Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  “They’re leaving?” Isobel asked. The letter slipped from her fingers, slithered to the floor. “Sarah, where’s Robin?”

  “Upstairs, of course, having his tea,” Sarah said calmly. Her eyes widened. “My lady, you’re as pale as death. Are you ill? Is something wrong?”

  Isobel forced down the panic that rose in her chest. She needed a clear head. “Very wrong. I need your help, Sarah. Can you slip away, deliver a letter?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Isobel was grateful that she didn’t ask any questions, though she knew Sarah must be curious. She picked up the note and folded it with shaking hands.

  “It’s for the Marquess of Blackwood.”

  Sarah’s brows shot up to her cap, but she tucked the letter into her apron pocket and turned to go without asking any questions.

  “Sarah? Tell him to hurry. I need him.”

  Chapter 39

  Marianne left her brother’s house with a mission. Phineas deserved to be happy, and so did Isobel. Thanks to a pair of lost gloves and Phineas’s misguided proposal, she could see now that Isobel and Phineas were perfect for each other. They just needed a well-meaning friend to help them see it. And since she was deliriously in love herself, who better than she? She smiled at Crane as she crossed the front hall, her boot heels clicking purposefully on the marble tiles.

  Adam would forbid her from interfering if he knew, tell her again how planets and stars managed to orbit the sky without any help from her, but this was Phineas, her handsome, eligible, lonely brother, and Isobel, her dearest friend. Since the sparks were already there, it would hardly require interference on an astronomical scale to bring them together. Just a nudge, a push in the right direction, should do it. It could hardly even be called interference, now could it?

  Crane opened the front door and preceded her down the front steps to instruct her footman to open the door of her coach. It wasn’t necessary, but Crane was a butler who liked to put the stamp of protocol on every duty, no matter how trifling.

  Marianne considered. If she was going to convince Isobel and Phineas to become lovers, then she’d need to rent a house, set up a love nest, and—

  A figure came hurtling along the sidewalk and crashed into Crane. He fell into the open door of the coach, his bottom in the air, his polished shoes kicking at the wind. The footman holding the door caught the young woman’s arm before she toppled in on top of the poor man.

  Marianne stopped on the steps and watched the melee. Crane scrambled to his feet as the woman straightened her plain bonnet and apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m sure. I was in a hurry and I didn’t see you there.”

  “Aren’t you Sarah, Isobel’s maid?” Marianne asked, recognizing the girl.

  “Yes, my lady.” Sarah dipped a curtsy.

  Crane glared at her as he straightened his coat and brushed at imaginary specks on the dark wool of his breeches. “Young woman, the servants’ entrance is around back, but hooligans who go about plowing into their betters need not apply!” He turned on his heel and climbed the stairs to the front door.

  Sarah blinked at the butler’s retreating back. “I’m not here about a position! I have a letter for the marquess.” She held it up to one of the footmen as Crane disappeared into the house. “See?” she asked tartly.

  Marianne snatched it from the maid’s hand before the footman could move. “Is it from Countess Isobel?” she asked, though she could see that it was. Isobel’s feminine scrawl swirled across the fine vellum, and the note was drenched in her violet perfume. That could only mean one thing.

  A love letter!

  Delight raced through Marianne’s body. She itched to break the seal and read the words of love Isobel had written to Phineas. Had she reconsidered his proposal?

  If she knew what the letter said, she could better plan her matchmaking schemes to suit.

  She was curious, as well. She had never received a love letter, at least not one on paper. Adam didn’t write poems or notes. He sent bouquets of flowers to her room. Each flower had a meaning, and each meaning added to the message he wished to convey. It was never as simple as “I love you.” It could take all morning to look up each flower and puzzle out her husband’s thoughts, which were usually very romantic indeed. Still, there were times she wished he would just scrawl a note and leave it on her pillow.

  She smiled at Sarah. “I’ll deliver this for you. I’m just on my way in to see Blackwood,” she fibbed.

  Sarah dipped another curtsy. “Thank you kindly, my lady. I must get back.”

