Secrets of a Proper Countess (15 page)

“W
hat a glorious morning!”

Phineas glanced dubiously at Miranda as she rode beside him on the pretty little mare. Above them, dark clouds threatened rain before the morning was out, and a brusque wind swatted irritably at the feather in her fashionable hat. She seemed scarcely aware of the horse under her, though his gift delighted her when he presented it, and for a few moments she'd been the girl he remembered.

Today the polished debutante was back, and she was preening and posing for the other riders they passed. She flirted shamelessly with the gentlemen of means and good
ton
, and looked down her pert nose at everyone else.

“Have you named her yet?” he asked, gesturing to the mare.

Her gaze turned coy. “I think I may have to call her Kelton.”

“Kelton?” Phineas frowned. “Whatever for?”

She giggled, and the insipid sound grated across his nerves. “Oh, Phineas! After Viscount Kelton, of course. I think he's the one I will marry.”

“Kelton?” Phineas demanded again, more sharply this time. “The man is an idiot.”

“He's heir to an earldom, and he has eighty thousand a year.”

“He has a ridiculous lisp that makes it impossible to have a conversation with him without getting wet, and he's about as bright as a burnt-out candle.”

“I think he's charming, and his estate in Hampshire is said to be one of the most beautiful homes in England. I am looking forward to redecorating it.”

“If it's so beautiful, why redecorate?” Phineas asked.

“Oh, Phin, you are silly. It's what new brides do. I will put my stamp on his heart
and
his home.”

“It will be difficult to put a stamp on Kelton's heart. I doubt he has one. I saw him kick a puppy once,” Phineas muttered.

She sent him a look that said he was trying her patience, and straightened herself in the saddle as another gentleman rode down the track toward them.

Phineas was relieved to see it was Gilbert Fielding, someone sensible to talk to. “Gil!” he called, beckoning to him. Gilbert came, but his eyes were on Miranda. “You bought that stallion, I see.”

“And you bought the mare,” Gilbert replied, tipping his hat to Miranda, who blushed under Gil's scrutiny. “She suits you well, Lady Miranda. She is almost as lovely as her rider.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fielding,” Miranda said, and batted her lashes as she stroked the horse's neck.

“Isn't it a fine morning?” Gilbert asked her, and Phineas cast another glance at the glowering sky, then looked at Miranda.

She smiled. A real smile, not a simper, the kind with teeth and warmth. Phineas frowned. That kind of smile used to be reserved only for him.

“Yes, it is a lovely morning. I was just telling Phineas it was, but he disagreed with me.”

“Phineas, how unchivalrous you are,” Gilbert joked, his smile as bright as Miranda's. “I daresay wherever Lady Mi
randa goes, it's a lovely day, no matter what the weather.” Phineas stared at Gilbert. Odd. He'd never sounded like an idiot before.

Miranda blushed and made a show of patting the mare again, and the silly conversation turned to banalities about parties and horses. Phineas stared down the track, waiting. He had things to do, mysteries to solve, a lady to find.

He'd spent the wee hours of the morning sitting in his study with the few scant clues to Yasmina's identity lined up on the desk before him.

The jeweled slipper would be more at home in a harem than in dirty London.

The portrait miniature was a fond and indistinct watercolor of a baby, but there was no name or date to give him a clue. The child gazed out at him with bronze curls, solemn eyes, and a rosebud mouth that might have belonged to any infant in England.

The last two items disturbed him most. The monogrammed handkerchief was made of the finest Irish linen and the most delicate French lace. It was a smuggler's token, a symbol of betrayal and treason. The embroidered rose looked much like the tiny silk flower Yasmina had left behind in the conservatory. Too much. He still had the uneasy feeling in his gut that usually meant trouble. It haunted him, like the soft sweetness of her perfume, her damned drugging kisses, her luscious body. He shifted in the saddle, silently cursing a very inconvenient erection.

