Secrets of a Proper Countess (17 page)

Isobel offered Phineas the briefest of curtsies, and he bowed. Neither of them said a word. He watched Adam take Isobel's arm. He could see Yasmina in her now. How had he missed it? It was clear in the graceful sway of her hips, in the slender delicacy of her figure. He recognized every curve. The shimmer of the dress emphasized her long legs.

Legs that had been wrapped around his body as he made love to her.

Now he knew where he'd heard that soft, desperate little sound.

As if she could feel his eyes on her, she looked over her shoulder at him and bit her lip, blushing. He was instantly hard.

Even now—especially now—he wanted her body every bit as much as he wanted an explanation.

“H
ave you found your mystery woman yet?” Adam asked, and Phineas looked up at him in surprise, wondering if Adam—and everyone else—had known all along, and this was some colossal joke at his expense. But his brother-in-law's expression was businesslike and cool, without a trace of mockery.

“I have some leads,” Phineas said.

“Need I remind you that time is of the essence? Even if she is a delightful playmate, if she's guilty, you must give her up.”

Anger rose. “If your wife hadn't kept us playing elaborate games of blindman's buff with Charles Maitland, then I might have some leads for you now. I intended to search Maitland House tonight while they were all conveniently at the theatre, but I couldn't get away, not with Isobel Maitland camped in our box!” Her name stuck to his tongue like thick honey.

“You might have said something,” Adam said calmly.

“Like what?” Phineas demanded, pacing the floor. “Excuse me, Countess Ashdown, but I have to go and find proof that you and your bloody brother-in-law are guilty of smuggling and possibly even plotting a royal kidnapping?”

“I meant you might have said something to me, not to Isobel. I could have helped you get out of attending the theatre tonight. I know you only went because Marianne
and Miranda insisted. We could have put them off with an excuse.” He regarded Phineas with a frown. “Do you know something I don't? I personally can't see how Charles Maitland is clever enough to be doing anything more heinous than
buying
a few casks of smuggled brandy. And what could Isobel possibly have to do with anything Charles is involved in? That woman is afraid of her own shadow.”

Phineas fixed him with a hard stare. He'd thought the same thing a few hours ago. “What if she isn't, Adam? What if she's part of the game, and her clothes, her hair, her whole life is an elaborate disguise?”

“Isobel Maitland?”
Adam could scarcely say her name for laughing. “Perhaps you
have
been in this line of work too long, my friend.
You're
the one with the secret life, remember? She's a dull, timid widow, and I doubt there's much mystery—or anything else remotely intriguing—under those dowdy frocks of hers.”

If Adam only knew. Phineas cast another glance at Carrington's smug, painted face and turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Adam asked, rising from his chair.

“To get some answers,” Phineas growled.

J
ane Kirk had said that Isobel used the library to read, but there wasn't a trace of her in the room. It smelled only of Charles's tobacco and brandy.

He tried to picture her here, both as dowdy Isobel and as Yasmina. His eyes fell on a thick, soft rug by the dark fireplace, and the image of her body spread out beneath his sprang into his mind. He looked away, shaking off the distraction, but he was all too aware that she was right above him, in bed. He lit a candle and forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand.

He knew the places lords and ladies hid their secrets. Everyone used the same places, and every servant—and men like him—knew exactly where their masters kept the evidence of their misdeeds.

Phineas checked the bookshelves first, running his hand over the embossed spines. Poetry, novels, plays, exactly the kind of thing one would expect a proper widow to read.

But Isobel Maitland was anything but proper.

He checked the shelves for hidden panels or false books that might hold something more sinister than bad verse, but aside from uncovering the maid's secret—she only bothered to dust the lower shelves—he found nothing.

With every sense on alert for even the quietest movement
outside the door, he picked the locks on the desk drawers with quick efficiency.

He found the usual bills, lists, and letters, which were often the most incriminating records of all. He scanned each one quickly.

There was a receipt for a room at the inn near Hythe, but not the same one where they had caught the French spy. There were several bills from prominent London modistes, and he scanned the long list of items purchased under Honoria's name, but there was nothing more sinister there than six yards of imported lace, probably French.

There were also accountings from an exclusive Bond Street haberdasher, and a boot maker that catered to the wealthiest male members of the
ton
. It appeared that the Maitlands had been spending a great deal of money. At least Charles and Honoria had. The only receipt in Isobel's name was for several unglamorous items listed as “personal garments constructed from heavy flannel.”

Of course, Charles was a wealthy man and could afford a lavish lifestyle. How else could he withstand losing so regularly at the tables?