  Marianne watched her go. This was going to be fun—secret love letters, romantic trysts, even a wedding to plan, perhaps. She tingled with excitement.

  A lady’s laugh, all too familiar, rang out from the street.

  “Miranda?” Marianne called, but her sister didn’t hear her. She was riding with Gilbert Fielding, and they only had eyes for each other. Augusta’s footman, obviously sent to chaperone, was lagging much too far behind his charge.

  She watched in horror as Miranda leaned toward Gilbert, obviously about to make a cake of herself by falling into his arms in the middle of the street, right in front of the home of the notorious Marquess of Blackwood. Another Archer scandal was in the making, and this one would not be Phineas’s fault.

  She could not stand by and let her young and impressionable sister fall in love with Gilbert Fielding. Carrington would never allow her to marry him, and Miranda would end up with a broken heart.

  Marianne knew from experience that a woman did not want to marry elsewhere when she imagined herself in love. She was spoiled for any other man by that first bloom of passion, and especially so if the match was doomed from the outset. Carrington and Great-Aunt Augusta would disown Miranda if she married against their wishes. Gilbert Fielding might be handsome, but he was penniless. How long would love endure with no money to sustain it? Without family connections or dowry, Gilbert would still need to join the army to earn his bread, and Miranda would face a miserable life of following the drum. It was unthinkable.

  Marianne stuffed Isobel’s letter into her reticule and crossed the street to stop disaster.

  Chapter 40

  Isobel lit the candles in her room with shaking fingers. The bright flame hurt her eyes for a moment, then pushed back the edges of the darkness. She stood in the circle of light and listened to the sounds of Maitland House moving around her.

  Upstairs, Robin would be in bed by now, fast asleep, unaware of the danger he was in.

  No one had come for her. Not Blackwood, not Charles or Honoria. Even Sarah had not returned. But soon, now that it was dark, they would drag her away, and she would disappear forever.

  She wondered how they planned to do it. Would they take her to the sea and drown her like Jonathan Hart? Or perhaps they’d just shoot her, like Robert. She imagined Robert Maitland’s fleshless hand reaching for her from the grave, and clenched her own fist.

  She would not go without a fight.

  She crossed to the window for the hundredth time and looked again, searching the street for a tall dark-haired knight on a white horse, galloping to the rescue, but the cobbles were empty.

  Her breath caught in her throat as a coach turned the corner and stopped in front of the house.

  The front door opened and yellow light lit the side of the coach. The identifying crest was draped in black, making the coach sinister and anonymous.

  She glanced at the door of her room, expecting them to burst in, making herself ready to fight for her life, but it remained closed, the hall outside silent.

  She turned back to watch as a long shadow slid down the front steps.

  Honoria.

  Jewels glittered at her throat and wrists as she disappeared into the dark vehicle in a slither of blue satin, as if she were going to a party.

  Charles followed his mother. He stood on the step of the coach, and the harsh shadows made his face ugly. His fingers were fat and white against the darkness as he reached for somet
hing.

  Or someone.

  Isobel felt the scream gather in her throat, tear loose and rip her heart out with it.

  “Robbie!” She shrieked her son’s name as Jane Kirk led him out. He tottered down the steps on sleepy feet, his hair mussed from bed.

  Isobel twisted the latch on the window, but her fingers were clumsy and it wouldn’t budge. She pounded on the glass in desperation, clawed at it, her eyes on her child. “Robbie! Come back!” she yelled, but he didn’t look up, couldn’t hear her. “Run!” she howled, but Charles lifted him into the coach.

  She had only a glimpse of his white face before they shut the door.

  Only Jane Kirk, left standing on the sidewalk, turned to look up at her, her smile malicious.

  Isobel watched as the coach carrying her son, her very life, drove away.

  Jane turned on her heel and climbed the front steps. The door closed, leaving only the darkness of the empty street.

  “Really, Isobel, you’ll only harm yourself,” Jane said. “There’s no one to help you.”

