“You asked me to mention anything that I found odd, in private. And I did find several things about Mam’selle Lyon pas normal.”
“Explain yourself.”
Calvet closed the door, then retook his seat on the divan. Kendale remained standing. One of the library windows overlooked the garden. He considered telling Calvet to save his insights for another day.
“Her French is excellent. She is well educated. She is well bred.”
“She is the niece of a comte, so none of that is a surprise.”
“Yes, and no. Her speech is Parisian when she is careful, but localized when surprised or at ease. It was a common thing with our elite. They learned to lose the local accents so they were not seen as too country, and unfashionable. In times of emotion, the language of their youth emerges.” He paused. “While we spoke, several times that happened with her. Little slips. A change in the accent, or a regional word not common everywhere.”
“It is the same here. When boys go away to school, the ones from counties with strong local accents learn to lose them fast because they are teased. There is nothing notable about it with her.”
Calvet made a tent with his fingertips in front of his mouth while he thought. “If there is indeed something notable, do you want to know? You said you did, but—”
“Of course.”
“Bien. She says she is the niece of the Comte de Vence. His province is in the south, near the sea. If she lived nearby, that should be the local accent she speaks when at ease.”
“Yet that is not what you heard. Is it?”
“No. I heard a young woman from the west. Not Breton, that is clear. But—the Loire region perhaps.” He shrugged again. “Perhaps her family lived there, and she claims a closer relationship with her uncle to make her way. So she says she lived not far away, and visited. For some who judge, that contact and proximity is as important as the blood connection.”
Kendale wandered away while he considered Calvet’s revelation. When Madame Peltier had made the same observation, he had given it little weight. As a writer and pamphleteer Calvet had traveled widely, however. And those who questioned Marielle—she would be very sure not to be at ease with them. Not to slip into any local way of speaking.
He found himself near a window, the one that overlooked the garden. Below Marielle and Penthurst strolled the paths. She looked exquisitely beautiful. Her distinctive way of walking suited her dress and made her appear regal. If she were who she claimed to be, she need not aspire to be a duke’s mistress. She could dare hope to be his wife.
“Then there is the other oddity,” Calvet said. “I do not know what to make of it.”
He turned. “What other oddity?”
“Again it is her speaking. Only not her French. It is her English. It is too good, Lord Kendale. It is better than mine, and I have spoken English since I was a boy. Hear my voice, then think of hers. I do not believe you will find such English spoken elsewhere among the émigrés. Her accent is very light, but that is not the oddity. She does not struggle with how the sentences form like most of us. Either her powers of imitation are very good, or she had the most excellent tutors.”
“She said that those who do not learn the proper accent are lazy. She said she makes a special effort.”
“The effort is obvious, and has led to surprising success. Along with her command of the words and patterns she is unusually fluent.”
Unusually fluent. Je suis désolée. I am sorry I failed you. So fluent that she thought in both languages at the moment of death. And other times. You, I want you. Not vous or tu, but you.
Was it evidence that she had been superbly trained, as he first suspected? Could she actually pass as English if a mission required it?
He hated how his mind started slicing the evidence, looking for its meaning. He had wanted very badly to unmask this woman. Now, with Calvet handing him reasons to believe his judgment of her had been correct, he did not want to accept their implications.
Below in the garden, Penthurst made some gesture. He must have also said something clever, because Marielle laughed. She turned her face toward the duke and her eyes glistened with humor. Penthurst was not easily bedazzled, but Kendale could not imagine him being immune. Do not be too at ease, Marielle. Do not let your language slip if he practices his French with you. He is the sort to notice.
He forced himself away from the window and returned to Mr. Calvet. “Thank you for your careful attention to my request where she is concerned. What you have told me is fascinating.”
“Well, she is a fascinating woman, is she not, Lord Kendale?”
“To broach the matter on which I wanted to meet. Penthurst said that you know the politics of your country very well. Not only the ministers and national leaders, but those of importance in the provinces.”
“My occupation depended on always keeping my ears and eyes open. I have a more thorough knowledge of my country than most, perhaps.”
“Does the name Lamberte mean anything to you?”
Calvet turned up his face, curious. “May I ask how you came to know that name?”
“I overheard it mentioned by someone.”
Calvet folded his arms and thought before speaking. “Antoine Lamberte is currently an important member of the governing body in the Vendée region. Perhaps the most important in terms of influence. He has ambitions and will most likely be given a position in Paris eventually.”
“Speaking of him appears to make you uncomfortable.”
“I am usually at ill ease when talking about a man who threatened to kill me, Lord Kendale. It was after that region resisted the revolution and rose up. Lamberte is the illegitimate son of a baron. He was educated by his father, and even given a position in the family household as a steward when his half brother inherited. He joined the revolution, however, and was put out. The fighting in his family’s area, near Savenay, was ugly. There was chaos. And when it ended, Lamberte’s brother was dead. Not an execution. Just dead in the riots that engulfed the land. Within six months Lamberte lived in that château, much as his half brother had, only now as a representative of the new government.”
