Counterfeit Countess (14 page)

“We ‘ave a special way of decorating our women when they don’t please us,” said Cockfosters, his tone low and menacing.

“Want to know what it is?” He didn’t take his gaze off her, stared at her as though he was Mesmer himself and she one of his hapless victims. “We stick it in the fleshy part of the cheek and just—scoop out the soft bit. Never looks nice. Leaves a nasty scar, like the face

‘as fallen in. Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

Terror had her in its grip, however she fought internally to break free. She couldn’t think straight, not beyond this hateful beast and what he meant to her. He’d menaced her husband, and he’d come back for her. He’d done that before, and once was enough to
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persuade her not to linger. She’d left some of her most precious possessions behind, including the twenty guineas she’d saved up for a rainy day.

“What do you want?”

“Money. At first. Nothing you can’t afford, now you’re a countess. Diddle that pretty husband of yours, milk a few more golden boys out of him.” He shifted on to his other foot, bringing him closer. “Oh yes, I know who he is, too. Remember ‘im. But couldn’t get a handle on him, not then. I can now.”

“I doubt that,” said a new voice, drenching the scene in the cold water of rationality and reason.

After one, solitary cry, she clapped her hand to her mouth and gulped for breath. Her heart drummed as if released from a thrall and trying to compensate for lost time. How could he put himself in danger this way, why hadn’t he called the authorities? They’d kill him, or threaten him too, and then he’d get drawn in and—

She forced herself to stop thinking, her mind a rat-trap of horrific scenarios. The only way she could call a halt to her rising panic was to shut it down.

John stood on the half-landing where the stairs led down to the small area. How he’d achieved that without making the boards creak she didn’t know. Nor did she care. That he’d done it was enough. He held a pistol in one hand, primed and ready, and he’d shoved another into his waistband. He held the pistol trained on Cockfosters with the steady hand and eye of the professional soldier. Nobody would have any doubt that he would fire if it became necessary. A man waited behind him, the shadows not concealing the distinctive livery of the Graywoods or the flintlock he held. “Let the maid go and leave.”

Cockfosters eyed them, then glanced at his compatriot, who still gripped Robinson tightly. “What’ll you do? Kill me?”

“Without a second thought. As you’ve already charmingly pointed out, I’m an earl now. Whose word do you think the
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authorities will take?”

Cockfosters swivelled to face John, thrusting out his chest defiantly. “Glad you’re ‘ere, saves me saying it twice. You pay or I talk. Clear?”

“Pay? Not a chance.”

“Doesn’t ‘ave to be money. We ‘ave a few interests in common,
my lord.
” He said the words contemptuously, finishing with a noxious gob of spit, which landed on the stones at his feet.

“F’r’instance, some dockers down where you’ve been this morning

‘elp me sometimes. I could have little accidents happening. Falls from the riggin’, maybe, or some crushed ‘ands and legs.” His implication was obvious. “I can provide protection to stop that.”

He paused, and lowered his voice. “Sometimes people get lost overboard.”

Faith gasped. Could John have done it? The answer returned as fast. No. She refused to believe it.

John’s attention turned to her for a split second, and in that moment, several things happened. Someone shoved her forward, so she sprawled over the floor, then something soft and heavy slammed on top of her, robbing her of breath. A scurry of footsteps followed and a yell. “Help the lady!”

With difficulty, Faith rolled over, the inert body of her maid slumping to the floor beside her.

Oh God, was Robinson dead? Anxious to find out, Faith sat up but her head swam and she lost her balance, falling back.

A pair of strong arms were there to catch her. She didn’t have to look to know who the arms belonged to. Already familiar, she relaxed into them, relieved when Robinson groaned and tried to turn over. The footman sprang forward from his place behind John to examine her. “A cut on her face, not deep, apart from that, shock,” he said in matter-of-fact tones.

Faith cuddled in to John, pressed her cheek against his chest. She shook uncontrollably. Irritated that she’d lost control in such a
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humiliating way, she said nothing. He held her closer. “Did he hurt you?”

