Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1

by Cheryl Bolen

  “What was the mutual friend’s name?”

  “The name was not given, my lord.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite. As I said, the letter was very brief.”

  “I’m so very vexed with myself,” she said a moment later.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Knowing The Scoundrel as I did, I should have realized he wasn’t an earl. Wouldn’t an earl have been in possession of a signet ring and have a solicitor’s address? The Scoundrel had neither. I was so beastly blind!”

  “Don’t be so harsh on yourself. It’s only natural to assume someone’s telling the truth about his own name.” He set a hand to her trim waist and fought the urge to draw her to him. Instead, he nudged her back to the bedchamber where she returned to her seat in front of the dressing table. Edward forced his glance to look no lower than her chin.

  “Why did you not sell the spurs and ring?” he asked.

  “Because I thought they belonged to the new earl.”

  How could such a dishonest person be so honest, he wondered.

  “I wish, my lord, I could contribute in some small way to repairing the damage my late husband did.”

  “Perhaps you have.”

  “Andrew Bibble?”

  “Most promising.” He started toward the door. “I’ll send notes around to Aynsley and Cook to cancel tomorrow’s outing.”

  She spun around to face him, her brows arched.

  “I’d prefer that you stay here until I can . . . learn more,” he said. “I’ll be better able to protect you--and your sister--here than on the streets of London.” He had purposely thrown in her sister to ensure Maggie’s compliance.

  “Then I most certainly hope you can learn more quickly, my lord. I am most anxious to see the capital.”

  “And secure a husband,” he said with a smile.

  “The sooner I do, the sooner you’ll be rid of me and all the strife I seem to have brought into your home.”

  Now she was making him feel the curmudgeon. “Pray, don’t spare a thought on such trivialities. Your presence here may turn out to be rather fortunate--for my work, you understand,” he added.

  She gave a false laugh. “Good night, my lord. I hope the distress of tonight’s events doesn’t rob you of sleep.”

  “That is my wish for you, Maggie,” he said in a gentle voice.

  When he left her room he came upon Wiggins, whose lanky body stood as sentry outside Maggie’s door.

  “I’ll need you to rouse a footman to keep guard over Lady Warwick’s chambers,” Edward instructed the butler, “and I’ll need a fire and candles in the library.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And Wiggins?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Arrange the servants’ schedules so that one of them is available to guard the lady’s room every night.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  A few minutes later Edward was pacing the Turkey carpet of his library. Something even more menacing than what had happened here tonight upset him. Someone in the Foreign Office is a traitor. A few minutes ago he had tried to block such an accusation from his mind. Surely Henshaw was the only traitor in their office. None of their work had been foiled since Henshaw left. But the longer Edward reflected on it, the stronger his conviction grew.

  Why had no one ever tried to find Henshaw’s documents in the four months since his death? It wasn’t until Edward told Lord Carrington, Harry Lyle and Charles Kingsbury of Henshaw’s widow that the woman had come into peril. He felt bloody responsible for her--and for anything that threatened her.

  Everything in Edward wanted to believe tonight’s intruder acted solely for the French, eager to get some kind of document that identified Napoleon’s spies acting in England. But if that were the case, they would not have waited for Maggie to come all the way to London. How easy it would have been to accost an unprotected woman on the road from Portsmouth. That they had waited until she was under Edward’s protection proved they did not know of her existence until Edward revealed it to his trusted colleagues that morning.

  He must find out if the three men who knew of Maggie’s situation had told anyone else in the Foreign Office.

  Otherwise, one of Edward’s three most trusted coworkers was a traitor.

  That person was desperate to get something Henshaw had. But what? Had Henshaw not acted alone? Could he incriminate someone in the Foreign Office?

  Who in the hell was responsible for tonight’s break-in? Certainly not Lord Carrington. He was too great a patriot. Besides, what could the French give him that he did not already possess? And the culprit could not be Harry, who was Edward’s closest friend and as fine a man as he had ever known. Edward was more inclined to believe the traitor Charles Kingsbury, a loner who was not especially well liked, though his intense passion for his job had always impressed Edward.

  Edward determined that a document of some sort was being sought. Why else would they have slashed Maggie’s dresses? They must have thought she might have sewn it into the lining of her bodice.

  God help her if tonight’s booty proved worthless.

  He went to his desk and dashed off notes to Aynsley and Cook. Damn, but he was tired! He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was half past three. Another night of impaired sleep. He might as well go to bed.

  Cummings awaited in Edward’s chambers. “See that these are delivered in the morning,” Edward told him, handing him the notes to Aynsley and Cook. He was so beastly tired it was all he could do to lift his arms to remove the shirt.

  “I shan’t wake you in the morning, my lord. What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

  “A very good plan, Cummings.”

  As he lay in his bed he pictured Maggie’s face when she had entered her chambers earlier that night. Pure, red-hot fear stamped itself across that lovely face. Was that fear because she knew firsthand how vile her husband’s accomplices were?

  If Andrew Bibble turned out to be genuine, Maggie’s trustworthiness would be confirmed.

  Heaven help him, he was beginning to trust her. And wished like the devil he didn't.

