The Counterfeit Lady: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 4)

by Alina K. Field

  The pressure of Perry’s fingers on his arm brought him back. She nudged him around facing her.

  “Tell me.”

  “I copied it.”

  Her brows drew together. “You forged it?”

  Not a pretty word and not apt for what he’d done. “Yes. I was there, working on your mother’s portrait when the ransom demand came in. She…she lost her composure that day. The painting had been an early gift from your father and she treasured it.” She had cried. Lady Shaldon had cried at her husband’s peril and at the demand for the painting. He shook his head. “Why your father’s captor wanted it wasn’t clear. The painter, Lopez de Arteaga, had created the work in Mexico. As far as she knew, the painting had never been in San Sebastian’s hands.”

  Perry’s gaze held him, her eyes shining with an intensity and strength that was hers alone. She would be a formidable woman, if she didn’t get herself killed first.

  “Go on, Fox.”

  She would be as strong as her mother. She could handle the whole story, or at least as much as he knew of it. “Copying a great work is not unusual. I’d had commissions like that. And all art students copy the masters—it’s how we learn. And I was good at it. So, I offered to copy it for her, in order that she would at least have that much.”

  “Oh, Fox.” She swallowed and her eyes grew shiny. “Mother’s was the last portrait, and you completed it so quickly—I had no idea.” She shook her head. “I thought you were avoiding us. That you were anxious to get away. I had no idea you were working on two paintings.” She bit her lip. “But that space on Mother’s wall holds a different painting. Where is the copy?”

  He looked out the window. There’d be a few more hours of light, but the moonless night would draw out free traders. They needed to finish this talk so he could be about his business.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it washed out to sea when she died.”

  Her frown deepened, her confusion evident.

  “She brought both paintings here. I believe she was dithering about whether to gamble.”

  “She loved that ragged old painting,” Perry said sadly.

  “Yes.” And ragged it had been, darkened and cracked from rough care during its journey from New Spain to England. “Before the ransom demand, she’d asked me about sending it out for a careful restoration. But she told me the rough condition was part of the charm for her.”

  “As if it was as antiquated as the subjects depicted, she always said.” Perry lifted her chin. “And was your copy cracked and darkened?”

  “Not enough, I suppose, though I tried.”

  Perry inhaled sharply. “But…Mama was deciding whether to gamble? What do you mean?”

  “She rolled up both paintings and then she waited until the very last minute to decide which to send. Whichever one she kept landed on the rocks with her and all of her baggage and was taken away by the tide.” He waved a hand. “And if so, it’s out there, somewhere, at the bottom of the sea, ruined.”

  “No.” Perry released him and pounded a fist on the wooden jamb. “How could she have risked that?”

  She paced to the cold fireplace and back, stopping in front of him. “And the rest of the story? After Father’s release, did the Duque discover a forgery and imprison my mother’s courier?”

  The shadowy light softened her strong features into the lines of an Athena. She’d shoved all the other women he’d known—lovers, models, even his first love, the woman who’d become his brother’s wife—to the distant past. No matter where he went, or what he was painting, her face would be the one he remembered.

  “I don’t know that the Duque has ever investigated the painting’s authenticity. But I’m quite sure he thought it was real when he unrolled it. And then, he locked the courier up with your father and turned both of them over to the French. He never meant to send your father home at all.”

  “How did Father—”

  “He escaped.”

  Her gaze skittered across the room, hands knotting together again. She gave her head a little shake. “Escaped. And left Kincaid in a French jail?”

  Kincaid?

  She bit her lips. “Father wouldn’t do that. Kincaid is his right-hand man.”

  He took a deep breath. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t. Only Shaldon and Kincaid and a few others knew.

  “Perry, it’s understood that sometimes not everyone can escape. Your father’s survival was the more important. He had great responsibilities to your country, and your mother was waiting for him here. And,” He took a deep breath, “It wasn’t Kincaid who brought the painting to the Continent.”

  Her eyes widened and then narrowed. Her mouth dropped open. So smart, his Perry. He knew the moment she saw the truth.

  But he had to say it out loud anyway. He wanted her trust for what he must do next.

  “I was the courier.”

  “You were?” The words whooshed out of her and she saw spots.

  Fox was a bounder, a forger, and an American spy, and he’d saved her father’s life. And Father had gone back to save Fox. And now he was here.

  “Perry.” He gripped her shoulders and shook them. “Perry.”

  Fox had forged the painting. Not stolen it. He’d served her mother. He’d risked his life to save her father. He’d stayed in a French prison so her father could live.

  She wanted to rest her head on his chest, but he’d locked his arms and held her away from him, looking into her eyes as if she would faint.

  Well, and perhaps she might indeed swoon.

  She straightened, managed a breath, and then another, and shook off his hands, searching his face. He looked…tired, wounded in some very deep place. He’d been held by the French, and French cruelty was legendary.

  How long had they held him? Had they chained him? Beaten him? She scanned his body for visible scars.

  There. The scar on his jaw, and evidence of another cut near his hairline. Had they known he was an American, not English? Her mind buzzed with questions.