“Phin, do pay attention. I've asked you twice if you're ready to ride on!” Miranda said, and he turned to her. She tossed her head, making the feather in her saucy hat bounce for Gilbert's sake, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes with a mischievous half smile. She kicked the mare into a trot. Phineas nodded to Gilbert and followed his sister, fully aware that Fielding stood by the track and watched them go.

“Planning on naming the mare Fielding instead?” he asked.

Miranda sighed. “Possibly. What is Lord Fielding's title?”

Phineas grinned. “Lord Fielding is his father's title. Gilbert hasn't got one. He's a second son. His father is an earl, though.”

“Does he have a fortune?” she asked.

“Not a farthing.”

Annoyance kindled in her blue eyes. “Does he have anything to recommend him other than a handsome face, a fine horse, and a charming manner?”

“Well, he's a decent shot, an honorable fellow, and pleasant company. Isn't that enough?” Phineas said. “And those were his own teeth he was grinning at you with, I believe.”

“Teeth!” Miranda muttered. The debutante was back, raising her chin in disdain. “Too bad. I shall have to marry Kelton after all.”

Phineas noted that she completely forgot to flirt with the next gentleman they passed, much to the man's dismay. She glanced over her shoulder instead, to where penniless, titleless Gilbert Fielding was riding away, sitting tall in his saddle.

Phineas wondered if Gil would christen his stallion Miranda.

“T
here's a gentleman from Waterfield Abbey to see Lord Charles, my lady,” Finch said, hovering in the doorway of the library where Isobel was pretending to read. Blackwood's face filled every page. She put the book down.

“I see. Does Lord Charles wish to use this room?”

“Er, no, my lady. His lordship is out, and so is Lady Honoria. The gentleman has asked to speak with you,” he said, his tone apologetic. “He's come a long way, and it seems urgent, if I may be so bold. I told him I would see if you are at home.”

Isobel hesitated. She should ask Finch to tell the man to come back when Charles was available, but Waterfield Abbey
was
hers. If there was urgent news, didn't she have the right to hear it?

“Please show him in, Finch.” She got to her feet and clasped her hands, waiting. The man entered the library and stopped near the door. He bowed, his expression grim, as if unsure of his welcome.

“Good day, my lady. I'm Jonathan Hart. I'm the steward at Waterfield Abbey.”

Isobel smiled. “Of course. I remember you from my time at Waterfield as a child, Mr. Hart. Do sit down.”

He took several more steps into the room but remained on his feet, holding his hat before him like a shield. “I'd prefer to stand,” he said grimly.

His expression was respectful but hardly friendly as he met her eyes briefly before lowering his gaze to the carpet. Confused, Isobel sat down in the chair nearest him. Her bold confidence in her ability to handle the matter on her own quailed.

“Finch mentioned there is an urgent matter you wish to discuss. I'm afraid Lord Charles isn't here—”

“Actually, I was hoping to see
you
, my lady.”

“Me?” Isobel asked, surprised.

“It's about conditions at Waterfield. The servants haven't been paid, and Lord Charles has dismissed many of them from their posts. There's also a number of repairs that can't wait.” His eyes kindled with frustration. “I've sent a number of requests to Lord Charles for money to buy livestock and seed and the supplies I need to keep the place in good repair, but I have not received anything from him. When he's there, he ignores me. I can't run the place on nothing.”

Isobel stared at him. Honoria had boasted to Marianne that Waterfield was making a good profit under Charles's brilliant management. Charles had recently bought new horses and an expensive curricle.

“I hadn't heard. Is there some mistake, perhaps?”

Mr. Hart thrust a sheet of figures at her. “I have the expenses listed, my lady. I know you likely hate the old place now, in light of what happened there, but it's prime land, and the people are good-hearted, hardworking souls. It's a shame to see it fall to ruin under the circumstances—”

“In light of what happened there?” Isobel repeated, confused.

