Counterfeit Countess: Brazen Brides, Book 1 Page 2

  Between great sobs, the beauty favored him with another of her shattering smiles. “You’re so very kind, my lord.”

  They all stood up, and he rang for the housekeeper to prepare rooms for the visitors, but Wiggins had anticipated that, too, and the rooms were in readiness for the ladies.

  Edward walked with them to the iron-banistered stairway, rather pleased with himself because the lovely one’s tears had stopped.

  “Is there a Lady Warwick?” she asked, placing her hand on his proffered arm.

  “Not as of yet,” he answered. “I’m pledged to Lady Fiona Hollingsworth, but there’s nothing official yet, owing to the sudden, unexpected death of her mother, which has plunged the lady into mourning.”

  “The poor dear,” Maggie sympathized. “Our dear mama’s death was even more painful than Papa’s, was it not, Rebecca?”

  The very bookish Rebecca Peabody had refined the art of walking upstairs and reading at the same time. “What?” she asked, annoyed to have had her reading disturbed.

  “Oh, never mind!” Maggie said. “Mind your step or you’ll fall down the stairs and break into a hundred pieces.”

  The first rooms they came to on the second floor were for Miss Peabody. She did not even look up from her book as she bid them good night and wandered into the room.

  Next they came to the countess’s chambers. “Actually, a countess hasn’t occupied these chambers in at least fifty years,” he said, “owing to the fact my uncle--the late earl--never married. I plan to redecorate before I wed Lady Fiona. The rooms are exceedingly outdated.”

  He swept open the door as two maids were putting fresh linens on the bed, and The Incomparable’s maid was unpacking her mistress’s valise. It was as if he were seeing the formerly scarlet room for the first time. It was not only outdated, it was faded and some of the fabric had become so fragile he could have read a newspaper through it.

  “It looks clean, and that’s all that matters, my lord,” the beauty said, giving him her hand. “My sister and I are most indebted to you for your generosity.”

  “It was nothing,” he mumbled as he started for his own bedroom.

  * * *

  Maggie waited until she heard the earl’s door close, then snatching up her cat, she hurried to her sister’s chamber. Though smaller than the long-dead countess’s chambers, this guest room was spectacularly furnished in elegant ivory and gold with stunning gilt cornices and moldings. Still reading her blasted book, Rebecca glared at her sister over the rim of her spectacles. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Maggie.”

  “Whatever for?” Maggie asked as she sank onto the silken bed, her feet dangling far off the carpeted floor, her hand absently stroking Tubby.

  “For abusing your gift of being able to cry at the drop of a hat.”

  “Oh, that.” It was really the oddest thing that she possessed the ability to cry on cue, but when she was truly distressed, like when her late Papa died, nary a tear could be summoned. She supposed her tears--like her beauty--were gifts bestowed upon her for the purpose of making big, strapping men putty in her delicate hands.

  And Lord Warwick was most definitely a big, strapping man. She had nearly lost her breath when she had stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up to glimpse the tall, bare-chested god-like creature scowling down at her. Of course she was completely humiliated that she’d blurted out her admiration, a most vexing habit of hers, to be sure! Even now the vision of that sleek, powerful body and the handsome dark, brooding face that went with it made her throb in places she’d as lief Rebecca knew nothing of. “Is not Lord Warwick a most splendid looking man?” she asked casually.

  Rebecca did not remove her eyes from her book. “Pity he’s spoken for.”

  “My dear sister, spoken for is not the same thing as actually being married. It’s probably one of those engagements arranged long ago by meddling family. I daresay Lady Fiona’s some horse-faced peeress Lord Warwick can barely tolerate.”

  Now Rebecca closed her book and gaped at her elder sister.

  “Dear God, you can’t mean to snare him! How could you when your last marriage was so disastrous?”

  “Now, now, pet. Don’t get so overwrought. I have not decided to snare him. After the last fiasco, you can be well assured I will never rush into a marriage without knowing--really knowing--a man.” She shrugged. “But you must admit the earl is decidedly promising.”

