Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Gloves,” she said triumphantly, dropping them on the table and looking at him like a governess admonishing a naughty child.

  They were lady’s gloves, black satin, elbow length, and very plain. He knew at once who they belonged to. If he picked one up and sniffed it, it would carry the faint trace of her perfume.

  He did not want to have this conversation with Marianne. Not now. He forced his split lip into a roguish grin. “Do they have something to do with me? I never tell a lady’s secrets, Marianne.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “They are Isobel’s gloves, Phineas. Aunt Augusta found them in the portrait room and gave them to me, in case I knew to whom they belonged. I wondered why Isobel was in that room with you. She was gone from the salon for quite some time, and when I considered it, so were you, and you can be sure I considered it most carefully after I noted the way the pair of you were looking at each other at tea yesterday.”

  “Have you ever considered a career as a Bow Street Runner?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I came to have a serious discussion, Phineas, and I’m not leaving until I get one. Now, about you and Isobel—”

  “You are mistaken in your assumptions, Marianne,” he said flatly.

  “Am I? Her gloves were behind the curtain, Phineas. What on earth would Isobel have been doing there, if you please?”

  Kissing him. Holding him. Hiding from fears he didn’t fully understand.

  “Perhaps she was looking for the necessary,” he said baldly, hoping to shock Marianne and throw her off the scent, but the look in her eyes told him she was not going to let this rest with a flippant, easy answer. He let out a long breath.

  “Have you spoken to Isobel about this?” he asked. He watched as his brazen sister lowered her eyes and actually blushed. His stomach rolled with dread. “Oh, Marianne, what have you done?” he asked.

  The bold stare returned with a vengeance. “I? You are the one who let me make a fool of myself, asking you to arrange a tryst for Isobel with Gilbert Fielding. How mortifying! Of course I haven’t spoken to her. I’ve embarrassed myself enough, thank you. That’s why I’m speaking to you.”

  Fielding’s name rang painfully in Phineas’s head. “If it’s any comfort, I think you were right about Gilbert, Marianne. He’s a good man, probably perfect for her.”

  “Oh, Phineas, don’t be a fool! Gilbert Fielding is in love with Miranda, unfortunately, and Isobel…well, I’ve seen the way she looks at you. It’s how I looked at Adam when I thought I couldn’t have him, while I was still betrothed to Edmond.”

  He had thought he was being discreet. No doubt so did Isobel, but he remembered all too well how the secret passion that burned between Marianne and Adam had been obvious to everyone.

  He shut his eyes. “Look, nothing will come of it, and it’s best forgotten. Gilbert must marry money, and since Carrington will never let him marry Miranda, Isobel is his next best choice. He’ll make her a pleasant husband.”

  Marianne snorted. “For the most famous lover in London, you know damned little about love! No woman wants to be any man’s ‘next best choice.’ Nor does any woman worth the name want a ‘pleasant’ husband.”

  “Isobel is what he needs,” he insisted stubbornly. “And he is probably what she needs.”

  “Fool. You are what she needs!”

  “Not in her opinion, Marianne. Will you leave this alone?” he demanded. Isobel’s heated refusal of his proposal still stung, even after several barrels worth of ale, or rum, or possibly both. He rubbed his aching temples, wishing Marianne gone with the rest of the heartless bow-legged women.

  “In her opinion? What does that mean? Just how far has this gone,

  He dared not answer that, but had to give her something, or she’d keep him here all day.

  “I proposed to her, Marianne. She refused me.” That admission was surely less damaging to Isobel’s reputation than tales of stolen cherries and masks and anonymous trysts in dark corners.

  Marianne leapt to her feet with a gasp. “Oh, Phineas, you didn’t! What on earth would make you do something so foolish? You barely know Isobel! Is this a joke of some kind? You obviously have no regard for her. It was a cruel thing to do, and I’m not surprised she said no. She has reasons for not wanting to marry again!”

  And they were as plain as the black dress on her back. “She loved Maitland,” he muttered, still stunned by the idea that Robert Maitland could engender such passion. “My offer was genuine, by the way,” he said, but Marianne ignored that.

