How I Met My Countess (8 page)

He looked from her hands to the cards on the table and shook his head slightly. And when he looked up at her, her eyes widened in recognition.

Just then, her sister said exactly what he was thinking, for she had picked up her cards and frowned heavily at the hand she’d been dealt. “You’re cheating, Goosie. I declare I won’t play if you continue to cheat.”

Lucy straightened, rearranging her cards. “Mariana, what a terrible thing to say.
And in front of company
. You know I never cheat.”

Then she did something she shouldn’t have. She took a furtive glance in his direction and their eyes met.

“Well, I don’t,” she insisted, looking away, her hands no longer as skilled. She dropped one of the cards and nearly overturned the rest in her trembling fingers.

No one other than Clifton seemed to notice her distracted movements.

“I’ll catch you one of these days,” Mariana muttered for all to hear. “I’ll catch you, Goosie. See that I don’t!”

“You can try,” her sister shot back. “You can try.” Then Lucy looked up at him again, and he couldn’t help himself; he grinned back at her.

For he already had.

Caught her, that was.

Lucy’s breath froze in her throat.
He couldn’t have. No, he must be bluffing … teasing me. He couldn’t have caught me.

But the truth was right there in the arrogant tilt of his brow, the grin that cut across his square jaw.

The Earl of Clifton had caught her plucking a card from the middle of the deck.

Had the world as she knew it been tipped upside down? First he flattened Rusty and Sammy, and now this? Who was this man before her, this mystery of a nobleman?

Wasn’t that the reason you made this intimate little supper? Invited him here for this very improper encounter, so you could ply him with claret and discover more of his secrets?

Yet here he was chiseling out hers as easily as she could deal herself an ace.

Oh, gracious heavens, she’d always considered herself a matchless judge of men, of their characters, of their ability to fulfill the tasks Pymm selected them for, and now this!

The Earl of Clifton. A man she’d dismissed at first glance as completely unworthy, an arrogant mistake. And he’d fooled her. Pulled the wool over her eyes and deceived her utterly.

For he hadn’t cared a whit for her good opinion. Or for currying her favor. Or anything beyond stealing a kiss from her lips to prove that he had …

Had what?

A better notion of love than she did?

What if he does?
a wry little voice whispered in her ear.
What if he does know more?

“Picking locks and cheating at cards,” Malcolm said. He wiped his lips with his napkin and placed it beside his empty bowl. “You two are an illustrious pair.”

Much to Lucy’s horror, Mariana dashed right into that opening and, without the least bit of shame, said, “Thank you, sir. We have our father to thank, for he insisted we have much the same education as he had, just in case we ever discovered ourselves … in need, shall we say.” She pulled a hairpin slightly out of her hair and then tucked it back in. “Then again, if we hadn’t had those lessons, I’d have never liberated that wonderful bottle of claret.”

“And what education was it that your father had?” the earl asked.

Lucy opened her mouth to stop this line of questioning, but Mariana went on blithely, “Why, growing up in Seven Dials, of course. He was the finest fork who ever worked the streets of London.” Mariana preened before she glanced down at her hand and played her next card, as if she’d just commented about the pudding, or the weather, or the state of the coals in the grate.

Not telling their guests that their father had grown up pursuing criminal endeavors.

Lucy tried her best to concentrate on her cards and tell herself it didn’t matter as to their good opinion. It mattered naught.

And no, she wasn’t going to look at him and see if Mariana’s revelation had left him gaping in shock. No, she just couldn’t.

“Your father was a …” Mr. Grey struggled for a polite way to say it.

“A fork. A foyst. A buzman. A diver,” Mariana supplied, her delighted gaze fixed on Lucy’s absentminded discard. “In essence, gentleman, a pickpocket.” She plucked up the card before her, then glanced over at their guests. “Well, he was until His Grace caught him.”

“His Grace?” the earl sputtered over his glass of claret, nearly spilling it.

“Why, yes, the Duke of Parkerton. The old one, not the one who has the title now. Mad Jack’s father.”

“The Duke of Parkerton?” Clifton set his glass down, as if he didn’t trust himself to hold it. “He caught your father picking a pocket and didn’t have him hung for it?”

Lucy hadn’t a care that Mariana was her dearest sister or best companion.

She kicked her under the table.

Hard.