  Chapter 5

  “You bloody, lucky dog,” Harry greeted Edward, narrowing his eyes in an exaggerated scowl.

  “There’s nothing bloody lucky about having one’s home broken into because The Incomparable’s there.”

  Harry’s brows plunged as he slammed some maps onto his desk and spun toward Edward. “Is she, has she--”

  “She’s fine,” Edward assured his concerned friend, “except for being scared out of her wits.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Sometime between the servants’ bedtime and our arrival home from the theatre last night.”

  “So you didn’t actually see the culprit, then?” Harry said, relief in his voice.

  “No, damn it.” Edward thanked God the break-in occurred when they were away from home. He hated to think what might have happened to Maggie had she been in the room when the intruder entered.

  “What was taken?”

  “A case with Henshaw’s few belongings.”

  “The lady’s chambers were the only ones disturbed?”

  “The only ones,” Edward said with a frown.

  Harry grumbled a curse. “You know what this means?”

  “I bloody well do. It means no one knew of the lady’s existence until I shared the information yesterday.”

  “How many people did you tell?”

  “Only you, Lord Carrington and Kingsbury.”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You think one of us is responsible?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility.” Edward lowered himself into his own chair some four feet away from Harry’s desk and began to rifle through some correspondence that had been placed on his desk. He did not like a disorderly desk. “Did you mention the widow to anyone?”

  “No,” Harry said in a somber voice. “And I didn’t do it.”

  “I know, old fe
llow.”

  “It must be Kingsbury. Goodness knows the man could use some extra income.”

  “Not all men are as fond of horses, women, and spirits as you,” Edward said.

  “Surely he’d like a mount of his own. What man wouldn’t?”

  “Let’s not rush to conclusions. Perhaps Kingsbury or Lord Carrington told someone about Maggie’s existence. Someone who’s the actual thief.”

  “God help us if they didn’t,” Harry mumbled. “You haven’t left the countess on Curzon Street unwatched, have you?”

  “She’s not a countess.”

  “I know. I’m merely staying in character like any good spy.”

  “You’re not a spy.”

  “Can’t one demonstrate one’s natural aptitude for spying?”

  Edward chuckled.

  “Lord Carrington told me that in the event you could not keep watch over Lady Warwick, the chore would fall to me, that she wasn’t ever to be left alone.”

  “My valet’s under orders not to let her out of his sight. I’ll be away only long enough to apprise Lord Carrington of last night’s occurrence.”

  “He’s in this morning.”

  In his superior’s office, Edward narrated the events of the previous evening. “Did you, my lord, perchance mention the widow to anyone?” Edward asked.

  Lord Carrington thought a moment before shaking his head firmly. “Who else did you tell about her?”

  “Only Lyle and Kingsbury, and Lyle says he didn’t tell anyone.”

  The marquess rang for his secretary and when the gaunt man entered the room, asked, “Did you discuss Henshaw’s widow with anyone?”

  Who would Kingsbury tell, Edward wondered. It wasn’t as if the man had any friends.

  “Of course not! Information I glean in a professional capacity is of the most confidential nature.”

  Kingsbury’s response was in keeping with the man’s obsession over his work. He was the first to arrive every morning and the last to leave, allegiance Edward attributed to the fact that Kingsbury’s work was his whole life.

  Lord Carrington nodded. “That will be all, Kingsbury.”

  Once Kingsbury had closed the door, Carrington spoke in a grave voice. “Either one of my most trusted men is a traitor, or the enemy has extraordinary means of surveillance.”

  “I hope it’s the latter, but I’m not confident.”

  Carrington raked his hand through his graying hair, his face grimaced. “Nor am I.”

  “The widow was most forthcoming in disclosing what was in her husband’s case.”

  “Any prospects?”

  “Perhaps. There was a map of Hertfordshire, a Fielding novel, and a brief letter from a man in Greenwich.”

  “Did she know the man’s name?”

  “Andrew Bibble. Ever hear of him?”

  Carrington shook his head. “I’ll see what I can learn. What did the letter say?”

  “Something about going into mourning for their mutual--unnamed--friend.

  “That’s all?”

  Edward nodded.

  “Was there anything else in Henshaw’s possession when he died?”

  “Only a pair of diamond spurs and a ring.”

  “If the widow is to be believed.”

  Edward’s first instinct was to defend her. Instead, he said, “Yes, if.”

  “Go back to Curzon Street and don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Edward had never heard Carrington’s voice so harsh before.

  * * *

  When he returned to the townhouse, his valet informed Edward that Maggie had not gone below stairs during his master’s absence. Edward sniffed. His home damn near smelled like a perfumery. “What the deuce is that smell? The whole floor reeks.”

  “That would be the mistress’s flowers, my lord.”

  “What flowers?”

  “She has received no less than five bouquets this morning.”

  “Aynsley and Cook,” Edward muttered.

  “And Mr. Lyle.”

  “Who do they think they are? Turning my house into a demmed orangery?” Edward growled. “I’ll be in my library.”

  He really did need to send off a letter to dearest Fiona.

