The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  “I wonder if I should move to another city. Not one far away. Just not stay in London.”

  “I would sleep better if you did.”

  “What of the other women? They depend on the work here, and most of the printers are here.”

  “We will find a way to get the work from the printers. As for the women here, Madame LaTour can continue this group. She has been doing it for three years now, and has a good head on her.”

  Marielle weighed it all while water poured over her, washing out the soap from her hair. The day’s attack had shaken her confidence, and her sense of safety. The latter had perhaps always been an illusion. Now she doubted that she would ever leave this house without watching the eyes of each person she passed, searching for the ones that took too much interest in her.

  If she left London, she needed to choose a place not too far away, and close to the coast. She needed to remain among the émigrés too, so she would learn what news they brought from France and would hear if Antoine Lamberte still thrived, and what executions if any took place in his region. These qualifications had always limited her choices and decisions. Now they pointed to the only good option.

  “Brighton,” she said. “I will move to Brighton.”

  To say that Marielle Lyon had ruined Kendale’s mood was an understatement. As a man who had little to do with women socially, he was not accustomed to being led along like that only to have no satisfaction in the end. It never happened at the brothels he visited.

  He spent the next two days in a surly humor, thinking he should visit just such a place and pay for that which Miss Lyon had promised. Only it was not some nameless bawd that he wanted. It was Marielle herself. On her knees, on her back, he did not really care how. Only that would settle this particular score and level the field again.

  Only then would he stop imagining her hands on him, caressing his legs and body and gazing at him with lights of passion in her eyes. He had not mistaken that part, he reminded himself. Desire had not compromised his good sense entirely.

  Two evenings later he dressed to attend dinner at his friend Viscount Ambury’s house. He did not do for himself because he had called for his valet, Mr. Pottsward, to come up to town. The hole in his side said he would stay in London longer than he expected, and his old batman’s attendance would be needed. He also needed to stay here because a woman who lived in London could hardly be called to task while he rusticated in Buckinghamshire.

  He always tried to be on his best behavior when dining with Ambury. Not because Ambury demanded it. Rather Ambury had married Lady Cassandra Vernham and the new Lady Ambury did not much like her husband’s friend Viscount Kendale. Nor did he much like her, although Ambury’s apparent happiness had softened his views considerably. Not wanting to cause trouble for a friend, he always made an effort to avoid doing the sorts of things that would cause Lady Ambury to complain to her husband long into the night after the party ended.

  The good news this particular night was that Southwaite and his wife Emma would also be there. As for the sixth member of what was to be an intimate meal, Kendale hoped the ladies had not dug up some cousin who needed a husband and who would even put up with him if it meant becoming a viscountess. That would turn what might be an enjoyable few hours among friends into a night from hell.

  He was relieved when he arrived to see that the third woman sitting in the drawing room was Cassandra’s old Aunt Sophie. Colorful, witty, and a little dotty, Lady Sophie Vernham, at over age sixty, was not, he assumed, looking for a husband. Furthermore it was unlikely that his bad behavior would be criticized since Lady Sophie had a reputation for besting him in that area.

  No sooner were the greetings exchanged than Ambury and Southwaite maneuvered him to the far end of the drawing room. Ambury smiled the smile that he normally used when he was up to no good, which was often. Southwaite on the other hand appeared a little sheepish, but determined.

  “We need to warn you about something,” Southwaite said, in the tone of a man who expected trouble for his efforts.

  “Not warn. How dramatic that sounds. Inform,” Ambury said.

  Kendale waited, his gaze on Southwaite, who was more likely to have guessed the correct reaction to this something.

  “There will be another member of our party tonight,” Ambury said. “The invitation was given late, after you accepted. I saw no reason to mention it.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The she who will join us to balance the table is Southwaite’s sister Lydia. Her presence was required because I found myself at the club yesterday in conversation with Penthurst and decided to ask him to come tonight too.”

  “Penthurst?”

  “Now, Kendale—”

  “You did not mention it because you knew I would not come. I cannot believe that you have schemed to have me sit at a table with him. I cannot believe that you will offer him the hospitality of your home either.”

  Ambury rolled his eyes, which made Kendale want to punch him. Southwaite spoke lowly, and with sympathy. “He should have mentioned it. I said so, didn’t I, Ambury? However, in his sunny state of mind since his marriage he sees no clouds, even when they are threatening to rain on him. And, let us be honest, the break between us and Penthurst—the evidence mounts that it was not as we thought. Ambury and I have both explained our thinking on this. You, however—”

  You, however, won’t see reason. You are the only holdout, and we decided to reconcile whether you agreed or not. You have been rigid, so we chose to force you to bend.

  He wanted to have it out with them both now, but that would hardly do. Even he knew not to create that kind of scene in a drawing room where three women waited. And, he admitted, while he still held it against the Duke of Penthurst that he had killed one of their friends in a duel, he knew it had indeed not been as they had thought—the why of it, at least—not that the new ambiguity absolved the man.

