Secrets of a Proper Countess (6 page)

“Is that what's so important?” Phineas asked. “Some
French officer with a tale to tell? What's Philip Renshaw got to do with that?”

“It's much bigger than that. Moore was only too happy to sell the information to me. He'd sell his own mother for a shiny ha'penny. Do you remember when King Louis of France arrived here, looking for asylum until Napoleon could be defeated?”

Phineas nodded.

“When he landed, two English lords offered His Highness their hospitality until the government decided what to do with him. One was the Marquess of Buckingham, and the other was Lord Philip Renshaw. Philip went to great expense to lure the king to his home. His mother was a French noblewoman, a cousin of the royal family, and he expected Louis to honor the connection. He did not. Instead, Louis walked right past Philip's magnificent coach and got into Buckingham's plainer one and went to his estates at Stowe. Philip hasn't forgiven the slight, and according to Moore, he's made a deal with Napoleon. He has promised to deliver King Louis to him, Phin.”

Phineas's brows rose. “If Renshaw plans to kidnap him, surely a few additional guards could handle the threat.

Adam shook his head. “It's not just Renshaw. He could never manage this alone. Tom Moore says there's other English lords involved, some of England's most important men.”

“Have we got names?” Phineas asked.

“Moore didn't say who they were. I don't think he knows. This goes higher than he can reach. He's worried, though. Such a plot would give the authorities a greater reason to clamp down on smuggling. Moore's afraid his business may suffer because of this.” Adam smiled grimly. “That, and he says he's a patriot.”

“If Louis were captured, paraded through the streets of
Paris to the guillotine, it would put England in a deadly position,” Phineas predicted. “We'd look like fools. The French royalists and our allies would lose faith in us, some might decide to join Napoleon against us. England could lose the war, end up as part of Bonaparte's empire. Even if Moore isn't willing to become a French citizen, it appears Philip Renshaw might be.”

“You see why we need you to play the rogue awhile longer. Are you sure there's no chance of charming Evelyn into revealing her husband's whereabouts? It would be the fastest, easiest way to—”

“Evelyn Renshaw is a model of virtue.”

Adam grinned. “Come now, I have complete faith in your abilities. You've never failed before.”

“Evelyn Renshaw has no interest in forbidden trysts. Not even the faintest whiff of impropriety touches her. When asked directly, she simply says Philip is away, and changes the topic of conversation. She is clever, and no amount of hinting or trickery can get anything out of her. She is immune to my charms, Adam.”

“And the other lady? The one who stopped you from searching the study?”

“She didn't stop me exactly. She was simply standing in my way.” Phineas couldn't resist a grin. “She wanted to play, so we played. And as they say, all work and no—”

“A dangerous game, wouldn't you say?”

“There was nothing sinister about her,” Phineas said, but uncertainty blew a cold breath down the back of his neck. Why
had
she been standing in front of that door, staring at him? “Probably just bored with her husband, wanting a little adventure,” he muttered.

“Need I remind you there's nothing sinister about you either, to most people? You appear to be a pleasant, harmless chap. But you are most definitely sinister, aren't you?”

The coach pulled to a stop in the green confines of Hyde Park, and Adam opened the door. “Marianne and Jamie will likely be at the pond,” he said, climbing down.

Phineas followed him across the grass.

Sinister, was she?

He scanned the park, looking at every lady in sight, dismissing each one. None of them were Yasmina. He'd know that mouth, those eyes, anywhere.

Phineas prided himself on knowing people, especially women. He knew what pleased them. He imagined Yasmina's head thrown back in the dark, the glint of starlight catching the white column of her throat as he pleasured her. His mouth watered, remembering the taste of her skin.

He also knew how to lie to a woman's face when he had to, but in bed, when he made love to them, his bedmates got the real Phineas Archer. It was the only time he was truly honest, truly himself. He had given Yasmina his best.

His gut tightened. Had it all been a deception on her part? If so, she was very skilled at the game. His game.

He scanned a carriage filled with ladies as it passed, and quickly looked away. She wasn't among them. Not that it mattered. She couldn't hide for long. It would take him mere hours, a few days at most, to find her.

And when he did, he was going to make love to her with the lights on.

