The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  “I do not think I ever met your mother.”

  “Most likely not. She did not make an approved marriage, and did not get invited to my uncle’s balls and house parties. She was not disowned, however. My uncle allowed us to visit privately, and he purchased for her the house in which we lived.”

  “How fortunate that you could have the advantages of visiting that magnificent home. My memories of it are full of light and beautiful gardens. There was a maze in one. It took me over an hour to make it to the center, and the statue of Apollo there.”

  Marielle began to respond, but a ripple of excitement distracted her. Heads turned and whispers buzzed. She looked to the drawing room’s entrance and saw the reason. Madame Peltier had arrived. Late, of course, so she would make a grand entrance.

  This entrance appeared grander than most. While Madame Peltier presented a lovely face and figure, and one more stylish than most in the chamber due to suspicious sources of support, the attention she now garnered seemed extreme.

  The crowd parted and Marielle saw why. The whore was on the arm of Viscount Kendale!

  Madame Peltier made sure she and her escort secured glasses of the champagne that had been smuggled out of France with the émigrés. Then she surveyed the chamber. Her gaze came to rest on Madame Toupin. No doubt she considered Madame Toupin the most impressive woman among the newcomers.

  With Kendale in tow, she moved in their direction, introducing Kendale to all she passed. For a man reputed to have no interest in social affairs, Kendale appeared gracious enough about the fawning attention coming his way.

  Marielle refused to watch. Such a display was gauche. If Sabine wanted to play the courtesan for the nobility of England, that was her business. One might hope she would be more tactful, however, and not parade her lovers about like this, interfering with important business that Marielle had to conduct.

  Madame angled so she could see around Marielle while she tipped her head to whispers pouring in her ear. “A viscount? How wonderful. I must be sure to meet him,” she said. “I am told it is impossible to get anyone in the government here to listen to a petition. He is very handsome, isn’t he? Although perhaps not amiable. Of course I knew he was of the blood as soon as I saw him.”

  Since Madame Toupin had lost interest in her, Marielle decided to escape and go wait in the garden for the man in the green waistcoat. She took her leave but no one heard her repeatedly excusing herself. All attention in their little circle had fixed on the space right in front of her bench. She looked up to see Viscount Kendale standing right in front of her.

  Short of pushing him to the side, she would not be able to leave now. She settled back on the bench.

  “We do not interrupt, I hope,” Sabine said. “Lord Kendale was good enough to agree to meet our new friends and I could not deny them the introduction. Marielle, would you be kind enough to do the honors.”

  She introduced Madame Toupin and the others sitting nearby. Pleasantries and blandishments flew through the air. Kendale might be the prince, for all the eager claims on his attention. Then conversation lagged.

  “I fear we did interrupt,” Kendale said to Sabine, in English.

  “It was no interruption,” Madame Toupin said, turning to English as well. “I was reminiscing with Mademoiselle Lyon about her family.”

  “Then I am glad we arrived just now. I would be happy to know more about Mademoiselle’s childhood.”

  “What? Do you know each other?” Madame Toupin asked.

  “We have only had two conversations, very brief ones,” Marielle said.

  “Too brief,” Kendale said. “Although Mademoiselle Lyon did teach me a few things about some differences between French customs and ours.”

  Marielle hoped she did not flush at his oblique reference to that afternoon in his chambers.

  “How nostalgic it must be for you, Marielle, to meet someone who knew your family well. Did you have a long history with the comte, Madame?” Sabine asked.

  Madame launched into an explanation of how the two families knew each other. Each breath improved her own family’s stature. Marielle let her chatter on. She turned her attention to the other guests and tried to see if the green waistcoat remained in the chamber. From a nearby corner Dominique caught her eye and gestured to the window and the world outside.

  “I was describing my delight in the maze in the comte’s garden when you arrived,” Madame said. She speared Marielle with a sidelong glance of suspicion. “There was a statue in its center.”

  “That is correct,” Marielle said, impatient with this game now. Another time she would let this woman quiz her for hours. “I am afraid your memory is a little faulty, however. The statue depicted Neptune, not Apollo. He rose up from a fountain, as if it were the sea. Remember?”

  “I do now. Thank you.” Madame appeared disappointed that Marielle did too.

  “I always thought the little lake more fun than the maze. The maze frightened me, but I could float a little boat on the lake. Mama would sit under the large tree on its edge and watch. A very old tree with a trunk too thick for a man to embrace completely.” She scoured her brain for some detail to end this latest interrogation. “I was so sad that summer when lightning hit it and sheared off the branches that overhung the water.”

  Madame retreated into silence. Sabine did not. “Your memories are so clear. It is a wonder to me that anyone has such detail in their mind.”

  “My memories are all that I have from that happy time. Therefore I take care of them like the treasures they are. Now, you all must excuse me. I need some air.” Pretending to be a little light-headed, she stood, ready to push Kendale out of the way if necessary. He stepped aside and bowed.

  She sought out Dominique. “You must come with me. Eyes are watching and I claimed to need some air. It will appear odd if I go down alone.”

