A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (7 page)

“I’m so happy to hear it, Polly.”

“I do, you know. Love my neighbor.” Her big dark eyes drank him in worshipfully.

“Ah. Well. Very good,” he said cautiously.

His cousins were fighting smiles. Polly, who might be all of sixteen or seventeen, had long nurtured a tendre for Colin (indulged but not returned) and still hadn’t forgiven him for marrying Madeline, and had been as darkly unbending as a de Medici about it. Out of habit, she refused to acknowledge his existence. Ian always needed to give the ale orders. But Adam seemed to have supplanted him in her passions.

“Bring Adam a pint of the dark, won’t you, Polly?” Ian intervened in Polly’s reverie, when it seemed Polly would never speak again. She gave a start and flashed a brilliant smile and slipped through the pub crowd with the grace of a selkie.

“I enjoyed your sermon today, too, Reverend,” Colin said solemnly. “I positively felt stains lifting from my soul as I listened.”

Adam yawned. “Splendid. At that rate, your entrance to Heaven will be assured a few thousand sermons from now.”

Ian laughed. “Sooo, Vicar … why so weary? Thinking about your notorious new parishioner and all the excitement she’s bound to cause?”

More surprises. “I’ve a notorious new parishioner?”

“I thought you met today. She was in church today, so I heard. I didn’t see her. She’s taken Damask Manor. Inherited, that is, I believe, from her late husband. A servant knows a servant who told … somebody. You know how it is. Seems the whole of Pennyroyal Green knew by noon today.”

“Oh. Of course. The Countess of Wareham. I did meet her.” In his weakened state, the thought of her rushed to his head like the Pig & thistle’s dark: complex and bitter and silky.

“What did you think of her?” Colin took a sip of his ale.

“Mmm.” He tipped his head back. “Funny, but she reminded me a bit of … oh, a wild bird that needs soothing.”

Colin choked on his ale and spluttered.

Ian’s hand had frozen on its way to lifting his ale to his mouth.

“What’s the dev—what is the matter with you two? It was just an observation.”

“Bloody lyrical observation.” Ian was wildly amused. “Don’t you know who your … what did you call her? Turtledove? … is?”

“Wild bir … who is she?”

Polly plunked a dark ale in front of him on the table. And walked away heartbroken when he absently slid over his coins and hefted it to his mouth without looking at her.

“She’s the Black Widow,” Ian said simply. “Haven’t heard of her? Then you don’t read the London broadsheets.”

“No. I spend my days erasing stains from souls, but you know what. What on earth is a black widow?”

“Colin, why don’t you tell the story since you know it best?”

Colin stretched and cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat.

“Well, in the beginning, Reverend Sylvaine,” he intoned, “There was the Green Apple Theater. The Countess of Wareham was known as Evie Duggan then. She was an opera dancer. Sang a bit, danced a bit, acted a bit, showed her ankles, wore gossamer clothing. There was a song-and-dance bit about pirates I liked a good deal. She became quite the attraction. We all vied for her attention. Spent my allowance on flowers for her more than once. She would have naught to do with me, of course, because she knew what she wanted, and I wasn’t it. Not enough money. No title. Mind you, she was frank about it and never unkind. Such were the charms of Miss Evie Duggan that she rapidly moved up in the world—started appearing in plays at Covent Garden. And then she—”

“Who was it that fell over the theater balcony trying to get a look at her bosom, Colin?” Ian interjected, drumming the sides of his ale thoughtfully. “The night of Le Mistral, when she was there with the earl? Rumor, never substantiated, had it one could see her nipples that night if you were close enough.”

“Carriger,” Colin supplied. “He’s never been quite right in the head since.”

“I hope he at least got a look at her bosom on the way down. It’s marvelous. From … what I can tell, that is.”

“—and then a man wealthy enough came along,” Colin continued, “or something along those lines, for she gave up the theater and became what we’ll call a professional courtesan. And then another man came along who had more money and power, and she gave up the first man. And then she married the earl. In other words, the Countess of Wareham, your ‘wild bird,’ was a … courtesan, Adam.”

The word seemed to stretch languidly out on the table in front of them like a nude on a chaise.

It was a voluptuous shock.

