The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  Kendale did not honor such an irrelevant question with an answer. “Have you heard the rumors about her?”

  “Most everyone has by now. I can think of several members of the Home Office who will find your pursuit of her interesting. After two years they gave up their own quest to unmask her, but not happily. Have you had more luck?”

  I have proof that she delivers papers to men in alleys, who then carry them to the coast, where they are put on boats to leave the realm. It would get her arrested if he mentioned it. Other men who were paid for the task would take care of the rest. “Not enough to hand her over. Did they ever seek to prove she is not the niece of the Comte de Vence as she claims?”

  “Some of her own people tried to do that. Those who knew the comte and his family would quiz her, to show she was a charlatan. It went on for several years after she arrived here. No one was able to trip her up. She calls up detailed memories of a childhood in Provence and of visiting the comte’s manor. A line of old hens tried to peck away at her, but she convinced them she did not lie.”

  Of course she knew about the comte. She would hardly be given the identity of his niece and not schooled in how to respond to those hens. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “Well, as I said, she is considered very pretty. Those who think so tend to talk about her more than they would an ugly spy.”

  No wonder she had been living in London right under everyone’s noses, acting with impunity. Those Home Office agents were too bedazzled by her face to think straight. Clearly they had not done their job well as a result. It was a damned good thing that he had taken up the cause.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Lamberte? He is in the government there, I think.”

  Penthurst shook his head. “If he is, he is not significant enough to be discussed.”

  “At least not by ministers and generals, you mean. Perhaps I need to ask men who hold less elevated conversations.”

  “Is he in Paris?”

  “I do not know. Right now he is just a name to me.”

  Penthurst thought that over. “Best to ask our French guests then. There is a writer who came a year ago when his pamphlets got him denounced. He knows most of those in politics who survived the worst of it. I will see if he will meet with you.”

  “That would be useful.” He did not offer thanks. Penthurst would be doing this for England, not him.

  Ambury and Southwaite drifted over, smiling like indulgent parents glad to see two belligerent boys playing nicely together. They all wandered toward the drawing room, and the ladies.

  “Now, that wasn’t so unpleasant, was it?” Ambury asked as he sidled alongside. “It looked like the two of you enjoyed a friendly, civil conversation.”

  “He wanted something and so did I. Don’t expect us to be making social calls on each other.”

  “The day you make social calls on anyone, Kendale, I may need smelling salts.”

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Kendale woke to the itching stiffness that said his wound was healing quickly. He had his valet change the dressing and pour on the fire potion, but he could tell that the puncture had begun to close.

  After Mr. Pottsward helped him to dress, he picked up the other vial of potion. In her haste to leave, Miss Lyon had not taken it, of course. She had also left her long silk wrap. He lifted it so the two slits showed. Perhaps she no longer had use for it, in this condition. He would return it anyway.

  He disliked carriages, but he called for his anyway so Anderson would not scold him for riding so soon. Bearing Marielle Lyon’s property, he rode like a gentleman in his state coach to the house where she lived near a section of the old north wall of the City.

  The blue door remained resolutely closed despite his knocking. A movement at one of the flanking long windows caught his eye. A white cap moved behind the glass. He angled so he could see inside and held up the wrap. Anyone who knew Miss Lyon would recognize it.

  A few moments later the door opened and a formidable woman of regal bearing faced him. She wore a sumptuous dress of the old regime that had seen better days. She also wore an unfashionable wig with a festoon of curls on one side of her face. She was a lady, her appearance announced. One who maintained standards as she saw them.

  He handed her his card. “I would like to see Miss Lyon.”

  She lifted a monocle on a silk cord and squinted at his card. She looked up in astonishment, then angled so she could view his coach. “Un vicomte? Mon dieu!” She stood aside so he could enter. “Bienvenue.” She curtsied.

  She noticed the silk shawl in his hand. One eyebrow rose. “Venez avec moi, s’il vous plaît.”

  She led him through a passage and into a large room. It looked like it would be the dining room if anyone else lived here. In Marielle Lyon’s house, however, it served as a workroom. Rows of tables filled it, where women sat dabbing with cloths at papers.

  When Marielle had said the women in her house colored engravings for printers, she had not lied.

  “Germaine! Antoinette! Ici, ici!” the woman beckoned, then turned back to him. “The situation does not allow for the proper formalities, M’sieur le vicomte. I must need introduce myself and require your forgiveness. I am Jeanne LaTour, late of Rouen, before the disgrace that befell my country. I am distressed that Marielle did not forewarn us that you would visit, so we could prepare and dress.” She made an apologetic gesture at her garments with a resigned expression on her face.

  “I did not write to say I would call,” he explained. “I would very much like to speak with Miss Lyon if she will receive me, however.”

  “Certainement,” she muttered, tapping her mouth with her fingertips.

  The other two women closed in. Madame LaTour huddled with them and spoke lowly. They did not intend him to hear, so he picked up little of the rapid French conversation. He heard Marielle’s name mentioned several times by Madame LaTour, and not happily. It appeared these other women debated what to do with him.

