by Cheryl Bolen
Edward’s chair scraped across the wooden floor as he pulled it out and sat down. “I was too exhausted to even think about code last night. I had a rather . . . peculiar intrusion upon my sleep.”
Harry arched a brow.
“Lawrence Henshaw’s widow came barreling into my house just past midnight.”
“What the deuce?” Harry asked, nearly swirling from his chair.
“It appears Henshaw died in Virginia, though to know Henshaw is to know that even his death could be a lie. He secured his wife’s hand in marriage by claiming to be Lord Warwick. The Scoundrel.” He smiled to himself as he remembered the way the widow’s cheeks dimpled in disdain when she uttered The Scoundrel.
“Good lord!” Harry exclaimed. “So the poor woman really did think she was a countess!”
“Just so. The devious Henshaw picked his peer well. I know of no other peer of the realm who was more reclusive than the former Lord Warwick. Very few people would ever have met him, ever be able to identify him.”
“But Henshaw’s cleverness failed him one more time. He hadn’t considered the old earl would die.”
“Exactly.”
“So what did you do with the woman?”
Edward shrugged. “That’s the pity of it. She’s still at Warwick House--along with a sister, a maid, fourteen trunks, and one very fat cat.”
“Couldn’t you send them to Claridge’s?”
“I tried. The woman fell into hysterics. It seems she has no money.”
“You’d best hope Lady Fiona doesn’t find out you’ve two unmarried ladies at your house.”
“It’s all decidedly innocent, but I’d as lief Fiona never learn of it. I thought perhaps I could pay for the widow’s lodgings at Claridge’s, but it wouldn’t do for Fiona to learn I had a woman under my protection. As discreet as they are at Claridge’s, word would be bound to get out.”
“Deuced difficult situation you’re in, not to mention that Henshaw’s widow--if she is a widow--could be lying about Henshaw’s death. She could even be a spy!”
“I’ve thought of that, too.”
“You’d better discuss this with Lord Carrington.”
Edward nodded thoughtfully as he got to his feet. “I’ll just pop in and speak with him now.”
Lord Carrington’s secretary, Charles Kingsbury, informed him that their superior was not in. Which was really no surprise to Edward. A man as rich and well connected as Lord Carrington could bloody well do exactly as he pleased. The man even refused to accept a salary from the government he served.
“A pity,” Edward said to the stiff public servant who was a couple of years older than Edward. “I had hoped to tell him of my visit from Henshaw’s widow.”
Kingsbury’s eyes widened. “Henshaw’s dead?”
“Apparently so.”
“Good riddance to foul baggage, I’d say. But whatever can his wife want with you?”
“The lady was under the impression she was Lady Warwick.”
Kingsbury’s thin lips straightened. “So the blighter didn’t change.”
“Apparently not.”
“Lord Carrington would undoubtedly like all the details. Why don’t you try to reach him at Berkeley Square?”
* * *
As Edward waited in the drawing room of Carrington’s fine mansion on Berkeley Square, he thought of how he would have liked to have known Carrington when he was a younger man. As one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, Carrington had been a favorite at the French court and had amassed spectacular treasures of art and sculpture--and beautiful women--during his Grand Tours of the continent some thirty-five years previously. A pity he had never married and had no heir to pass all this to, Edward reflected as he gazed at the Italian masters hanging on the silk walls, at the ceilings painted by skilled artists, and at the gilded moldings and cornices in the room.
Lord Carrington himself, lean and fit and dressed as fashionably as a well-to-do young dandy, strolled into the room, examining the lace at his cuffs. “Well, well, Warwick, what brings you here so early in the morning?” Carrington asked as he came to sit in a French arm chair across from Edward.
“Lawrence Henshaw’s widow showed up at my house last night.”
The marquis’s face blanched. “Henshaw’s dead?”
“Apparently so. I’m inclined to believe the widow.”
“What, pray tell, could the woman want with you?” Lord Carrington asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t me she was interested in. She thought my house was hers.”
Lord Carrington’s bushy brows drew together. “A singular error.”
“Allow me to explain,” Edward said. He proceeded to narrate the events of the previous night, leaving out nothing and concluded by saying, “Though I don’t trust Henshaw, I believe the widow’s telling the truth.”
“What makes you so confident?”
“The younger sister. That she’s related to the widow is impossible to deny. The girl’s just seventeen and mad for reading. She verified Henshaw’s death, and somehow I don’t think she was coerced into doing so.”
“You honestly think the widow came here solely to attract husbands for herself and her sister because she’s destitute?”
Edward shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m here.”
“We have to learn if she knew about her husband’s activities, his contacts with the French. She might be able to lead us to the men who paid Henshaw to betray his country.”
“A man who lies about his own identity is hardly likely to have told the truth about his ill deeds,” Edward said.
Lord Carrington did not speak for a moment. “You’re probably right, Warwick, but we cannot afford to presume the woman’s innocent. We need to keep her in London. She must be watched at all times.”
Whatever Edward had hoped for, it wasn’t this. His eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m ordering you to allow the woman to stay at your house. Your mission will be to uncover any information she may have about her husband. Even unwittingly, she might know something that would be valuable to us.”
