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

by Alina K. Field

  She rose from the lumpy mattress like the phoenix, glowing in the light and floating closer until she was standing over his chair. The shadows played at her neck and her throat, inciting visions of her on top of him. He gripped the arms of his chair.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Fox.” She set her hands upon his and leaned closer, filling him with her scent. “Take me to your bed. Take me.” She squeezed her eyes a brief moment and when she opened them they glowed, dark and deep. “Make love to me. And then I’ll leave on my own. No need to send for my brothers.”

  Dazzling, she was. His shaft raged at him, wanting him to open his arms, to shout yes and take her. He dug his nails into the wood. He could control this. He could think for both of them.

  “No, Lady Perpetua. I’ll paint you. I’ll protect you. I won’t ruin you.”

  She blinked.

  Oh, God, the hurt he saw in her eyes flayed his heart.

  “Is that how you see making love to me?”

  “I’m an American painter with no fortune and no prospects. You’re Lady Perpetua.”

  She traced a finger along his jaw and sucked on her lip, sending fire through him. “Oh, Fox, I’m but a woman. Will you not see me as that?”

  He pulled her finger away. “It cannot be.”

  Her lovely jaw firmed and her lips trembled. “You do not wish it to be.”

  She jerked away and walked to the window, taking her heat with her, leaving him bereft. So be it.

  He released his grip on the chair arms. “Jenny should have the food ready soon, if she hasn’t burned everything. Would you like your dinner served in the parlor?”

  “I cannot bear to face the life everyone plans for me.” She turned an inscrutable gaze at him. “Are you planning formal dress for dinner?” Turning back, she leaned her forehead against the window pane. “The kitchen is fine. I believe Jenny has a tendre for MacEwen.”

  She sounded distracted, scattered, emotionally dull, like he had finally broken through her willfulness. He needed to get her out of here before the urge to take her into his arms overcame him.

  Poking her into anger had always worked. “And what good would come of that?”

  Her breath frosted the chilly window. He wondered if her eyes were closed.

  “A moment of happiness,” she whispered into the glass, and then straightened. “I’ll see if she needs help in the kitchen.”

  The door closed quietly behind her.

  He leaned back in his chair and put a hand to his cock, and then pulled it back right away, as if he’d been scorched. It had been a close call when she’d touched his beard.

  He sighed. His wash water would be cold. Scraping off this scruff, he might take some of the skin with it, which was just what he deserved.

  Shedding his shirt and coats, he set about washing and shaving.

  She’d walked off despondent, but she’d come around to hating him again. He’d talk to her brother and ask him to keep this from the rest of the family.

  He hated seeing her unhappy, but it was the only choice. Between the Scotsman and the maid there was more chance for a moment of happiness than there could ever be for him and Perry.

  Tomorrow, he’d send MacEwen for her brother. He’d get the name of her brother’s estate over supper, and then he’d go out, for the rest of the night if need be, anything to keep away from the girl. Or he’d go and sleep in the stable with MacEwen. The straw couldn’t be any lumpier than this mattress.

  “You’re sure you won’t join us, miss?” Jenny shifted the tray onto the table, sliding the stacked coins out of the way. And why would Lady Perry be counting her coins?

  “Are you quite all right, miss? I can just as well cart this back to the kitchen if you’ll but join us.”

  Lady Perry turned away from the window and sent her a thin smile. “I thought to give you more time with your Fergus MacEwen.”

  Heat flared in her. “He’s not my Fergus MacEwen.”

  That brought a real smile from Lady Perry. “Well, he’s more likely to flirt and slip up if I’m not around. You must get him to share one of his secrets.”

  “I’ll serve the men when they come down and come back in a bit for this tray.”

  “No need.” Lady Perry shook her head vigorously. “Leave it until morning. And don’t worry about helping me into bed. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since I don’t know when. Use the corridor door to your chamber. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  She softened that last with another smile, but Jenny detected a tension around her eyes.

  “Whatever you’re planning, I can be a help, my lady.”

  “I’m not…I’m not planning anything.”

  “You’re counting your money.”