  Finally Madame LaTour again took center stage. “I regret that Mam’selle Lyon is not at home. I am sure she will feel great disappointment that she was not here when you came.”

  She might be lying. There was no way to know, since he had not had this house watched since the day before he followed Marielle to the alley. “Is there a chance she will return soon? If so I will come back this afternoon.”

  “Unfortunately, I am very certain she will not return this afternoon. She has left town for a few days.” Madame held out her hands in a gesture of helpless regret.

  Damnation. Wounded or not, beaten or not, Marielle Lyon had bolted. He should have come here immediately, or the next day, to make sure he could finish his business with her. All of it.

  Where had she gone? To the coast? Back to France? He cursed himself for falling for her ploy at his apartment and for losing his hold on her.

  “Ah, you are not pleased.” Madame LaTour clucked her tongue. “You did not know. She did not tell you. I promise the decision was sudden, milord Kendale. Still, if she anticipated your visit she should have written to you. Marielle has a good heart and means well, and is too generous by far, but sometimes her actions are—pas normal. Her experience amoureuse with gentlemen are not . . .” She groped for a word, but gave up and resorted to French again. “Ample.”

  One of the other women touched Madame LaTour’s sleeve. Madame bent her curls to listen to the confidence offered. When she straightened again, she looked less distressed. “Madame says that she overheard them talking and knows where they went.”

  “Them?”

  “She left with Dominique—Madame Bertrand. She is Marielle’s woman servant. It is normal for her to open the door, of course, not I.”

  “Of course. It was good of you to permit me entry at all.”

  “I only delayed while I overcame my surprise that you had unexpec
tedly honored us. I did not expect a man like yourself to call. Your card only confirmed the fact I had already guessed. I know a person’s high birth immediately, milord.”

  “As do I, Madame LaTour.” He made a vague bow, as acknowledgment that he saw it now. “Since we have this in common, would you consider trusting me with what this other woman here overheard? Miss Lyon and I have some friends in common. Perhaps she went to visit them.”

  Brighton could be delightful in the summer, when society enjoyed its sun and sparkling coast and when lovely breezes wafted into windows. Marielle always enjoyed her visits to the town in July and August.

  March showed her a very different environment. The wind off the water carried an icy bite. Gray clouds hung low. The sea appeared the color of steel. A fine rain fell.

  She walked down the lane flanked by houses, wishing she had brought a wool shawl and not the dark silk one that she now clutched to her body. She peered at buildings that appeared of recent construction. She consulted a list that she carried, noted the third address, and forged on. She spied the small To Let sign in a low window of a house two doors away from the next crossroad.

  She knocked. Mr. Tilbury, the estate agent, opened the door.

  He beamed a smile at her. His thick spectacles caused his eyes to appear like tiny black dots in his very pale face. His blond hair was so light as to be mistaken for aged white. “You are a little late, Miss Lyon.”

  “I had several other houses to see.”

  “Alas, you are alone again too. Your cousin did not make it down from town, I see.”

  The cousin he referred to had been a fiction created so that Mr. Tilbury would accommodate her. Estate agents did not take well to women on their own, least of all French ones of questionable fortune. “He must have been delayed. I would wait for him, but men do not know much about hiring a house anyway.”

  “He will be here to sign the papers, I am sure.” His inflection made it a question.

  “Of course.” If a man had to sign the lease, she would provide a man to do so.

  Mr. Tilbury showed her into the dining room. While he extolled the moldings and prospects, she assessed how many tables it would hold for print work. She paced it off, taking a rough measurement. She checked the windows to be sure that trees would not dim the natural light too much in summer. She studied the garden outside to determine if the plantings would give her the necessary privacy, but not too easily hide an intruder.

  Mr. Tilbury grew restless after a quarter hour had passed. He pulled out his watch and made a face. “Miss Lyon, could we tour the rest of the house more quickly? I have another meeting several blocks away and should leave soon. The steward of a most illustrious man requires that I show him several suitable domiciles for his lord.”

  “My cousin would have grown impatient by now too. It is just as well he was delayed. As for your meeting, go to it, m’sieur. Your efficiency indicates that you will be done with those other two houses before I am done with this one.”

  The two points of his eyes grew smaller yet while he frowned over that idea.

  “M’sieur, I am hardly going to steal something. The house is empty. There is not so much as a pillow to take.”

  “I was not thinking—that is, I am responsible for—” He flushed. “No doubt you are correct and I will return before you are done, at this pace. Are you sure that you will be comfortable alone here?”

  “I doubt that, since there is not even a stool on which to sit. I will be safe, however. All the thieves know by now that there is nothing to be had inside this house.”

  He lingered awhile anyway, fretting and glancing at his watch. Finally he could wait no longer. “I will return soon. If you finish and choose to leave, write to me and let me know what you have decided.”

