The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  “No, no. I’m not saying that. Just it is an irony. But then my life has been full of them. I mean, I’ve spent my life devoted to getting rid of your kind, haven’t I?”

  “Have you?” That was something else Marielle had neglected to mention.

  “Hell, yes. Why do you think I’m here? Came over to lend my skills to the great cause of equality. Of course I did not expect they would go and kill you all. Just get rid of the titles and such. Spread the wealth around more. That sort of thing.”

  “Great causes often get out of control. I suppose finding yourself a prisoner of one of the revolutionaries was one of the ironies?”

  “One of them, but far from the first. I mean, how would you feel if you were me, plying your skills in the cause of eliminating the aristocracy, and your own wife goes and becomes the mistress of the local leading aristocrat? That was a hard irony, let me tell you. It helped that the man was likeable, but that was sort of ironic too.”

  “You sound philosophical about it, however.”

  “Had no choice, did I? He was good to my daughter too. Let her come to that château and stay with her mother. Of course, that influenced her and not to the good. She would come back home and be talking funny and walking funny—like a damned aristocrat, I realized. Hell, I’m in my workshop making prints calling for their downfall and my daughter was turning into one in front of my eyes.” He sighed again.

  “She has grown up to be a beautiful young woman, as you will soon see. She does still talk and walk a little funny, however.”

  Neville turned his head. “Did she whore for you? Is that why you did this? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I am still accommodating that you are a viscount. I owe you my freedom and maybe my life, and I don’t even think viscounts should exist. It’s a hell of a thing to digest.”

  Kendale left him to swallow what he could during the rest of the walk back. When they emerged from the woods that edged the inlet, he could see that figures waited on the deck.

  “We are here, Mr. Neville. Marielle is waiting for you as soon as you get on board.”

  Neville peered at the yacht. “Who?”

  “Marielle. Your daughter.”

  Neville chuckled as he climbed into the boat. “Is that what she is calling herself these days? Well, if it got a viscount to come get me out of that bastard Lamberte’s clutches, I would be a fool to complain.”

  Marielle watched the little band emerge from the trees, her emotions swinging between elation and dread. Travis and the other men came out first, gesturing and calling to the ship to announce their success. Kendale showed last. He escorted a white-haired man with long hair and a beard.

  Papa had never worn a beard. Surely he had been taller too. This man looked like a stranger.

  They all waded to the rowboat and got in, then aimed toward the ship with their oars. Mr. Stanton began giving orders to prepare to sail.

  One by one those men climbed up the rope ladder. She looked over the railing, staring at the white hair, seeking some recognizable detail so she would know it was Papa for certain.

  It was his turn to climb. He refused help and took it slowly, with Kendale coming right behind him. Finally he stood on the deck, looking around at the ship and sails and all the men who had made the journey. He appeared confused, and even afraid.

  His gaze came to rest on her. Squinting hard at her face, he approached her. “I’m told by this viscount this was all your doing.”

  She nodded, too moved to say more. Not a stranger now. Not at all. Those were Papa’s eyes and that was Papa’s voice. She looked down at the hands that she had seen so often holding a burin. Strong hands. Careful ones too.

  He kept peering at her, as if she were a stranger too.

  “Don’t you recognize me at all?” she asked. “Have I changed so much?”

  He shook his head slowly. His eyes filmed with tears. “I would recognize you anywhere, my girl. I am just astonished at how much you look like your mother now.” He spread his arms. She flew into his embrace and they wept with joy together.

  “Marianne,” she said. “My given name was Marianne.”

  They sat on the deck with their backs against the wall of the cabin, bundled in a blanket. Mr. Neville slept inside. The reunion had been a little awkward, but very heartwarming. Every man on the yacht now enjoyed the satisfaction of having successfully executed a good deed.

  “I could not keep the name once I ran from the château that night. I needed Lamberte to believe I had perished. It would not do for him to hear that Marianne Neville, who had witnessed his murders, thrived in London.”

  That made sense. Everything she had done made sense. Her history also explained away many inconsistencies, such as her thin accent when speaking English, and her comfort with the language. Je suis désolée. I am sorry that I failed you. One apology to her French mother, and one to her English father.

  “Marianne Neville.” He tried out the sound of it. Not as lyrical as Marielle Lyon, but he supposed he could get used to it.

  “I have not been Marianne Neville for six years. I have not thought of myself that way for almost as long. I am not sure I can become accustomed to the name again. I suppose I will have to try, however.”

  “You can use any name you like.”

  “The Frenchwomen probably will not want to work in my studio if I am Marianne Neville. It helped that they believed I was one of them. Not only French, but an aristocrat too.”

  “It probably did. Your father would say that our kind have a natural prejudice against those who are not our kind.”

  She did not say anything, but he guessed what she was thinking. Her father would say that because it was true.

  “You will have to show him your prints, Marianne. He will be proud that you learned well from him, and used your skill as he would have.”

