The Counterfeit Countess

by Diana Campbell

“Lord and Lady Preston,” Papa mused. Selina knew him well enough to perceive that his mood had changed: his black eyes were narrowed, calculating, and he pushed his wineglass away. “I wonder, Selina, how Lord and Lady Preston would receive Lord Worsham’s widow.” “Lord Worsham has no widow, Papa.” Selina recaptured her glass and took another sip of wine. “He was engaged to a Miss Bradley, and they were to be wed shortly after his return to England.”

  “But what if he had not waited?” Papa pressed. “What if he had married while he was abroad?”

  Evidently, in addition to Tudor history, Papa was teaching philosophy again: he must be conducting an exercise in Logic or ethics or some such thing. Under the circumstances, Selina judged the exercise an exceedingly tasteless one, but she fancied Papa would persist until he extracted an answer.

  “I daresay Lord and Lady Preston would be extremely kind to the mythical Lady Worsham,” she said wearily. “As they will no doubt be to Miss Bradley. Be that as it may, there is a matter of grave import I should like to bring to your attention—”

  “I daresay, in fact, that Lord and Lady Preston would take Lady Worsham under their own roof,” Papa interposed. “And permit her to remain there until his lordship’s estate was settled.”

  “Probably, so," Selina agreed. “However, there is no Lady Worsham, and we really must discuss—”

  “Who is to say there is no Lady Worsham?" Papa

  drew his chair forward and propped his elbows on the table. “You could be Lady Worsham, Selina."

  She thought for a moment that he was still speaking in abstractions. When she realized he wasn’t—never had been—she choked on her wine and showered little purple droplets down the white-muslin front of her gown.

  “Papa!” she sputtered. “That is the most absurd notion you have ever conceived.”

  “Absurd in what respect?” he inquired mildly.

  Selina blotted her lips with a tattered linen napkin. “Apart from the fact that any such imposture would be entirely dishonest?” she said sternly.

  “Yes, apart from that.” Black Jack Hewson was not one to be swayed by mundane concepts of morality.

  “Apart from that, your idea is utterly unrealistic. I cannot imagine that a young woman—widowed after only a few weeks of marriage—would travel across the sea and throw herself at the mercy of her late husband’s relatives. Not without previously ascertaining her welcome.”

  “Umm.” Papa frowned. “I fancy you are right.”

  “Of course I am right. And if I may now introduce my subject—”

  “Consequently, you will not travel to England as Lord Worsham's widow, you will go as his wife. Indeed, as I think on it, it is only by the merest chance that I learned so quickly of the sinking of the Nightingale: I happened to be at the docks when the Surrey arrived from Norfolk with the news. Furthermore, it is only by chance that we knew Lord Worsham was on the Nightingale, and it may be some time before the passenger list is reconstructed. Yes, if we sail for England as soon as practical—two weeks, let us say—word of Lord Worsham’s death will precede us by but a few days.”

  His eyes were glowing now, and Selina perceived the situation as he viewed it. The fulfillment of his dream was at last at hand; this was his long-awaited opportunity to Go Home. She shook her head before sympathy could overcome her better instincts. “I won’t do it,

  Papa,” she said Firmly. “I will not be a party to stealing Lord Worsham’s estate.”

  “Did I state an intention to steal Lord Worsham’s estate?” Black Jack Hewson assumed an expression of wounded indignation.

  “You said that Lord and Lady Preston would take Lady Worsham in until his lordship’s estate was settled.”

  “So I did.” Papa nodded. “But what if Lady Worsham—based on her very brief marriage—declined to accept a single farthing of her late husband’s worldly gooas? Would the Prestons turn such a paragon of virtue into the streets? To the contrary: they would insist she remain with them until she could make other arrangements.”

  “What—what other arrangements?” Selina dismally realized that she was beginning to waver.

  “Marriage, my dear.” Papa strung the word out as though it contained three or four syllables rather than two. “Marriage. I assure you that a comely young countess—however penniless—would have dozens of partis amongst which to choose.”

