More or Less a Countess

by Anna Bradley

  A bitter laugh rose in Violet’s throat. Perhaps Hyacinth was right—perhaps she was hiding behind her book, but it seemed she was destined to be hurt no matter what she did, and she’d rather bleed from her own hand than someone else’s, and Hyacinth should know better than to think Violet would ever hurt her family.

  “No one will get hurt, Hyacinth. I promise you.”

  “You can’t make that promise, Violet. Even if Lord Dare doesn’t come to care for you, what of our grandmother? She’ll be terribly upset if she finds out you’ve been sneaking around behind her back, and what am I meant to say to Iris when you don’t come with me tomorrow? Do you expect me to lie to our sister, too?”

  “Grandmother won’t find out. Please, Hyacinth. I only need a week or two to get the sketches for the rest of the book. I’ll be done before she ever returns to London. As for Iris, just tell her I stayed behind to work on the book, and that I’ll be along later in the afternoon. It’s not a lie, after all.”

  Unless one counted lies of omission, and as of this moment, Violet didn’t.

  “But what about Lord Dare? What will you tell him? You’ll have encouraged his courtship for weeks by then. Do you expect him to just vanish once you’re finished with him? You’ll have to tell him something.”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t need to tell him a thing. He’ll be gone before it can become a formal courtship.” Violet would be shocked if he even lasted the entire two weeks.

  “What if he doesn’t give up? What if he comes to care for you? He could have his feelings hurt, or worse, his heart broken.”

  The idea she could break Lord Dare’s heart was so absurd, Violet laughed. “He won’t fall in love with me in two weeks, Hyacinth!” He wouldn’t fall in love with her at all. If there was one thing Violet could be sure of, it was that.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like this, Violet.”

  “Please, Hyacinth. I’ll do everything I can to make sure no one gets hurt.”

  Hyacinth was quiet for a long time, but at last she let out a resigned sigh. “Two weeks only, and then everything goes back to the way it was. Do you promise?”

  Violet laced their fingers together. “I do. I promise.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I see we still don’t understand each other, Gibbs.” Nick glared at his valet through a narrow slit in his eyelid. “Let’s try this again, shall we? You don’t disturb me until I’ve rung for you. Now, did I ring for you, Gibbs?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then what the devil are you doing in my bedchamber? For God’s sake, it’s not terribly difficult. You come when my bell rings, and not one bloody second sooner. Get out, and don’t come back until—no! Damn it, Gibbs, who told you to open those drapes?” Nick dove back under the coverlet before the light pouring through the window could blind him.

  “My apologies, my lord, but Lady Westcott sent me to fetch you for tea.”

  “That’s the least sincere apology I’ve ever heard, Gibbs. You sound positively gleeful, in your own morose, cheerless way, of course.”

  “Yes, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord, but her ladyship insisted you come down at once.”

  Nick threw the coverlet off with a deep sigh. If the truth were told, he was rather relieved to be awake. He’d had the oddest dream. Like most dreams it was fuzzy at the edges, but he had a vague impression of gibbets and headless ghosts, and a fair-haired lady lying in his arms, her long lashes curled against her cheeks.

  “Do you know any madmen, Gibbs? Or madwomen?”

  Gibbs didn’t pause in his task of pouring hot water into the basin, but a barely discernible hitch in his eyebrow said more eloquently than words he wasn’t entirely convinced of Nick’s sanity. “No, my lord.”

  “What, not one? Christ, Gibbs, with all the madness in London, one would think you’d be able to come up with a single example.”

  “Yes, my lord. I beg your pardon for avoiding those who suffer from insanity, my lord.”

  “Stop ‘my lording’ me, Gibbs. It makes my head ache.”

  “Yes, my lord. If I might inquire as to the reason for your lordship’s sudden curiosity regarding madmen, my lord?”

  Nick wandered over to the basin to wash. “Nothing, I just…I wondered what they acted like.”

  “I would imagine they act mad, my lord.”

  “Yes, thank you for that extremely perceptive observation, Gibbs. But what does someone who’s mad act like? What do they do? That is, how do you know if a person is mad or not?”