  She huddled closer under his arm, and pressed her eyes to his shoulder. “Yes, of course. He will be proud, I suppose. Only— Please do not address me like that. Not tonight. Not yet. Let me be Marielle Lyon with you for a while longer. Until we reach England, perhaps, but at least tonight.”

  He drew her closer yet, so that they formed one shape within the blanket. Her limbs and breath warmed him beneath the stars while the sea smacked in rhythms against the ship’s hull. He lifted her chin so that he could kiss her. “It is only a name. I want you no matter what you are called.”

  She nodded and nestled in, but he knew, he just knew, she did not believe him.

  Chapter 23

  Two weeks later Kendale entered Brooks’s. Southwaite spied him and called him over.

  “Where have you been? I know you do not care for the Season, but you have never played the hermit during one before.”

  He shrugged. “I was at Ravenswood, and some other properties.”

  It was not a lie, although he had become perhaps too smooth of late with the half-truths. He had been at Ravenswood the last fortnight, first while Marielle—the name she decided to use for now—negotiated Mr. Neville’s future, then with Marielle alone after her father had been established in a house up in Newcastle. John Neville, after reading every paper and journal that Marielle could buy between the coast and London, had concluded his future lay with the workers of the new industries emerging in the north.

  As for the other properties, he could not be blamed if Southwaite assumed he meant properties owned by the Viscount Kendale.

  “Will you remain in town now?” Ambury asked. “There is to be a first-rate sale at Tattersall’s on Friday.”

  “Perhaps. For a few days at least.” He had finally, reluctantly, brought Marielle back to London and her life behind that blue door. He pictured her in the studio, showing some recent French émigré how to dab color on an engraving.

  The two of them continued their conversation, which unfortunately had to do with a report from Mr. Ryan
that Southwaite had brought with him. He read a paragraph describing the sudden appearance, then disappearance, of too many red coats in Dover two weeks earlier.

  “He believes it had something to do with an attempt by Tarrington to row over to France in broad daylight,” Southwaite explained. “A naval frigate gave chase, and the galley dodged and maneuvered for a good hour before surrendering.”

  “Odd for Tarrington to risk that,” Ambury said. “Normally all he wants is the light of a half moon.”

  “Odd and unwise. According to Ryan, he was questioned for days but insisted he had only been practicing for—” Southwaite read on and laughed. “This is rich, and it sounds just like him—For the annual galley rowing competition held south of Deal every summer.”

  “I had no idea there was such a race.”

  “I daresay there will be one this year.” Southwaite read on, scanning the letter for news to share. His gaze halted in the middle of the back of the sheet. “In conclusion Mr. Ryan expresses regret in not seeing me on my recent visit, and warns me that the whole coast is talking about my new yacht and will be imposing themselves in the hopes of sailing in it with me.” He glanced sharply in Ambury’s direction. “His last sentence reads, Please tell Lord Kendale that I enjoyed our conversation when he visited, and hope that my service to the two of you continues to be useful.”

  Ambury turned a smile on Kendale, one of amiable curiosity. “Kendale, was one of the properties you visited Southwaite’s property?”

  “I usually ride across it when I go to the coast to deal with the watchers. It is hard to avoid Crownhill’s lands.” He called for a servant and ordered some wine.

  “He was there,” Ambury said to Southwaite. “He is going to pretend that Ryan was not clear as to when they met, but he was there recently. Probably when Tarrington played his odd game with the frigate.”

  “Perhaps he merely enjoyed a day sailing on the new yacht that I do not own.”

  “We can but hope. More likely he has been up to something with his band of merry men. If we were not told, it was either dangerous or illegal.”

  “Do you think he finally did it? Went over and—” Southwaite replaced the rest with a meaningful stare at Ambury.

  The wine came. He drank some while they eyed him.

  “Damnation,” Ambury muttered. “He had an adventure and did not include me.”

  Southwaite frowned. “Did you kill someone, Kendale?”

  He put down his glass. “No, but the day is still young.”

  That checked them. With only three or four more glances exchanged, they began a forced discussion of that sale at Tattersall’s.

  “I am wondering,” he said, interrupting. “When you buy your ladies jewelry, which jeweler do you use?”

  “Is this more of your idle, unaccountable curiosity about women? Or do you plan to purchase such a gift?” Ambury asked.

  “I am considering another purchase.”

  “Are you speaking of a little bauble, or a very good piece of jewelry that will become a family heirloom?”

  “The latter, I expect.”

  “Is this for Miss Lyon?” Southwaite asked.

  “It is.”

  A slow smile broke on Ambury’s face. “Oh, how the mighty fall. Has she completely vanquished you, Kendale?”

  It was a hell of a thing to ask a man, and in the grand salon of Brooks’s at that. Yet it seemed to him that only a coward would ignore the challenge.

  “She has.”

  Never in his life had he seen either of them look more astonished.

  “I trust you are not going to faint, Ambury.”

  “No. Of course not. No.” Ambury collected his wits, then his limbs. He stood. “I will take you to several very fine jewelers and help you pick. Do not argue with me. Like everything else in the matter at hand, you are ill equipped to act without advice. Luck smiled on you the last time with that necklace, but is unlikely to do so again.”

