“For now just choose a chamber on this level, so she is not bothered by the noise you fellows make up above and down below. There must be one that is suitable,” he said while he stripped off his upper garments.
Angus poured the warmed water into the bowl. “There’s those that are clean enough, I guess, if that makes one suitable.”
“Then stick her in one. When Mr. Pottsward gets here he will reorder matters if that is necessary.”
Angus picked up the razor and sharpened it on the stone. “Who is to do for her? There’s no women here. I suppose Old Pete can—”
“Hell if I know who is to do for her. Tell her to do for herself until we find some woman to bring here. I do for myself often enough.” To make his point, he took the razor from Angus and bent close to the looking glass.
Marielle had turned the household on its head without saying a word. It had been a mistake to bring her here. He only had come because as they approached London he admitted he could not give her into the hands of the sort who dealt with spies. Men died at those hands sometimes.
He could hardly bring her to his chambers in London either. Nor would his honor allow him to let her move freely after what he had seen. So here she was, until he sorted out his thoughts and finally, at last, had that long due conversation with her.
And if after that he concluded the worst was true of her, then . . .
He scraped away the hard stubble of beard. Angus stood there like he assumed a valet would, holding a cloth at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye Kendale noted Angus’s frown.
“What is it?” he asked while the blade skimmed his neck.
“Nothing. Not really. Just, we all could not but notice that . . . she is French, from the sounds of her, such as we heard when she spoke out on the drive. Not too French, but French.”
“What do you mean, not too French? One either is or is not.”
“She is understandable, not like some of them who talk through the back of their noses. Incomprehensible they are.”
“The way you are incomprehensible with your thick brogue?”
Angus flushed. “Not the same at all. I am a Scot. She is French.”
“Just not too French.”
Angus nodded. “Like she has worked hard to sound more normal to us. I expect with time one could even forget she was French, that accent is subtle enough.”
He set down the razor, took the cloth, and wiped off the soap. “One could, but I would not. I never forget the French are the French. If you are worried she will learn something about our mission and word will get out to other French guests, or back to—”
“No. Of course not, sir. Not a man here will reveal anything, and there is nothing much for her to see that is telling. Just she has worked very hard at it, though, the way she talks not too French. I tried once to talk not too Scot, and my brain would never accept the oddness of it.”
“Get me some fresh water. I need to wash.”
“Have some right here still.” Angus dealt with the dirty shaving water in a manner no valet would approve. He carried the bowl over to the window and tossed the contents out. “I expect she will be wanting to wash too. Or bathe. Should I tell the others to start heating water to carry up to her?” He poured clean water into the bowl.
An image invaded, of a naked Marielle stepping into a metal tub set in front of a fire. Pale, soft, and lithe, she balanced on one foot while the other tested the heat of the water before settling in it. She bent to hold the edge while swinging the other leg in, and her hair fell forward, revealing the elegant and erotic lines of her back and bottom.
He shook the fantasy away and picked up the soap to wash away the journey’s dust. “Put old Pete in charge, as you suggested. Tell him to show her to that chamber with the blue bedclothes. Tell him to offer her water to bathe and to follow her instructions on the rest. Then tell the cook to make a decent dinner tonight.”
Angus nodded, and walked to the door. “It will be odd, having a woman here.”
“Don’t worry, it will not be for long.”
Angus looked back and smiled. “I didna say it would be odd in a bad way, sir.”
There were no women in this house. Not a one.
Marielle realized that when an ancient man who introduced himself as Old Pete came to her and escorted her up the stairs. Small wonder she had waited so long to be shown her prison. All of these men had probably spent an hour discussing how to manage her intrusion.
In the chamber Old Pete chose, he set about rolling a tub out of a dressing room. “My lord said to bring you water to bathe. It will be some time to heat it. He said you would not mind doing for yourself after that.”
“If there are no women servants, of course I will do for myself.”
He grinned, revealing three missing teeth. “My lord finds women a nuisance. When he came back he pensioned off the ones still here. The last was sent away a few months ago. Seems that housekeeper kept telling him what to do and not do, and his mother’s lady’s maid kept complaining about us who he brought in to serve him, so he just paid them all off one by one. There’s a few women on the estate, of course. Wives of farmers and milkmaids and such.”
“It is generous of him to allow them to remain, and not insist all his tenants live the monastic life he has chosen.”
“Monastic?” Old Pete appeared startled, then laughed. “Oh, I see. You’ve a wit about you. We’re none of us monks, miss. ’Tis more a barracks than a monastery.”
In their essential characteristics, she could not see much difference. Except, perhaps, monks—the good ones at least—did not have any knowledge of women of the carnal kind. Soldiers, on the other hand . . .
Perhaps periodically they imported bawds so these soldiers could sate themselves, to better concentrate on their duties afterward.
