The Notorious Countess

by Liz Tyner

  ‘I do like to bring order to things,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Ah...’ The tension left the duke’s glare, melting away as he examined his brother’s face. ‘Yes. I see... This aberration of your nature makes sense now. I beg your pardon for being concerned. Foxworthy took us by surprise when he showed up at the door, insisting you were deeply besotted by this woman. I should have known, Fox is hardly a reliable source. And you have always wanted to correct— How many properties have you redone now?’

  Andrew knew the connection his brother was making. ‘She is perfect as she is. A bit high-spirited, but that is a refreshing change in my life. I am not trying to remake her. I am merely trying to help others see her as she is.’

  The words he said reverberated in his head. He was not trying to help others see her as she was. How untrue. But as he wished her to be. She had sensed that at the theatre, he was certain. And how unfair, to try to change her. What a disrespect to Beatrice.

  It would be best for her if he left her to her own devices. To try to change someone only led to resentment. His father had wanted Andrew to accept his devotion to his mistress. Andrew could not. He could not accept the betrayal to his mother.

  But he would have to see Beatrice again and not only because of his agreement to let her paint him. He could not walk from her life without telling her goodbye.

  His brother nodded. ‘I see.’ Then he raised his hand to the painting hanging above the mantel—a peaceful reproduction of a meandering stream in a forest—and with his fingertip, he nudged the corner a bit. Then he appraised Andrew and smiled. The painting was now askew.

  Andrew did not move. Irritation flowed into him and his brother was well aware.

  The duke nodded. ‘I suppose I should collect Mother and Fox. I have a lot of work waiting on me and did not plan on traipsing about, but Fox spoke with Mother first and convinced her that we must save you from the clutches of this woman.’

  Andrew raised a brow. ‘Did he do so in that way of seeming to be all concern and family heartiness?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Some day, someone is going to rearrange that face of his into a series of black-and-blue knots. It will break my heart to see such a thing. I will have to close my eyes while I do it.’

  ‘You’d best hurry if you wish to be first to throttle him.’ The duke laughed. ‘But don’t concern yourself with our dear cousin. That Fox has been in too many chicken pens to remain unscathed for ever.’

  ‘We should not leave him alone with Mother too long,’ Andrew said. ‘He’s sure to remember something we don’t wish for her to know.’

  ‘In the carriage, he talked Mother into a trip to Somerset House as well. He thinks viewing the paintings will be good for Mother’s vision. He’s always spreading some tripe.’

  Andrew paused. ‘Fox wants Mother to view the art? At Somerset House?’

  ‘Yes, I discouraged it.’ The duke turned to leave the room. ‘But she thought it a grand plan for us to have a family outing.’

  A fuse sputtered alight in Andrew’s head. Andrew remembered Beatrice’s mention of a painting on display.

  The duke grimaced. ‘I have better things to do than viewing artwork. But Fox said we cannot miss it.’

  ‘Of course, I shall go with you,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Let’s collect Mother and Fox and we’ll be on our way.’ The duke left.

  Andrew took a huge stride to the landscape above the mantel, straightened it and strode to the door. He could not let them travel to Somerset House alone, even if it meant pretending to be on good terms with Fox.

  * * *

  The trip passed smoothly, with Andrew and the duke doing most of the talking. Fox sat too calmly and later insisted on helping his dear Aunt Ida from the carriage.

  Andrew and the duke spared a glance, and Andrew wondered what Beatrice had painted. She’d wanted him to view it so he was hopeful it would be something which would help her image. Only Fox’s insistence on the trip convinced him to be wary.

  Once inside, the floor-to-ceiling artwork of Somerset House’s exhibition almost flowed out the door. The windows directly overhead gave pleasant views of the paintings.

  His mother looked up, then around. ‘I had no idea they could get so much artwork in one room. It must be five hundred pieces.’

  ‘Close to a thousand,’ Andrew replied, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, examining a rendition of the Thames.

  He stood on one side of his mother, the duke on the other, Fox behind them, his innocent liar’s countenance again telling far too much. Every time Andrew could catch Fox’s eye, he gave a glare of warning.

