The Counterfeit Lady_A Regency Romance

by Alina K. Field

  Edie had shed a great deal of light upon Sir Richard’s dwelling and his personal habits. She’d served as a maid until two years past.

  Under MacEwen’s, and later Farnsworth and Fox’s questioning, Scruggs had enlightened them more about the man’s business enterprises, bit by excruciating bit, the questioning sweetened with promises that the Crown would look kindly upon a man who gave evidence against a traitor.

  Clouds had gathered again, thickening the late morning sky to a purple as mottled as the bruise at her throat. The rain was like a slick exhalation of those heavy clouds, and it would soon come heavier, God’s tears or perhaps a demon’s spit.

  She shook off the fanciful thoughts.

  The blouse she’d donned under the stark, servile gray dress helped soak up the wet. The square of Indian cotton she’d borrowed from Jane added another layer against the dampness. As well, it concealed the damage he’d already done and was too bulky for a garrote, should Sir Richard decide to come at her again.

  If he uses his hands, stab him. If he comes from behind, claw his eyes out. If you’re a distance away, shoot him.

  Watch the trigger. Don’t shoot yourself in the leg. Don’t fire too soon.

  As she ran through the lessons Fox and Kincaid had rushed her and Lady Jane through, the manor house came into view. She was traveling gloveless, a blade up her sleeve, a pistol in her pocket, and a bellyful of anger needing revenge.

  And this bloody house looked deserted. No lights in the windows, no smoke in the chimney, though the day was dim enough and chill enough for candles and fire.

  Sir Richard’s manor was a gothic lair. Restoration, perhaps, with chinks in the bricks where the mortar had given up, and windows that held onto thick grime for the extra layer of secrecy. Over the years, Sir Richard had driven off most of his staff, Edie said. The young maids—if they wished to remain maidens—wouldn’t stay. Those left were a collection of the willing and the old.

  A fine dinner party Sir Richard had planned for them—Father as the main course and herself as dessert. And poor Lady Jane. What plans would he have had for a fine-looking woman of her age?

  Kincaid took them through the likeliest archway into a back courtyard. A decrepit brick building—stables or carriage house, it was hard to tell which—stood, its doors closed securely. Broken barrels and rusted farm tools littered the fringes among waist high summer weeds, and not so much as a chicken wandered the mud-puddled yard.

  Bakeley would never allow a Shaldon property to be in this state. The villagers would find plenty of work here once Sir Richard’s heir, whoever that may be, came into possession of this property.

  Which, if she had any say, would be very soon. This very afternoon.

  While Kincaid grunted himself down from his perch favoring the tear in his chest and saw to their horse, Perry slid off, helped Jane and Edie down, and hefted a laden basket from the cart bed.

  Her boots squished in the mud leading up to the kitchen door.

  “Ever so foul,” Lady Jane muttered. “Steward and ’ousekeeper ort to be sacked.”

  “Aye,” Edie said.

  Now they were here, Perry’s insides tingled. She smiled at Lady Jane. In her plain gown and white cap, she could pass for an upper story servant. And what accent was that?

  She reached the door first but waited for Kincaid, as they’d agreed. He tried the latch. It didn’t budge.

  “What the divil,” he said, and winked at them. “No key under a brick somewhere, Edie?”

  “Nay. Never.”

  “Well, then, I’ve a key.” Perry pulled her set of picks from a pocket.

  Kincaid snorted. He surely had his own set hidden somewhere, but he took her basket with his good arm and stepped aside to let her to do the honors.

  As poorly kept as everything else on this manor, the mechanism gave way quickly, flaking off rust when the picks came out.

  Kincaid set his hand over hers on the latch and fixed her with a firm stare. “Allow me.”

  She stepped out of the way and watched the door creak open.

  Kincaid slid a hand under the cloth in the basket for the extra pistol lying there.

  At the back of the property, Fox slipped through the brush as quietly as when he was a young man hunting game in the backwoods of New England. Farnsworth and MacEwen had fanned out, moving with just as much stealth. It seemed that a peer, a Scotsman, and a humble colonial could work together. He hoped so, for Perry’s sake.

