The Counterfeit Lady_A Regency Romance

by Alina K. Field

Unsophisticated rustics, indeed. The folk in these wild parts had engaged in the free trade for generations. They were cagey, and cool, and clever. Even this child was shrewd. And they were all good with secrets. She had merely frightened one out of him.

  She could say she was a guest, at Scarborough perhaps, riding distance from here. And there was that baronet in the neighborhood who might host a guest.

  “It is a secret,” she said, buying time. “Come. I’ve given you all my biscuits. Now you must give Chestnut a scratch.”

  Distracted, he drew closer. The horse dipped its head, eyed the boy, and nosed him.

  “It wants its apple,” he said.

  Perry pulled it from her pocket and handed it to him to present, a smile blooming on his lips at the tickle of the horse’s mouth.

  The smile warmed her. While Chestnut ate, he lifted a hand to stroke the horse, and Perry felt his delight all the way to her bones.

  “I have an idea.” She tossed the reins over the horse’s head and took his hand. “Let’s have a ride.”

  She tossed him up into the saddle, found a boulder to mount from, and hoisted herself up behind him. As Chestnut stepped out, the boy’s stiff, startled little body relaxed against her. She nudged the mare into a trot and the boy’s laugh sent a thrill through her.

  When Fox entered the inn, the murmurs fell to a hush and then resumed again, more subdued. The groggy-eyed locals had crawled out after a few hours of sleep, done whatever chores their women had forced upon them, and found their way here to get orders from Scruggs.

  Nodding a greeting all around, he ordered a pint and looked around for a place to settle. The benches and stools held scattered groups of two or three men. Four other men sat apart at a table, hands gripping their tankards, gazes locked on him.

  Outsiders, he’d guess from the glances the locals darted. Carvelle’s reliable men, perhaps. Not likely to worry about a ghost, not likely to talk where locals or another outsider could hear.

  No one invited him to join them. Not surprising, since last year a smuggler from this area named John Black had been transported based on the tales told by loose lips.

  “May I?” He pulled a free chair from a table where two men sat and dragged it closer to the hearth, dead on this summer’s afternoon. From this vantage point, he could watch the room and the doors, and dip into the conversations bubbling around him. Carvelle was not here, at least, not in this room.

  The two men whose chair he’d lifted whispered. One, a sandy-haired fellow, was already drunk. From the yellow tone of his skin, he’d been drunk since last night, or last week, or maybe even last month. The brown-haired friend made shushing noises.

  His skin prickled. He recognized that shushing.

  Fox nodded to them. “No rain today yet,” he said in his best Eton accent. He was playing a bereaved secretary who’d just come into an inheritance.

  The sandy-haired one’s eyes widened. “Ye’re the tenant up at Gorse Cottage?”

  “I am.”

  Hair lifted along his neck, the ripple continuing down between his shoulder blades. For certain this was the ghost-believing Davy and his shushing friend, the men who knew who had killed Lady Shaldon.

  Davy opened his mouth to say more, but the tap room door opened again and another man entered. Just like the others, Fox swung his gaze to him.

  Chapter 14

  A hale fellow this was, tall, well-fed, his gray hair tied into an old-fashioned queue under his old-fashioned tricorne. He was well-dressed and well-shod also, in the woolens and high boots of a hunting squire. The maid curtsied and ran to tap him a tankard, his order unspoken. The murmuring started up again.

  He was a regular, and welcome, but not a mate to any of these men. Rheumy eyes under bushy dark brows scanned the room and landed on Fox.

  His gut, so rarely wrong, matched a name to the beefy red face. This was the local squire, Sir Richard Fenwick.

  Not, he decided, a mere tolerant recipient of bribes. He was a partner to Scruggs in the free trade. Was he also a partner to Carvelle?

  The man headed straight for Fox, the strong ale sloshing onto his sleeves, splashing his boots and the poorly-swept floor.

  “Goodfellow, is it?”

