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

by Alina K. Field

  “Bakeley won’t kill his sister.” Fox sat on the chair and pulled on his boots. They were damp on the inside.

  “And he won’t kill you. Fox, stay with me tonight. I promise I won’t plague you.”

  He went to her then, armored with boots, coats, and trousers and knelt, bracing his hands on each side of her. “You need to rest and I can’t stay. MacEwen will be back soon, in one piece I hope. Gaz and Davy, also. I sent them to retrieve the gelding after they settled Pip. And there’s no telling if Farnsworth may be along behind them.”

  She looked down at her hands twined in her lap. “I shall get dressed and come down.” She lifted her chin, mouth dropping open, eyes shining with sudden tears. “Chestnut. Oh dear, I forgot—”

  “She’s safe. Pip found her and brought her back.”

  “Oh.” She blinked several times. “I’d hoped she would…I sent her off when they captured me. I cannot thank him enough. And you. Thank you for…” She waved a hand.

  “I’m going to find some dry clothes, and then I’ll send Jenny up.” He kissed her knuckles and released her. “Rest. Sleep. Tomorrow will be very busy.”

  He filled Perry’s vision, moving around the room, picking up and stowing the last of his belongings and his weapons. She gathered her robe around her, cinched the belt, and walked with him to the door.

  “Fox.” She went on tiptoes and kissed him, watching his eyes blaze again.

  He wanted her. There was pain in him setting her away. He was denying himself out of some notion about class difference, perhaps that she, being an earl’s daughter, was better than him.

  She wouldn’t be for long. If he wouldn’t have her, she’d leave England and build her own life. She’d just go about it more sensibly than she had tonight.

  For now, she would dare to be brave.

  “When you are finished with MacEwen, will you come back to my bed?” she asked.

  Desire lit his face, but he said nothing, nor did he need to.

  He kissed her forehead. “Rest, Lady Perry.”

  He would only marry honorably with Father’s approval. He would expect to have banns called.

  Her heart quaked at the thought of a lifetime with Fox. Would he really tell her father everything? And if Father demanded Fox marry her, would he do it? Would she make him happy?

  What he wanted with his life, she had no idea. Perhaps he would travel back to America. Perhaps he would go to the Continent and paint. Or perhaps he expected to stay in England and eke out commissions among merchants and gentry. Perhaps her father would send him somewhere else to spy, if he didn’t first challenge him to a duel and shoot him.

  And Fox, if he left, might not want her along.

  For just a few moments, he’d made her feel warm and almost powerful. But he’d mastered her, not the other way around. Certainly, another man would have lost control and let her seduce him.

  Thoughts of other men made her skin crawl. She wouldn’t be forced into a loveless marriage. She only wanted Fox.

  She closed the door and padded across the carpet to the table. The tea had gone tepid, but she drank some anyway, took a crumble of biscuit, and realized she was starving. She shoved the whole damp mass into her mouth and chewed, groaning.

  All of her injuries had come to life when that door closed, and stiffness crept into her shoulders and arms from the fight with the waves.

  But between her legs was a satisfying wholeness that echoed in her heart.

  “My lady.”

  She’d not heard Jenny enter. “Has MacEwen returned?”

  “Not yet.” Jenny picked up her discarded trousers and looked at them. “I’ll try to mend this hole in the knee.” She examined the neckcloth. “This is done for, I’m afraid.” She tossed them aside and lifted the lid on the teapot. “And this has gone cold. Are you all right, miss?”

  Jenny did not seem at all scandalized. Well, she was a girl from the streets. The memory of his warm hands washed over her.

  “What happened out there? Mr. Fox rushed in so fast with you in his arms and blood on your shirt, and them bruises…” Jenny took a deep breath.

  Jenny wasn’t worried a bit about Fox and her almost swiving.

  The events on the road came back to her. “I was taken by the worst of smugglers. Oh, Jenny. I shouldn’t have gone.”

  “Not without me, miss.”