“Lucy!” Mariana protested. “Whatever is wrong with you? That hurt! And if you think such a distraction is going to help you, I’ll have you know I win.” She laid down her cards to show her perfect hand. “No, not at all,” she said, answering the earl’s question. “Why ever would the duke want to have Papa hung? He was only a ten-year-old lad.” She made a
tsk
,
tsk
noise as if she thought perhaps Clifton had quite possibly had too much claret.

Malcolm laughed. “Because, Mariana, stealing is a crime. And child or not, picking pockets is a hanging offense.”

She laughed, as if she had never heard such nonsense. “Not when it can be put to good use.”

The earl, still struggling to recover some semblance of his usual composure, asked, “You want us to believe that the Duke of Parkerton caught your father stealing and instead of handing him over to the watch, put those ‘talents’ to good use?” He said this not to Mariana but to Lucy, looking at her directly with that piercing gaze of his.

She felt rather like a butterfly pinned to a mat, but still she managed to reply. “Parkerton was Papa’s mentor, and our benefactor all these years.”

“Parkerton?” Clifton asked as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“Yes,” Lucy told him, sitting up straight. For something about the earl’s doubt nudged her. Really, she had nothing to be ashamed of. Her father had served his King and country with all the loyalty of a good Englishman. While at times her father’s actions had been both morally and legally questionable, he’d done what had been necessary to keep Britain’s enemies at bay.

And there was no shame in that.

Mariana began gathering up the discarded cards, tallying the points and adding them to the sheet of paper at her elbow. “After His Grace plucked Papa from the streets, he hired him tutors, sent him to Oxford and then on a Grand Tour. That was the beginning of Papa’s career for the Foreign Office.” She glanced over at her sister. “Oh, Goosie, remember the stories he used to tell us as children? Wonderful tales about his time in Egypt, in Russia, of how he met the contessa …” She paused for a moment. “Oh, yes, and when he saved Thomas-William from a slaver in France. Remember how he used to tell us all those glorious tales before we went to bed?”

Lucy considered kicking her sister again, for the claret had her prattling on like Mrs. Kewin and her spinster sister discussing the neighbors. “Yes, nothing like a story of murder and high treason to give one nightmares. I believe you spent most nights with bad dreams,” she replied. “But it is hardly a proper subject—”

“Proper, Lucy?” the earl asked, reaching for the bottle and coming over to the table to refill Mariana’s now empty glass.

As if her sister needed another glass of claret. She was already tippled enough to spill all their family secrets like an old ewe bleating in the field.

The earl paused, the bottle poised over Lucy’s half-filled glass. “Pray tell, what is this sudden concern for propriety?”

Lucy shifted uneasily, blocking him from pouring by placing her hand over her glass. “It is just that Papa isn’t always easy discussing his past with others.” When he withdrew the bottle, she reached for the cards Mariana had dealt, gathering the boards in her hands. But she didn’t look up at him. For she didn’t want him to see the racing tumult within her.

My lord, I’m not easy with the subject. Not with you. Not yet …

Not before I can trust you.

Still he stood before their card table, and Lucy felt his presence like an immovable mountain.

“Malcolm,” he said over his shoulder. “I fear we’ve overstayed our welcome. Ladies, my sincere appreciation for the excellent supper.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, still not willing to look up, not wanting to stand up.

“It is well past time that we sought our beds. Morning will be upon us far too soon, I fear,” he said.

“And more of those demmed codes of Ellyson’s,” Malcolm muttered in reply as he rose, drained his claret and set the empty glass back down.

“Actually, the codes are Lucy’s,” Mariana corrected as she rearranged the cards in her hands. “She’s quite brilliant at them, though Papa gets all the credit. Why, it was Lucy who came up with the idea of putting the codes in love letters.”

Lucy’s gaze sprang up; she couldn’t stop herself. And there she found the earl studying her.

“You?” he asked. “I thought you disavowed love.”

But before she could reply, Mariana laughed and said, “Lucy?! Oh, my lord, wherever did you get such an idea? I’ll have you know my sister is the most romantic soul you’ll ever meet.”

Oh, good God, could this evening get any more mortifying?
Lucy wished her sister in Egypt … or Portugal … or whatever front that would put her in the line of fire and prevent her from prattling on ever again.

Well, there was one other way to ensure that she didn’t.

