The Counterfeit Mistress

by Madeline Hunter

  “If the others are not servants, what are they? Angus, for example.”

  “Angus? He is a soldier. A man-at-arms. No one better with a sword. I was a soldier too once, before I got old.” He finished setting out the food and left.

  She ate with the window open, listening to the male camaraderie below. Soldiers, Pete called them, but they wore no uniform of the British army. And Lord Kendale had given up his commission when he inherited the title.

  He had a private army. That was the answer, she was sure. He had called these men soldiers, but she had not understood he meant it literally. This was the fort from which he sent sorties out to do—who knew what? I have had others follow you instead. She thought he had hired one of those men who investigate for pay, not that he assigned some of his private men-at-arms to do it.

  Was this allowed in England? Were private armies common? She could not see how any government would welcome such a thing. In ancient times a lord had his own knights and fighting men, but this was not then.

  Down below these soldiers ate in their mess. Soon they would retire to their barracks. No wonder there were no women here. No wonder he thought he could imprison her when he lacked any authority to do so. No wonder she could not find the portal on the garden’s back wall.

  Old Pete had provided a trifle for her meal’s end. She dipped a spoon in the sweet custard. While she ate it, the thought entered her mind that perhaps Lord Kendale was mad. Utterly mad.

  The safe return of comrades from a mission is always a cause for celebration. Kendale did not deny the men their boisterous joy, their beer and gin, or even their pranks. He sat with them for the long evening meal and listened to all of the stories about derring-do. He offered a few foulmouthed toasts along with the others.

  Long after midnight, as one by one heads nodded or consciousness slipped a man’s grasp, he faced one of the last men standing across a plank table in the cellar. He poured the short, glassy-eyed, balding Mr. Drummond more gin.

  Drummond lifted his glass in salute.

  “Before you drink that, Drummond, and fall under this table for the night, would you explain in more detail about Mr. Travis. Twelve left and only eleven came back, yet none of you appear concerned with his absence.”

  “He is sure to make it back, sir.”

  “That is what you have all been saying. Did you lose him across the water, or in England itself? If in England, then most likely he is sure to make it back. If it was in France, that becomes less likely.”

  Drummond glanced to his left and right, looking for one of the others. They were all gone. “Um. He wasn’t on the boat, so it must have been over there.”

  “Was he captured?”

  “Not to my knowing of it. No, sir.”

  “Eventually you will all have to tell me what happened. Tonight, while I am at least half-drunk, might be your best opportunity.”

  “He wouldn’t come with us,” another voice said.

  Kendale turned his head. Sean, Angus’s older cousin, walked over and slammed his hand on the table. “We had the information. We were back on the coast. We are all getting on the damned boat, and that fool held back. Said he was going to find out if the Colonel had been posted in Brest or Dieppe, since we had heard both given. Said he would return in a week or so with the right port. I ordered him to get on the fucking boat, but he just turned and walked away. It was either shoot him or let him go, sir.”

  “Sean here told him you would be most displeased,” Drummond hastened to say. “He said he had more right to see it through than we did, seeing as how he was at Toulon with you. Said he would find out where the bastard is or die trying.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Kendale swore. “Hell and damnation. Why didn’t you pick him up and throw him over your shoulder, Sean? You must be twice his size.”

  “He had his pistol out and ready. I had mine too, of course. Like I said, it was shoot him or let him walk. Should I have shot him?”

  Kendale fought his way to common sense through the foggy fury. “No.”

  “Is possible he will find out,” Drummond said cheerily. “That would be a good thing, right? It would save time.”

  More likely Mr. Travis would do something rash and heroic and get himself killed or captured. Kendale understood the man’s determination to find some justice for that carnage in Toulon, but Travis could not control himself. They were not in the army any longer, however. He could not shoot a deserter from a troop of volunteers with no real duty to the mission.

  “We must wait, it appears,” he said. “We will give him three weeks, maybe four. But no more.”

  Kendale wiped his brow and lifted his sword again. Angus gave him a skeptical look.

  “You sure you want to go on?”

  “My weapon is raised, isn’t it?”

  “It has been on to two hours. Normally we do this an hour thereabouts.”

  “Are you tired? Have I worn you down?”

  “Not tired. Just working harder than normal and wondering why.” His expression cleared as if a thought had struck like lightning. “Ohhh.” He looked over his shoulder at the house, then smirked.

  “You are younger than me and stronger so another hour should not even make you sweat,” Kendale said, not liking that smirk at all.

  “Another hour?” He spit on his hands and grasped his sword, mumbling.

  “What was that, Angus? Did I hear you say something about a woman arriving and ruining me?”

  “You must admit you have been in rare form today. Riding out at dawn, ordering the stables cleaned, rousing the men who were sleeping off last night’s celebration. If she is not the reason, it makes me wonder what is.”

  “There are things to do. Discipline here has been lacking.”

  Angus muttered something else. It sounded like, That woman in your bed is what has been lacking.

  Kendale attacked. Steel met steel as they continued their dangerous dance.

