The Notorious Lady Anne: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sharon Cullen

  “Me, meddle? I’m insulted.” The wounded expression on Patrick’s face belied the wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  Laughing at the foul comment Stephen hissed in his ear, Patrick lifted both hands in surrender, his demeanor once again serious.

  “All I’m saying is that I quite liked that ‘old goat’ as you so delicately put it, and because I was one of the last to see him alive I feel in some way connected to him. Something about the countess does not seem right, and if she is a charlatan I will expose her as one.”

  “Well, if you want to investigate further I suggest you make haste to put your name on her dance card, as her circle is forming,” Stephen urged.

  With a look of distaste, Patrick eyed the men moving to intercept the countess and then pushed off the wall to join their ranks.

  “I feel like a piece of raw meat being hurled to the ravaging masses, Letty,” the Countess of Monmouth murmured out the side of her mouth to the lady resplendent in puce walking beside her. “Even after two weeks, my heart is thumping out of the bodice of my very low-cut dress.”

  “Now, Sophie, we have been through this already. Your dress is conservative when compared with others on display, and very pretty, too.”

  Sophie concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Lady Letitia Carstairs made small comforting noises as she guided Sophie through the crowds.

  “I feel as if someone is going to scream ‘Charlatan!’ from the rooftops, while pointing a finger at me,” Sophie whispered as a familiar feeling of impending doom once again gripped her.

  “Only three people know, Sophie, and one of those is dead and the other two are you and I, my dear. Surely you can see we are not about to be found out, and on that note, what we did was perfectly legal, so stop worrying.” Letty once again patted Sophie’s hand. This was a soothing gesture she did numerous times every night to her young companion.

  “And the priest, Letty, we cannot forget him.”

  “He is a man of God, Sophie, he will tell no one.”

  “Dear lord! It’s him, and he’s coming my way,” Sophie gasped, her eyes watching the Earl of Coulter as he walked through the crowd toward her.

  What was it about the man that disturbed her? Whenever he turned those dark eyes on her, she felt as if they could see right down to her very soul. Black as a starless night and fringed by thick lashes, they could make a woman swoon when they were lit by laughter. The earl moved with an athletic grace that was often lacking in tall men, and anyone in his way simply stepped aside to allow him access.

  Instinctively, Sophie shuffled two steps closer to Letty. He unsettled her and she was unsure why. It was almost as if beneath that polished veneer lay the real earl, a ruthless man who would not hesitate to expose an imposter like her. Her cloak of practiced, icy civility always seemed to slip whenever he was nearby.

  “So he is, my dear.” Letty patted her curls and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. “Smile now and remember to speak slowly and without profanity,” she chided. “Never forget that you have them all fooled, my dear. Why just yesterday, I overheard Mrs. Liversporth scolding her daughter for her deplorable lack of polish and holding you up as a paragon of bearing,” Letty said, giggling like a schoolroom miss. “It is a quite a feat, considering not a day goes by without you tripping over your feet or tearing a hem.”

  “I am glad that you can find some amusement in this horrible situation. Every evening I am sure that I will fall down the stairs of whatever room we are entering and land at the feet of every affluent member of society with my skirts up over my head, showing the polite world my knickers.”

  “Now, dear, you know that is not going to happen. Rather a miracle, really, you being able to hold yourself so still that it appears you barely draw breath. Quite a clever trick, considering …”

  “Oh lord! He is getting closer,” Sophie interrupted Letty by grabbing the older woman’s arm—wanting desperately to run and hide.

  For two years they had lived a life that she had no right to be part of, and each day she waited for someone to expose her. Lately, Sophie believed the Earl of Coulter would be that person. Staring at his elegantly clad form as he drew near, she was sure he suspected something.

  “Lady Carstairs, Countess, as always it is my pleasure to see you this evening.” The earl bowed deeply before them.