  “Perry, I’m going to send for your brother.”

  The words brought her up. Her brother—Charley, or Bakeley, or Bink, never mind which one—would carry her off. He wanted her gone. She’d be locked up, maybe married off. She took a step back. And another.

  “It’s too dangerous here.”

  Dangerous. The killer was still here.

  “I can’t…I know I said you could stay, but I want you safe, Perry.” His fingers raked his hair. “I don’t want you hurt.”

  He cared for her.

  And she wanted him—he was her only hope for a chance at real passion in the cold, miserable life that society would allow for her. Her brothers could flout convention and marry the women they loved but…

  Loved. She swallowed hard. Was this love she was feeling for Fox? Had she loved him while thinking she hated him, while trying to squash all her feelings?

  And did he love her?

  That painting in his room was evidence of feelings.

  The painting.

  She picked up her skirts and ran.

  She soon heard his steps pounding behind, but she reached his room before him and closed the door, leaning against it, heart hammering, breaths coming in short spurts.

  The long summer afternoon had passed into evening. Outside, the first shadows of evening cast a pall on the room. She looked around, one hand gripping the latch, her vision adjusting, while determined footsteps edged nearer.

  He rattled the door latch and pushed, and she dug in the heels of her boots, scanning the room, finally able to focus. The easel—and the canvas on it—were gone.

  A hot wave of anger swept through her. Had he hidden it away or destroyed it?

  With one hard push, she was catapulted forward onto his bed. She reached out to brace herself and one hand struck an unlit lamp, the other pressed into the mattress. She struggled to right herself, to right the lamp.

  “God, Perry.” His voice shook. “This is why you must leave.”

/>   The lamp teetered and shattered, just like her heart.

  Chapter 16

  Perry buried her face in the bed pillow. It smelled of citrus and Fox’s own musk. She turned her head and rubbed her cheek against the linen. Today he’d left the bed rumpled and messy and—yes, he was right. By all that was holy and proper with the ton, finding herself plopped onto his bed was why she must leave.

  She turned on her side and curled her legs, relaxing into the cloth-covered ticking. Fox’s bed was considerably lumpier than hers.

  “Get up.” He spoke from next to the bed.

  She waited for his touch.

  “Get up.”

  “I’m not a performing dog.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re Lady Perpetua, the daughter of the Earl of Shaldon.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight against his cold jabs. No tears. She would not cry. She would not. No matter how unfair he was, talking to her as if she was a spoiled miss.

  She wasn’t spoiled. She hadn’t even been a spoiled child all those years ago. She was dutiful, and kind, and a rule-follower.

  And so tired of it. She’d grasped this chance to take charge of her life, and she was determined to stay the course.

  She pushed herself upright on the edge of the bed, with Fox standing just within reach. The dimming light shadowed his handsome face, but couldn’t hide the heat coming off him, or the sound of his breathing. He may be angry, but he cared for her.

  “Why do you do it, Fox?”

  His scent came to her on a sudden breeze. One of the windows must be open.

  “Perpetua.”

  Her heart leaped. He hadn’t asked what she was talking about.

  “Perry. Call me Perry, as you’ve been doing.”

  She stood and he took a step back.

  “You tease me and draw me close, and then you push me away. Why?”

  “You need to go home, Lady Perpetua. You should not be here in the home of a single man—and yes, for now it is my home, not yours.”

  She caught a note of desperation in his voice. “And you’re engaged in a dangerous business.”

  He paused. “Yes.”

  “Thank you for the truth. You are looking for my mother’s murderer.”

  “Yes.”

  He’d hesitated again. Finding her mother’s killer was not the only reason he was here then. “And you also are a spy.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes. I believe you are. But for whom? Nine years ago, our countries were at war. Were you at Cransdall ten years ago spying on the spymaster?”

  Fox took a step back. She moved closer.

  “A portraitist with well-heeled clients moves in the highest circles. He dabs paint in the corners of rooms and listens to people talking. Did you spy for France, Fox?”

  He grasped her arms and locked his to hold her away. “I would never spy for a country of brutes who turn the guillotine on so many of their own.”

  “England has brutes, so I’ve heard. Yet here you are. Spying for America then?”

  “Perry.”

  He’d softened that one word into a wheedling tone that made her shiver.

  She pressed harder. “Yes, I think that’s what you did. You met friends from the embassy for drinks or lunch and passed on the tidbits of what you learned. Charley often operated that way. And then shortly before our countries went back to war, you did that one job for my mother.”

  “You have it all figured out,” he said.

  He was trying for his usual bland sarcasm, but she heard it—that note of distraction, a lack of air, a deep pain that called to some still deeper part of her womanhood.

  “You did this one job and it almost got you killed.” She set her hand over his pulsing heart.

  Her palm pressed like a hot iron, the long fingers trailing lightning into his soul, streaks of white heat beating into him, centering in his groin, inflaming him. She was here. In his room. Could be in his bed in one quick move.

