The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  She settled on the chair at the end of the table. With him seated on the side, she was close enough to touch. He probably should have set the places across from each other. He had not really thought about that. She did not seem to mind or notice how close they sat to each other.

  “Please pretend I do not smell of an alley and blood, and my hair is not a rat’s nest in need of a brush. It embarrasses me to be in such a state while dining with a gentleman.”

  “We are neither of us in good condition today. However, your hair looks slept in, not a rat’s nest, and all I am smelling is this stew.” He ate some of it, to reassure her.

  “How gallant of you to say so. I think my friend Lady Cassandra is wrong about you.”

  “How so?”

  “She says you are not one to flatter even when it is wise to do so. That you are not”—she puzzled over the right words—“in sympathy with polite society.”

  More likely she said he was not fit for polite society. “She has noticed that I cannot abide all the chatter over insignificant things. The scandals. The fashions. Why anyone gives a damn about it all is beyond me. Always was.” He wondered if Lady Cassandra, now Lady Ambury, had offered the information about his lack of social skills as part of that insignificant chatter. Perhaps Marielle had been probing for it instead.

  The latter notion pleased him. That made him curse inwardly. Hell, he could be an ass at times.

  She ate some food before turning her attention on him again. The bruise on her face was turning ugly, but it really did not detract as much from her delicate countenance as it should. Her eyes appeared clearer than they had all day. “You are a soldier, no? An officer.”

  “Did Cassandra tell you that too?”

  “No. It is in you, however. The way you stand, the way you ride. It is in your face and your eyes. I have seen many soldiers in my life.”

  “If you mean the rabble that is now the French army, I must ask that you not insult me.”

  “Not all the current officers are such rabble. But I speak of the past, from when I was a girl.”

  If she had left France when a girl, how would she know who was rabble in the army now or not? “I was an officer. When I received the title, I sold out my commission. There are some peers who are army officers, but very few.”

  “It is the same everywhere. The duties do not allow for this other life too, I think.”

  “No.”

  She cocked her head and looked directly and deeply. “You miss it.”

  Did he? He missed the higher purpose, that was certain. Fighting to protect a nation possessed a clarity that poring over the account books of an estate never would. Or that sitting through interminable arguments in parliament, while small-minded men jockeyed to protect their own interests, could match.

  He missed other things too. The easy camaraderie of men. The simplicity of life in the field. The whites and blacks of honor and dishonor. He missed the physicality of the life and the waking at dawn.

  Mostly he missed the certainty of knowing he was doing what he had been born to do.

  “I miss some things. Not others.” Not the deaths, or the betrayals.

  He would be wise to remember the latter now, especially the worst betrayal, and the lessons learned from it. Foremost had been not to trust pretty Frenchwomen who can make men into fools with a smile.

  He concentrated on eating his meal, trying to ignore the lovely Frenchwoman sitting so close he could smell her. She did not carry only the scent of that alley and of blood. Musk and flowers drifted to his nose distinctly. She wore clothes that were decades old, but she also wore perfume. Probably French perfume. Probably smuggled in. Possibly it was part of her payments from whomever sent her orders, and to whom she sent rolls of documents.

  He did not have to look up from his plate to see her, they were so close. So he noticed when she set down her fork. Her pale, small hand rested on the table near the dish. A soft hand, as he knew from her touch earlier. She probably lathered creams on them at night. French creams.

  His mind began itemizing the evidence against her, stacking each detail like a stone in a wall. It did not fortify his resolve about her as much as he assumed it would. Her wounds and bruises and the role he had played today encouraged tendencies to feel protective and sympathetic. Her bright eyes and flirtatious smiles and that scent tempted him to feel other things.

  Finally the meal ended. He drank some wine and waited for her to excuse herself and retreat to the other chamber. Instead she relaxed in her chair and drank wine too, glancing over its rim at him while her lips pursed along the edge of the glass.

  “So, m’sieur le vicomte, I am fed. Evening falls and I am still here, as you required. May I ask now—what are your intentions?”

  A few ignoble ones entered his mind. “I told you. I intend to see that you follow the physician’s orders and rest a few days. There may be other wounds from those blows. Internal ones.”

  “That is all you want?” She favored him with one of her coquettish, worldly smiles.

  It demolished the wall in a flash. Hell, no. I also want to take you on this table, on the floor, against the wall, on the divan, and everywhere else I can think of. “You are too clever for me. The truth then. I intend to see you follow those orders, and after it is clear you have suffered no as yet unseen damage, I want to continue my interrogation.”

  “Do you intend to torture me during this interrogation?”

  “Of course not.” What kind of woman even asks such a question, or considers torture likely? Not a normal one, but a spy taught that it could happen.

  “You are insulted. I am sorry. It is not unheard of,” she said.

  “You know that, do you? Is that another memory from the past, when you were a girl, or a more recent one, from your alliance with that rabble?”

  Her expression froze. Her bright eyes turned icy. “I have no such alliance.”

