up at him, arching away like an angry cat, but he held her easily. He captured her mouth and kissed her as if she were worth more to him than gold or rubies or any other woman on earth.

  She clung to his lips, feeling the sting of tears as her heart opened like a rose in her breast. Honoria’s voice became a distant, meaningless buzz under the moist heat of his mouth on hers, the sensation of his breath on her cheeks, her eyelids. He did not see the shame in her, she realized. He made her feel beautiful, almost loved.

  “But I’m sure Charles knows where Philip is!” He broke the kiss at Evelyn’s shrill cry, and his hands tensed on her shoulders as he peered out at the two women, his expression sharp.

  “What makes you think Charles would know?” Isobel instinctively tensed at the dangerous edge in Honoria’s voice.

  “I received a letter from him, telling me Charles would visit me, bring me a message that Philip felt he could not write,” Evelyn said, less dignified now.

  Isobel heard the click of heels, the rustle of clothing, the creak of the polished floorboards as Honoria paced.

  “And did Charles bring you this message?”

  Honoria’s voice was closer now. Isobel realized she must be right outside the thin curtain, close enough to hear the faintest breath. Her stomach shrank against her spine.

  “No,” Evelyn said, her voice breaking on the single word.

  Honoria’s sigh was like a hurricane. “Then it was probably just a passing comment. Perhaps Philip merely asked Charles to give you his regards, or to ask after your health. I’m not surprised he hasn’t relayed such trifling mush. Charles is not the kind of man who would be comfortable delivering declarations of love and devotion.”

  “Where did he see my husband?” Evelyn demanded.

  “How would I know that?” Honoria spluttered. Isobel frowned. Charles did not go anywhere without Honoria knowing.

  “But you do know, don’t you?” Evelyn cried out, then fell silent. Seconds ticked by. “You won’t tell me, and I suppose there is no point in arguing, but please ask Charles to give Philip a message from me when he sees him next.”

  “If you wish to send your husband a billet doux, you should write it and post it yourself. Charles is not a courier,” Honoria replied coldly.

  “My message is simple enough. Even Charles will remember it, and delivering it should cause him very little discomfiture.” Evelyn’s tone was now calm, dignified. She would not beg for this favor. Isobel felt a surge of admiration.

  “If he sees Philip—” Honoria began, but Evelyn interrupted.

  “When Charles sees my husband, he can tell him that I am tired of waiting for him to come home.” Isobel heard footsteps.

  “Where are you going?” Honoria demanded.

  “Back to the salon. We should not have come up here.”

  “No, perhaps not,” Honoria agreed, her tone icy. “It is never advisable to pry into other people’s business.”

  “Are we discussing my husband, or the portrait?” Evelyn asked.

  “Take it as you will. Your marital woes are best kept private. If Philip has left you, it certainly isn’t Charles’s fault.”

  Evelyn’s gasp at the cutting insult covered Isobel’s own.

  “I think we had better go downstairs before you become completely distraught, Evelyn.”

  “Yes, I suppose we must,” Evelyn murmured, sounding defeated.

  The two women left the room and the latch fell back into place, leaving Phineas and Isobel alone again.

  Chapter 32

  Blackwood opened the curtain. “They’ve gone.”

  Isobel leapt away from him, her eyes on the door as she sought the safety of the shadows. Honoria’s malevolent presence hung in the air with her heavy perfume.

  “Isobel?”

  She was trembling and her lips were pinched in her white face, her eyes huge. She jerked her gaze toward him and he saw the glitter of tears in the candlelight.

  “I’m sorry, Blackwood. I never should have involved you in this. If Honoria finds out what I’ve done…” Her mouth twisted and she paused, unable, or unwilling, to tell him what she feared, but he understood well enough. His anger rose.

  “Letting the most disreputable rake in London bed you?” he asked bluntly.

  “There are consequences for one’s choices. Dire ones. I know that, and still I let myself feel something, want it. I know better. There are things, precious things, people, who must be considered, protected, ahead of our own desires,” she stammered.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I should not have come up here. I should not have t-told you about Charles, or asked you to f-follow him. It’s too dangerous.” She raised her chin, her face carefully blank. “Please forget I said anything.”

  “Too dangerous?” he demanded. “For me or for you, Isobel?” He strode toward her. “What about your other offer to become my mistress?”

  Her eyes flashed, a small explosion of anger. “That would be the most dangerous thing of all.” She picked up her skirts and moved toward the door.

  He caught her arm as she passed him, refusing to let her leave. Her hand curled over his sleeve in a desperate caress.

  “Please let me go, Blackwood. I should be downstairs, tucked away in the corner of the salon where I belong, alone, or at home with my son. I should be anywhere but here with you. The price is too high.”

