The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  “What am I to do? What? For all I know Lamberte is here in England if he has not been seen in Savenay for two weeks and is known to not be in residence in the château.”

  “Monsieur Marion said it is rumored he went to Paris. That he is hoping for a position there, and has gone to make his case.”

  Had it come to that? Had Lamberte risen so far and so well that he might find himself in the government’s inner circle? She did not think it was so simple. Monsieur Marion had revealed more than that, too.

  “The images have affected him, he said. There have been questions. Suspicions.”

  “It is what you intended. You should be relieved.”

  “If he thinks he can rise further, he will want to make sure such accusations do not continue. He cannot afford for the ministers in Paris to investigate possible financial irregularities. If I were him, I would want to make sure my house were very clean before inviting such attention. I would do what I must to see that only the best parts of my record could be read.”

  “He can never be certain of that, after all he has done.”

  “He can perhaps if he tears out the bad parts of the record and burns them.”

  They walked in silence then. Marielle guessed that Dominique’s thoughts went to the same place as hers. Lamberte had sent men to track the engravings back to their source and remove that problem. She could only hope that he had not realized that Marielle Lyon was the source of that dangerous nuisance.

  “He said there has been no word of your father.” Dominique reached over and squeezed Marielle’s hand.

  “It has become harder to execute without good cause. Harder to be a power that answers to no one, as he was during the chaos six years ago. To do that now might bring the wrong kind of attention to him.” She hoped so. She prayed so.

  “And, he knows I could be alive. He may have surmised that only his hold on Papa keeps me from denouncing him outright, and with more than satirical images.” Her mind took her back to that alley, and to how close she had come to having long plans come to naught. It would be sadly ironic if Lamberte killed her without even knowing who it was that he killed. “Perhaps that is what I should do now.”

  “Do you think to go back?” Dominique shook her head. “No, no, no. Whom would you trust? To whom would you present your evidence? The government is busy fighting wars. No one will care about a crime from long ago. No one will listen and if they do, they will not believe you.”

  Marielle knew that. She had never alluded to the worst crimes in her engravings. With so many deaths, a few more became meaningless.

  Instead the prints showed Lamberte stealing from the government. They would care about that, perhaps, if enough of those prints made their way to Paris.

  Twilight had fallen by the time they turned onto their street. Footsore and tired, they both hobbled up the steps.

  Before Marielle could open the door it flung open. Nicole the cook faced them, her eyes wide with fear and relief. She began crying.

  “What is it?” Dominique demanded. When Nicole did not answer she gave the woman a shake.

  “Thieves!” Nicole exclaimed when she caught a breath. “We have had thieves intrude while you were gone. I thank God I was below and heard nothing. Had I come up, I might have been killed.”

  “If you heard nothing, how do you know someone intruded?” Marielle asked.

  “You will see, mam’selle. Such desecration—I may never sleep well again.” She stood aside so Dominique and Marielle could enter.

  Sounds from the street pulled at Marielle’s attention. Those of horse hooves clipping slowly on stones and of wheels crying as they stopped turning. She glanced back and saw Kendale’s coach in the street. He sat near the window and looked out at her.

  She turned away quickly. Go away, go away, you stubborn, intruding man, her mind urged. Her heart swelled with relief, however, when she heard the carriage door open.

  “What has happened?” Kendale asked as he mounted the step to the blue door.

  “The cook says we had housebreakers. Thieves.” Marielle did not bar his entry, so he followed her over the threshold.

  Evidence of the intrusion spread across the studio. Papers had been tossed haphazardly on the tables and floor. Marielle flushed and covered her eyes with her hand, then began gathering the prints into a stack. “We will have to go over each one most carefully, to see if there is damage.”

  “And if there is?”

  “I must pay for them, of course.” Her slender finger plucked more off the floor.

  He bent and helped, trying to avoid being more harm than help. It took half an hour to pick them all up.

  “Why were no women here working?” he asked.

  “I chose to go to that party. Madame LaTour can be my eyes here when I am gone, but she too attended. So we all took a little holiday.” She smiled sourly at the workroom. “Such a cost for so little gain.”

  “Marielle,” the old woman said from the doorway. She gestured for Marielle to follow her. Kendale tagged along.

  A small chamber at the back of the house overlooked the garden. He peered out. There was not much property, and what they had was planted. Not flowers. No tulips here. The ground had been worked in rows. He guessed it would fill with greenery and vegetables in a few months.

  The old woman pulled back a drapery to reveal a broken shutter and sash. A small pane of glass had been smashed too. Kendale pulled the window open. It was large enough for a man to enter.

  “What did they take?” he asked.

  “If you will wait here, we will go and see if anything of value is gone,” Marielle said. Huddled close and whispering, they left him.

  He sat on one of the chairs and took stock of this house. Although modest, it was larger than many. Marielle’s print coloring business probably paid the rents. Her industry provided a modicum of comfort at least, but he supposed it was a precarious existence. One unexpected problem, such as having to pay an engraver for prints one could never sell, might tip the balance.