“Yes, my lady. We were all very sorry, of course. Our condolences were sincere, I assure you, but—”

“To what are you referring, Mr. Hart?”

“Why, to Lord Robert's death, my lady.” The man looked as confused as Isobel. He cast a quick look at the door, as if he wanted to summon help, or flee.

“But what has my husband's death to do with Waterfield? He died at Ashdown Park.” She wondered if the man was befuddled. He'd been steward of Waterfield for nearly thirty years. Was age making him forgetful?

He shook his head, and she noted his eyes were sharp and clear, his expression sure. “The Earl of Ashdown, Lord Robert, your husband, died at Waterfield. I was there when they brought his body up from the beach. I helped bury him in the churchyard, in accordance with Lord Charles's orders.”

Isobel's stomach knotted itself. Honoria had told her Robert died of a fever in his bed at Ashdown Park. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Honoria had not even allowed her to attend the funeral. He'd been interred quickly, she said, for fear his illness might be catching.

“How did he die?” she asked quietly.

The man shifted his feet, looking at her as if he feared she might be daft. She held his gaze steadily. “Why, he was shot of course, Countess.”

Heat rose under her collar and she clutched the list of expenses in her lap, barely aware of the crackle of the paper in her hand.

“Shall I call someone for you, get you a glass of water, perhaps?” he asked, his brow wrinkling in concern.

“Under what circumstances was he shot?” she asked.

Hart looked sympathetic. “Smugglers, my lady,” he said in a half whisper. “They told me it was a highwayman, but there are no highwaymen on the beach at night. They'd be on the roads, wouldn't they?”

“I see.” Isobel rose to her feet and crossed to the window, staring out at the street without seeing it.

They'd lied to her about her husband's death.

Robert had been shot by smugglers. Surely that wasn't possible. There was some mistake. But in her gut she knew Hart's account was true. He had no reason to lie.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but about the list, and money?” Mr. Hart asked after a few moments, his tone desperate.

She shut her eyes, realizing that she was powerless to help him. She had no access to her own funds. She turned to look at him. “I have your list, but I must speak to Lord Charles.” His face fell, and she held out a hand. “Truly, I'll do what I can, Mr. Hart.”

“I see.” Hart sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Then I shall do my best to speak to his lordship when he's next at Waterfield.” He made a stiff, awkward bow. “Good day to you, Countess. I'm sorry to have troubled you.” He turned toward the door.

“Mr. Hart?” Isobel called after him.

“Yes, my lady?” he said, and his eyebrows rose hopefully.

“How often is my brother-in-law at Waterfield?”

“Why, very often, my lady. Once a month or more.”

“I see. Will you wait?” She hurried past him and went up the stairs, furious. They had lied to her about her husband's death. She opened the door to her room and crossed to her jewelry box. She took out her hated wedding band, and the emerald betrothal ring too. If Mr. Hart sold them, they might fetch enough to pay a few months' wages. Her hand hovered over her grandmother's pearls for a moment before she scooped them up. She turned to go back downstairs.

She made it as far as the doorway, then turned and stared back at the jewelry box.

Dread closed her throat.

Her fingers crept up to her neck, but there was no chain there. She moved toward the dressing table and reached out with numb fingers to touch the edge of the lid. She whispered a prayer as she opened the box again.

The blood drained from her limbs, and she sat down heavily on the little chair before the mirror. The portrait of Robin was missing. She hadn't noticed until now.

She knew exactly where it was.

T
he ladies of Maitland House gasped as Phineas arrived for tea, uninvited and unwelcome.

He stood beside his sisters and Adam and smiled charmingly at the three females gaping at him.

Honoria's pale blue eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

The second woman stared at him like he was a cream cake and she was starving. Her eyes roamed over him, and she gave a shivering little gasp and laid a hand to her cheek. No one bothered to introduce her.

Isobel blinked at him in pinch-lipped shock as if a cat had dragged him in bloody and left him on the rug at her feet. “Lord Blackwood,” she murmured through clenched teeth, as though his name was a second corpse. “We didn't expect you.” She dipped a stiff curtsy and turned away, her cheeks scarlet.