“M
ay I suggest something in pink today, perhaps with a lovely bit of décolletage?” the modiste asked, but as usual the young widow shook her head.

“No, make the gowns in pale gray or dark blue, please, with a modest cut,” she ordered firmly.

The modiste's smile faded. In her opinion, the young Countess of Ashdown was too pretty to spend the rest of her life dressed in half-mourning. Behind her widow's weeds and a hideously unbecoming coiffure, she had a lovely figure and a natural grace. Her pale skin, her auburn hair, those large, luminous eyes—they were all glorious, and such features deserved to be shown off. In Madame's opinion, her client needed pretty clothes to attract a new husband, or at least a lover, someone rich enough to dress a mistress in the latest, most expensive styles.

Madame was not purely mercenary. She was also a Frenchwoman, with a romantic French soul. The widow had a delightful secret that Madame treasured. While the countess might insist upon wearing the most grim and unflattering gowns on top, she wore delightfully shocking undergarments beneath. The lady liked silk, lace, and pretty satin ribbons next to her skin where no one could see.

The modiste regarded the gray serge her client was rub
bing between her fingers and pursed her lips, knowing a dreadful mistake when she saw one.

“Consider this blue moiré silk instead, Countess. It will turn the color of your hair to flame, and enhance your eyes.” She draped a rustling length of iridescent fabric over the lady's shoulder.
“Voilà! C'est magnifique!”

She stepped back to wait as the countess stroked the fabric wistfully, feminine longing clear in her eyes.

“It is still blue, as you requested, but a very subtle shade,” the modiste coaxed. “In low light, it will look quite sober, but with a touch of elegance, and it will shimmer oh so gently.”

Madame watched as the spark of delight in her client's eyes turned to regret. Without hesitation, she took the lady by the shoulders and led her to the mirror to see the transformation for herself. The spark returned, along with a becoming blush.

“We could trim the gown with violet ribbon instead of purple or black or gray. It would be subtle, elegant, and…how do you say it? Just the slightest bit
enticing
.” Madame purred the last word, making it as sibilant and sensuous as the slippery fabric. Pride swelled in her ample bosom when the countess smiled at her reflection and her lashes swept down to hide the glint in her eye. Madame chuckled, knowing she'd not only made her point, but a sale.

Isobel's stomach filled with butterflies at the sheer daring of such a decision. What had gotten into her of late? First Blackwood, and now silk? The cloth was soft against her skin, and it had warmed like a lover the instant she touched it. Whatever would Honoria say? She glanced around her.

Lady Caroline Graves, a young matron close to her own age, was being fitted for a sprigged muslin walking dress with a pretty leaf-green jacket to match. As one assistant pinned and tucked, another was showing her silks and satins in a dozen brilliant and daring colors, not one of which was
pastel. Isobel watched as they rolled out a luscious violet silk and Lady Caroline ordered it made up with a pink satin underskirt.

No one noticed Isobel amid the bolts of black and gray fabric, or knew that last night she had stepped out of the shadows and discovered how wonderful it was to feel pretty. She looked again at the moiré silk over her shoulder. True, it was flat blue when one looked at it, but if she moved, breathed, there was a shimmer that made her mouth water.

“Yes, I'll take a gown in the moiré silk,” she heard herself say to the modiste. “With blue trim instead of violet, though,” she added, forcing herself to be somewhat sensible. She raised her chin and met the modiste's eyes. “I need some nightgowns as well.”

“Something lacy as usual?” The modiste brought forward a bolt of pink silk, so sheer it was a mere rumor.

Isobel cast a sidelong look at the vivacious Lady Caroline and imagined her in bed, attired in the same silk, as her lord husband came striding toward her, more purposeful and virile than Robert had ever been.

But in her imagination the face in the candlelight was Blackwood's.

“Yes,” she breathed, dragging her thoughts away from Blackwood and bed. “You will list it on the bill as heavy flannel?”

The modiste gave Isobel a conspirator's grin. “As usual, my lady.”

Charles and Honoria had no idea of her little secret, the one pleasure she indulged in, Isobel thought as she walked across Hyde Park to meet her son.

She was entitled to one secret, wasn't she?