After Old Pete left, she examined her quarters. She began with the window, to see just how hard it would be to leave. Very hard. She overlooked a hill, and any descent from this window would be a straight drop that could hurt her badly. She would have to find another way. She could not remain here long, that was certain.
The rest of the chamber appeared comfortable. Very much so. Much larger and better appointed than her own in London, it held good furniture and hangings. The bed felt almost new and unused and very soft. Although she resented that Kendale had abducted her, she had to admit some gratitude that she would not be sleeping on straw in some dungeon tonight. This house probably had one, if he decided he needed it.
The water arrived by way of a parade of men carrying steaming buckets. Quite an assortment they presented as each in turn poured, bowed, and left. Except for Old Pete they all had a physicality that reminded her of Kendale himself. This was indeed a barracks of sorts from the look of them.
She held Old Pete back after the others departed. “Will I be eating here?”
“I don’t know.”
“If not, if I am to go below and eat with Lord Kendale, please make sure I am told an hour before I must go down.”
“My lord said we was to do what you want, and if you want to be called an hour before, that is how it will be.”
She bolted the door behind him, then began shedding her garments, eager to submerge herself in that hot water. It would be heavenly. Delicious. And tonight she would sleep in that soft bed with its expensive sheets and linens.
With a prison like this, a woman might be tempted to never let Lord Kendale set her free.
After the manner Kendale had adopted on the journey to this house, Marielle expected she would in fact be eating in her chamber. She even moved a little table near the window in preparation for the tray that would arrive.
Instead Old Pete came to tell her that his lord expected her below in an hour. At the appointed time she draped her shawl around her and walked down the stairs. She wished he had not chosen to dine this way. If he rem
ained stern and aloof, it would be a poor hour or two. On the other hand, if he chose to talk, she doubted she would want to hear what he would likely say.
He already sat in the dining room when she entered. He rose until she was seated across from him. It was a wide table. The distance between them spanned considerably more than that day in his chambers. She wondered if he thought about that when he gazed across at her. How formal this was in comparison too. The lord sat in his castle now, and one could not mistake his power.
“Old Pete said you told them to do what I wanted done,” she said after they had the soup. “I want them to bring me back to London.”
“They will accommodate your wishes here.”
“Then I am telling you, not them. I want to return to London.”
“You may instruct them. Not me.”
His tone brooked no argument. She gave none while they ate some fish served by a strapping young man with fair hair. He looked like he should be wielding a battle ax and his coats should be replaced by animal skins. What a very peculiar household.
“I have nothing with me,” she said after a long silence. “Not even a comb. All that I brought with me to Dover was left at the inn where I stayed when you kidnapped me.”
The young footman glanced sharply at Kendale. Kendale gestured for the young man to leave. When he was gone, her host settled his attention on her fully. “Do not accuse me of kidnapping in front of my people.”
“What should I call it instead?”
“Arresting.”
That took her aback. “You have arrested me? On what authority?”
“On the authority of being a British citizen, a member of the House of Lords, and a confidante and ally of all of the Home Office agents who monitor the eastern coast. You are here, instead of with them, because I did not want to err with you if there is an explanation other than the obvious one. So be glad for the respite, and do not insult me in front of my men.”
She nibbled at the beef that had been served before the footman left. She waited for Kendale’s ill humor to ease at least a bit.
“I still have nothing with me,” she said.
“We will get you a comb, and whatever else you need.”
“I have no garments, Lord Kendale.”
“Then wrap yourself in a blanket,” he snapped. “You have done it before.”
Again an allusion to that day. It seemed to make him less friendly, not more so.
“If you write to Dominique, she will come too, and bring some clothes and such.”
“Is she your ally in all things? Should she be here with you?”
She realized his meaning to her shock. “You are not to arrest her too, if that is what you mean. Do not be more cruel and horrible than you are already.”
He glared at her, then ate his food. When he put down his fork, he sat back in his chair. “I already wrote to inform her that you are safe, as you requested when we arrived. I also made arrangements for her to send you some things, being the cruel and horrible man that I am.”
She regretted the insult, especially since he had considered her comfort even before she had demanded he do so. She also regretted saying something else to make him hard and unmoving. The fullness of her vulnerability overwhelmed her and she held on to her composure with effort.
“My apologies. This is not a situation that encourages happiness or calm. You dragged me here and have now told me that I am under your arrest. I would be a fool not to be afraid, or concerned about the decisions you will make.”
The severity left him. He gazed with different eyes all of a sudden. Their lights were not sparks struck off flint, but warmer ones such as she had seen before. In his chambers. In Brighton. In a London garden. He looked so intently that it stole her breath. The lure of pleasure and the demands of desire rapidly arced between them, creating an exciting, primal understanding.
