Secrets of a Proper Countess (5 page)

“Poor girl,” Honoria said. “I'm sure you understand what she will endure, Isobel, with your mother's reputation what it was. You would have faced the scorn of good society yourself, if you'd been allowed to make your debut. You should be thankful that discreet arrangements were made for you to marry quietly, to spare you such an ordeal.”

Isobel gave the napkin another killing twist. No, there had been no balls, no dances, no parties in her honor, no pretty gowns, no flirting or fun of any kind. Her marriage had been a dry legal matter, made with the sense that Robert was ashamed of her, even if her dowry made him very rich.

Honoria picked up an envelope from the little silver tray by her elbow. “Look, here is our invitation to the young lady's come-out ball. It will be something to see, won't it?” She tore open the heavy cream envelope and scanned the invitation, then waved it at Charles. “The ball is only a week away! Lady Miranda's great-aunt is hosting the event, and the Duke of Carrington will be in attendance. If the duke is there, it seems likely that the Prince Regent will put in an appearance. They might have given more warning—I'll need a new gown for the occasion.” She fussed with her frilled shawl, preening. Honoria fancied herself a pillar of fashion, but she chose styles meant for girls half her age. Her penchant for ruffles made her look ridiculous, and even older than her fifty-eight years.

Charles chuckled. “Well, I suppose it will be
the
event to attend this Season. I'm personally looking forward to it.
I'd like to see if the poor girl can rise above her brother's reputation. If she has a big enough dowry, I might even court her. D'you suppose Blackwood will dare to attend the ball?”

“Isn't Lord Blackwood one of England's most marriageable men?” Isobel asked. “He is wealthy, titled, and—” And handsome, charming, and sinfully good at making a lady forget herself. She swallowed. “—and heir to a dukedom,” she finished breathlessly.

Honoria snorted. “He'll never marry a truly respectable girl. None of the best families would accept a rake and a fool like him as a son-in-law. My guess is he'll have to marry a foreigner, and then he'll forever be an outsider.”

“As he deserves.” Charles thumped his empty wineglass down and signaled for more.

Isobel read the naked dislike in her brother-in-law's eyes and wondered how it was possible to hate a man for his reputation, yet consider marrying his sister. She suppressed a shudder.

Marrying Charles would be even more unpleasant than being tied to his older brother. If she got the chance, she'd warn Blackwood's young sister to run for the nearest convent rather than consider a match with Charles Maitland.

“I suppose you'd best attend as well, Isobel. The invitation includes you.” Isobel felt her mouth twist. As Countess of Ashdown, the invitation was probably addressed to her. Honoria would not be able to go at all if she didn't attend.

“Be ready at ten o'clock. You may wear your maroon bombazine. Have your maid hang it now so the creases fall out in time. It is a dignified, sober garment, nothing to draw unwanted attention to yourself,” Honoria said sternly. “I shall ask Jane to advise you on your hair.”

Isobel forced a smile. “Thank you, but I'm sure Sarah will know the right style for such an event. Miss Kirk will
need all her time to dress your hair, Honoria,” she added, keeping her tone sweet. The barb went unnoticed.

Charles waved the folded newspaper at Isobel. “I read that Evelyn Renshaw's masquerade ball was a great success,” he said.

Isobel regarded the next course of her lunch as it was placed before her. A whole trout stared up at her in dull surprise, as if it knew just what she'd been up to at that ball. She carefully placed a sliced almond over the fish's judgmental eye and toyed with the limp green beans that shared the plate.

“According to the
Times
,” Charles went on, “the Prince Regent was in attendance last night, in costume, of course. Did you see him?” Isobel looked up in astonishment, and he laughed. “No, of course you wouldn't have seen him if he was in disguise! You probably spent the entire night in a corner nursing a glass of watered lemonade as usual. Anyway, it seems His Highness has been heard to say that he loves to masquerade.”

Honoria gasped. “Indeed? But they are such unseemly affairs! Does he often attend such parties? How would anyone know if he was in attendance?”