  Isobel’s throat was raw, her hands bruised from pounding on the door, calling for Sarah, for Finch, for anyone to release her from her prison and help her save her son.

  Only Jane came, and just to mock her through the keyhole.

  “I’m in charge now, and I have some of Honoria’s laudanum. If you don’t stop yelling, I will drug you.”

  “They’re going to kill Robin, Jane! Even you can’t be so coldhearted that you’d let them harm an innocent child!” Isobel cried.

  “Innocent?” Jane growled the word. “The brat bears the taint of Fraser blood, doesn’t he? It’s better if he dies.”

  Isobel fought the crushing weight of desperation and tugged at the lock again. “What are they giving you to stand by and let them do this? I will give you more!”

  Jane laughed. “You can’t give me what I want! I’m going to take it for myself. I’m going to marry Charles, and then I shall be Countess of Ashdown, and my son will be the next earl, just the way it was supposed to be.”

  Isobel shut her eyes, seeing a truth Jane did not. “Don’t be a fool! Charles wants to marry a woman with a title, and money!”

  “Money?” Jane scoffed. “In a few days the Maitlands will be back, the richest family in England. They will buy and sell titles. Unlike you, I know all the secrets in this house, and they’ll do what I want from now on, or I’ll tell.”

  “Jane, they’ll kill you if you cross them. You’ll die,” Isobel whispered through the crack.

  “What did you say?” Jane asked.

  “Charles will kill you.”

  “Charles will do as I say if he doesn’t want to hang for treason! By morning you’ll be gone for good, and I’ll be on my way to Waterfield.” She heard Jane’s footsteps retreat down the hall.

  Waterfield! Panic rose in Isobel’s throat. She had wanted Robin to have a holiday by the sea. Charles and Honoria intended to give him one.

  She had to hurry or it would be too late. She needed to find a coach, or at least a horse, but first she had to get out of this room, and out of Maitland House.

  The streetlamp stared in the window, a soulless eye in the darkness, an intrusive busybody, just as it had been the night Blackwood came to her room.

  The night he’d climbed out her window.

  She crossed to the window and pushed on the unyielding sash. Taking off her shoe, she smacked the stubborn latch until it gave in at last and opened with a squeal. She leaned out, taking a deep breath of damp night air. The ground was invisible in the darkness. She shook off a wave of dread. It was the only way.

  Blackwood’s way.

  He’d made it look easy. Isobel swung her leg over the sill and hovered for a breathless moment between two worlds. Her fingers clung to the frame, but there was no time for hesitation.

  She forced herself to let go, and lowered herself over the edge.

  Marianne sighed as she reached the quiet sanctuary of her own salon at last. It was past ten when she left her great-aunt’s house after a bitter struggle with Miranda. A long talk had yielded nothing but hysterical tears and threats to elope if she could not have permission to marry the man she loved.

  Augusta had sent up tea laced with laudanum, and Marianne waited until her sister fell asleep. Hopefully, Miranda would see sense in the morning, but her heart ached for her. Gilbert Fielding was charming, handsome, and exactly the kind of first love a woman never forgot.

  Adam wasn’t home, and Northcott could not say when he was expected. Marianne looked up at the portrait of her husband. Were all Archer women fated to fight for a happy ending with the man they loved? She dropped her reticule and gloves with a sigh.

  The scent of violet perfume rose like a shade, and Marianne smiled. She’d entirely forgotten Isobel’s love letter. Reading it now would soothe away the cares of the day, give back her faith in true love.

  She unfolded it and scanned the scrawled note. Her smile melted in a gasp of horror.

  It wasn’t a love letter.

  It was a plea for help.

  She dropped the note and ran to the door. “Northcott! I need my coach at once!”

  Chapter 41

  “This is bigger than we thought, Phineas,” Adam said quietly. “According to Gibbs, Maitland’s package isn’t a package at all. It’s a person.”

  Phineas’s interest kindled. He looked at Adam over the width of his desk. “Does Gibbs know who?”