Menace laced his tones. She believed that if Cockfosters had done more than threaten her, John would have killed him. He cradled her gently but firmly, before he loosened one hand to run it over her body, checking, she presumed, for damage. “Not even a bruise,” she murmured, not daring to raise her voice above a whisper for fear the trembling would betray exactly how shaken she felt.

“Hush, sweetheart, let me care for you. Do you think you can stand, or shall I carry you?”

She had no doubt he could lift her easily, but the thought of being carried through the busy Exchange made her cringe internally. “I can stand,” she said as determinedly as she could manage, although in reality she had no such certainty.

However, with his arm around her waist, she managed to get on her feet creditably. Only a stumble or two. He waited until she could balance on her own and then offered his arm as support.

“Lean as hard as you need to. I won’t falter.”

She already knew that.

Most of the occupants of the Exchange remained oblivious when the new Earl and Countess of Graywood crossed the cobbled floor on the way to their carriage. He tenderly assisted her to climb in before following her and the vehicle set off as soon as the earl closed the door. Nobody noticed that the footman and maid who accompanied them were no longer present. John had given swift instructions to take them to Grosvenor Square by a different route, the better to avoid gossip.

Once in the carriage John put an arm around Faith and held her tightly against him. “No words, not yet. Wait until we get home.”

Glancing down, she saw a rip in her new gown and that proved enough to trigger the tears she’d tried so hard to hold back. He let her cry until they left the confines of the City. Then he took his
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own handkerchief and mopped up the worst of it. When they arrived at their destination, she was merely damp and tousled.

He alighted before her. As soon as they were indoors, he swept her into his arms and headed up the stairs, barking orders for hot water and tea. He didn’t stop until they arrived in her room, and he’d laid her carefully on the bed. He stripped off his coat and sat next to her, brushing away her hands when she tried to undo her bonnet ribbons. “I’ll do that. We’ll say, if you please, that you had a fall. The floors of the Exchange can be uneven, and you took a tumble.”

Relieved that he didn’t intend to announce her predicament to all and sundry, Faith let out a shaken breath. Her tears had gone.

She felt calmer for the explosion, although she doubted it had helped her looks. After she’d worked so hard to appear the proper countess this morning.

The thought nearly made her burst into fresh torrents, but she forced herself to desist and lay still while he undressed her. Which he did, right down to her shift, before drawing back the covers and tucking her underneath. He examined her as he did so, cursing when he saw the bruise darkening on her thigh. “I should kill him for that alone.” He took her hands in his, and waited until she lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Now tell me the truth. All of it. Don’t keep anything back. We’re partners, remember?”

“W-what did you hear?”

His mouth hardened. “That somehow the man knows that we aren’t married. Talk to me, Faith.” He pressed her fingers, his eyes willing her to tell him everything.

She had to. He’d seen it for himself. “They—they won’t leave me alone, now they’ve found me.” Her world had come crashing down around her with the reappearance of the man who had terrified her for so long. The ruffian she’d successfully eluded for two years. Or maybe she hadn’t been worth his while seeking out before now. “Let me leave, John. I’ll go and you’ll never hear from
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me again.”

He leaned forward, took her chin in his hand. “No, my sweet, we’re in this together. We will not give in to this evil bastard.” He sat so close to her that she could see the stubble shading his chin despite his shave that morning. “No running away.” He studied her with a gaze altogether too perceptive for her liking. “Or should I say no running away
again
?”

She flinched back but he maintained his touch on her chin, although he didn’t grip her hard enough to bruise. “Yes.” She swept her tongue across her lips and his eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly. Because they remained so close, she saw everything.

As he would in her. “You’re right. That’s why I ran.”

“Talk to me.” He released her, but didn’t move back.

“They used to be camp followers. The kind who set up gambling dens to amuse the soldiers and then entrap them.”

“Is that what they did?” His words rapped out, harsh and unforgiving.

