The Counterfeit Mistress (2 page)

The fat one backed away, pointing the knife in front of him for protection. His companion staggered after him. Halfway to the far light the fat one turned and ran.

Catching his breath, Kendale walked to the wall and looked down. Marielle Lyon sat on the ground where her body had settled as she fell under their blows. Her bare feet stuck out from the rumpled skirt of her dress. Her head lolled down on her chest.

She had spoken as she sank. He wondered if he had heard her words correctly.

She made no sound now. Nor did she move. She could be dead.

Crouching down, he lifted the shawl and laid his palm on her chest, below her left breast. He felt the movement of her breath and heartbeat but his hand touched moisture. Blood. She was alive now, but if the wound was bad she soon might not be.

His own cut burned hotly now. The excitement of the fight drifted away, leaving him sore and tired. He spied her shoes and fetched them, then returned and reached down for her. Glad that she would not feel the pain, he lifted her to her feet and propped her against the wall. Something rolled against his boot and he looked down. The documents.

Holding her upright with one arm, he bent and picked them up. Then he slung her limp body over his shoulder and carried her out of the alley and toward the same hackney that had brought her here.

The driver turned in surprise when Kendale opened the coach door.

“I hope she's not sick. I'll not be having my coach dirtied by her puke.”

“You will drive where I tell you and you will not disobey my orders.”

“Orders! I'll be damned if I— See here, you are bleeding! It is all over your waistcoat. Hell, so is she! I'll not be taking you any—”

“I am Viscount Kendale. If your damned coach gets dirty or bloody, I will buy you a damned new one.” He opened the door and dumped Marielle onto the seat and threw the documents and shoes after her. He untied his horse and tethered it to the coach's rear. “Now use those ribbons smartly and get us to Hertford Street as fast as you can,” he said as he climbed in. “It is worth your while to serve me well today, because there will be hell to pay if you do not.”

“Y
ou look like hell, “ Anderson said upon entering the library of Kendale's Town Chambers. “I can see you were in a fight, but it looks as if you got the worst of it.”

“I broke his arm. Although since I was stabbed, at best it can be called a draw.”

“Stabbed! Get that shirt off and we will see what is what beneath all that blood. It's a wonder you are still standing.”

“Not all of the blood is mine. A good deal is hers.” Kendale stripped off the shirt as if it did not hurt to move, but the twist and stretch of his torso induced a deep, sharp disturbance in his side. He already knew how bad it was—bad enough to hurt like hell, but not bad enough to bring a man down. It was not easy to kill with a knife. Even a bayonet or sword rarely did the job with one jab.

Anderson, a regimental surgeon who had left the army and established himself among the ton of London, examined the wound in the raking afternoon light coming in the window. Edinburgh trained, he knew his business as few surgeons did. Scots were the best at this because, Anderson had explained, they studied medicine at university, and did not make the distinction between surgeons and physicians that the English did. Scottish surgeons were not tricked-up barbers. The army had been damned lucky to have him.

“Deep, and a puncture, not a cut,” Anderson said, peering and pressing. “Best lie down on that divan while I purify it. Is your man here? We should call for some towels.”

“I didn't bring him up from the country this time. There are towels in the dressing room somewhere.” He sank down onto the divan, which made the wound feel as if the knife were still in it. “Damnation.”

“Are you cursing my suggestion that you lie, or that I will purify?” Anderson called from the dressing room. “If it is the latter, what is a bit more pain after this? It is not natural for the human body to be skewered thus. What comes next is a small thing.”

“I am cursing that the fool managed to stab me.”

“You mean fools, don't you. You indicated there was more than one. You are not Hercules, my friend.” Anderson returned with a large folded sheet and two towels. He draped the sheet on the divan and placed a towel on top. “Now, lie on your good side, and I'll be finished with you quickly.”

Kendale obeyed. He gritted his teeth as Anderson hovered over him with the potion bottle. Whatever it contained hurt like hell as it dripped onto and into his wound. He suffered the deep scorching stoically.

“It is fortunate you did not have to do this to her.” He would have heard Marielle scream if Anderson used this firewater on her.

“Oh, I did, although her wound is not like yours. More a bad scrape. The blade hit her obliquely and cut long and shallow, high on her hip. A good deal of blood, but it did not have to be sewn.” Anderson set aside the bottle and folded the other towel for a bandage.

“It was a good thing she was still out when you tended her.”

“She was not out. She was aware of it all. I daresay she is listening to every word we say in here now.”