  “Loved Maitland? Good heavens, it was quite the opposite. It was a very unhappy match, and she’s not eager to repeat the experience.”

  He frowned, puzzled now, and Marianne’s expression softened with sympathy.

  “You really meant to marry her? Poor Phin. You’re hardly her type.” She poured out a cup of coffee and sat down next to him. “Here, you look like you could do with this.” His stomach curled in objection. “Now tell me why you proposed.”

  He set the coffee down untouched. “Carrington wants me to marry. Isobel would have done as well as anyone else,” he said, hoping Marianne would think he merely wished to upset the duke by choosing the most unlikely wife possible, and drop the subject. But something Marianne had said tugged at him. “If Isobel didn’t love Maitland, why does she still wear mourning for him?”

  Marianne shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe to warn away suitors who only want to marry her for her fortune. Or perhaps she thinks Honoria and Charles expect it of her. If that’s the reason, then her loyalty is misplaced. Neither of them is in mourning. Phineas, I don’t think things are as they should be in that house.”

  Neither did he, but there was damned little he could tell Marianne about it.

  “Poor Isobel is so unhappy, and now I understand. You’re obviously the reason.”

  “Me?” Phineas asked. She did not seem unhappy in his arms. However, he recalled her fear for her son’s life, and the tortured look on her face as she leapt from the carriage after his clumsy proposal. Fortunately, Marianne didn’t wait for an explanation.

  “Yes, you. Your offer was badly timed. She doesn’t need a husband. Not yet anyway. What she needs is a lover.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “I know I suggested Gilbert Fielding, but that was before I realized how you felt about Isobel. Perhaps you could seduce her.”

  Phineas wondered if Adam had put his wife up to this. “Marianne, have you considered that perhaps this is not your concern?”

  “Of course it is! Isobel is my friend, and you are my brother. I assume you’re quite proficient at seducing ladies, given your reputation. I doubt if all the stories are true, of course, but where there is smoke, there’s fire.” She looked at him with a gleam in her eye. “It isn’t all true, is it?”

  Was this what men felt like when he cornered them and badgered them until they could only tell him the truth? It was damned uncomfortable. He remained stubbornly silent.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “The important thing is finding out just what Robert Maitland did to Isobel. They were only married for three years before he died of fever.”

  Phineas’s head came up. “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do pay attention. I said they were only married a few years.”

  “And she—you—believe he died of a fever?”

  She frowned at him. “Whatever is wrong with you? Isobel told me he did, so why shouldn’t I believe it?”

  Because it wasn’t true. Robert Maitland had been shot to death on the beach at Waterfield, by smugglers. Which side he was on, smuggler or innocent fool, was cause for speculation. Was that Isobel’s secret?

  “It was sudden, and he was away from London at the time. He’s buried in the family crypt at Ashdown Park,” Marianne said.

  Robert Maitland lay under a plain stone in the churchyard at Waterfield. It was recorded in the thick dossier Adam held on the man.

  “That aside, if we knew what R
obert did to make Isobel so unhappy, you could fix it, couldn’t you?” Marianne hinted again, leaning toward him like a conspirator.

  Or perhaps the secret lay in what Isobel had done to Robert. He avoided Marianne’s penetrating gaze. His skin was on fire and his head ached.

  You don’t understand! It is I who am not what I seem!

  Suspicion rolled through his stomach and tried to claw its way up his throat.

  In his cup-shot brain, Lady M laughed.

  Chapter 38

  “Honoria is ready to see you now,” Jane Kirk said the next morning, unlocking the door to Isobel’s room.

  Isobel had been pacing the floor all night, dressed and ready, awaiting Honoria’s summons like a condemned prisoner.

  Her teeth clenched at the sight of Jane’s oily smirk. She loved to see her in trouble, but this time she looked particularly smug.

  “I see you changed your gown. Not that it will help you,” Jane said coldly as they walked along the hall. She leaned close to Isobel. “She knows.”