  “I’m thinking to send for more supplies.” She let out a great yawn and covered her mouth. “Go then, and don’t fret.”

  “But, miss—”

  “Go, Jenny.” Lady Perry crossed the room and Jenny felt the soft pressure of her hand on her back. “Go serve the men their supper and talk to your MacEwen.”

  That afternoon, MacEwen had stripped to his waist to shave, grinning around the blade scraping his jaws. He’d flirted prodigiously, too.

  Jenny put aside her unease and pulled the door closed behind her.

  She would come back for that tray though, after the men’s dinner was cleared.

  Chapter 17

  MacEwen lifted the lid on the pot and took a good sniff. “Mmm. Stew’s always better the second day, my mam used to say. Smells good, wee Jenny.”

  Jenny shrugged and looked away. “That’s Mr. Fox’s cooking.”

  The girl’s earlier cheekiness had gone to indifference. He laughed. A good game, this was. “And where’s yours?”

  “I’m only boiling up peas and some turnips, and cooking some bacon.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be as lovely as you.”

  Her lush lips formed a prim line. “And lucky it will be if they don’t turn to mash. I’m no cook, MacEwen.”

  “Your mam didn’t teach you?” He watched for her reaction. He’d heard her story. He was shamelessly goading her, and wasn’t all fair in love?

  She plopped her hands on her hips, right about where he’d like to put his own, and looked at him full on. “And you know I haven’t a proper mam, not past the birthing of me. So, don’t play the muttonhead with me, Fergus MacEwen.”

  He chuckled. His mam—or the cook that his mam usually employed—could teach this girl all she needed to know about boiling, roasting, and stewing, and he could teach her other things.

  “Now go and see if the peas are ready, while I set the dishes out.”

  “Aye, miss.” He saluted. “I will.”

  “It smells good in here.” Fox had entered noiselessly, bottle of brandy in hand. “Shall I ring the dinner bell for Lady Perpetua?”

  Half-empty bottle, he noted. Fox had been tippling already.

  “No, sir. She’s taken a tray in her room.”

  A grimace flashed across Fox’s face. He pulled out a chair. On edge, was Fox, and rightly so. The lady must have pushed him with even more determination during their private talk. There was no mistaking her intent. She was comely enough for a Long Meg, and ’twas clear the two had a hankering for each other. But a man could see by the state of that bottle, Fox had held to his honor.

  Or perhaps he was just wary of the father. Shaldon had a long memory and a long reach, and didn’t this present duty attest to that.

  He and his cousin had balked at working with a portrait artist, but after what had happened in Holland, his respect for Fox had risen considerably. Clearly, he’d been at this game for some time, maybe longer than himself. Aye, and there was some story here between Fox and Shaldon that Kincaid had hinted at.

  “Is she feeling unwell?” Fox asked.

  “She didn’t say.” Jenny’s voice was so carefully neutral, he knew she was lying. Fox looked up. He knew it also.

  For sure they’d had a row. Fox had found her
out and about riding astride―damn dangerous for the girl. If Shaldon’s enemies got their grubby hands on his only daughter, that leverage would complicate their mission here.

  Tomorrow, Fox would send him off with a message to Shaldon to come get his daughter, and then she and Jenny would leave. He’d have to steal all his kisses tonight, providing he could turn the girl’s mood from whatever was bothering her.

  Jenny set out the food. He snagged a piece of turnip.

  “Ah, Jenny, it looks lovely.” He pushed a glass over and Fox poured some drink.

  The gin tubs sat stopped up nicely on a wooden counter, bait to bring the free traders to heel.

  There were two settings only at the table. “Not eating with us, fair Jenny?” he asked.

  She cast him a troubled look. “I’ve nibbled all through the cooking.”

  He swept a gaze over her. “Don’t want you to wither away to nothing.”

  She turned away, so he couldn’t even see if her cheeks had gone pink. Fox spooned his food numbly. All in all, his dining companions were far too somber.

  “Have I ever told you, Fox, that some of the MacEwens went off to America?”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye. Had to leave, they did.”

  “Why?” Jenny asked.