“But, your lordship, I cannot have a pair of single women living under my roof. I’m a bachelor, and I don’t wish to risk securing the hand of Lady Fiona Hollingsworth.”
“There must be a way,” Carrington mumbled to himself. He got up and strode one length of the Aubusson carpet to the other. “I’ve got it!” he finally said.
Edward shot him a quizzing glance.
“We’ll say the previous Lord Warwick secretly married the woman before he died. She can pretend to be the Countess Warwick, and no one ever need know she’s a counterfeit. As a gentleman, you will be obliged to provide for your uncle’s widow.”
“Then I can ship her off to Claridge’s.”
“You’ll do no such thing! It’s vital that you keep a watch on her at all times. When you’re unable to do so, Harry Lyle or Charles Kingsbury will fill in for you.”
This was easy for Lord Carrington to say. He hadn’t yet seen the woman. “I don’t think Lady Fiona would approve.”
“Why? She’ll believe the widow really is your uncle’s widow.”
“Because the widow is extremely beautiful.”
There was flicker of mirth in the old man’s eyes. “What age is she?”
“I’d say about five and twenty.”
“Oh, dear. Sorry to do this to you, old fellow, but you’ll have to suffer the widow’s company for king and crown.” The touch of humor in the older man’s voice did not sound sympathetic.
Lord Carrington was making it most difficult for Edward to refuse. “What would I tell her?”
“Say you’re taking pity on her, that you’ve decided to help her find a husband. Think of it, Warwick! What better way to assure you’re with her at all times? You can take her to Almack’s and the theatre and various balls. During the day you can show her the city.”
Bloody hell. Anyone seein
g him with The Incomparable would never believe the relationship platonic. How long before Fiona got wind of it? “Why can’t we say she’s Harry’s cousin? Let Harry deal with her. He’s not promised to anyone.”
“We don’t know how many people she may have seen on the journey to London--people who already know the widow as Lady Warwick. It’s also important that the other side associate her with Henshaw. All of us in the know--including the cursed Frenchies--were aware of Henshaw’s use of the Warwick title when he fled England.”
A very good point. Somehow, though, the thought of the French keeping a watchful eye on Henshaw’s widow angered him.
Chapter 3
When Edward returned to Warwick House early that afternoon Maggie was leaving her sister’s chamber, a frown on her face. “Oh, my lord,” she said as she looked up and saw him, “I regret to inform you my sister’s quite ill.”
She held that damned cat in her arms. Did she go nowhere without it?
His mouth formed a grim line. “A pity. I had hoped she would accompany us--for the sake of propriety--when I introduce you into society.”
A spectrum of emotions flitted across that lovely face of hers. Then she smiled and said, “Perhaps she’s not that ill.”
“Won’t you join me in my library?” he asked. “I wish to speak with you privately.”
A moment later they were strolling into his sanctuary, a book-lined room of modest proportions. Because it was not obscenely large and because he never allowed the fire there to go out, it was an incredibly comforting room that Edward preferred above all others. She took a seat across the cherry wood desk from him. The sun from the front window shone on her face, and he noted it cast a shadow beneath her luxuriously long lashes. His gaze traveled to her buttery muslin dress. Most becoming. Even if it did have a high neckline. Thank God the woman was possessed of good taste. Things could have been worse. What if Henshaw’s widow dressed as a trollop? Or in rags?
“Is Miss Peabody really sick?” he asked in a stern voice.
She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I was lying.”
“But I thought you abhorred lying.”
“I do, but I also told you I condone prevarication when it’s used to help those I care about.”
“How can the ruse of your sister being ill contribute to the well-being of those you hold dear?”
Her dark eyes flashed. He noted for the first time they were almond shaped. And especially large. “I had hoped it would prolong our departure from your home, my lord.” Her voice diminished to a near whisper. “We’re quite desperate at the moment.”
He was prepared to dislike her. He disliked being forced to spend time with her, forced to have her--and her entourage--live under his roof. The woman had even admitted to being a liar! But, oddly, he thought she told the truth now. How difficult it must be for one raised as a gentlewoman to have to grovel to a stranger. Her present honesty touched him.
“Madam, I have considered what we discussed this morning and have decided to help you.”
She did not answer for a moment. A puzzled look spanned her face. “But why, my lord?”
She was no simpleton, after all. She would never believe his assistance was offered purely from gentlemanly courtesy. More likely, she would think he lusted after her. Given her appearance, she would have spent most of her life repelling men’s advances; therefore, he would make it clear his interest in her was in connection with her late husband, an admission Lord Carrington had approved. “You may have surmised my connection with the Foreign Office?”
“I thought perhaps you were.” The tubby cat stood up on her lap and stretched, then leapt to the floor and began to prowl around the library.
“We believe your husband may have said something to you, something that will help us learn who your late husband reported to.”
“If I knew anything I would be happy to share it with you, but you must know The Scoundrel told me nothing but lies.”
“Perhaps something will come to you. Some word, some action of Henshaw’s that might be relevant. In the meantime I will contrive to introduce you into society.”