  ‘You might find someone to patronise.’ His mother spoke to her eldest son as she stared at the art above them.

  ‘Yes.’ Fox sniffled the word out, squeezing his lips closed, eyes watering with the wrong kind of tears. ‘I think I could suggest someone.’ He opened his eyes long enough to look at Andrew. ‘I am trying to think of the name as we speak.’

  The duke examined Fox, his own lips becoming a straight line.

  They continued to make their way around the room.

  An elderly matron moved beside them and Andrew held his mother’s elbow and moved her further along, past a couple talking animatedly about some portrait they were staring at.

  ‘We could use something fresh for the sitting room...’ the duchess said.

  His mother’s words stopped, and her jaw went slack, as she looked beyond him to the painting the couple had been examining. Her eyes were wide.

  He turned his head and saw a larger-than-life painting of a female holding a sword across her chest—which was a good thing, as the garment she had draped over her had merely exaggerated that part of the woman’s anatomy. In fact, all the coverings over the woman’s body helped the viewer’s mind embellish what lay beneath.

  Andrew drew in a breath.

  Fox’s choking laughter and the duke’s gurgle caused Andrew’s eyes to move to the warrior’s face and lock there.

  ‘A depraved artist painted that heathen warrior woman with hardly more than a silk handkerchief covering her.’ His mother let out a deep breath. ‘Boys.’ She grabbed her son’s arms. ‘Turn away. This is not for a male’s eyes.’

  ‘Aunt Ida, it’s...’ Fox choked on his snuffling. Andrew grabbed Fox’s arm, ready to put a fist in his cousin’s face. Fox shook with the effort to control his voice. He glanced at Andrew. ‘Boadicea...’

  Andrew squeezed Fox’s arm with enough pressure to silence him.

  ‘It is not humorous to see so much of a woman, Fenton Foxworthy.’ His mother marched for the door and the muffled voices around covered the sound of her leaving.

  Andrew thrust Foxworthy’s arm aside, giving him a look of promised retribution.

  ‘...the Beast.’ Foxworthy squeaked out the word, then turned to follow his aunt. Andrew looked to the duke and saw his brother staring at the painting, memorising it.

  ‘Lionel,’ Andrew snapped out his brother’s hated given name. ‘We are leaving. Do not leave your eyes behind.’

  * * *

  Andrew sat in his study, the image of the portrait locked in his mind for ever. He’d returned to the display after his family left, half-expecting to see the duke again as well. At least there was no true signature on the painting. Just an illegible line.

  He returned home to find an unopened lavender-scented post waiting for him. If he shut his eyes, he could bring the scent of baked goods to his memory. Instead, he pulled the note to his nose, inhaling—inhaling deeply just for a moment before he looked at the folded paper again. The floral pulled him in and the feminine loops of his handwritten name set the snare.

  He slipped a finger under the seal, unfolding the paper.

  My muse,

  I really did not think I would be portrayed quite so hideously in the last engraving. I do not know how it was construed so inaccurately. The caricature of you was unfair.

  I’ve left my brother’s
house so that I might return to my former home and begin anew. Especially as I have convinced Mother she must see her sister so I will be alone.

  Please consider visiting my home so we may begin work on the portrait. I cannot sleep for my dreams of having you as a subject. I feel your face would inspire me to greatness.

  Of course, I would like to see more of you.

  Beatrice the Demure

  His fingers caressed the flourishes of her words and the sketch at the top of the page. She’d drawn a small profile of him.

  But even as he traced the likeness of himself, his mind filled with Boadicea. The artwork had not been lit by lamps, but from overhead windows. He’d not thought a flat plane could be filled with curves, but the portrait had proven it could be done.

  He wanted to see Beatrice again. Needed to see her. He had to explain the finer points of discretion. Beatrice the Brazen would sell more copies than Beatrice the Beast. She must understand the need to change her outward behaviour.

  In her own home, she could slide down the banisters. But in public, she had to find a way to get pleasant views. Respect. He stood, pleased with his plan. She would want respect for her works. In order to do that, she must gather respect among the ton for herself.