  He downed the rest of his wine. The hell you don’t.

  It was time to leave this place and this man.

  Oh, he would not torture her. Not in the normal ways at least. But he would be intrusive and relentless and pick away at whatever she said. She would have no relief from being careful with every word and nuance.

  Worse, he would interfere with her sorting through what today meant to her life and safety too. He would delay action when time might be critical. Right now other things needed her attention, like deciding if she needed to flee London entirely, and if so how obscure she should become.

  His questions would have to wait. With luck, she might never answer them.

  Nor would staying here be comfortable. To remain here, even if she locked herself into that chamber, would mean having to worry about him. The lack of servants made it all too intimate. Too domestic. Even this simple meal had begun making them too familiar.

  She doubted he would allow her to walk out the door. He had imprisoned her, no matter how he chose to cast it. She calculated how to escape. Despite her resolve, a feather bed beckoned. Her head hurt and her back had stiffened and that bed held appeal. She guessed tomorrow she would have trouble moving, however, and then escape would be impossible for a while. She had to leave now.

  “I will return to the chamber and see you in the morning,” she said. “There is still clean water from the morning there for me to use. Without a servant here, who will provide for you?”

  “There are boys in the street who will bring up whatever I want in return for a coin.” He gestured at the tray and plates.

  “Who does for you in other ways when you have no servants with you?”

  “I do for myself, as most men do.”

  She angled and examined his side, from head to toe. “Today you have a bad stab wound in your side. I do not think you will enjoy removing those high boots on your own. Is it even possible in your condition?”

  He th
ought about that, then shrugged. “I will sleep with boots on, it appears.”

  “You should have had that physician aid you while he was here. As he did with your coats and shirt.” She stood. “I will do it. It is a small payment for my life. Sit over there, on the divan and I will pull them off.”

  He began to object. She walked away before he could. “Do not argue, m’sieur. I have done this before, for my father. It is a small thing.”

  She heard him stand, then pause. She assumed that wound was taking its toll on him as the hours passed. Any movement of his torso would pull at the injury. She kept her back to him, so he could collect himself without her seeing his pain.

  He walked to the divan and lowered himself slowly, pushing aside her shawl. Expression stoic and hard, he eased back against the divan’s cushion.

  “I would have thought your father had a valet to remove his boots,” he said. “He was the brother of a comte, wasn’t he?”

  She managed to keep her face impassive, but inwardly she cursed herself. “And you are a viscount, but here you are without your valet. Such inconvenience occurred for him too at times.”

  Looking up at her with some amusement, he raised his left leg. She bent, grabbed the back of the boot’s heel and its toe, and yanked it off.

  Impressed, he began raising the other foot. It did not get far before he tensed, grimaced, and lowered it. He closed his eyes a moment and did not move a hair. When he opened them again, the pain had passed. “It appears I will sleep with one boot on after all.”

  “Nonsense.” She knelt in front of him. “I will get it off.”

  It passed in his eyes then, his awareness of her proximity and the suggestiveness of her position. Other than his jaw tightening he gave no reaction, however.

  She assessed the boot’s tightness with her hands, skimming up the sides of the leather. He watched her and did not notice how she made sure her finger hooked her shawl. The patterned silk slid off the divan onto the floor beside his foot.

  It was not easy getting that boot off with him only angling his leg out. She worked from the bottom and eventually felt his foot slide up. Then she pulled the boot away and held it up triumphantly. He took it from her and set it aside on the floor.

  She sat back on her legs and admired him in his dishabille. He had managed to button most of that robe, but without a shirt beneath it a good deal of his neck and upper chest still showed.

  “I might as well do this too.” She began sliding her hands up his leg, to release his hose.

  He did not stop her. He did not object. He just watched.

  The air between them filled with the soundless chords that played when a man wanted a woman. This might be dangerous if not for his wound. Even earlier in the day, before his body rebelled at the injury, he might have given her trouble.

  He truly sat in dishabille now, his legs bare from the knees down. Nice legs, she decided. Shaped by action and exercise, as was the rest of him. Trusting that she had not misjudged his interest, she once more slid her hands up, this time on skin. A subtle flexing tightened through him. When she looked at his face again his eyes were like embers burning in the darkest forest.

  “You should stop that,” he said.

  She continued caressing the skin on his legs, feathering up to his knees. “Do the bruises make me ugly and stop you from wanting me? Or perhaps I misunderstood about that.”

  “You misunderstood nothing, and you could never be ugly. You know that, as all beautiful women do.”

  “Then why should I stop? It is no imposition by you.” She skimmed higher, over his knees and the fabric of the pantaloons buttoned there. Never taking her eyes from his, she unfastened the buttons.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. She could see how he forced some control on himself during that long blink.

  “It will make no difference,” he said. “There is nothing for you to win with this.”