“I daresay you’ve had too much claret, Mariana,” Lucy told her sister as she got up from the table. “And it is best that we call it an evening.” She marched out of the parlor and was back in thrice with the gentlemen’s hats and greatcoats, thrusting them toward Malcolm and Clifton without the least bit of subtlety.

Malcolm, cheeky devil that he was, grinned and wished them both a good night as he took his belongings and headed out the door.

But of course, the earl had to linger.

He bowed slightly after retrieving his coat and hat. “Lucy, you are a constant surprise,” he said. Then he shocked her by reaching out and taking her hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a chaste and well-mannered kiss on the back. With his voice low, yet filled with a smoky hint of passion, he said, “It seems I have much to learn from you.” Then he departed into the night, following his brother into the inky darkness.

And Lucy Ellyson had the distinct impression that he wasn’t talking about just her codes.

Lucy closed the door and listened to the receding thud of Clifton’s boots as he followed his brother into the night. And the moment she gauged he was well out of earshot, she turned on her sister.

“You prattling nit! Whatever were you thinking?”

Mariana, who had been gathering up the plates and glasses and putting them on the tray, glanced over her shoulder. “What do you mean? I thought this evening was quite enjoyable.” She paused. “Except for you and Lord Clifton sparring with each other.”

“I was not sparring,” Lucy shot back.

Mariana’s response was one arched brow, but she didn’t say anything further.

That didn’t let her off the hook. Lucy pressed on. “Telling them about Monday Moggs. And Archie. And our lives.” She drew in a deep breath and lowered her voice. “About Mother.”

“Lucy, I don’t see what—” Then Mariana stopped, her gaze narrowing. Most everyone thought Mariana was just as Lucy had said—a prattling nit—for she was her mother’s daughter, but she was also an Ellyson, through and through. While perhaps not as talented as Lucy with letters and languages, she was a master at the subtleties of social codes. The sort of skill that had made their mother infamously successful at finding protectors amongst England’s richest gentlemen. “Gracious goodness! You’ve fallen in love with Lord Clifton!”

Lucy about swallowed her teeth. “I have not!”

The tray and dishes forgotten, Mariana swept forward and circled her sister, eyeing her carefully. “Oh, no, I think you have. Something has changed about you.”

Shaking out her skirt in hopes of shooing her sister away, Lucy crossed the room and began wiping down the sideboard. “Mariana, you’ve had too much wine. There is nothing changed about me. I find Lord Clifton as arrogant and loathsome as I have since the day he arrived.”

Her sister stood her ground, her finger tapping her chin. “No, something has changed about you, Goosie. Whatever happened today when you took him up to the village?”

“Nothing unusual,” she said, glancing away. “Rusty and Sammy came upon us just past the old oak.”

Mariana waved this reply off. “Yes, yes, I could see that much. But I have to say the earl didn’t look all that much worse for wear. One black eye? Do you remember poor Mad Jack? He looked as if he’d been run over by a freight wagon. I think you should tell Papa that Rusty and Sammy are holding back.”

“Oh, they weren’t holding back,” Lucy said without thinking, images of the afternoon flitting through her thoughts. Clifton raised up to his full height, his features full of indignant fury, his fists squared and ready for battle.

A shiver ran down her spine. Lucy shook it off, for she didn’t want to think about how he’d made her feel—trembling and full of desires she’d never suspected she could harbor. How had he done it? How had he set her knees knocking and her heart hammering?

Because this afternoon he showed you what a hero could look like …

“Not holding back? Truly?” Mariana shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought the earl capable—”

Capable? More than one could imagine …

Which Lucy tried her best not to do. Imagine, that is … the earl stripped to his waist, his muscles knotted across his chest … no, she couldn’t think of him that way … not at all.

She glanced up and found Mariana eyeing her curiously. “If you must know,” Lucy said, hoping to give her sister some tidbit so she’d toddle off happy with her nugget, “since it is obvious you want naught to do this evening but gossip, I had to stop him from dispatching Rusty to his reward.”

The moment came back to her in a heated flash.

The way his hand shook with fierce passion beneath her fingers … it made her … oh, heavens …

The desires he’d sent through her—the need to have his arms around her, to have his solid chest up against hers, his lips taking what they wanted—were too dangerous to consider.