  He caught his own thoughts up short. How easily he was willing to worry for her, and forget that she probably had other income besides that from those prints. She may not have even signed the lease to this house, if it had been provided to her so that she had a home while she collected information. He would have to check to see whose name was on the paper.

  Marielle returned alone and sank into another chair. “They were above. Our chambers are overturned. Mattresses, clothing, all over. However, we can find nothing gone.”

  “They were looking for something, from what you describe. Why else overturn a mattress?”

  “To see if coin is hidden beneath it, of course.”

  “Do people really do that? Hide money beneath their mattresses, tied to the ropes?”

  “Some do, although if I were a thief, I would look there first, so better places should be found.”

  “Where do you hide yours?”

  She patted her hip. “Here. It is a benefit of being unfashionable. One can sew a pocket into these skirts.” Her hand slipped between two folds and the fabric swallowed her arm almost to the elbow.

  He wondered if that were the real reason she wore such styles now. Like the long shawls, those pockets allowed all kinds of things to be carried invisibly. “First men try to kill you. Now this. I do not think it is a coincidence.”

  “They are not related, except to show London has many thieves in it.”

  She smiled at him, putting on a brave face. He saw how concerned she was, however. That had never happened before with a woman. Females remained ciphers to him for which he possessed no solution. They all wore masks of one kind or another, playing this role or that on life’s stage. They confounded him when he noticed them at all.

  This one, however—for good or bad he had come to know her. Right now, he knew she was afraid.

&n
bsp; “If you tell me what this is all about, perhaps I could help you.”

  He braced himself for mocking Marielle or self-possessed Marielle, and maybe he even hoped for seductress Marielle. Instead she looked at him so directly that he thought he could see right into her mind.

  “That is kind,” she said. “You have already helped me enough. I am alive, aren’t I?”

  “The men in the alley—they spoke French. I heard enough. Are your own people after you? If so, the Home Office will protect you if you cooperate with them.”

  “Do you mean if I turn? If I tell them all about the spies sent here, and what I know of France’s intentions? They will make sure I am not harmed if I agree to this?”

  “Yes.”

  She reached over and placed her hand on his. Her touch felt cool, too cool, and unbearably soft and fragile.

  “Then it is a great pity that I am not a spy, and have nothing to sell in such a bargain.” She stood. “I must push you out now. There is much to do above and I should not leave it all to Dominique and Nicole.”

  She walked him to the front door. He waited for the door to close behind him, then went to his coach and retrieved a pistol. He walked down two blocks, turned the corner, and circled back through the alleys and gardens behind the buildings on the other side of Marielle’s lane.

  He let himself into a building across the way and two doors down from hers. Up one level he knocked on a door.

  A short, wiry, fair-haired man with gray eyes opened the door. “Milord!” He hurried inside to grab his coat and slip it on.

  Kendale stepped in and inspected the bedsitting chamber that had been let a few days ago. Its occupant had carved areas for the bed at one end and a little library at the other. “Are you comfortable here, Mr. Pratt?”

  “Fair enough, milord. I slip out to the tavern for food, or they will bring it if needs be. It is not so nice as Ravenswood Park, but better than a barracks, so I am content.”

  “Good. Today, did you remain on duty all day?”

  “Of course, milord.”

  “Even after the lady left her home? Did you watch all afternoon?”

  “Had to, didn’t I? No way to know when she came back if I was not watching. Not to say I would have been derelict if there had been a way. You know me, sir. I obey orders.”

  Richard Pratt obeyed orders with singular diligence. If his commander told him to hold the crossroad and let no one pass alive, he would kill every man who approached. If told to watch that blue door, he would sit at the window from dawn to midnight staring at it.

  “Did you see anyone suspicious lurking around, Mr. Pratt? Anyone taking a particular interest in the house?”

  Pratt thought hard, frowning. He shook his head. “Nah. Was very quiet. No visitors. No women coming. Course most of them don’t go right up to that front door, do they? Too proud, I suppose. They enter that little portal in the alley between that house and the one beside it, and pretend they are just cutting through to the street behind. Not unusual for folks to do that. I expect those women then go into the house through the kitchen.”

  “Did anyone at all go into that alley and use the portal?”

  “One man. Not too tall. Fat fellow. Dark hair. That is all I remember.”

  The man in the alley had been dark-haired and fat. Kendale placed the pistol on the table that served for eating and writing and whatever else Pratt might need it for. “I am going to leave this. Someone intruded there this afternoon. I need you to be extra vigilant now, and to watch for ne’er-do-wells who might be around. If you have cause for concern, send me a message. I will be sending Jacob to join you, so you can take turns and remain alert.”

  Pratt picked up the pistol and inspected it. “I’m trusting that if I use this, milord, that you will be explaining matters to the magistrate on my behalf.”

  “I do not think you will use it. But with today’s event, I want to know you have it should it be needed.” He set out some coin. “Once Jacob arrives, go out and buy powder and balls.”

