How I Met My Countess (3 page)

He’ll not do, Papa
, she wanted to say. She considered herself an excellent judge of character, for she’d spent a good part of her life watching the agents come and go from her father’s house. She knew them all.

And as much as she found it amusing to give this stuffy earl a bit of a tease, there was a niggle of worry that ran down her spine.

This Clifton would have to set himself down a notch or two if he was going to stay alive, at the very least, let alone complete the tasks he would be sent to do.

No, he is too utterly English. Too proud. Too … too … noble.

In that estimation, she saw his future and it wasn’t good. Well-intentioned gentlemen were the bane of the Foreign Office. With one glance, she dismissed him. For this Clifton, this noble earl, would never return to England, no matter the effort her father extended to train him properly.

He’ll never come back.

Well, I don’t care
, she told herself, crossing the room and putting her back to the earl. She opened a drawer and handed a folder to her father, who, throughout this exchange, had been muttering over the mess of papers and correspondence atop his desk. “I think you need these,” she said softly.

Her father opened it up, squinting at the pages inside and then nodding. “Ah, yes. Good gel, Goosie.” He turned back to Clifton. “Whatever has you so pale? I don’t expect you to deflower the gel, just carry her love letters.”

“Letters?” Clifton managed.

“Yes, letters,” Lucy explained. “I write coded letters to you as if I were your mistress, and you carry them to Lisbon.” She strolled over, reached up and patted his chest. “You put them right next to your heart.” She paused and gazed up at him. “You have one of those, don’t you?”

A few days later, Mr. Ellyson poked his head into the kitchen. “Oh, excellent! You’re going out. Perfect timing, I must say. Lucy-girl, be a dear and take his lordship along with you.”

Lucy glanced up from beneath the brim of her bonnet and sent her father an exasperated look. For she knew exactly what he wanted.

That didn’t mean she wanted it.

“Today? Now? You expect me to drag Lord Fancy-pants about?” She shook her head. “He’s not ready.” Pulling on her gloves, she reached for her market basket, hoping to hasten her departure all the same.

“Lucy!” he warned. “Don’t you dare leave this house without the earl.”

Demmit all!
She’d been nearly out the kitchen door before Papa had arrived. If only Bess wasn’t in her bed sick. Then Mrs. Kewin, their cook, wouldn’t have asked her to check the cellar for more onions, delaying her trip to the village. “Send him off with Mariana,” she said. “She’ll do the task admirably.”

“No, no, I want you to take him on his first outing,” her father said, coming all the way into the kitchen. “I’ve made all the arrangements.” He went over to the teapot on the table and laid his hand on the side of it to see how warm it was. “Ah, Mrs. Kewin, you’re a dear to know when I want my tea every afternoon,” he said, flashing a rare smile at the elderly woman. Then the old devil settled down at the table and poured himself a cup as if nothing were amiss.

But the cock of his brow and the turn of his lips revealed all. He’d outwitted his daughter and thought it a fine thing.

Mrs. Kewin, hardly undone by her employer’s rare flattery, looked from one Ellyson to the other, then ducked around the corner into the pantry.

Coward
, Lucy thought as she watched her disappear. She knew there was a row brewing.

And right she was.

Lucy faced her father, something few people were willing to do. That didn’t mean she was going to launch into an attack; rather, she took a page from her father’s book.

Identify the problems of a plan straightaway and have a solution at hand.

“You know as well as I,” she said smoothly and carefully, “that Mariana will do the job better. I’m as likely to kill that pompous nit as whoever you’ve got out there waiting for him.”

The Earl of Clifton had proved to be every bit as high and lofty as Lucy had first suspected.

Ringing the bell for tea three times a day. And when it wasn’t brought up promptly, he’d yank at the pull until it did arrive.

Couldn’t the man fetch his own, like everyone else in the house?

Handing her his laundry because he didn’t like the way the girl at the inn had done his cravats. Tracking in mud.

Didn’t the inconsiderate lout know how to use a scraper?

Then there was the way he spoke to her, as if it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but alas, so very necessary, and therefore he had to reduce himself to the task.

“Miss Lucy, see to having this letter posted
…”

“Miss Lucy, send round for …”

As if she didn’t have enough to do as it was.

She ground her teeth together. Oh, she didn’t like him. Not in the least.

Her father, having taken her suggestion into consideration, shook his head. “I want you to go with him. You’ll see to the job admirably, your personal considerations aside. Besides, you know how your sister gets around blood.”

Blood?

Lucy perked up. The image of a battered and broken Lord Clifton limping back to the house in defeat rose up in her imagination. Now that quite warmed her heart.