Especially now that she knew exactly what he was capable of …

Mariana whistled under her breath, as if she had read her sister’s thoughts. “That must have been quite a sight. The earl turning the tables on the boys.” Then she paused, and Lucy could practically see her thoughts awhirl as she stood before the tray of dishes she was absently rearranging. “Oh, heavens! You don’t suppose he became so virile in order to protect you? That must be it! How terribly romantic!”

Lucy cringed, for her sister was getting far too close to the truth. “Good gracious heavens, Mariana, that is utter nonsense. Obviously we have misjudged the earl and he is far more competent than we had previously assumed.”

“You mean to say,
you
misjudged him and that Lord Clifton is a far sight better man than
you
assumed,” Mariana corrected. “I suppose if he’d rescued me, I would have the self-same change of heart. Especially if he had battled to save my honor.”

Lucy closed her eyes. Why couldn’t her sister have inherited a little more of their father’s practical Ellyson side, rather than so much of their mother’s Italian passion?

“My opinion has hardly—” Lucy said in her defense, but Mariana quickly cut her off.

“—hardly? You cooked
him
supper.”

“I cooked
them
both supper,” Lucy corrected.

“For I knew they would be working late—”

Her argument hardly even dented Mariana’s theory. Her sister now wore a sly smile and said in quick retort, “Papa works all the gentlemen who come through here late into the evening. And I don’t recall you ever cooking a special supper for any of them … with the exception of Lord Roche. And that was only because he dared to corner you and try to—” Mariana came to a stop, a cup rattling in its saucer. “The earl tried to kiss you?”

Lucy wanted to protest, wanted to lie, but this was her sister, her dearest friend, and there was no getting past Mariana when she was snooping about. Still she tried. “No-no-no,” she stammered. “He would never—”

Her sister’s gaze narrowed. “He did! He tried to kiss you.” She set down the cup and began circling Lucy once again. “And you wanted him to!”

If Mr. Pymm and Papa had had any sense, they would have sent Mariana abroad—for she could have unearthed a kingdom’s secrets in a single outing.

Then again, she would have had to learn how to hold her prattling tongue. Like Lucy wished her sister would do right now. But it was too late.

“Lucy Louisa Ellyson! You fell in love with that man today, didn’t you?”

“Well, well, well,” Malcolm mused as Clifton caught up with him. “You must have discovered your charm today.”

“Pardon?”

Malcolm chuckled a bit. “That, or Lucy Ellyson assumed you’d been humiliated enough for one day and decided to declare a cease-fire.”

Clifton shook his head. “I haven’t the vaguest notion what you are talking about.”

“The lady’s obvious change of heart,” Malcolm said. “But whatever you did, keep doing it, for that supper was the finest we’ve had since we left London. Even if it means you’ve got to go find another pair of thugs to shutter your other eye.”

“You are mad—that, or just plain drunk,” Clifton told him. “That meal was nothing more than a meal. She did it because …”

Well, demmit, he couldn’t think of a good reason other than the obvious one.

That she’d had a change of heart today.

Or the other startling realization.

So had he.

From the moment he’d decided to take her into his arms and steal a kiss from her. The most rakish thing he’d ever done, but something about Lucy Ellyson emboldened him, provoked him into stepping out of his comfortable station in life and taking risks.

From the challenge and doubts in her bright green eyes, to the aching desire that had filled his very veins as he’d pulled her delectable curves up against him.

“She did it because … ?” Malcolm prodded. “I would venture to say you did more today than just attempt to charm her.”

“I would leave off if I were you,” Clifton warned.

But his brother wasn’t so easily diverted. “What did happen on the way to the village? Besides you getting knocked about a bit.”

“Nothing of note,” Clifton told him. “I did take your advice and reached an accord with the chit. Perhaps her offer of dinner was her way of agreeing to my terms.”

“You offered the lady terms?” Malcolm asked, a wry smile turning his lips. “Are you sure it wasn’t Lucy Ellyson who gave you that shiner? Perhaps you and the illustrious Mr. Moggs could share a pint and the sad remembrances of your association with Miss Lucy Ellyson—”

“What drunken nonsense,” Clifton said. “I believe you are as jug bit as Miss Ellyson.”

“Quite contentedly so,” his brother said. “Ah, the delightful Mariana. Wasn’t she a fountain of knowledge this evening? Amazing that their mother is the Contessa di Marzo, isn’t it?”

