The Counterfeit Lady: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 4)

by Alina K. Field

  And then he’d appeared at that ball and danced with her, more than once.

  She shook off the memory. Why was he here? Was he here at Father’s behest? Or…was he spying on the Earl of Shaldon?

  “Since I am here, Mr. Fox, you must leave.” He must, mustn’t he?

  Or…if she sent him away, would he go straight to Father and report her?

  He waved a hand. “In this weather?”

  “You are already wet.”

  “As are you.” His gaze moved to her bosom in a way that made her hot again.

  Irritating man. He was just like all the rest. “You must go back to your room at the inn, or wherever you are staying.”

  A smile lit his face and her annoyance spiked. Most assuredly he was not taking her seriously. Which no one ever did.

  “I expect this rain will go through the night.” He moved closer, extending a hand. “Come, Lady Perpetua. I assume you’ve brought a carriage? I’ll help you unload, we’ll get the horses to shelter, and then we can talk. Why should the animals suffer?”

  The horses.

  Heat rushed her again. Of course, there were no grooms here to dash out and see to the horses. He’d poked her in a sensitive spot.

  She ignored his hand and brushed past him. “Come Jenny, Chestnut needs you again.”

  Fox toweled himself down, pulled on a dry shirt, and walked to the window. The lugger that had been out at sea was gone.

  And no wonder. The sea was enraged, battering against the cliff that supported this cottage, gray fog blending with the sharper swirls of the water, spongy foam tipping to white. He committed the shades to his memory and found his spare waistcoat.

  His only coat and his freshest neck cloth were in the kitchen drying, along with Perry and her maid and their clothing. He’d built the fire high for them to change out of their wet things and warm up, and left them there, the maid shivering, Perry fussing at him to leave.

  In spite of the miserable weather, it was the first complaining Perry had done. While the storm unfurled sheets of rain, she threw herself into the unloading and unharnessing. Mud up to her ankles hadn’t deterred her. Her dress, not a particularly delicate weave, drat it, had still managed to cling to her form, confirming all the measurements he’d taken at Bakeley’s ball. The little foal was still taller than all the women and many of the men, and she’d filled out quite nicely with ample breasts and, below that small waist, hips that a man could hold onto.

  His body stirred, and he cursed it, looking around at his notebooks and canvases. He’d need to keep her out of here until he could burn these.

  He took the stairs down one level. The carved door of the suite of rooms belonging to the mistress of the house was closed, but not locked, he knew. He’d peeked in upon his arrival, inspecting the house, but he’d not crossed that threshold, not on this visit, not on the one ten years earlier. This was Felicity Everly’s bedchamber and it was fitting that Lady Perry should sleep here.

  The Holland cloths came off the furniture easily. Stripping the counterpane exposed bare ticking, so he pushed through the door to the dressing room and rummaged through cabinets, throwing one set of bedding on a cot for the maid. Clutching the other linens, he went back to the main chamber and began laying out sheets.

  His damned artist’s mind reared, seeing her here, imagining her wheat-colored hair spread upon the pillows, envisioning her stretched between the four posts, long legs extending under a rucked-up, sheer cotton nightdress.

  He stood tall and took a deep breath. Hell, that wasn’t the artist in him—that was the man.

  Yes, Fox, and you might as well torture yourself dreaming it because you’ll never get closer than this.

  Hopeless colonial. He laughed, finished the bed-making, and went to pull the board off the fireplace. This close to the sea, the nights were chilly, and she’d been shivering today. She’d be needing a regular fire. He would have to haul up some wood.

  Downstairs, at the door to the kitchen, he knocked, heard a muffled “Come in,” and pushed the door open. Damp warm air, scented with woman, made him take a step back.

  “For heaven’s sake, come in and close the door. You’re letting in a draft.”

  Chuckling, he obeyed.

  Ye Gods, the sight of him sent a tremble through her that had nothing to do with the air. He’d changed out of the clinging shirt that had plastered him, but he was still only partially dressed. His shirt front flapped at the neck, revealing tanned skin, scattered dark hair, and a neck corded with muscles. He was as sinfully handsome as one of the sculptures of the blasted gods gracing the British Museum.