Phineas found a crumpled letter from a man named Hart, requesting money for urgent repairs at Waterfield Abbey. The list of necessary funds was meticulously itemized. He frowned. They were the most basic of costs, the kind no steward should have to beg for, and no responsible landowner would allow to go unpaid unless he was penniless.

Phineas opened another drawer and found the account books. The Maitland estates had all seen poor harvests and a drop in income since Robert's death, suggesting that Charles was a poor manager. At this rate the rich earldom of Ashdown would be ruined by the time young Robin came of age.

He turned the pages, checking the figures for each estate. Every one was failing.

Except Waterfield Abbey.

What he read made him gape, hold the candle closer and look again. Unlike the other properties, the Waterfield accounts showed a huge income, scribbled in under crop yields and wool sales. A mistake perhaps, or an outright lie, if the steward's request was genuine.

Phineas frowned and looked at the letter again. It was addressed to Charles, not Isobel. Other than the flannel garments, there were no receipts, bills, or letters in her name. He wondered if she knew Charles was running her properties into the ground, or if she even cared.

It wasn't unheard of for absentee landowners to bleed their country estates dry for the money to support an extravagant life in London, but it would be almost impossible to enjoy the kind of lifestyle Charles did on the income from just one property, especially if those profits belonged to Isobel, or were supposed to be in trust for her son.

No wonder Charles wished to marry Miranda. It wasn't his sister he wanted, but her fortune. Phineas's mouth twisted.

Of course, something illegal and dangerous would pay well enough to provide the kind of money Maitland was spending.

It warranted more investigation, and a closer watch on Charles, and Waterfield.

Phineas put the ledger back and closed the drawer. He knew Charles's sins might add up to more than the petty smuggling of brandy and gin for himself and a few wealthy friends, but if they did, he wouldn't find the evidence here. That was the kind of secret a man buried deep.

He blew out the candle and stood in the dark, letting his eyes adjust, finished with Charles's secrets for the moment.

Now it was time to find out what game Isobel was playing.

T
here was no light under her door, but he pressed his ear to the panels for a moment to make certain everything inside was silent before he lifted the latch.

The soft drift of her perfume hit him like a blow to the gut as he entered her room. He closed the door and leaned on it, heart pounding.

Light from the street crept through a crack in the drapes, and he could see Isobel's red hair spread across the pillow, glowing like sin.

He'd been wrong. Her room was typical and feminine. Her bed was not a hard wooden cot, but a four-poster. A dressing table, wardrobe, and chest of drawers made up the rest of the furnishings. Soft rugs covered the floor.

He crossed to stand beside her bed.

Even in the shadows he recognized the line of her jaw, the shape of her ears, the curve of her luscious mouth. How could he not have noticed?

Desire rose, heavy and immediate, a bone deep need for her. It made him angry. She'd played him for a fool and still he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. Perhaps he
was
a fool. Or she was a master at whatever wicked game she was playing.

In a quick move he had hold of her, one hand clamped across her mouth, his arm pressed across the fullness of her
breasts, pinning her to the bed. She woke instantly, stiffened in his grip, and he felt her draw breath to cry out. Her fingernails scrabbled at his hand. Her muffled scream vibrated through him.

“I advise you to be very quiet,
Yasmina
,” he growled. She stilled at that, and he felt her shock in the quick indrawn breath, cool against his palm. He stared into the glitter of her eyes, watched them widen with surprise and fear. He let her read the anger on his face.

She moaned, and that was a sound he recognized. It shot straight to his groin. He was half lying across her body, using his weight to pin her down, all too aware of her soft curves as he pressed her into the mattress.

He lifted himself off her before he forgot why he'd come. He held her with one hand on her mouth, the other on her shoulder, and even that slight contact made him ache for her.

“I want to hear your explanation, Countess, but if you scream when I take my hand off your mouth, I will take you somewhere where it won't matter how much noise you make. Do you understand?”

She nodded, a jerky, frightened motion that was barely possible under the tight grip he had on her jaw. She reached up to touch his hand, a careful, pleading pat, or a tentative caress. He didn't release her.

“I am going to light the candle. I want to see you without masks or disguises. I want to look into your eyes when you tell me exactly why you've been lying to me for weeks.”

She squirmed, tried to shake her head, daring to deny it even now as he held her captive. “Do you understand?” he demanded.

She nodded again, grunting something into his hand. He released her, heard her gasp for breath as he lit the taper beside her bed. She sat up then and stared at him, her eyes huge in her white face.

She ran her fingertips over the red marks his fingers had left on her skin. Her hair was an untidy jumble over her shoulders, a cloud of red silk.