  Isobel’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept walking, giving the appearance of calm even if she didn’t feel it. What did Honoria know? That she overheard her conversation with Charles, perhaps, or knew that she’d tried to take her son out of the house?

  “I saw you with Blackwood. You were getting out of his coach on Bond Street yesterday. Your dress was rumpled and his lordship wasn’t even wearing a cravat. I came to the only conclusion I could.”

  Isobel’s feet stopped of their own accord.

  “So I was right!” Jane crowed. “You’re his whore. I told Charles at once, of course, and Honoria as well, when she arrived home. They hardly believed it.”

  Isobel’s knees turned to water, and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. “You told Honoria?”

  “Of course,” Jane said sweetly. “It will be good to be rid of you at last, lady high and mighty!”

  Isobel stared at Honoria’s spy, read the malice in her eyes. “Why?” she asked, forcing out the single word.

  Jane’s lips twisted bitterly. “You really don’t know?” She tossed her chin. “I suppose they never bothered to tell you. I was supposed to marry Robert Maitland. It was all arranged. The Maitlands were poor, and my father may have been a cit, but he had money, and I inherited every penny. I was going to be a countess until you showed up. Your father was willing to pay a devil’s ransom to be rid of you, so Robert married you instead, and I was given a place in the household, companion instead of countess, because Charles still wanted my money.” Jane leaned close to Isobel. “He wouldn’t even marry me. Now it’s your turn to be left with nothing!”

  Isobel swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not move. Jane would never know how sincerely she wished things had been different, and Jane had been Robert’s bride.

  Now, thanks to Jane’s hatred, her worst fears were about to come true. She had gambled everything precious for a few moments of pleasure in Blackwood’s arms, and she’d lost.

  Isobel the Harlot.

  Isobel the Fool.

  She was not invisible now, and there was no way to explain this away.

  Jane grabbed her arm roughly, tugging her forward. “Come on, they’re waiting, and I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  Isobel pulled free. “Take your hands off me,” she commanded, and met Jane’s eyes, letting her read the disdain in her expression, the difference in their station that would never change. Jane slid her eyes to the floor.

  “You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you dawdle. Honoria hates to be kept waiting,” Jane muttered.

  Isobel walked down the stairs, concentrating on taking each step with dignity, though her heart pounded. She had to find a way to keep Robin safe.

  Jane slithered past her and skittered along the corridor to knock on the door of the salon before opening it.

  “She’s here, Honoria,” she gushed.

  Isobel took a deep breath and smoothed her expression, determined not to let them read fear or guilt on her face. Her legs trembled but she held herself with grace.

  Charles did not bother to rise. His eyes slid over her from hairline to toes, and he sniggered. Isobel felt her skin grow hot.

  “Well well. Who could have imagined this?” he said. “Blackwood with you? I’ll have to check the betting book at White’s. Perhaps it was a wager, or a dare.”

  Behind Isobel, Jane giggled.

  “You may go,” Honoria said to her companion.

  “But I thought we were—” Jane began. Isobel did not bother to look at her. Her eyes were on Honoria’s cold countenance. At least she’d be spared the indignity of Jane’s presence. She waited for the door to close.

  No one invited her to sit, so she stood, her back straight, her eyes on the wall.

  “Is what Jane told us true?” Honoria asked.

  Isobel could tell them Jane was mistaken, that Blackwood had merely been seeing her home from tea at Marianne’s.

  “I—” she began, and closed her mouth. She was tired of lying, tired of subterfuge. Charles and Honoria had far greater sins on their souls than she did.

  But there was Robin to consider, and surely accusations and admissions would only put him in greater peril. She lowered her eyes so they would not see the hatred burning there. She clenched her fists in the folds of her gown.

  “I must assume the worst, since you won’t answer me,” Honoria said. “You are your mother’s daughter after all.”

  Isobel’s stomach curled in upon itself in mortification, but still her tongue remained glued to her teeth. Speak up, deny him. Save yourself, fear needled her.

