Counterfeit Countess (15 page)
“Does your companion?”
“Amelia? No. She’s your relative, not mine. When I arrived in London, the dowager visited me and she suggested Amelia and said I could not live on my own in town. I liked London, the way I could live quietly and people wouldn’t take a great deal of notice of me, so I took her up on her offer. I was merely another war widow. As far as I knew you were dead, and I was taking money from no one. I told myself that, at any rate.”
He squeezed her hands. “Instead, I was very much alive and trying to forget what had happened to me. I must have come as a great shock to you.”
“A welcome one.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I have no right—“
He touched her lips. “You have every right. We keep to our story. Cockfosters will no longer be a problem for you.”
“He won’t stop. If he doesn’t use me that way, he’ll find another.
He knows, John, and he’ll inform on us. I saw what he did to women when their men got into trouble. It wasn’t John’s fault. He wasn’t a contemplative man, and he never gave a great deal of thought to the consequences of his actions.”
“Which made him a good soldier but a poor officer. That and his lack of imagination. He followed orders. It mitigated against him in the long run, didn’t it?” His mouth gained a bitter twist.
“And you.” He closed his eyes briefly, sucked in a breath. When he looked at her again, his eyes were blazing. “I let you down. Let one of my men down. I grew so caught up trying to do the honourable
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thing and ignore you that I ignored the threat to you, too.” He drew her closer, pressed a kiss to her lips as if he couldn’t help himself.
“I’ll never do that again, I promise.”
Breathless from the sudden embrace, she felt a weight leave her.
No longer alone. She hadn’t realised the burden she’d shouldered.
Even with her husband she’d managed the practical aspects of their lives.
Guilt still burdened her. What could she possibly give him in return? Nothing but her loyalty, and total support. She didn’t know if she could give him a child and at twenty-eight, she was surely old to start a family. Her mother had shelled children like peas, one a year until they’d mysteriously stopped coming. Whether she’d discovered a preventative or they’d ceased having relations she didn’t know but the thought of giving up what she’d so recently discovered with John, this John, appalled her.
“It’s not your fault.”
He gathered her up, held her for a precious moment. “Neither is it yours. I’ll find him, pay him and that will be an end of it. If you ever see him again, or suspect you do, I’ll kill him. I’ve killed enough good men during wartime not to mourn the loss of a thoroughly bad one.”
She was about to tell him he must not do any such thing, but his last remark made a kind of sense. No doubt Cockfosters would find his end on the gallows, because few villains lived to old age, but she couldn’t think of one reason to deter John from his purpose.
He laid her down and covered her, his hands gentle. “Thank you for telling me. Now rest. I’ll have dinner sent up for you tonight.
Nobody will expect you to dress today after the shock you had. A nasty fall can shake a person.” He paused, smiled. “Sleep well. Be assured that if I stayed, you would get little rest.”
Although she didn’t think she would sleep, within ten minutes she had sunk into exhausted slumber.
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Lynne Connolly
* * * * *
She’d had no one to care for her, no one to miss her, should Cockfosters have taken her away to one of those miserable houses where women never dressed and lived on their backs, servicing so many men they lost count. Before dying of exhaustion, the drugs fed them to rid them of unwanted pregnancies, or disease. Or simply killed themselves from sheer despair.
The Faith he knew wouldn’t have given in. But she had nobody to rescue her. She’d had to do it for herself.
He’d tried to deter his men from visiting such establishments.
But he couldn’t fuss over them like a nurse, and as long as they retained their ability to fight, he couldn’t punish them. Likely this Cockfosters bastard had been the type who’d stripped him after the battle and left him naked to die. He’d have killed the man today, had he not had more concern for Faith and her distress. He promised himself that he’d hunt down the bully and his cohorts.
They wouldn’t put another woman into slavery, nor would they terrify anyone else.
The expression on her face haunted him. He never wanted to see it again, the helpless, desperate look.
He paused, his hand on his study door. A footman hurried forward, but he waved him away. He wasn’t naturally chivalrous, whatever Faith might think. His soldiering had come from a
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different part of his nature, the restless part, not the desire to see wrongs put right and the helpless protected. All too often the helpless turned on their rescuers, if the rescuer was naïve enough to expect thanks. These urges to care for Faith, to ensure her happiness came as new to him. Not for years had he felt that way, and why now still escaped his understanding. He couldn’t put it down to the desire he felt for her, which was, admittedly, explosive.
Tempting to put it down to finding an unexpected ally in this new world, but he was wondering if it was something else entirely. He shied away from that conclusion.
If he went after Cockfosters now, he’d go in anger, with the emotions of a man determined to avenge those he—there came that word again. No, better to give himself time to calm down, to work out a proper scheme. Cockfosters would have gone to ground in places even John couldn’t reach him. Give him breathing space, let him feel safe. Then strike.
He turned the handle and went in to his study, determining to lose himself in facts and figures for the next hour. They never confused him, or asked more of him than he wanted to give. A good soldier kept his head and coolly assessed the situation at all times, moving on when the odds were with him, not against him. A competent businessman did the same. A competent earl? He had no idea.
He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He carried it over to the desk, thankfully a substantial one, not one of those spindly things the dowager preferred that looked as if they’d collapse in a light breeze. He’d had some of his ledgers brought here and as he opened the first one he took a deep, appreciative breath of the familiar.
As he bent his head and picked up a ruler to run down a line of figures, a knock sounded at the door.
Suppressing his curse, because the irritation was his problem, not the fault of whoever stood outside he called out. “Come!”
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A footman entered. “Mr. Roker is here, sir.”
John nodded. “Show him in.” Good. At least it was someone he wanted to see and he was exactly in the mood to handle him.