She swallowed, nodded. “John, that is my husband—“

“Your
first
husband.”

She was in no mood to contradict him, this husband who was not. He deserved the truth. “Well he spent time in their tent and came out not only a pauper, but in serious debt. Serious for us, anyway. Five hundred pounds.” It sounded trivial now she had such wealth.

“That’s not all, is it?”

She shook her head slightly, kept his gaze although she was finding the task increasingly difficult.

A short respite followed because after a soft knock and his

“Come,” two maids entered the room with tea and fresh toast. How did they know she turned to toast when she wanted a little something in the afternoon? She’d never confessed her small sin to anyone. Either that or muffins, but the muffin-man might not come this far west. Her mind skittered off into the everyday, but
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she had a problem with that. She didn’t have an everyday any longer, no comfortable routine to follow.

He didn’t speak of the incidents at the Exchange that day until he’d poured her tea himself, dismissed the servants and brought her the cup himself. A delicate china cup with sprays of flowers, the kind she’d have kept for best. Her mother would have loved a set like this. Faith took a grateful sip, then another. Fresh tea was a pleasure she’d never denied herself.

When she’d drunk it, he took the cup from her and put it aside.

“Better?”

She nodded, feeling steadier.

“Then let’s resume.” He sat on the bed once more, almost as close as he’d been before. “Your first husband owed these people a debt. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“You know that five hundred pounds is not a problem for us.

You could pay that with the pin money I intend to give you.”

She loved the “Us,” wished it was real. “Yes, but with the interest—“

“You can forget the interest. If your husband owed a debt of honour, even to a villain, that’s one thing, but I will not pay money gained from extortionate interest rates. Will you leave the matter to me?”

Terror clutched her, but for him, not herself. “He’ll kill you.”

John snorted. “He’s welcome to try.”

Never had he appeared as much a warrior than he did at this moment. What could he see? The truth? It seemed so because his next words showed his perception. “There’s more, isn’t there? Five hundred pounds wouldn’t send you into this state. You’re terrified and I’ve seen your courage in other situations first hand. This is nothing as trivial as money. What did he do?”

He refused to let her go until she’d told him, shown him how impossible it was for her to stay. “John put something else up as a
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stake. Me.”

Warriors tried not to grow angry because it affected their ability to fight, but John was furious. His eyes glowed with it, his mouth tightened. “Did you do anything? Did they force you to do anything?”

“They had no time.”

“That’s no answer. Try again.”

“It’s the truth. Cockfosters said he would. After they’d come to tell me that John was dead, he arrived and informed me the debt stood and I should ready myself to go with him. He said he had a place for me.” Now she’d started talking, she couldn’t stop. She’d kept this to herself for two years, unable to trust anyone, and it poured out of her. “He said he’d take me to a house in London and I’d work on my back for my keep. I belonged to him, I was his property. He still sees me as such.”

“I’m sure he does. You know there’s no basis in law for any of this, don’t you?”

“I had nobody. If I’d gone back to the vicarage they would not have welcomed me, and if Cockfosters had found out where I was, he’d have punished them, too.” She paused. “Yes, of course I knew.

But I had no money, no means, and nobody to care for me.”

His anger dissipated, replaced by something that looked like—relief? Surely not. “He calls himself Cockfosters, does he? Is that where he lives?”

“I have no idea. It’s the only name I know for him.”

He caught her hands in his, his warmth seeping through her, heating her from the inside out. “So you ran, and took another name?”

She bit her lip, forced back the fresh wellspring of tears. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I used the last of my money to buy a decent mourning outfit and passage to Dover. If the army had brought me, it would have been as Mrs. Smith, but I went to the Admiralty as Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe. I’m so sorry. I know I
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shouldn’t have done it, but I could think of no other way around the problem.” Thankfully, he let her talk. “It was an official who gave me the notion. After the battle they were mustering widows, and he called out your name, but nobody came forward, so I thought—what if someone did? Too many people knew me there for me to lay claim, so I packed and left that night, went somewhere nobody knew me.”