  But pride would not allow it. She did not regret Blackwood, even now. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing wrong?” Honoria trilled. “Not by Charlotte Fraser’s low standards, perhaps, but Robert’s will was plain enough about what we expect of you. We can no longer have you living in this house, Isobel, or remaining in this city, bringing scandal and shame upon us.”

  Blood drummed in Isobel’s ears. She had been found guilty, and all that was left was to wait for the sentence. Did they still put wanton women in convents? She stood very still, her limbs stiff, everything but her ears and eyes numb, useless.

  “We’ve decided you will marry again,” Honoria said.

  “What?” Isobel croaked. Could Blackwood have spoken to Charles? A frisson of hope cascaded through her, but Honoria’s cold expression dashed the possibility of any reprieve.

  “We’ve had an unexpected offer from someone in the North.”

  “Far, far North.” Charles chuckled.

  Honoria quelled him with a glance. “You will leave tonight.”

  Just like that? She felt her limbs loosen, and reached out to grip the back of the nearest chair. “Who—Who is he?” she asked.

  “It hardly matters,” Honoria said. “You can’t stay in London, and we have to tell people something once you’re gone.”

  Isobel shut her eyes. They had sentenced her to death. Just like Jonathan Hart.

  There would be no wedding. She would simply disappear.

  “What about Robin? What will happen to my son?” Her eyes flew from Honoria to Charles. There was no compassion, no regret, in either face.

  “Obviously the boy cannot stay in London now,” Honoria said. “None of us can. This scandal will ruin us all.”

  Charles smirked. “You wanted the boy to have a holiday by the sea, didn’t you?”

  Honoria’s head whipped around. “Charles! Be silent!”

  “What difference does it make now?” Charles asked, but he subsided into sulky silence.

  “Waterfield?” Isobel gasped. Where Robert had died, and Jonathan Hart had been murdered. The ugly rush of color in Honoria’s face confirmed it.

  Fury replaced Isobel’s fear. “No!” She could not, would not, let them murder Robin.

  She fought for an idea, a way to save them both, but Charles was smirking at her, his eyes cold and dark and empt
y, and Honoria’s mouth was a tight pucker of disdain. “No!” she said again, her fists clenched. “I will not let you harm him!”

  Charles laughed as he crossed the room to grab her arm and twist it painfully behind her back. “You’ll do as you’re told for once.”

  She clenched her teeth against the pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making her cry out.

  Charles pulled harder when she refused to move toward the door, but she stood her ground. “I want to see my son,” she said to Honoria, fighting the pain. If she had Robin in her arms, could look into his eyes, she’d think of something.

  Honoria turned away. “No. You are not fit company for an impressionable child. Don’t make more of a fool of yourself than you already have,” she said coldly. “You will go to your room and get ready to leave. I have already ordered your maid to pack a few things for you. If you make a fuss, I shall send Jane up with a sleeping draught. For the boy’s sake, you will cooperate.”

  She dangled that last thread of hope for Isobel to cling to, a promise that Robin would be safe if she did as they wished. She knew it was a lie, and fought to free herself from Charles’s grip, but he twisted viciously, until a moan broke from her throat. She sagged, the agony unbearable, made worse by imagining the pain and terror her helpless child would endure.

  Honoria smirked, her eyes glittering. “So your pride is broken at last. You should have thought of the consequences before you became Blackwood’s whore.”

  “Why don’t you write the brat a letter while you’re waiting?” Charles said mockingly as he dragged her up the stairs. “We might even let him read it.”

  A letter.

  Charles shoved her into her bedroom, and Isobel crossed to her desk and began to write. She barely heard the key scrape in the lock.

  The door opened again, and Isobel leapt to her feet. A bottle of perfume spilled, and she snatched up the letter she’d been writing before it was ruined. She hid it behind her back and faced the door, her heart hammering in her throat.

  It was only Sarah.

  The maid frowned. “What’s going on around here today, my lady? Lord Charles had to unlock your door for me. There are four maids packing for Lady Honoria, and no one seems to know where she’s going. Now they tell me I’m to pack a box for you. Jane Kirk is all smiles and secrets as well. It’s a horrible sight.”