  He’d never been one for painting such myths, though. She’d discovered him that year eking out a living selling landscapes. But years ago when he came to Cransdall, he was known for his paintings of horses—that skill had caught Mama’s interest—and his portraits.

  Oh, yes. She’d learned more of his subjects much later: rich Cits, well-kept mistresses, and one very rich widow who’d kept him for months as a guest.

  An unladylike growl rumbled out of her.

  Truly, it had been the horses that brought him to Cransdall. After painting Godolphin’s progeny, Fox had stayed to do all of the human portraits—her mother’s, Bakeley’s, Charley’s, and hers. It had taken him months. He’d left behind four portraits—five counting the horse.

  And he’d left with one priceless masterpiece he’d lifted from the wall in her mother’s rooms, just before Mama’s death.

  Bakeley said it wasn’t so. He’d said it when Mother died, and he’d said it again a few months ago, before the ball held to celebrate his and Sirena’s marriage.

  Perry had seen no proof of innocence. She’d so wanted to question Fox about the subject on the night of the ball, but he’d slipped away quietly, and when she’d had a chance to sneak off and visit his rooms, he’d left London entirely.

  Fox tugged at his loose collar. “You’re warm enough, I see.”

  She swallowed against the tickle in her throat. “And you are half-dressed. Where is your coat? Your neck cloth?”

  He waved a hand in the general direction of clothing-draped chairs. “Are they dry yet?”

  He’d found a fresh shirt and waistcoat in this house. “Have you more clothes at the inn?” she asked.

  “No, Lady Perpetua.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling.

  Irritating man.

  Jenny bustled at the rough-finished, old-fashioned kitchen dresser.

  At least she assumed it was old-fashioned. Bakeley made sure Cransdall had the newest of everything, but she had no idea how other houses compared. In truth, her social calls and house parties did not include visits to the kitchens.

  “The bread is a bit soggy, my lady, but the cheese is good,” Jenny said.

  So soggy bread and cheese for dinner.

  Jenny opened another parcel and whooped. “None of the eggs broke neither. And we’ve got ham here, a fresh joint, and some carrots and turnips. T’would make a good hot stew, those last bits, and these apples for a dessert.” She looked up at Fox. “Sir, does the woman who cleans for you also cook?”

  He blinked.

  Taking his time to answer. If he’d been one of the lordlings she met at house parties and fêtes, she’d chalk his silence up to the shock of being addressed by a servant. But this was Fox. He’d always measured out his words in dribs and drabs.

  “The woman who cleans for me,” he said, finally.

  Jenny lifted a shoulder. “Well, the house, sir, it does seem very clean, excepting where you’ve left some dishes and such.”

  His dark eyes glimmered. The corners crinkled again. “I wasn’t expecting company. No one’s been in to clean during my stay. The house was closed up so tight no dust was allowed in.” He lounged back against a worktable. “I expect someone comes in now and then. I don’t expect a visit any time soon.”

  She blinked. He didn’t expect a visit? He had no plans to leave?

  She turned away. “Bread and
cheese and a bit of the ham tonight, Jenny,” Perry said. “There’s a knife on the board behind you.”

  “Saints, I hope it will keep. I hate seeing a good joint be spoilt.”

  Fox readjusted his leaning, pulling Perry’s gaze to his long-muscled legs. His head all but touched the low ceiling. “Just cook it up, Miss Jenny.”

  He shot Perry a look that said to hell with your aristocracy. Oh yes, Fox was thoroughly a republican, even though he’d been born too late for the American revolt, and out of the country for the last war with the colonials. If not for horses, he’d never have come into the Earl of Shaldon’s sphere.

  But…a memory jolted through her. Bakeley’s wife, Lady Sirena, had whispered that Father and Bakeley had actually approved Fox’s attendance at Bakeley’s wedding ball.