  His expression was composed, facial features pleasant, yet to Sophie it seemed he could see right through her to the scared, poverty-stricken girl she had once been. She looked at the top of his sable brown curls, which he wore unfashionably long, the ends brushing his large shoulders. Everything about the earl was big, thought Sophie, eyeing his hands as they reached for one of Letty’s. He stood well over six feet and his feet could squash both of hers without too much effort. Sophie shivered, suddenly feeling like a very small fly in the presence of a large spider. His cheekbones were high and wide and his nose long, but not overly so. His jaw was square and the slash of a dimple in his cheek did little to deviate from the picture of intense masculine beauty.

  Patrick lifted first Lady Carstairs’s hand and then that of the countess to his lips; the telltale tremor in the latter revealed how his presence unsettled her.

  “Lady Carstairs, I was just telling Lord Sumner how I had the pleasure of seeing your brother three days before his passing, and that it is a memory I will always treasure,” Patrick said, with just the right amount of respect in his voice.

  “Yes, Melton told me of your visit, my lord.” Letty had a soft smile on her face. “It pleased him greatly to see you one last time; he cared for your grandmother deeply.”

  Three days! Oh dear, this was not good. Lowering her eyes to the Earl of Coulter’s slate and ivory satin waistcoat, Sophie fought for calm.

  “I did not have the pleasure of seeing you there, Countess, or the current earl, your son.”

  Sophie’s tongue quite suddenly seemed to swell to twice its normal size, thereby blocking anything articulate from leaving her mouth. “Ah … ah,” she stammered.

  “Indeed, my lord, my sister-in-law and nephew were visiting a friend with me at that time. I am very fond of them both,” Letty said steadily, her eyes never leaving the earl’s face. Patrick had the distinct impression that he had just been warned off by Lady Carstairs, for there was a decidedly militant look in her faded blue eyes.

  “Ah of course, well, that explains their absence then,” he replied in an appeasing tone, not believing a word the old lady said but choosing to leave the matter alone, for now.

  Patrick once again smiled, noting that the countess had gone very still. She seemed very uncertain and gripped by a sort of fear as she drew herself inward and appeared almost statuelike.

  “May I have this dance, Countess?” he asked noticing her admirers closing in from both sides.

  “Of course, my lord,” Sophie said, relieved that she did not stutter.

  Even her voice was pure sin, Patrick thought. She spoke in a soft little growl that made all his senses stand to attention. She did not possess the cultured drawl that others affected. Leading her onto the floor, he was pleased when the first strains of a waltz floated through the air. Swinging her into his arms Patrick used unnecessary force and was rewarded with her soft body pressing against his.

  “Excuse me, my lord, I … um slipped.” Sophie placed her hands on his chest to lever herself backward. Muscles clenched beneath her fingers and she quickly drew them back. Even through her evening gloves, she could feel the heat from his solid chest.

  “The fault was mine, Countess, please accept my apologies.”

  Sophie lowered her head and concentrated on the shiny buttons of his waistcoat. He was toying with her—there was a knowing gleam in his eyes. The man had a way of reducing her to a mass of quivering nerves in seconds. Find your backbone, Sophie, she could hear Letty’s voice inside her head.

  Patrick had an urge to wind one of her black satin curls around his fingers; he wanted to explore the scent and textu
re of it.

  “How does your son fare here in London, Countess?” He could almost believe her free of treachery when she looked at him with such an innocent expression in her beautiful eyes. The deep green of leaves after rainfall, they appeared clear of deceit. He waited for her to offer a polite but singular comment in reply to his question, as was her standard response to most questions.

  “He is well, my lord. His aunt and I took him on his first London adventure,” she said, offering him a wide smile. “Yesterday we visited the museum and Gunter’s Tea Shop, I fear Gunter’s, with its delicious iced delicacies, was by far the best treat.”

  Patrick realized this was the first time he had seen such a look of joy on her face. It was also the first time he had noted her dimples, which told him she did not laugh freely. Rarely had he heard more than a few words spill from her lips. Obviously, the love she felt for her son was very real.

  “He is very lucky to have such a caring mother, Countess.” Patrick watched the smile fall from her lips as he spoke.

  “It is I who am lucky, my lord; both Timothy and Lady Carstairs are very special to me.”

