A Notorious Countess Confesses: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Julie Anne Long

  And then, at last, she quirked the corner of her mouth. And sighed.

  “He was kind and funny, and I don’t care what anyone says, I cared for him, and I meant to be a good wife, because Lord knows he shocked even me by going through with the wedding, bless him. But he wasn’t young, mind you. The doctor said too much … marital activity … was a strain on his heart. If I had known! But I take some comfort in one thing: I do believe he died happy.”

  “I’ve no doubt at all that he did.”

  She froze. Her eyes flared in surprise.

  He was nearly as surprised as she was that he’d said it.

  And then a smile began at one corner of her mouth and spread slowly to the other, and her eyes warmed with it.

  “Now that,” she said softly, “was flirting, Vicar.”

  For a moment he lived only in that smile, and the world was peculiarly weightless. “Was it? You’re the authority.”

  He held her eyes fast with his. For he was no coward.

  It was a dangerous, ill-considered little moment, and he ought to stop it.

  She surprised him. She ducked her head again. He knew, with a peculiar satisfaction and disappointment, that he’d disconcerted her.

  Which perhaps was all to the good.

  She sipped at her tea. She glanced up at him, and for a moment his view was of her big green eyes staring at him with something akin to wariness over the rim of the porcelain cup. He knew that throughout his visit, he’d been measured and remeasured by those eyes, and it amused him. Despite what he’d said, she would probably continue to try to maneuver him with flirtation like a dog with a sheep, until she realized it just couldn’t be done.

  Until she gave up and was entirely herself.

  But that … that might be even more dangerous if her laugh was any indication. For if light had a sound, it was that laugh. Her face went brilliant with it, her eyes disappeared with mirth, and he’d immediately felt it was his mission in life to make her do it again.

  He began to understand how she had managed to capture the imaginations of so many men. He had a suspicion he’d in fact only scratched the surface of it.

  He was glad of the moment of silence. He used it to impose detachment.

  The tea seemed to reanimate her.

  “I was alone again, when Monty died. I never liked to be alone, you see. I grew up with so many brothers and sisters in a tiny cottage in Killarney—”

  “Which is where the Irish accent came from.”

  A swift smile. “Yes. I’m Irish. And I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in London, but it’s positively teeming, and I never did live alone even there, even in Seven Dials—there was always at least Henny for company; though why I tolerate her, I ask you. I was surrounded by friends and gaiety until Monty died. And listen!” She leaned forward. “Do you hear that?”

  Seven Dials? She’d dropped those provocative words into conversation casually. He absorbed this in stillness for just a moment.

  Another clue into how her character had become tempered. Like a blade.

  The clock on the mantel wheezed as it prepared to chime out another hour. That was all he heard.

  “I’m sorry. What do you hear?”

  “Absolutely nothing! That’s the trouble! Silent as a tomb, this countryside is! But if you listen very, very carefully—very carefully, mind you—I believe you can hear mice snoring in the rafters.”

  He laughed; he couldn’t help it.

  She smiled as though he’d just awarded her a prize “I should like to enlist your assistance, Reverend Sylvaine. Because I have reason to believe that the women here know of my past and are hardly likely to welcome me with open arms. And I confess I overheard you speaking to a woman outside of the church on Sunday about a winter festival. And about a Pennyroyal Green Lady’s Society? Well, I should like to play a part,” she concluded brightly.

  He froze. His mind went utterly blank for an instant.

  He was tempted to say, “Good God, anything but that. You can sing a bawdy song in front of the church on Sunday if you wish, but not that.”

  He tried to imagine bringing this news to Mrs. Sneath. He couldn’t quite manage it.

  “You’d like to become a member of the Lady’s Society?”

  She nodded.

  He drummed his fingers thoughtfully again.

  “Tell me, Lady Balmain …” he began pleasantly. “And by all means, please do correct me if I’m wrong …”

  “Very well,” she said cautiously.

  “Did you once wink at a man and cause a duel?”