  What she neglected to tell her sister was that a hasty marriage (that wasn’t too hasty) would keep them from the poor house. Maggie was getting desperate. By the time he had met his untimely death, The Scoundrel had managed to squander away most of his ill-gotten fortune.

  She had racked her brains trying to come up with some way to continue living in modest dignity with her sister, but no viable possibilities presented themselves. Being a governess was out of the question because she would have to leave Rebecca behind, and her little sister was hardly equipped for self-sufficiency. Being a seamstress was also out of the question. Her needlework--as her own governess had been quick to remind her--was most inferior, and why shouldn’t it be? Maggie had been raised to expect fine modistes to make her clothing. She had even thought of taking up her pen in order to eke out a modest living, but, alas, she was possessed of no talent in that direction, either.

  When it came right down to it, Maggie had only one talent: the ability to attract men. Not just attract them. Men had been known to make complete idiots of themselves over her.

  A pity she’d wasted her charms on The Scoundrel. But then eligible men in the Virginia farming community where she was raised were as scarce as English lords.

  “One would think the association of the name Warwick with The Scoundrel would be enough to warn you away from the man, regardless of his handsome face. And body,” Rebecca added.

  “I should have known Lawrence wasn’t Lord Warwick,” Maggie said. “I’m so vexed at myself! I knew he was a lying, scheming, perfectly odious scoundrel.”

  “The real Lord Warwick, you know, is going to send you away tomorrow.”

  Maggie, her fine brows lowered, bit at her lip. “You must help me think of a way to stay here. Lord Warwick’s bound to know hoards of eligible men--men whose character he can vouch for. A month should be long enough for me to find one.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “I suppose one of us could feign an illness.”

  “That’s it!” Maggie flopped onto her stomach. “Of course, I can’t be the sick one. Then I wouldn’t be able to be properly courted.”

  “So what illness shall we say I have?” a resigned Rebecca asked.

  Maggie considered the matter. “Let me hear you cough.”

  Rebecca gave a fake cough.

  “Can you not do better than that?"

  Her sister gave it another try, this time a deep, bellowing sound.

  Maggie’s face screwed up, and she had a strong desire to clamp her hands over her ears. “No, that won’t do,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Consumption’s out.” She bit at her lip some more, then sighed. “You’ll just have to pretend to be suffering with fever. Don’t worry, pet, I’ll smuggle you all the books you could ever desire to read.”

  Rebecca’s eyes brightened. “Did you see his lordship’s library?”

  “How could anyone possibly read all those books?”

  “I could.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could.”

  “What if Lord Warwick sends for a doctor? He’d know at once I have no fever.”

  Maggie went back to chewing on her lip. “Let me sleep on it.” She got up off the bed, cradled the cat to her bosom, crossed the room to the chair where Rebecca sat, and kissed the crown of her sister’s head. “Don’t read all night. You’ll put undue strain on your already weakened eyes.”

  When Maggie returned to her own chamber, Sarah was laying out her night shift on the faded red counterpane. Maggie’s heart caught as she watched her aging maid. It seemed like only yesterday Sarah’s hair had been br
own and her step lively. When had her hair turned silver? How could the once-strapping maid have become so frail of body? Maggie wished to reverse their roles, to wait upon the woman who had waited upon her since the day she was born, but Sarah’s whole life had been spent serving the Peabody family, and the maid bristled at the idea of relinquishing what she perceived as her responsibility. Would that she could pension Sarah off, Maggie thought bitterly. Nothing would make Maggie happier than seeing Sarah relieved of all her burdens, ensconced comfortably near Rebecca and her, the closest thing to family that Sarah had.

  “You shouldn’t have waited up,” Maggie said. “I know you’re exhausted from today’s long journey.”

  “I’d rather be here than in my bed tossin’ and turnin’,” Sarah said. “Sleep don’t come so easily when one gets older.”