  “Is your precious reputation really worth that much to you?”

  She flinched, surprise clear in her eyes, and he knew he was mistaken. There was something else, then, a secret she wasn’t willing to share. His skin prickled.

  “It would be better if we did not see each other again,” she said, trying for hauteur as she looked pointedly at
his hand on her arm, but her voice wobbled.

  He tightened his grip. “I can see the desire in your eyes, Isobel. I can feel it when I touch you, even now.” She pulled away from his hold on her as if that would stem the need.

  “I cannot explain, Blackwood.”

  She ran a nervous hand over her dress, patted her hair, her eyes on the door, making herself ready to leave the room, and him.

  “Look, they’ve gone. I doubt anyone else will have the audacity to come up here. Stay with me, Isobel. I’ll lock the door.” He wanted to see her face as he made love to her without masks or darkness to hide behind. He wanted to prove to her that she could not live without him.

  “I—I can’t,” she said, her eyes drinking him in as if she truly intended this to be the last time she saw him. She took a step toward the door, but he caught her wrist again, his fingers on the hectic pulse point. She looked up at him. “Every time I touch you, it becomes more difficult to stop. If I do not leave now, this very minute, then I will lose—”

  “You said your son was in danger. Do you now believe you imagined it?”

  She shut her eyes. “No.” The single word was small and desolate. “I think I believe it even more, since Evelyn and Honoria—” He felt a shudder run through her. She looked up at him. “Whatever Charles is involved in, it’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

  Risking much, he nodded. “Does Charles know Philip well?”

  Isobel frowned. “I suppose he must, though I’ve never heard Charles speak of him.”

  “Does he receive letters from Philip?”

  “I don’t know. Honoria is the first one to see the post when it arrives.”

  “Even Charles’s?” he asked.

  “Everyone’s,” Isobel said bitterly. “She reads my letters before I do, decides which invitations I am allowed to accept.”

  Phineas frowned. Isobel Maitland might well have been the richest woman in England, but she had no money. She was a young, beautiful woman, free to remarry or take a lover, yet she hid herself away in widow’s weeds and shadows. She had no privacy, yet she had secrets. Secrets like him. And she was afraid. He swallowed, unwilling to let her walk away into whatever danger faced her.

  “Isobel?” He loosened his grip on her wrist just enough to slide his hand up the length of her arm, drawing her closer. He lowered his head, and she let her eyes drift shut.

  “Yes?” she breathed, caught in the same dizzy whirlpool of longing he was.

  “I accept your offer,” he whispered in her ear, and ran his lips down the silken length of her neck.

  “What offer?” she murmured, tilting her head to give him better access.

  He gave her his most devastating grin. “Your offer to become my mistress.”

  She stiffened. “But I can’t—”

  The door opened again, and this time there was no time to hide.

  Chapter 33

  “Oh!” The startled gasp came from Marianne. “I was expecting the room to be empty. What on earth are you two doing in here?” Her eyes roamed over them, and Isobel felt her skin heat, aware of the shocking intimacy of the situation, though they now stood a dozen feet apart.

  “I was showing the countess Miranda’s portrait,” Blackwood said, his voice cool, as if he had not just been kissing her, about to make love to her. Her body still tingled, but he looked perfectly calm. “And what brings you up here, Marianne?”

  “Same thing, actually.” She moved in front of the canvas. “I know Augusta put this room off limits, but Miranda asked me to come and have a look at her portrait. She’s afraid Senor Condotti hasn’t got her smile quite right and he’s made her look like a child. What is your opinion, Isobel?”

  Isobel swallowed the lump in her throat. “It’s lovely. It captures her vivid spirit perfectly,” she managed, and winced, realizing she was parroting Evelyn’s polite description.

  Marianne turned her attention to her brother. “And what do you think, Phin? Your opinion will mean more to Miranda than anyone else’s.” She made a face and crossed to straighten his cravat. “You’re dreadfully rumpled, aren’t you?” Isobel turned away so Marianne wouldn’t see the blush scorching her cheeks.

  “The portrait isn’t finished.” Blackwood pulled away and smoothed his cravat himself.

  “No, but I can also see what Miranda means. He’s given her a sweet girl’s smile instead of the knowing look of a grown woman,” Marianne pointed out.

  “She is a girl,” Blackwood insisted. “She looks like a young lady of quality, just as she should. She’s not a hardened courtesan.”

  Marianne frowned. “Well of course she’s a lady! I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. If you truly knew anything about women, Phineas, you’d know that every lady Miranda’s age wishes to look older and more worldly, and every matron of an age with Isobel and myself wishes to look younger. Isn’t that so, Isobel?” Marianne turned to enlist her help in the argument.

