The Counterfeit Countess

by Diana Campbell

  “I have engaged the—er—staff, Lady Worsham,” he reported. “And Rose—in view of the fact that she had been compelled to work entirely alone—has performed most commendably.” His pale blue eyes were frosty with disapproval, and Selina repressed an inclination to slink out of the foyer. “Rose assures me she will be able to finish tomorrow.”

  “Oh, splendid!” Harriet clapped her hands. “Then you will be able to move in on Monday, Selina.”

  Selina collected that the Prestons did not subscribe to Sunday labor, a nicety Papa had never observed. She gazed desperately about, but the ground floor was spotless, as was the one above, and she surmised that Rose had only to complete the bedchambers. In short, she could manufacture no reasonable objection to Harriet’s program, and she felt her palms growing damp again.

  “Monday,” she agreed miserably. “We shall see you then, Winthrop.”

  As usual. Lady Preston had a lengthy list of errands to attend, and it was late afternoon when they reached Brook Street. They had scarcely emerged from the landau when Papa and Jeremy halted behind them, the former at the reins of Simon’s stylish curricle. Harriet waved in their direction, then hurried into the house, but Selina remained at the bottom of the front steps. She had had no opportunity to speak privately with Papa since the night of their arrival; indeed, she had come to speculate that Black Jack Hewson was deliberately contriving to avoid her.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, as Papa and Jeremy reached her side. "Where have you been today?”

  “Tattersall’s,” Jeremy replied.

  “Tattersall’s.” Selina frowned. “They sell horses, do they not?"

  “Yes, they do," Papa said quickly, “and Jeremy very much enjoyed observing the auction. Now I fancy you should rest before dinner, young man—”

  “They bet on horses as well,” Jeremy said. “That is, there are men there who accept wagers on the races. They have a special room.”

  “Do they indeed?” Selina said coldly. She started to cast Papa a furious glare, but she suddenly became aware of Jeremy’s hands: he was fondling a most impressive sheaf of bank notes.

  “Yes,” Jeremy confirmed, “and today we settled the wagers we made Wednesday and yesterday. I won twenty-one pounds, which is much better than Papa Jack; he won only fifteen pounds.”

  “How unfortunate,” Selina snapped. She completed her interrupted glare, but Papa was carefully inspecting the pilasters above them. She turned her attention back to Jeremy. “I daresay you found the experience very amusing," she continued. “I do hope so because ‘Papa Jack’ will not take you to Tattersall’s again. Will you, Papa?"

  “No, I fancy not,” he mumbled.

  “And I am sure Papa Jack will agree that it would be best not to mention your—your adventure to Harriet and Simon. Let us keep the matter a secret amongst the three of us.”

  “A secret?" Jeremy’s lavender eyes widened with great, artificial innocence. “But I was planning to tell them all about it; it’s the most fun I’ve had in an age.”

  “No, Jeremy"—Papa coughed—“Selina is right on that head. No, rather than talking with Simon and Harriet, why don’t you concentrate on how you’re going to spend your winnings when you and I go shopping tomorrow? Your winnings plus . . .” Papa reached into a pocket of his frock coat, withdrew his own wad of bills and peeled one off. “. . . plus five pounds, which you may regard as your commission for having insisted that I wager on Lancelot.”

  “Very well, Papa Jack.” Jeremy defdy plucked the note from Papa’s hand, pocketed his entire roll of bills and raced on into the house.

  “Commission indeed!” Selina snorted, after the boy had disappeared. “It was nothing less than a shameless bribe, designed to cover the fact that you have been instructing Jeremy in the fine art of gaming. When you offered to assume responsibility for him, I had no idea you intended to corrupt him.”

  “Actually Jeremy requires little in the way of corruption,” Papa said wryly.

  “Then it is shameless of you to encourage his misbehavior,” Selina retorted. “The Prestons have sufficient difficulty with him as it is, and his care will shortly revert to them.”

  “So it will.”

  Papa sounded rather wistful, and Selina gave him a sharp look; she had always wondered if Black Jack Hewson longed for a son. But this was no time to embark upon a lengthy philosophical discussion.