  “I will come too,” Southwaite said, rising. “Ambury’s taste can be too dramatic at times. A restraining opinion may be needed.”

  There was no way out of it. He joined his tutors. They bickered about Ambury’s taste in jewels all the way out to the street.

  There were times when valor required humility. Kendale reminded himself of that as he approached the very fine house on Grosvenor Square. He did not expect this call to be a comfortable one. Unlike Southwaite and Ambury, he was not yet ready to absolve the man within of all guilt. That made being in his debt all the more galling.

  The servant took his card, and returned quickly to escort him to the library. Penthurst looked over quizzically as he entered.

  “I am glad that I found you alone,” Kendale said.

  “I expect that you are. Sit with me, Kendale. Bend that rigid, uncompromising spine of yours for a few minutes.”

  He sat. He did not bend much. “I have come to thank you for the warning.”

  “I am glad you heeded it. I was not sure that you would.”

  “There were others involved. I would have only faced scandal, of course. They might have been transported.”

  “I believe Whitehall was thinking more in terms of the hulks for them. If it is any consolation, I have heard that the man you sought has been just posted to some obscure spot in the Pyrenees. The new military star in France has some questions about your colonel’s fitness for his rank. Too many retreats, it is said.”

  “You think that you know who he is, do you?”

  “I believe that I have known longer than you have.”

  A slow burn started in his head. It would not take much for it to explode into a conflagration. “Damnation. Why did you not tell me? You knew that I—”

  “I did not tell you because you would do something rash and brave and diplomatically disastrous in the name of a promise given to comfort a bitter, dying comrade. Besides, for the last year we were not talking at all. Remember?”

  He smothered the heat through a sheer force of will. He sought humility again. “I also want to thank you for pointing me in the direction of Garrett.”

  “I will not ask what you did with the information, although I have reason to think it would be a fine story. Since you are here, hale and fit, I assume you saw success.”

  “In the matter of the day, yes. Not entirely, however.” He reached in his coat, and removed a small, thin, leather bound book. “Do you have any friends who have diplomatic ties in Paris? Who know like-minded men on the other side who are principled and honest?”

  Penthurst gazed at the little book. “I may.”

  “Can you get this to someone over there who would find it useful?” He handed over the book.

  Penthurst examined its pages. “Ah, Monsieur Lamberte has been a bad boy. At least he shared with his friends. These pages back here appear to be his bribes. The conspirators were good enough to initial them, so he had proof. That is a very good way to ensure friendship.” He paged to the end, paused, and looked up. “Your colonel is here. From right after Toulon, when he was posted in Nantes.”

  “Is he? I’ll be damned.”

  “Convenient for you.”

  Very convenient. Marielle had no idea what a gift she had given him when she placed that book in his hands and asked him to do what he thought best with it.

  With a vague smile, Penthurst returned to examining the book. “Does this Lamberte know you have this?”

  “He may have deduced that it is in England. He would not guess that I have it.”

  “It is dangerous for anyone to have it. He knows he will not survive this if it is used against him.”

  “He is a thief and a murderer. If I could be sure he would come for it himself, I would let him know it is in my possession, and meet him on the field of honor and take care of it privately. However, he might not come himself, but send others. There
fore I will leave it to France, and hope I hear of an execution soon.”

  “I cannot promise that you will.”

  “Such men as that always have more enemies than friends. Even now he is making more of them as he tries to rise. Given the chance, those enemies will have his head.”

  Penthurst set the book aside. “Then we will do what we can to give them that chance. Enough talk of politics and war. Tell me, are you enjoying your new yacht?”

  The coach attracted attention on the lane as it always did. Marielle heard it arriving when it was a block away.

  Dominique peered out the window, then closed her eyes and placed a hand on her chest, calming herself. “He has come. I feared that—well, knowing everything, that he would not.”

  Marielle had not feared it. She had been sure of it.

  It had not helped that her father had refused to show Kendale any particular respect, and spoken freely about the irrelevance of lords in a modern age of free men. It had been very hard to be Marielle Lyon when her own father made sure all who heard him remembered she was Marianne Neville.

  Their last days together after returning from Newcastle had been passionate and poignant. She had grabbed all that she could while she could. She had abandoned herself to loving as freely as her heart chose, so much and so intensely that she ached from the experience. As a result, ever since they left Ravenswood and she entered this house, she had grieved the loss.

  Now he had come to call on her again, as he had said he would and she had believed he would not after giving the liaison serious thought. He had come in his state coach with the escutcheon on the side. Four, not two, horses pulled it.

  He stepped out of the coach. He appeared magnificent, and every inch the lord he was. His expensive coats and doeskin breeches flattered his form. His fashionably cropped hair brought attention to his green eyes. He appeared serious. So serious that her joy fell.

  It would be just like him to feel an obligation to explain why the liaison had to end. Other men might simply let it fade away, but not Viscount Kendale.

  He came to the door and she and Dominique pulled back from the window.