  “I—” Isobel began.

  “Isobel is hardly in her dotage!”

  “I did not mean to suggest she was!” Marianne replied. “I only meant that ladies are more sensitive to their appearance than men.” She touched a hand to her expertly styled curls, and the diamonds interwoven in the dark brown locks glittered. “Isobel is a beautiful woman.”

  Blackwood sent her a look that confirmed his sister’s appraisal, but it was interrupted as the door opened yet again. He turned with a frown. “I thought access to this room was forbidden. By the end of the evening, everyone in London will have seen this portrait. If Augusta had thought to sell tickets, she could have made a second fortune.”

  “Phineas!” Miranda’s face peered around the half-open door, blue eyes wide. “I had no idea you’d be up here. Oh, and Marianne, and Lady Isobel.” She scanned the dark corners of the room. “Charles isn’t here, is he?”

  “No, of course not,” Marianne said. “This room is closed to guests this evening. Who’s that with you?”

  Isobel watched Miranda blush. “I brought Mr. Fielding to see my portrait.”

  “Good evening,” Gilbert Fielding said sheepishly, stepping into the room.

  Marianne drew herself up to indignant attention. “You brought Mr. Fielding upstairs? Alone?”

  Miranda raised her chin. “We aren’t alone. You’re here, and Phineas, and Lady Isobel.”

  “This argument could go on for the rest of the evening without any point at all being made, Fielding,” Blackwood said. “Since Miranda wants your opinion, let’s have it, and we can all return to the salon.”

  Gilbert considered the painted face and compared it to the real one. “It hardly does her justice at all. It would be like trying to paint the scent of a rose, or the feeling of the wind on your skin. Even the most skilled artist could not capture such beauty.”

  The sweet smile Miranda bestowed on Gilbert matched the one on the canvas very well, in Isobel’s opinion.

  “Have you considered a career in politics or the Church instead of the army?” Blackwood asked. “You appear to have a talent for poetic speeches.”

  Marianne sniffed. “It’s time we all went back downstairs.”

  Gilbert offered his arm to Miranda as Phineas moved toward Isobel.

  “Oh, no,” Marianne said. “Phineas, you escort Miranda. Mr. Fielding, would you be so kind as to take Isobel downstairs?”

  Isobel felt Blackwood’s eyes on her, saw the muscles in his jaw tighten as she laid her hand on the fine, cool wool of Gilbert Fielding’s sleeve. Miranda shot her a look of pure ire, and Marianne marched them all down the stairs like matched horses set in tandem.

  Chapter 34

  “Have you considered seducing Isobel Maitland?” Adam asked.

  Phineas stared at his brother-in-law across the width of the oak desk.

  “For information, I mean, about Charles’s activities, and his connection to Philip Renshaw,” he added, smugly cheerful about the idea. “I understand the idea has no personal appeal, but it’s for England, and the sake
of this mission.

  “Surely you’ve had to charm unattractive women before,” Adam continued, mistaking his hesitation.

  Phineas wanted to punch the superior smirk off his face, but it was true enough. He steered the conversation in a safer direction. “Has anything turned up about Maitland’s midnight activities at the Bosun’s Belle Inn?”

  Adam sat back in his chair. “No, not yet, but one of my sailors is working for the landlord. He’ll report to me directly if there’s anything important. It might take time, though, and there are faster ways to learn what we need to know.”

  Phineas ignored the hint. “Does your man know Charles by sight, or Philip Renshaw?”

  “No, but Gibbs knows a gentleman when he sees one, especially if he’s as out of place as a mermaid in a net full of herring.”

  Phineas didn’t laugh at the joke, and Adam frowned, obviously disappointed, and shifted in his seat. “You’re on edge, Phin,” he said. “That makes me nervous. Isobel might know something that could speed our investigations considerably.”

  “Isobel Maitland is Marianne’s friend, Adam. What’s your wife likely to say about this?”

  “Do you think Isobel would tell her?” he asked. “Surely ladies don’t discuss their conquests. Women are discreet creatures when it comes to intimate matters.”

  “You’re discreet, Adam. Marianne is like a ferret on a mission to sniff out every secret in London, and if ladies didn’t talk about their conquests, my job would be impossible.”

  “Marianne doesn’t gossip. She’s merely observant. If I were to put it delicately, I’d say it ran in the Archer blood.”

  Adam held Phineas’s mocking stare for a moment before getting to his feet and crossing to look out the window. “Ah, well, never mind Isobel, then. I suppose every man has limits to what he’s willing to do for his country. I don’t blame you.”

  He turned, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes that set Phineas’s teeth on edge. “There is another way. We could use Miranda. Charles Maitland is interested in marrying her. We could use her as bait, lure him in and—”