Adam’s lungs ceased moving for an instant. Spiraling out from the word was a world of moral chaos, a demimonde that encircled God-fearing people like wolves outside a paddock of sheep. At least that’s how many of his parishioners viewed it. And what most of the mothers of Pennyroyal Green likely taught their daughters.

Interestingly, it was his obligation—his vocation—to abjure that sort of moral chaos. And he largely did. He didn’t mind hearing about it. Which was all well and good, given his relatives.

“I know what a courtesan is, for God’s sake,” he finally said irritably. “You needn’t deliver the word like a pantomime villain.”

It took a moment for the words to struggle out. His sense knew he ought to shove it away reflexively. His senses weren’t quite ready to relinquish the word.

“That’s right. He’s a vicar, not a saint, Colin,” Ian added helpfully. “And you were relieved of your virginity ages ago, Adam, am I right? Some lucky housemaid?”

Adam shot him a filthy look.

Though Ian was quite right.

Colin continued his tale. “Well, the uproar Evie caused in her day—she once caused a duel by winking at the wrong man. One heir lost an entire estate in a wager over whether he could bed her. I could go on and on. Politicians, even Prinny, yearned after her. She was showered with jewels; they all competed for her attention. And for her grand finale, she married the Earl of Wareham when he won the right to do it in a card game.”

Adam received all of this information like little blows.

“Of course. Of course she did.”

Then he lifted his ale and drank half of it in a few gulps.

“Played another man for the honor of marrying her, the earl did,” Colin continued blithely. “And I wish I could say she lived happily ever after, but then the Earl of Wareham died just a short while after they were married. Rumor has it she killed him, which was absurd, because nearly everything he owned was entailed. And then Mr. Miles Redmond—you know the Redmond famous for exploring exotic lands and who crawls about studying insects and whatnot? He gave a lecture in London on poisonous spiders. There’s one in the Americas called the black widow—apparently the females kill and eat the male after they mate. The ton loved it. they took to it instantly. That’s what they called her. Ceaselessly.”

There was a beat of silence while Adam mulled this.

And then he raked his hair back in his hands. “Oh, God.”

Too late realized he’d said it aloud. He hadn’t meant to.

“I imagine she’s heard rather a lot of those two words in her day.” Ian said idly.

“No. It’s just … something I said to her today …”

“Iniquity” was what he’d said to her. One must be stealthy to stop iniquity in its tracks, to be specific. He’d said it in jest. And her head had jerked toward him as though he’d struck her.

His lungs tightened in shame. It wasn’t as though he could apologize for it. What on earth could he say? “If I’d known you were a renowned tart, I’d have chosen my words more carefully?”

“Did you introduce Mary Magdalene into the conversation?” Ian wondered.

Adam just shook his head slowly.

“Whatever it was, old man … don’t berate yourself. I sincerely doubt your ‘wild bird’ has an innocent or fragile bone in her body.” Colin said this with marked admiration. “She’s always known precisely what she wanted, how to get it, and she got it, too, when she married Wareham. And that’s the thing the ton never could forgive her for. I admire her for dozens of reasons, from those green eyes of hers to the ambition, and she’s a good egg when it comes right down to it, but the woman is silk-encased cast iron and quite formidable. Her sort does nothing without a reason.”

Her sort. And now he remembered what Maggie Lanford said. She’s not our sort.

He saw again the countess’s hand flattening against her rib cage, the stunned hot spots of pink in her cheeks.

And just then he realized he’d just flattened his own hand over his ribs. As if her pain were his own.

He surreptitiously moved it and closed his hand safely around his ale. Tightly.

Fragments of what he knew about her orbited his mind. A petite woman with innocent freckles and a soft, carnal blur of a mouth and blazing green eyes and a glacially aristocratic accent that apparently caved like rusty armor when she was good and startled to reveal … what he suspected was her true self. Or part of it, anyhow. That feisty temper and Irish accent and the quickness with a retort.

He sensed she’d learned the rest of it: the imperious demeanor, the accent, the boldness, the innuendo-soaked flirtation. From a protector, no doubt. Or from having protectors.

For actresses must be skillful mimics, of course.

Why would a woman become a courtesan? What led her to the decision to live forever on the outskirts of polite society? That was, until one fateful card game.