  Selina could not suppress the thought that such a countess would not be compelled to wed Sir Matthew Platt.

  “After a suitable period of mourning, of course,” Papa added. “A year.”

  “A year.” Selina crashed back to earth. “That means we should have to impose on Lord Worsham’s family for many months.”

  “What imposition would there be?” Papa’s inquiry was clearly rhetorical. “In a great English household, two extra mouths would not signify a whit.” Apparently Selina’s misgivings were written on her face, for he went on in a gentler tone. “If it would ease your conscience, we could offer to pay our room and board, but I am certain the offer would be refused.”

  “But would people believe I am Lady Worsham?” Selina recognized that her question constituted surrender: she was no longer debating the principle, merely the details. “I should have no proof of our marriage—’

  “How could you have proof?” Papa heaved a dramatic sigh. “When your dear husband sailed ahead of you to England, so as to prepare a proper welcome, he bore your marriage certificate in his trunk. Which now lies at the bottom of the sea.” He actually dabbed at one black eye with a corner of his napkin. “And, in any event, why should our word be doubted?”

  Selina suspected there were a goodly number of folk in Britain with ample reason to doubt Black Jack Hewson, and she groped for a tactful means by which to remind Papa of his hasty emigration.

  “I did, it is true, encounter some slight—ahem— difficulties prior to my departure.” He might have been reading her mind. “However, Lord Tannahill and Viscount Richardson are long since deceased, and Mr. Parker, if he remains alive, poses no problem. Mr. Parker is in trade." Papa emitted a disdainful sniff. “So you see, my dear, there is no obstacle whatever to my plan.”

  “There is Sir Matthew,” Selina reluctantly pointed out. “What should we tell him?”

  “I know what I should like to tell Matthew," Papa snapped. “He has been highly critical of late: he ripped me up royally because I neglected to mention the very brief, very dull reign of Mary Tudor. I should like to tell Matthew to—”

  “Papa.” Selina said warningly.

  “What we shall tell him”—he massaged his chin a moment—“is that I am taking you to England for a belated come-out. In that way, should anything untoward occur . . .”

  Papa stopped, purloined Selina's glass again and drank the contents down. In that way, she silently finished, they could alwrays return to Virginia, and she could marry Matthew after all. In the meantime, she was free. Free! She felt as though an enormous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “To the specifics then,” Papa said briskly. “We must naturally present ourselves to the Prestons as a family of wealth and breeding. Which, of course, we are,” he added hastily. “However, you will require a new wardrobe; I observe that the bodice of your dress is quite spotted.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Selina repressed a rather hysterical giggle.

  “While you conspire with Mrs. Deveau and arrange to close the house, I shall refurbish my own wardrobe and book our passage. As I indicated earlier, I should like to sail within two weeks.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Excellent.”

  He rose, and Selina realized they had both forgotten dinner. She gazed at two incinerated ducklings, fairly leering from the platter in the center of the table, and judged their lapse to be for the best.

  “If you will excuse me then”—Papa coughed—“I must see to a matter upstairs.”

  “Yes, I daresay our wardrobes and our passage will be quite expensive,” Selina said. “But in view of my �
�come-out,’ I should like to help you select the jewelry we shall sell.”

  To her astonishment, Black Jack Hewson had the grace to blush.

  Chapter 4

  “We are exceedingly fortunate, Selina,” Papa said, as the chaise rounded Hyde Park Corner and began to clatter along Park Lane. “Our journey has been a very

  easy one."

  “I fancy so. Papa,” Selina sighed wearily.

  She supposed that, technically, Black Jack Hewson was right: their voyage from Richmond to Plymouth had been entirely uneventful and had been accomplished in under five weeks’ time. However, Selina had proved to be an extremely poor sailor.

  During her fourth consecutive day of illness, Papa belatedly reminded her that she had been seasick all the way to America as well.) Adding to her distress was her dismal recollection of the fate of the Nightingale, and for the first week she had been terrified that every larger-than-average wave would swamp the Argonaut and send them all to the bottom with Lord Worsham and his ill-starred companions. After the first week, she began to hope the ship would sink and put her out of her misery.

