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

by Alina K. Field

  After Bakeley’s wedding ball, her father had set Fox on the scent of Carvelle, a quest that had taken him to Holland, across the Low Countries, and back again to Gorse Cottage. In his time on the Yorkshire coast, Fox had acquainted himself with most of the smuggling paths in the district and many of the players from Clampton, including the corrupt Riding Officer and the maid from the Red Lion, who Scruggs used to control the officer and other strangers.

  Fox had not spared her delicate sensibilities. Her heart swelled with that, and then quickly collapsed under a niggling suspicion.

  “Fox. You were a stranger here.”

  His hand flattened along her back and stroked up and down. “I’ve no interest in her wares, nor did I partake of them.”

  It was cunningly done, that stroking and distracting. He might be telling the truth. She scrubbed a hand along his jaw, looking deeply. “I’ve heard that men often lie about such things. But perhaps I’ll choose to believe you.”

  “I’m glad, because it’s the truth.”

  He went on with the story. After Carvelle’s embarkation the previous night, they’d lost sight of the man, and MacEwen’s eavesdropping on Carvelle’s conversation with Scruggs had yielded no news.

  Fox had met Davy and Gaz earlier that day at the inn as well as the local squire, Sir Richard Fenwick.

  “What was he like?”

  Fox hesitated and frowned. “Bluff and hearty, and dim as a sputtering candle. Your local Squire Western.”

  His frown belied his words. “But he is surely part of the free trade?”

  “As a receiver of bribes, yes, most likely. As an organizer...” Fox’s frown deepened. “He does throw his weight around.”

  A muffled knock at the door made him pause. He set her aside and stood.

  It was only Davy, bearing a covered basket. “Others are comin’.” He yanked off his hat and lifted the basket. “You are a real woman,” he said.

  Her cheeks warmed. “I am.”

  Davy glanced at Fox and dropped his gaze to the floor. He seemed an innocent sort, truly not old enough to have a child of Pip’s age.

  “What have you brought in the basket?” she asked.

  “Eggs. From my aunt. For savin’ Pip. And I thank ye, miss,” he added, his voice gravelly.

  She took the basket and almost fumbled it. “It’s heavy.” A faded yellow cloth had been tucked in along the edges and she peeled it back carefully. At least two dozen eggs of assorted sizes and colors nestled there. “Oh, my.” As a girl, she’d had occasion to gather eggs at Cransdall, but they’d never had this much variation. “They are lovely. And there are so many.”

  “Chickens be layin’ good. And lucky thing because you and your man be needin’ them with more mouths to feed.”

  She saw Fox’s mouth quiver. Davy thought she was Fox’s woman.

  The warmth flooding her made her giddy.

  “Is Pip well?” she asked.

  “Dried up and tucked in. One of Gaz’s sisters is sitting on him to keep him from coming back out with us.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Did you find the horse?” Fox prodded.

  The man nodded. “Gaz is putting him up in the stable along with your other men and their horses.”

  “Other men?” Fox asked.

  “Aye. Two Scotsmen and an older gent.”

  Fox’s eyes burned into her. Father had sent MacEwen’s cousin, or perhaps the cousin had been on that boat with Farnsworth.

  She was not going to run away and hide.

  “I believe I can manage to cook eggs for…” She did a mental count and smiled at Davy. “For six hungry men. You and Gaz will join us, Davy.” She pulled a crockery bowl from the open shelving above the food dresser.

  Fox handed Davy a lamp. “On the top floor is my room. You’ll work out which one. Bring down two bottles of brandy. Stop on the floor below and knock on the door at the end of the hall. Tell the girl there to get up and come down. She’s a real woman, too. There are no ghosts here.”

  Davy grinned and shuffled off.

  She picked up an egg and weighed it in her hand. “He’s happy to go exploring.”

  “And happy for the brandy.”

  “And the extra woman.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not running away again. Nor will I be sent away.”

  “Like this.” He snatched an egg from the basket, cracked it on side of the bowl, and emptied the bright orange yolk and the clear sac surrounding it, using only one hand.

  His smoothness made her laugh again.