His eyes widened as the coverlet fell to her waist. Above the pool of linen, she looked like Venus rising from the waves, wearing nothing but a froth of sea foam. The scrap of lace that clung to her breasts was more enticing than if she'd worn nothing at all.

He wondered what had become of the heavy flannel she'd bought and paid for. He clenched his fists and fought the urge to run his fingers down the slopes of her breasts, press his lips to the hollow between them, tear the damned lace off with his teeth. His eyes locked onto the tempting shadow of her nipples, peeking through the delicate fabric, and he turned away to wipe the sweat from his brow and gather his wits.

Grabbing the chair from her dressing table, he set it close enough to the bed so he could see her face, read her eyes, but couldn't touch her.

She still hadn't said a word. She merely watched him like a terrified vixen caught in a trap, unsure if he would caress her or kill her. He let her wonder.

He sat down and crossed his legs, hiding his erection, aware that he was on dangerous ground. His composure was legendary, except with her. The intimate sight of her in bed, in a whisper of lace that was more sin than clothing, was making it hard to think about anything else. He wasn't sure if he was the biggest dupe in London or the luckiest bastard alive.

He let his eyes travel over her again, trying for an impression of disinterested insolence, but enjoying the view.

She gasped and snatched the blankets up to her chin.

“Don't bother. I know every inch of your body, Isobel. By feel, if not by sight.”

If he expected her to whimper, or cry, or scream, he was
disappointed. She freed one arm and pointed to the dressing gown at the end of the bed.

“Hand me my robe,” she ordered, her tone regal.

Phineas was tempted to toss it out the window for effect, but the sight of her naked shoulders, the knowledge that there was almost nothing covering her charms under the blanket, was a dangerous distraction.

He gave her the robe, a gray flannel monstrosity, and watched as she shrugged into it awkwardly, allowing her no privacy. She wrapped it tight and tied the sash around her waist with shaking fingers. Decently covered, but still sitting in her bed, she folded her arms over her breasts like a queen holding court and glared at him.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a low voice, and glanced at the door as if expecting someone to burst into the room.

“You aren't going to deny it, then. Thank you for that small courtesy at least. You
are
Yasmina. And Charlotte.”

Hot color flooded her face, and her eyes closed in a sweep of copper lashes.

“Who would you have been when next we met, I wonder?”

“How did you find out it was me?” she asked in a tight whisper. “I didn't think you knew.” He watched her knuckles whiten as she gripped the collar of the robe tight against her throat.

He reached into his pocket and brought out the harem slipper. He tossed it onto the counterpane between her feet. The little bell jangled.

“Oh,” she murmured.

Next he dangled the miniature portrait in front of her eyes. She snatched at it, pulling it out of his hand, and stared down at the little painted face, her expression bleak.

“Young Robin, I assume?”

She nodded, and closed her hand over the little picture
protectively. She looked up at him, her expression fierce. “Now that you know, what do you intend to—” she began, but Phineas held up his hand to stay her. He wasn't finished.

He got to his feet as he took out the silk rose and the handkerchief. He held them in the candlelight, watching her, scorching her with the unspoken accusation before he let them drop.

Her reaction wasn't what he expected. She tossed her head with an angry snort and glared at him, her lip curling. She pulled her feet away, as if the items had burned her right through the bedclothes. He felt a surge of triumph in his breast, the thrill of retribution, and braced himself for tears, pleas for mercy, and—

“How dare you?” she demanded, keeping her voice low, casting another quick look at the door.

He folded his arms over his chest. “You aren't going to deny that these belong to you, are you, Isobel?”

She pushed back the covers and reached for the little silk rose, rising to her knees on the bed as she shook it at him.

“
This
is mine. It fell out of my wig when we—” She stopped, a blush spreading over her pale cheeks. He raised a lazy eyebrow and slid another sultry gaze over her body, showing her he remembered every touch, every kiss.

With a soft cry of fury, she threw the rosebud at him, and it hit his cheek, so light it was more a caress than the slap she intended it to be, but he flinched, surprised.

She pointed at the handkerchief still lying on her bed, and her eyes bored into his, filled with indignation.

“That little souvenir, my lord, is not mine. It obviously belongs to one of your other
conquests
.” She filled the word with venom and spat it at him.

He didn't believe her. He leaned toward her. Kneeling on the bed, she was the same height as he, and he came so close their noses almost touched. She didn't flinch or look away.
In her rage, she forgot to hold onto the neck of her robe. The candlelight caressed the delicate bones of her throat, and deepened the tempting shadows between her breasts. He grabbed the handkerchief, brought it between them, held it before her eyes.

“You haven't even looked at it, Isobel. How can you be so certain it isn't yours?” He unfurled it like a battle flag, so she could see the initial and the embroidered rose.