  But it had not, and in Plymouth, Papa—not a whit the worse for wear—had hired the chaise to drive them on to London. This leg of their journey was now nearing the end of its fourth day, and as nearly as Selina could calculate, her body had been subjected to constant motion for almost six weeks. Unless one counted the four nights they had spent in four different English inns, which—in view of their sagging, unsteady mattresses—one really could not. She closed her eyes, felt another ominous threat of nausea and hastily opened them again.

  “We are nearly there, dear." Papa sympathetically patted her knee. “And though I collect you are not in particularly high force, I must remind you that Lord and Lady Preston will greet us with the news of Lord Worsham’s death. I initially thought it would be best if you were to burst into tears upon hearing their intelligence, but it has since occurred to me that you might not be able to weep in credible fashion.” His tone suggested that he himself—in years long past—had tried and failed to employ this maneuver. “I therefore propose you pretend to faint instead, being careful, of course, not to injure yourself.”

  Selina judged it quite possible that she would burst into tears, faint or both the minute she exited the carriage, but she mutely nodded. Papa’s eyes swept from the crown of her leghorn hat to the toes of her white kid shoes, and he frowned.

  “You look wretched, Selina,” he clucked. “Pale and thin, and your gown is dreadfully wrinkled. But I daresay your dismaying appearance is all to the good.”

  On this happy note, the chaise turned another corner, pulled to the side of the roadway and stopped. The postilion dismounted, walked back to the coach and opened Papa’s door.

  “We’ve reached Brook Street, sir,” he announced, “so I’ll need ye to give me a house number.”

  Selina peered out the window, and her heart sank. Brook Street stretched ahead of them as far as she could see—for miles, it seemed—and she reckoned they’d be driving about for several hours yet. Stopping at every house, asking for Viscount Preston . . .

  “Number twenty-two,” Papa said promptly.

  The postboy nodded and closed the door, and Selina stared at Papa. “We don’t know the number,” she said. It was a gratuitous comment, for the postilion had remounted his horse, and they were under way again. “It could be twenty-two or forty-two or a hundred and two—”

  “Selina, Selina.” Papa patted her knee again. “Leave

  the details to me. We shall go to number twenty-two, where I shall demand to see Viscount Preston. Number twenty-two’s butler will direct me to the proper house, and I shall apologize for my error. Do not tease yourself about it, dear; concentrate on your upcoming performance."

  As usual. Black Jack Hewson flawlessly executed his deceptive scheme: he strode boldly up the front stairs of number twenty-two, conversed briefly with an invisible party within, returned to the street, issued instructions to the postboy, resumed his place in the carriage. “Number fifty-one,” he reported. “Just up the street. Try to assume a happy look, Selina. A—an expectant look. Remember that you anticipate imminent reunion with your beloved husband." He patted her knee once more, and Selina resisted an urge to bat his hand away.

  Selina had long since decided that her best course while the coach was in motion was to gaze fixedly at the floor. Consequently, when they stopped again, she could discern no more than that number fifty-one Brook Street bore a marked resemblance to number twenty- two: both were narrow, stone-fronted houses featuring a Corinthian order of pilasters above the ground-story arcade. The postilion opened Papa’s door once more and pulled down the steps, and Papa clambered nimbly into the street. He reached up, heaved Selina out of the chaise and frowned again.

  “You might straighten your dress just a bit, dear,” he counseled. “Keep in mind that, at this point, you do not know your dear husband is dead.” ·

  Selina obediently tugged at the French work round the bottom of her skirt, but it was no use. Mrs. Deveau had created an exquisite walking dress of peach jaconet over a matching sarcenet slip, but it had been crammed in Selina’s trunk for five weeks (Papa had wisely insisted she wear her old garments while on the ship), and she had sat in it for the better part of the preceding eight hours. She started to shake her head in despair, but Papa was already propelling her up the shallow stairs to the front door.

