Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1 Read online

  Daphne du Maurier award finalist for Best Historical Mystery

  “This story is full of romance and suspense. . . No one can resist a novel written by Cheryl Bolen. Her writing talents charm all readers. Highly recommended reading! 5 stars!”

  – Huntress Reviews

  “Bolen pens a sparkling tale, and readers will adore her feisty heroine, the arrogant, honorable Warwick and a wonderful cast of supporting characters.” – RT Book Reviews

  Cheryl Bolen’s Books

  Regency Historical Romance:

  Brazen Brides Series

  Counterfeit Countess

  His Golden Ring

  Oh What A (Wedding) Night

  Marriage of Inconvenience

  House of Haverstock Series

  Lady by Chance

  Duchess by Mistake

  Countess by Coincidence

  The Brides of Bath Series

  The Bride Wore Blue

  With His Ring

  The Bride’s Secret

  To Take This Lord

  Love In The Library

  A Christmas in Bath

  The Regent Mysteries Series

  With His Lady's Assistance

  A Most Discreet Inquiry

  The Theft Before Christmas

  An Egyptian Affair

  The Earl's Bargain

  My Lord Wicked

  His Lordship's Vow

  Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas)

  A Duke Deceived

  Romantic Suspense:

  Texas Heroines in Peril Series

  Protecting Britannia

  Murder at Veranda House

  A Cry In The Night

  Capitol Offense

  Falling For Frederick

  World War II Romance:

  It Had to Be You (Previously titled Nisei)

  American Historical Romance:

  A Summer To Remember (3 American Romances)

  Counterfeit Countess

  (Brazen Brides, Book 1)

  Cheryl Bolen

  Copyright © 2005 by Cheryl Bolen

  Counterfeit Countess a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  DEDICATION

  For two of the nicest people who ever walked the earth, my big brother Jerry Boyce and his wife Connie.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Brazen Brides series

  Other series by Cheryl Bolen:

  Chapter 1

  As Edward, the Earl of Warwick, lay soundly sleeping in his dark bedchamber his subconscious awakened to the sound of chattering females. But that same subconscious assured him of the improbability of such an occurrence. After all, he had no wife, no sisters, not even a mother to intrude on his gentleman’s domain. He therefore rolled over with the firm intention of going back to sleep.

  Then he heard a shrieking female voice, and this time--no matter what his subconscious told him--he realized she was inside Warwick House.

  He jerked up and listened. Though the words he heard were indistinguishable, they were definitely uttered by one or more females who must have stormed into his home. He flung himself from the bed and jammed his legs into a pair of breeches, flying from the room and along the hallway to the stairwell. What the devil was going on down there? A blazing glow illuminated the great entry hall, where the candles had been extinguished when Edward had gone to bed not so very long ago.

  From the top of the stairs he surveyed the ruckus below. And froze. What was likely the most beautiful female he had ever seen stood spitting out orders to his servants as if she were the mistress here. His mouth opened in dismay when he realized one of those orders was a demand to carry trunks to the “countess’s” chambers. His glance scanned the disarray in his heretofore well-ordered townhouse. He counted no less than fourteen trunks. In addition to the arrogant Incomparable, there was a slightly more youthful version of her with spectacles propped on the bridge of her nose, a skinny hag dressed in servant’s clothing, and the fattest cat he had ever seen--all of them talking and shrieking at once.

  Edward cleared his throat. No one seemed to take notice of him. He began to move down the stairs and cleared his throat again. This time all the intruders glanced up and stared at him.

  Completely incognizant that he stood there shirtless, he asked, “What is the meaning of this?”

  The Incomparable stepped forward and he was powerless to keep his gaze on her incredible chocolaty eyes when every part of her was a feast for any man's eyes. His glance dipped along her creamy skin over her pink hued cheeks and along her graceful neck and bare shoulders to settle on a remarkably lovely pair of breasts that were only partially covered by the bodice of her elegant gown. The rose-colored dress draped over the smooth curves of a body as perfect as her stunning face. She absently stroked the enormous cat as she looked up at Edward. “Who is this handsome creature?” she asked, then quickly cupped a hand to her mouth in embarrassment.

  “I might ask the same of you?” he said.

  “This is Warwick House, is it not?” she asked, a hitch of uncertainty in her rich voice.

  “It is,” he said, moving down the stairs.

  Her chin lifted. “I, sir, am Lady Warwick, and this is my house.”

  “I, madam, am Lord Warwick and I’d sure as hell know it if you were my wife!” For a fraction of a second he wondered if the old earl might have secretly married The Incomparable, but Edward’s predecessor’s movements--including his abhorrence of females--were well known to Edward.

  He watched the beauty for signs of capitulation, but the proud woman gave none. “How long, my lord, since you succeeded?” she challenged.

  What gave her the right to question him? “Eighteen months.”