  Fenwick cast a glance at Davy and his friend. They lifted their hats, drained their tankards, and cleared out.

  “Ah, boys, thank you, thank you. How’s your young Pip, Davy? Gaz, your mother? Join me, Goodfellow?” Without waiting for answers, he plopped on a chair.

  Fox swallowed a frustrated sigh. Instead of asking questions, he’d be dodging them.

  Fenwick got right to it. “How come you to take Shaldon’s cottage, Goodfellow? Friends of the family, eh?” He chugged a drink. “Oh, beg your pardon. I’m Richard Fenwick. Sir Richard. Baronet.” He grinned stiffly. “Minor, very minor compared to the Earl, isn’t it? But I get on well enough. Friend of the family, are you?”

  “Not at all. I’m a simple tenant. Happy to make your acquaintance, Sir Richard.”

  “Is that so? From these parts?”

  “No. The Midlands and then elsewhere. My father was a factor for a large estate up north.” True enough, though his father hadn’t been in service—the estate was his own, and north was in North America.

  “In the same line of work, were you?”

  “No. I worked as a secretary.” Also true; when he was sixteen.

  “Indeed. For some great lord?”

  The nosey lout. “No.”

  “Here on holiday, are you?”

  “You might say. I lost my employer and gained a small inheritance. And with the spectacle of the coronation, it’s a good time to be out of London.”

  “You worked there?”

  “Some of the time.”

  Sir Richard considered that and grunted. “Detest the place, myself.” He called for another tankard. “Lonely up there at Gorse Cottage, are you?” His gaze went to the fireplace.

  “I enjoy the solitude.”

  Sir Richard did not immediately respond, caught up in some vision that made him frown more deeply.

  Time for some probing of his own. “I understand from the estate agent it was a favorite haunt of the Earl’s wife.”

  Sir Richard’s gaze came up flashing in what looked to be anger, quickly masked. “Foolish rumors.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rumors of hauntings.”

  “Ghosts? I only meant—”

  “Felicity is dead. She’s not coming back.” Sir Richard swept a hand over his face.

  “Do you mean Lady Shaldon?”

  “Lady Shaldon.” Eyes simmering with strong emotion, he took a quick swig, frowning.

  “I heard that Lady Shaldon had died. Was her death tragic then? That’s how most rumors of hauntings get started, I’ve found.”

  Sir Richard’s mouth and fists tightened.

  Fox leaned closer. “Not that I believe a bit in ghosts.”

  “Sir Richard.” The voice calling was Scruggs’, and none too subservient, as if the men were equals. Which perhaps they were—equals in crime.

  “We’ll speak again.” The Baronet’s chair squealed as he stood.

  An hour and another pint later, having learned nothing more, Fox gave the gelding its head and dashed back on this well-trod path across the high Yorkshire moor. The villagers kept it up for the carts and donkeys they occasionally used for their hauls, and the footing was good.

  Tomorrow, he’d send MacEwen to Charley. MacEwen could make the trip in one day, arrange for a message to go on to London, and be back to Gorse Cottage in one more day. Shaldon might be busy with King George, but his son could come and help out. It would take one of Perry’s brothers to blast her out of here, and if they could keep her visit secret, she wouldn’t be forced to marry some titled fool for the sake of her reputation.

  His fists tightened around the reins. The thought of her lying under some lout like Sir Richard…

  No. He had to push that picture away. He was not the man
for her, and she should not be here. More than her reputation was in danger. Under Sir Richard’s fat, affable facade was a man he couldn’t quite pin down. Involved with Scruggs, most certainly, if only to turn a blind eye. Was he also attached to Carvelle?

  Charley might know more about the man. If Lady Shaldon had been from these parts, the families might have been acquainted. Though he had no idea whether Sir Richard kept a wife and children at home. He should have asked that question.

  Nearing the cliffs and the turn-off to Gorse Cottage, he spotted a distant rider to the south, stark against the horizon. He pulled his spyglass from his pocket.

