Secrets of a Proper Countess

by Lecia Cornwall

  Isobel gave the sailor directions, her voice wooden. She offered him the hairbrush, but he grinned and pointed to the savage knife in his belt. Bess, he called her, and said she never failed him.

  Isobel watched him go, her heart a painful knot in her breast. She listened until his soft footfalls were swallowed by the darkness.

  Adam drew a pistol and cocked it. “Time to leave.”

  Isobel and Marianne followed him down the corridor, away from Charlotte’s empty room. In the darkness behind them, Isobel heard the broken music box chirp a few rusty notes of a decades-old minuet before it fell silent.

  Chapter 53

  Phineas stood in the darkness outside the nursery door, listening to Robin Maitland sing. He debated the wisdom of breaking the lock with a hard kick, afraid he’d frighten the boy. He raised his hand to knock softly, bending to whisper through the keyhole.

  An anguished moan echoed off the stone walls, and his fist froze above the wooden panel.

  The hair on his neck rose.

  He didn’t believe in ghosts, but the sound of shuffling feet and heavy breathing was real enough, and so were the shadows dancing along the walls, inching closer.

  He pressed himself into an alcove that once most likely contained a prie dieu, but now held only shadows and cobwebs. He held his breath and waited.

  He’d gone looking for Adam before coming up here. He could not let his brother-in-law walk into disaster, and he had to get Isobel and Marianne and the boy out of the abbey before the trial began. He shook off the image of Isobel seated on the little stool as Renshaw pronounced her guilty and led her to the guillotine.

  There’d been no sign of Adam or Gibbs in the stable. So he did the only thing he could. He pulled Isobel’s nightgown out of his pocket and hung it on a nail by the door, a message for Adam that he had gone after the woman it belonged to.

  Phineas had climbed the steps of the tower in the dark, since he didn’t have a candle, heading toward the room where he’d seen Robin. He tripped a number of times, scraping and bruising his elbows and shins. He ran face first into a wall where the steps turned sharply, splitting his lip and grazing his cheek. His shoulder ached like the devil himself was gnawing on it. For Isobel, he told himself as he tripped again and pitched shoulder first into the unsympathetic stone wall, he would endure anything.

  Now the shuffling shadow came closer, and Phineas hugged the dark and waited.

  Behind the nursery door, Robin was still singing, unaware of the dread beast moving toward him. Phineas squinted at the candlelight as the creature came into sight at last.

  Honoria.

  Dragon indeed. She stood and stared at the door for a long moment, her rouged and powdered face a sinister mask in the light of the candle. Phineas watched as she tucked a knife into her bodice and turned the key in the lock.

  When she led the boy away, he followed.

  Honoria approached the door of Charlotte’s room. It was time to take out the flask, make the child drink. He’d obey. He was afraid of her.

  She felt the unseen eyes of spirits watching her, knowing what she was about to do. Dread made her heart pound.

  Honoria stumbled to a halt. The door to Charlotte’s chamber stood open.

  “Isobel?” Her voice was a quivering warble. The whistle of the wind was the only reply.

  Or was it?

  She let go of the child and walked to the threshold. Something swooped past the window on rustling wings, and Honoria started. “Isobel?” This time it came out as a croak.

  She spun, and the candlelight fell on someone standing behind her. A woman hovered above the ground, a gleam of pale satin.

  “Charlotte!” Honoria cried. The woman’s shade haunted this place, and she had come to wreak vengeance on her. Honoria set the candle down and fished for the knife in her bodice. She held it before her like a talisman, but her fingers shook, too sweaty to hold it. It tumbled from her grasp, and she heard it clatter on the fathomless black floor.

  She backed away, defenseless. She did not deserve this fate. It was Lord Fraser who had wronged Isobel. Soft hands caught at her ankles, and the scent of rose perfume filled the room.

  She was here.

  Charlotte Fraser had come for her child at last.

  Moaning, Honoria kicked free of the clinging hands and sent something skittering across the floor. She heard it crash, and the satin-clad figure shifted and shimmered as the first soft notes of a familiar minuet began to play.

  Honoria remembered the tune. She had watched Charlotte circle the dance floor as the orchestra played it over and over, just for her.