  “Of more immediate import. Papa,” she said, “you must go to The Times and investigate the sinking of Lord Worsham’s ship. His house is nearly ready, and Harriet wishes us to move in on Monday.”

  “Monday.” Papa nodded, and Selina noted a telltale sheen of perspiration on his bare scalp. “Then I fear we shall simply have to comply, my dear. It is entirely too late to go to The Times this afternoon, and, as you heard, I have promised to take Jeremy on a shopping excursion tomorrow. And I doubt I should have access to the proper files and personnel on a Sunday.”

  “/ doubt you ever planned to visit the newspaper at all,” Selina said icily. “I believe you want to move into his lordship’s house.”

  “Ahem.” Papa coughed again. “I must own that the thought has crossed my mind. Surely you realize that it would be vastly more convenient if wre had our own quarters. We should have no need to impose upon the Prestons—”

  “We cannot afford our own quarters,” Selina hissed. “You agreed not to pilfer Lord Worsham's estate, and I have since learned that there is no estate to pilfer. Nothing beyond the London property and Worfields; his lordship subsisted on an allowance from his grandmother. And I collect, from what Harriet has told me, that Mrs. Seymour is a very formidable woman, not likely to maintain a permanent household for us.” “Umm." Papa’s black eyes narrowed with familiar calculation. “I daresay, however, that Lord Preston would

  be entirely likely to underwrite our establishment if such an endeavor removed Jeremy from his own home.”

  “Papa!” Selina stamped her foot.

  “I was merely musing aloud, dear,” he said hastily. He tried to pat her hand, but Selina snatched it away. “Nevertheless, it is not practical to go to the The Times before Monday, so I believe our best course is to occupy Lord Worsham’s house as if nothing were amiss. I shall certainly visit the paper later in the week, and if they have news of the Nightingale, we can always come back. Assuming, of course, that Simon desires us to come back.”

  “Papa . . .”

  But there was nothing to be gained by further argument, then or later, and Selina decided to acquiesce in Black Jack Hewson’s latest scheme, at least until they obtained a report of the sinking of the Nightingale. Consequently, early Monday morning, she and Papa, Harriet and Jeremy piled into the landau and drove to Mount Street, where they immediately became embroiled in a controversy as to who was to occupy which bedchamber.

  “Naturally I have put you in the master suite, Lady Worsham,” Winthrop said.

  Since Selina had hoped not to move into the house, she had scarcely glanced at the bedchambers, and she now peered curiously about. She found herself in a large room, decorated predominandy in green and containing rather too much furniture. Though all the pieces were clearly expensive, several showed unmistakable signs of age, and Selina was reminded of Lord Worsham’s dilapidated wardrobe.

  “His lordship’s bedchamber is through herd,” Winthrop added, opening a door beside the washstand.

  A connecting door! “I really don't think .. .” Selina suddenly recollected that the Earl was dead, that, furthermore, a newlywed wife would hardly decline to occupy the bedchamber adjoining her husband’s. “I don’t think another bit of work will be necessary,” she cooed.

  “Splendid.” To Selina’s irrational relief, Winthrop

  dosed the door. “I propose that Master Jeremy take the room just across the corridor.”

  ‘‘It looks like a girl's room,” Jeremy said disdainfully. “It’s all pink.”

  “Well, it was a girl’s room,” Harriet said. “It belonged to your late Aun
t Anne when she was your age. And you have stayed there before, Jeremy—■

  “That’s when I was a child.'' he sniffed. “I wish to have the gold room."

  “Mr. Hewson will occupy the gold room,” Winthrop said. “Now if I may propose some tea—”

  “I am not staying in a pink room!” Jeremy insisted. “I’ll go back to Brook Street.”

  “No, you cannot do that, dear,” Harriet said nervously. “Perhaps you can have the red room.”

  “There is no bed in the red room, ma’am,” Winthrop said.

  A long, heated debate ensued, at the end of which it was determined that Jeremy would take the gold room and Papa the pink. When they stepped back into the hall, they encountered the lone footman, staring in bewilderment at their great mountain of luggage. Selina helped him sort the pieces out, and as they proceeded toward the stairs, she heard a muffled groan behind her. Perhaps, she thought, she really should have engaged a larger staff.

