The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  Was she? She checked the valise. She forced a calm on herself while she examined her mind to be sure she had given all the messages and instructions that the last sleepless nights had presented to her. “Oh, if you can, tell Emma and Cassandra who I really am. Or ask Lord Kendale to do so. There are few with whom my deception felt wrong, but with them it did. You can tell Madame LaTour too, although she is unlikely to appreciate knowing the truth.”

  “Are you finished now?” Dominique stood and came over to her. “If so, you will listen to me.” She poked through the valise. “As I thought. Money for bribes, but nothing for protection. Do you think to procure it the same way as before?” She fished in her deep pocket and withdrew her knife. “You will take this. You keep it on you, as I do. And if you need to, Marielle, you will use it.”

  She looked down at the knife. Not a dagger as such, its thin blade still had little purpose besides stabbing at things.

  Dominique grasped her shoulders and looked at her directly. “He will be much changed. He will not be the man you remember, just as you will not be the girl he last saw. Do not expect it to be like before.”

  “I will not.”

  “Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. You must shed the airs behind which you hid here. You must speak the local way.”

  “I will, although I will not mingle with people much. I am going in the way my prints did, and will get help from the bookseller who took them. I will know the château better than the servants who live there now, since I played in it as a child. Do not worry for me too much, Dominique. No one is loyal to a man like Lamberte, and if he is not there my bribes will open the doors I need to pass through.”

  “And if he is there?”

  They looked at each other a long moment. “I will be left to my wits, I suppose. It is a good thing that you taught me how to use them well, dear friend.”

  Dominique collected her into an embrace. She sank into the older woman’s softness, grateful as she had so often been that this sister of a comte had bothered to love and protect the daughter of an engraver.

  “I will not watch you go in the morning,” Dominique said, her voice thick and low. “My fears for you should not be the last thing you see.”

  She understood. Her own fears would conquer her if Dominique wept and worried in the morning. She needed them to remain where they were, in the pit of her stomach, heavy and sour.

  Kendale was grateful for the fair evening as he rode north along the coast. The night would be clear. With any luck, tomorrow night would be too.

  He was well away from Dover before dusk turned to night. He knew the road well, and kept his mount at a canter to make good time.

  Halfway to Deal he passed a lane snaking up the cliff. In the half moon’s light he could make out the cottage that belonged to the Fairbournes. A little farther on another lane aimed west to the village of Ringswold. Just past that he turned toward the coast, riding cross-country to the cliff path that followed the top of the rise and overlooked the sea.

  It began dipping down toward the sea soon. Just before it leveled off, he pulled his horse right. On its own it found the rocky path that angled steeply down toward the water against the cliff wall.

  Fifty feet from the rough beach below, he stopped, dismounted, and tied his horse to a young tree. He made his way along a ledge of stone. One of the deep shadows gaped wider than the others, leaking faint light and smoke into the night.

  He stepped into the cave. The low fire said he was expected, but no one could be seen. Hand on his pistol, he walked in ten more feet.

  A shadow suddenly appeared on the far wall. It moved toward him. A man stepped into the light. Casual garments hung on his slender frame and a dark beard and mustache moved as he smiled.

  Kendale relaxed his guard. “Were you expecting someone else, Tarrington? This can’t be a very good smuggler’s lair if you need to hide whenever someone arrives.”

  Tarrington helped the network of watchers on occasion, which was how Kendale had come to know him. His usefulness caused them to turn a blind eye on his illegal trade, which he controlled on this section of coast almost all the way down to Dover. In one of the coves nearby he kept a little flotilla of boats and small ships. The galleys were used for quick crossings of the channel. The ships ventured farther, sometimes as far as Amsterdam.

  “That I’ll be needing a new lair is for certain,” Tarrington said. “There has been some indiscretion about the location of this one, I think.”

  He slid his eyes to the right. Kendale did not miss the warning. He moved to the left and pulled out his pistol.

  Another shadow appeared. Kendale guessed who it was even before its owner emerged from the cave’s far recess.

  “It is good to know that you are as battle ready as ever, Kendale, but it would be very awkward if you shot me,” Penthurst said.

  With a curse he set the pistol down. “What are you doing here?”

  “I decided to call on Mr. Tarrington, to thank him for his distinctive aid to his country.”

  “Did Southwaite tell you about his aid?”

  “No. Another did. Who does not matter.” Penthurst strolled over to a rough table where a very fine decanter rested. He opened the decanter and sniffed. “French claret.”

  “Very old claret, Your Grace,” Tarrington said. “Bought by my father a long time ago. Have some, please.”

  The duke poured some and tasted. “It is good to know it was not recently brought over. I would hate to have to report that.”

  “No need, Your Grace. No need, I assure you.”

  Penthurst set the glass down. “Would you excuse us, Mr. Tarrington?”

  Tarrington was only too glad to leave. Once he had, Kendale allowed his annoyance to show. “My old tutor was less intrusive than you, Penthurst. What the hell do you want?”