  “Drunkenness, my lord? Indulging in debauchery, or other immoderate behaviors? An excessive amount of time spent in bed, my lord?”

  Nick scowled. “I congratulate you on your subtlety once again, Gibbs, but according to that criteria, every aristocratic gentleman in London is mad.”

  Gibbs let out a tiny, dignified snort, as if that had been precisely his point. “Yes, my lord. Will the green coat do for today, my lord?”

  Nick waved a weary hand in the air. “Green, blue—I don’t give a damn, Gibbs.”

  “Very good, Lord Dare.” Gibbs disappeared into the clothes press and came back out a moment later with the green coat cradled lovingly in his hands. “Perhaps lack of attention to dress could be considered a certain kind of madness, my lord?”

  “Or excessive attention to it,” Nick shot back. “I’d be delighted to argue the point with you, Gibbs, but Lady Westcott awaits, and we both know patience isn’t one of her virtues.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  After the usual tussle with Gibbs over his cravat, Nick at last made it downstairs. He paused outside the drawing room, surprised to hear the low murmur of feminine voices, but he twisted his mouth into a charming smile and pushed open the door. “Good afternoon, Aunt. I didn’t realize we had company—”

  As soon as he saw who awaited him he froze to a halt, and the words died on his lips.

  “Ah, here’s Lord Dare at last.”

  His aunt smiled and held out her hand to him, but Nick hardly heard her. His gaze was fixed on a pale, dark-haired young lady who was seated to his aunt’s right. “Louisa.”

  He knew at once he’d said the wrong thing, because Louisa’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “Good afternoon, Lord Dare.”

  Lord Dare. Yes, of course. It wasn’t proper for him to address her by her Christian name anymore. They were no longer children, and he hadn’t laid eyes on Louisa Covington for more than two years.

  Not since Graham’s funeral.

  “I beg your pardon. Good afternoon, Miss Covington.” He managed a stiff bow. “Lady Covington,” he added, with a second bow for Louisa’s mother, who was watching him with a pinched expression on her thin face.

  “Sit, my dear boy, and I’ll pour you some tea.” His aunt nodded toward one of the settees.

  A sense of unreality swept over Nick as he lurched toward the settee and collapsed onto it just before his knees gave out. Louisa, Lady Covington, and his aunt, all taking tea together—it was so familiar, as if he’d somehow stumbled into the past when he opened the door of the drawing room.

  But it wasn’t quite the same, and it never would be, because even as the four of them sat politely sipping their tea, they were each painfully aware something was missing, no matter how hard they all tried to pretend it wasn’t.

  Someone.

  Graham.

  Graham was dead, and where he should have been there was only Nick, a pale imitation of his brother, the man who should have been Lord Dare.

  “Lady Covington happens to be in town for the next few weeks.” His aunt passed him a cup of tea. “Rather unexpectedly, but of course she and Louisa insisted upon calling on you as soon as they arrived.”

  “How kind,” Nick murmured, but the muscles in his neck corded with tension. The lie fell with smooth precision from his aunt’s lips, but he knew damn
well there was nothing unexpected about Lady Covington’s sudden appearance in London. His aunt must have written to her as soon as he arrived, and now here she was, dragging Louisa along with her like a child tangled in her leading strings.

  A heavy silence fell. Nick glanced at Louisa, and his heart heaved in protest at the look of despair on her face. She was no better at hiding her emotions than she’d been when they were eight years old, and it was painful to witness her humiliation at being offered up to Nick as if she were a sweet on a silver tray.

  Lady Covington was assessing Nick with pale, icy blue eyes. After a long moment, she cleared her throat with a delicate little cough. “You’ve had quite a long sojourn on the Continent, Lord Dare. It’s lovely to have you back in England. Do you intend to stay for long?”

  “No. Only long enough to tend to some business with the estate, and see that my aunt is comfortably settled—”

  “Of course he’ll stay.” His aunt reached over to pat his hand. “He’s Lord Dare now, and the Dare Earldom is too extensive to be managed from a distance. The West Sussex estate was sadly neglected during his poor father’s illness, I’m afraid. It needs to be seen to, and of course there are the other, ah…obligations incumbent upon the heir of such substantial properties.”