“Why did he threaten to kill you?”
“I made the mistake of asking questions about the baron’s death. I went to the Vendée to write about this sorry episode in our great undertaking, and heard of this death among so many. His own servants killed him, some said. On seeing all was lost, he killed himself and his mistress, others claimed. I confess that I thought I would write a novel about this man. It was an interesting story to me.”
“Lamberte had other ideas on that, I assume.”
“He called me to him. He might have been a baron, the way he sat and examined me. Then he let me know it would be a wise decision to leave Savenay.” He held up his hands. “I left. But I watched him from afar. Because of the trouble there, he has more power than he might otherwise. None gainsay his decisions. He has kept the opposing faction down, at times by executing those who present problems. There is always a trial of sorts, of course.”
“Your dislike is apparent. Does no one else find him troubling? Is he favored by all the ministers?”
“Not all. There are some who think he cannot be trusted. Some who think he only seeks his own gain. Criticism of how he lives—too much like his father in his taste for luxury, it is said. I trust that these saner minds will prevail in the end where he is concerned, but one can never be sure of that.”
No, one could never be sure. “If you wrote your novel, how would the last baron have died? The suicide?”
Calvet shook his head. “Such a disheartening end that would be. In my novel, he would be killed by someone taking advantage of the chaos to hide a murder that has nothing to do with politics or the people’s cause. Like most murders, it would be about envy and greed, and long-held hatred. It would be a human story, not a political one.�
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Chatter sounded near the house, coming in the window. Doors opened and it grew louder. Penthurst was speaking lowly, in French. Kendale tried to hear what he said.
“He speaks it well,” Calvet said softly.
Of course he did. He was a damned duke. A damned duke who now flirted in French spoken too softly and quickly for Kendale to decipher.
“He is telling her that she must stay in London during the upcoming Season, so she does not miss the amusements to be had.”
She did not have a wardrobe for the Season. If she explained that, Penthurst would probably offer to buy her one.
They entered the library, both bright-eyed and smiling. Kendale found the grace to invite Penthurst and Calvet to share a meal before they left and they all moved to the dining room.
Calvet regaled them with stories about the foibles of the French government and the new shining military star named Napoleon. Penthurst quizzed him a bit. Kendale just let them talk. Marielle looked lovely and more interested than most women would be, but then it was her lost country being described.
Finally it was over. Marielle excused herself to much flattery and deep bowing. It was all Kendale could do not to push his guests out of the house then. As they took their leave, Calvet trailed behind. He stopped outside the door.
“Lord Kendale, a word, please.”
Kendale paused. Penthurst walked on and stepped into his coach.
“I have been thinking for two hours now, trying to decide if telling you something would violate a confidence. I have concluded it would not.”
“What is that?”
“Your mention of Lamberte surprised me. It was one more oddity. You see, while Mam’selle and I spoke alone, she asked after the very same man.”
He walked away and stepped into the carriage. As it rolled down the drive, Angus emerged from the house and watched. “The duke looked the house over while he was in the garden like he planned to paint a picture of it.”
“I expect so.”
“I think he was quizzing her, about who was here and such.”
“Perhaps.” He would find out soon. “Go and tell the men they can come out of the cellars now.”
She peered down the stairs while the guests left. Angus came in first, striding to the back of the house. Kendale entered a short while later.
He noticed her standing partway up. He paused below and looked up at her.
“You were flirting with him.”
“I was amusing him. There is a difference.”
“Is there now?”
“Of course. Everyone knows that. If you spent more time with people while they took their leisure you would know it too.”
He strode over and came up toward her. His expression almost caused her to back up.
He took her hand and kept striding. She had to scamper to avoid being dragged.
He opened her door and swung her inside. To her astonishment he followed and slammed the door behind him. “Get on the bed.”
She did back up this time, but then dug in her heels and stood her ground. “Are you asking me to please get on the bed, Lord Kendale?” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Are you asking me if I would like to play the role of your lover right now?”
That checked him. He glared at her, however, not pleased to be given this lesson today. His jaw firmed and dangerous amusement glinted in his eyes. “Please get on the bed, Marielle.”
It seemed a waste to perhaps ruin this nice dress because of his odd humor. All the same she sat on the bed, then lay back. To her shock he lifted and flipped her so she hugged the coverlet. Another shock stunned her when he lifted her hips until she knelt, handling her like a doll, positioning her to his liking.
She felt her skirt rise. He pushed it high until it bunched at her shoulders and cool air touched her legs and bottom. Flushed now, and more aroused than she would admit to him, she looked over her shoulder. Hot with desire and who knew what else today, he unfastened his pantaloons.