  Lady Preston accepted one cup of tea, then suggested she should leave them to “settle yourselves” in privacy.

  “An excellent notion, Harriet,” Papa said heartily. “However, since there is a minimum of unpacking to be done, I daresay we shall be quite settled by tomorrow evening, and I do hope you and Simon will be able to join us for dinner. At half past seven, shall we say?” Selina shot him a quelling look, but Papa was favoring Lady Preston with his most charming smile. “In light of your limitless hospitality, it is the least we can do.”

  Harriet accepted this “gracious” invitation and permitted Winthrop to escort her to the entry hall. Selina

  waited for the clatter of the departing carriage, then trudged wearily down to the kitchen to confer with the cook.

  “I trust everything is satisfactory, ma’am?’’ Rose asked anxiously.

  Selina gazed into the cheval glass beside the wardrobe and desperately strove to suppress a grin. Had Rose’s question been general in nature, Selina could have responded that everything was quite satisfactory indeed: the Hewsons and Jeremy were comfortably settled, and the household appeared to be operating remarkably well. Since Selina and Papa were accustomed to only one part-time servant, four live-ins seemed a great luxury; and insofar as Selina could determine, no critical task was neglected. In fact, the only problem was Rose, who insisted on serving as Lady Worsham’s abigail in addition to her other duties. Selina observed that her toque was decidedly askew—the ostrich plume nearly brushing her nose—and that the curls on the left side of her face turned up while those on the right turned down.

  “Highly satisfactory, Rose,” she said solemnly. The mantel clock struck a quarter past the hour. “However, as Lord and Lady Preston will be here shortly, I suggest you permit me to don my gloves and jewels alone. You must—must make sure the dining-room chandelier is lighted.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Rose sped into the corridor, closed the door, and Selina hastily straightened her headdress and, as best she could, her hair. She then put on Mama’s rubies, stood back to evaluate the overall effect and thought she looked as well as could be expected. She had selected a white lace dress over a white satin slip, with a corsage of rose satin, and though the rubies didn’t exactly match the satin, the contrast was not unpleasing. She adjusted her sleeves, which Rose had somehow managed to twist, drew on her white kid gloves and left the bedchamber with two scant minutes to spare.

  The Prestons arrived precisely on time, and by a

  quarter before eight, the party was seated in the dining room, and the first course had been presented. Selina had already judged Mrs. Larkin an excellent cook, but she realized her opinion might be influenced by Mrs. Renard's wretched performance. However, Lord Preston pronounced the turtle soup “outstanding,” and Selina breathed a small sigh of relief. She glanced around the table with the same odd sense of pride she had experienced earlier, and her eyes fell on Jeremy. He appeared to be testing the power of gravity: he held each successive spoonful of soup higher and higher above his face, evidently seeking to ascertain at what point the soup would land upon his forehead, nose, chin or neckcloth rather than in his mouth.

  “Please do not do that, Jeremy,” Papa said mildly. “I have advised you that if you wish to be treated like a man, you must behave like a man. Most especially at table.”

  “Yes, Papa Jack.”

  Jeremy obediently began consuming his soup almost like a civilized human being, and Harriet and Simon exchanged looks of sheer astonishment.

  “I believe you are going to be very happy here,” Lady Preston bubbled, when she had recovered herself sufficiently to speak. “And I am sure Alex will be extremely pleased when he sees how well you have organized the household. To say nothing of the improvement you have wrought in Jeremy.”

  “Thank—thank you.” Selina choked on her own soup and narrowly succeeded in dabbing a wayward drop from her lips before it could trickle onto Mama’s ruby necklace.

  They Finished the first course shortly thereafter, and when Selina rang for the entree, she perceived at once that one footman was really not enough. No, poor Abbot was visibly perspiring, audibly panting by the time he had removed the soup bowls and delivered the main course. Selina made a mental note to engage a second footman as soon as possible, then grimly realized she was tumbling into Papa’s trap. A second footman! She was coming to assume that they would

  live indefinitely in Mount Street, and she cut viciously into her veal. It was wonderfully tender, and the cut piece flew into her lap, but fortunately no one seemed to notice.