  Mostly he did not lose his temper or take his leave because the notion of talking to Penthurst tonight held some appeal. With his close ties to the government ministers, there were questions Penthurst might be able to answer as neither Ambury nor Southwaite could. Questions about Marielle Lyon, for example. Kendale would have never sought him out to ask those questions, but if the duke were being imposed on him like this . . .

  “Fine.”

  Southwaite blinked, astonished. He glanced cautiously over at Ambury whose smile did not waiver but whose eyes turned curious. “Fine? You do not mind?”

  “It is your house and your food. I trust you do not think I am so rude as to object to the guests you invite, or curse them for their sins while sitting with them at your table.”

  “No. Of course not. That goes without saying,” Southwaite muttered. “I assure you, no one thought that you—”

  “I told Southwaite here that you did not have to be warned.” Ambury looked down the room and caught his wife’s eye. Something passed between them in that look that made Lady Ambury visibly exhale with relief.

  Lady Ambury had worried about the wrong guest, Kendale noted with satisfaction toward the end of dinner. She spent so much time keeping the other members of her own family from embarrassing her that she barely knew he was there.

  Lady Sophie concluded early on that Lydia had been invited for the eligible viscount in the party, which meant she, Sophie, was expected to be the eligible Penthurst’s partner. Her graying hair, dressed in the curls of her youth, dipped toward Penthurst while she plied him with wine and innuendo.

  Since they did not sit far from Kendale he overheard much of their conversation. To say that Lady Sophie flirted with a duke who at thirty-two was half her age would not be an exaggeration. Penthurst took it in stride and after his third glass of wine even flattered her back.

  “I have no idea why I am here, and invited on such short notice. Do you?” Lady Lydia asked softly. She sat beside him on his le
ft looking her normal pale, remote, soulful self. Dark hair and eyes drew attention to her face, but her eternally impassive expression discouraged any intimacy. Indeed, in the last few years talking to Lady Lydia had become a chore, much like dragging a cart up a muddy hill.

  He had therefore neglected her, so entertaining did he find the conversation across the table and down two places.

  He gave her his attention now, lest she add to the rumors that said he lacked social polish. “You are here to balance the table. This meal is not about you, or me, but about him.” He gestured to Penthurst.

  “That is a relief. I thought perhaps my brother had convinced Cassandra to do some matchmaking.”

  “If so, I was not told of it. I doubt they would ever try to match us. I knew you when you were a child, and could never think of you in that way.”

  “Not matchmaking with you, Kendale. What a notion. That would be a match fit for hell.”

  Indeed it would be, but even he thought it rude of her to say so outright. As a schoolgirl Lydia had been an impish and spirited bright-eyed, dark-haired child. Now in her twenties, she had retreated into herself with maturity in this peculiar way. Like a sphinx, she watched the world, and wore the smile of a statue if she reacted at all.

  She worried Southwaite to no end with this behavior, although Kendale sometimes wondered if it was all a feint. There had been other worries in the last year regarding her that had to do with gambling and other behavior that indicated Lady Lydia could be most impish still. Kendale had reason to know that when Lydia had an accomplice that brought out the worst—one like Cassandra, the new Lady Ambury—Lydia surrendered to the impulse to be very naughty.

  “You mean Penthurst, then,” he said. “I would be surprised if your brother has such designs. They may be friends of sorts again, but there is some bad business between them still.” There should be, at least.

  “I hope it is bad enough to keep my brother from getting ideas. I do not like Penthurst. I do not like any dukes, now that I think about it, and I have reason to think that this one, for all his grace and condescension, is very cruel. At least he finally cropped his hair, I will give him that. He must be the last man younger than forty to do so. He also appears to have ordered coats in the current fashion as well. It was about time. He is too young to look like an antiquity.”

  “He waited to adopt the new styles deliberately, and not for lack of fashion sense or because he did not care for the changes.” If anything, Penthurst fit the new styles well, and vice versa, and his dark cropped hair, which Kendale was glad to see he did not fuss with overmuch, flattered his countenance.

  “It was perverse arrogance, is what you mean,” Lydia said. “A way to say he was above it all, and does not need anyone’s approval.”

  Lady Sophie had rather suddenly remembered her age. “I knew your mother,” she said to the duke in a voice amplified by wine. “She owned some lovely jewels, as I recall.”

  “My father was fond of giving her gifts.”

  “I recall one brooch in particular. She often wore it on a mantle of deepest scarlet. It had pearls on it. Many small ones around one so large—well, I have never seen the likes since. I expect you still have it.”

  “I am sure I do, although I have not counted the family jewels in some years.”

  “It was gorgeous. Unique. She preferred town, as I remember. I expect it is still in the jewel box she used here before she passed.”

  “Most likely.”

  “She also wore an emerald, set in a gold ring, surrounded by tiny diamonds. Stunning.”

  “You have a better memory of my mother’s jewelry than I do, I must confess.”