  Leaving her to go in alone with the others…his heart stuttered. He’d given into the plan, reluctantly, but he’d make his way through these blasted woods and catch up and—

  A twig cracked, an arm raised, and he ducked just in time, a knife slashing down into the empty air where he’d been standing. He lunged and slapped his hand over a mouth, plunging his own blade into that same spongy place that he’d hit on Harv. This man groaned and writhed and finally stilled.

  Fox turned the assailant over, his stomach rolling with this bundle of bones and sinew. The boy’s chin was pimply and practically hairless. A search turned up no other weapons but the knife, and Fox tucked that away.

  The air rustled and Farnsworth appeared at his side. Two more, he signaled and pointed.

  Fox took one, Farnsworth, the other. These two were older. He and Farnsworth made quick work of them and plunged on.

  Perry needed him. Every moment she stayed on this property, she was in danger.

  He forced himself to focus. She wasn’t alone—Kincaid was crafty, Lady Jane was no ninny hammer, and Perry had weapons. Add to all that, Sir Richard would want to keep her alive, at least for a while.

  They skirted the overgrown green surrounding the manor and cleared the stable buildings, prepared for the worst, but they only encountered several horses and an elderly stable hand who quickly raised his arms in surrender.

  Fox went to work tying him up. “Where are the rest of the hands?”

  A stream of spittle flew past Farnsworth, and Fox paused. It hadn’t been aimed at Farnsworth, he decided. Nor did his lordship look offended. No need to clock this old fellow.

  “Ain’t never enough hands,” the old man grumbled. “And that Harv didna’ bother to come home last night.”

  The words teased a stray thread in Fox’s brain. “Nor will he. Cocked up his boots, he has. And if you’ll be a gentleman, we’ll see you cut loose later, and you won’t wind up like Harv.” He nicked the tie in the old man’s kerchief and pulled the cloth from his neck.

  “How many are in the house?” Farnsworth asked.

  A low, unintelligible grumble rolled out.

  Farnsworth leaned in with enough menace to prevent any more flying spit. “How many?”

  “I don’t know. The squire’s there. And he brought a man with him, and some of his other men from down south. I don’t ask.”

  “How many?”

  “In the house, I don’t know. There be three, out there.” He jerked his head toward the way they’d come and squinted at a spot mottling Farnsworth’s coat. “I reckon you’ve met them already.”

  Farnsworth nodded, and Fox finished gagging the old man with his neck cloth.

  They went out the back way, and came round, sliding along the stable wall, keeping low in the thick weeds.

  Farnsworth signaled and slipped off, heading toward the backside of the house where he’d meet up with both MacEwens.

  Fox inched his way toward the inner court. Across the courtyard, he saw hired servants unloading the cart. Three of them huddled near the door. Another was on her knees in front of it.

  Picking the lock. Fox pulled his hat down, and crept below the first story windows to join them.

  Perry followed Kincaid into the house, her hand in her pocket. A short, ill-kept vestibule led into the kitchen where a low fire burned, and a pot swung from an iron chimney crane.

  Her skin rippled and a touch on her back made her startle, sending her into a panic.

  When she turned her heart calmed. Fox. He�
��d made it safely through the woods.

  She swept a gaze over him and all of the nerves in her arms and her legs tingled. Blood spotted his neck cloth and her gaze raced over him again. He wasn’t injured. Someone had shed blood on him though. He’d had to fight.

  “You’re here then.” A servant looked up from her place in the corner, mob cap pulled low and fat jowls drooping to join the layers at her neck. She must be the cook Edie had spoken of.

  “Old Rose,” Edie said in a breathy tone.

  The servant leaned on a tall central worktable, edging around it.

  Edie was frightened too, though she’d insisted on coming, because, she’d said, Old Rose would need saving.

  “We’re to help with the dinner tonight,” Lady Jane said.

  “Edie,” the cook whispered. “You shouldna be here. He said they be coming. You be taken up with him, the old fool, and then what’s to become of your mam. You shouldna be part of this.”