What harm could it do, wearing silk undergarments instead of linen or wool? She found herself tempted to hum. She looked around, checking to see if Honoria or Charles or
Jane Kirk might be watching her, but no one was looking. No one ever looked at plain Isobel Maitland. Still, she hid her smile under her prim bonnet. What on earth had gotten into her? But she knew the answer to that.

Blackwood.

Her other secret.

At the pond, she found Robin playing with a toy sailboat with another boy about his age that she didn't know. His dark head was bent next to Robin's russet curls as they pushed the boat out onto the water with twigs. Nurse looked on from a shady bench with a placid smile as Isobel approached. The sack of bread crumbs sat untouched beside her.

Instead of crowding the bank as they usually did, the ducks hovered warily off shore, unsure of whether the ship in their midst was friend or foe. It carried no colors to advise them, and they regarded it as if half expecting the vessel to suddenly run up the Jolly Roger and begin firing.

“Hello, Robbie,” Isobel said, crouching next to her son and his friend.

“Mama, this is James,” he said happily, and the other boy regarded her with solemn gray eyes.

“How d'you do, ma'am?” He rose and bowed to Isobel, and Robin grinned and mimicked his friend.

“I see you remember how to greet a lady, Jamie. I'm proud of you,” said a pleasant voice, and Isobel turned to see a well-dressed woman smiling at her. “His grandfather taught him how to make a polite bow, even if his jacket is torn and his knees are muddy.”

Isobel looked at the lad again. He was indeed muddy, but no worse than Robin. A moment's panic swelled in her chest. What would Honoria say? She'd have to take him in the back door, sneak him upstairs, and give him a bath straight away. She reached out a hand to take Robin's, only to find her fingers clasped in a polite handshake.

“I'm Marianne De Courcey, Countess Westlake, and that muddy scamp is my son James, Viscount Halliwell.”

“Isobel Maitland, Countess Ashdown, and this is Robin, Earl of Ashdown, and first lieutenant of the duck pond fleet, by the look of things.”

Marianne Westlake laughed. “I am delighted that we happened upon Robin today. Jamie's father promised to join us, but it appears he's been delayed. Robin has been a most enjoyable companion.”

“Robin doesn't often get to visit with other boys his own age,” Isobel said.

Robin tugged her sleeve. “Mama, may we have the bread? We're going to pretend the ducks are Napoleon's fleet and James's ship is Admiral Nelson's flagship.”

Isobel could not say no. “Only for a few minutes. We have to go soon. Do be careful near the water.”

“James has playmates at home on our estate, but none here in London,” Marianne said. “After the first day in Town he was bored. I brought him out today because my great-aunt threatened to lock herself in her dressing room to escape the noise. She isn't used to small boys, but you must find it the same with Robin.”

Isobel stared at her. If Robin had made any noise at all, Honoria would have ordered a stern paddling, followed by a long lecture on deportment from Charles and hours of extra lessons. She watched now as James cheered the brave little ship's progress through the enemy duck flotilla, yelling at the top of his lungs. Robin watched silently. Isobel's heart broke all over again for her little boy. She did her best to make his childhood happy in little ways, but Robert had tied her hands. Honoria's word was law where Robin was concerned.

“Not exactly,” she said.

“Well, they seem content now. Why don't we let their nurses watch them, and stroll along the bank?” Marianne
suggested. “It's such a glorious day, and I'm glad to be out. My sister is in Town to make her debut, and I have spent every minute of every day for three months helping to plan it. My grandfather insisted that every detail be accounted for, right down to the last candlestick. After he got through with organizing Miranda's come-out ball, my great-aunt began planning her wardrobe. I almost wish I'd stayed in the country.”

“Miranda? Good heavens, do you mean Lady Miranda Archer?” Isobel blurted out, and felt her face heat at her rudeness.

Marianne didn't seem to notice. “Yes! Do you know her? You couldn't possibly. This is her first trip to town since—well, in many years. She was only James's age when she was last here, and that was because she begged my great-aunt to bring her to see the menagerie at the Tower.”

Isobel's stomach climbed up to lodge behind her collar button as she recognized the family resemblance between Marianne and Blackwood. James too looked like his uncle. Those solemn eyes, that dark hair.