  Two riders sat atop the one horse. A long leg stretched from under a skirt of the palest green. One leg. The body seated in front was much smaller, the jacket and trousers much darker.

  He cursed. MacEwen had been tasked with keeping Perry at home. They’d even hidden her sidesaddle, so of course, she’d be riding astride. And where the hell had she found a boy child?

  As he spurred his horse, Chestnut shied, and they spotted him. The boy started to leap, and she caught him in time, handing him down to dart off through the brush toward town.

  Perry turned her horse and cantered to him. Her bonnet had knocked back and loose curls framed her face. She looked windswept and fresh and astonishingly lovely. The perfect target for any man happening to wander by.

  He slowed the gelding, trying to freeze the picture into his memory. He wouldn’t paint it, not now, not until after he’d returned to America.

  He stopped, tried to slow his heart, tried to beat back the urge to pull her down from the horse and onto the ground. Her skirts were already up. His gaze traced the lines of her lovely legs. Was she wearing pantalettes? They were in fashion now, but that hadn’t always been the case.

  She pulled her horse up alongside him.

  The bounce of her breasts meant she had dispensed with her stays. Pulse pounding, blood flowing like liquid heat straight to his loins, he lifted his hat. “Out for a ride?”

  She moved closer. “You owe me explanations.”

  “About the saddle—”

  “No. No, Fox. Not the saddle. I am not wholly an idiot. I worked that one out easily enough.” She spoke through tense lips, as if the words caused her pain. “And I’ll have no more of your diversions and distractions.” She raised her fist.

  “Who was that boy?”

  “No. No diversions. I will ask the questions, and you will answer them.”

  Dear Perry. He looked around. “If that boy was here, there could be others. Can we go back to the cottage to talk?”

  She nodded, tersely, and edged out of his way. “After you.”

  He pulled up alongside her. “We’ll go together.”

  Chapter 15

  Fox watched Perry pace the Turkish carpet of the drawing room, face locked into a mask of perfect aplomb. By the time they’d returned to the stables and seen to their horses, the afternoon had advanced into evening. Jenny was in the kitchen preparing dinner, with help from MacEwen, and neither would be underfoot for Perry’s interrogation of him.

  She’d come down from her high horse to this blandness. Someone had managed a bit of progress in molding her into a tractable woman suitable for marriage. The thought vaguely depressed him, but he comforted himself with the notion that they hadn’t quite succeeded, else she wouldn’t be here.

  And her hands, gripped at her slim waist, showed the passionate woman inside, the woman he’d seen blossoming ten years earlier.

  He unclenched his own fists. “Won’t you take a seat?”

  If she sat, he wouldn’t be so tempted to go to her, to take her into his arms.

  She nodded and seated herself like a queen, perching on the edge of a wing chair, back as straight as the paneled wall. Her stony compliance was a deeper cut than any physical blow.

  He deserved it, didn’t he? Where Perry was concerned, he always deserved it. He turned the matching chair to face hers and sat down.

  I will ask the questions, you will answer them, she’d said.

  Or not. He lounged back in the chair and waited.

  “What really happened to my mother, Fox?” she asked, her voice tense.

  The question brought him up. Where the devil had it come from?

  She’s back to get the ones as threw her over the cliff…

  “I don’t truly know, Perry.” That wasn’t a lie. He couldn’t say more based on the words of a drunken free trader. “I heard that her coach went off the road.”

  “Was it this road, the cliff road leading to Gorse Cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  She put a hand to her heart and swallowed hard. “How? What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fox, was she murdered?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Fox.” Her face bloomed with color.

  He hated this, hated the pain he was causing her. “I truly don’t know, not for certain. What did the boy tell you?”

  “That someone came, threw her over the cliff, and bashed her b-brains out.” Her hands knotted together, and he felt the clenching in his own heart.

  He couldn’t leave her thinking her mother died so dreadfully. “Oh, Perry. I don’t know that it happened like that. That might be a story the locals made up to keep outsiders away.”

  “Then how did it happen?”

