The Counterfeit Mistress (23 page)

“And if he is there?”

They looked at each other a long moment. “I will be left to my wits, I suppose. It is a good thing that you taught me how to use them well, dear friend.”

Dominique collected her into an embrace. She sank into the older woman's softness, grateful as she had so often been that this sister of a comte had bothered to love and protect the daughter of an engraver.

“I will not watch you go in the morning,” Dominique said, her voice thick and low. “My fears for you should not be the last thing you see.”

She understood. Her own fears would conquer her if Dominique wept and worried in the morning. She needed them to remain where they were, in the pit of her stomach, heavy and sour.

K
endale was grateful for the fair evening as he rode north along the coast. The night would be clear. With any luck, tomorrow night would be too.

He was well away from Dover before dusk turned to night. He knew the road well, and kept his mount at a canter to make good time.

Halfway to Deal he passed a lane snaking up the cliff. In the half moon's light he could make out the cottage that belonged to the Fairbournes. A little farther on another lane aimed west to the village of Ringswold. Just past that he turned toward the coast, riding cross-country to the cliff path that followed the top of the rise and overlooked the sea.

It began dipping down toward the sea soon. Just before it leveled off, he pulled his horse right. On its own it found the rocky path that angled steeply down toward the water against the cliff wall.

Fifty feet from the rough beach below, he stopped, dismounted, and tied his horse to a young tree. He made his way along a ledge of stone. One of the deep shadows gaped wider than the others, leaking faint light and smoke into the night.

He stepped into the cave. The low fire said he was expected, but no one could be seen. Hand on his pistol, he walked in ten more feet.

A shadow suddenly appeared on the far wall. It moved toward him. A man stepped into the light. Casual garments hung on his slender frame and a dark beard and mustache moved as he smiled.

Kendale relaxed his guard. “Were you expecting someone else, Tarrington? This can't be a very good smuggler's lair if you need to hide whenever someone arrives.”

Tarrington helped the network of watchers on occasion, which was how Kendale had come to know him. His usefulness caused them to turn a blind eye on his illegal trade, which he controlled on this section of coast almost all the way down to Dover. In one of the coves nearby he kept a little flotilla of boats and small ships. The galleys were used for quick crossings of the channel. The ships ventured farther, sometimes as far as Amsterdam.

“That I'll be needing a new lair is for certain,” Tarrington said. “There has been some indiscretion about the location of this one, I think.”

He slid his eyes to the right. Kendale did not miss the warning. He moved to the left and pulled out his pistol.

Another shadow appeared. Kendale guessed who it was even before its owner emerged from the cave's far recess.

“It is good to know that you are as battle ready as ever, Kendale, but it would be very awkward if you shot me,” Penthurst said.

With a curse he set the pistol down. “What are you doing here?”

“I decided to call on Mr. Tarrington, to thank him for his distinctive aid to his country.”

“Did Southwaite tell you about his aid?”

“No. Another did. Who does not matter.” Penthurst strolled over to a rough table where a very fine decanter rested. He opened the decanter and sniffed. “French claret.”

“Very old claret, Your Grace,” Tarrington said. “Bought by my father a long time ago. Have some, please.”

The duke poured some and tasted. “It is good to know it was not recently brought over. I would hate to have to report that.”

“No need, Your Grace. No need, I assure you.”

Penthurst set the glass down. “Would you excuse us, Mr. Tarrington?”

Tarrington was only too glad to leave. Once he had, Kendale allowed his annoyance to show. “My old tutor was less intrusive than you, Penthurst. What the hell do you want?”

“I am here to tell you that you must give up your plans. I tried to warn you in every way I knew that your intentions were suspected. They have been guessed, and provisions made to stop you. I came tonight to deliver the news that if you make any attempt to cross over, the men with you will be arrested. The army is waiting. So is the naval service.”

“Neither impresses me.”

“I did not think either would. Thus I have impressed on Mr. Tarrington that if he uses his boats to take you anywhere near the French coast, he too will be arrested and tried as the smuggler he is. He
was
impressed.”

Kendale wanted to thrash him. Penthurst must have seen it in him, because he took the pistol and set it on the table, out of reach.

“I do not expect you to believe me, but I have had no role in this other than informing you that others had suspicions, and now of warning you off. If you had gotten away with it, and found your own justice, I would not have cared. I might have even cheered.”

Kendale helped himself to some of the claret. It helped the anger ease and resignation to begin finding a place in his head.

Penthurst sat down on the bench beside the table and leaned against the stone wall. “Were you really going to kill that woman?”

Penthurst knew the story, of course, just as Southwaite and Ambury did. It had happened before that duel and before this duke had killed one of their circle. Kendale wished he had not been so indiscreet. He did not want Penthurst, of all men, judging him.

“I don't kill women. Do you?”

“I have never had cause to.
We
do, all the time, however. Three women went to the gallows in the last month, I believe. Justice does not spare them, and it was justice you sought, so do not be insulted by my question.”

“I am not insulted. I do not give a damn what you think.”