  As much as Maggie wished it weren’t so, Sarah was old. Maggie allowed Sarah to assist her into the shift, then she placed firm hands on her maid’s fragile shoulders and ordered her to bed. “And don’t you dare present yourself in my room before ten of the clock.” Sarah did so need a good night’s sleep after the grueling journey.

  Maggie doused the candle and lay in the aged bed. It felt so good to be in a real bed after so many weeks sleeping on the ship’s narrow cot. It felt good to be on solid land that didn’t pitch and sway. Never mind that the room smelled musty from years of disuse. Never mind that her presence was as welcome to her host as the pox. Just to be in a warm home on a real mattress provided a comfort she had not known in a very long time. For tonight, she would allow herself to be lulled by the physical replenishing she had craved for so many weeks.

  Tomorrow, she would face her demons.

  As she lay there awash in contentment, Tubby purring beside her, she pictured the restrained power in Lord Warwick’s wondrous physique. “Please, God, don’t let him be another scoundrel.”

  Chapter 2

  As difficult as it was to drag himself from his bed the next morning, Edward did. He had important French documents to decode at the Foreign Office. Thirteen hours of intense mental strain on the documents yesterday had sent him home in a state of exhaustion. He had been too tired to eat and had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, only to be awakened shortly thereafter by the arrival of Henshaw’s widow.

  Yet even after the woman was fast asleep in her bed, the problems her visit posed kept Edward awake for hours. He feared he might have revealed himself and his sensitive work at the Foreign Office when he disclosed Henshaw’s treachery. For all he knew, she could be a French spy. Or Henshaw could still be alive, using his lovely wife for some diabolical purpose.

  Edward tried to recall every word he had said to her and was certain he had not revealed his own position at the Foreign Office. But if the woman was half as mentally alert as her late husband, she would know only a man at the highest level of government would be privy to the information about Henshaw’s spy network.

  Then there was the suspicion that Henshaw himself might have told her about Edward and his function at the Foreign Office.

  Edward’s instincts tended to believe her innocent, believe that she had no prior knowledge of her husband’s true identity. Edward’s trust in her had nothing to do with the fact that she was beautiful. It was the little sister who prompted him to believe the counterfeit countess’s truthfulness. From the similarity of their looks, they had to be sisters, and the sister--whom he really couldn’t believe a part of any conspiracy--had verified Henshaw’s death.

  As Cummings shaved him, Edward sat lifeless. His head throbbed with one of those dull headaches one gets when deprived of sleep.

  The Incomparable still dominated his thoughts. Not because he was attracted to her. Quite the contrary. He only had eyes for Lady Fiona, and it wasn’t fair to his dear Fiona for him to have the beauty as his houseguest. He had to get the widow away from Warwick House. If word ever got out he was entertaining two unmarried ladies, his future with Fiona would be at risk. Especially if the ton ever saw how beautiful Maggie Peabody/Henshaw/Lady Warwick was.

  * * *

  Maggie had determined she would not miss the earl that morning. Therefore shortly after dawn she had taken it upon herself to dress in a lovely saffron morning gown and had contrived to fashion her hair into an attractive Grecian style without Sarah’s help.

  Then she sat in her room, listening for the sound of Lord Warwick’s tread outside her chamber door. Something told her the earl would be an early riser. Actually, that something was her hunch that he worked for the Foreign Office. Why else would he know about The Scoundrel’s perfidy? And if Lord Warwick worked at the Foreign Office, he would probably appear there during the morning.

  At nine o’clock she heard his heavy footstep as he strode down the hall. She knew it was Lord Warwick’s and not a servant’s because his step exuded masculinity and confidence, just as he himself did.

  When she eased open her chamber door, he turned around to face her. A flicker of disappointment fired his eyes but was quickly replaced by a controlled smile. “Good morning . . . my lady. I would not have thought you an early riser.”

  Because most attractive women spent hours on their toilet? “I had hoped to speak with you before you left,” she said as she moved to him.