  Kendale did not lie to himself that he was winning at this exercise. At twenty-five, Angus had a good seven years on him, not to mention an inch in height and perhaps twenty pounds in weight. Fighting with swords was the kind of activity where such things mattered and there could be no equal skill as a result.

  He threw himself into it and avoided calling a halt. If he stopped moving, stopped occupying his mind and body, he would get angry about Mr. Travis again. He would also become too aware of the presence in the house that filled the air he breathed. Even now, despite his own sweat, the vague scent of lavender entered his head.

  She had not left her chamber since he told her to make herself scarce the day before. She certainly had not arrived at his chamber door last night. He knew she would not, but he had waited anyway, picturing her wrapped in a blanket that she dropped to reveal her body to him. He had her in his dreams, which did not make for a restful sleep.

  Angus was right. That woman was ruining him.

  Something caught Angus’s eye and he stepped back, lowering his weapon. Retreating as well, Kendale saw Old Pete walking across the field where they sparred north of the garden wall.

  “Letters, sir,” Pete called. “One looks to be in Jacob’s hand. The other—well, I thought you should see it at once.”

  He stabbed his sword into the ground and took the letters. Angus lay down on the ground and sucked in deep breaths. He enjoyed a moment of smug pride that his younger opponent had tired first. But then Angus did not have this hunger making him too restless to stand still, giving him energy that had no release.

  He broke the seal of Jacob’s letter. From his chambers across from Marielle’s home, Jacob wrote that there was a man taking an interest in the house. He came and went, but he passed slowly at least four times a day. Should one of them follow to learn more?

  The second letter also came from London. It bore a seal he had not seen in over a year on any miss
ive to him. He read its message. The Duke of Penthurst had just invited himself to visit. That he dangled a gift and a good excuse did not make the notion sit any better.

  Cursing, he walked toward the house to write responses to both.

  Marielle did not find the note until she shook out the second petticoat in the bundle of garments. It had been buried inside the white cotton cloth and it fell to the floor like a leaf. She snatched it up and unfolded it. She should have guessed Dominique would hide a letter in the garments. She should have unfolded each one yesterday and looked for this, and not merely hung out the dresses.

  There’s men watching. Some across the way who never leave. Another who walks the lane and thinks he is sly in how he watches, but I noticed him three days ago. I don’t think they are together. I hope one of them is a friend.

  As for your visit with the viscount, I remind you that an English lord’s protection is not to be refused lightly in these times, especially with what you might now face, and with what I suspect you plan to do. Other women have the luxury of standing on their virtue in ways we do not. I’d ensure his help myself if I were younger, but those days are past me now.

  The women keep coming and I went and brought back engravings from Monsieur Ackerman. There is work, at least, and no one will starve.

  Dominique’s attempt at discretion amused her. Better to have saved the ink and just written, Use your body to forge an alliance with this lord.

  She could not muster any indignation at the advice. Ever since the attack in the alley, a tight cold fear had twisted beneath her heart. It seemed every day since she had learned things that only made it clench more. The news that Lamberte had left the manor near Savenay. The sight of Éduard and Luc, beaten cruelly before being killed. The intrusion on her house and now, according to Dominique, unwelcome interest from strangers who watched and waited.

  For what? Her, perhaps.

  She tried to explain it all away. An argument could be made that her friend out of fear now saw men watching who merely walked the lane to go about their business. Dominique would never feel really safe again. She carried a knife at all times, didn’t she?

  The intruders might have been a coincidence, and only men who hoped to steal something of value. Éduard and Luc could have fallen victim to smugglers that they crossed, perhaps even Garrett himself.

  Her mind wanted to nod after each explanation. Her soul heard none of it. She knew as surely as she breathed that the danger was real. Ever since those men grabbed her in the alley, she had known.

  The only respite from nervous vigilance had been when she was with Lord Kendale. The only peace had come while he embraced her in the night garden.

  She looked around her pretty chamber. If not for her long-awaited duty, she might gladly stay in this prison forever. It was time to leave it, before its safety sapped her of all her strength. She might follow Dominique’s advice and arrange for Lord Kendale to protect her, but she could not stay here.

  He had said he would not go to her, and he wouldn’t. He approached her door only as a message bearer.

  He could have sent Old Pete, of course. Even Angus, or one of the others. He didn’t.

  She answered his knock and faced him in the shadows. Three candles on a far table gave enough light so he saw her clearly enough, limned in golden glows that turned her hair into spun bronze. She wore a dress he had not seen before, a light purple one with a tiny pattern of something flicking it. He assumed it was one of the dresses brought up from London.

  She cocked her head, curious. “Do you want something of me?”

  Despite her coolness he heard it as a taunt. Hell, yes, he wanted something of her. He burned from what he wanted.

  “There will be visitors tomorrow. One will be a countryman of yours. I would like you to come down and meet them.”

  “Visitors? How interesting. I had heard that you never entertain, and rarely partake of others’ entertainments graciously.”