  “I am here to tell you that you must give up your plans. I tried to warn you in every way I knew that your intentions were suspected. They have been guessed, and provisions made to stop you. I came tonight to deliver the news that if you make any attempt to cross over, the men with you will be arrested. The army is waiting. So is the naval service.”

  “Neither impresses me.”

  “I did not think either would. Thus I have impressed on Mr. Tarrington that if he uses his boats to take you anywhere near the French coast, he too will be arrested and tried as the smuggler he is. He was impressed.”

  Kendale wanted to thrash him. Penthurst must have seen it in him, because he took the pistol and set it on the table, out of reach.

  “I do not expect you to believe me, but I have had no role in this other than informing you that others had suspicions, and now of warning you off. If you had gotten away with it, and found your own justice, I would not have cared. I might have even cheered.”

  Kendale helped himself to some of the claret. It helped the anger ease and resignation to begin finding a place in his head.

  Penthurst sat down on the bench beside the table and leaned against the stone wall. “Were you really going to kill that woman?”

  Penthurst knew the story, of course, just as Southwaite and Ambury did. It had happened before that duel and before this duke had killed one of their circle. Kendale wished he had not been so indiscreet. He did not want Penthurst, of all men, judging him.

  “I don’t kill women. Do you?”

  “I have never had cause to. We do, all the time, however. Three women went to the gallows in the last month, I believe. Justice does not spare them, and it was justice you sought, so do not be insulted by my question.”

  “I am not insulted. I do not give a damn what you think.”

  “Of course not. So you were not going over for her. That means you know who was behind it. A government official? No? Army then.” He acted as if he had only to look over to know the answers. The arrogance of that had Kendale’s mind sp
litting with rage. That Penthurst was guessing correctly only made it worse.

  “That you did not invite me on this adventure is understandable,” Penthurst said. “That you kept it from the others . . .”

  He did not finish. The implications, such as they were, floated in the air, unspoken.

  “It was too dangerous.”

  “How like you, to risk your life without a second thought to help your friends, and to show loyalty even after death, but to deny your friends the privilege of doing the same for you. It speaks to a selfish streak in you, Kendale, and more than a little conceit. I will not let them know how inconsiderate you have been.”

  “That is good of you,” he said. “I hope that you are finished. It is not my plan to be your entertainment all night.”

  Penthurst stood. “I will leave you to whatever it is that you plan instead. As long as it is not being rowed to France to kill a French officer, I doubt anyone will interfere with you.”

  Kendale just wanted the man gone. He needed to decide whether to give weight to this warning. If he did, and canceled the crossing, he needed to decide how to manage Travis’s disappointment.

  Halfway to the cave opening, Penthurst turned. “On learning who I was yesterday, Mr. Tarrington proved most cooperative. I daresay he told me everything he knows about any crossings that have happened in the last year or two. Then he babbled something regarding a Mr. Garrett. You might ask him what that was about.”

  The night outside swallowed Penthurst. Almost immediately Tarrington appeared as if the dark spit him into the cave’s opening. He advanced, looking defensive, chagrined, and careful.

  “There was nothing I could do. When he cornered me at the tavern in Ringswold yesterday and handed me his card, it was clear we would never go over tomorrow night. He knew more than half already, so don’t be accusing me of betrayal.”

  “I am not going to accuse you of betrayal.”

  Tarrington appeared relieved. “It is a hell of a thing. Tell a duke what he wants to know and a viscount will nail your tail to the wall. Don’t tell him, and the duke will have your hide instead. Not fair, really. Not much choice, seems to me.”

  “No choice at all.” He poured the claret into another of the fine crystal glasses on the table. “If you want to save that tail now, sit down, and tell me everything that you told him. You will not leave out anything if you are wise.”

  Tarrington downed the wine, then began his tale. Being loquacious, his description of that conversation with Penthurst probably took longer that the conversation actually had. There could be no doubt that too much had been known by Penthurst before one word was spoken.

  Finished, Tarrington held out his hands in hopeful resignation. “I trust that you won’t be feeling the urge to get even by laying down information about anything that you may have seen during our prior adventures together.”

  “I haven’t decided. You left something out. You did not tell me everything.”

  Tarrington objected, then frowned, then his expression cleared. “You mean the business with Garrett? Doesn’t signify, does it? It is another matter entirely, not connected to you.”

  “Who is this Garrett?”

  “A partner in trade.”

  “Another smuggler, you mean.”

  Tarrington rolled his eyes. “I so dislike that word. However, if you insist, yes. He established himself to the south a ways. An interloper. He and I had some . . . disagreements. He saw the error of his ways and this partnership formed.”

  “So he works for you now.”

  “It is a partnership.”

  “What did you say to Penthurst about him?”

  “Let me see, what did I say? I did not realize I had said anything, but when a duke is quizzing you, it is wise to keep talking and I may have—”

  Kendale lifted the pistol. Tarrington’s eyes widened. He began talking again, long and fast.

  Chapter 20

  Marielle could only pray that everything had been arranged. She had not received a letter either begging off or describing delays, but that did not mean she could count on success.