“Jane, more teacups will be needed,” Honoria said as she dragged her eyes off Phineas and looked at the bemused woman beside her. But she didn't move. She was still gazing at him, her eyes wide, her lower lip caught in her teeth, so he smiled at her again, and watched hot color flood her sallow face, knowing besotted females were often the most useful.

“Jane Kirk!” Honoria said more loudly, elbowing the woman so hard she nearly fell over. “Go and fetch the tea, I say!”

Miranda sidled closer to Phineas under Charles's stare, which even made Phineas queasy. He squeezed his sister's hand and crossed the room to take the seat Honoria indicated, a chair well away from her own.

The salon's decor reminded Phineas of an expensive brothel, where the art, the lavish fabric, even the vases and knickknacks, were chosen for their extravagant cost, rather than any real sense of taste. The effect of such things in a countess's sitting room was garish. Given Isobel's long mourning, he had expected the house to be a shrine to Robert Maitland, but there wasn't a single portrait or memento to be seen.

He decided that the room must owe its extraordinary decorations to Honoria and Charles rather than Isobel. Honoria held court in an expensive ruffled fuchsia gown, cut in a style meant for a debutante, not a plump matron of sixty. Charles looked like an overfed pasha, in a green silk waistcoat and sporting a large ruby in his cravat.

Isobel was a respite for the eyes. Her dove gray gown was soothing amid the clutter, like shade on a hot day. Her vibrant hair was a bonfire against the ashen dress. He had to admit she looked elegant and rather pretty, even with her back and neck stiff with indignation at his presence.

She took a seat across from his, and left the responsibility of serving tea to her mother-in-law and Jane. He watched her, refusing to believe such a dull woman could be in charge of a ring of smugglers. She was probably afraid of the dark, and he'd wager she never touched strong spirits. She obviously had no passion for silk or French lace.

She caught him staring, and her eyes widened as she met his speculative gaze. Hot color rose in her cheeks and she looked away, pursing her lips. He damned her for being so outraged that he had dared to enter her home. He stretched out his legs, made himself comfortable. She pretended to concentrate on her tea.

Her hands on the china cup were long-fingered and delicate. She cast another bird-quick glance at him, her eyes bobbing over him in hasty appraisal, from the knot in his cravat to the toes of his boots, before darting away again. Her becoming blush deepened, and he noted the throb of her pulse above her prim collar.

Phineas was well aware of the effect he had on women. He shocked them, like Honoria, or bemused them, like Jane Kirk, but Isobel's reaction baffled him. She acted as if he'd caught her naked. It was a most intriguing reaction from the dull widow.

He made her nervous just by sitting across a room from her. She kept a pale imitation of a polite smile on her face, but a perpetual blush belied her agitation. From time to time she sent him sideways looks from under her lashes, and he found himself waiting for those glances, counting them.

He wondered how she would react if he touched her hot cheek, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Arousal stirred unexpectedly and he shifted in his seat.

The devil! He was
not
attracted to a frumpy little snipe like Isobel Maitland. He would, of course, do his duty if he had to, but bedding her for information about Charles would hardly be a pleasure. Well, perhaps for her.

He forced himself to look away, to concentrate on the conversation.

“I understand you hold a property down the coast from my own, Countess. A place called Waterfield Abbey?” Adam said, subtly steering the discussion.

“It was one of my uncle's estates, my lord. I have not been there since I was a chi—”

“Did you know Charles controls
seven
estates?” Honoria interrupted, directing the question to Miranda, who blushed, unsure how to reply.

“How many of them are by the sea?” Adam asked.

“Oh, Adam!” Marianne rolled her eyes. “Do forgive my husband, Lady Honoria. He grew up by the sea, and is obsessed with ships and tides and the stars.”