  The information probably came from Emma, Lady Southwaite. The reference to lack of grace probably came from Cassandra, Lady Ambury.

  “I am not entertaining. These men will be coming for other purposes. I would like your thoughts on the Frenchman, so I want you to meet him.”

  She stepped closer and looked in his eyes, searching. “Do you want my thoughts on him, or his on me?”

  Damn, she was a suspicious woman. Shrewd too. “The other visitor will be a duke. Penthurst. They are traveling together. It can only help you to meet such an important man.” He did not play society’s games much, but after a lifetime watching he could not help but know the rules.

  The duke’s arrival intrigued her. “You may not entertain often, but you are very successful in your guests when you do. Is he a friend?”

  “He has been a friend, yes.”

  “A strange way to respond.” The oddity did not hold her interest. She turned and strolled into her chamber, then turned again. “A duke. Perhaps he will ask me to be his mistress if I provide what little amusement he is likely to enjoy tomorrow.”

  Another taunt. His head almost exploded. “That is not likely.”

  “I am not pretty enough? Not fashionable enough?”

  “You are pretty enough, and you know it. It is still not likely.” Because I will kill him first.

  She considered that, her arm crossed over her body and her other arm rested on it so she could cup her own chin in thought. “Is it not likely because he will assume I am your mistress if I am here?”

  “No.” Yes. “He already has a mistress to whom he is currently devoted. He is not looking for another one right now.” The lie came out too easily. He’d be damned if he allowed Penthurst to even entertain the notion of making Marielle a mistress, or let Marielle think she could achieve such a victory.

  “That is too bad.”

  She smiled at him, her eyes glittering the way they did when she found something amusing. That did nothing for his temper. She knew what he was thinking. She saw the desire in him. Smelled it. Women like her were never ignorant of their effects on men.

  He still stood on the threshold. He had not placed even one foot inside the chamber. Her gaze dared him to take the step.

  Instead he took a deep breath. He was being the worst ass. How often had he mocked men for this? Hadn’t he seen how lust often made men jokes, and sometimes victims?

  He turned, not even taking his leave, and forced himself to walk away.

  To his astonishment she followed.

  Damnation, the woman had no sense. He refused to acknowledge her step behind him. If he looked at her, he—

  He threw open his chamber door and strode in.

  “You lied,” she said.

  He turned then. He had to. Blood pounded in his head and his whole body seemed taut as a stretched bow. She was the one now standing right outside the door, looking in.

  “What lie?” There had been a few.

  “When I asked if you wanted something of me, you did not answer truthfully.”

  “I did.”

  “I do not think so. One of the others could have told me about these visitors. You came yourself.” She looked down at her feet and the doorway. Slowly, elegantly, she toed at the invisible line with her soiled, silk slipper.

  His whole being urged her to cross that line. He did not give a damn that it might compromise his honor, or make him one of those jokes.

  She watched her foot trace her debate on the board. Then she stepped inside and closed the door. She walked over to him. “What do you want of me, m’sieur?”

  He looked down at her, ridiculously elated and relieved and instantly as hard as he had ever been.

  “Say it, Lord Kendale. What do you want?”

  He pulled her forward and lifted her in an embrace. “You,” he muttered. “You.”

  It did not take him long to get her clothe
s off her. She managed to avoid him ripping her dress to shreds in the process.

  They tumbled onto the bed together. She knew how it would be if she did not take matters in hand. She found his impatience charming and his hard passion exciting, but there were times when one preferred more finesse.

  She plucked at his neckpiece while she kissed him. “Perhaps you can remove this. And the boots.”

  He stopped and looked down at her. Then turned his head and looked down his own body toward those boots. He sat up and had them off in a flash.

  She knelt behind him, circling his neck with her arms. She slid off his coat and reached around to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. “You do not mind, do you? If I see you as you see me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “After all, I too would like to kiss skin and not wool and linen.”

  She fell back on the bed while he undressed. He did it like the soldier he had been, methodically, neatly, quickly. He never took his eyes off her either, so she taunted him a bit, crossing her arms behind her head so her breasts rose, raising her leg to caress his chest with her foot while he finished with his lower garments.

  Finally he was done. He joined her, lowering into her arms. An entwining embrace brought them close, touching everywhere in warmth, surrounded by sensual, physical scents. He kissed her furiously, his mouth claiming and devouring. She felt the explosive passion in him.

  She pushed at his chest. Eventually he noticed and rose up so she was not pinned down. She pushed again, turning her body so he lay on his back. She straddled him, sat back, and admired what she saw.

  Bending forward, she kissed a line across his chest. “You want me, and I want you. It is good, no? Tonight let us have each other in a special way. Let us enjoy this as if we know we will never know pleasure again with anyone, ever.” She smiled at him. “It will be as if we are drinking the very best wine. Slowly savoring each drop.”

  She showed him what she meant by caressing him in long, careful strokes that let her feel him inch by inch. She closed her eyes so the sensations filled her awareness and created memories of touch and scent. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply, slowly. Her breasts barely touched his chest, teasing her.