  He sighed. He must ask Beatrice if she truly wanted to change how she was seen. He wanted to see her again. This woman who had captured his thoughts in the same way Boadicea had led her impassioned soldiers. He just did not wish to have the same fate as the men led by the warrior queen.

  Andrew decided he’d travel to Beatrice’s home after he took one more trip to Somerset House.

  As soon as possible, he would see Beatrice. And he would not think of her barely concealed breasts. No. He would not think of her curves.

  He would see Beatrice and be extremely careful.

  He never wanted to hurt her, in any way. She’d already been through so much with Riverton.

  He did not know if she had read of his father’s mistress and doubted she would have paid much attention even if she had. It had hardly made more than one or two lines of print. But they would be engraved in his mind for ever.

  Chapter Nine

  After he put away the shaving supplies and extinguished the lamp, Fawsett pulled the cravat out of the wardrobe. Then he closed the smaller drawer, and stepped back, pushing the door shut.

  Andrew pulled the shirt over his head and Fawsett stepped in front of him. The valet worked efficiently to get the cravat tied, then held the waistcoat for Andrew to slip his arms into. While Fawsett retrieved the coat, Andrew did the buttons.

  Then Fawsett held the coat for Andrew to slip his arms into. ‘I do appreciate your giving me a break from the carpentry while you visit your beloved’s house, but I am not sure you are making a wise choice.’

  ‘What do you know of my private business?’

  Fawsett’s chin dropped an infinitesimal amount. ‘You are visiting Lady Riverton. At her house.’

  ‘And how do you know this?’

  ‘Mary Ann and Hester are sisters. Julia is the coachman’s niece.’

  Andrew looked closely at Fawsett. He had no idea who the women were. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Cook agrees.’ Fawsett said.

  Andrew stepped directly in front of Fawsett. ‘I insist on discretion in a valet.’

  ‘Sir...’ Fawsett’s shoulders rose with the puff of his chest ‘...I merely listen.’

  Andrew didn’t move from his proximity to the servant. ‘You are not to discuss my life with anyone.’

  ‘I was the same with any enquiries as I would have been with a magistrate. I speak many words with only enough truth to add credence to the lies. Not that I am adept at—dodging magistrate’s questions.’ Fawsett’s eyes flickered away momentarily. ‘And trust me, they are more determined than the maids.’

  ‘Fawsett,’ Andrew continued, watching the valet’s expression. ‘Have you been ill?’

  ‘No.’

  He raised one brow and locked eyes with Fawsett. ‘Why did my man of affairs receive the bill from the physician?’

  Fawsett’s pointed nose again moved upwards, offended. ‘I take my duties seriously. Seriously. And I have decided I am quite fond of the new maid and now I do not intend to lose this post.’

  ‘Charging your bills to me is not the way to keep it.’ Andrew frowned.

  ‘The bill is completely for you,’ Fawsett said, ‘and I did not think I would need to explain.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I have had a brief instruction on quick wound care. Although...’ he looked aside, shuddering ‘I will not be able to apply leeches or do any sort of blood-letting, but I’m assured that can wait until the time of a physician’s arrival.’

  Andrew examined Fawsett’s face. The man was serious. ‘Why...?’

  ‘Your activities. I warrant, the carpentry work is bad as one might expect. But the other danger—’

  ‘There is no danger. Lady Riverton is a fine artist. She has asked to paint my portrait and we are to discuss many things.’

  ‘You say she’s painting you?’ Fawsett had puzzlement in his words.

  ‘We are to discuss it,’ Andrew answered, looking to see Fawsett examining him.

  ‘On what part is the paint applied?’

  ‘The canvas.’

  ‘And why would she wish to paint...when there are so many more enjoyable ways to spend a moment?’

  ‘My face. She likes it.’

  Fawsett snorted.

  Andrew inwardly started. Was it that odd that a woman might like his face?

  ‘So you expect me to believe,’ Fawsett continued, ‘this is a journey simply to have your portrait done? Sir, I am not a magistrate. You do not have to recite Byron to me. You remember I did accidentally see her request and I can read—and not just the words written on the paper.’