  “Well, now.” He took a bite of stew and chewed, thinking of which story to tell. Her ladyship was safely moping in her room. The free traders wouldn’t be out until midnight cracked.

  He’d stretch out this evening with the girl as long as he could.

  Scarborough was not so far down the road that Perry couldn’t reach it tonight, then perhaps take a room at an inn and check on the sailings. Or perhaps return to Gorse Cottage before Jenny discovered she had decided on more than an evening’s ride.

  She let Chestnut find her own way down the moorland road heading south. Somewhere along this way she’d cross over the Baronet’s property. What she knew of the man could balance on one fingertip. He was older than Father, Jane had said. Sir Richard would be tucked up tight in his bed, no doubt. He would be no threat to her.

  What stars there were, were concealed by clouds. Chestnut couldn’t do more than a careful pace.

  It was good she hadn’t told Jenny she was leaving. The girl would have wanted to accompany her, but she needed Jenny at the house, serving the supper, buying Perry time to sneak out of the front door, to saddle the horse, and slip down the road unnoticed.

  Fox’s rejection rubbed at her pride, but no matter. She’d find a less noble man on the Continent someday. Maybe.

  And if not, well, she’d have her freedom, and that counted for something. Because she was not going to be carted off like a prize mare by her brother.

  Her precious bit of money and her jewels were jammed into her boots, cramping her feet. The blade comforted her arms, and the pistols nestled in the waistband of her pantaloons.

  To her left, the sea pounded and roared, in and out, a rhythm that echoed the beats of Chestnut’s jostling gait. The road stretched, twisting and turning through low scrub. Had there been enough light, she’d be able to see for miles in all directions.

  Under her thin coat, she shivered, and the bit of stew she’d managed to swallow stirred in her stomach.

  It was foolish to leave, perhaps. Yet, the men made these sorts of rides all the time. Surely she could also?

  Her departure would worry Jenny, and Fox would be angry. With any luck, she’d reach Scarborough before MacEwen caught up with her. Unless Fox came after her himself, and then—

  Chestnut shied. The brush to the right fluttered and swayed, and ahead in the road was a shadow.

  Cold fear swamped her. She clucked, turned the horse around, and broke into a trot, reaching for one of the pistols.

  A hand grabbed the bridle, knocked the gun away, and yanked her down by the leg, plopping her on her bottom. This was a large man, as tall as she, but three times her size in bulk. With his free hand he whacked her across the face, knocking her hat off. Another figure ran up and the mare shied and kicked, pulling at the reins.

  Perry flew up with a kick to the second man’s jewels. He bellowed, let the horse loose, and snatched at her collar.

  While she wrestled, the horse danced and whinnied, trying to shake off the villain.

  Dear Chestnut. Perry slapped the horse hard on her rump. Chestnut kicked out at the big man, broke free and ran off into the night, back the way that they’d come.

  Dear God, she was all alone now.

  But Chestnut would save her. Chestnut would find her way to that stable and Fox would notice. He would come.

  A foot flew at her and she grabbed it, pulling this slighter man down. All the times as a child when she’d wrestled with Charley might not help her win, but she’d not go down without a fight.

  Fox had just poured another brandy, MacEwen’s mouth was still running with stories, and Jenny was scrubbing pots when a knock came at the back door.

  They exchanged looks. “Tubs in the pantry,” Fox said. “Jenny, you stay in there with them.”

  MacEwen hurried both tubs into the storeroom and returned.

  Fox waited while MacEwen got in place behind the door, then opened it to the two bedraggled sods who’d given up their table to the Squire. The man called Davy cowered behind his friend, who under all his glower looked to be in just as much a quake as Davy.

  “Gaz, is it?’ Fox asked. “And Davy.”

  A tremor passed through Gaz’s face.

  “We met at the inn.”

  That settled him a bit.

  “You’ve got summat of ours.” Gaz said.

  He opened the door wider. “Come in. Have a tot of brandy.”

  Gaz eyed him warily. “We’ll just have them tubs and be on our way.”

  “Two tubs? You’ll have to come in and look for them.”