  In her addled mind, Charlotte appeared before her now, dancing. Then the music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The wind whined a warning as Charlotte reached for her.

  Honoria screamed. She had to get away from this evil place. It was full of death and sorrow and ghosts. She bolted down the stairs, heading for the front door. She pulled at the ancient iron latch, and felt cold night air on her overheated skin.

  In a thoughtless panic, she raced down the steps. There was a coach at the bottom, and she leapt in. “Get me away from this place!” she screeched as the horses were whipped to a fast start. A lady’s cashmere shawl lay draped across the seat, and Honoria’s fingers dug into the soft fabric, picking it up. She frowned. It wasn’t hers.

  Too late, she realized that she was in Marianne De Courcey’s crippled coach.

  At Honoria’s scream, Phineas lunged forward to grab Robin. He held him out of the way as Honoria ran down the hallway.

  What the hell had Honoria seen? Phineas stared at the open door, his chest tightening.

  The fragile candlelight beckoned, and Phineas pushed the door wider, holding Robin’s slight weight against his chest. The child clung to him, his eyes huge, too frightened to cry. Phineas knew exactly how he felt. Dread crawled up his spine.

  What if Isobel was here, dead? His heart began to pound.

  He pressed the boy’s face against his shoulder, not wanting him to see.

  The room was empty. Relief flooded through him as he set Robin on his feet.

  Outside the narrow window the petticoat still fluttered in the night wind. The floor was strewn with a wild froth of similar garments.

  A satin gown hung from the door of the wardrobe, undulating in the wind that whistled through the window slit. The low, lace-trimmed bodice reminded him of the gown Isobel had worn to Marianne’s masquerade, and a wave of longing swept over him.

  “Where’s my mother?” Robin asked, gazing around the room with wide eyes. Phineas bent to pick up the knife, still warm from Honoria’s body. A snarling wolf with ruby eyes was carved into the handle. Napoleon’s crest was etched into the sharp blade. Phineas gripped it in his fist, hating Renshaw and the Maitlands.

  He turned to Robin, and saw Isobel’s eyes. At least her son was safe. He’d done that much right. The boy loved Isobel as much as he did. It made them partners.

  He looked at Robin soberly. “Let’s go and find her.”

  Chapter 54

  “Stop where you are.” The command rang out as they crossed the front hall. To Isobel’s surprise, Adam turned and fired a pistol at Philip Renshaw. Marianne shrieked.

  Adam’s ball hit the wooden door frame near Philip’s head in a spray of splinters. There was a second explosion, and Westlake dropped to the floor with a grunt.

  “Adam!” Marianne dove for her husband.

  The smell of powder filled the air, and the smoke rose in the candlelight in hazy coils. Isobel rushed toward her friend, but Renshaw grabbed her wrist, spun her hard against his body and dragged her away. His arm circled her chest, and the rude jab of a pistol chilled the flesh of her throat, ending her struggles at once.

  Adam had a second pistol in his hand, but his face was a mask of pain and the weapon shook in his grip. Marianne was mopping at the blood pouring from his thigh.

  “My next shot will go through Isobel’s head. Put your pistol down,” Philip ord
ered.

  “Renshaw,” Adam grunted, but he dropped the gun. He pushed his wife’s hands away. “Marianne, stop. Go through the salon and out the French doors. Find one of my men,” he instructed.

  “I’m not leaving you!” Marianne insisted, her tears silver tracks on her flushed cheeks.

  “She’s right, Westlake. She is staying right where she is,” Renshaw said. “I suggest you use your petticoat as a bandage, madam.” He shrugged. He spoke calmly, as if they were chatting over tea in Evelyn’s salon. “Not that it will make a difference in the end, but it will slow the bleeding. May I assume you found Lady Honoria upstairs and dispatched her? If so, I owe you a debt of gratitude. You have saved me from having to do it.”

  Isobel gasped. Honoria, dead? The pistol burrowed deeper into the skin under her ear. “Keep still, Isobel.”

  “We have not seen Lady Honoria all day,” Marianne said tartly as she shimmied out of her petticoat. “But you can be sure I’ll have plenty to say to her when we do.”

  “Marianne, for once in your life be quiet,” Adam ordered through gritted teeth as she pressed on the wound.

