Counterfeit Countess (12 page)

“My lord, it would make most sense to join your business with the estate,” Roker said then. “Would you allow me to arrange the transfer of the relevant papers to my offices?”

“No.” On that he determined, despite Roker’s barely concealed chagrin. “Neither will any new holdings become part of the entail.”

That way if the worst happened and he died without issue, he could keep most of the wealth out of the grasping hands of the government.

Roker spluttered. “I must protest, my lord, in the strongest possible way. As your man of business, I need to oversee your holdings...”

John held up a hand, palm out, to stop him mid-rant. “You are the dowager countess’ man of business. I have not yet appointed you to that role on my behalf, although until probate is through, I
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would prefer you remain in that post. I will watch your performance during this period and decide your suitability for the long-term management of the estate.”

“My lord, it will be a busy time. My family has served yours in that capacity for many years. I assure you—“

John recalled the saying about eggs and baskets. He didn’t want to listen to any more blustering. Roker had turned red, his narrow face almost the same colour as the wine in the decanter set at the centre of the table. “No more, please. I will give the matter urgent consideration. I have my own man of business, who serves my interests in London and abroad and I’ll continue to use him to supervise that part of my property.” From which he would settle a large amount on Faith, so she would not be destitute if he should die before his time. Or if she bore him only girls. Anything was possible. Besides, he had complete trust in his own man. “I’m calling on him in the morning.” He gave Roker an unholy grin.

“Her ladyship, that is my wife, will be accompanying me to the most important meetings. I want her to know every part of the business. I’ll not have her left helpless.”

“Women have no brain for such things,” Roker said, fighting valiantly.

He had no chance against a master of strategy. “My wife handled the pension and the small income due to me most admirably while I was gone. She even made a profit.” He had no idea if she had, but she hadn’t seemed destitute when he first met her here. “I would trust her brain against some of the most acute ones I have ever met.”

Only then did he realise he was speaking the absolute truth. In that, at least.

Two days later, the first of Faith’s mourning gowns arrived. She was forced to recognise that Robinson could not handle her role when the maid had difficulty fastening the hooks and buttons. It took her too long, and Faith privately considered that she could have dressed herself faster. Not that she’d have chosen this gown. At least, not until she took a look at herself in the mirror at the end of the process.

Black wasn’t the best of colours for her, but Cerisot had considered that when she’d cut the gown as low as respectable daywear allowed. Faith’s skin to show glowed in contrast with the rich black. Black was an expensive colour, the depth of colour hard to achieve in cheaper fabrics, as Faith knew to her cost. Her old mourning gown, although perfectly acceptable, had an unfortunate tinge of green to it.

The cut was masterly, though the dressmaker had only taken a ready-made gown and altered it for Faith. Her custom-made gowns would arrive as soon as they were completed, but she hadn’t ordered many full mourning. She only had two weeks. Less, if she bolted.

Her carpetbag lay in the powder room seemingly abandoned, but she’d ensured it contained everything she needed if she wanted to leave quickly. She’d had it since her marriage, and didn’t feel entirely safe if she had no idea of its location, or she didn’t keep it packed.

Robinson had brushed Faith’s hair, but then she’d had to use the curling iron, so the scent of hot, though fortunately not burned,
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hair still lingered in the air. Absently she reached for the cologne bottle. She only ever used ordinary eau-de-cologne, so she’d have to put that on her shopping list. And she needed black gloves. The only pair she owned were distinctly shabby.

Time to break the bad news to Robinson. “I need an experienced lady’s maid, but I am hoping you may find your way to acting as her assistant.”

To her relief Robinson appeared more delighted than disappointed. The dowager wouldn’t have approved of her beam.

Maids were supposed to behave coolly and appear as invisible as they could manage, considering they were as corporeal as everybody else.

One more hurdle crossed.