  Obligations. Nick’s throat went dry as the full weight of his aunt’s words slammed into him. The Dare Earldom, the country estate in West Sussex, Louisa Covington…the next forty years of his life unfurled with sickening clarity before his eyes.

  Except it wasn’t his life at all. It was Graham’s.

  Nick darted another quick glance at Louisa, whose face had flushed a dull red with quiet misery. She’d been one of his dearest friends growing up—he and Graham and Louisa had been inseparable as children. He’d taught Louisa how to ride astride, and how to climb trees and catch a fish with only a stick and a bit of string.

  But it had been different for Louisa and Graham. They’d been madly in love from the moment they first laid eyes on each other, and one had only to look at Louisa now to see Graham’s ghost lived in every lonely corner of her heart still.

  So this was to be his fate. He was meant to manage Graham’s earldom, and live on Graham’s estate with Graham’s former betrothed as his wife. To live Graham’s life, without a prayer of ever being able to do justice to it.

  “Obligations, yes.” Lady Covington slid at glance at Louisa, but a frown creased her brow when she noticed her daughter’s expression. “I’m certain the present Lord Dare is more than adequate to the challenge. Don’t you agree, Louisa?”

  Louisa was well aware only one answer was acceptable, and she gave it. “Yes, of course.”

  Nick managed to paste a stiff smile onto his lips while Lady Covington and his aunt struggled through another half hour of stilted conversation, but both he and Louisa maintained a deafening silence. Louisa looked as if she didn’t dare breathe a word for fear of bursting into tears, and Nick was struggling to hold his hurt and anger in check until the inevitable confrontation with his aunt.

  By the time Louisa and Lady Covington took their leave, his smile had cracked and fallen in splinters from his lips.

  He didn’t mince words. “I believe I made my sentiments regarding Louisa Covington perfectly clear, Aunt. If you’re trying to tempt me into a hasty marriage, you’ve made a rather bad start.”

  His aunt faced him, her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. “And yet it’s a start just the same, Nicholas, and far more of one than you’ve made on your own, I’m afraid. Unless you consider lying about in your bedchamber all day and trifling with Lady Uplands every night a start.”

  Ah. His aunt had found out about Lady Uplands. Well, that explained Louisa’s sudden appearance here today. Either he found a wife sooner rather than later, or his aunt would find one for him, and she’d made it clear who she’d choose.

  Panic gripped him in a tight fist—so tight his mouth popped open, and words began to spill from it. “On the contrary, Aunt. I’ve made far more progress than you give me credit for. Despite the lack of available young ladies in London, I’ve managed to unearth a likely countess, and I’ve already begun courting her.”

  His aunt’s eyes went wide, then narrowed with suspicion. “So soon? An actress, or one of your former mistresses, I assume. I warn you, Nicholas—”

  “Not to worry, Aunt. Even you couldn’t find anything to disapprove of in this young lady.”

  Aside from the madness, that is.

  “Indeed? Who is she?”

  “Hyacinth Somerset. She’s one of Lady Chase’s granddaughters, and I assure you, you won’t find a lovelier young lady in London.”

  It was true enough. Hyacinth Somerset was lovely, and if Nick could overlook a touch of insanity, then surely his aunt could, as well.

  “Hyacinth Somerset.” Lady Westcott cocked her head to the side, considering. “I don’t know the young lady, but if she’s one of Lady Chase’s granddaughters—”

  “She is, indeed. Impeccable bloodlines, intelligent, with ah…lively manners, and she’s a perfect English rose, as well.” Nick rose to his feet. “I’m on my way to call on her even now.”

  Lady Westcott gave him a cautious smile. “Well, if she’s everything you say she is—”

  “Oh, she is.” And more, too. Much more, but after that painful half hour with the Covingtons, Nick found he wasn’t much concerned with Miss Somerset’s sanity anymore.

  It was, after all, nothing in comparison to his own.

  * * * *

  The cobwebs were gone.

