The Counterfeit Gentleman

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  But only if he still had a pair of knee breeches. With every muscle and joint in his body protesting, he got down on his knees and began to retrieve his few remaining possessions from their hiding place.

  With glee Geoffrey realized that his moment of revenge was at hand. His bastard brother had come to Almack’s with Lord and Lady Edington, but now the cripple was leaving early with his wife. Which meant there would soon be no one for Rendel to hide behind.

  He had dreamed of this moment all through those months of exile. There had been times when only the thought of destroying his half-brother had kept him going. And now that the opportunity was finally here, he would enjoy every minute of his triumph.

  Waltzing with her husband was like nothing else, Bethia decided. With other men a dance was simply a pattern of steps, but with Digory it was a hint of what heaven must be like.

  But as always, the music ended too soon. “Thank you for a lovely dance,” he said softly, smiling down at her.

  “You are quite welcome,” she said, taking his arm.

  Then above the chattering of the crowd, a voice rang out. “By jove, it’s my bastard half-brother, Digory Rendel. How the devil did a base-born smuggler ever gain admittance to Almack’s?”

  The sudden silence of the crowd struck Bethia like a blow, and she froze in place.

  “It seems that I was wrong,” her husband whispered. “My brother does not intend to bleed us dry. He prefers revenge to bank notes.”

  The crowd around them had quickly begun moving away, and they were soon isolated in the middle of a vast empty space. Then the murmurs started and spread like a wave. Someone snickered, and another person laughed, and the volume of noise seemed to rise in a horrible, discordant crescendo.

  “Steady on,” Digory said. “We shall soon be out of here.”

  Clutching his arm, Bethia managed to walk stiffly to their chairs, but just before they got to their seats two figures separated themselves from the crowd and stood directly in their paths. It was Mrs. Drummond Burrell and the Countess Lieven, and they were positively livid with rage.

  Gradually, the crowd quieted down in eager anticipation of more bloodletting.

  “We are not amused,” Mrs. Drummond Burrell said.

  “We must ask that you surrender your vouchers and leave at once,” the countess added.

  Sally Jersey emerged from the crowd to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her fellow patronesses. “And if you are wise, you will not remain in London.”

  Now instead of amusement, the crowd began to grow hostile. Bethia feared that they might become violent, but a path cleared before them as they walked toward the door.

  “I think we should take Lady Jersey’s advice,” Bethia said when they emerged into the cool night air. “I would like very much to go back to your cottage in Cornwall.”

  Instead of replying, her husband stopped abruptly. Looking up, she saw a man blocking their way, his face so contorted with anger, it took her a moment to realize it was her cousin Wilbur Harcourt.

  “How dare you cheat me out of my fortune,” he said. “It should have been mine—all mine!”

  Bethia shivered and clung to her husband’s arm. Her cousin was attracting the attention of the coachmen and grooms waiting in front of Almack’s.

  “You should be dead—I saw your body—you are an imposter,” Wilbur screeched.

  “He is mad,” she whispered. “Totally insane.”

  He began cursing, and when they tried to go around him, he scuttled sideways, again blocking their way. Oh, if only Big Davey and Little Davey were here! But her husband had instructed them to return at one o’clock, and it was not even midnight yet.

  Casting her mind back at the faces she had seen in Almack’s, she realized that Lord Edington was the only one of the former espionage agents who had been there, and he had left early.

  It was not until Lord Blackstone came up and stood beside her that she belatedly realized how well he had chosen the time to denounce them.

  “How interesting,” he said. “It would seem that I am not the only one who bears you a grudge. Well, dear brother, never let it be said that I did not do you a favor.”

  Before her husband could reply, the earl pulled a pistol out from under his jacket and without hesitation pulled the trigger.

  The noise was deafening, and at first Bethia could not believe the evidence of her own eyes, not even when Wilbur Harcourt staggered backward, then fell to lie motionless on the ground.