“It is not mine,” she insisted. As quickly and as gracefully as a cat, she slipped off the bed and stalked past him.

“The rosebud, Isobel. The M for Maitland.
Look
at it,” he demanded, following her.

With her nose in the air, she crossed to her dresser, opened the drawer, drew out a plain linen square and thrust it into his hand.

“
This
is mine,” she said.

It bore her initials and the Ashdown crest. There was no lace, and no rose.

“There's a dozen more in the drawer, all alike, if you wish to look on your way out, Lord Blackwood.”

She stood in the middle of her room and glared at him. Her prim flannel robe was at odds with the lace that trailed below the hem, and her bare feet were white and vulnerable against the darkness of the carpet. Her hair swept around her like a cloak, loose, glorious, and simmering angrily in the low light. His breath caught in his throat.

The intimacy of the situation was overwhelming. He stood and stared at her, crushing the damned handkerchief in his fist.

“Why, Isobel? Why me?”

A little of the fury went out of her eyes, and she looked away for an instant. “Is that why you came? To fish for compliments? Do you expect me to tell you what a magnificent lover you are?”

“It would be a place to start. Why didn't you tell me your name when I asked?” He dared to take a step closer. “I know you enjoyed it. Both times.” Her head shot up and she drew the breath to deny it, but he held up a hand. ‘Magnificent lover' was your description, Isobel.”

“I believe you enjoyed yourself as well, my lord,” she said boldly.

He took another step toward her. The hushed fall of his boots on the carpet was the only sound. He didn't stop until he reached her and they stood toe-to-toe, and she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Now who's fishing for compliments?” he asked, and pulled her into his arms, swooping down to capture her mouth with his.

Isobel was powerless to resist. Fury melted under the heat of his touch. He'd broken into her bedroom like a thief and tossed another woman's handkerchief at her, but pride was no match for her desire for this man. She sank into the kiss, reveled in it, marveled that her need for him only grew stronger the more she tried to sate it. She was drugged by the sensation of his body against hers, by the scent of his skin, by his lust for her.

She reached up a hand to his chest and felt the tiny portrait in her fist.

Robin.

With a surge of dread, she pushed him away. This was not anonymous anymore. This was a dangerous, high stakes game she could not win. She would lose everything if—when—Honoria found out. She stared at the door, her heart pounding, but the house was quiet. She wrapped her arms over her robe, hugging it to her, holding the portrait so tight in her hand that the filigreed edges cut into her palm.

He was staring at her, and she shut her eyes. He'd come for an explanation, but she didn't have one, couldn't tell him the truth.

“Are you mad, Blackwood? I cannot do this!” she said, taking refuge in anger.

He put his hands on his hips and frowned, breathing hard, but made no attempt to touch her again. “Why not? It's not as if it hasn't happened before, and this time the luxury of a bed would surely enhance the pleasure.”

She let her eyes roam over him, tempted still, despite the risk. He wore black, which should have made him sinister, dangerous, but he looked magnificent.
Magnificent.
There was that word again. It should be
his
word.

“No!” she said, trying to mean it. Weak, that would be her word, and he would be the cause of it. “Honoria's room is right down the hall! Robbie—
my son
—is upstairs.” She held out the portrait, and it dangled between them like a talisman against calamity. “I am not one of your conquests. I have a reputation to protect, Blackwood.”

He stepped right over her good intentions and cupped her cheek, running his thumb over her hot skin. “I think we know each other well enough that you may use my Christian name, Isobel. It's Phineas. Say it.”

His voice was low, dark and seductive, and she rubbed her face against his palm like a cat in heat. “There is nothing Christian about you,” she whimpered. He laughed, and she shut her eyes, the sound vibrating over every nerve. “Please, Blackwood,” she begged.

“Close enough,” he muttered, and with very little effort and no warning at all scooped an arm under her knees and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. He carried her back to the bed and dropped her on the rumpled sheets.

She scrambled backward and clambered off the other side, putting the dangerous, seductive surface between them. She could see his erection through the dark wool of his breeches, and she shut her eyes against the flood of desire.

“Look, Isobel, I'm willing to play your game,” he said.
“No one need know. We can keep our affair discreet. You can even continue to snub me by day, if it salves your conscience. I've grown used to it.”

She stared at him, saw he meant his offer in all seriousness. Her heart was hammering against the fragile cage of her ribs. Her knees barely held her upright. She clung to the bedpost, wishing she were as hard and unfeeling as the carved oak. She wanted nothing more than to fall onto this bed with him, but he was a craving she could never satisfy. She wanted more, everything, when she could not afford to have any.