  Fox’s stinging rejection earlier came back to her. He’d have MacEwen go for her brother to take her away, he’d said. Even so, she’d been a fool to take off on her own.

  “Mr. Fox sent up his brandy.” Jenny poured some into an empty teacup. “Drink this while I brush out your hair.”

  She settled into the chair and felt the first gentle tug.

  “A little pink on your jaw is all you’ll have, I think,” Jenny said. “The bruise on your neck we can cover with a scarf. It’s much like the bruise Lady Sirena had.”

  Nonplussed was Jenny, as if she dealt with that kind of injury quite regularly, and well, hadn’t Bakeley’s wife, Sirena, been assaulted by a villain also?

  And…she recalled a story shared by Bink’s wife, Paulette. Jenny had once also faced a violent man intent on harming her.

  “For certain, it will be easier to comb out your hair now, miss. I knew as soon as I saw that chopped off plait you’d run off for good.”

  “I should have burned it.”

  “No. Mr. Fox and I would have known anyway, though we mightn’t have been so certain.” She tugged at a knot and clucked when it unsnarled. “And anyway, hair that lovely shouldn’t be tossed out.”

  No one wanted her hair. Her mother might have, but she was dead. Her father and brothers wouldn’t want it. And Fox…her heart twisted as doubt crept in. She took a big swallow of brandy, letting the hot liquor burn her, and glanced at the table where she’d left the long plait.

  It was gone.

  Her heart picked up its pace. “What did you do with the braid?”

  Jenny’s hands paused. “Me, miss? Nothing.”

  Heat poured through her, making her heart swell, sending her nerves tapping against her skin. He could have the plait. He could have every strand of hair attached to her head, and her dowry, and this house, and every horse in her stable. The dowry was hers, this house was hers, through her mother. Father wouldn’t, and Bakeley couldn’t take them away. And if they did, she’d learn how to cook. She’d learn how to clean brushes. And stretch canvas. She’d even live without a horse if need be. She would marry him, somehow, with or without Father’s permission.

  She clenched and unclenched her hands, itching to find him and touch him. She just had to somehow, get Fox’s agreement.

  “It’s still long enough to put up, miss, and the curls spring up better. There.” Jenny set down the brush. “Shall I get your nightgown?”

  “I’ll put on a dress. When MacEwen returns, I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Jenny didn’t protest. She wanted to hear also. “There’s much afoot here, that’s for sure, miss.”

  She returned with the pale green morning dress draped over her arm.

  “Not that one.” The other two gowns she’d packed were just as flounced and beribboned. If they’d caught the man who’d abducted her, she might have to go out again tonight. “I want something more practical. What about the travel gown?”

  “Still damp. I did find some plain kerseymere dresses in the press that might be long enough for you.”

  Her mother’s. She sprang from the chair. “Let’s have a look.”

  Chapter 22

  Fox donned dry clothes, checked the stables, and carried his spyglass out to the cliff edge. Any vessels afloat were hidden in mist.

  He should have been out here watching, instead of upstairs fighting with his cock. A man capable of control, he was, but he needed to put that skill to his mission.

  In the cove below, nothing stirred. On the hillside to the north, all the shadows stayed put.

  He walked the path toward the stables, ski
rting around them and moving up to the front door of the cottage. The house muffled the waves to a dim roar. Otherwise, all was quiet.

  The skin on his neck rippled. If the shadows were moving, he couldn’t see it. Yet something was wrong.

  Aye, and much had been wrong this entire day. With Perry, he’d gone from harsh rejection to near ruination, in between spurring her into danger that’d almost killed her. He’d sent the boy, Pip into danger also.

  He leaned back into the shadows, bracing himself on the door frame, watching.

  Nothing skulked on this moor. All of his unease came from inside him. He’d been wrong—wrong to send Pip alone to speak to Perry’s captors. Wrong not to step in sooner. Hell, when he’d heard her gasping, he’d slipped on the rocks and damn near fallen right onto the rocky beach.