  She saw him off with some relief. There was nothing worse than a man hovering, watch in hand, when she wanted to take her time and do something well and correctly. This house had possibilities, but she would not know if it would do unless she inspected it from attics to cellars. She needed to picture it in use by Dominique and herself and the women who would come here to earn a few shillings very discreetly, in order to keep body and soul together.

  The cellars proved to be shallow, perhaps due to the nearby sea. The kitchen was not below as a result, but in a small out-building snug alongside the garden entrance to the home. The inconvenience of that arrangement did not discourage her. She assumed it meant she could get the lease for less money, since members of good society would not want a kitchen right off the veranda where they might entertain guests.

  Her spirits rose on the thought. If she let a house here, she would still also be responsible for the one in London. If something went wrong and her trade did not expand to cover both, her savings would be depleted fast. She could ill afford that. She saved that money for a reason. She had for years and did not want her great goal set back now.

  She made her way up to the attic, and its chambers for storage and servants. It would be a long day before she had many of the latter again, but it was nice to know there would be room should that day ever come. Descending to the next level, she threw open doors to inspect the bedchambers.

  It was a good house, she decided, and much nicer than the one in London. She had taken that one before she had any income, and its neighborhood required vigilance. By the time she earned enough to consider leaving and finding a house more suitable to the niece of a comte, it had become home to her.

  Home. The emotions conjured up by that word, of respite and safety and comfort, had been ruined now. She hated how she felt vulnerable in her home now. She resented that the past might have found her after she had planned for years to have it go the other way.

  A chill shivered through her as she considered how that attack had changed her world. Her nape prickled much the way it had in the alley when she realized the men who waited were not Luc and Éduard. She knew in her soul that she no longer could count on having more time to make herself ready for her quest.

  How long before other men came looking for her? How long before they did not have to wait in an alley, but learned her name and could show up at her door? If they had the engravings, not long at all. Even if they ran off empty-handed, it might not take much thought to deduce her identity.

  Maybe it would not happen like that. Perhaps they would not come here, but lure her back to France. They had the best bait in the world, after all.

  She studied the bedchamber in which she stood with new eyes, those of a knight assessing fortifications. If she needed to take refuge in here, would the door latch and lock hold? If she had to—

  Another chill. The worst alarm filled her head. She did not move a hair while she listened.

  There had been footsteps below, she was certain. No, not certain, but—perhaps the fearful turn her thoughts had taken had her hearing that which was not there. Perhaps—

  Again. Clearer, this time. Had Mr. Tilbury returned so soon? It sounded like the man wore boots, and Mr. Tilbury had not been wearing boots. Nor did he walk with the sure, clear footfalls pacing down there now.

  She looked around desperately, but indeed there was nothing in this house to steal, or to use as a weapon.

  She was being a goose. No one had tracked her here to do her harm. Even so her breaths shortened when those boots began a slow climb up the stairs. She slipped to the wall behind the open door and pressed against it. With luck, whoever’s curiosity had brought him here would glance in and move on.

  The steps stopped right outside. Logic said it would not matter if he entered or not, but her blood pulsed hard and her soul prayed he would not. It had been years since such irrational terror had owned her, and she hated that even now, as a grown woman who had braved much, she could not conquer it.

  A step. Then another. Finally he was inside. She examined the back of the lean, broad-shouldered man wearing a fine dark blue co
at and fawn breeches and high boots. Her breath caught in surprise, then she exhaled annoyance. What was he doing here?

  She did not move. Hopefully he would turn and leave the way he had come. She might not be seen. There was a chance she could avoid even greeting this man.

  To her horror, not only did he not leave. He walked farther into the chamber. Then he turned and looked her right in the eyes.

  “Are you hiding, Miss Lyon? Not from me, I hope.”

  “Not from you. From an intruder who should not be here.” She left the wall and walked with studied indifference while she put more space between them. Feigning boredom, she kept him in view out of the corner of her eye, looking for signs of anger or even potential violence. She did not think he had forgiven her for what she did to him the last time they had seen each other.

  He stood there, tall, handsome, and formidable, looking at her as if he debated what to do with her. A very different shiver ran through her, and an oddly compelling kind of fear. She tried to think of him as Handsome Stupid Man, but that trick no longer worked to block his dangerous appeal. She knew him too well now to pretend he was stupid.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

  “I followed your scent.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly folded square of patterned silk. With a flick of his wrist it grew and flowed. He held the shawl to his nose. “Lavender. I caught a whiff of it near the stairs.”

  She grabbed the shawl and passed it by her nose. “It does not only smell of lavender.” She picked up more primal odors, lying in a musky depth beneath the floral one. The sweat and fear and, yes, even notes of that day’s arousal permeated the silk.

  “True. Not only lavender.”

  She began folding the shawl again. “I do not mean how did you come up to this chamber. I wonder how you found me in this town and this house.”

  “The ladies at your house told me the town. Madame Betrand told me the estate agent. The estate agent’s clerk told me the house. So here I am.”

  Madame Betrand? Dominique had betrayed her? She would have some strong words for her old friend when she returned to the inn. “Does everyone always tell you what you want?”