  They were approximately halfway through the entree when the doorbell pealed—a sound so common that it was a moment before Selina grasped its significance. But she soon recollected that Lord and Lady Preston were the only people in England who knew the Hewsons’ current direction, and they were already here. Which could only mean that, at last, a messenger had come with word of Lord Worsham’s death. She peered down the table at Papa, and it was clear that he concurred in her assessment: he was arranging his face in a tragic expression.

  Winthrop—who had been present throughout the meal but had not lifted a single finger to assist in its serving—strode into the foyer, and Selina heard the creak of the front door opening. She recalled Papa’s advice that she could perhaps more realistically faint than weep and prepared to negotiate a proper swoon. She decided it would be most dramatic to topple from her chair, but she feared such a maneuver might result in serious injury. On the other hand, if she simply collapsed upon the table, her head would come to rest in the remnants of her veal . . .

  There was a murmur of voices in the entry hall, and Selina discreedy shoved her plate well to one side. Footfalls began to tap across the marble floor, and, after carefully gauging the distance to the table, Selina shifted her eyes toward the foyer. And thought she might well topple out of her chair after all, for it was Alexander Cochran who loomed up in the doorway and gazed furiously about the room.

  Chapter 6

  “Alex!”

  Jeremy was the first of his lordship’s family to spy the returning hero, but before he could race around the table. Lord and Lady Preston had leaped to their feet as well. Within seconds, Harriet and Jeremy were clasping their brother in a suffocating embrace, and Simon was somehow simultaneously pumping the Earl’s hand. Selina initially fancied that she herself had suffered some sort of apoplectic seizure, for she could not seem to move a single muscle. At length, however, she managed to tear her eyes from the joyful reunion in the doorway and steal a glance down the table at Papa. She discovered that he, too, was seemingly rooted to his chair, his normally ruddy complexion having paled to a hue considerably lighter than his snowy neckcloth.

  “But we must not be selfish!” Lady Preston bubbled. Though they had been chattering incessantly since Lord Worsham's arrival, these were the first words Selina was able to comprehend. “We must give Alex a chance to greet his dear wife.”

  “Ah, yes.” His lordship disentangled himself from his adoring
family and looked directly at Selina for the first time. “Yes, I am most eager to greet my wife. My dear wife . .

  His voice trailed off, and there was a moment of awkward silence before Black Jack Hewson found his

  tongue.

  “Selina!" he barked. “I daresay you are fairly stunned

  with happiness, my dear, but you must give your husband a proper welcome.”

  “My dear wife, Selina," the Earl said smoothly. “And I am sure you will all understand that we should like an interval of privacy. Shall we retire to the library, my love?”

  As she had on the Argonaut, Selina prayed for instant death, but the gods did not choose to oblige her on this occasion either. She struggled to her feet, briefly grasped the table for support, then made her way across the room, pausing to steady herself on every intervening chair. When she reached Lord Worsham’s side, he gave her a solicitous smile and took her arm. No one but she could have been aware that his long fingers were clamped most painfully round her elbow, that he fairly dragged her across the entry hall and unquestionably jerked her into the library on the opposite side. She suspected, however, that the resounding slam of the library door was clearly audible in the dining room and, in fact, throughout the house.

  “Miss Hewson!” The Earl dropped her arm so abruptly that Selina stumbled into an elbow chair just inside the door and nearly tipped it over. “What the deuce are you at?”

  “At,” Selina echoed. She attempted to moisten her lips but discovered that her tongue was equally dry. “I can well conceive, Lord Worsham, that you are highly vexed—”

  “Vexed?” he interposed with elaborate sarcasm. “Now why should I be vexed? I return to England after nearly two years abroad and find a young woman posing as my wife. A young woman I have encountered only once. A young woman who—who . . .” Words ap- parendy failed him: he stalked to the liquor cabinet beside the window, unstopped one of the crystal decanters and poured himself a full glass of brandy.