  Another warning; Patrick noted the flicker of anger in her eyes. What was she hiding? He would find out—that was never in doubt. Patrick had spied for the Foreign Office and had been very good at his job. By comparison, discovering the countess’s secrets should not be overly taxing. Spinning her in a turn, he felt her evening slipper land on top of his shoe.

  “Forgive me, my lord!”

  He had noticed that dancing was something she did well, yet was not comfortable with, as if she had only been doing it for a short time.

  “The fault was mine, Countess,” he said, steadying her. He had caught her counting steps at the Belton soiree three nights ago. She, of course, had responded to his raised brow of inquiry with the elevation of one haughty eyebrow of her own and then had continued dancing beautifully, making him wonder if he had imagined the entire episode. Patrick almost applauded the air of disdain. He had noted the slight tilt of her head to avoid direct eye contact when she was uncomfortable. She spoke only when necessary, and then as little as possible. The countess was an accomplished actress, but Patrick was not fooled. He might want her in his bed, but that did not alter the fact that she was a charlatan and he was going to expose her as such.

  “I would be honored if you would allow me to take you driving through the park on Wednesday afternoon, Countess.” Patrick tightened his grip as she stumbled again.

  “I … ah …”

  “Excellent.” As if he had commanded it, the music ceased and Patrick quickly led her back to Lady Carstairs.

  “Thank you, my lord, for the dance,” Sophie said, finally finding her voice.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Countess.”

  “I am afraid I must decline your invitation for Wednesday afternoon …”

  “What invitation, my dear?” Letty asked, joining her sister-in-law and instinctively placing her hand in Sophie’s.

  “I have invited the countess to come driving with me on Wednesday, Lady Carstairs.”

  “Oh, but of course you must go, my dear,” Letty urged, completely oblivious to Sophie’s distress.

  “B-but did we not promise to take Timmy to the park on Wednesday?”

  “I will take Timmy,” Letty said firmly. “We will look forward to your visit, my lord. You may call for Sophie at two o’clock.”

  Patrick smiled, then bowed and walked away.

  “Calls to mind a large jungle cat, all feral grace and beauty,” Letty whispered.

  “He suspects something, Letty, I am sure of it,” Sophie chewed her bottom lip.

  “Stop gnawing on your lip, dear. He may suspect, but what can he do? My brother died two years ago and shortly before that he married you. We have the certificate to prove it and even the powerful Earl of Coulter can do little to change that and why would he bother?” Squeezing Sophie’s hand, she continued. “I think it is you he is interested in and that makes you nervous, and who would not be when confronted by such a man. Why, he makes me feel quite heated all over.”

  “Letty, you are wicked.”

  “I may be old, child, however I am not dead.”

  “Old,” Sophie scoffed. “I think you use that as an excuse when you wish to manipulate me.”

  Laughing, Letty merely waved her fingers at Sophie and walked toward her friend Lady Beatrice Bottomley. Her parting words caused Sophie’s lips to twitch. “So my late husband often told me, dear. Now get ready, you are about to have company … lots of it.”

  Soon Sophie’s hand was claimed and she was quite content to dance each set; at least then she barely had to speak and could do little to trip herself up should a difficult question arise.

  Read on for an excerpt from Juliet Rosetti’s

  The Escape Diaries

  The Escape Diaries :

  A Guide to Breaking Out of Prison

  Escape tip #1:

  Be prepared.

  Actually I wasn’t prepared at all. I just wanted to go to bed. I was tired and cranky, sweat was puddling between my boobs, and my armpits smelled like sprouting onions. Deodorant cost one ninety-five at the prison canteen, well beyond the means of someone who earned ten cents an hour. Given a choice between M&Ms or Mennen, I’d pick the sweet and live with the stink. Repulsive, yes—but chocolate is what gets you through the day, and no one else smells any better.

  If I’d stuck to chocolate, things might have turned out differently. But I had a leftover cough drop from a bout with bronchitis, and when my cellmate, Tina Sanchez, developed a tickly throat, I gave her the cough drop. Just being a pal, right?