“Good heavens, Countess, you do look pale all of a sudden!” Marianne said. “Come, let us sit in the shade for a few minutes.”

Charm seemed to run in the Archer family. Marianne's smile held only concern as she led her to a bench. “I'm sorry,” Isobel managed. “It just seems such a coincidence to meet you today. Only this morning my mother-in-law received an invitation to Lady Miranda's debut ball.”

Marianne smiled dazzlingly. “Oh, then you'll be there. How wonderful! I shall have someone to gossip with!”

Isobel tried to imagine standing in a corner giggling with a friend over the ridiculous behavior of the
ton
as they danced past with their beaks in the air. She'd often seen other ladies gossiping with friends but never had such
companions. Honoria did not approve of her dancing. She wondered how her mother-in-law would feel about giggling and gossiping.

“I think I will be unable—” Isobel began.

“Marianne, I'm late. My apologies, my dear,” a male voice interrupted. “But look who I've brought with me.”

Isobel looked up and gasped in horror. Beside the gentleman, Blackwood stood smiling down at her. Well, not at
her
. At Marianne. His attention fixed on her quickly enough at the strangled sound of surprise.

“We appear to have startled you, my lady. We mean no harm, I assure you,” Blackwood said stiffly. She stared at him like a ninny, her tongue knotted around her tonsils. Blackwood frowned and slid a questioning glance to Marianne, and Isobel felt mortification slither over her frozen limbs.

Marianne threw herself into Blackwood's arms. “Phin! Oh, Phin, what a wonderful surprise. I'm so glad to see you. Let me look at you!” She drew back and stared up into his face. Blackwood's gloved hands were tight on his sister's sleeves, his eyes filled with warmth and love. Isobel's envious heart flipped.

“Forgive me, Isobel. It's been many months since I've seen my brother,” Marianne said. “And you look dreadful, by the way, Phineas.”

“Introduce us, if you please, Marianne,” the other gentleman reminded her.

“Yes, of course. Where are my manners? Isobel Maitland, Countess of Ashdown, may I present my brother, Lord Phineas Archer, Marquess of Blackwood, and my husband, Lord Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake?”

He took her hand briefly, and Isobel felt fire streak up her arm to heat her whole body. “Enchanted,” he murmured, but there was not the slightest hint of enchantment in his eyes. The same eyes that had been so warm and playful last night
were a cold, fathomless gray. In a single frosty glance he assessed her, dismissed her, and looked away.

Barely aware of Westlake's greeting, Isobel pressed her hand against her skirt to still the tingle he'd left upon it, and felt bitter disappointment close her throat. Blackwood didn't recognize her.

“How is Jamie's ship doing?” Westlake asked, looking back toward the two boys.

“Adam designs ships as a hobby. Jamie is trying out his latest model today,” Marianne explained to Isobel.

“It's hardly a hobby, Marianne. My ships are the finest and fastest merchant vessels afloat.” Adam De Courcey looked more closely at Isobel, his dark eyes cool. “Maitland,” he said thoughtfully. “As in Lord Charles Maitland?”

“He's my brother-in-law.” Isobel tried to keep the apology out of her tone. The earl's eyes slid over her in cool appraisal before he looked back at his wife.

“Shall we be getting back to the boys?” he asked.

Marianne took her husband's arm, which left Isobel standing awkwardly next to Blackwood. She tried to move past him, but he bowed and offered her his arm.

“Allow me to escort you back to the pond, Countess,” he said, his tone horribly polite. She laid her hand on his sleeve, instantly dizzy at the physical contact. She felt the play of his muscles under her hand, breathed in the scent of his soap. She glanced sideways at the line of his jaw and noted several tiny red marks at the edge of his cravat. Had she bitten him, scratched him? The little injury spoke of passion, reminded her of the taste of his skin, the feeling of his body moving within hers, as rhythmic a thing as walking.

She stumbled.

He righted her without the slightest change of expression, a firm and impersonal hand cupping her elbow momentarily.

Her heart pounded and she concentrated on each step, on
keeping her hand flat on his sleeve and resisting the urge to curl her fingers around his arm and shake him until he looked at her,
really looked at her
. She shot another quick glance at his profile. Damn him, he was completely and utterly unaffected, while she was nearly panting with desire.