“I see,” Honoria said, as if such an occupation was highly improper for an earl. Her predatory smile returned as she looked back at Miranda. “Are you enjoying your Season in London, my dear? I hear your name everywhere. You are quite the most successful debutante this year. Charles is considered one of the most eligible gentlemen, you know.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Miranda said, her tone wooden. “I am enjoying the parties very much, and I like to ride in the park when the weather is fine.”

“Do you?” Honoria cried. “Charles! You must take Lady Miranda riding! Actually, he has a brand new curricle you might enjoy taking a turn in. The chestnuts he bought to pull it are perfectly matched, almost twins.”

“Thank you,” Miranda replied, “but I'm sure I have appointments arranged for some time to come, my lady.”

“Perfect!” Honoria crowed, undeterred. “We have a week or two yet until the finest weather is upon us. By then, no doubt, you will have plenty of time. I shall write to your great-aunt so she may put it on your calendar.”

Miranda looked ill.

“It has been a very mild spring, hasn't it?” Adam tried again. “The flowers are a welcome sight, but I am looking forward to seeing my roses bloom. Do you like roses, Countess?”

“I prefer violets, my lord,” Isobel said quietly.

“You must come and see Adam's conservatory, Isobel,” Marianne said. “He collects exotic plants, including violets . . .”

Phineas watched Isobel blush again, and slide an anxious glance at her mother-in-law, who was still grinning at Miranda like a tiger with prey in sight. Isobel did not look
at
him
, though her eyes went everywhere else as Marianne prattled on.

It didn't matter. He was remembering the conservatory in the dark, with far more luscious company. He and Yasmina had probably crushed quite a number of Adam's exotic plants in their haste to renew their acquaintance, violets included.

He shifted in his chair and looked around the room again, making note of the cabinets and drawers. Later, when he returned at night, he would know where to search.

“Perhaps it's time we took our leave, my dear,” Adam said to his wife, interrupting Honoria before she could launch into more gushing praise of Charles. “We wouldn't want to overstay our welcome.”

“Of course. I'll go up to the nursery and fetch Jamie. Isobel, will you show me where it is?”

Phineas got to his feet. “I'll accompany you as well, if I may. I haven't met Jamie's new friend.” He met the look of horror on Isobel Maitland's face with a firm and steady gaze. She quickly looked away, and he had an unexpected urge to put a hand under her chin, to raise her face and read what was hidden in her eyes.

“Charles and I will happily keep Lady Miranda and Lord Westlake company until you return,” Honoria said. “Jane, accompany Isobel upstairs, in case Lady Marianne needs anything.”

Phineas watched Isobel's lips tighten as she led the way out of the room. Marianne linked arms with her friend as they climbed the stairs, and chattered in her ear.

Phineas glanced at the doors leading off the hall. One stood ajar, and he paused, feigning interest in a painting, peering through the open door. A large desk squatted in the center of an unremarkable room. “I see Lord Charles keeps a library,” he said to Jane Kirk conversationally.

“He uses it as his study,” she simpered. “There
is
a collection of old books, which I believe belonged to the countess's father, but
she
is the only one who reads them,” Jane added, looking daggers at Isobel's back as the two countesses climbed the stairs.

“Are there any family portraits?” Phineas asked. Jane's thin brows slammed together in bafflement. “I have an interest in portraits,” he lied, giving Jane an encouraging smile. A widow as devoted as Isobel probably kept a life-sized picture of her dead husband hanging over her cold, lonely bed, if only to hide a safe full of yellowing love letters. He very much wanted to see her room.

“Portraits,” Jane parroted. “Well, there are three paintings of Lady Honoria in the house, one of Lord Charles, and one of the late earl, Lord Robert.”

“Would it be possible to see them?” Phineas asked. “I knew Lord Robert. I would be most interested to see if the artist did him justice.”

Jane looked as if she might melt if he smiled at her again, so he did. “Ohhh.” She raised a trembling hand to her flushed cheek and led him upstairs.