  Philip gripped Isobel’s jaw and twisted her face so he could look into her eyes, his gaze sharp as a dagger, assessing her in a slow, terrifying glance.

  “Well, well. Dowdy little Isobel. Who would have imagined you could cause so much trouble? Is it true that Blackwood’s been bedding you? That’s a terrible mistake, my dear. He’ll only break your heart.” Isobel tried to twist out of his grip, but he held her easily and laughed. “Ah, I’ve touched a nerve. He’s already abandoned you, then.”

  “Mama!” At the sound of Robin’s cry, Philip spun and pointed the pistol at her child. Isobel’s heart skipped a beat, then stopped dead in her chest.

  “Robin!” she screamed, and the sound echoed to the vaulted roof, but Phineas was there, holding her son, protecting him, keeping him from racing down the steps.

  “I haven’t abandoned anyone, Renshaw,” Phineas drawled. “Unfortunately, Evelyn can hardly say the same.” The barb struck home, and Philip’s grip tightened painfully, but Isobel’s heart started beating again.

  Blackwood.

  He’d come for her, for Robin.

  She drank in the sight of him. He was filthy, bloody, and unshaven.

  He took her breath away.

  “Blackwood, get the boy out of here!” Westlake said, his voice thick with pain.

  Marianne looked at her brother sharply. “Phin, Lord Renshaw shot Adam! What the devil is going on? Does this have something to do with Evelyn? I’ve heard gossip, but surely it isn’t true!”

  “Don’t talk, Marianne,” Phineas said tiredly.

  Renshaw gripped Isobel by the hair, tugging her head back. “Ah, yes! The infamous Marquess of Blackwood. Look your last at him, Isobel. It will be a pleasure to be the one to put an end to you, old friend. Someone’s husband must have a bounty on your head by now. When history remembers this moment, men will glorify me as they piss on your grave. I wonder how many women will truly mourn you?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” Phineas said lightly, the rake once again, but Isobel saw the cold intent behind his smirk. “Shall we have a drink and discuss it?”

  “I haven’t the time, old friend, and you’ll be dead in a few minutes,” Philip replied. “I’ll hear your last confession, though. Have you made my wife your whore?” he demanded. Isobel felt him tense in anticipation of the answer.

  Blackwood and Evelyn?

  Isobel searched his face, but his expression gave nothing away.

  “I never confess, Philip. It would be dishonorable indeed to besmirch a lady’s honor, don’t you think, to abandon her and let idle gossips tear her to shreds for my misdeed? My secrets will go with me to the grave.”

  Philip laughed harshly and brought the pistol back to Isobel’s throat, stroking her skin with it, a sensuous, deadly caress. Goose bumps crept over her flesh. “Whether you’ve had Evelyn or not hardly matters now. She’s unworthy of my notice. I’ve got your current mistress. Come down or I’ll shoot her.”

  Isobel kept her eyes on Phineas, telling him wordlessly that she would be all right now that he was there. She let love shine naked, unmasked, in her eyes.

  He began to descend the stairs, moving at an insouciant pace that suggested Philip’s threat mattered little to him, but Isobel noted the tightness of his jaw. He held Robin’s hand, keeping her son behind him, protecting him. Her heart swelled, and there wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind that he’d come to rescue her.

  She wished he’d hurry.

  “Drop the pistol,” Philip said, his voice a growl in her ear. She winced at the pressure of Renshaw’s weapon on her temple.

  Phineas slid his gun across the floor, and it stopped next to Philip’s foot.

  “Excellent. Now send the boy over here.”

  “He stays with me,” Phineas said calmly.

  “I’ll shoot him,” Philip warned, and Isobel’s breath caught in her throat.

  Phineas smiled. “You only have one bullet, old friend. You can’t shoot everyone.”

  Renshaw swore savagely and his arm tightened around Isobel’s throat, cutting off her air. She gasped, tried to wriggle free, but his grip was too tight. She stared at Phineas as black spots danced before her eyes.

  “There’s more than one way to kill,” Philip snarled. She tugged at his wrist with shaking fingers but his hold was unbreakable. She felt her knees weakening.