She expected him to rise up and come over and pull her into a rough embrace. Instead he leaned toward her over the table and held her gaze with his own. “Go upstairs now. Remain there until morning. If you want a book from the library, stop and get one, but do not wander the house tonight. And do not try to leave. The doors will be watched all night.”
She rose. “I give my word that I will not try to leave. You can allow your men to sleep.”
“Thank you, but I have no reason to know if your word is worth anything, do I? And the evidence thus far says that everything about you is a lie.”
Chapter 11
Kendale spent long hours that night battling a chaos of anger, desire, and exasperation. Only one rational thought survived it all. Honor required that he learn the truth about Marielle, and be rid of her soon if his worst suspicions were confirmed.
The other thought to survive began with a curse and ended with the fury of wanting a woman he should not have. Never before in his life had his judgment been so compromised and he admonished himself for being weak with her. He should have directed the coach straight to London today, not talked himself into learning the truth before delivering her to her fate. Her face had softened him too much. So had her fear. It was his own hunger that really made the decision, though.
Nor had the resolve he reestablished on that long ride lasted. As soon as he looked at her across that table tonight her sad eyes had him wanting to comfort, to kiss, to caress.
He was a hell of a soldier, wasn’t he? One sniff from her pretty nose and he was ready to put aside everything that mattered.
He paced his chambers, his body tight and needing action to relieve the effect she had left in him. The only good thing, if it could be called that, was that as the night passed he finally understood part of that disaster in France.
He had never comprehended how Feversham had been so easily lured into trusting Jeannette. Feversham had sound judgment. He was a damned mountain of rationality. They had all followed his lead on using Jeannette’s information regarding the position of French troops around Toulon. Feversham was not a man to have his head turned by a pretty face.
Except Jeannette had an exceptionally pretty face, and a way about her that left men stupid. Even Feversham it turned out. All of them, really. A whole unit had set aside good sense that night and believed what Feversham wanted to believe.
Something similar had happened in the dining room tonight. One more minute and he would have convinced himself to believe anything she wanted him to believe.
He opened his window and gazed out at the grounds below. An enclosed garden stretched for an acre toward woods and farms beyond. The cool air refreshed him as it flowed over the skin of his face and chest. With any luck it would relieve this infernal agitation that had him pacing like a caged animal. If he could avoid thinking about Marielle in her bed down the hall, he might even sleep.
A distant sound reached his ears. He set his ear to the open window. Voices. Then silence.
He looked out again. Someone moved in the garden. Marielle. It had to be her. Men did not walk so soundlessly. The moonlight picked up subtle golden shines off her hair. She aimed directly through the garden toward the far end, probably hoping to find a back portal.
Damnation. He had given orders to his men that she was not to leave the house. He pulled on his shirt and strode out of his chambers. There would be hell to pay for whoever was on duty at the garden doors.
He strode through the house to its back, and first checked the doors in the morning room that gave out to the terrace. A tall silhouette darkened one of them. He walked over and tapped Angus’s shoulder.
Startled, Angus spun around, battle ready. He relaxed when he saw who had joined him. “You are still awake, sir?”
“I am. What were you watching out there?”
“Nothing much.” Angus shifted from foot to foot, then took a firm stance and crossed his arms.
“I said she was not to leave the house.”
&nb
sp; “That you did, sir. Only she said she felt a little faint and needed air, and the garden has a wall, doesn’t it? Not likely she will be able to climb over it.”
If Marielle Lyon decided she wanted to climb a ten-foot wall, Kendale did not doubt she would find a way to do so.
“You must learn to obey orders even when a pretty woman says she needs some air.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir. I will go and get her.” Angus reached for the door latch.
“No, I will. Go and get some sleep.”
“Are you sure, sir? She may try to leave again after—”
“She will not try to leave the house again. Go.”
Angus walked away. Kendale turned the latch and stepped out into the cool night. Too cool, even for that shawl.
He wandered down the central path, listening and looking. No wind broke the night’s stillness. The half moon gave vague form to the plantings and trees, and deep shadows.
One of those shadows breathed. Up ahead, to the right, Marielle sat on a bench beneath the dense tangle of a young elm tree’s barren umbrella of branches. He walked over until he could see her clearly. Her bench rested in a river of ivy that churned around the tree in dense growth.
“Do not blame that guard you had at the door,” she said. “He is young and easily flattered.”
“He is no younger than you.” He had no idea how young she was, or how old. She possessed a maturity that made the question insignificant. Yet he found his head calculating the little he had heard, about her flight from France and her loss during the Terror. Early twenties?
“He only tried to be kind. I told him I was feeling faint.”
“Were you?”
“No. It was a lie.”
“You must have been disappointed to learn there was no portal in the back.”
“Isn’t there? That is odd. However, I did not look for one. I told you I would not try to leave. That was not a lie.”
The Counterfeit Mistress Page 13