  “I’m not. I’m here for you.” Edie set her basket on the table and went to the old woman, hugging her. “I’m taking you home for good.” She patted the old woman’s plump arm. “Yes, and I am. He’s gone too far.”

  Fox and Kincaid moved around the perimeter of the room, listening at doors and opening them to peer into corridors and pantries. Fox came out of one closet gripping the collar of a tiny kitchen boy. Rose swept the shaking child up in her arms.

  And she did it noiselessly, Perry noted. The boy was equally silent and the conversations were whispered. The only sound was the creak of the wind hitting the windows. This was a house living in fear deeper than what she was feeling this moment.

  “Where is the Squire, Rose?” Fox asked.

  She slid her eyes toward one of the doors. “I don’t know.”

  “What room did he tell you to stay out of?”

  “I’m the cook. I stay out of all of the rooms.”

  “Your master will hang as a traitor,” Kincaid said. “Those protecting him will, too.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “A traitor?” Rose said. “What’s that? To hear tell, any smuggler is a traitor to the King.”

  “True,” Fox said, “but besides the King, he betrayed the people of Clampton. Scruggs is locked up. Dragoons are rounding up everyone in the village.”

  It was the lie they’d agreed on.

  “But not me,” Edie said, “And not you if you’ll but come with me.”

  Rose wrapped the boy closer in her plump arms. “It has naught to do with us.”

  Kincaid nodded to Fox. “Tie her up then. We’ll have her charged as an accessory to the murder.”

  “Come then, Rose.” Edie put an arm around her. “Come with Edie. We’ll bring your grandson out of here. We’ll take him home where he can chase chickens and play with my cousin’s boy.”

  Fox pulled out a length of rope.

  “Wait.” Perry edged closer. Old Rose smelled of bacon and bread. “Rose, Sir Richard murdered my mother, and my fa-father. Or, perhaps…does he have him upstairs, Rose?”

  The old woman’s face went impossibly pale. She looked like a mound of poked flour ready to crumble.

  Perry touched an arm as soft as bread dough. “Does he, Rose? He’ll murder him soon. And you’re helping him.”

  “Has he killed him already, Rose?” Edie asked.

  A chill rolled down Perry’s back at the matter-of-fact tone. Was murder so common for these people?

  Rose let out a breath. “If ’twere him, he was still alive when I took up the Squire’s breakfast a bit ago. Had a man tied to a chair in the front parlor, the Squire did.”

  “Who else is in the house?” Fox asked.

  “The Squire and some boys he has up from Scarborough.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. None that I needed to feed.”

  “Take them and leave, Edie,” Fox said.

  “We’ll wait in the storeroom,” Edie said.

  “No.” Perry shook her head. “If things don’t go right, he’ll search there first.”

  Fox gave her shoulder a squeeze. “There’s a man in the stable, tied up. If you trust him, take him along, also. Go through the copse and stay off the road.”

  Outside the closed parlor door, they heard faint voices, one man talking, another croaking a response. Perry reached for the door latch, but Fox pulled her into his arms, keeping one eye on the deserted hall.

  Kincaid’s proposal to clear the upstairs first until the others joined them had been overruled, the ladies voting for urgency.

  “Not yet,” Fox whispered. Kincaid and Lady Jane needed time to get down the servant’s corridor skirting the other side of the room and deal with anyone lurking there.

  She frowned up at him, and he squeezed her shoulder. Fear and determination quaked in her. She wanted to get on with this and fight, and he needed just one more moment with her.

  He cradled her head and pressed his lips to hers, trying to convey in as short a time as possible, as much love as possible. He kissed her until she stopped trembling, until a thread of annoyance crept into her gaze, and then he stepped back and nudged her away from the door.

  Be damned if she was going to die today.

  He turned the latch on the door.

  Locked. Hell.

  Perry went to her knees and began working. She was good at this task, much better than he was. Picking locks had never been a necessity for his kind of spying.

  A shot rang out, muffled, and someone screamed. Perry’s fingers slipped, the picks clanging as they fell. On the other side, a key scraped and the latch turned.