  And had she not herself seen Father at the ball, speaking to Fox in that way that meant he was not just an arrow in Father’s quiver, but might be something more?

  The man who had stolen a priceless painting?

  She clenched her fists on the back of a chair. No one would tell her anything, not even Charley.

  “Grab a pot from the pantry, Miss Jenny. I’ll haul in fresh water.”

  Jenny pressed her lips together. “I’m just Jenny, sir. Not Miss Jenny. And I’m a maid, not a cook.”

  Under his steady gaze, she squirmed. “I mean, I don’t know how.”

  “You don’t know how to cook?” The words burst from Perry’s mouth. She had assumed—but then why had she assumed? They hadn’t discussed this. Jenny grew up on the streets, probably stealing pies when she was overwhelmed with hunger.

  “And you don’t know how to cook.” Fox was looking directly at her, that gleam still lighting his eyes.

  He’d turned the tables on her, damn him. She needed him out of this house. This was her house—would be her house, someday, when she married. If she married. If she could not get that ridiculous clause out of her mother’s will.

  Never mind, she intended to go on as if she had. She intended to claim this as her very own house for as long as she wished. Bakeley would have to come himself and haul her out.

  She pushed herself up from her chair and looked around for the door to the pantry. “I’ve seen bread made, and bread toasted, but otherwise I’ve not had occasion to learn.” As he well knew. The family had always had excellent cooks. “But I shall muddle through. And you will help me, Jenny.”

  Fox crossed to her and took both of her hands in his large ones, sending her nerves rattling.

  Chapter 3

  His stubble had tones of red, and under the short scruff, a seamed scar ran down his jaw.

  “You’re both fair exhausted,” he said. “I’ll cook. You watch and learn. This…” He put a finger to the center of her forehead— “very deft mind needs only one lesson, Jenny. Keep up or you’ll risk being sacked.”

  The touch of his finger sent a spark through her, like a small strike of lightning she’d read about in one of Mr. Faraday’s experiments, rippling warmth like the rings in a pool where a rock has dropped, and she was in the pool, not breathing. Behind Fox’s back, Jenny covered her mouth.

  With that, her breath and her brain returned. Before she could push him away, he’d disentangled himself and stalked to a door. Her hand went to her chest but she quickly dropped it.

  Jenny’s lips twisted and quivered.

  “Stop smirking,” Perry hissed, “or I’ll send you back on your own to London.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Yes, miss. But you know they’ll be searching for you, and if you send me back alone, your father’s man Kincaid will lock me up and put me on bread and water until I spill.”

  “Kincaid would do no such thing.” Fox returned with his pots, his face bland.

  But he’d heard every word, calculating that she had escaped, that she also didn’t belong here. He would use it against her in the battle to come.

  They ate in the kitchen, all three of them together. It was novel and cozy, and strangely liberating. Fox had not asked her dining preferences, he’d simply taken three plates from the matched set of crockery and set them upon the servants’ table. When Jenny opened her mouth to protest, it took but a look from him to quell her. The girl had fussed nervously with her food the whole meal. Her discomfort left Perry with much to think about.

  As had Fox. He’d spoken altogether more words that night than she’d heard in all his months at Cransdall. He’d explained all the steps of making a stew, and covered all that he knew about everything from skinning game to omelet-making. She had learned new skills in her plan for independence.

  Once Father had her removed from the cottage, where would she go? Not back to London, and not to Cransdall, nor to any of her brothers’ homes. She had money, but stretching it would mean more eating with servants, and she couldn’t drag Jenny along for an extended adventure. It wouldn’t be fair to the girl, who was rising in life on the only path open to her.

  Jenny stood and began gathering dishes. Perry stood also and reached for a plate.

  “No, miss,” Jenny said. “I know how to wash dishes and how to put up what’s left of the food. Rest yourself and I’ll get the kettle for your tea. It should be hot now.”

  She remained seated. Fox sprawled blandly, like a well-sated footman quite at his leisure. That is, he not so much sprawled as his considerably long legs had nowhere to go but far out in front of him, and his long torso fit awkwardly against the slatted chair. It was hard to be so tall, and didn’t she know it. He must be terribly uncomfortable.