“Of course not. So you were not going over for her. That means you know who was behind it. A government official? No? Army then.” He acted as if he had only to look over to know the answers. The arrogance of that had Kendale's mind splitting with rage. That Penthurst was guessing correctly only made it worse.

“That you did not invite me on this adventure is understandable,” Penthurst said. “That you kept it from the others . . .”

He did not finish. The implications, such as they were, floated in the air, unspoken.

“It was too dangerous.”

“How like you, to risk your life without a second thought to help your friends, and to show loyalty even after death, but to deny your friends the privilege of doing the same for you. It speaks to a selfish streak in you, Kendale, and more than a little conceit. I will not let them know how inconsiderate you have been.”

“That is good of you,” he said. “I hope that you are finished. It is not my plan to be your entertainment all night.”

Penthurst stood. “I will leave you to whatever it is that you plan instead. As long as it is not being rowed to France to kill a French officer, I doubt anyone will interfere with you.”

Kendale just wanted the man gone. He needed to decide whether to give weight to this warning. If he did, and canceled the crossing, he needed to decide how to manage Travis's disappointment.

Halfway to the cave opening, Penthurst turned. “On learning who I was yesterday, Mr. Tarrington proved most cooperative. I daresay he told me everything he knows about any crossings that have happened in the last year or two. Then he babbled something regarding a Mr. Garrett. You might ask him what that was about.”

The night outside swallowed Penthurst. Almost immediately Tarrington appeared as if the dark spit him into the cave's opening. He advanced, looking defensive, chagrined, and careful.

“There was nothing I could do. When he cornered me at the tavern in Ringswold yesterday and handed me his card, it was clear we would never go over tomorrow night. He knew more than half already, so don't be accusing me of betrayal.”

“I am not going to accuse you of betrayal.”

Tarrington appeared relieved. “It is a hell of a thing. Tell a duke what he wants to know and a viscount will nail your tail to the wall. Don't tell him, and the duke will have your hide instead. Not fair, really. Not much choice, seems to me.”

“No choice at all.” He poured the claret into another of the fine crystal glasses on the table. “If you want to save that tail now, sit down, and tell me everything that you told him. You will not leave out anything if you are wise.”

Tarrington downed the wine, then began his tale. Being loquacious, his description of that conversation with Penthurst probably took longer that the conversation actually had. There could be no doubt that too much had been known by Penthurst before one word was spoken.

Finished, Tarrington held out his hands in hopeful resignation. “I trust that you won't be feeling the urge to get even by laying down information about anything that you may have seen during our prior adventures together.”

“I haven't decided. You left something out. You did not tell me everything.”

Tarrington objected, then frowned, then his expression cleared. “You mean the business with Garrett? Doesn't signify, does it? It is another matter entirely, not connected to you.”

“Who is this Garrett?”

“A partner in trade.”

“Another smuggler, you mean.”

Tarrington rolled his eyes. “I so dislike that word. However, if you insist, yes. He established himself to the south a ways. An interloper. He and I had some . . . disagreements. He saw the error of his ways and this partnership formed.”

“So he works for you now.”

“It is a partnership.”

“What did you say to Penthurst about him?”

“Let me see, what did I say? I did not realize I had said anything, but when a duke is quizzing you, it is wise to keep talking and I may have—”

Kendale lifted the pistol. Tarrington's eyes widened. He began talking again, long and fast.

M
arielle could only pray that everything had been arranged. She had not received a letter either begging off or describing delays, but that did not mean she could count on success.

That messenger might have taken her money and never delivered the letter. Or the recipient of the letter might have read it, laughed, and ignored its detailed instructions. Since he would want the money that would come with compliance, she assumed he had not done that. She would learn the truth one way or another soon, however.

She slipped out of the inn in Dover where she had spent the last two nights, and made her way down the lane. Carrying a valise felt conspicuous, but the people she passed did not appear to notice or care.

She kept her other hand on her skirt, atop the bulge in her pocket. Her money was there, and the knife. She hoped the former would be enough after all these years of saving and denying herself the most basic comforts. She had no idea if the latter would be needed, but she had to admit it gave her a little more courage.

The May morning air smelled sweet as she made her way to the house that Mr. Garrett used on the outskirts of the town. A small open carriage waited outside. Her messenger sat at the ribbons. He hopped down when he saw her, took her valise, and set it on the floor of the gig. He handed her in.

“It won't take long to get there,” he said. “Garrett asked me to meet you. He has preparations to make. There's army everywhere, and two naval frigates on the sea, so he is setting up a distraction for them.”

She had noticed a lot of army uniforms in Dover and its environs. If she had been the spy everyone thought, she would have known they would be here, and perhaps chosen another time.

“How long will it take?” she asked.

“To go over? I don't know.” He laughed. “Depends on where you go, I guess. Boulogne ain't far. There are good galleys that can row there and back in a day if it is fair. Or so I'm told. Never do it myself. Scared of the sea, I am.”

She had no idea if she were scared of the sea. The last time she had been on it, so much else had scared her that she doubted the sea itself had made any difference. Nor was she going to Boulogne. This would not be a one-day journey, no matter how fair the day.