He stifled a stunned, slightly hysterical laugh. It occurred to him that he hadn’t said any of those words—“courtesan,” “actress,” “protector”—aloud in possibly years, if ever, so alien were they from his daily life. And from the life of nearly everyone who lived in Pennyroyal Green. With the notable exception of his cousins, of course.

“Do either of you know her origins?”

The Irish accent was the missing piece of the puzzle.

“Seems to be a bit of a mystery surrounding that,” Ian told him, catching Polly’s eye and gesturing with his chin for more ale for all of them. Which she brought straightaway, gifting Adam with a glorious smile which, in his distraction, he failed to notice, breaking her heart for the thousandth time. “Never gave it much thought.”

“Mmm,” was all Adam said.

He had no trouble believing that the countess was scandal incarnate.

A wayward little surge of protectiveness—toward her, and toward himself—made him keep this notion, and their encounter on the downs, and the Irish accent, to himself. “Why do you suppose she was doing in church this morning?”

Colin shrugged. “Belated concern for her immortal soul? Craving a new experience? I daresay when another man she deems worthy of her favors comes along, she’ll be gone. Until then, I doubt anyone will receive her should she deign to call. Nor will anyone call on her. Unless it’s the town vicar, of course. Out of, oh, say … parish duty.”

A fraught little silence followed. It contained both challenge and warning.

For unlike his cousins, Adam had never had the option of flinging himself into gleeful debauchery. He’d hardly led a joyless existence, but to do debauchery properly—gaming hells, horse races, bawdy theater, the very idea of courtesans—one must have plenty of money and time.

Whereas God willing, neither of his cousins would ever administer last rites to a baby as it drew its last breath, then comfort the sobbing mother.

In other words, though it hardly mattered much of the time, there was a gulf of experience and privilege and obligation between them. Adam was both more and less innocent than the two of them.

Not to mention the countess.

And now, ironically, his entire way of life depended on behaving faultlessly and standing before his parishioners and reminding them of the perils of behaving, in essence, like the Everseas.

Or like the widowed Countess of Wareham.

Adam would be ruined if his name became linked to the countess in any way. Whereas if Ian, for instance, wanted to pursue her, there was very little stopping him. One would almost expect it of him.

All three of them knew it.

Courtesan. His imagination sank deeper and deeper into the word as if it were comprised of dense furs. He couldn’t seem to extricate himself. For the very word conjured exotic realms of pleasure.

He was far too long overdue for pleasure. That was the trouble.

And once again, his fingers tightened around his ale.

“I suppose I could pay her a visit. Perhaps crawl up the trellis to her balcony. Isn’t that how one normally pays visits to countesses? Or should I go in through a window?”

Colin had once plummeted from a trellis leading up to the balcony of a married countess. Ian had once been ignominiously sent stark naked out the window of a duke’s erstwhile fiancée and forced to walk home in one boot.

Both of them hated to be reminded of those two little episodes.

“Get married, Adam,” Ian suggested, not unsympathetically. “It solved the problem of … Colin.” As if Colin’s oat-sowing was a contagion stemmed by matrimony. “And virginity grows back if you go too long between.”

Adam rolled his eyes.

A raggedly tipsy cheer went up then; Jonathan Redmond had apparently just won another game of darts. They turned toward the sound just as man sitting across from them looked up. His eyes were dark; his nose was bold, his chin square. Not an elegant face, but a face with character. He raised a glass and nodded politely. Adam and Ian and Colin returned the greeting with similar nods.

Colin lowered his voice. “Lord Landsdowne. Every day for the past fortnight he’s sent flowers to Olivia. A subtly different bouquet every time, just different enough to intrigue her. It’s actually begun to drive her just a little mad. I think she might even be anticipating the next one with something like eagerness. Devilishly clever, if you ask me. And every day he sends the same message: He would very much like to call on her.”

Adam remembered why he recognized the name. “He’s the one who entered the wager in White’s betting books, isn’t he? About Olivia?”

This was noteworthy. Not one of Olivia’s myriad suitors had dared go so far as to enter a wager regarding Olivia since Lyon Redmond had disappeared. Olivia had made clear in ways both subtle and overt that it was a bet no one could ever win.