She looked away and waited for him to thrust into her. She expected no preliminaries. So he astonished her again when he stroked her with unexpected care. That caress affected her deeply. Her whole body shuddered from a pleasure that eddied through her core. Again and again he touched, finally playing at the spot where it was most intense. The sensation became unbearable and she could not control her reactions. Burying her cries in the coverlet she raised her hips more and moved on that touch as thrills shot through her.
She felt a kiss on the small of her back. “Yes, like that, Marielle. Show me how you need me.”
A new caress, testing, discovering, making it worse. Her whole body cried and begged. Her breaths became a series of gasps of astonishment rising higher and higher until pure and complete release shattered her. He thrust in then, finally, over and over, so hard and deeply that she thought she would feel him for days.
“The duke asked me if I would like to ride back to London with him and Monsieur Calvet,” Marielle said that night after debating with herself whether to speak at all.
Tonight’s passion contained little of the gentleness of the last one. He had claimed her, unmistakably so, from the moment he took her hand and pulled her up the stairs. Perhaps the dress had caused it, or else their visitors. She had not missed how Penthurst’s presence darkened Kendale’s mood.
He had mostly moved off her, but he still held her closely. She only mentioned Penthurst’s offer because now, held like this, she did not know any fear, least of all of this man’s anger.
“He was not propositioning me, either. I think he suspects you have imprisoned me.”
He rose up on his forearms and looked at her. “What did you say?”
“I said that I would stay a few more days.”
His gaze warmed. “It is not much of a prison if you choose to stay. I could not have stopped you from leaving.”
“I will admit I was tempted, but . . . I did not want it known that you kidnapped women and forced them to live in this house. It could be badly misunderstood.”
“I am not much of a gaoler if you worry about my reputation.” He kissed her shoulder, as if acknowledging that prisoner and gaoler no longer described them or this odd visit.
“Did he say anything else interesting? Ask about the household here?”
She might have known he had guessed. “He noticed there were no women, or many servants at all and thought that odd. I told him I had not expected to be the guest of such a monk, but there had been comforts enough to sustain me for a short while.”
“A monk? This is surely not a monastery. As for comforts enough . . .” His hand closed on her breast and stayed there. The sweet warmth touched her, and brought more comfort than he would know.
“He was not sure about us. I thought I would leave him to wonder.” She stretched her arms until they crossed behind his neck. “Why was he here? So full of questions. Too curious for a mere guest. I thought he was a friend.”
“He was a friend once. Perhaps he still thinks he is. I haven’t decided that part yet. However, he came, I think, so others would not.”
“What others?”
“The kind of others who follow pretty Frenchwomen who have ambiguous histories.”
That agents of the government might be curious about Kendale alarmed her. That he still spoke so easily about her questionable purposes made her sad.
She scolded herself for feeling hurt. What had she expected? That a few nights of pleasure would turn him into the stupid man she had first dubbed him? The comfort he spoke of was very different from what she felt. A good meal probably made him just as contented.
“Have you done something wrong? You hid most of these men today. From the duke?”
He rolled onto his back, releasing her. She waited for his arm to draw her close again. She would nest her head within his embrace like last night, and perhaps
experience that timeless peace again. To her disappointment he remained still and alone, his profile firmly set.
“I have done nothing wrong. Nothing dishonorable. I have simply mapped a path to justice and walked the first few miles.”
“Do you not have courts for that here? I thought the English had many of them. More than most countries need.”
He smiled, but shook his head. “None of our courts will see to this.”
“What good is being a lord if you cannot have justice in a court? I would think even corrupt judges would be careful to be fair in your case.”
“You misunderstood. Our courts are useless because it is not an English matter.”
He said nothing more. The subject distracted him. She sensed his mind turning in on itself to dwell on this map and journey he referred to, and its final goal.
She had become an intrusion in this bed. She pushed back the sheet and reached for her clothes. His hand closed on her wrist. He pulled her to him and tucked her alongside. She rested her head on his shoulder, and her soul sighed as she set aside the weapons she always carried, just in case.
“Do you know about the Siege of Toulon?” he asked, the quiet question floating in the silence.
“Of course.” He spoke of an uprising against the revolutionary government six years earlier, one of many that ended in victory for the republicans. English troops and the English navy had been involved, supporting the royalists. It was on many lips now because this Napoleon who had risen so fast had one of his early shining moments there.
“I was at Toulon, assigned to O’Hara,” he said. “After he was defeated and arrested, after it all fell apart, we needed to get out. A group of us hid in a house owned by a woman whom one of my fellow officers had befriended.”
“They were lovers?”
“He thought they were. God knows that he thought he loved her at least. He planned to bring her with him and would not hear anyone’s argument that it would be too dangerous. Feversham was not a man to be sentimental about women, so his view of her received more respect than if he had enjoyed a long string of mistresses.”
The Counterfeit Mistress Page 17