  He offered his arm. “Then join me for breakfast.”

  She walked with him to the end of the hall and down the broad staircase and into the well-lit morning room where they took their seats at a small, round table covered with a white cloth and set with a silver urn, teacups and various breakfast offerings. Maggie poured coffee into fine porcelain cups and handed him one.

  Despite his perpetually brooding countenance, Lord Warwick’s face was as perfect as his athletic body. His face--like him--exuded sheer masculinity. The cut of his square jaw, his aristocratic nose, his steely amber eyes all underscored his unrestrained power. The casual sweep of his dark brown hair was at odds with the man’s stiffness, but she could well understand his hair--like his impeccable clothes--embraced the prevailing fashion.

  While she was gathering her courage, he cleared his throat. “How can I be of service to you, madam?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “I should like you to find me a husband.” There, she’d said it. She had even managed to blurt it out without allowing the violent trembling in her body to reach her voice.

  He gave her an are-you-a-lunatic? stare.

  Not at all what she had hoped for.

  So she proceeded to launch herself into another fit of hysterics. “I know, your lordship,” she managed between great, heaving sobs, “that you have no obligation to me whatsoever, but you seem such a fine gentleman.” She paused to wipe her tears on the dainty handkerchief she had extracted from her pocket. “It’s just that we are so alone here in England.” A whimpering sob broke into her sentence. “I have no husband, no fa-a-a-a-ther to screen potential suitors.”

  “There now,” he murmured, patting her arm with a big, steady hand. “Please don’t cry. We’ll think of something.”

  Sniff. Sniff. “As much as I abhor lying--and I would never tell a lie unless it was to help someone I care about--could we not say I am your cousin? I shouldn’t like to put you in an awkward situation with Lady Fiona.” Her crying tapered off.

  “I’m not going to say you’re my cousin!” he barked.

  She sucked in a deep breath and stood up. “I beg that you look at me as a man would a horse at Tattersall’s.” Gracefully holding out her arms as if she were doing the minuet, she slowly turned around. “Save for the wretchedly red eyes, think you I can quickly attract a husband? A man whose integrity you can vouch for?”

  She did not remove her gaze from his as he perused her with fiery eyes. Then he averted his gaze. And coughed. “I wouldn’t think that would be too difficult,” he finally managed.

  The smile that brightened her face obliterated all signs of her recent tears. “Then you will help?”

  That brooding look that seemed as much a part
of him as his magnificently broad chest, returned. “I did not say that.”

  With slumping shoulders and pouting mouth, she returned to her seat. “Of course, I understand you’re not a man who’s given to making rash decisions. Your solidness is what makes you so perfect for this office. I merely ask that you consider helping a . . . a penniless widow in this small matter. I shall, of course, give you time to consider the matter.”

  While she resumed eating, she watched the handsome earl. Such a pity he was betrothed to that horse-faced Lady Fiona. Maggie ate rather heartily. Yesterday’s meals, due to her dwindling purse, had been most meager.

  Lord Warwick hurried through his breakfast, then begged to take his leave. “There are matters I must attend to today. You and your sister are at liberty to stay here until I return.”

  At least he hadn’t turned them out.

  * * *

  On his way to Whitehall he cursed the very beautiful Maggie Peabody/Henshaw/Lady Warwick. What did she think he was? Some procurer? Of course, he couldn’t find a husband for the minx. The gall of her to ask!

  But how was he to get rid of her? Perhaps Lord Carrington would be able to help in the matter.

  When Edward arrived at his office, Harry Lyle was already seated at his desk in the office they shared. Papers were stacked, spread, and wadded up on the top of Harry’s desk. Not that Edward could actually see the top of Harry’s desk. Edward’s glance flicked to his own desk which he had left entirely free of papers or clutter of any kind.

  Harry spun around and gazed up at his friend and colleague, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t look at all well today, old fellow. What’s the matter? Breaking code keep you from sleep?”