  “Isobel!” The scream came from Marianne and buzzed in her ears, but it was too late. The room wavered as her empty lungs clamored for air.

  “That’s enough!” Phineas roared, crossing the room, but Philip swung the pistol on him and Phineas stopped.

  It was enough.

  For an instant Renshaw’s arm loosened. Isobel dragged air into her starving lungs.

  “Let her go, Renshaw. I’ll take her place. Would you kill a mother in front of her child?” he demanded.

  Lord Philip, damn him, seemed to be considering it. Isobel dug her nails into his arm. He swatted her fingers away with the point of the gun.

  “I think, my lord, that I will keep your lady,” he said, his tone soft and deadly. “Let’s go, Isobel.” He began to drag her away.

  The door from the kitchen hallway banged against the wall like a cannon shot. Philip jumped, and the gun jabbed painfully into her flesh.

  Mr. Gibbs stood in the doorway holding Charles by the scruff of the neck. Charles was rumpled and bruised, his eyes wild.

  “Renshaw! Do something,” he whimpered.

  “Is this him, sir?” the sailor asked Adam, shaking Charles like a wet kitten. “You sent me to find the Earl of Ashdown, and this chap says he’s him. I thought he might be a little advanced in years to be the young lady’s son, but I brought him anyway.” Charles let out a pitiful mewl.

  “Isobel,” she heard Phineas whisper. “Move.”

  She let her body go limp in Philip’s grip, throwing her captor off balance for an instant. She saw Blackwood’s arm rise, saw the glint of the knife in his hand, watched it fly, end over end toward her. She shut her eyes, trusting him, refusing to be afraid.

  Hot blood sprayed her face and Philip screamed. When she opened her eyes, the knife stood straight out of his arm, inches from her face. She stared into the ruby eyes of a snarling wolf.

  Renshaw’s arm went slack and she tumbled to the floor, but Philip buried his fist in her hair, dragging her away. “Damn you, Blackwood, now I’ll kill her in front of you, make you watch.” He pressed his pistol to her temple, cocked it, but his hand shook, the knife still embedded in his arm.

  “Isobel!” Phineas’s shout seemed to come from far away. Robin was screaming too, and Marianne, but Isobel’s knee managed to hit Phineas’s pistol on the floor. She fought Renshaw’s grip, struggling to reach it. Her outstretched fingers touched the cold metal, gripped it.

  She twisted her body and fired.

  The flash lit in Philip’s eyes l
ike the reflection of hell.

  A moment later she was in Phineas’s arms and he was prying the gun out of her hand, tossing it away. The roar of the shot echoed in her head and she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t feel his arms on her. She stared up at him, saw the fear in his eyes, the love. She let herself go limp, let him hold her, breathed in the male scent of his body, curled her fingers against his chest to feel his heart beating. She was safe at last. “I love you,” she whispered, wondering if he could hear her. But Robin crowded in and she hugged him too, caressing his soft red curls.

  “Blackwood, if Isobel isn’t Lady M, explain where she learned to shoot like that,” Adam demanded, his voice husky with pain, his eyes filled with grudging admiration.

  “From me,” Marianne said proudly. “I taught her. And who exactly is Lady M?”

  Adam Westlake groaned.

  Chapter 55

  Isobel marveled that the sea glittered placidly in the moonlight as if nothing at all had happened that day.

  Phineas stood close behind her on the deck of the Lady Marianne, his hands on her waist, protecting her now from nothing more sinister than the cold sea wind, but she leaned into him, not wanting to be anywhere else.

  Four strong men lifted Adam aboard, and Marianne hovered anxiously, issuing orders like a bosun.

  Mr. Gibbs had the true Earl of Ashdown at last, fast asleep on his shoulder, and Charles had been sent to London in the custody of His Majesty’s Guards, who arrived after the shooting stopped and everyone was safe.

  “Evening, Captain,” the real bosun greeted Adam as the sailors set him carefully on the deck. His leg was wrapped in frilly strips of Marianne’s petticoat. The wind blew her thin muslin skirt against her legs, and her husband scowled as his sailors gaped at the fetching sight.

  “Fetch my wife a cloak, Mr. Jessop, and make your report, if you please,” Adam growled at the bosun.