  And they needed to talk, away from Jenny’s ears.

  The tea they’d brought had kept dry. She busied herself with the pretty pitcher Jenny found. “You’ve no brandy, Mr. Fox?”

  “Not here.”

  “Will you have tea with me?”

  He nodded tersely. She could see by the firmness around his mouth, he didn’t want tea.

  “You’d prefer coffee, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t bring any. Come along then. Jenny, you’ll find us in that parlor.”

  Fox reached for the tray she was holding, and she pulled it away.

  “If you would carry our bags instead?”

  Fox watched the swish of her gown as she climbed the stairs. This one, a fine light blue lawn sprigged with pink flowers, would be sheer enough if it weren’t too dry to cling. Juggling the tray in her hands, she clutched her skirts high enough that he could see her trim ankles and calves in the slippers she’d exchanged for her boots. They were dainty, heelless little things that would have made a smaller woman look like a child instead of a lithe opera dancer or Aphrodite’s apprentice. She navigated the stairs with that tray nimbly. Lady Perry had finally learned to manage those long lovely legs.

  He paused on the step and juggled the maid’s valise and Perpetua’s larger bag. He’d best keep his wits in his head instead of his breeches.

  At the top of the stairs, she rested the tray on the banister and let her skirts drop. Eyes downcast, pink touched her cheeks in the gray light. Aye, she’d seen his grinning. He took pity on her and led her into the parlor, lighting a lamp while she readied the tea.

  For now, he would drink the polite swill out of courtesy. He had pushed her hard tonight and she deserved that much. Once she was tucked into her mother’s room, he’d uncork a fresh bottle and begin burning those incriminating sketchbooks.

  She poured, as stiff-backed as the Duchess who’d wanted him in her bed. Lady Shaldon’s invitation had saved him from that awful commission. At Cransdall, he’d found himself in a home full of humor, great love, and one long-legged girl budding into womanhood. Perry had fancied herself in love with him, at least for the first week of his stay, until his jabs and irritations had set her at odds with him. It was better that way.

  But she wasn’t a fourteen-year-old anymore.

  She bent to pass him the cup and her bodice pulled, squeezing her bosom.

  He
tore his gaze away and stared into the swirling liquid, the same glittering dark amber as Perry’s eyes.

  She cleared her throat and he smiled, watching the color rise over her frown.

  She was still a rebel. He’d watched her at Cransdall thrashing herself, over and over against the walls put up by her world. And the business of seeking him out in London for a commission—it just wasn’t done. Bakeley had been furious.

  She patted her mouth with a napkin and squinted at him. Where were the spectacles she’d worn in London?

  He sipped the hot liquid and waited.

  “Mr. Fox.” She eyed him over the rim of her cup. “I was very surprised to see you here. You say you are painting, but are you not supposed to be at Cransdall? My brother said you are commissioned to do a portrait of my father.”

  “That is true.”

  “So why are you not there?”

  “Your father will not come down from London until after the coronation.”

  She sighed, but her shoulders stayed rigid. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  He waited, watching her mouth tighten and move as she squelched the emotions wanting to play across her face. As a girl, she’d been as purposeful as a dog after a bone, constantly chided and hemmed in by her governess, her brothers, and even sometimes her mother. Apparently, she’d learned a bit of self-control.

  He’d heard she wanted to enter her father’s Game. She would be relentless and dangerous, most especially to herself.

  “Fox,” she snapped. “Cransdall still has that room with the very good light. Go there and paint.”

  “Cransdall doesn’t have this.” He waved a hand toward the high windows where the rain beat and the noise of the waves sounded.

  Her cup clattered on the saucer. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. You must go.”

  “And I’m here also. By your father’s permission.”

  That brought her up. “But this house is mine.” Her mouth firmed.

  It was grim determination, he decided.

  “The house will be yours when you marry. Have you married, Perpetua?”