So she had been subjected to that purification and had not cried out. Good for her. Of course one would expect a spy to be brave. She would not be much use if she weren't.

“Stand now,” Anderson ordered. When Kendale did the surgeon wrapped a long strip of cloth around his torso to hold the bandage in place. “I will leave some of that cleanser. A vial for you and one for her. It must be used each day for three days. If you see or smell any corruption, you are to send for me.”

“I will give her the vial and the instructions.”

“She will not be staying here?”

“Except for the attack, she would not be here in the first place.”

“Ah. Then she is not your . . .” Anderson raised his eyebrows quizzically.

Kendale glared his response.

“Pity,” Anderson muttered as he set the two vials on the table. “She is a pretty little thing.”

“Too pretty and too French to trust.”

“You bothered to save her life. Will you now throw her out the minute I am gone? She should not be walking about town for at least a week, and should remain abed for a few days until it is clear that beating she took did not do more damage than is initially visible. As should you. Remain abed, that is. Separate beds, if that is how it is.”

Anderson helped Kendale slide his arms into a long banyan, then pulled on his own coat. “I rarely deal with knife wounds anymore. This afternoon made me nostalgic. Be sure to send for me should you get sliced or skewered again. It has been a refreshing two hours.”

After Anderson departed, Kendale listened for sounds in the bedchamber. Only silence came to him. Marielle had probably fallen asleep after her ordeal.

Deciding to let her rest a spell, he retrieved the papers from the chair where he had dumped them. He set the thick roll on the library table, untied the ribbon that held it together, and spread the documents out.

T
he voices stopped. Marielle waited. Surely someone would come now to send her on her way. People who lived in houses such as this might do a good deed, but they would not want the object of their charity to remain long.

She took stock again of her chamber. A man usually slept in this bed. The drapes and hangings said he had money but little style. Colors and decoration such as these had been popular in France over a generation ago and no longer found favor in England either. Too much gilt. Too aristocratic and pale. Classical would be better, especially for a man. With all the emphasis in the world on égalité, it would be safer too, perhaps.

The sheet felt cool against her skin. That leech had stripped her so he could see all her wounds. There had been nothing untoward in his manner, even though he was not very old. Perhaps her bruises had checked him. She found his bland manner and expression comforting, and spent her time while he dabbed and poked contemplating how he would look when his receding blond hair finally disappeared. She had been a specimen to him, and nothing more, although he had tried to avoid hurting her. That had not been possible, especially when he poured that potion over the knife's cut.

That was how she had woken, to that fire. Never before had she welcomed pain, but today she had. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew the pain meant she was not dead. What a relief to see that leech, and discover the pain was not torture but an attempt to help her.

More pain now. On her shoulder and back, and on her face. Her right cheek throbbed. She could see its swell from the bottom of her eye. Well, no matter how badly she hurt and how odd she would look, despite how comfortable she found this bed and how she yearned to sleep for a week, she needed to thank her benefactors and leave. There was much to do, and decisions to make. Today had changed many things.

Knowing it would be unpleasant, she forced herself to sit. Her back rebelled violently enough to steal her breath. Moving slower, she turned her body and sat on the side of the bed. Her chemise and dress, streaked with blood, lay in a heap on a chair near the door.

Standing, she walked carefully to the chair. She laid her ear against the door. A curse seemed to leak through the wood.

Slowly and silently she opened the door and peeked out.

She did not see the leech, but she saw a man across the room. It looked to be a library. His back was to her and he angled away, bent over a table piled with books. He wore an expensive robe, the sort that mimics a greatcoat but made out of green silk brocade, not wool.

He straightened, and she recognized him. Handsome Stupid Man.

She carefully closed the door and pressed her good shoulder against it while her thoughts raced.

Had she misunderstood today completely? Was it possible those men had been sent by this one, to waylay her and bring her here? To what purpose? She looked down on her nakedness, then pictured his robe. Lady Cassandra had told her that he was a lord and his real name was Viscount Kendale. There were such men who believed they could have whatever they wanted, even women. Especially women.

Was he one of them? If so, in playing games with him, she had played with fire.

She fingered her ruined dress and forced the rush of panic down. If he had sent those men to abduct her, he surely had not expected them to bring him a woman beaten and sore and not even conscious. No, her initial thoughts were the right ones. He had interfered and saved her. Whatever his intentions had been, she was safe now. Unless he was a monster. His friendship with Emma's and Cassandra's husbands said he was not, but one never knew for certain.