  “Well, yes. You see, there was something in my eye. It was all a great misunderstand—”

  “or inspire a young man to fall out of a balcony to get a look into your bodice?”

  “He’d been misinformed,” she said hurriedly. “There was nothing out of the ordinary to see, just a—”

  “Show your ankles on stage at the theater?”

  “And … sometimes my calves,” she allowed weakly.

  “ … and enter matrimony as a result of a wager?”

  “Can you blame the man? I’m an irresistible prize.”

  She tried a winsome smile.

  He sighed. And let his head tip back against the velvet embrace of the spindly chair. And eyed her with something just shy of balefulness.

  Just when he thought there might be a limit to the types of surprises he might encounter.

  The longer he was quiet, the pinker she grew in the cheeks. Temper or mortification? If he’d been a wagering man, he’d wager it was more of the first than the second.

  “So you’re judging whether I’m worthy of the women here.” Her voice was low and quietly angry. “Despite what you said about judging.”

  “I’m questioning your choices.”

  “How would you know what sort of life I’ve lived, or why I’ve made the choices I’ve made?”

  “That’s precisely it, Lady Balmain. I don’t know.”

  “How dare—”

  He held up a hand. “Allow me to attempt to explain.” He took a breath. “Many of my parishioners will live and die in Pennyoyal Green; many may never set foot in London. And they live and die by a set of rules they feel hasn’t yet failed them. Those rules include attending church regularly, making an effort to avoid appearing in the scandal sheets or cause riots at the opera as a result of wearing gowns that may or may not expose nipples, and not accepting an allowance and fine lodgings in exchange for having sex with a member of parliament. They find such things, in fact, alarming and threatening to everything they hold dear.”

  The words rang very damningly in the room.

  She was breathing more quickly now. “Those were not the only reasons. The … fine lodging and allowance.”

  He had the sense he was tormenting her. He loathed making a strong woman stammer. He could feel his own stomach knotting in sympathy.

  “It’s just … please try to understand. These are my people, Lady Balmain. I care very much about them. I would do anything for them. Their trust is precious to me. You’ve asked me to help you ingratiate yourself with them. And I can only do my best by them as long as my character is sound. They rely upon my character and discretion and good judgment. I’ve yet to hear a reason why I should trust yours. Do you care to convince me that I should?”

  Her shoulders rose in a deep breath. She exhaled at length and smoothed her hands along her thighs as if she could erase her past.

  And then she jerked her chin up high. Like a soldier carrying a flag into battle.

  And again he was suffused with admiration.

  “Very well, then. I know it all sounds very damning, Reverend. But it’s easy to draw conclusions from things you hear. It may surprise you to hear that I’ve never had the opportunity to be reckless. That the choices I made were not a product of whimsy or weak moral fiber. That the events you cited—balcony plummets and duels and the like—were choices made by other people, not something I caused, as though I were a mesme
rist and I waved my hand and they all did my bidding.”

  Tell me more, he wanted to urge her. But there was an air of finality about what she’d just said. As though she felt she’d told him quite enough.

  “Choices they made in response to you. You sound rather like Chaos’s Muse.”

  She struggled with, but lost the battle to, a crooked, wicked smile here, and he couldn’t resist meeting it with one of his own.

  “Why do you want friends? Why should I believe it’s not yet another whim of a woman who’s so jaded and sophisticated she’s simply in search of new ways to amuse herself? These people are not playthings.”

  He heard the harshness of his own words; he admired her again immensely for not flinching.

  She did go still. But he liked the notion he was up against a will as strong as his own. It became clearer by the moment how she’d managed to rise so far in life.

  “Surely you believe everyone deserves a chance, Reverend Sylvaine? Pennyroyal Green is my home now. I didn’t choose it, but I don’t intend to leave. And I don’t intend to languish. Entertain the possibility that I’d hoped I was beginning another life entirely when I married the Earl of Wareham. All of those things you described are behind me, Reverend Sylvaine. Theater. Duels. Gambling. Scandal sheets.” She paused strategically. “Men.”