  “Not yet. Someone important, though. The innkeeper has made over his best room. Not just clean sheets either. That would be a miracle in itself in a dockside inn. Apparently Charles has provided silk bed curtains, Turkey carpets, French wine, beeswax candles and silver candlesticks, among other luxuries.”

  Phineas’s brows rose. “The French king?”

  Adam looked away. “Louis XVIII is still safely tucked away at Aylesbury,” he said, dismissing Phineas’s question with odd abruptness. “Any other ideas? Your Lady M, perhaps?”

  Phineas felt a chill run up his spine as he met the suspicion in Adam’s eyes. “Hardly my Lady M, Westlake.”

  “For your sake, I sincerely hope not. She’s proven remarkably elusive for you, hasn’t she? Can I count on you to do your duty, no matter who appears at the inn tonight?” Adam asked.

  Phineas felt his stomach rise. What if Isobel turned out to be Lady M? Could he shoot her, arrest her, watch her hang for treason? He looked up to find Adam watching him, his eyes wary.

  “‘For England, Anything’? Isn’t that the pledge, Westlake?” he asked smoothly. Adam’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled.

  “Let’s have a drink, shall we?” he said, and took a heavy stone bottle from his latest cargo. He poured two glasses and raised a toast. “To unmasking Lady M.”

  The sweet liquor slid down Phineas’s throat like acid.

  An hour later, in the black and stinking alley behind the Bosun’s Belle, Phineas felt the cold and unmistakable nudge of a pistol behind his left ear.

  “Well? Are you going to rob me or rape me?” he asked, carefully reaching for his own weapon.

  “Stand down, lad. Lord Blackwood is on our side.” Phineas recognized Westlake’s familiar voice and the pistol was withdrawn at once. “My men have orders to shoot anyone suspicious, Phin, and you most definitely fit the description.”

  “What’s happening inside?” Phineas asked, shoving his pistol into his coat.

  “According to Gibbs, the package is already tucked away upstairs. I have men in the alley and in the taproom, but no one has been able to get upstairs to have a look,” Adam replied. “The innkeeper has an army of toughs on hand tonight, and their prime duty is keeping anyone from climbing those stairs.”

  “Any clues as to who’s up there?”

  “No,” Adam sighed. “Gibbs didn’t see her arrive—if it is a woman, of course.”

  Phineas peered cautiously over the fence at the lighted windows of the top floor of the inn.

  “If you’re c
onsidering climbing a wall or scaling the rooftop to see for yourself if it’s her, my friend, then don’t. I wasn’t joking about the number of men waiting for trouble,” Adam told him.

  “Hardly necessary, old man.” Phineas pointed through the jagged fence. “Look at all the torches in the yard. They must still be expecting someone. Or someone else, at least.”

  They drew back against the fence as the clop of wooden heels echoed up the street. Adam cocked his pistol and held his breath, but Phineas put a hand over the barrel as a dockside whore sauntered by without seeing them. She disappeared into the inn to look for custom or to spend her wages on gin.

  A distant rumble made Phineas’s ears prick, and he stared down the street, waiting as the sound grew louder and closer, moving toward the Bosun’s Belle. The ring of iron-clad wheels on the cobbles told him it wasn’t a local wagon or a simple handcart.

  “Is this it?” Adam murmured, craning to see, his face yellow in the flickering torchlight that spilled from the inn. Phineas pulled him back into the shadows as men filed out of the inn to watch the coach arrive.

  “Possibly,” he muttered as the horses came into sight, a fine pair of matched grays. Charles Maitland owned a pair of grays.

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

  Isobel’s frantic words echoed in his mind again, and Phineas scowled at the oncoming vehicle, wondering if she was inside.

  “Crests are covered,” Adam muttered.

  “It’s Maitland’s coach,” Phineas replied. “I recognize the horses.” The shades were drawn, sealing the coach’s occupants away from prying eyes, making them anonymous. His stomach clenched. Isobel, his lover, the only woman he had ever proposed to, might be inside, and she could still turn out to be Lady M.