Isobel couldn't resist. “How would anyone know he is not? A hostess might claim the triumph of having the prince attend her masked ball, and who would be the wiser?”

Honoria blinked at her. Charles scowled. Neither understood. Clever conversation sailed over their dull heads like clay pigeons.

“Well, anyway,” Charles said, “His Highness has hinted that he would love to attend more costume balls this Season.”

“How positively wicked of him!” Honoria turned to Isobel. “Well?
Did
anything scandalous occur last night?”

Isobel slid her eyes to her plate, feeling a hot blaze of shame burning up from her knees to her hairline. “At Evelyn's? Of course not. She would never allow any impropriety,” she replied, her voice remarkably steady, despite the
thump of her heart against her ribs. She recalled the wet heat of Blackwood's mouth on hers, the marvel of his hands on her breasts, and swallowed a sigh.

“Well, Prince Regent or not, I wouldn't be caught dead at a masquerade,” Honoria said, her lips pinched in distaste. “One might be speaking to entirely the wrong sort of person and never even know!”

“But surely you might also find yourself speaking to the Prince Regent when the time comes to unmask,” Isobel countered.

Honoria considered that, her eyes widening. “Oh! Yes, indeed.”

“It's predicted that masquerade balls will be quite popular this Season,” Charles read further. “You may find yourself attending one or two after all, Mother, if you wish to be fashionable.”

“I am always fashionable,” Honoria preened, patting her hair. It was newly cut in the latest short style. It did not suit her. It made her protuberant eyes bigger, her heavy jowls more pronounced. “I suppose I'll need a costume. I'll ask Jane to suggest something, just in case. Now that's settled, what are your plans this evening, Charles? There's a musicale at Lady St. John's.”

“I'm going to my club,” Charles said dismissively.

Isobel held her tongue. She planned to go to the theatre with Evelyn Renshaw, and did not wish to be forced to join Honoria at the St. John musicale. She had heard Lady St. John's daughter sing, and it wasn't an experience she wished to repeat.

Besides, while Honoria approved of the wealthy and virtuous Lady Renshaw as a suitable companion for her, there was every chance her mother-in-law might disapprove of the play being shown, and insist she accompany her to Lady St. John's instead.

“Please excuse me,” she said before Honoria began to ask questions. “I have a fitting with my modiste this afternoon.” She didn't mention her plans to meet Robin in the park afterward. If Jane had reported it, Honoria was certain to disapprove. She held her breath, but since Jane had a wrinkled gown with a jammy handprint to tattle about, it appeared she'd forgotten to mention Robin's outing.

“Choose plain garments, Isobel,” Honoria warned. “You are still in mourning. Stay within the limits of your allowance. Charles will not countenance extravagance.” She looked pointedly at the navy blue gown Isobel had on.

It was trimmed with a pale gray ribbon. She knew that Honoria would have preferred the ribbon to be black, but Robert had been dead for over two years, and she was sick of the half-mourning garb her mother-in-law insisted upon. Honoria had resumed wearing colors scant months after her son's death.

“I need a walking gown, some night attire—” she began, but Honoria drew in a monstrous gasp of air, like a whale coming up from the deep.

“Isobel! Such loose talk is not appropriate in front of Charles! A lady does not mention such garments!”

Honoria always needed to find fault with something. Isobel shot a glance at Charles. He let an oily glance slide over her body when his mother looked away. Isobel felt ill. “Please excuse me,” she said again, rising with dignity.

After checking the hall for Jane Kirk, she raced up the stairs two at a time and tidied her hair, ready to enjoy the afternoon with her son.

P
hineas did what he usually did when faced with his grandfather's overbearing sense of order. He left.

Now he stood in the doorway of the club's crowded lounge in a foul mood. Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake, was waiting for him at a corner table with his watch in his hand. Phineas fixed his customary roguish grin on his face as he handed his hat to the concierge, but today it felt lopsided at best, a death's head grimace at worst.