  ‘Yes. That is all.’

  ‘Do you mind if I watch?’ Fawsett asked innocently. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it done that way before.’

  ‘Fawsett. You are sacked.’ Andrew said. ‘You have your wish.’

  The valet smiled. ‘If I am sacked, then I will no longer be under the valet’s code of silence. But still, I will silently take your secrets with me... Throwing myself into the streets, a fallen, broken man, begging for Cook to toss a few morsels to me and hoping with my last breaths for the safety of my much-missed former employer, whilst I burn the saw and hammer.’

  ‘You are merely sacked as my valet. Not my carpenter.’

  ‘I do not know if I can remove myself until I am certain of your sanity. A sensible man does not go alone into a room with a woman to sample her paintbrushes. Cook would laugh at me for believing such nonsense, and if it is the truth, I will be extremely embarrassed.’ Fawsett glanced across at Andrew. His voice lowered and he frowned. ‘It is the truth.’

  Andrew glared at him.

  ‘Blast.’ Fawsett hit his own forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘I should have known. You do not spend your nights gambling, but bang nails into wood. You get caught with a woman called the Beast and you spend your time with her discussing her palette, and not the right kind of palette.’ He sighed and put the back of his hand to his forehead. ‘Have you not heard tales—tales of the debauchery of the upper classes? Of idleness? Of drunken revelry?’

  ‘Have you not heard of servants who work?’

  ‘At your house they do.’ He wrinkled his nose and then his face completely changed and he smiled. ‘Except on the rare occasions when my beloved and I spend a few stolen moments together.’ He spoke with precise assuredness. ‘We do not paint.’

  ‘Perhaps you should.’ Andrew smiled, giving his manservant a knowing smile. ‘There is something quite...intriguing about private art.’

  Fawsett raised his chin heavenwards. ‘I suppose, if you can be painted by Beatrice the Beast and still retain the necessary equipment for a repeat performance, I must bow to you.’

  Then Fawsett turned to him and his voice softened. ‘I would not
like to see parts of you strung out like clothing to dry. I caution you to be extremely courteous when you bid her farewell.’ He smiled. ‘I assure you this is good advice—and no matter how well she agrees to the parting—escape like the demons of hell are after you. And you should do this soon.’

  ‘Lady Riverton and I have a complete understanding.’

  ‘Yes, but you and the duke do not. He is planning to introduce you to the lovely sister of Lord Dumonte. It is a surprise.’ Fawsett bowed his head and let his voice become melancholy. ‘And I have ruined it.’

  Andrew drew in a breath. His brother took his duties entirely too seriously.

  ‘And should you decide to pursue Lord Dumonte’s sister, who is quite enthralling from all accounts, the understanding you have with Lady Riverton might become crowded,’ Fawsett asserted before Andrew could speak. ‘We do not know what Lady Riverton is capable of.’ His head tilted and his eyes narrowed as they raked the area of Andrew’s chest. ‘Or perhaps we do.’

  Andrew growled, ‘When Cook throws her scraps to your body in the mews, it will be quite cold.’

  Fawsett looked at Andrew as if his employer had no sense. ‘I suppose you will be safe as long as you tread carefully and do not tarry afterwards. I have seen the scar—I know you like rough love play and I am a firm believer in romantic exploration, but my tastes do not go to the length yours do. I am but a simple man.’

  ‘Fawsett.’ Andrew used all his strength to keep his voice moderate and his jaw fought the effort. ‘I do not like being bitten, I assure you.’

  ‘It is not my concern how you conduct yourself in the bedchamber. When the speculation reached my ears on what you and this woman do in private, I did acknowledge you’ve come home rumpled on more than one occasion. It’s to be expected. I now have a few tinctures and instructions from the physician should things become—overenthusiastic and...’ he opened his coat, revealing a pair of scissors poking from a roughly sewn interior pocket ‘...should you need to be quickly untied.’

  ‘Fawsett. You are daft.’

  After letting the garment fall back in place, the valet did not blink. He patted his coat. ‘I, too, have been in love.’