  Perry snatched the fallen picks as she rolled away and shoved them back into her pocket, her skirts tangling. Air whooshed over her and the door crashed into something solid.

  Fox had gone over her. She scrambled to her feet, pulling her pistol.

  Inside, a melee had erupted. Fox rolled on the floor with a man, knives flashing as they held each other off, and Kincaid struggled with Sir Richard. A body lay stretched on the floor.

  Panic rising, she finally spotted Lady Jane bent over an overturned chair with a man tied to it.

  She ran to help.

  “Stop wriggling, Shaldon,” Lady Jane said.

  “We’ll get you out, Papa.” Perry knelt and set the pistol down on a corner of worn carpet.

  Father’s arms came loose and he yanked at the rope tying his ankles. The front of his shirt was sodden and dripping. “Go and lock the door, Perry,” he wheezed. “Two more in the house. Cut these ties, Jane dear.”

  As she ran to the door, Fox took one valiant slash, his man falling and almost tripping her. Kincaid had Sir Richard against the wall, but the big Scotsman was injured, one of his arms a limp wing. Fox ran to help.

  She threw all of her weight against the door, snicking it to, but the keyhole was empty. She scanned the surrounding floor.

  There. By an overturned urn.

  Perry scrambled for it and shoved the key in the lock. Lady Jane clutched Father with one hand and Kincaid with the other, the three of them stumbling toward the servant’s door. Fox had Sir Richard by the scruff.

  “We want him alive,” Father called.

  “Go,” Fox called. “We’re right behind you. Perry, go with them.”

  “In a minute.” Before she could turn the key, the door opened, smacking her back, her head cracking against the wall. Stars flashed in her vision and she slid to the floor.

  Chapter 33

  A dull ache drummed in the back of her head, rolling down to her neck. Perry opened her eyes and blinked, clearing her vision.

  Her stomach rolled and bile rose. This dark chamber was Sir Richard’s drawing room and…she looked down…she was seated in the same worn chair her father had vacated.

  She wiggled her hands and her toes. Still working, and she wasn’t bound.

  A loud thwack pulled her attention across the room and her blood roared.

  “Stop that,” she yelled.

  Sir Richard t
urned.

  The loud drumming in her head picked up, making her shake. Fox slumped in another chair, tied and gagged. Sir Richard stood by him, his shirt and hands bloodied.

  “Awake are you, mishy?”

  She remembered. She’d been about to lock the door when it slapped open and knocked her back.

  He waved a hand and a short barrel of a man limped from the corner. Only two bodies littered the floor and she recognized neither. Fox must have felled one of the new intruders, and this one was the only one to survive. Father and Jane and Kincaid must have escaped.

  They would send help. She and Fox must stay alive.

  Sir Richard approached and she stumbled to her feet, reaching into her pockets. Her pistols were gone. Her knife also. She’d left the pistol on the floor but she’d seen it in Father’s hand when he left.

  “Looking for the pishtol?” Sir Richard’s eyes glittered. His mouth was twisted, his jaw swollen, and one eye blackened. Either Fox or Kincaid had done that damage, bless them. “Bringing pistols and knives into my home, Felicity?”

  Her skin slithered and crawled. It wasn’t pain making his eyes glitter, it was insanity.

  Little bolts of panic sparked through her and her chest tightened. Battered or not, nothing was stronger than a madman, and the henchman looked hale. He’d escaped any knife, or bullet, or fist aimed at him.

  And Fox couldn’t help her, tied up as he was.

  Perhaps they hadn’t found the daggers in her boots. She wiggled her ankles. The warm steel still crowded them. She shoved her hand deeper into her pocket.

  And she still had the picks she had scrabbled from the floor.

  She opened her mouth and said “Perpetua,” but it came out like a squawk.

  “Frightened, are you?” Sir Richard’s smile revealed bloody gums where a tooth had gone missing. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Fox or Kincaid had done that. A laugh bubbled up in her, bringing bravado with it.

  She cleared her throat. “I said, Perpetua.”

  His gaze traveled the walls behind her. “Oh, aye, Felicity and Perpetua.”

  “Yours is quite an unrestful manor, Sir Richard.”