  “I understand, sir. Just to be prepared in the unlikely case, as you said.”

  “Be sure to alert me to anything odd.”

  “Such as what, sir?”

  Hell if he knew. Belligerent visitors. Men creeping along the roof. Marielle Lyon walking out with something hidden in her deep pockets and under her long shawl.

  “Just use your judgment, Pratt, and let no harm come to the women in that house.”

  Marielle pushed her mattress back onto its ropes. She pulled the sheets into place and tucked them. Standing back, she examined her chamber. All had returned to its normal order now. Nothing showed of the violation of her home.

  Whoever intruded had torn this space apart, emptying drawers and wardrobe, dumping the contents of an old trunk on the floor. He had even turned over her dressing table, as if he expected to find something of value tied beneath it. He had learned to his sorrow that no treasures hid in these bedchambers.

  Which was not to say that none could be found in the house elsewhere.

  Night had fallen. Dominique slept in the chamber next door, her soft snores sounding their familiar rhythm. Tomorrow would be a long day. Before the women arrived to work, the engravings had to be inspected to see which had damage and which could still be colored. Marielle did not look forward to calculating the cost of the ones she could not return to their printer.

  The day had exhausted her and left her sore. Her bed beckoned, but she lifted the candelabra and left the chamber. She descended the stairs and moved through the silent house to the studio. Three times she froze, to listen to sounds that made terrible fear shoot through her blood. She had always felt safe in this house, but she no longer did. If they came once, they could come again.

  She set the candelabra on the worktable closest to the paneled wall that flanked the long windows at the rear of the chamber. Feeling along the molding on the left panel, she found a metal hook. When she pressed it, the panel swung open to reveal a hidden cupboard.

  They had lived in this house for three years before she accidentally found this hiding place while dusting. It was the sort of secret one expected to have in fine homes and châteaus, not in cottages hugging the London wall. The normal thief would never guess to look for it.

  She set aside a box of burins and other tools that lay on a shelf, and a sack of jewelry waiting to go to Fairbourne’s auction house. She grabbed the heavy sack of coin that she had painstakingly collected over the years. Its undiminished weight gave her heart.

  Then she lifted out a stack of copper plates. The ones on top were unused and new and she set them aside. She laid out each of the others to make sure none had been taken.

  Several depicted London views. Upon first casting about for some employment, she thought engraving pretty pictures would feed her. Even after adopting a fictitious male name, however, they had not sold enough to justify continuing. She still made them out of vanity, but often they did not sell well enough to be worth the cost of hiring the press to print them.

  The others proved more lucrative. Satirical prints, they poked fun at the powerful and famous. Such images had helped bring down the monarchy in France. The people of London had an insatiable appetite for them too.

  They did not display the careful technique of the views. She deliberately made them cruder, so no one would think the same hand had made them. The name on them—Citizen John—would never be thought the real name of the artist. They bore no address.

  She lifted a special one, made not for London but for export. “Citoyen Jean” this time claimed credit and all the words were in French. In it a man sat on a throne composed of farmers and tradesmen who strained under his weight. A line of people placed coins on a table in front of him. With one hand he slid two coins into a strongbox labeled “taxes.” With the other hand he pocketed every third coin. The words he spoke said, “One f
or Savenay, one for Paris, one for me.”

  Was this what the intruders today looked for? Either to take it, or to discover if she was responsible for its creation? Or had they merely been thieves who saw an empty house on a fair day, ready for the picking?

  Most likely the latter. Kendale had a suspicious mind in general, and she should not give his judgment on such things too much weight.

  And yet— She thought about the news she received today from Monsieur Marion. Lamberte had departed Savenay, presumably to visit Paris. He saw the chance to rise, and would want to cleanse any old stains on his reputation. He would not want the past to interfere with his ambitions now.

  She turned to the cupboard once again, and felt along its side. High up her fingers touched a little interference. She clawed at it, and pulled a little book from where it hid behind the wooden framing.

  Flipping its pages, she scanned the numbers and, at the back, the names. Run, and take this to Papa. Tell him to use it to bring this bastard down. She looked at the little book, then at the plates. Did Lamberte just assume that whoever made the images had seen this book that contained the proof of his thefts? In the least, perhaps he hoped so, and might get it back. He could not sleep well knowing it was somewhere, waiting to reveal everything.

  She returned the book to its hiding place. She stacked the plates, and put them back in the cupboard. She could either sit here and wait for whatever might happen, or she could try to discover whether Lamberte had sent those men to that alley. She should determine whether he pursued her, either to stop a nuisance of an engraver, or to silence a witness to his crimes. Her own plans depended on it. She might not have the time to save the rest of the money she needed. If not, she wanted to know so she could find another way.

  It was time to learn what she could, so she would not be a sitting goose.

  Chapter 8

  “I am curious about something,” Kendale said. He rode beside Ambury in Hyde Park, and had allowed some time to pass before casually broaching his subject. “You are probably the best person to consult.”