  Now her shoulders slumped and her composure dissolved. Right before his very eyes, she slid into a graceful heap on his marble floor, her skirts fanned out beside her, that damned squealing cat arched on her lap.

  And she proceeded to cry. Not that it was like any female hysterics he had ever witnessed before. For one thing, she kept shaking her dainty fists and saying the most vile things, and her curses seemed to be directed at a man she most UNaffectionately referred to as The Scoundrel.

  Even if she was behaving in a most undignified fashion, the sight of a female (especially a beautiful female) weeping, softened Edward. “Now, now,” Edward soothed, stepping toward her but not really knowing what to do. He could hardly hug a strange woman, no
r could he give her any hope that this was her house.

  “Why did I ever believe him?” she cried. “I knew he was a wicked, scheming, lying, perfectly o-o-o-d-i-ous scoundrel.”

  Her shoulders heaved with each wrenching sob. He felt deuced awkward just standing there when the woman was so obviously distressed.

  “Hell’s too good for the vile, lying, despicable scoundrel,” she continued.

  It was a given the man she abhorred was a scoundrel.

  “To whom are you referring, madam?” Edward asked, setting a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder. That damned cat of hers--claws extended--slapped at Edward’s hand!

  Sucking a bloody finger into his mouth, Edward realized he knew who The Scoundrel was. Hadn’t Lawrence Henshaw been passing himself off as Lord Warwick when he fled England just ahead of the hangman’s noose?

  “My . . . late husband,” she answered.

  Henshaw was dead? England should be so lucky. “I beg that you quit crying, my lady.” (He used the title to appease her, though he knew she was no countess.) “Let us go into the saloon where we can discuss your situation.” Damn that Henshaw! He’d always had an eye for the ladies and had obviously tricked this woman into marrying him under the false impression she was marrying an earl.

  The young woman he took to be The Incomparable’s younger sister retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to the weeping beauty, who promptly dried her eyes, then looked up at Edward and offered her hand. He was deuced happy to help her up, especially since she gave all appearances that her crying was ended. But when he reached for her, that damned gray cat slapped at him again. This time he snatched back his hand ahead of the fat feline’s attack.

  “Stop that, Tubby!” she said to the huge cat as she cradled the overfed ball of gray fur to her breast. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, peering up at Edward. “Tubby’s wary of strangers.” Then she contrived to get up without his assistance.

  Tubby? Edward had to admit the name suited the animal. As did Killer, Tiger, and Out-You-Go.

  They walked to the saloon which Wiggins, ever the pragmatic butler, had anticipated would need candles and had accordingly brightened the celery green room.

  “Here, here, my lady,” Edward said, tentatively putting an arm around the distressed widow, his eye peeled for a reaction from Tubby. “Come sit down.” Edward cursed to himself. Damn that Henshaw!

  As soon as she was settled upon the gold and green striped brocade settee, he came to sit next to her. He had to know if Henshaw was really dead. He wouldn’t put anything past the blighter. “About your late husband,” he began, “Would he have been a black-haired man some four or five inches shorter than myself? Probably the same age as I?”

  Her gaze swept over him, pausing discernibly at his bare chest.

  That was when Edward realized the impropriety of his sitting there bare-chested with a woman who was an obvious lady. He moved to get up, to go fetch a shirt and coat when the always-competent Wiggins strolled into the room with a freshly ironed shirt and navy blue frock coat.

  The widow and her female entourage had the decency to turn their heads while he dressed.

  When he finished, Wiggins asked, “Should your lordship desire a fire?”

  “Don’t bother,” Edward said. “We shan’t be here long.” Then Edward returned to the settee. “Now where were we?”

  “I believe you had just described my late husband,” she said. “You knew him?”

  Edward’s lashes lowered. “I believe so.” Since Henshaw was last seen boarding a ship bound for the colonies, that probably meant The Incomparable was an American.

  “You are an American?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m from Virginia, but my parents were English. Royalists. So it’s difficult to call myself an American, though I suppose that’s what I am.” Her voice was upper-class British.

  From the corner of his eye Edward saw that the younger woman whom he presumed to be The Incomparable’s sister had plopped onto a Louis XIV chair and proceeded to lose herself in the pages of a book.

  His attention returned to the beauty. It sickened him to think Henshaw had abused so lovely a creature. He hoped to God the man truly was rotting in hell. But he wouldn’t trust the scoundrel not to have faked his own death. “When did your husband die?”

  “Four months ago.”

  “A natural death?”

  She stiffened. “I’d rather not say.”

  She was hiding something, and he wouldn’t put it past that damned Henshaw to be forcing this beautiful woman in on his vile schemes. “What I need to know, madam, is if you actually saw his dead body.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Fortunately, they had put his clothing back on before they brought him to me.”