  Muscles straining with effort, he pulled her hand away. “Let me escort you back downstairs. Jenny will have dinner ready.” He infused his voice with the type of ennui he’d heard at the hundreds of dinner parties he’d attended as the interesting American artist. His few years of formal education and the pedigree he’d embellished had made the novelty guest acceptable. “You must be famished.” He should get her downstairs, fed, and back safely to her chambers. The smugglers might return tonight for their booty. When they found two kegs missing they’d be pounding on his door for answers.

  “Oh, I am famished all right. Where is the painting of me you were working on?”

  Bollocks. “So you saw that.”

  “I did.” She inched closer. “I will pose for you, should you wish to work from a live model.”

  Perry the woman, grown into Aphrodite. His arms itched to pull her against him.

  He took a step back. At this rate, she’d edge him out of the window.

  The tiny brain between his legs shouted, Why not take her? She wanted him, and by all the wild Indians in Kentucky, he wanted her. He’d stepped back once from a woman he’d wanted and she’d fallen into another man’s arms. His brother’s arms.

  The memory jumbled his brain. Seducing a virgin was not his way. He’d been honorable with Constance, the wealthy Philadelphia girl who’d abandoned him for his older brother, and he’d looked back many times thanking his stars. Losing Constance had wounded his pride—and been a great blessing. He would never have progressed so far in his painting, or had such adventures, or met this magnificent woman.

  Who he also could not have.

  In spite of the dimness, her eyes shone brightly. He should light the surviving lamp.

  “You were not the model for that painting.”

  She twitched. “Was I not?” A deep sigh escaped her. “Why the lies, Fox? Why always the lies? Why push me away?”

  He broke from her, found his tinder box, busied himself with lighting the lamp.

  Then cursed himself—in the light, she glowed more than ever, beautiful, and with a strength that surprised him.

  “You want me, Fox, and I want you.”

  Without touching, without removing one article of clothing, she was seducing him; artless, gawky, Lady Perpetua. He almost laughed.

  He was but a man, dammit, and she a lovely woman.

  The daughter of Lord Shaldon, his employer and benefactor. A virgin.

  “Look at me, Lady Perpetua. I paint pictures for my living.”

  “And spy.”

  He sighed. “That is not a means of support. I paint pictures for my living. Where I go, I rent cheap rooms. I don’t host parties. I don’t belong to Brooks’s or White’s. I don’t own a horse.”

  She opened her mouth.

  Do not tell me about your fortune.

  She closed her mouth and squeezed her lips together.

  “You, on the other hand, are the only daughter of one of the great families of England. You’re destined for more greatness, Perry.” He swallowed. “Lady Perpetua. You’re destined for greatness that has nothing to do with your money. With the right husband, you will be a political leader in your own right, influencing bills and elections.”

  “Ladies have no—”

  “Don’t tell me ladies have no power.” He tapped a finger on her forehead. “This powerful brain understands the workings of politics. You may not be able to serve in your parliament, but you have a father and brothers who do. Political men need political hostesses.”

  “My brothers have wives.”

  “Find the right husband and—”

  “No.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re doing it again.” She looked around the room and went back to perch on his bed.

  He took the chair across the room. “It’s the only way for you. And you can’t do that if you start out with a scandal, caught alone with an American painter who’s nowhere near good enough for you on any scale of measuring. You have to go home, or back to your brother�
��s, and the sooner we get you out of here, the better. The locals think you’re a ghost.”

  “I know. Pip told me.”

  “Pip.”

  “The boy I met on the road.”

  Tension crept through him. He’d heard a mention of Pip that very day.

  Confound it. Pip was Davy’s son.

  “Dammit, Perry. What did you tell him?”

  “After he told me my mother was murdered?” she asked archly. “You don’t need to curse at me, Fox. I told him my name was Lizzie. I didn’t tell him I was staying at Gorse Cottage. And I asked him to keep our encounter secret. He said he would, and I think the children around here are good at secrets.”

  He had to persuade her to leave. “Pip’s father was down at the cove last night. He saw you in the window.” His skin prickled. This window. She’d been in his room snooping. “He thought you were a ghost.”

  Her back stiffened. “The ghost comes when there’s a tenant at Gorse Cottage, Pip said.” Perry studied the floor and lifted her gaze to him. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Who comes here? Are the smugglers sending in ghosts to keep outsiders away?”

  “More likely your father sends the tenants and has them tell a good ghost story to keep the smugglers out of his house and your mother’s things. Also, your father and his people must have needed this cottage during the war.”

  “Not much goes on that the locals don’t know.”

  “True. But you can see you need to leave before they realize you’re real flesh and blood.”

  Her gaze drilled into him. Her fingers gripped the edge of the mattress. “I’ll not leave before you realize I’m real flesh and blood.”

  Blood pulsed and heated and sent fire through him. He ached with the need for her. “I know you’re real flesh and blood. You’re also a virgin. High-born or low, doesn’t matter to me. I don’t despoil virgins.”

  Perry watched him, as still as a statue, quite unlike the girl who had wriggled and grimaced all through her sitting so many years ago.

  “I’ll send MacEwen tomorrow for your brother.”