  Gaz took a step, and Davy pulled him back.

  “There’s naught for it, Davy.” Gaz shook him off. “Stay out if you will. Run if you will. Won’t get far either way with the load going from Robin Hood’s Bay and the other to Scarborough. His men be out everywhere.” Gaz stepped through the door. Davy swayed in behind him.

  Fox led them in and turned to face Gaz’s pistol. The door snicked closed.

  “I’ll have them now and be on my way.”

  Fox raised his hands. “There’s no need for pistols.”

  Davy wheezed. “He’s right, cousin.”

  “Shut up,” Gaz said.

  Davy gave another sharp gasp.

  “Get outside if you can’t stomach this,” Gaz said. “I’ll have those casks.”

  The man gripped the pistol so firmly his hand was beginning to shake. He’d shake that trigger into firing if they didn’t distract him.

  Fox sighed. “Do what you must, Mac.”

  Davy squealed, Gaz turned, and Fox knocked his gun hand away. A shot rang, rattling metal, crashing into masonry, sending a puff of plaster into the air. In moments they had both men disarmed and settled on chairs. Jenny came out of the pantry bearing a hank of rope.

  “Want me to tie them, sir?” she asked.

  MacEwen rolled his eyes and took the rope. “Wist, girl.”

  “Get two more glasses,” Fox said. “If you’re finished with trying to kill us, will you have that brandy with us?”

  The two cousins shared a look and nodded.

  “Or…” he pulled out a chair, “would you prefer a glass of gin?”

  Gaz’s eyes flashed. “See here—”

  MacEwen gripped the man’s collar. “You’re the ones seein’ here. Invited into a man’s home and you pull a gun on him?”

  “We need the casks sir,” Davy said. “Scruggs’ll—”

  “Shut up,” Gaz snapped.

  “How do you know I have anything?” Fox poured the brandy and slid the glasses over to them.

  Gaz sucked on his lip for a moment. “Yer were seen leavin’ the cove with them.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t.�
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  Davy’s hand trembled as he lifted the glass. He drank down the spirits, eyed his cousin, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Enough with it, Gaz. No, you shut up. Sir, we’re here ‘cause yer the only one could’ve taken it. No one else would mess with the Dutchman knowin’ Scruggs would pay for it.”

  “The Dutchman?” Fox asked.

  They must mean Carvelle.

  “Scruggs wouldna’ blink much at a bit of nippin’, but the Dutchman’s as tight as a hangman’s noose. And Gaz and me, we were left with the last of them barrels and we didn’t take ’em.”

  Davy was just drunk enough—or may just sober enough—to tell the truth. Fox downed his own glass. “You’re out early tonight.”

  “Gaz ‘n’ me, we’re bringing the rest of that load up. They’re runnin’ ‘em down to Scarborough tonight.”

  “Scarborough?” Jenny moved closer.

  Fox’s insides shifted. The hair on his neck rose. Jenny’d been tetchy, jittery, all evening.

  Both of the local men ogled her, their gazes frank and approving.

  “Beg pardon,” she said, “But I’ve got to go get that tray.”

  “Come right back,” Fox said.

  Gaz and Davy watched the sway of her hips as she crossed the room.

  “If I had those tubs I’d need a fair exchange for them.”

  They looked at each other again.

  “We got no money,” Gaz said.

  “Not money. Information.”

  “Like what?” Davy asked.

  “We’re no snitches,” Gaz said. “No one’s being hanged on our account.”

  “We give a rat’s ass about Scruggs and your gang, right, Mac?” Fox said.

  MacEwen pulled out the chair next to Davy and sat. “Time and again, smugglers have done me a good turn or two.”

  “We’ve got no quarrel with your village’s industry,” Fox said. “What we’re interested in is murder.”

  Davy licked his lips and slid his glass over. “Murder.”

  Fox poured.

  “Not a word,” Gaz said.

  “We need them casks.” Davy gulped his drink and stared hard at Fox. “Have you seen her then?”

  “Hornswallow,” Gaz muttered, but he picked up his own glass and drained it.