  “It might soon be quite dangerous here,” he said.

  She cracked an egg and it exploded, the contents sliding along the outside of the bowl. She tried to pick it up with her fingers and punctured the yolk. “I’m hopeless.” More giddiness took her and she laughed again.

  “Use two hands, Perry.” He demonstrated with another egg then watched her try again. “Yes. Like that.”

  She whooped and giggled, and he laughed with her. Only a tiny piece of shell had slid into the bowl. “I shall master this yet.”

  She gazed up at him. He was honorable, and kind. “You’re a good teacher, Fox.”

  His eyes went dark.

  “Will you truly tell my father everything when he arrives?”

  “Perry—”

  “And what if Father would give his official blessing?”

  Cold air touched her cheek.

  “His official blessing for what?”

  Her heart thudded to a halt. The egg in her hand dropped, bouncing into the bowl, whole and unbroken.

  A thundering stag of a man, dressed in dark wool, had belied all of his size and crept through the door while she and Fox fumbled eggs. And she knew him.

  Father had not sent minions. He’d come himself.

  The Earl of Shaldon crossed the room and tossed his gloves onto the table.

  Next to her, Fox froze, and said, “Sir.” The silence that followed was as cold as the wind off the water. Fox didn’t bow like a toady. Nor call Father my lord. Nor shout, We didn’t expect you.

  One could never expect the Earl of Shaldon. Or not expect him.

  She opened her mouth and words wouldn’t come. He was here for her. Somehow, he’d learned of her visit to a friend in the country from one tiny piece of intelligence crossing his desk, and he’d made his way straight to her hiding place.

  She might, after all, run, and require Fox to come with her.

  Father’s face was unreadable, as bland and devoid of expression as ever. “You have egg on your face, my dear.”

  She rubbed the back of her hand on her cheek and felt the tight pull of the dried membrane. She didn’t remember touching herself there. Fox handed her the yellow towel from the basket and she rubbed at her cheek.

  Father raised his arms, and behind him, Kincaid appeared, helping Father out of his coat. All the while, Father’s eyes stayed fixed on Fox.

  “You’ll be hungry, Father. I am making eggs and a bit of ham.” She took a breath, trying to keep her voice from quivering. “Good evening, Mr. Kincaid. Was your journey a hurried one?”

  “Rather.” Kincaid pulled bundled packages out of a saddlebag. “Are you sharing that cheese, my lady?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course. There’s a bit of toast also. And some brandy.”

  Father and Fox stood, eyes still locked. A bottle of whisky appeared on the table, and Kincaid went off and came back with glasses. Only two, she noticed, and wasn’t that rude? He should offer some to Fox, the man who had saved her, who’d almost made love to her, who’d taught her to cook, and who wouldn’t marry her without Father’s blessing.

  Her breath caught. “Fox.” She touched his sleeve, and made him turn his gaze to her.

  An honorable marriage with her Father’s blessing. They might have that. It wasn’t impossible. “Fox, yes.”

  He blinked, because, of course, he hadn’t asked her to marry him, and what he was thinking she couldn’t guess. She couldn’t ask, not with Father
and Kincaid in the room.

  His arm slid around her. “Lord Shaldon, sir, I should like a private word with you.”

  She let out a breath. It seemed that he didn’t hate her.

  Father’s gaze narrowed on her, sending a shiver through her. “A private word.” His lips pressed together. “She shouldn’t be here, Fox.” Father sat down heavily and tossed back the spirits Kincaid had just poured.

  “That is one of the things I would speak to you about.”

  Not without her. He meant to send her away. She opened her mouth to object, but Fox’s look quelled her.

  She stiffened her spine, fished the egg out of the bowl and cracked it. Perfectly, this time. “I’m not leaving.”

  “She’s not leaving,” Fox echoed, the steel in his voice sending a thrill through her. Not many men stood up to the Earl of Shaldon. “I’ll protect her.”

  Her heart swelled and pounded. She cracked another egg, the yoke plopping whole and intact into the bowl. “I’m getting good at this,” she murmured.

  MacEwen walked in, saw them, and smirked behind Shaldon’s back while he shed his coat. “Night’s turning foul,” he said. “Business as usual.”