  “Yes?” The butler who answered Papa’s ring was forbidding in the extreme: a very tall, very heavy man who examined them—with considerable difficulty—over his lavishly starched shirt-points and neckcloth.

  “I am Mr. John Hewson,” Papa said crisply, “and this is my daughter, Lady Worsham.”

  “Lady Worsham?” To Selina’s dirp satisfaction, the butler visibly paled. “Lady Worsham?”

  “Surely dear Alexander has advised you of our arrival,” Papa snapped.

  “If you are referring to the Earl, he has advised us of no such thing.” The butler appeared to have regained most of his considerable aplomb: he gazed at them with undisguised suspicion. “His lordship has been abroad for nearly two years—”

  “Abroad!” Papa feigned a gasp. “But he was to have preceded us to England by two full weeks . . .” He allowed his voice to trail off, as if in puzzlement. “Never mind; I shall explain the matter to Lord Preston.”

  “His lordship is from home,” the butler said haughtily. “To Lady Preston then.” Papa’s tone quite rivaled the butler’s for arrogance. “If you will kindly announce us—Just what is your name, by the by?”

  “Winthrop, sir.” He sounded a trifle intimidated. “Winthrop.” Papa nodded. “Please announce us to her ladyship, Winthrop. In the interim, I shall instruct the postboy to bring in our bags.”

  The butler bowed and ascended the staircase issuing from the center of the foyer, and Selina whirled toward Papa.

  “They do not yet know of Lord Worsham’s death!” she hissed. “We must leave at once—”

  “Hush!” he admonished, also in a whisper. “The news will surely arrive at any hour, and we shall remain until it does. Wait here while I tend the luggage.”

  He hurried back through the front door, and Selina’s already queasy stomach began to churn with panic. Papa’s plan had gone awry at the very outset, which could not augur well for their future success. But, having come this far, she had little choice but to rely on Papa’s judgment, and she peered studiedly about the entry hall. She had just noted a marble-topped side table flanked by two shield-back chairs when a small lizard darted out a doorway at her left and stopped not six inches from her shoe.

  Ill and disoriented as she was, Selina initially fancied she had somehow been transported back to Virginia, for their Fifth Street garden had been fairly teeming with similar creatures. She had long since ceased to be afraid of them, but she hadn’t cared to have them in the house, and she did not suppose Lady Preston did either. Using the technique she had perfected in Richm
ond, she stooped very slowly, seized the little fellow at the base of his tail and imprisoned him in her cupped hands. She stepped toward the front door, intending to loose him on the porch, and was caught up by a voice behind her.

  “Are you not afraid of lizards then?" The voice was clearly that of a child, and the tone was one of unmistakable disappointment.

  Selina turned back round and was nearly overcome by a shock of recognition, for the boy—perhaps ten— might have been a young Lord Worsham. Selina thought he was tall for his years, though she was not a good judge of children’s sizes, and he had the Earl’s longish nose, his high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, his enormous lavender eyes. His skin was not sunburned, of course, and his hair was some shades lighter than his lordship s: the color of wheat rather than hay. Lord Worsham’s hair had probably been the same hue at that age, Selina thought; had probably darkened over the years . . . She shook her head, shook off the spell, realizing that the boy was no doubt his lordship’s nephew, Lady Preston’s son.

  “You’re not}" he said, misinterpreting her gesture.

  “In point of fact, I am not,” Selina replied. “However, I don’t much like lizards, and I certainly do not like them inside the house. I was about to put this one on the porch.”

  "Nol” The boy strode toward her, holding his shoulders in Lord Worsham’s straight, square fashion, and held out his hands. “Lizards don’t grow on trees, you know,” he said indignantly. “I bought him from a friend of mine who imported him from Scotland.” Selina repressed a smile. “Give him back.”

  “Very well.” With some relief, Selina deposited the squirming little reptile in one of the boy’s outstretched palms, and he closed the other hand over it. “But you will confine him, will you not? I daresay your mama doesn’t wish him free in the house either.”