  “I make a study of jewels. I find them fascinating. I always have. It is a pity that hers sit there in that box, never seeing the light of day or night.” She sent her attention down the table. “Cassandra, we must call on the duke when next we are out.”

  Penthurst nodded kindly. Cassandra’s blue eyes narrowed on her aunt with curiosity and an inexplicable caution. “Certainly, if he requests it.”

  “I would be honored,” he was good enough to say.

  “When we visit, you can show me the jewels, Your Grace.”

  Cassandra’s face reddened. “Jewels?”

  “His mother’s,” Sophie said. “They languish unseen and unloved. I think they are lonely.”

  “His Grace does not want to have us pawing through his mother’s jewel box, I am sure.”

  “Lady Sophie, you are welcome to visit the jewels whenever you like. I will tell the butler to bring them down to you, should I not be at home when you call,” Penthurst said.

  Lady Ambury caught her husband’s eye. Again something passed between them. She stood abruptly, signaling the ladies that it was time to leave the gentlemen.

  The cigars were half smoked before Kendale found himself talking alone with Penthurst. Southwaite and Ambury arranged it to happen. They drifted away five minutes after luring him into a discussion about the war. He realized that quite likely the only matchmaking intended by this dinner was that between the two men now pretending that social conversation remained normal for them.

  If they did not mention the reason that was not true, the next ten minutes might go well. If Penthurst had the sense not to allude to it, let alone name it, there would be no row.

  “Your opinions about the war are insightful,” Penthurst said. “No doubt your time in uniform gives you a special perspective.”

  “The War Office has men in uniform, or who used to be. Generals. I doubt my perspective is better than theirs.”

  “Theirs is colored by ambition. That always qualifies the value of such things. It can fog the perspective badly.”

  He was supposed to be flattered. He was, although the reaction carried a good deal of resentment that his pride could betray him so easily.

  “And of course you actually have seen some action in this war, when so few in the army have,” Penthurst added. “None of those generals have, that is certain, least of all on French soil.”

  Penthurst did not allude to that which might cause a row, but he touched on a topic that Kendale did not discuss with anyone. “That was a mistake. A costly accident at best.”

  Penthurst acknowledged the truth of that with a nod. “Such experiences can scar a man.”

  “Not me.” Yet his mind had already filled with images of that horrible day, vivid ones that could be summoned forth by less direct calls than this one. The merry confidence of comrades on a mission—the shock at realizing Feversham’s mistress had betrayed him—the carnage that followed, and the desperation of fighting for their lives—then blood everywhere, and pain, and holding a friend as he breathed his last words. Avenge me. Promise it.

  He had promised. The man was dying. He did not argue that revenge would be impossible. The temptress who had lured Feversham would not even be on the same continent soon.

  In his own way he was making good on that promise. He might never be able to kill all the people who had betrayed them, but he did his part to ensure there were fewer betrayals in the future. He may have sold out his commission, but every citizen of the realm needed to be a soldier these days.

  “They know that you are still in uniform, in a manner of speaking,” Penthurst said, as if reading his thoughts. The duke was not stupid, of course, and, as he now proved, he remained very well informed. It was his only value at the moment, in Kendale’s opinion. “They know that you still have missions and have not truly retired from the field.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Those generals. The ministers. It worries them at times. The surveillance on the coast that you, Southwaite, and Ambury set up—that was less troubling. Your self-appointment as an agent, however, is not looked on with favor.”

  “That is too damned bad.” He itched to ask how they knew and how much they knew, but he would not give Pen
thurst the satisfaction. Nor did it matter what the ministers and generals liked or thought.

  Penthurst chuckled. “That is exactly what I told one of them that you would say when he asked me to talk reason with you, and encourage restraint.”

  “I would think they would be glad that someone is keeping an eye out.”

  “Not if that someone is not a man they control. Not if that someone has a little army of servants who aid him, whom they also don’t control. Not if that someone occasionally turns his attention to English citizens.”

  It seemed those generals knew quite a bit. Perhaps as he followed others, they followed him.

  “It smells of vigilantism, I suppose,” Penthurst drawled. “I explained that you would never take it on yourself to act as judge and jury, let alone executioner, if you uncovered an intrigue.” He looked over, a smile half forming. “I was correct, was I not?”

  “Good of you to speak on my behalf. Would it not make more sense for them to air their concerns about me to me? I could reassure them. Perhaps they could convince me to stop.”

  “I asked myself the same question. I concluded that they must not want you to stop, even if you worry them.”

  “You might tell them that I have no interest in any English citizens at the moment.”

  “Pitt at least will be glad to know that. As for the others—I expect they will be curious as to whom is of interest now.”

  So there it was. The opening he needed, handed to him as plain as could be. He had tolerated this conversation in order to ask questions. It appeared Penthurst had as well. “It is my intention to unmask Marielle Lyon. Have you heard of her?” He was up to much more than that, and was glad he had Miss Lyon to throw into the pot to confuse matters.

  “Yes. I am told she is very pretty. Is that true?”