Shocking, really, Clifton would have said. But for his own reasons, he held his tongue. For how could he tell his brother that he had discovered that Lucy was as passionate as her mother was reputed to be?

Malcolm didn’t seem to notice his silence and continued on, “Didn’t old Latchford and Seawright fight a duel over the contessa last spring? Up in Buxton, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, quite so. Old fools! Why, Latchford is nigh on eighty,” Clifton remarked. “And Seawright had to steady himself with his cane to shoot. Dueling at their ages, indeed.”

Malcolm snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, now I recall it. Latchford insisted on settling her debts, and Seawright claimed it was his obligation. The Contessa di Marzo must be quite the Incognita to still inspire such passion. Then again, having seen her daughters, I can understand what would drive a man to such distraction—have you ever seen such eyes, such hair?”

Clifton felt a moment of possessive jealousy, until Malcolm continued by saying, “Can you imagine Mariana in town?” He shook his head and let out a low whistle. “No wonder Ellyson keeps her hidden away here in Hampstead. But how the devil did an Italian contessa ever come into Ellyson’s company? Let alone bear the man two daughters.”

“Ply Miss Ellyson with more claret and I daresay you will find out.”

“I just may do that,” Malcolm said. “Perhaps I can discover if she has inherited her mother’s passionate nature.”

“You had better hope she hasn’t inherited her father’s ruthless disposition,” Clifton pointed out, thinking of Lucy’s sharp gaze and challenging glances. “Or that Ellyson doesn’t discover you plying his daughter with spirits.”

Malcolm laughed, for he’d never been one for caution. “Are you warning me off or just giving yourself a bit of advice?”

Clifton glanced at his brother and realized that perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he’d assumed.

For in truth, perhaps he was. Warning himself off.

If only he hadn’t discovered the truth about Lucy Ellyson this afternoon.

That she was an intriguing, irresistible handful. And that he wouldn’t leave Hampstead without one kiss from her pert, tart lips.

Even if it meant he’d be sent packing from the Ellyson household with both of his eyes shuttered.

The next night and the night after that, once the clock tolled midnight and Mr. Ellyson fell asleep in his great chair in the corner of his map room, Clifton and his brother retreated down the stairs to find supper waiting for them courtesy of the Misses Ellyson.

The earl suspected that the elder Miss Ellyson, the affable and feather-headed Mariana, was more the instigator than her sister, for since their first impromptu supper, Lucy had said little, save to cut off her prattling sister when she’d begun to reveal too much information about their father or their lives in Hampstead.

Or as Lucy had muttered under her breath the previous evening, “Marry you off to Monday Moggs, I will.”

Then again, Mariana Ellyson was a born storyteller and loved to have an audience to regale.

This evening, Clifton had stayed upstairs to finish translating a pouch of coded dispatches. He’d been stopped by the last lines, which were beyond his skill, but his distraction might have come from the previous letter, which had left him chilled to the bone.

Clifton set his pen down, then pushed away the papers before him. He closed his eyes to the lines that summarily finished a man’s life.

No ceremony, no hero’s fanfare for poor Darby Bricknell. Just a notation in a report.

Shot by a French firing squad and his body tossed aside.

Assign a new agent …

Suddenly everything in Clifton’s life became more precious than he’d ever imagined.

It was one thing to imagine the valor of serving the King, but quite another to face the reality of that commitment.

He bowed his head into his hands and tried to blot out the image of Bricknell’s body.

Of his own tenuous fate.

What if he never came home? There was his uncle to inherit, yes, but something inside him tightened at the thought of Clifton House, the lands and the people left to his feckless relation’s care.

What had he said to Lucy the other afternoon? Oh, yes, he remembered.

“I will love my future countess. Without a doubt, I will not marry without love.”

His future had seemed so certain at that moment. He’d been so very confident. So smugly arrogant. He’d serve his country, come home, fall in love, marry and live out his days on his estate surrounded by his wife and children and all the comforts of his place in society.

But suddenly … he couldn’t find the indisputability of such a future.

There was no time now to find that bride, obviously not one to love, let alone ensure that there was an heir before he rushed headlong into the madness that was Spain and Portugal and France… .

His eyes wide open, he sat back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair, heaving a sigh.

And what of Malcolm? What if he was leading him into a fool’s bargain …

Clifton shook that thought aside. He didn’t even want to consider a life without his brother by his side.