  Dominique fell into step, making a display of concern while she fanned Marielle’s face with her hand. “What is the viscount doing here?”

  “Perhaps hoping for an excuse to buy Madame Peltier a fur mantle for next winter’s cold.”

  “Do you think so? That is too bad.”

  Marielle hurried down the stairs once they escaped the drawing room. “Why too bad? It is good news. She will distract him from trailing me. She will also make him available to others who need help. You remember how useful it was when Viscount Ambury was her dear friend for a few months, don’t you? We must all pray that Madame Peltier never loses her appeal to the lords of England.”

  Dominique huffed down after her. “True, true. I just thought . . .”

  Marielle stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned on her. “You just thought what?”

  She shrugged. “He seemed somewhat taken with you, enough that if you overlooked a few failings that he possesses, the fur mantle might well be yours.”

  “What a stupid notion! First, I am not a whore,” she said, speaking with whispered annoyance. “Second, and I would think this would drive such ideas away at once, he has decided I am the enemy. He does not want me as his mistress. He wants me on a gallows.”

  She strode through the house’s first level, sticking her head into chambers as they passed, seeking a garden door.

  Dominique hustled alongside. “Do not be angry with me for considering the possibility, and do not be so stubborn as to ignore it yourself. If a liaison with him helps you win the final prize, what do you care if he does not trust you? It is certain that you will be needing what protection you can find now. There is none better than an English lord who, from the looks of him and the telling of others, is still as battle ready as when he was an officer.”

  Marielle spied the garden through a window in the library. Nipping inside she found a door as well. She reached out and grabbed Dominique and dragged her into the chamber. “Do not speak this nonsense again.”

  “If you insis
t. Pity for that Peltier woman to get him, but as you say, maybe it will distract him from hunting you.”

  She imagined just how he would be distracted. It did nothing for her mood. Sabine lived well, it was said. Her furniture did not show frayed fabric any more than her dresses showed long waists and front lacing. She was a goddess, a picture of fashion and elegance, and imbued with the worldly sophistication that made Frenchwomen of good breeding so alluring. In comparison, Marielle looked like a shepherdess to Kendale, she was sure.

  Well, if Sabine Peltier were going to seduce Lord Kendale, one could only hope that she did so thoroughly. She probably would soften his hardness some. When she was done with him, those edges would be smoothed and rounded. Sabine would train him how to flatter and charm and tolerate society too. After an affair with Sabine, he would be just like all the other gentlemen in the drawing rooms of Mayfair most likely.

  How sad.

  She stood at the edge of the terrace, looking for a green waistcoat amid the plantings. When she did not see it, she cursed. “He is gone. I will have to write to him and ask him to call on me now, and who knows if he will bother.”

  Dominique grasped her shoulder and pointed with the other hand. “There. He is sitting in front of that shrubbery.”

  Indeed he was. Monsieur Marion appeared to be in a reverie while he admired the tulips blooming nearby. Relieved, Marielle walked down the stone steps into the garden and headed toward him.

  “I must go. I will leave the coach to take you home,” Kendale said.

  Madame Peltier smiled up at him while she stood a fraction too close. She had been drinking a good deal of champagne. “Do not.”

  “Do not leave the coach?”

  “Do not go.” Her eyes promised much if he obeyed. Since others could see her looking at him like that, there would definitely be talk.

  “I must.” If he did not leave he would go mad. It was bad enough to suffer parties like this with his own countrymen. Doing so with forty French persons made it unbearable. He understood what they said well enough, but speaking French beyond rudimentary sentences was not a skill he possessed. Not that he had anything to say in any language at such affairs.

  He had never understood the appeal of these gatherings. So much talk, and so little actually said. So much falsehood and flattery and so much unkindness. Marielle had barely left the chamber before the group where she had sat began savaging her. Not because she might be a spy. From what he could tell, no one here suspected her of that. Not even because she might be a charlatan. Her handling of Madame Toupin left that at least an open question. No, the ladies tore her down for her dress, her hair, her trade, her independence. They found each other very witty as they did it too.

  Now one of those ladies cajoled him to stay. Nothing she could offer would keep him here another five minutes.

  She pouted. “Then take your coach too. I will hire one, or find another guest who is more sympathetic.”

  “As you like. Again, thank you for receiving me today.” He bowed and went to look for the host.

  It took a good ten minutes to make a clean escape. No one wanted the English lord with good connections to go. Remaining vague about his willingness to help, inwardly groaning at the line of callers he could expect in the coming weeks, he fought his way out like a soldier retreating from overwhelming forces.

  He was not really free until he started down the stairs. He took his time then, assessing the orientation of the house and the likely plan of the chambers above and below. He had noticed that the drawing room overlooked the garden. Perhaps down here the library did as well. He turned and made his way to the back of the house. The few servants who noticed him did not question his presence.

