The Countess Confessions

by Jillian Hunter

  “She knocked it over and it splattered on us both,” Damien said. “Does that mean we are destined for each other?”

  Emily bit her lip. “I told you, Michael, but you weren’t listening.”

  Michael grinned as Emily looked away. “I hate to admit it, and I know I shall not ever be forgiven, but considering that it didn’t come in contact with the intended victims, I’ll tell you the truth.”

  “Do hurry, sir,” Iris urged, tugging at Emily’s hand.

  Michael shrugged. “Emily must have eavesdropped. Jasper told me that it was to be used—”

  “When all else fails,” Emily said, her eyes still averted. “I know. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. I shouldn’t have taken it,” she continued quietly. “Whatever Jasper poured into the phial was a caustic and potent substance.”

  Damien snorted. “It burned like the devil’s own breath.”

  “Well, I don’t wonder,” Michael said, frowning as if he remembered when Emily had huddled over him in the still room, whispering half-seriously for him to make something potent that would bind Camden to her. He shook his head. “This particular formula was to be used in case of snails. Not when all else fails. But who knows? Magic is mysterious. It might have been the perfect potion even though it was meant for the rose garden.”

  • • •

  Emily walked sedately to the front steps of the house, her shawl concealing her hair and, she hoped, most of her face. She could fool the butler and footman into believing she was only staying covered from the storm, but it would be harder to convince the two upper chambermaids who brought her bath and breakfast every day.

  “Go up into your room,” Iris said behind her on the stairs. “Let’s wash that dye from your skin first and dispose of that hideous wig.”

  “How?” Emily wondered aloud as they reached her room. “There are at least fifty pins left to pull from my head.”

  “I can cut the wig up and strew it on the road to the village tomorrow when I go marketing.”

  “That wouldn’t look at all suspicious.” Emily sat down at her dressing table and untied her blouse. “Bring me a plain evening gown, Iris.”

  “You’re not going out again tonight?”

  “Only as far as the garden.”

  “But what for?”

  “Just to make certain I didn’t lose any other cards where my father might find them. He’ll be in a dither enough as it is. I don’t want him thinking that Michael had gypsies on the estate while he was gone.”

  Iris’s eyes clouded with worry. “Those cards are supernatural. You should never have touched them. Palm reading and tea leaves are one thing. But those cards, miss. They are only as reliable as the person reading them. Or so Mr. Rowland says.”

  • • •

  Damien couldn’t escape her fast enough.

  If she’d given him one more hint of encouragement during that last kiss, he would have forgotten who they were and why they could never become passionate with each other.

  A smile curved his lips. Why had he met her tonight? Why not the evening before? Wouldn’t they have been attracted to each other during an ordinary encounter?

  Or had their mutual deception added kindling to the heat he’d felt the moment he had seen her sitting in that tent?

  She had looked as if she wanted to kill him. He’d spoiled her romantic scheme. He was a little sorry that he couldn’t stay and make it up to her. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt sexual desire for a woman while enjoying her company.

  To be honest, passion, in its deepest sense, had never come into his life before.

  • • •

  Emily stood, wiping off the face cream she had plastered on her throat and arms. “Give me a wet cloth—I just realized that the boots I borrowed from Lucy are in Sir Angus’s saddlebags. I doubt he’ll remember to return them to Michael.”

  “Well, he can send them by post.”

  “No, he can’t.” Emily rubbed off the cream with the damp cloth Iris handed her.

  “Send a footman instead.”

  “Dare I? We had better not. Michael hasn’t changed yet and we don’t want anyone asking him what happened tonight. Sir Angus ought to know what to do with a pair of boots that are half his size.”

  Iris sighed. She had removed her colorful costume and restored herself to her usual neat-as-a-pin appearance. “It’s not over yet. Your father will return from Lucy’s party any minute, and let’s hope he’s by himself.”

  “Do you think he’d lead the conspirators here?”

  “Only if they figured out who we were and where we’d gone, and that is unlikely unless Lucy or Lady Fletcher gave us away.”

  “That won’t happen. They’re too good at making up stories. Lucy swore to me she would keep my father at the party for as long as she could. She isn’t going to tell him that I spent half the evening as an unsuccessful fortune-teller and the other on the run from anarchists. He wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Lucy and I also swore that you would be dancing in Camden’s arms the entire evening, didn’t we?”

  “Maybe Papa hasn’t even left yet. He took the carriage, and that means the long way home.”

  Iris tucked and pinned her bright hair under her cap. “And how are you going to explain walking in the garden this time of night when he arrives?”

  “I always walk in the garden when I miss my mother. So does he.” Emily shook her head. “I lost at least half a deck of those cards tonight. They took off in the wind.”

  “Well, why didn’t you sprinkle golden sovereigns all the way here from Lucy’s house? It might have lit up the path to the house and made it easier for that nest of traitors to find us.”

  “Iris, we’re home. We are only what we appear to be—an innocent young lady and her maid. Who could recognize us?”