“Under what name?” she asked.
“Lady Warwick.”
Her fine brows arched.
“We shall say you secretly married my late uncle before he died. Given the fact no one knew the previous Lord Warwick--I never even met the man--no one will dispute your story.”
“So that’s how The Scoundrel was able to pass himself off as the earl,” she said as if she were thinking aloud.
“Yes. Everyone knows the former Lord Warwick was a bachelor who had no intercourse in society.”
Her face brightened. “So I really can stay Lady Warwick? How delightful!” Then her mouth puckered into a frown. “But I will have to tell the truth to my future husband.”
“Of course.” Edward found himself wondering what man would win the beauty’s hand. With her extraordinary looks, her lack of fortune and family should not be too much of a hindrance.
“I must own,” she said, “that having you call me Lady Warwick will make me feel decidedly presumptuous. Can we not think of something for you to call me when it’s just us?” Her face screwed up. “But, please, not Mrs. Henshaw!”
“I could hardly call a woman who’s been married Miss Peabody.”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t call me Maggie--when no others are present. After all, I’m supposed to be your aunt.” She giggled.
“It will be impossible for me to think of you as an aunt. I must be five or six years older than you.”
“I am four and twenty.” For that instant, as she looked up at him with those wide, innocent eyes, she didn’t look a day over eighteen.
“And I am thirty.”
“Perhaps I should call you uncle,” she said with a laugh. “Seriously, my lord, I am ever so grateful to you for allowing us to continue here.” She paused, and her gaze went to the tall window framed in burgundy silk draperies. She watched a bird perched on a yew in the small courtyard behind his residence. “I do hate that people will think me mercenary for having married the old earl.”
“Does that mean you won’t consider marrying an old peer with one foot in the grave?”
Her lashes lowered as she considered her response. “I hope I don’t have to. Despite that I’ve been burned, I’d still flirt with fire. I still believe in love, you see.” She laughed. “I thought I was desperately in love with Lawrence Henshaw when I married him.”
“Don’t berate yourself,” he consoled. “Many women were captured by Henshaw’s charms.”
She sighed. “That’s why I need you. You can screen out all the ineligibles. And you must know, my lord, the prospective husband does not have to be rich. All I ask is to live comfortably, to have a home I can share with my sister and Sarah.”
He presumed Sarah was the elderly maid. Most admirable. “What about love?” he asked.
A wistful look washed over her face. “I must first find a man whom I admire. Admiration should be the foundation on which love is built. Do you not agree?”
He did. His love for Fiona had grown out of a deep, lifelong admiration and friendship.
Maggie’s face brightened. “When do we begin?”
Despite that she was four and twenty, despite that she had been badly burned in her last relationship, she possessed a child-like enthusiasm. “Tonight. We shall go to the theatre. I’ve invited a few gentlemen to share my box.” God help him if dear Fiona found out about his so-called aunt. He would write to Fiona straight away and apprise her that his uncle’s secret wife had shown up. Later, when the business was resolved, he would tell Fiona the truth. “It’s imperative that Miss Peabody accompany us.”
“Of course,” she said. “You won’t wish your relationship with me to be misconstrued.”
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “You have a suitable wardrobe?”
“Yes, quite. The Scoundrel--when we first married--insisted on purchasing all new finery for me
. I hope the styles will not be too provincial.”
He remembered how lovely she had looked last night in the rose-colored gown which was much more elegant than today’s modest morning dress. Elegant meaning it revealed the tops of her plump breasts. Really it was not fair that one woman possessed so many magnificent physical attributes. “You dress with excellent taste, m--- Maggie.”
That wretched cat vaulted onto his lap, its claws hooking into Edward’s thigh. “What in the blaz---”
Maggie leaped from her chair and circled his desk to pull the cat from his lap. “Tubby! You’re being a very naughty boy!” She tried to hold the cat to her, but it went stiff-legged, then launched itself onto Edward’s Turkey carpet and began to prance around the chamber as if he owned it.
Maggie’s glance fell to Edward’s lap which was covered in cat hair. “Oh, my lord, I’m so very sorry. Allow me to--” She reached toward his lap, but Edward quickly stood up. He would be damned if he’d let her stroke his thighs! “I can manage,” he said as he began to brush the cat hair from his clothing. Then, grumbling, he sat back down.
She returned to her seat and folded her dainty hands in her lap.
“Now where were we?” he asked.
“We were discussing my wardrobe.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure what you’ll wear to the theatre tonight will be adequate. Does your sister also have appropriate clothing?”
“Since she lived with me, I saw to it that she received as many new dresses as I.”
Even though the sister was not yet out? “Henshaw must have been most generous, then. How long were you married?”
“We married almost two years ago.”
“And how long before you found him out?”
“Six months after we were wed, I left him to reside with my half brother. It was really the most beastly timing. Had Papa died before I married, he would have divided his estate among the three of us, but he died after my wedding--thinking I was in perfectly comfortable circumstances and would also provide for Rebecca.”
“And in so thinking, he left his entire estate to his son?”
“Yes,” she said, frowning, “the son from an earlier marriage.”