“I say, Blackwood, come join us!” Arthur Philpott called, stopping him before he'd gone a dozen steps across the room. “We're making a wager as to who can drive all the way to Brighton…” Philpott paused dramatically and chortled at his own cleverness. “…blindfolded! Isn't it brilliant?”

Phineas cast a sidelong look at Westlake and saw his brother-in-law roll his eyes. He wished he could do so himself. Instead, he turned his most practiced grin on Philpott. “But who is to wear the blind, you or your horses, old man?”

He moved on as laughter erupted, leaving Philpott to decide whether the comment was an insult or a jest. It was barely noon and the four men who shared Philpott's table were well on their way to roaring drunk. He pitied the horses. By Phineas's estimation, one horse had more wit than Philpott and all his cronies together. If only heaven had seen fit to give the nags Philpott's fortune and set Philpott to pulling
the silly, high-perched phaeton he drove as if he were perpetually blindfolded.

“Blackwood! It's good to see you,” Lord Bridges said as Phineas passed his table. “I hear your sister is making her debut. You'll make my introduction, I hope? I intend to take a bride this year…” Phineas paused, his teeth clenched to keep his devil-may-care smirk from slipping. The old roué said that every spring, but this year Miranda would be in his path. Bridges waggled his eyebrows, his jowls shaking as he rubbed his hands together. “Is she pretty? Hardly matters with the kind of dowry she's got, but it can't hurt, eh?”

Phineas resisted the temptation to ram the man's yellow teeth down his throat. “I'd be delighted to introduce you, old chap. A toothless girl with a wooden leg needs all the help she can get,” he managed to quip, and walked away.

Bridges was old enough to be Miranda's father, and therefore his own father too. He paused, tempted to turn and point that out, but caught Adam's impatient stare and kept walking. Damn Bridges. His reputation for gambling and whoring was worse than his own. Miranda deserved better. Much better.

The way the day was going, and in his present black mood, it was hard to keep playing the rake. He knew the wicked predilections of every gentleman in the room. They drank, gambled, and held the whores they bedded in higher esteem than the ladies they courted and married. He couldn't imagine sweet, innocent, bright-eyed Miranda consigned to a husband of that ilk. He scanned the room and realized there wasn't a man present to whom he'd willingly entrust his sister.

Except Adam, of course, he thought as he approached his brother-in-law's table. The Earl of Westlake was happily married to Phineas's eldest sister Marianne. He gladly took a seat across the table from Adam's sober, intelligent company.

“God, Phin, how the hell do you do it? I couldn't put up
with these fools for five minutes,” Adam muttered, casting a sour look at the club's denizens.

Phineas signaled the waiter and grinned at Adam, still in character for the sake of anyone watching. He was a rogue and a rake, never serious, always seen with a drink in one hand, another man's wife in the other. Or so he made it seem. Adam was one of the very few who knew differently.

“I have made every man here think I am even more reprehensible than he is. They believe I am singularly focused on the pursuit of pleasure and that I care nothing for anything—or anyone—else. A gentleman in his cups will willingly babble his closest secrets if he thinks the man he's talking to is a bigger fool than himself. I make them believe they're talking to the greatest idiot in Christendom, and the information I want comes tumbling out.”

The waiter proffered his whisky on a silver tray, and Phineas raised it to Adam before sipping. “The job is not without its pleasures, I assure you. Ladies adore rakes.”

“Nor is the job without its torments, I imagine,” Adam said. “I have no doubt a lot of useless drivel comes streaming out along with those brilliant gems of information you collect.” He raised his glass in turn. “I applaud your gift for knowing the difference.”

Phineas let his eyes roam the room, resting his gaze briefly on various faces as he spoke. “I know which gentleman is sleeping with his brother's wife. I know who has been forced to sign away his family estates to pay his gambling debts. I know who is hiding a fortune in smuggled brandy under his great house by the sea. I know which lord wears a corset to hide his belly, pads his stockings and wears high heels to impress a mistress years too young for him.”