  Out on the veranda the late afternoon breeze refreshed him. Little fields of spring flowers gave some color to a landscape still showing barren trees. The scent of the changing season could not be mistaken, however. It reminded him of his youth in Buckinghamshire, when so much on the land promised renewal at this time of year.

  A white spot caught his eye. A cap. Marielle’s woman stood near some shrubbery near the back of the garden, half obscured by the branches of a tree that interfered with his line of sight. He moved to the left and saw Marielle herself. She sat on a bench next to a man who had been upstairs. Some boxwood half hid them, but he saw them speaking intently, heads bent close together and hands moving. They looked like intimate friends discussing a matter of great importance.

  Or like lovers having a row.

  The man made a gesture of resignation and apology with his hands, holding them open. Then he stood, bowed, and walked toward the terrace. Kendale noted his face as he passed back into the house.

  Down in the garden Marielle remained on the bench. She sat there, not moving at all. Her woman stepped over and placed a hand on her shoulder. The touch seemed to call her back from wherever her thoughts had led her. She turned her body toward the older woman and embraced her, burying her face in the woman’s dress. She remained thus for a long count before standing, smoothing her skirt, and strolling back with a slow, listless gait.

  She noticed him when she was halfway through the garden. That put some iron in her spine and stride in her walk. Head high and eyes alight with mockery, she came up to the terrace.

  “Madame Peltier has allowed you to leave her side? I am surprised. She depends on friends like you to make her important with our countrymen.”

  “Regrettably, I do not care for small talk in any language and had to take my leave before I went mad.”

  “If you are drinking champagne, what do you care how big the talk may be?”

  “I do not care for champagne either.”

  “Do you prefer beer, ale, gin, and tea, like most of your kind?”

  “I like wine too. Just not champagne.”

  “Madame Peltier will change your mind about that.”

  “I do not think so. Women do not influence me much.”

  She wagged her finger at him. “Beware, Lord Kendale. A woman who knows what she is about can influence a man and he does not even realize it.”

  Did she warn him about Madame Peltier, or herself? “Who was that man you were sitting with?”

  “One of the new arrivals. I came out for some air and he had as well.”

  “I was not introduced to him, as I was to the others.”

  “Perhaps he left before you were brought around.”

  Perhaps. Then again, maybe Marielle now lied. She did that sometimes. “You appeared distressed by whatever he was saying.”

  “Were you spying on me? I will not have it.”

  “I have been spying on you for over a year. Do not act shocked now, especially after—” After I have come within a hairsbreadth of possessing you, damn it. “You went through some effort to meet that man. It was no accident, but a rendezvous. Who is he? What did he say to make you distraught?”

  Is he your lover? Your partner in crime? He wanted to know, badly. Too much. He hated to admit he would prefer the second explanation to the first, even if it confirmed his worst suspicions.

  Her expression hardened. “He described the suffering he has known the last few years since his father’s property was confiscated. The hunger and the humiliation and fear. Yes, I was distressed, as any person would be to hear such things. Up there they drink champagne to celebrate their deliverance, but they all know the life they once had is gone, perhaps forever, and they are paupers begging at England’s door.”

  He had not seen sympathy, but real worry, and emotion that required a friend’s embrace to contain. He would not argue with her now, however. To do so would make him more of an ass than he had already been. Kissing a woman a few times does not give a man the right to demand explanations, even if he battled a primal anger at seeing that woman in an intimate conversation with another man.

  “My coach is here. I will take you b
ack to your house.”

  “No, thank you. I am not inclined to be questioned and tested more today, and cannot risk that you will attempt to do so.”

  “It is not safe. You must take better care. You take the coach and I will walk.”

  “No, milord. Dominique and I will walk and enjoy the fair weather, and then work long into the night to make up for this afternoon’s entertainment. Go back to Madame Peltier. She has all the time in the world to waste with men like you.”

  Marielle’s mind raced. Dominique walked alongside.

  “You might have accepted his offer of his coach, for my sake,” Dominique muttered after half an hour.

  “When you want to ride in a coach, we will hire one. We will not accept his gifts of any kind. It will only let him think he can intrude whenever he likes, in whatever he likes, as he did today.” She screwed up her face to imitate Kendale’s frown when he spoke on the terrace. “Who is he? What did he say?” She rolled her eyes. “I was right in how I named him the first time. What a stupid man.”

  Dominique trudged on, not happy. “He is not one to be put off, that is certain.” She turned her head and looked back. “He has been following us all the while.”

  Marielle refused to look. How like Kendale to enforce his will. Her exasperation did not entirely conquer her relief that she would indeed be safe at least today.

  “Nor is he so stupid,” Dominique said, pausing by an iron fence to catch her breath. She was neither young nor slender, and she rarely walked this much. Marielle debated whether to hail the coach following them.

  Dominique pushed away from the fence and walked on. “He saw well enough what he saw today. You are annoyed he was not stupid enough to believe you asked after a stranger’s history and nothing more. He may have misunderstood the reasons, but he saw your sadness and worry.”

  Those words did not do justice to her reactions on that bench as Monsieur Marion gave her news of the region around Savenay.