  “Murder—murder—help me!” the earl cried loudly, casually tossing the pistol down on the ground in front of them. “Rendel has killed Mr. Harcourt in cold blood—shot him down like a dog on the street. Seize him before he gets away!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  To Bethia’s great relief, the various grooms and coachmen just stood there, looking at the body on the ground and then at the three people standing next to it. Despite Lord Blackstone’s order to seize her husband, they showed obvious reluctance to lay hands upon a gentleman.

  “It is Lord Blackstone’s gun,” she cried out. “He is the one who pulled the trigger.” Clutching Digory’s arm, she said, “Tell them you are innocent. Tell them that it was Lord Blackstone who killed my cousin.”

  “Indeed, Rendel, tell us—we are all ears,” the earl said, smiling maliciously.

  “I did not shoot Mr. Harcourt,” Digory said, biting off each word.

  The earl turned to the crowd with a look of mock bewilderment. “Here is indeed a puzzle. The unfortunate Mr. Harcourt, God rest his soul, lies before us obviously dead. I say I did not shoot him, yet Rendel and his wife claim that I did. That is two against one, so it appears you must believe them when they say that I am lying. And yet...” He paused, and the crowd became even more attentive.

  “And yet I would ask you to judge whether we can believe the word of Rendel, who has been passing himself off as a gentleman. Why, he has even gone so far as to marry this lovely lady, who is a great heiress. Indeed, until I recognized him in Almack’s, he had successfully concealed from everyone that he is nothing more nor less than a smuggler from Cornwall.”

  Still the crowd did not move, and for a brief moment Bethia thought they did not believe the earl. But then he laughed and spoke again.

  “And I should know, after all, since he is my bastard half-brother, although I am sure I will be excused if I do not usually care to acknowledge the connection.”

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd, and two liveried grooms grabbed her husband’s arms from behind. He could easily have gotten free, but to Bethia’s surprise he stood quietly, making no effort to get away.

  “No, no!” she cried, trying to pry the men’s hands loose. “The earl lies!”

  Fortunately, assorted gentlemen and even a few ladies began streaming out of Almack’s, saying that they had heard a shot, and demanding loudly to be told what was going forth.

  To her dismay, they were even quicker to condemn Digory than their servants had been. Ignoring her pleas to listen to the truth, they spoke only with the earl, and he was doing his best to excite their emotions to a deadly degree.

  “What is the meaning of this?” an imperious voice rang out.

  Bethia saw with relief that it was Lady Letitia. Using her cane to good advantage, the elderly lady quickly cleared a path from the doorway of Almack’s to where the principals stood around the body.

  As regally as if she were the queen herself—or perhaps, Bethia thought, it would be better to say as boldly as a general with an army at his back—Lady Letitia marched up to Digory and demanded to know what was going on.

  “Lord Blackstone has shot and killed Mr. Wilbur Harcourt,” Digory said in a voice loud enough to carry to the outer fringes of the mob.

  Like an angry beast that has been taunted, the crowd surged forward, and assorted voices cried out, “You lie! Murderer! Imposter!”

  Lady Letitia stopped them with a single raised hand. “Has anyone notified the watch that there is a body here?�
� she asked.

  “I do not believe so,” Digory replied.

  “You, Mr. Farnall and Mr. Redvers, be so good as to see to the arrangements for having the body removed.”

  With obvious reluctance the two unfortunate gentlemen departed to find the watch.

  “And you, Lord Jodrell, be so good as to tell your men to release Mr. Rendel.”

  “He is a murdering imposter,” a voice cried out belligerently.

  “Indeed, Major Henniker, and did you witness the crime yourself?” Lady Letitia asked. When there was no reply, she said, “Before you make any more unfounded accusations, I suggest that you think about the penalties for slander and defamation of character.”

  From somewhere in the back of the crowd there were mutterings of “bastard” and “imposter,” but Lady Letitia ignored them. Looking around, she said, “Since there is nothing else to be done until the inquest, I suggest that you all disperse and go about your business.”