Making another decision, she turned to the maid. “Could you come with me this morning, Robinson? I need to shop after our visits in the City. I’d appreciate you taking a list, otherwise we’ll forget half of it. I need black ribbons, black gloves, stockings...” Still reciting her list, followed by her maid who was murmuring the items after her, since that was the way Robinson took lists, Faith nearly collided with her husband.

She jerked up her head and almost toppled backwards. “You look magnificent.” The words left her mouth before she could put a guard on her wayward tongue. He did. Tall, powerful, dressed in black, since they were going out that morning. Black that fitted him perfectly, displaying his powerful shoulders, deep chest and strong thighs.

Unabashed, he bent and touched his lips to hers in a brief salute that gave her a flash of heat, though he straightened immediately afterwards. “You look lovely.”

“I look ordinary.”

“If this is how you appear in black, you’ll look wonderful in colours.”

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She laughed and took his arm. “Flatterer!” She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she enjoyed him telling her. To have a man who actually noticed her appearance came as a pleasant surprise, although to do him justice, her late husband had no chance to tell her so. Women who followed the drum had little opportunity to display their fashion skills. “Cerisot is a genius.”

“She certainly knows her trade.” Although his words sounded mild, the heated glance he shot her was anything but.

Downstairs, Robinson helped her into her hat and wrapped her old black cloak reverently around her shoulders. “Add shawls and a new black cloak or pelisse to the list,” Faith said and glanced up at her husband. “I plan to shop at the Exchange after our meeting.”

He smiled. “Good.”

She realised she’d expected him to castigate her for wasting money on female fripperies. Old habits, apprehensions she should kill. They had no part in her life, had not for two years. John had not nearly so much money, nor the need for display, so every purchase had been modest and practical. Sometimes it seemed a great deal longer than two years. Not even that, because Waterloo had taken place in June, and they were only in late March.

Heaven knew what the house in the country looked like, and it was but the main one of half a dozen. Ridiculous. Extravagant.

Necessary.

The coach awaited them, a town carriage with the Graywood crest on the doors, the smell of fresh paint still lingering from the mourning wreaths painted on to the crests. Inside, the pale blue upholstery showed not a speck of dust. The footman swung up behind and they set off with a rattle of harness and a warning shout from the coachman.

John put his hand over hers. “I asked for one footman only. Lady Graywood wanted the complete panoply of footmen, runners, all the trappings and in a way she has the right of it.” Surely one emblazoned servant and a maid was enough.

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She leaned back and watched the passing wonders of the city.

They travelled from the fashionable West End to the decidedly unmodish East End, through the City and down to the loop in the river known as the Isle of Dogs. Not that they ventured inside the loop. Rookeries abounded there, haunts of the outlaw and the outcast.

They came to the working part of the Thames, the docks. East India Docks was a huge complex, with buildings varying from shacks to imposing warehouses fit for a King. The riches of the world resided here before the dock workers loaded, unloaded and sent them to their various destinations. Carriages and carts rolled in and out, men with arms the width of a normal man’s legs heaved bales, boxes and bundles. Masts bristled up into the sky, a dead forest come back to life, sails rolled and lashed, and everywhere she heard the cacophony of activity.

Dazed, she allowed John to help her out of the carriage. He retained his hold on her hand as he led her into the nearest building, one in a cluster that had brass plaques fastened to the soot-blackened brick walls outside.

Inside, the air smelled strange, sharp with spices, probably from a nearby storage area, or maybe a ship carrying that cargo had just disembarked. Must and dampness combined with the underlying stink of wood rot permeating everything.

Lifting her skirts she climbed the stairs, the polished wooden rail attesting to its frequent use, rather than the assiduity of the housemaid. A stocky man stood in the gloom of the narrow landing. Instead of bowing, he shook hands with John, then he nodded to her. “Ma’am.”

“It’s ‘my lady,’” John said, but he said it with a smile. “I don’t think she’ll object to your address, though. Did you have a good trip, Burrows?”