  Wrong. You’re supposed to return unused medications to the medical director. The staff tracks pharmaceuticals the way the CIA tracks yellow cake in the Middle East. A cellblock officer caught the menthol scent on Tina’s breath and wrote her up for taking a nonprescription drug. Since I was the one who’d dished out the illicit substance, I was written up, too. Along with a bunch of other drug offenders—aspirin pushers, Alka-Seltzer peddlers, and Midol dealers—Tina and I were sentenced to garden detail.

  Not exactly the Bataan death march in a suburban peas and petunias plot, but Taycheedah’s gardens are a whole different chunk of real estate. Looking out over them is like gazing at the Great Plains; you wouldn’t be surprised to see buffalo and buzzards roaming around out there.

  The first days of September had been sunny and hot, and in the perverse way of growing things, every tomato on six acres had ripened on the same day. Ten thousand of the squishy red things, demanding to be handpicked before thunderstorms swept through and turned them into salsa. We picked. And picked. And picked some more. All morning, all afternoon, and into early evening. When it got to be five o’clock I thought we’d be dismissed for dinner. But no-o. You do the crime, you do the time: that was the warden’s motto. The kitchen staff sent out sandwiches and bottles of water and we ate sitting cross-legged in the dirt. Then we hauled ourselves to our feet and went back to work.

  My spine was an archipelago of ache, my skin felt scalded, and my teeth were filmed with bugs. The rank, catnippy odor of tomatoes clung to my clothes. I straightened and stretched at the end of my gazillionth row, rubbing my back and anxiously scanning the sky to the west, which had turned the pus-yellow of a fading bruise. The air was thick enough to stir with a spoon. Crickets chirped storm warnings. Lightning flickered in a raft of distant clouds.

  Lightning terrified me. I glanced uneasily at the officer on duty, hoping she’d let the tomatoes go to mush and order us back inside. She didn’t. She just yawned, leaning against a tree, staring glassily into space. Obviously, distant lightning wasn’t high on her list of concerns.

  “Did you know that lightning can strike as far as ten miles away?” I said to Tina, who was picking on the opposite side of my row.

  “So what?” Tina scoffed. “Your chances of getting hit by lightning are less than winning the Powerball.”

&n
bsp; “You’ve got it backward.” The heat was making me cranky. It was Tina’s fault I was on this gulag detail in the first place. “The odds against winning the Powerball are greater than your chances of being struck by lightning.”

  “I ain’t never won the lottery and I ain’t never got hit by lightning neither, so that proves my point.”

  Tina’s logic made my brain hurt. I opened my mouth to explain her faulty reasoning, which would probably have resulted in Tina’s giving me a mashed tomato facial, but at that moment a siren began to wail. I nearly jumped out of my sweat-streaked skin. Dropping my tomatoes, I clapped my hands over my ears.

  “Is that the escape siren?” I asked.

  “No, you goober. That’s the tornado siren.”

  Tornado? My stomach did a roller-coaster dip. Tornadoes scared me even worse than lightning. What were you supposed to do? In grade school we’d had to practice tornado drills, crouching under our desks with our arms over our heads and our butts in the air. By the time the drill ended, our classroom smelled like a cauliflower factory.

  The guard–snapped out of her heat-induced stupor, blew a whistle, and bellowed, “All right, everybody, form up in a line. We’re returning to the main unit. Inside, you will proceed to your designated—”

  A galloping wind drowned out her voice, bowled over the tomato plants, and hurled leaves through the air like green rain. The storm blitzed in faster than anyone could have expected. Thunder shook the ground and a zag of lightning split the sky. The mercury vapor lamps that lit the grounds exploded, plunging us into murky gloom.

  Disoriented, I grabbed onto Tina and we bumbled around, tripping over vines, squishing tomato guts underfoot, trying to catch our breaths against the scouring gale. The air sizzled with electricity and my hair stood on end. The wind worked itself into a tantrum and slammed us along, Tina’s long braid whipping against my face until she was whirled one way and I was hurled another. I smacked up against the wall of the greenhouse and stepped in a load of peat moss from an overturned wheelbarrow.