  Gaz slipped through the door, hat in hand, his gaze wandering the room. Davy rolled through the inner door juggling two bottles of brandy, with Jenny behind him still tucking her hair under a cap.

  The maid’s sleepy eyes widened at the sight of the crowd in the kitchen, and Perry saw the moment the girl spotted Father. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping as low as her curtsy.

  The chill wind that was Father wiped away Davy’s grin, and he clutched the two bottles of spirit to him like the two sides of a breastplate. Fox’s grip on her shoulder tightened a fraction. A log cracked and spit. The whisky bottle belched as Kincaid poured two more shots.

  “For heaven’s sake.” She smacked an egg loudly, cracking it neatly. “Jenny, lay the table upstairs and then come help me. There’ll be one more for breakfast when Lord Farnsworth arrives.”

  Chapter 23

  The breakfast discussion was inconsequential, as if everyone present already knew the details of all of the evening’s events. Which was impossible, since only Davy and Gaz knew what had happened and they were confined to the kitchen with Jenny.

  Farnsworth, the one of Father’s men with more insight, didn’t arrive until the dishes were being cleared. His appearance up the backstairs from the kitchen made it clear to Perry that this house—her house—was a regular gathering place for her father’s people. It must be a safe house for the spies taking this route to and from the Low Countries. They all knew their way around the stables and kitchens.

  While MacEwen, Kincaid and Father made room for Farnsworth, Perry fidgeted, gripping the edge of the chair seat, the urge to jump up and help Jenny, Davy, and Gaz clear the dishes almost overwhelming. All of her many lessons on proper decorum had vanished this night.

  Farnsworth addressed the full plate of food with a lack of gentility, as if he were used to eating quickly when food was available. He’d been attached to a revenue cutter for the past several days and looked the worst for it, his hair plastered wet, his dark, well-cut clothing salt-stained. In between bites, he made his report.

  Under the veil of the tablecloth, Fox’s hand slid around hers. Farnsworth’s level gaze moved over her, the tiniest of frowns forming.

  She clasped Fox’s hand tightly. “Did you catch up with the smugglers, Lord Farnsworth?” she asked.

  “We lost the three men in the skiff in a rocky cove.” His frown darkened. “We sent men in and found naught but an empty boat. They’d disappeared into those cliffs.”

  “And the smugglers’ ship?” Fox asked.

  “We saw it off the coast. The weather turned us all back.”

  Perry’s heart eased. They’d heard as much from MacEwen. They’d have another chance at stopping the assassins.

  Farnsworth peered closer. “Are you quite all right, Lady Perpetua?”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  He looked back at the two local men, hovering along the wall. They’d come back up from the kitchen to wait for Farnsworth’s dishes and eavesdrop.

  “And the boy?” Farnsworth asked.

  Davy brushed back a shock of hair. “Tucked into his bed, thanks to the lady and Mr. Goodfellow.”

  Father’s lips pressed together. His dark gaze scooted between her and Fox and the other men, like he was a spectator at a cricket match. She shifted closer to Fox and straightened her spine.

  Outside, the wind howled, making the candles flicker. A sliver of light shone through the glass of the doors. Dawn would be upon them soon.

  “You’re all very tired.” Father looked at Davy and Gaz. “You men, when Scruggs asks, as he will, you may tell him I’ve come.” He sent them off to their homes and their beds.

  Kincaid looked a question at Father.

  “Might as well set events in motion,” Father said, “and tomorrow is soon enough to speak to them. Off with you, too, MacEwen.”

  MacEwen went off to the kitchen, presumably headed for his bed in the stables. And perhaps to spend time with Jenny first.

  There were two more bedchambers next to Perry’s own. She would take one of them. “I’ll just move my things, Father, and you may have—”

  “No need.”

  “But there are only two empty bedchambers. Take Mother’s, and Kincaid may have my maid’s cot in the dressing room.” Jenny could bed with her, and Farnsworth could have the other, assuming he was staying on.

  “Fox will yield his chamber for Farnsworth, won’t you, Fox?”