The man grinned. “Aye, sir. Not as eventful as yours. Will you come this way?” They followed him into a room at the front of the
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building.

A blaze of light greeted her from the huge expanse of glass facing the door. Like a bow window in a great ship. It could have been taken from one, which would explain its incongruous appearance here. It afforded a magnificent view over the docks; a panoramic sweep of working London, as impressive in its way as the fashionable hour in Hyde Park, or the interior of Carlton House.

She had John to thank for bringing her here, giving her a new experience. She savoured every one, stored them up like a hungry squirrel, to take them out in the future, look at them and then tuck them away once more.

A man stood behind the substantial desk before the window, his silhouette and shadowy features all she could see until her eyes adjusted to the glare. Then he became clearer.

As tall as John but thinner, he still appeared the kind of person who could break a lesser being with a twist of his wrist. She should have felt intimidated in his presence, but she’d met too many powerful men for that. If they wanted to hurt her, they would, but most did not. This man did not. His normal mien of sternness was obvious from the lines bracketing his mouth and rippling his forehead, but he was smiling at them, his pale eyes lit with pleasure.

She’d wager few people saw him that way.

“My dear, may I introduce my agent, business partner and friend, Thomas Pickering,” John said. “Thomas, my wife, Lady Graywood.”

“My lady.” He inclined his head, not quite a bow.

She did the same, still wondering at the new name, uncomfortable with it, as if it belonged to someone else. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Pickering.”

Pickering exchanged a speaking glance with John. “You are come home for good, then, if you’re taking the title.”

John shrugged. “As to that, I have no choice. The title is mine, whether I like it or not. The rest remains to be seen. I won’t close
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any avenue and I do not intend to abandon my concerns in Canada.”

“And India?”

John nodded. “That too.”

She turned to him with a frown. “India?” He hadn’t mentioned visiting there.

A smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. “Investments, my dear. The East Indies too. I have worldwide interests.” He drew up a chair for her with his own hands and helped her to sit before he found a seat for himself. Pickering took his place behind the desk and the other man, Burrows, stood by the door, legs apart, hands behind his back, military style. She saw a lot of ex-soldiers around these days. This one had obviously discovered an excellent berth.

John addressed his agent. “I trust my wife, Thomas. You may speak before her as if you’re talking to me. She’s intelligent, too.

She’ll follow, as long as she’s given guidance to matters she’s unfamiliar with.”

“I can promise that,” Thomas said. “If you wish it, ma’am.”

Oh, she wished it. To become part of something, to help with the decisions he made every day, or at least to understand what he did, that surpassed her expectations. Oh, she knew women had important spheres of influence, but this—this thrilled her to the core. “Yes,” was all she said.

“I don’t expect to die any time soon, but after we’ve discussed our business, I want to discuss power of attorney. I wish to pass my personal estate to Faith, should that event come to pass.”

“No!” She’d seen too much death to think about another.

Especially him. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“With these estates, we have to,” he said gently, enfolding her hand in his own. Even through their gloves, his heat warmed her.

“My dear, I’m wealthy in my own right. Much more than the dowager knows.”

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She stared at him, her eyes widened in shock. “I thought you had a respectable independence.”

“I intended to give that impression. I don’t want anyone connected with the Graywood holdings to know, not yet. I want to see how the land lies.” He retained his hold without apology and she was glad of it. “The dowager and Roker want the estates merged. Most of the Graywood estate is entailed, together with a few separate investments, which I intend to put in the hands of Thomas here. That means if I die without an heir, the crown takes it. Times are changing and I’m not sure I want the whole estate in one person’s hands. While I have no objections to the estates merging eventually I only met the earldom’s man of business last night. I definitely don’t wish to add my private holdings to the entail. Although I have no reason for concern, I don’t know him like I know Thomas. So I’d appreciate you keeping the information you learn here today to ourselves for a little longer.”