  He went onto his knees and took her knotted hands. “I wasn’t here. I don’t truly know. I’d guess your father doesn’t either. I was told she was in the carriage returning to Cransdall, and…” He shook his head. “The wheel came off, or the axle broke. The carriage jumped that narrow road and fell onto the rocks below.”

  Was she thrown over? The picture was too terrible.

  “How?” Her voice had gone small. “Mother always kept everything in prime order. And it wouldn’t have been sabotage. She had guards around her, always. Father insisted. His work was so dangerous. He had so many enemies.”

  He released her and got to his feet, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s possible the coach was tampered with. The guards had left with your father.”

  Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. The longing to kiss her astonishment away, to stop the questioning, was almost overpowering. She’d known nothing of this. How could her father and brothers not have told her?

  How to tell the rest? How to say that Lady Shaldon’s death had been in a way his fault?

  She gripped the chair arms. “My father took her guards and went away?”

  “Yes.” His insides churned, nerves flaring with the memory of unbearable pain, inflicted by a noble barbarian who’d smelled like a Covent Garden whore.

  He took a deep breath. That was all behind him. “He was supposed to accompany your mother to Cransdall. He should have been in that carriage also. Instead, he left with the others and went back to the Continent.” Cold and heat came together on his skin. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide the shaking.

  She pushed out of the chair and came nearer, within his reach, peering up at his face. “Go on.”

  “Your father had been captured and held for a ransom and not well-treated either. Your mother…organized…the payment and came here to make the arrangements for delivery, and to meet him when he was returned.” He gripped her elbows. “You did not know any of this, Perry?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “The ransom was delivered. Your father…arrived here.”

  And in between had been a whole world of events.

  He took a deep breath. Beaten and bedraggled as Shaldon had been, his arrival must have left Lady Shaldon ready for a fight.

  Perry had so much of her mother in her. He swept a thumb over her smooth skin. “Several days later, he returned to the Continent.”

  She frowned. “But why?”

  And now they came to it. “To rescue the man who delivered the ransom.”

  “From the kidnapper?”

  “No. From the French.”
<
br />   “It wasn’t the French who held my father?”

  His nerves roared with an unquenched need for revenge. He understood Shaldon and his quest. He knew what the man was about to his core. He knew why he’d not shared this with his children. All three—no, four including his by-blow―would have piled into his captor at the first opportunity and slashed him to bits.

  He shook his head. “Not at first. It was a Spaniard. A French collaborator.”

  Her eyes lit and her mouth worked like she was tasting something foul. “The Duque de San Sebastian. He’s in London for the coronation. I’m glad Charley cuckolded him.”

  He couldn’t help laughing. His spunky girl had emerged.

  No, not his spunky girl. He dropped his hands and took a step back. She wasn’t his girl at all, and he must remember that.

  “My brother Bink fought on the Peninsula and said the Spanish nobility were mostly spineless traitors. The Duque knew mother had stacks of money. How much was the ransom?”

  “He didn’t want just money.”

  “But the ransom—”

  “He wanted the painting. Your mother’s masterpiece. The painting of Perpetua and Felicity.”

  Her mouth dropped open and a wave of crimson lit her cheeks. “I thought you’d stolen it.”

  Sweat tickled his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “In a way, Perry, I did.”

  He opened the French door to a sharp breeze. Outside, below them, the waves bashed themselves on those rocks, those bloody rocks that had taken Lady Shaldon’s life. Fox sucked in a great lungful of air, remembering.

  Through tense days and nights, he had painted, frantically, furiously. During the day, he brushed the contours of Lady Shaldon’s strong face and elegant form, trying to smooth out the worry lines on the canvas, trying to remember the composure of her expression before the news of the capture had arrived.

  At night—he must have started the copy a dozen times, frustrated and frantic to get all the subtleties of lighting right—and everything else, down to the back of the canvas and the peculiar markings along the edge. An exact replica would be his gift to the woman who had shown him much kindness.