  That meant him sleeping in the stables.

  Or…with her. Could they manage it, right under Father’s nose? Would Fox be willing? She squeezed his hand.

  Fox nodded curtly. “I’ll spell MacEwen on watch,” he said, without budging from his chair.

  Kincaid tossed back one more gulp of whisky and stood. “Not much to be done now. We can catch a few hours of sleep. I’ll ready your chamber, Shaldon.” He nodded his goodnights and left. Farnsworth followed him.

  Leaving her and Fox alone with Father. A wild thrumming started up in her. Fox would tell him the truth, he’d said, and then what?

  Father wouldn’t beat her, she didn’t think. He might despise her. He might try to marry her off to some lord in his service.

  Farnsworth, perhaps. He was a baron, long-ago widowed, but not in a million years would she have him.

  “Go to bed, my dear,” Father said. “I would speak to Fox privately.”

  Fox’s grip on her hand slackened and she looked at him. He wanted to send her away also.

  She pulled her hand away and stood. “I will not. What he has to say concerns me also.” She twisted her hands in the kerseymere skirt and paced around the table where she could face both of them. “I’ll not be shut out, or sent to bed. I’m not a child any longer.”

  Perry’s eyes held so much hurt, it tore at his heart. She’d not been a compliant girl, and she wouldn’t be a compliant wife, either. Yet, she must give him his due as a man to talk to her father in his own way and own time, especially since she’d forced the issue. He wouldn’t beg Shaldon to bless a marriage between them. Only a blessing freely given would make for a marriage that would endure. If Shaldon begrudged them this marriage, Perry would be unhappy. If they were sent away, she would miss Cransdall, her brothers and their wives, and her nieces and nephews. She’d miss her horses also.

  Love wouldn’t sustain without the friendship of her family.

  But if he took her to America…his brother had written seeking reconciliation, promising his share of their father’s lands, if he returned. Land yes, but no guarantee of the friendship of his family. More than likely, she would be desperately homesick for England.

  She’d forced this hand and he had no choice but to play it.

  He reached for her and she came to him. He could feel her quaking.

  “Lord Shaldon, I care very much for
Perry, and…we’ve shared this cottage without a proper chaperone. I’ve compromised her.” His throat tightened and took a deep breath. “I would like your blessing to marry your daughter.”

  “And you’ve spoken to her before speaking to me, or her brother?”

  The ass. He was every bit as condescending as Fox had expected.

  “I’m of age, Father.” Anger flashed in Perry’s eyes. “And Bakeley has no say over me.”

  “So, I take it, daughter, you are willing to marry Fox?”

  Her lips formed an O sending his heart crashing, but she finally nodded. “Yes.”

  “And if I oppose the match?” His gaze took them both in. Shaldon’s shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Come here, Perpetua.”

  She bit her lip and stalled, what she had said, that she didn’t truly know her father, displayed on her face. “Fox has been very honorable. I should greatly appreciate your approval, Father, but I shall be willing to marry him even without it.”

  Dear, defiant Perry. He opened his mouth to set the record straight, but Shaldon spoke first.

  “Yes. I know. Come here.”

  She glanced at Fox and he nodded.

  Her father grasped her hand. “So cold,” he murmured. “And there is that bruise on your cheek that you’ve painted over. I’ve been wondering about it since I arrived.” He shot Fox a look that sparkled with anger. “Now let me see what else you are hiding under that scarf at your neck.”

  Perry gasped. “It wasn’t Fox’s doing—”

  “The scarf, Perpetua.”

  Fox stood and went to help her, his fingers fumbling with the cloth. “It wasn’t my doing, but it was my fault.” It’d been his rejection that’d caused her to take flight.

  The scarf slipped away, and Shaldon took in the ugly bruises, his mouth going hard. “His brows drew together and he turned a look on Fox. “She’s been wincing and favoring her left side. Is there more?”

  “Blows to the back. Above and below the kidney, I’d say. Nothing broken, but badly bruised.”

  “How did this happen?” Shaldon addressed the question to him.

  “She was…” he fumbled for words that would not make her feel foolish. “taken on the road to Scarborough.”