Perhaps a few bruises would even make the arrogant man a bit more palatable.

Or at the very least, bring him down a peg or two.

Her father mistook the smile on her face. “Yes, you see the wisdom of this. Remember how poor Mad Jack fared when Mariana took him out?” He shook his head and nodded to her. “I’m not much worried about his lordship, but I wouldn’t like to see Rusty and Sammy harmed. They’re good lads.”

Rusty and Sammy? Lucy set the basket down. “You’ve got those two cutthroats lying in wait, and you’re worried for their safety?”

“Oh, aye,” her father said, reaching for another biscuit. “I know you think Clifton a tiresome fool, but I think he’ll surprise you, Goosie. He’ll make a good accounting of himself.” Her father sat back. “He’s just never had to stand on his own two feet before. But you can show him how, my girl. He’s got the mettle, he just needs to believe it.”

She snorted. What was there to believe in? Lord Proper-And-By-the-Book against Rusty and Sammy? The pair had grown up in the Dials. They were two of the meanest, hardest criminals who had ever cut a path through the roughest streets of London before her father had hired them and given them somewhat legitimate work—the sort suited to their,
er
, talents.

The bell over the door rang, and Lucy didn’t need to look to know who was pulling the cord.

Himself.
Probably wanted his tea brought up.

She ignored the impatient jangle, as did her father. And, Lucy noted, Mrs. Kewin didn’t seem in much of a hurry to reappear in the kitchen.

Earl or not, their cook wasn’t fool enough to return until all the dust had settled.

Her father continued blithely on, ignoring the bell and Lucy’s growing agitation. “I have a suspicion he’ll not take kindly to being tested. So you can see why I would want you there. You’re a good match for him. You’ll be able to talk some sense into him when he discovers that he’s been sent into …”

Lucy stopped listening after she heard her father’s assertion.
A good match for him …

She shook off the implications of such a phrase. A good match, indeed! That implied she and the earl were suited for each other, or shared something in common, and nothing could be further from the truth.

The man was completely unsuited to become an agent for the King. He didn’t belong here, using up her father’s valuable time, looking down his nose at the rest of the household.

Handsome, rich and spoiled. That was all the Earl of Clifton was, and whatever notions he had of serving his King and country should have ended the first hour he’d walked into their house.

But it could all end now, Lucy
, a wry little voice whispered in her ear.
Let him have a little taste of the very real dangers ahead and he’ll be back in London before supper.

Then Papa and Mr. Pymm would see what was so evident to her.

That the Earl of Clifton was no hero.

“Where the devil is that girl from the kitchen?” Clifton asked, standing before the bellpull. “This house is run in the most slipshod manner.”

Malcolm glanced up from the papers he’d been reading. “You could go down and see to it yourself,” he suggested, his tone implying that the very notion was quite amusing. “Probably shock Miss Lucy into some decent manners to discover you aren’t as stiff-rumped as you like to appear.”

Clifton turned to him, his shoulders going taut. “I am not stiff-rumped!”

Malcolm laughed. “You’ve been about as high and lofty as I’ve ever seen you since we got here.” The earl paused. Malcolm continued, “I would even say you are deliberately baiting that gel. You are, aren’t you?”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Clifton said, tugging at his cravat, which he was now starting to believe she’d starched with sand. “It is just that Miss Lucy’s manners could use some … guidance.” He leaned against the wall next to the bellpull and folded his arms over his chest.

His brother snorted. “Oh, you’re guiding her alright, but I’d mind just how far you provoke that bit of muslin. She’s Ellyson’s daughter, through and through.”

Clifton waved him off. “And whatever do you think she could do? She’s naught but a slip of a girl.”

“I don’t know about that,” Malcolm told him, shaking his head. “But I do know I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her wrath. Just a piece of brotherly advice.” He closed the book before him. “How unfortunate she doesn’t take after her sister. Ah, the enchanting Miss Ellyson.”

Clifton shook his head. “I would suggest that Miss Ellyson is trouble in another direction.”

“She’s an adorable romp,” Malcolm said, grinning.

Clifton had no doubts why Ellyson kept his elder daughter here in Hampstead. Lithe and elegant, with a mischievous sparkle to her eyes, Mariana Ellyson, fairer than her sister Lucy, had an ethereal quality to her that would have set the collective hearts of London on fire.

“And well she knows it,” Clifton said. “Not that either of them seem to be the marrying type.”

“Odd, that,” Malcolm agreed. “The fellows out here must be blind.”

Or so well advised of George Ellyson’s shady past that they stayed well away from the man’s daughters.