He met Adam's eyes. “And those are just the little secrets. I also know truly nasty things. I am the keeper of dozens of dangerous secrets that could ruin marriages, topple the
government, or send seemingly upstanding lords into lifelong exile. I keep them all to myself, in case England ever has need of them.” He rubbed a hand across his brow, trying to smooth away the frown as he looked frankly at his brother-in-law.

“Adam, I think it's time I got out of this line of work, before I become what they all believe I am.”

Adam raised his eyebrows. “You? You're the most honorable dishonorable rogue I've ever met. The only one in fact.” He grinned, but Phineas didn't return his smile. “Edmond wasn't wrong about you, Phineas. My brother knew how clever you were when he recruited you for this work.”

“He picked me up out of the gutter after I told Carrington to go to hell and came to London to kill myself with drink and whores. I damned near succeeded,” Phineas said bitterly.

Adam folded his arms and leaned back with a smile. “You managed to make your own way in this unholy city for three years after Carrington cut off your allowance, solely by gaming and watching what other men did. Edmond saw it had become a very useful skill, and simply helped you make use of it for more noble purposes. You could have stopped once you came into your inheritance at twenty-five.”

Phineas scowled at him. “We both know why I didn't, Adam. If Edmond hadn't been killed—”

Adam held up his hand. “If Edmond had not been killed, then
he
would have married Marianne,
I
would have joined the navy, and we would not be having this conversation.”

Phineas wished it was as easy for him to be glib about the lonely years he'd spent in the service of the crown. His work had been dangerous at times. For their own safety, he'd severed his ties to everyone he cared about, and he did not dare forge new ones. He glared at his brother-in-law and wondered yet again if serving his country in lonely secrecy was worth the cost.

“My grandfather is in Town, but I suppose you know that.
He's brought Miranda for her debut Season. I haven't seen Miranda in more than five years. Carrington believes everything he hears about me. Except for you, I am a stranger to my family. They don't know this…life of mine is for show, for England. No one does. Even Marianne despairs of me, and we were once close friends as well as brother and sister.”

“She still loves you,” Adam said. “My wife is unfailingly loyal. She will stand by you no matter how great the scandal.”

Phineas tightened his hand around his glass, letting the cut crystal points bite into his palm. “Did you know she sends me letters, admonishing me for my behavior? They come with clippings from the scandal sheets, or segments from letters she's received from friends here in Town that mention me. Never in a good way. She believes I am utterly without honor or control.”

Adam's expression hardened. “This isn't the time, Blackwood.”

Phineas frowned, knowing by Adam's expression there was another mission afoot. He felt trapped, and he leaned forward, meeting his brother-in-law's flat gaze, feeling desperation swell in his throat. “My grandfather is staying at Blackwood House, keeping an eye on me.”

Adam nodded. “Yes, I know. Marianne and I are staying with your great-aunt Augusta until the renovations to our town house are completed. Jamie's with us, and His Grace couldn't countenance a small boy underfoot. Too noisy. Look, it may make things more challenging, but—”

“Damned right it will,” Phineas interrupted. “Carrington is going to be watching everything I do. He's already lecturing me like a child of five. He's insisted I be on my best behavior while Miranda's in Town, and that's to be some months, I understand. My family's presence is a perfect chance to affect my reform. No one would question it.” He shrugged. “I might even marry, retire to the country like
you and Marianne.” He fleetingly thought of the eyes behind the mask in Evelyn Renshaw's ballroom, gazing at him with such admiration. If only it had been real. Longing made his throat ache.

“You can't,” Adam sighed. “Your grandfather's presence may make your job more difficult, but you'll have to find a way around it.” He paused, glanced around the room, then back at Phineas. “Did Evelyn tell you anything last night?”

Phineas's gut tightened. “Evelyn Renshaw is the most upstanding lady in London. She isn't going to let me seduce her, and she isn't going to betray her husband after a few cupfuls of strong punch.”