  The word rang in the room. Almost like a challenge.

  Ah, the strategic pause. He admired it. He couldn’t help it—he was amused. It was the work of someone who knew a bit about timing and the stage. She would never be able to leave all of it behind, he would wager on it.

  “So you don’t still crave an audience, Lady Balmain?”

  “Said the man who holds one captive every Sunday morning.”

  “And you won’t feel the need to foment … excitement?”

  “I just … I just want an opportunity to be a friend. To begin again. To be … who I am,” she tried coaxingly. Another attempt at flattering him.

  This one was a bit more effective. She seemed entirely, humbly sincere. She was still flushed and awkward, and he suspected she was very unused to asking for anything outright. Her hands were still knotted against her thighs.

  And God, she was lovely like this, too. Still all contrasts, all softness and angles, pride and prickly vulnerability.

  He blew out a breath. Distantly he was amused by his dilemma.

  He’d be urging into the midst of a band of worthy women a creature as exotic and dangerous as any fox appeared to any hens, and he wasn’t certain figurative carnage wouldn’t ensue. Title or no, the countess’s beautiful manners weren’t innate; they were layered over her like gilt and subject to slippage. And he knew of a certainty she was unpredictable, and his parishioners, with the notable exception of his cousins, thrived on predictability and repetition: seasons, crops, the birth of calves, the christening of babies, mischief from the Everseas.

  But he was always on the side of courage. And hope.

  Then again, he was also in favor of self-preservation. He imagined Colin’s expression when he heard that Adam had been an emissary for the countess.

  But what was he put on the earth for if not to help? Surely, this was his primary motive.

  Once he said the words, he couldn’t unsay them. So he said them.

  “Very well,” he said softly. “I’ll help.”

  With the strange sensation he was sealing his fate.

  Her face was luminous. “Thank you, Reverend Sylvaine. You won’t regret it.”

  And in that instant, he felt as though the entire reason he’d been put on earth was to put that smile on her face.

  THE AUCTION WAS to take place in the ballroom of Sir John Fesker’s manor house. He’d graciously agreed to it, saying magnanimously “Anything for charity, Vicar.” He’d also been promised the role of auctioneer and the use of an enormous gavel, which was the real reason he’d agreed.

  Adam arrived at half past the hour to discover all of the women clustered at the far corner of the ballroom, as surely as if the house had been tipped on its edge and they’d all rolled there, like billiard balls.

  The reason for this—a petite dark-haired woman holding a basket—was standing on the opposite side of the room, nearest the door. One would have thought the basket she held contained a cobra. Her spine was straight and her chin was high and her expression was serene but not haughty. Quite as though she owned the room and had requested all of the women to stand in the corner so she could admire them from a distance.

  Evie had consulted with Henny, who was gifted when it came to costume and invested in Evie’s plan to make friends, for this very important choice.

  “Ye’ll want to seem like one of them, m’lady, but no fancier than the fanciest lady there, soooo … I think your blue pelisse over the striped muslin with the long sleeves, and a fichu tucked into the top, mind, as you dinna want them thinking overmuch about yer bubbies.”

  It was a very good reminder, as in the past it had been to Evie’s benefit if her company did think about her bubbies, and she in general found fichus rather hypocritical.

  She felt him arrive before she saw him. Those broad shoulders nearly cast a shadow at her feet. There was a swift and peculiar clutch of the heart, as though she were being engulfed or sheltered. She turned around swiftly, looked up, and, yes, found him faintly smiling.

  “Good afternoon, Reverend Sylvaine.”

  “Welcome, Lady Balmain. I’ve reviewed the premises for pitchforks and boiling oil. I think you’re safe enough. Although there may be some danger from daggerlike stares.”

  They both noted the cluster of women at the front of the ballroom. Baskets were lined, ready for bidding on tables near them. Another table held ratafia, and when he glanced over there, it solved the mystery of what had become of the husbands and men of the town.