  Before he had completed one sentence of that letter, a light knock sounded at the door.

  “Yes?”

  The dark wood door eased open, and Maggie poked her head in. “Am I disturbing you, my lord?”

  “No. Please come in,” he said. He had all day to write his letter since he had nothing else to do, owing to the lady standing before him--standing before him in a sumptuous aqua gown that dipped low at the neckline. He hated to stare at her as she gracefully moved toward him, but the disparity between her left breast (the high one) and the right one stole his attention. He was beginning to know those breasts fairly well--at least by sight--and was certain the nipples had been in perfect horizontal alignment last night.

  She dropped onto the chair in front of his desk. “I’m perfectly aware that you’re perfectly aware that my breasts are somewhat lopsided.”

  In the span of an eye blink he forced his gaze back to her face. How was he to reply? Oh no, madam, your breasts are not lopsided or No, I hadn’t noticed when his eyes had been peeled to her bosom like ink to paper. He cleared his throat and willed himself to look no farther south than her chin. He seemed to be willing himself to do that a lot lately. “Is that what you wished to speak to me about?” he asked.

  “Dear no! I’ve come to offer you my help.”

  “How, madam, do you think you can help me?” For starters, she could wear a high-necked dress.

  “I wish to assist you in apprehending the person responsible for last night’s theft.”

  “I hardly think such a skill within your capabilities, madam.”

  “I don’t mean I could personally apprehend the vile creature. What I meant was that I wish to help you learn the culprit’s identity. I’m determined to make up for all the annoyances my stay in your home is costing you. You are stuck here with nothing but wretched females for companionship because you feel compelled to guard me. And you fear that your horse-faced fiancée---” She suddenly stopped, her face flaming.

  “My what?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. I should never have voiced my unfounded thoughts.”

  “Why, pray tell, would you think my affianced horse faced?”

  “Have you known her all your life?”

  “Most of my life, but what does that have to do with her being horse faced--not that she is, of course.”

  “I fancied that marriages among the aristocrats are rather arranged by families. From the time you were quite small, I daresay it was understood you’d marry a woman of Lady Fiona’s class.”

  “Of course.”

  “You would not have been permitted to marry someone from a diverse background.”

  “Diversity does not make for good bedfellows.”

  “You see, the necessity of marrying within classes has been ingrained into you.”

  “Am I missing the horse connection or were you planning to get to it?”

  “I don’t know why you’re talking about horses, my lord.”

  “I’m not talking about horses! You brought up their faces in connection with my lovely intended.”

  “So I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what, my lord?”

  “Explain, if you will, why you say my betrothed has a horse face.”

  “How should I know what Lady Fiona looks like? I’ve never seen her. Have you a likeness of her?”

  “No.” He could see the irrelevance of continuing in this vein.

  “Oh, dear, where were we when all this started? Oh, yes, I was saying my presence in your home is causing you considerable worry over how your lovely intended will view it. In short, my lord, nothing about my presence has given you anything but grief. Now, I mean to make up for it.”

  She really was quite childlike. “How do you intend to do that?”
he asked.

  “By helping you learn the perpetrator’s identity, of course. We shall be a team. You and I.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. His traitorous eyes dipped to the valley between her ivory breasts. Then he jerked his gaze away.

  “I felt compelled to warn you, my lord. I believe someone you know is responsible for stealing into my rooms last night. Someone whom you told of my presence in your house.”

  “That, madam, has already occurred to me.”

  “See, we do make a team! Have you given any thought to Andrew Bibble?”

  “I have.”

  “And still the name means nothing to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then I suggest you and I travel to Greenwich and locate the man. Perhaps he knows something that will be of help.”

  “If I did wish to travel to Greenwich I would not need you to accompany me.”

  “You’re still worried about me? I’m confident that last night’s intruder wishes me no harm now that he’s got The Scoundrel’s things.”

  Her logic made some sense. Perhaps she was not in danger, after all. And Edward had to admit he was itching to go to Greenwich--but not with Maggie. However, under Carrington’s orders Edward was not allowed to leave her. Therefore . . . if he did go to Greenwich, she would have to accompany him.

  But not her sister.

  “Pray, madam, why would your presence be needed in Greenwich?”

  She shrugged. “If I could meet this Mr. Bibble and talk to him, perhaps something The Scoundrel told me might resurface. I shan’t know it until it hits me in the face.”

  Was her optimism contagious? Her speaking with Andrew Bibble did suddenly seem promising. “I’m willing to give it a try. Tomorrow?”

  “That would be lovely,” she said.

  “My gig only holds two.”

  “That is most comforting. I daresay I could not pry Rebecca away from The Current Book--which she vows the most interesting ever--and since reading in a moving vehicle makes her dreadfully sick, she’ll be only too happy to stay home. And there’s no need to protect my virtue, given that I’ve been a married woman.”

  His rampant gaze trailed down her graceful white neck. And fixated on those lopsided breasts. “About your breasts . . .” he said, thinking aloud. Good lord! What was he doing asking a single woman--a gentlewoman--about her bosom? His gaze jerked back to her face.