Adam leaned in, his voice low. “We're not asking her to betray him. We just want to know where he is. We can find out what he's up to ourselves. We know he's not at his estate in Wiltshire, or at her manor in Dorset, but he must be somewhere.”

“What does it matter?” Phineas asked bitterly. “What's one more smuggler? There's not a lord in England who doesn't drink contraband French brandy, or a lady lacking a gown of French silk and lace. Every footman, coach driver, and whore in London sips gin smuggled from France. There's no way to stop it.” To prove his point he beckoned the waiter. “French brandy, please.” The man nodded without a word and went to fetch it.

Adam ignored the demonstration. “Philip Renshaw is involved in something much more dangerous, much more important, than smuggling a few casks of spirits. Did you find anything when you searched his study?”

Phineas sipped the brandy when it arrived, swirling the acrid liquid in his mouth before swallowing it, feeling it burn his throat and warm his belly. He'd take mediocre whisky over the finest brandy any day. He fixed Adam with a cold stare. “Unfortunately not. There was a party going on, if
you'll recall, and there was a woman standing right in front of the door that led to his office.”

Adam's eyes sharpened. “What woman?”

Phineas looked into the dregs of his brandy, seeing her masked face, her painted mouth. “Damnedest thing. I have no idea who she was.”

Adam laughed out loud, causing several heads to turn. Phineas grinned at them out of habit, but Adam ignored them and folded his arms over his chest. “A woman in London you don't know, Phin? I didn't think it was possible.”

Phineas let the sultry memory of the mysterious woman nudge the corners of his lips back into a grin. “I got to know her better before the evening was out.”

“What was her name?”

Yasmina
. A sound like a sigh, as sweet as the exotic drift of her perfume. Except it wasn't her real name. He shifted in his seat.

“We didn't get to that.”

“What was she doing there?” Adam asked, his voice betraying his anxiety, his brows drawing together. It made Phineas nervous. Prickles of warning crept up his back.

What
was
she doing there?

“Relax, Adam. It was a party. She was a guest like anyone else.”

“Except you didn't know her,” Adam snapped, as if that had been the worst sin Phineas had committed in the dark.

“Not by name. It was a masked ball, after all, but I'd know that mouth if I saw her again.” He grinned, but Adam ignored the joke.

“The biblical sense notwithstanding, we still have need of information. Now more than ever.”

“Why? It didn't seem all that important last time we spoke.”

“Things have changed.” The room was quieter now. Sev
eral tables had cleared out, their occupants off to an afternoon at the track or for luncheon at yet another fashionable club. Private conversations were easier to overhear.

“Look, we can't discuss this here,” Adam muttered. “I'm late to meet Marianne and Jamie at Hyde Park. Ride with me.” He made it an order, not an invitation, and didn't speak again until the Westlake rig swung out into the chaos of London's midday traffic.

“How was your voyage?” Phineas asked. Adam owned a fleet of merchant ships, an unusual thing for an earl, but his brother-in-law was not a typical peer. Several of his ships were used to gather information about Napoleon for the English crown.

“I saw Thomas Moore at Smuggler's City.” That instantly bought Phineas's full attention. Napoleon had set up a safe and welcoming haven for English smugglers at Gravelines. In exchange for gold, English fishermen and sailors could buy all the contraband they could carry. Napoleon used the gold to pay his vast armies, and the smugglers provided the enemy with a great deal of useful information while drunk on cheap French wine.

“Moore, at Gravelines?” Phineas asked. “I thought he was running a booming business smuggling French prisoners of war out of England.”

“Yes, he's making a fortune ‘rescuing' officers who give their parole and promise to remain in England for the duration of the war. Probably even has a French priest to absolve them of their vow on the trip across the Channel. We have reports that most of the former prisoners run straight to Napoleon the moment their boots touch French soil, to report on what they've seen. It could do a lot of damage. All thanks to Moore.”