  She knelt high and leaned against his legs so her body pressed his shins and her breasts rested on his knees. “There is pleasure to win. I expect nothing more.” Down, out of view between his legs and her body, she lifted her shawl. With her right hand she caressed higher on his thigh while her left hand smoothed the shawl’s silk over his lower legs’ skin, again and again.

  He looked ready to grab her, so fierce his eyes had become. “You forget that we are both wounded, and ill suited for pleasure now.”

  “You are charming. And very English.” She caressed higher, along his inner thighs. The evidence of his arousal bulged against the fabric of his garment. She did not think he would stop her now. She did not think he could even if he wanted to. “I, on the other hand, am French. Remember? We know ways to pleasure that will not aggravate our wounds.”

  He understood. The mere suggestion caused his lips to part and his teeth to clench. He watched her, and she guessed he felt only her right hand on his thigh, not the other one working the shawl.

  “Close your eyes,” she said softly. “I am still shy with you on some things.”

  He did not close them right away. Not until her hand ventured to the buttons over that bulge. Then he did, and his jaw squared so hard it might have been chiseled in stone.

  She loosened the buttons, trying to ignore how her fingers skimmed against the hardness of his arousal. She forced herself to suppress a deep stirring that this game had incited in her too. She would not mind knowing pleasure with this man, even if that would be all it could ever be. They could both close their eyes, and pretend whatever they chose for a while.

  With his pantaloons unfastened, she had to move fast. She allowed herself a caress of his bare chest, just to see if it felt as she expected, hard and warm and so alluringly male. Then she looked down at his legs and her shawl. Satisfied, she stood and quickly walked away, refusing to allow the stiffness in her back and limbs or the throbbing in her head to delay her.

  “What the hell—”

  She had taken ten steps, no more, before his voice rose in fury. She glanced over her shoulder as she began to run.

  “Damnation. You bitch.” The viscount glared at her while he bent over, grimacing while he tried to untie her shawl and free his legs from the silken chain she had made for them. His furious expression raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  She threw the door latch, swung the door, and fled. Kendale’s curses followed her all the way down to the street.

  Chapter 4

  “It is a wonder you are alive,” Dominique said while she dipped a rag, then gently squeezed warm water over Marielle’s shoulders. She clucked her tongue while she assessed the bruises, evident in all their mottled darkness as Marielle bathed in the house’s kitchen.

  Marielle and Dominique had been together since leaving France six years ago. No one, not even the other women who sometimes took refuge in this house, knew how close they were and how she relied on Dominique for advice and sometimes sympathy.

  “Will he be looking for you now, this lord you escaped after he saved you? You said he was angry that you left. No doubt he expected a show of gratitude first.”

  She had not explained everything to Dominique. Not that Kendale had expected only what she appeared to be offering. As for his anger, a man both thwarted in his expectations of pleasure and hoodwinked by an adversary at the same time would not be happy, now would he?

  “Hopefully he will wash his hands of me. We must put that aside and think about the rest of it. About how those two men replaced Luc and Éduard today, and knew about me.”

  Dominique poured water over her hair, then took some soft soap and began washing. “I suppose Luc and Éduard will take another’s coin as quickly as yours, and sold you out.”

  “But how did anyone even know to offer them coin?”

  “The images were traced back, it seems. You knew that was a danger—that Lamberte would look for whoever made those print
s and might realize they came from England.”

  She had known that. She had hoped that if Antoine Lamberte suspected that, he would assume it was the English government behind it, trying to undermine him. Lamberte was conceited enough to believe himself worthy of such attention.

  How well had those men seen her in that dark alley? It had all happened very fast, and after Kendale was done with them they might not remember much at all. “I do not think they knew whom they met. Éduard and Luc did not know who I was, other than a woman who handed them something to bring to the coast.”

  “You can be described to Lamberte by these men, if he sent them.”

  “I no longer look like anyone he ever knew. I am no longer a young girl. A description will tell him nothing.”

  “It is never wise to count on your enemy being a fool, or less shrewd than you want to believe him to be.”

  It was a lesson she believed she had learned today and would never forget. She doubted she could think of Kendale as Stupid Man again.

  “Lamberte has survived where most others would have fallen long ago. He is bolder than most, and smarter, and he will eventually wonder if there is a connection. You must take care now. More than before,” Dominique admonished.

  Marielle did not argue. The older woman possessed the kind of wisdom that only comes from seeing the world at its best and its worst, and realizing that a thin border separates the two. Born into an aristocratic family, Dominique had escaped the guillotine by using her body to bargain with men susceptible to such things. It had been Marielle’s good fortune to share a boat across the sea with Dominique, and to receive her motherly affection and help ever since.

  She looked up at Dominique, whose round face wore no paint and appeared softly creased beneath the edge of her white cap. She always dressed and looked like a servant now. Most people thought she was one, what with the way she answered the door each time a visitor came. Those visitors did not know that this woman of mature years would never feel safe again, and carried a knife in a special pocket sewn into the deep folds of her skirted dress. She answered the door so that she would know who entered, and could be ready to kill the wrong person should he ever come.