She took her dress and chemise to the washing stand. Some water remained in the pitcher. She poured it in the basin, and soaked and scrubbed the blood out as best she could. Then she laid the dress out over a chair so it might dry.

She returned to the bed and pulled off the soft blue blanket. It would cover her better than her torn garments, but also remind him that she was badly wounded. Her vulnerability would both appeal and discourage. That would give her an advantage when they faced each other. That and the fact that Handsome Stupid Man wanted her.

Oh, yes, he wanted her. She had known that for months.

W
ith one glance at the papers Kendale's triumph turned to confusion, then annoyance. These were not documents or letters, such as he assumed. He flipped through. None of them contained a spy's secrets. Instead each sheet of the stack of thick paper displayed the same engraving.

It was a satirical image, such as the bookshops and print shops display in their windows. In a crude drawing filled with exaggerated faces and poses, accompanied by dialogue filling bubbles exuded by various mouths, a little scene from a farce unfolded.

The words were in French, however. He bent down and studied the caricatures. He always recognized the ones showing British political figures or members of the peerage or ton. He could not identify any of these men.

It did not appear to be an image ridiculing British policies for propaganda purposes. Rather, it looked to be a satire of a French official. His French was not the best, but the engraving accused this official of stealing funds from the government. He sat on a throne composed of farmers and workers while he doled out part of the taxes they paid to himself.

Why would Marielle Lyon be meeting men in an alley to hand these over? Perhaps she had discovered who made them, and obtained these as proof to be sent to France as evidence. If so, the artist might be in danger if his name became known to the French.

“Ah, it is
you
. I expected to thank the good soul who found me, but if this is your home, perhaps it is more complicated than I guessed.”

The lilting voice startled him. He resisted the impulse to pivot toward it. Instead he moved several folio-sized books to cover the papers strewn on the table. These engravings were the least of it. It would be a hell of a thing to bring a French spy into these chambers and leave maps of France's coast out for view.

He turned around. Marielle Lyon stood at the doorway to the bedchamber. Her loose golden brown hair fell around her shoulders in a cloud of disarray. Her dirty bare feet showed at the other end of her body. In between she had cocooned herself in a blanket much as she normally wore a shawl.

She appeared naked under that drape of soft wool. She clutched it closed above her breasts, but a good deal of skin showed around her neck and upper chest anyway. A bruise besmirched one snowy shoulder, and another defiled the side of her normally flawless face. She had to be in pain from the blows alone, plus the knife wound. She showed no indication of it, however.

Her cool gaze drifted down his body, reminding him that he was barely in better dress than she. He resisted the impulse to button his robe so his naked chest would not show. Marielle Lyon would be impossible to handle if she thought herself bolder and more worldly than he was.

“It is not more complicated,” he said. “It is very simple. I chased them away and I brought you here so you could be tended.”

“You hardly came upon me by accident.”

“However it happened, you are alive because of it. Your allies appeared intent on killing you. You can still thank me.”

“They were not my allies. They were common thieves setting upon a woman.”

“Thieves take purses and shoes and even garments and leave. They do not take the time to beat and cut.”

She gave a little shrug that was eloquent in conveying her indifference.
If you want to think so, it is all the same to me.
He assumed it also meant there would be no thanks. Ungrateful bitch.

Her attention drifted around the library, to the shelves of bindings and the fabrics at the windows. Her gaze paused on the fireplace, and the musket and sword held to the wall above it by iron arms. She took a few steps and fingered the wood of a chair with interest.

“You are rich,” she said. “I was told you are a viscount, but they are not always rich.”

“Better came before me who did well by the estate.”

“How modest. Or, more perhaps, a statement that your interest lies elsewhere.” Her gaze now found him. She walked over until she stood very close. Humor and challenge showed in her eyes. “You undressed. Even if you hoped for pleasure due to my gratitude, that is very bold.”

Pleasure had been the last thing on his mind. Until now. The flirtation of her demeanor and provocation of her words caused his body to heat and tighten. She saw it in him. Smiling sweetly, triumphantly, she stepped closer yet. Her eyes sparkled with humor and delight.

She had looked at him like this once before, from far away. He had come upon her unexpectedly, sitting in a garden with Emma Fairbourne and Lady Cassandra. Seeing his spy chatting with those ladies had taken him aback. While he decided what to do, she had noticed him. Boldy, smugly, she had stared at him.

Then she had smiled. Just like this. It turned her into a girl. An innocent. It was as if time reversed, and he was seeing Marielle Lyon years before she came to England.