  By this time only one portly gentleman was foolish enough to try to take matters back into his own hands. “That scoundrel belongs in jail, and I say we take him there right now.”

  His attempt to rouse the mob to action failed.

  “I personally guarantee that Mr. Rendel will be present at the inquest,” Lady Letitia said with icy disdain, contriving somehow to look down her nose at the outspoken gentleman even though he was a good six inches taller than she was. “But if you truly wish to be of assistance, Lord Bomford, I suggest that you make it your task to see that Lord Blackstone also puts in an appearance. The earl, as I am sure you have noticed, has a regrettable tendency to vanish from London when it suits him.”

  A titter of laughter ran through the crowd, and Lord Bomford’s face became quite red.

  The earl, who had been observing the proceedings with a look of sly satisfaction on his face, now spoke up hotly. “I did not vanish, as you put it. My bastard brother here had me kidnapped and sold to the Barbary pirates.”

  Bethia felt a stab of fear. Despite his earlier lies, the earl was now telling the truth, and there was no way she or Digory could deny the accusation.

  But to her surprise, the crowd was less willing to believe Lord Blackstone when he was telling the truth than when he was lying outrageously. Instead of grabbing her husband and dragging him off to jail, everyone merely tried to get a better view, obviously not wanting to miss a single word of the duel between Lady Letitia, whom none of them dared to cross, and the earl, whom none of them actually liked.

  “I see,” Lady Letitia said. “So the reports we have been hearing for the last year about how you have been bear-leading Lord Keppel around Europe were quite false. You were really toiling as a slave in North Africa—languishing in chains perhaps? Tell me, for I am truly overcome by curiosity, what was the name of your owner, and did he perhaps put you in charge of his harem?”

  Now the merriment of the crowd could not be contained, and it was a long time before the earl could make himself heard. “I never reached Africa,” he said in a loud and angry voice. “I jumped overboard and—”

  The rest of his reply was drowned out by the ensuing laughter.

  “And—and—” Lord Bomford finally managed to say, “—and no doubt you were pulled from the sea by a fisherman.”

  His jest was received with great glee, and soon other gentlemen and ladies were likewise engaged in baiting Lord Blackstone, whose rage grew with each minute.

  Lady Letitia signaled to Bethia and Digory, and the three of them managed to walk quietly away without anyone taking notice of them. But it was only when they were safely in Lady Letitia’s carriage and the mob was far behind them that Bethia’s heart gradually slowed to normal.

  “I will never forget what you have done for us,” Digory said. “I only hope you do not come to regret your very generous actions this evening.”

  “Don’t talk gammon,” Lady Letitia replied. “I can do what I please and say whatever I want, and there is no one in London or indeed in all of England who would dare give me the cut direct, or even host a party without sending me an invitation.”

  “I can only hope you are right,” Digory said.

  “You may count on it,” Lady Letitia said, “not because I am beloved by one and all, but because I know too many secrets. If I wanted to, I could destroy the reputations of virtually everyone who was at Almack’s tonight. But enough of this—I must know more about what happened this evening so that we can figure out how best to get you out of this coil.”

  “The earl denounced us as you doubtless heard,” Digory said. “And when we left Almack’s, Wilbur Harcourt accosted us.”

  “Yes, he was apparently drunk,” Bethia said, “for he started screaming at me that I had stolen his fortune. Then Lord Blackstone came up beside me, and before I realized what he intended, I saw a gun in his hand. Without hesitating, he shot my cousin.”

  “And did you also see the gun?” Lady Letitia asked Digory.

  “Not until he tossed it down at my feet and began to shout that I had just killed Harcourt. Apparently no one else was close enough to see what happened.”

  “Dear me,” Lady Letitia said. “This is worse than I thought.”