  “They’ll certainly recognize Sir Angus if he hasn’t left,” Iris said, stuffing Emily’s skirt, bangles, and blouse in the false-bottomed drawer of her armoire. “There. Now I’ll pop downstairs, pretending that I can’t breathe, and run out to the stables to explain about the boots. Sir Angus, or whatever his actual title is, will not want to be caught with lady’s footwear.”

  The crunch of carriage wheels from outside drew Iris to her feet. “If that is your father, and the Scotsman isn’t gone, then we are doomed.”

  Emily glanced away from her reflection to her maid. She had wiped most of the tint from her skin and slipped into the silk dress she had worn earlier in the day. “Not necessarily. Go through the front way, apologizing that we locked the gates on him before we realized he had not gone to bed as he’d told us he would earlier.”

  “And then?”

  “Dash around to the stables to warn Michael and Sir Angus that my father is home, in case they didn’t hear him clattering down the drive.”

  “The Scotsman should have gone by now,” Iris said. “I can’t think of any reason to explain why he is in our house. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not leaving this room again tonight, miss. Mr. Rowland knows better how to deal with his lordship.”

  Chapter 14

  Michael helped Damien brush down and resaddle his horse. “I would like to be part of your operation, my lord. I’d be honored if I could expose those traitors to the Crown. I’ll go mad if I stay in Hatherwood for the rest of my life.”

  Damien nodded. “No one else must know what you learned tonight. You’d have to alter your appearance if you become involved.”

  “How?” Michael asked, laughing.

  “Shear off the pretty curls that the girls ask to touch. Different clothes. You were brought up as a gentleman.”

  “My blood doesn’t agree.”

  “Then do what you are meant to— What was that noise?”

  Michael glanced across the barn into the moonlight arena. “A carriage. His Drunkenness is home, and that means a quarrel is imminent. Don’t let him see you. If you need me, I’ll be here. Thank you for taking care of my sister.”

  “I wanted t
o ask where she—” Damien broke off. “Never mind. Keep a close eye on her for the next few months. Take her away for a seaside holiday, if you can.” He patted down his saddlebags. “God, she’s left her boots with me.”

  “I’ll take them. There’s a small track that leads around the hills to the old Roman road. You can follow it until you reach the village. Watch yourself.”

  “I will.” Damien cleared his throat. “Guard your sister. She seems to have a penchant for trouble.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Their luck held for about twenty seconds before both men heard the rattle of a small carriage coming up the inner driveway.

  “I thought you locked the gates,” Damien said, leading his horse into the backyard, where the arena and outbuildings sat in misty moonlight and one could mistake a fence post for a man.

  “I thought I did, too,” Michael said as he reached into his pockets. “He must have used his own keys. Most nights he’s too foxed to find them. I never dreamt he would go to the party. He does little but stay home to drink and roar nowadays.”

  A man’s bellow broke through the night. Michael groaned. “That’s him.”

  “Emily!” the man roared from the front steps. “Michael! I will see you both downstairs in the hall, or there shall be hell to pay! I am too old to allow your antics.”

  “Hush a moment,” Damien said. “I thought I heard another voice between his bellows. He isn’t alone.”

  “That’s only the footman, talking to himself.” Michael closed the stall door, his face grim. “I’ll take care of this. Use the distraction to escape. Everyone in the house who was sleeping will be awake and in the entry hall in a minute.”

  Damien frowned as Michael strode through the stables to the manor house. The baron’s temper was a distraction, all right. It would alert the curiosity of any men in the area who happened to be hunting a gypsy girl who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Had she admitted that sometimes her father was violent? Damien cringed to think of anyone marring her soft skin. But, then, he shouldn’t be thinking of her at all.

  She was deceitful.

  She was undeniably sweet.

  She had brought most of this situation on herself with her scandalous behavior.

  Hadn’t she insisted he leave?

  Didn’t he have a few uprisings to prevent, a viscount’s life to save?

  He should never have asked for that last kiss.

  And she should never have kissed him back.

  • • •

  The front doors flew open with a force that sent Iris scurrying for cover in the dressing closet. “Lock the door, miss. He must have been drinking again at the party. Or on the drive home.”

  “Or Lucy and Diana were forced to reveal all. I can’t hide from him forever.”

  “You could try until he’s sober. What if he’s brought one of those men with him?”

  Emily backed out of the room. “What if my father is one of those men?”

  “He couldn’t be.”

  “He’s been talking all month about taking a chair on the council.”

  “The parish council.”

  Or had he been referring to a position that had nothing to do with alleviating the suffering of the poor? “Of course he isn’t involved in treason. What am I thinking? He couldn’t control himself long enough to be of help to any conspiracy unless it was staged at a tavern.”

  “Excessive spirits rot a man’s brains,” Iris said with conviction. “Stay in here until he’s sober.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Iris. He might know nothing except that I sneaked out of the house tonight, which is enough to infuriate him. If I hide it will only make it appear I’ve done more than disobey him.”

  She pulled the door open, whispering, “At least he didn’t see me in that costume. He would have flown right into the boughs if he knew I was telling fortunes just an hour ago.”

  “Miss, the wig—it’s only half unpinned.”

  Emily glanced at herself in the pier glass. At least she had washed the tint from her skin and changed into an unadorned ivory gown.