By the time they reached the second floor, Isobel and Marianne had already disappeared up the stairs to the third. He waited as Jane opened a set of oak doors just wide enough to slip into the room.

The countess's suite was decorated much like the salon downstairs. Insipid shades of lavender and purple assaulted the senses. The cloying scent of perfume hung heavy in the air. Unfortunately, the door to her bedchamber was closed.

“There it is,” Jane said, pointing to a portrait of Robert Maitland that hung in the place of honor over the fireplace. Robert looked back at Phineas, a thinner, fair-haired version of Charles. His pale blue eyes were Honoria's, as was the thin, selfish mouth.

“He was a handsome man,” Jane sighed. “This painting doesn't do him justice.”

Phineas turned, and found a picture of Lady Honoria gazing down at him from the opposite wall. Now why would Isobel keep a portrait of a woman she disliked in her rooms?

“How extraordinary. I would have thought such an impressive portrait of Lady Honoria would have pride of place downstairs. Of perhaps in her own rooms,” he said.

“Oh, but this
is
Lady Honoria's room. She took over the countess's suites when Lord Robert died. Lady Isobel has a smaller room down the hall. Lord Charles occupies the earl's apartments, of course. And there
is
a portrait of Lady Honoria in the library, and another in the dining room, but this one is her favorite.”

“Does Lady Isobel keep a portrait of Lord Robert in her suite?” he asked, hoping it would be that simple.

Jane sniffed. “No. She has a small watercolor of the sixth earl, Master Robin, that she painted herself. She also has a miniature of her own mother, but she keeps it hidden, and thinks no one knows.” Her eyes turned shrewish. “If Lady Honoria knew Charlotte the Harlot's portrait was in this house, she'd be very displeased. I could tell her if I wanted to, of course.”

Lady Charlotte Fraser was Isobel's mother?

He remembered the bawdy songs and salacious tales of Charlotte the Harlot. The scandal was still fresh when he arrived in London. He'd been eighteen at the time. Isobel must have been a child.

“We should find the countess, I believe,” he said, but Jane took a bold step toward him, her thin lips puckered for a kiss. He hesitated. A kiss would ensure her silence, possibly win him more help later if he needed it, but he could not bring himself to lower his mouth to meet the servant's shriveled lips, not while Yasmina's lush mouth filled his mind.

“We should rejoin Lady Isobel, Miss Kirk. I do not wish you to get into any trouble for merely showing me a portrait.”

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him. Her ugly purple blush perfectly matched the room's decor. He kept his expression cool until she lowered her eyes.

“This way, then,
my lord
. Up the stairs and to the right,” she said tartly.

He followed her down the hall. “
That
is Isobel's room,” Jane said as they passed a narrow door at the end of the hallway. By Phineas's estimation, it was right above the library, facing the street. He wished he had the opportunity to slip inside now, to satisfy his curiosity, but Jane was already halfway up the stairs, her expression closed and unhelpful. He'd probably have to ravish her on the spot to get any more information. It would be easier—and more pleasant—to come back later and find what he needed on his own.

Laughter bounced through the open door of the nursery, and he paused on the threshold. Jamie and the young Earl of Ashdown were sprawled on the floor playing a game of cards. Marianne sat beside them, carefully guarding her hand against Jamie's attempts to cheat.

To his surprise, the happy peals of laughter were coming from Isobel as she took a trick from Marianne. She was lying on her stomach, her knees bent, trim legs folded upward and crossed at the ankles.

Phineas stopped where he was. Isobel Maitland was not just pretty. She was beautiful. He'd never seen her smile, but she was grinning at her son with so much adoration in her eyes that his breath caught in his throat and a pit of longing opened in his stomach. Something elusive flitted through his brain as he watched her.

“Countess!” Jane Kirk interrupted the fun, a pruny look of disapproval on her face as she glared at Isobel. “The marquess has come to fetch his sister and Lord James.”