  That messenger might have taken her money and never delivered the letter. Or the recipient of the letter might have read it, laughed, and ignored its detailed instructions. Since he would want the money that would come with compliance, she assumed he had not done that. She would learn the truth one way or another soon, however.

  She slipped out of the inn in Dover where she had spent the last two nights, and made her way down the lane. Carrying a valise felt conspicuous, but the people she passed did not appear to notice or care.

  She kept her other hand on her skirt, atop the bulge in her pocket. Her money was there, and the knife. She hoped the former would be enough after all these years of saving and denying herself the most basic comforts. She had no idea if the latter would be needed, but she had to admit it gave her a little more courage.

  The May morning air smelled sweet as she made her way to the house that Mr. Garrett used on the outskirts of the town. A small open carriage waited outside. Her messenger sat at the ribbons. He hopped down when he saw her, took her valise, and set it on the floor of the gig. He handed her in.

  “It won’t take long to get there,” he said. “Garrett asked me to meet you. He has preparations to make. There’s army everywhere, and two naval frigates on the sea, so he is setting up a distraction for them.”

  She had noticed a lot of army uniforms in Dover and its environs. If she had been the spy everyone thought, she would have known they would be here, and perhaps chosen another time.

  “How long will it take?” she asked.

  “To go over? I don’t know.” He laughed. “Depends on where you go, I guess. Boulogne ain’t far. There are good galleys that can row there and back in a day if it is fair. Or so I’m told. Never do it myself. Scared of the sea, I am.”

  She had no idea if she were scared of the sea. The last time she had been on it, so much else had scared her that she doubted the sea itself had made any difference. Nor was she going to Boulogne. This would not be a one-day journey, no matter how fair the day.

  A mixture of excitement and fear built as the gig left Dover behind and took a road north. The sun burned brightly as it kept ascending to her right over the edge of the cliffs. After two hours of silent riding, her messenger turned toward the sea.

  A large manor house could be glimpsed to the south as they approached the crest of a rise. Her messenger pointed to it. “That there is Crownhill Hall, the Earl of Southwaite’s seat.”

  She stared at the roof and chimneys in shock. If that was Crownhill, they now rode over Southwaite’s property. She turned and scrutinized the man delivering her to her embarkation. For all she knew he could be part of that network of watchers, and her plans had been betrayed.

  “Is the earl in residence?” she asked.

  “Nah. This time of year those types are in London, aren’t they? Going to balls and such while others do their planting. Though I hear one of his prize stallions got a mare with foal, so he may come down for that when she is due next month.”

  Talk of Southwaite added nostalgia to her alarm. She would have liked to see Emma before she left. Cassandra and Lady Sophie too. They had been better friends to her than she had been to them. Confiding would have been impossible, but a silent farewell and kiss— She scolded herself for sentimentality. The last time they had known anything about her movements, Kendale had learned of it and followed her to the coast.

  If either Emma or Cassandra suspected anything, if she revealed with her manner that she indulged her emotions in seeing them, she did not think they would keep silent. Nor would they ever approve of her plans. Still, it would have been nice to be Marielle Lyon with them one more time, in ways she never would be again if she were successful.

  The gig stopped. Jarred out of her reverie, she
looked around. A hill faced them, one too steep for this carriage. Crownhill could no longer be seen.

  “We have to walk now.” Her escort hopped out, handed her down, and grabbed her valise.

  Up that hill they trudged. She wished someone had told her to wear low boots or some other more practical shoes. She slipped on some stones, and after that he held on to her arm to steady her, all but pushing her up ahead of him.

  At the top she stopped and caught her breath while he joined her. Then she saw why they had climbed that hill.

  Below her stretched a wide cove protected by a thin arm of land circling into the sea. A small ship sat at anchor behind that arm, its square sails being unfurled while she watched.

  “Impressive, eh?” he said, admiration in his tone.

  Very impressive. Mr. Garrett must be a very successful smuggler. She had chosen well. She had expected a galley that would take a week to reach the Vendée while it followed the French coast west, then south. She had assumed she would sleep on the ground at night, or on the bottom of the boat, clutching her knife. Instead Mr. Garrett had provided what looked to be a private yacht.

  “We have to go down the way we came up. Might be best if you hold on to my shoulder or arm. It is hard not to slide.”

  Slide they did, their feet sending down showers of stones while they fought the urge to hurtle forward. Twice she went down on her rump to avoid falling and just rolling down to the small, rocky beach.

  The last hundred feet the ground all but shot them forward. Giving in, she released him and let herself run, hoping she landed upright at the bottom. When finally her feet stopped, she bent over, gasping for breath, more exhausted than she had been going up the other side.

  Mr. Garrett appeared from a spit of the rocks behind them. “I would have sent a horse, but I am told you do not ride. Horses take that better than people.” He stuck his thumb over his shoulder at the steep, tall hill.

  She brushed off her skirt, then her sleeves, and finally her face. It was a good thing she was not a vain woman. “As long as I am here in one piece, that is all that matters. When do we leave?”