  He tapped his head back on the hard wood. He hadn’t been able to see. He’d only heard the big man’s grunting voice, her choked response, but the man’s voice had been familiar. He’d met him, somewhere. Once Perry was rested, he’d question her about her captors. She’d remember some detail that would help him identify the man.

  He should have been questioning her tonight instead of stripping her naked and pleasuring her.

  He stood in the shadows for long minutes and watched the darkness shift and weave around him. The hair on his neck settled, but the ominous feeling had only sunk deeper into his bones. He made his way back down to the kitchen door and let himself in.

  The scent of toasting bread wafted up, and he spotted it next to the boiling kettle on the hearth stove. A great hunk of cheese had been set out on a plate on the sideboard.

  “Jenny?”

  Dim lamplight moved in the storeroom.

  His nerves went on high alert, and his heart did cartwheels. His cock took that moment to stand at attention again.

  The storeroom held the smallest of cots, not much more than a raised pallet really, where a kitchen boy could rest between tending the fire on a long cold night.

  He had a fire that needed tending.

  A figure appeared in the doorway, and he turned away, resting his spyglass on the table, carefully arranging it so it wouldn’t roll off, keeping his hands busy.

  “You should be sleeping.” Don’t look at her. That one glance had shown hair brushed into the sparkling halo, and a dress plainer than even the fashions of past years—no laces, no furbelows, no flounces. When he’d gone looking for linens, he’d seen dresses in one of those presses. Perhaps it was her mother’s, or her mother’s maid’s.

  He flicked another gaze over her. Lady Shaldon had been shorter, and this dress only hit the top of Perry’s slim ankles. And she was wearing no stays to interfere with the shape of her breasts and the curve of her waist.

  “I sent Jenny to bed with a promise to wake her when MacEwen returns.” She set plates on the table and went to turn the bread. “Oh, excellent. It’s not burned. I’ve seen this done. I had only but to remember. Charley and I used to sneak down to the kitchen at Cransdall for toast and eggs.”

  She was nervous of him.

  “I brought the brandy back for you.” She pushed the bottle over and set about making tea. “Did you see anything outside?”

  “No. All is quiet.”

  “Chestnut—”

  “Is fine. The gelding is not yet back.”

  “Is he one of my father’s?”

  “Yes.” He grabbed a plate and carried the toast to the table, standing too close to her. “Are you all right, Perry?”

  She turned an open gaze upon him. No bruising marred her cheek or her eye. Perhaps she’d found some paint among her mother’s things.

  But a scarf loosely covered her neck, making his gut clench.

  He reached for her with his free hand, and she looked up.

  “I need to be a part of this, Fox.”

  The plate rattled onto the table. He draped an arm around her, unable to stop from touching her. “You already are.” And he hated it, hated the danger she was in, hated that he couldn’t deny her anything. “But I’m afraid your participation may only last until your father arrives.”

  “We have some time. He’ll stay in London during the coronation.” She turned fully into his arms. “We need to talk.”

  He dropped his arm and stepped back. He wouldn’t take her maidenhead and have her go into an arranged marriage facing another man’s shaming.

  Her shoulders lifted in a big sigh. “We need to talk about who killed my mother. We need to talk about why Gregory Carvelle is here. We need to talk about these assassins.”

  The corner of her mouth tilted up. “When you left me tonight, all I could think about was you coming back to my bed. And then Jenny reminded me, we have a mystery to solve. Three mysteries.”

  His heart swelled and pounded. We. He liked that.

  He loved her.

  He was every kind of fool, and so was she if he thought he’d let her chase villains with him. “Tell me what happened on that road.”

  She stepped back and framed her hips with her hands, her elbows akimbo.

  “You first. How did you happen to come after me? And why didn’t you rescue us sooner?”

  The darkness reared up again slamming him with his guilt and unworthiness. He would never be good enough for her. He drained his brandy glass and poured another.

  When he dared to look, her eyes were dark pools.

  “Mind you.” She cleared her throat. “Mind you, I was every kind of fool for running off like that.”