Roker entered, a book tucked under his arm. He swept a low bow, and John offered him brandy, which he refused. The niceties performed, John invited him to take a seat and waited to hear what he had to say. “I regret I was not in the office when you called, my lord. If you make an appointment, I will be sure to be present to receive you. Or call on you at your convenience.”
Exactly the point. He didn’t want Roker forewarned of his presence. A believer in instant inspections, he’d needed to see more than the clerk had allowed him to. He had no reason to suspect anything, he just worked that way. Plus, he hated the ceremony that surrounded earls. He longed to become Mr. Dalkington-Smythe once more. With any luck, Roker had found a relative closer than him, and he could go on his way. A long shot, considering he grew up as the spare’s spare.
“How wealthy is the earldom?” he asked.
Roker puffed up his chest, like a pigeon in his pride. “It is one of the most important in the country. Dalkington-Smythes have occupied every high office in the land, at one time or another.
Prime Minister, Lord High Chamberlain, Equerry to the Crown, of course. They have influenced kings, my lord.”
“Impressive.” He didn’t remind Roker that he knew that well.
Roker would know. It was his way of dampening pretension, keeping John in awe of the rank he held. Making him subject to the title and family.
John refused to play that game. He would make the earldom pay and leave it healthy, but he would not become a slave to it.
He would have his own life. Somehow.
“But how does it stand financially? There are some improvements I wish to undertake. For instance. I want a full report on the estates. Why is David Carlisle not here yet?”
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He knew one answer to that. Because the current land steward, as a boy, had teased and sneered at the then John Dalkington-Smythe without mercy. He’d called him an upstart, a shiner, an arse-licker, until John had the growth spurt that had taken him to six feet tall at sixteen. Then he’d beaten the snot out of the little worm. Carlisle had sworn he would never forget. Was he petty enough to resent one beating? John thought it might be.
Not that he felt proud of the fact, oh no, although he did feel a touch of pride at the memory. Wholly unmerited, of course. Now David Carlisle, would be understandably nervous.
Good
, he thought viciously. He deserved to. Carlisle’s attitude did not mean he was bad at his job, even though he’d inherited it from his father, nearly as inevitably as John’s cousin had inherited the title from his father.
A chill bedamned. That was merely an excuse, a chance to show John that although he held the title, David Carlisle still ruled the estate.
Maybe he had a second cousin waiting to step into his shoes.
“I have written to the steward, demanding his presence here next week, by Thursday without fail. It will take him two days to travel to London, so he may start on Monday and have Wednesday to prepare himself for the meeting. By then, I want to be fully in command of the part that you oversee, Mr. Roker.”
“I fear you might find the business of the estate a trifle more complex than your fur-trapping concern.”
Irritation filled John. Roker hadn’t researched him properly.
True, he traded under the simpler name of Smith, but Pickering and Smith was a significant force in several areas. He had half expected Roker to guess his secret, would have respected the man more if he had.
“I brought the summary accounts.” Roker reverently placed the leather-bound book on the desk. “I have this, and one other copy, which is drawn up as a safeguard and kept in my safe. His late lordship always found this sufficient.”
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“You are in possession of both?”
“Your predecessor preferred it that way.”
Sometimes they did, although John couldn’t fathom why. Alter one book, alter the other at the same time. No chance he’d allow that to happen. The further away his control went, the less he liked it. Of business, anyway, although there was a time and a place to give up control.
A vision of Faith flashed across his mind. She was straddling his body, riding him with complete passion and abandon. His cock stirred, making him lean forward in an attempt to stifle its urges.
Likely he wouldn’t satisfy that particular need for a few days. Faith needed her rest after the shock she’d undergone today. Anything more inappropriate he could not imagine in this situation, but that was the way it was with her. Recollections of her smiling, her sated expression after they’d made love, her unguarded happiness came into his mind without his conscious volition.
He picked up the book, the size of a piece of foolscap paper. The binding was worn and the exterior creased leather, smooth to the touch, the spine marked by deep creases where someone had opened and closed it frequently. “I will keep this copy. In future I want to retain this book here, kept up to date weekly. You may send a clerk across or do it yourself, whichever suits you best. Or send me the details and I’ll do it myself.”
“I always compile the central accounts myself, my lord,” Roker said. “I would not trust the task to anyone else.” He sniffed and groped in his pocket, coming up with a pristine, crisply starched handkerchief. Everything about Roker spoke of the neatness and precision of his work, so perhaps he considered it a vocation rather than a profession. The best workers had enthusiasm, and John could understand this, where few other people could not. He knew the pleasure of a neat line of figures, properly tallied; the delight when a balance sheet actually balanced, without the need to insert a few sundries and extras.
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“I think it best a copy is kept away from the office,” he said, more gently. “In case of fire, you know.”
The crease between Roker’s brows smoothed out. “Of course, my lord. There is a copy retained in the armaments room at the Hall, but it is not as up to date as this one. I do ensure that I post the latest figures, but I do not think anyone does anything more than put them in a safe place.”
“Glad to hear it.” John looked forward to assessing this new group of numbers. But he decided he had no reason to divulge to the man of his familiarity with accounts and more complex book keeping than the average gentleman. If Roker couldn’t deduce it, from the story of his life so far, then the man was an idiot and didn’t deserve to know.
“My lord, I should inform you that this year at this time, I review the accounts. It is the beginning of the new financial year and I and go over everything personally.”
John raised a brow. “Do your other clients not object?” Roker did not work for him exclusively, he had other people to take care of. He didn’t yet know who else Roker administered, but he would rectify that lack of knowledge very soon.