  “But I saw him shoot my cousin,” Bethia said, fear squeezing her heart. “I can swear under oath that Lord Blackstone is lying. And he is not only a murderer, but also a blackmailer. I paid him £3,000 not to tell anyone that my husband is his half-brother, and you need not tell me how foolish that was, because Digory has already given me a thorough lecture.”

  “We must assume,” Lady Letitia said, “that you will be tried for murder.”

  Bethia clutched Digory’s arm more tightly. “But I can swear on the Bible that he had nothing to do with it.”

  “Unfortunately,” Lady Letitia said, “you will not be allowed to speak in court. As far as the law is concerned, a man and wife are legally one, and so a woman may not testify for or against her husband.”

  “And even if you could,” Digory said, “no one would believe you. In the court of public opinion, we have already been found guilty of deceiving the ton, and a more heinous crime than that is scarce imaginable.”

  “But everyone knows the earl is a wicked man,” Bethia protested. “Why, he is notorious—his nickname is Lord Blackheart. Surely no one will believe his lies.”

  Lady Letitia shook her head, and her expression was sad. “He is a peer of the realm, and that is all that matters.”

  Digory stood at the window of his room and looked out at the night, which was not as dark as his thoughts. He had been so sure that he knew the worst that could happen, but he had been wrong. By trying to protect Bethia, he had destroyed her life.

  It had not been necessary for Lady Letitia to explain that the judge and jury would not believe him. From the moment the earl shouted out his accusation, Digory had known that his life would end with a hangman’s noose around his neck.

  Moreover, the revelations of this evening—that he was the bastard son of the Earl of Blackstone—would not be a “nine-day wonder.” The ladies and gentlemen of the ton would never forget how they had been duped, and they would never forgive Bethia for her part in it. They would not be merciful, and he would not be there beside her to deflect some of the more vicious attacks.

  And when the time came that she wished to marry again, she would discover just how vindictive the ton could be. Even though she had sufficient money to buy herself a husband, her choices would be limited to the dregs—perhaps a widower with too many children, or more likely a gambling man who would quickly game away her fortune.

  Knowing just how helpless he was, Digory did not have the courage to go into her room and face her. She was doubtless soaking her pillow with tears, and there was nothing he could do—nothing he could say—that would alleviate her misery.

  And despite his promise, after tonight she would have to sleep alone.

  He heard the door behind him open and knew his wife was there. But he could not turn around and fa
ce her. He was indeed a failure in every way that counted.

  A moment later her hand slid into his, and she gripped him with surprising strength.

  “You were right,” she said calmly. “You do not belong in my world any more than I belong in yours.”

  She said no more than what he already knew, but somehow hearing her words made his pain worse.

  “But do you know,” she continued, “I have come to realize that I do not belong in my world either, nor do you actually belong in your world.”

  Her words reached to the innermost part of his soul, where he had been trying to hide. Without conscious volition, he turned his head and looked down at her.

  She was smiling up at him, and although there was pain in her eyes, there was no fear. “In your little cottage in Cornwall, we made our own world, and here in this room we also do not need to concern ourselves with anyone else.”

  Reaching up, she laid her hand against his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. “I would cross the widest ocean alone just to be with you. I will never stop loving you. You are the other half of my soul.”

  Shaken by the intensity of her emotions, he could not speak, could not reply.

  “Do you love me?” she asked, the merest hint of uncertainty in her voice.

  Finally, he managed to say, “I love you with all my heart and soul. I would willingly lay down my life for—”

  She stopped him by laying her hand on his lips. “You will never die,” she said, “for you will always be alive in my heart.”

  “Tomorrow—” he tried to say, but again she stopped him.

  “Tonight,” she corrected him. “We have tonight to be alone together in our own world, so do not think of tomorrow. Please! Please. Please...” Her voice trailed off.

  He knew what she was asking, and she was right. No matter what they did, tomorrow would come. No matter how hard they struggled against treachery and deceit, they would soon be separated forever.

  But they had this one night together, and no one had the power to take that away from them.