“Still,” Malcolm said, “I would think you’d find Hampstead a far better place to be than London, what with the Season in full swing. No one here trying to foist their daughter off on your unwitting hands. Why, you should be in the pink; we’ve made it this far, and in a fortnight’s time we’ll be off. Whatever is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” the earl said, glancing back at the bell and considering another tug. “Everything. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Yes, of course. Rather like having something useful to do.”

All this—joining the Foreign Office, going to the Continent—had been Clifton’s idea. But now the magnitude of it was starting to weigh upon him. What if they didn’t make it back? What if they failed?

What if he couldn’t live up to the legacy of his forebears, heroes and champions all?

The dismissive light in Miss Lucy’s eyes said as much each time she looked up at him. Said she no more believed him capable of being a spy than she had faith in their elderly cook to lead a battalion.

Vexatious, wretched minx.

He’d never met anyone like her. A mere slip of a girl capable of upending every bit of confidence he possessed.

However had she gotten so under his skin?

Because she’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met …

No fawning miss. No smiling debutante.

Lucy Ellyson’s straightforward and all-too-pert opinions quite took him by surprise.

Why, if he was being honest, he might even admit that he found her a bit intriguing … what with that glorious head of hair and her open, all-too-honest eyes.

“I suppose I’ve been a bit of an ass,” he conceded.

“A bit?” his brother teased. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You haven’t been as lofty as father used to get, but you’ve been a bit of a cross-patch.” Malcolm paused. “Perhaps you need to take up with that gel at the inn. Whatever is her name?”

“I haven’t inquired.”

Malcolm shrugged. “She seems quite willing.” Clifton shook his head. “Quite. But she’s hardly my type and a bit old, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, hoped you hadn’t noticed she’s a bit long in the tooth,” Malcolm teased, leaning back in his chair, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What about Miss Lucy? She is your new mistress, after all.”

“Lucy Ellyson?” Clifton sputtered back, pushing off the wall. “Have you gone mad?”

To his dismay, Malcolm laughed even harder. “She does rub you wrong, doesn’t she? You know, it is quite entertaining to watch the two of you. Circling like cats.”

“Malcolm,” the earl said in warning.

“And she’s a pretty bit,” Malcolm mused, sitting back in his chair, hands lounging behind his head.

“A pretty little snob, if you ask me,” the earl replied. His brother laughed again, which did nothing to ease Clifton’s discomfiture. “How is it you find this house so comfortable?”

Malcolm rocked forward. “Ah! For once I have the advantage. If you must know—”

“—I must.”

“Then I would surmise it is because I am the illegitimate son. Puts me on equal footing around here.”

“Now I see how it is. I’ve stumbled upon the English version of
Liberté, égalité, fraternité
.”

His brother laughed, not at all insulted at being called a Jacobian. “Watch out, or that Miss Ellyson will take it in her head to set up her own Committee of Public Safety.”

“I’m surprised Pymm hasn’t sent her over to the French,” Clifton argued. “She’d tie them up quite nicely, what with all her nagging ways.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Malcolm said, returning to the book before him and nonchalantly leafing through the pages, “I’d say you enjoy needling her.”

“I do not.”

“Perhaps you are just getting her riled up to—” Clifton shook a finger at his brother. “Don’t even suggest such a thing. That chit is the most improper, ill-mannered bit of muslin I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. She’s the last woman I’d think to take to my bed.”

Malcolm shrugged and went back to paging through the thick book, looking for the place he’d left off. Without glancing up, he said, “No matter, really. She’s quite unimpressed with your lofty state. Probably wouldn’t have you even if you wanted her.”

The barb hit the mark. Because there was a bit of truth to what Malcolm was saying.

For here was Miss Lucy Ellyson of Hampstead Heath looking at him as if she expected him to fail before he got to the Channel. If, as her wry glances suggested, he could manage to get himself to Hastings, that is.

“I can do this, I’ll have you know,” Clifton said aloud.

“Whoever said you couldn’t?” Malcolm said, doing him the favor of not looking up.

But that was where Malcolm provided him with a good foil. Full of good sense and no particular airs, Malcolm, like Miss Ellyson, was not impressed by lineage and inheritance. Perhaps it was why Clifton’s mother had never objected to her son being brought up with his half brother. His father’s natural son.

She’d claimed it would give Clifton a grounding in the common, ordinary world that would have escaped him otherwise. That had eluded his father all the man’s life. Shielded the elder Grey from the changing, modern world that the new century had thrust upon England.

An unfamiliar society that included Lucy Ellyson and her pert opinions. And her obvious disapproval.

Clifton shifted from one foot to another, as that unfamiliar ill ease came over him. Just one thought of that gel had him at sixes and sevens. “Now where the devil is that maid with the tray?”