  She would have to remove her hairpiece before he noticed it. If he noticed it. The horrid thing refused to be freed from the pins Iris had jammed into her scalp.

  She hastened down the hall and made it to the last three steps before her father saw her. He strode toward the staircase, brandishing a bundle of wrinkled red satin in his hand. He stank of drink. His silver hair stood from his head.

  “Good evening, Father.”

  “Was it?” he asked in a caustic voice. “Did you enjoy making a mockery of every decent principle in existence?”

  Emily gripped the balustrade. She had never seen him this drunk or out of control. Had he found out what she had done tonight from a perceptive guest who had seen through Emily’s disguise in the tent?

  How much does he know? What is he clutching in his hand like a shroud— Oh. Oh. He advanced to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I can’t blame this defiance, this shameful behavior, on Michael, because he has only recently returned home. I can’t fault Lucy, though I wonder why Lord Fletcher tolerates your friendship with the girl when it is obvious you have an indecent influence on her.”

  She dropped, barefooted, one step at a time to answer him. She saw a shadow slip through the door into the darkened hall. Her throat closed. Michael and her father in this mood created a deadly combustion.

  “What is it?” Michael asked in accordance with the plan that Iris and Emily had agreed on in the case that they were caught. “I was in the stables, looking at the foal, sir. She—”

  The baron did not turn around. “Be quiet, you young bastard. You have helped her to disgrace my name.”

  “Disgrace?” Emily could only echo his words, afraid that her father and Michael would come to blows.

  She had to intervene. She deserved her father’s wrath. “I can explain,” she said, inching down another step and motioning Michael back into the hall. She knew she was breaking her promise to her brother that she would not confess, but she couldn’t allow him to take any blame for her reckless judgment. “It was an innocent folly, Papa. I went to the ball without your permission.”

  “Innocent?” he said slowly, opening his fist to unravel the red satin ball gown she had hoped to wear when Camden asked her to dance. How naïve her masquerade seemed now. Yet even if she hadn’t believed in her heart it would lead to a marriage proposal, she could not have imagined the dark turn it had taken.

  “You were with a man tonight,” he said in disgust. “I forbade you to attend that dance, and not only did you defy me, but you apparently met a man alone in the tower and spent the evening with him and without your clothes.”

  Emily shook her head, realizing he would never believe the truth. To all appearances the red gown condemned her. She would need hours to explain the sequence of events, and even then she couldn’t deny that she had deceived him.

  “Who found the dress?” she whispered.

  “I caught young Lucy trying to sneak it past her father.”

  “She was not with a lover,” Michael said, his voice low and furious. “I took her there and made sure she came safely home.”

  The baron held up the evening dress by its rumpled sleeve. “Then explain this.”

  She stared past him to Michael. “I took it to Lucy’s house and intended to change there before the dance. I made Iris come with us. She didn’t want to be part of it. I’d no idea you wanted to go, too, or we could all have traveled together.” Which would have crimped her plans for romance, but in retrospect that might have been better for everyone involved.

  “You are a liar. Like your mother,” he said, his voice hoarse with drink and disillusionment. “I’ve confronted you with the evidence, Emily, and you are still lying to me. You never went to the party at all. No one saw you there. Not one person witnessed your appearance.”

  “That’s because I—” She lifted
her hand to the atrocious wig and tugged.

  Her father stared at her. He was too upset to even comment on—or notice—that her hair was not its usual style or color. “I’ve always known you were a hoyden,” he said. “But I would never have thought you would become loose.”

  “That’s enough,” Michael said, coming forward to place his hand on the baron’s shoulder. “We can discuss this with cool heads in the morning.”

  The baron shrugged off Michael’s hand. “What do you say for yourself?” he asked Emily, blocking Michael from her path.

  “We did go to Lucy’s. But—”

  She read the warning in Michael’s eyes, the reminder that if she mentioned the word gypsy in her father’s presence, he would only blame her brother for encouraging her unladylike attempt to impress a man. She couldn’t admit the truth.

  The baron threw her dress back across the hall. It slid into the path of the man who stood in the doorway, unnoticed until Emily looked past her father to the spot where her dress lay.

  Him again. Back to bring her more bad luck.

  Was he out of his mind? Did he hope to see her banished from her home? He must have heard her father shouting. He had to understand his appearance would only make her dilemma worse. He lifted his gaze from the floor and stared until she realized that he was studying her as if he had no idea who she was.

  Was this to be another act on his part? If she were in his place, she’d refuse to become implicated in her fall. What was he doing in her house? Why didn’t he leave awful enough alone? She would never have accused him or dragged him into her affairs.

  She begged him silently to go. Nothing good could come of him confronting her father. What could he be thinking? She couldn’t guess, even though he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

  He closed the door and walked quietly into the hall. Michael either sensed his presence or was alerted by the dread on Emily’s face. Her father appeared too deeply in his cups to detect the sudden menace in the air. His voice shook when he resumed his tirade.

  “This is the last time,” he said. “Lucy and her young stepmother might think I’m stupid enough to believe their lies. Not a single person at the party except those two troublemakers could remember seeing you and even then they would not give me a straight answer.”