  “I wore armor. Note my modest fichu.” Eve gestured toward it.

  She suspected he sorely longed to note it, but noting it would require looking directly at her breasts, which he wasn’t about to do in front of an assembly of his parishioners.

  His eyes remained steadfastly on hers. The man was a fortress.

  “I should have thought your maid would have been armor enough,” he said easily.

  “Oh, Henny would frighten them far worse than I, so I thought it wisest not to bring her. She’s unable to tolerate anyone’s treating me like other than a queen. Unless it’s her, of course. The abuse I endure from her, I ask you! And if you think my vocabulary is startling when I’ve had a shock, you should hear hers.”

  He smiled, and all around the room women watching him shifted restlessly, livid with envy that the smile wasn’t directed at them, and craned to bask in its stray rays.

  “It’s a good quality in a friend.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  It was then Adam noticed how tightly she was gripping the edges of the basket.

  He was tempted to touch her arm and wish her peace and luck. He refrained, of course.

  They would know soon enough whether this was folly.

  He was curious about something. “Did you actually bake a cake?”

  “You needn’t sound so skeptical, Reverend. I do know how to bake. Though … it has been some time since I attempted it …” Her forehead was faintly troubled. She added almost hopefully, “It’s a ginger cake.” As though she wasn’t entirely sure that it was but was optimistic it would taste like one.

  Her hand absently touched her throat. He’d watched her do that any number of times when they’d first spoken over tea. A fine chain looped about her neck and disappeared into her bodice. He suspected a charm of some kind dangled from it, and again he wondered who had ever been strong for her, if she sought comfort in a talisman.

  “Will you bring it up to the table now, then?” he asked her.

  “I suppose I will.” She didn’t move. She did square her shoulders.

  “Godspeed, Lady Balmain.”

  She did smile at this, albeit wryly, and bore her cake
off into the lion’s den.

  He watched her walk, as regally as someone about to be presented to the queen, right up to Mrs. Sneath. They exchanged a few words; Mrs. Sneath relieved her of the basket rapidly, as though it did indeed contain a snake, and gestured, almost shooed her, in the direction of the rows of chairs, while behind them the cluster of women in the corner shifted and buzzed with low conversation, like a cloud of disturbed bees.

  Mrs. Sneath had been silent for a long, long time when he’d broached the topic of the countess.

  “She’s a very striking woman,” she began carefully. “The sort your cousin Mr. Colin Eversea might have known some years back, I suspect. I’ve heard she can captivate even the most stalwart of men like a veritable Circe.”

  She was clever, Mrs. Sneath. But not direct. Perhaps she was concerned Adam was exhibiting latent rake tendencies.

  “Pennyroyal Green is blessed with more than our fair share of striking women, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Sneath? I imagine that’s why I noticed nothing unusual about the countess.”

  Surely this was the sort of lie that could be forgiven.

  “Oh, Reverend.” She laughed and blushed, and would convey his words to all the women in the town, thus fanning into a bonfire the hopes of many of them.

  “You are a good man, Reverend Sylvaine,” she said carefully, though it had the faintest, faintest ring of a reminder. “I understand that your compassionate nature compels you to convey her request to me. But what you suggest might be difficult, indeed. If Napoleon had confronted a mass of women determined to protect their morals and the morals of their families, he might have turned around and gone straight back to France.”

  “Don’t you think, Mrs. Sneath, that if one’s morals are solid, then one woman with a basketful of cake is hardly likely to corrupt them? Wouldn’t the sheer volume of moral certainty you ladies possess be more likely to influence her?”

  He thought this very unlikely in the present circumstances. If any influencing was about to take place, he suspected quite the inverse.

  “Excellent point! “ Mrs. Sneath seemed pleased with this. “It’s why you are the vicar.”

  “Wouldn’t it be an interesting challenge to welcome her graciously into the society and see whether one’s morals can withstand the strain of her?”