  What in the deuce was she talking about?

  The younger girl looked up from her book and spoke. “What my sister is reluctant to tell you, my lord, is that her late husband met his end at a brothel.”

  Now Edward was convinced the dead husband was indeed Lawrence Henshaw.

  The Incomparable flicked an impatient glance at her sister. “I didn’t want you to ever know that!”

  The girl had returned her attention to her book.

  “Foul play?” he asked the widow.

  “Not at all,” she said. “Lawrence--in his cups and feeling rather invincible after a triangular tryst--leaped naked from a third-floor balcony. It’s just the sort of thing The Scoundrel would have done.”

  Yes, it was. “And you’re sure the body was his? Could his fatal injuries have obscured his appearance?”

  She smiled. The most radiant smile he had ever seen. Her teeth were even and a stunning white. He felt as if he were in a sunny spring meadow. “I wondered the very same thing myself,” she said, “for by then I knew how his wicked mind worked. So I bared his chest for proof.”

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. “What proof would that be?” he asked.

  A slight blush rose to her cheeks. “Lawrence was possessed of chest hair that formed a harlequin pattern.”

  “And the dead body was undoubtedly your husband’s?”

  Her lovely lips thinned to a grim line. “Undoubtedly.”

  “I see you’ve chosen not to wear mourning.”

  “To do so would be hypocritical, my lord. I was living apart from The Scoundrel at the time of his death with no intentions of ever going back to him.”

  He wondered why she had married the man in the first place since she found him so despicable, but Edward knew how charming Lawrence Henshaw could be--until he got what he wanted. He also knew how destructive Henshaw could be. His hands fisted with anger toward the dead scoundrel.

  “Then it seems, madam, you are possessed of sound judgment. Your husband barely escaped England with his neck.”

  Petting the contentedly purring cat, she nodded thoughtfully. “I should have expected as much. When he courted me he vowed to bring me to London and give my sister a grand debut, but once we were married The Scoundrel changed his tune. He offered one excuse after another why we couldn’t come to England. Soon his own stories were conflicting with each other, and I knew it was all just so much flim-flam. I even came to wonder if he already had a wife in England.” Those huge brown eyes of hers quizzed him.

  “He had no wife,” Edward assured.

  “So what was his real name?”

  “Lawrence Henshaw.”

  She sighed. “I much prefer being Lady Warwick. Mrs. Henshaw sounds so . . . so mundane, and you must admit Lawrence was anything but mundane. The Scoundrel.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he was mundane.”

  “I suppose he was a thief,” she said matter-of-factly. “That would explain why he arrived in Virginia with a great deal of money.”

  “Worse than a thief.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear, was he a murderer?”

  “He was a traitor. He used his position at the Foreign Office to pass important information to t
he French. That information contributed to the loss of life for thousands of British soldiers.”

  She winced.

  “For this, he was paid handsomely.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m most happy, then, the money is gone for I should hate to be living on blood money.”

  All that money gone? Then how was this woman to return to America? “Why, precisely, did you wish to come to London?”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, my lord, I planned a deceit of my own. I thought I would come live at Warwick House and have a grand season for my sister before I contacted what I thought was Lord Warwick’s attorney to notify him of Lawrence’s death. I knew once it was known Lord Warwick was dead, his heir would be entitled to all of this. Being an optimist, I had hoped that by the time we’d had our season, Rebecca would be betrothed to a man of means.” She glanced at her girlish-looking sister.

  “And,” Rebecca piped up, “Maggie knew that by that time her beauty would have secured many hearts.”

  Scarlet tinged The Incomparable’s cheeks. “I thought no such thing!” she chided her sister.

  Rebecca shrugged. “It’s just as well I don’t have a season. I have no desire to be wed.”

  After her sister’s disastrous marriage, Edward could well understand Rebecca’s aversion to matrimony. Besides, he peered at her youthful face, she hardly seemed old enough. “How old is Miss . . .”

  “Miss Peabody,” Rebecca answered. “I shall be eighteen next month.”

  He settled back against the settee, eying the pair. He needed to get these females out of his house. “Well, well. I’ll summon the carriage to convey you ladies to Claridge’s Hotel.”

  This announcement succeeded in refreshing The Incomparable’s tears. Dash it all! Made him feel quite the brute. “Now see here, my lady, surely you realize this is not your home.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she said, sniffling. “It’s just . . .” She let out a sob. “We have no money for a hotel.”

  Or for the passage back to America, he’d guess. What was he to do? Anything to snuff those wretched tears. “Then I suggest you ladies settle in for the night. I know you’re whipped from the long journey. Tomorrow, when you’re refreshed, we’ll see what we can do about your return to America.” He was well satisfied with himself. Even if he was stuck tonight with these females. And one very fat cat. It wouldn’t do at all for Fiona to get wind of these accommodations.