  She’d reached into his mind and stolen his words.

  “And I’m so very grateful to you for shooting that man and for fishing us out of the water. And for…” she took in a shallow little breath, “and for showing me the…pleasure of love.”

  Blood raced through his body, pounded in his ears and hurried south. Take her, his cock screamed, and his legs yelled, Run.

  Almost swiving was not love, he wanted to say, condescendingly, the way he’d always kept her at bay.

  She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, and suddenly she was a girl again, defensive, defiant, drawn-in, as if she’d heard his sarcasm before it left his tongue.

  He touched her shoulder. “Wait.” The chair was too far for them to reach and sit without having to release her. If he drew her in closer he’d give in to the urge to kiss her. “I was going out to look for you when Pip came walking into the yard with Chestnut. Pip was on that road, delivering a message to Scruggs’s men coming up from Scarborough. I assumed they were the ones who’d taken you. So, when we got close, I hid the gelding as far off the road as possible and sent Pip on with the message.”

  Her gaze flitted over his eyes, looking for lies and omissions.

  “I was wrong.” He circled his thumb in the hollow next to her shoulder. “Those weren’t Scruggs’s men.”

  Her white teeth worried her lower lip for a moment. “What was Pip’s message?”

  “John Black was coming.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Yes. I remember now. Pip told the men. John Black. I’ve heard of him.”

  “He was a smuggling lord in these parts. Brutal when crossed. He was transported last year.”

  Her eyes went wide. “And he’s back?”

  “I imagine the real John Black never left England.”

  A frown creased her brow. “That big man who took me. That was him?” Her jaw firmed. “His speech was distinctive—not of a higher class, but not as broad as the men who rowed us back. If he’s here, when I hear him speak, I’ll recognize him. Is it Scruggs, do you think?”

  “No. I’ve met Scruggs.”

  “Are there any other men his size in the area?”

  “There were a few at the inn. Likely the man’s from farther south, around Scarborough or beyond.” He took a step closer and tugged at her neck scarf. “When he did this to you, I was on the slope, listening. When I figured out what I was hearing, I managed to almost fall down the cliff trying to get to you.”

  “The rock
slide.”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze searched his face. “So, you did save me.”

  “And I was a while righting myself and heading in the wrong direction. I should have—”

  “No. No, Fox. Just you and an unarmed woman and child against three hardened men?”

  “I could have taken them.”

  She lifted his hands, kissed the knuckles, and dropped them. “What do we do next?”

  The question was matter-of-fact. She shook herself loose, picked up a knife and sliced pieces of cheese.

  This was where a sensible man would say, We pack you up, Lady Perpetua, and send you home.

  A slice of cheese plopped onto his toast. He sat, pulled the plate over, and yanked her down onto his lap. “Now we eat.” He took a bite while she squirmed, letting his free hand slide along her waist, seeing the muscles play under her fair skin. Perhaps a barium white pigment, with a faint wash of sepia. He would have to experiment to achieve the shadows and planes of her satiny flesh.

  She gripped the edge of the table. “Fox.”

  “Very well. We eat, and then we wait for MacEwen to report back.” He held the toast up to her mouth. She took a bite, chewing slowly, keeping her gaze locked on him.

  And he had an idea what they could do after that.

  He shook off the images. He wouldn’t dishonor her. He should set her off onto another chair, but they were both fully clothed, and feeding her had its own satisfaction. She ate with the same relish she’d displayed up in bed.

  He wiped his face and pulled the tray with the tea setup over, pouring, and mixing all with one hand.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the cup like an earl’s daughter taking tea in a Mayfair drawing room.

  Reminding him again, she was too far above him.

  A smile lit her face and struck a spark of hope within him. By some miracle, might he gain Shaldon’s approval? And if he did, could he ever make her happy.

  When Perry’s chewing stopped, Fox pushed more food at her. This business of him feeding her was annoying, but also rather endearing. Still, she began taking smaller bites, chewing more slowly, listening to a disconcerting story of frustration and danger.