  This was, oddly, Nick’s first thought when Miss Somerset swept into the drawing room to receive him. Her fair hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead and gathered into a simple knot at the back of her neck, and if an errant cobweb still lurked among those gleaming locks, Nick couldn’t see it.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Dare.” A sweet smile lit her face, and she dipped into a polite curtsy before him. “It’s kind of you to call on me today.”

  Nick had risen to his feet when she entered, but now he stood awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room, staring at her and worrying the brim of his top hat between his fingers. She’d exchanged the dingy pinafore and faded gown for a fresh bright blue one that brought out the color of her eyes.

  For one baffling moment, disappointment stabbed at his chest. She looked very much as she had the first night he’d seen her, when he’d watched her play the pianoforte, and there was no denying she was lovely, but without realizing he’d done so, he’d grown rather fond of her rough edges.

  For God’s sake, he must have lost his mind, because he actually missed the cobwebs.

  “Lord Dare?” She gave him an uncertain look when he still didn’t respond, then held out her hand to him. “Are you quite well?”

  Nick reached to take her hand, and a smile rose to his lips. There, on her index finger, was a faded smear of black ink.

  “Ah. For a moment I feared some other young lady had come in your place, but I see you’re here after all, Miss Somerset, hidden under all the elegant trappings.” He took her hand and held it up, tracing his thumb from the base of her finger to the tip. “Ink,” he added, at her startled look. “I see you’ve tried to scrub it away, but I confess I’m glad you didn’t succeed, or I might not have recognized you.”

  “Oh.” She seemed not to know what else to say, and fell silent. Color rose into her cheeks when he didn’t release her hand, and she watched, mesmerized, as he caressed her fingers with slow, gentle strokes. “I, ah…” She jerked her gaze from their joined hands to his face, and whatever she saw there made her blush harder. “The ink never seems to come off entirely.”

  By the time she drew her hand away, Nick had gone breathless, but he cleared his throat and attempted a normal tone of voice. “I won’t ask if you’ve recovered from your ordeal last night, because I can se
e you have.” His gaze swept over her, and he didn’t bother to hide his appreciation. He preferred her when she was a trifle disheveled, but she looked as lovely as a spring day, and a man couldn’t help but be refreshed looking at her, given the gray, dreary sky still holding London captive.

  She gestured him toward a settee and took the one opposite him. “I have indeed recovered, so much so I feel quite restless. Shall we take another drive today, my lord? I’d prefer it to a dull afternoon in the drawing room, wouldn’t you?”

  He saw at once she had a destination in mind, and he was half afraid to find out where it was. “A drive? Yes, I could be persuaded into a drive. But where shall we go, Miss Somerset? Hyde Park, perhaps?”

  “No, no. Not Hyde Park.”

  “No? Duck Island, then, at St. James’s Park? We can go and see the pelicans.”

  She frowned. “I’d rather not. Pelicans are such unpleasant birds.”

  “I thought they were meant to be quite gregarious, but we won’t go if you don’t like it. We could stroll along the Serpentine, if you prefer, or drive in Richmond Park, or—”

  “I want to go to Wapping Old Stairs.”

  After the cemetery and the headless ghost on Cockpit Steps, Nick was amazed he could be surprised by anything Miss Somerset said, but he nearly fell off Lady Chase’s settee. “You, ah…you want me to take you to Execution Dock?”

  She nodded, her face eager. “Yes, where the convicted pirates are hung. Captain Kidd was executed there. Did you know? They had to hang him twice, because the rope broke the first time. I want to take a sketch of the gibbet.”

  And just like that, the madness reared its ugly head.

  Nick let out a hollow laugh. “Of course you do. It makes perfect sense. Why limit yourself to Tower Hill when there are so many other charming execution sites in London?”

  “Why, indeed? You understand perfectly, my lord.” She beamed at him. “One can hardly stroll through London without stumbling over one gibbet or another, but you see how perfect Wapping Old Stairs is to follow the bit about Cockpit Steps. They’re both stairways, and they’re both haunted, so in terms of the progression of the book, it’s—”