A mixture of excitement and fear built as the gig left Dover behind and took a road north. The sun burned brightly as it kept ascending to her right over the edge of the cliffs. After two hours of silent riding, her messenger turned toward the sea.

A large manor house could be glimpsed to the south as they approached the crest of a rise. Her messenger pointed to it. “That there is Crownhill Hall, the Earl of Southwaite's seat.”

She stared at the roof and chimneys in shock. If that was Crownhill, they now rode over Southwaite's property. She turned and scrutinized the man delivering her to her embarkation. For all she knew he could be part of that network of watchers, and her plans had been betrayed.

“Is the earl in residence?” she asked.

“Nah. This time of year those types are in London, aren't they? Going to balls and such while others do their planting. Though I hear one of his prize stallions got a mare with foal, so he may come down for that when she is due next month.”

Talk of Southwaite added nostalgia to her alarm. She would have liked to see Emma before she left. Cassandra and Lady Sophie too. They had been better friends to her than she had been to them. Confiding would have been impossible, but a silent farewell and kiss— She scolded herself for sentimentality. The last time they had known anything about her movements, Kendale had learned of it and followed her to the coast.

If either Emma or Cassandra suspected anything, if she revealed with her manner that she indulged her emotions in seeing them, she did not think they would keep silent. Nor would they ever approve of her plans. Still, it would have been nice to be Marielle Lyon with them one more time, in ways she never would be again if she were successful.

The gig stopped. Jarred out of her reverie, she looked around. A hill faced them, one too steep for this carriage. Crownhill could no longer be seen.

“We have to walk now.” Her escort hopped out, handed her down, and grabbed her valise.

Up that hill they trudged. She wished someone had told her to wear low boots or some other more practical shoes. She slipped on some stones, and after that he held on to her arm to steady her, all but pushing her up ahead of him.

At the top she stopped and caught her breath while he joined her. Then she saw why they had climbed that hill.

Below her stretched a wide cove protected by a thin arm of land circling into the sea. A small ship sat at anchor behind that arm, its square sails being unfurled while she watched.

“Impressive, eh?” he said, admiration in his tone.

Very impressive. Mr. Garrett must be a very successful smuggler. She had chosen well. She had expected a galley that would take a week to reach the Vendée while it followed the French coast west, then south. She had assumed she would sleep on the ground at night, or on the bottom of the boat, clutching her knife. Instead Mr. Garrett had provided what looked to be a private yacht.

“We have to go down the way we came up. Might be best if you hold on to my shoulder or arm. It is hard not to slide.”

Slide they did, their feet sending down showers of stones while they fought the urge to hurtle forward. Twice she went down on her rump to avoid falling and just rolling down to the small, rocky beach.

The last hundred feet the ground all but shot them forward. Giving in, she released him and let herself run, hoping she landed upright at the bottom. When finally her feet stopped, she bent over, gasping for breath, more exhausted than she had been going up the other side.

Mr. Garrett appeared from a spit of the rocks behind them. “I would have sent a horse, but I am told you do not ride. Horses take that better than people.” He stuck his thumb over his shoulder at the steep, tall hill.

She brushed off her skirt, then her sleeves, and finally her face. It was a good thing she was not a vain woman. “As long as I am here in one piece, that is all that matters. When do we leave?”

Garrett pointed to the top of the arm of land. “See that fellow up there? When he signals, we can sail out.”

“How long before he signals?”

“That is up to His Majesty's Navy. We don't want to be interfering with their frigates.”

“Perhaps we should wait for nightfall.”

“That is hardly necessary, and unwise in a waning moon, I'm told. 'Course, if I had my way, I would not be doing this at all.”

And yet he would be. What an honorable man, to follow through on his implied commitment, and even to arrange such splendid transportation, after having failed to inform her that he did not want the duty.

Over on the ship, men continued with the sails. Two others climbed down into a small boat. One began rowing it toward the narrow beach where she and Mr. Garrett stood.

The sun turned the boat and its occupants into silhouettes. She squinted. Something about one of them . . . “Who is that?”

“That is the ship's master, and he who owns the yacht and pays the crew.”

“It isn't yours?”

Garrett laughed. He thought the question hilarious. She turned on him, vexed at the realization that he had involved someone else in her plans. “What did you say to obtain their agreement to use their ship? I wrote that I need to go over to bring back something of great value, but you have misunderstood. I can hardly afford such as that, and I am in no position to explain my intentions or purpose. You should have never taken such a step without sending word to me, so that I could—”

“Is she burning your ears, Mr. Garrett?” a voice called.

“That she is, sir. Interesting how it sounds sweeter with that accent, though.”

Stunned, she pivoted toward the sun and the men crossing the beach. The one in front walked right up to her and looked down.

Kendale's green eyes reflected amusement at the sight of her gaping at him.

Her heart glistened with joy, then sank as she realized what his presence meant. The little ship was not for her. She would not be going anywhere.

F
or a few seconds Marielle appeared happy to see him. Then other emotions showed in her eyes.

He took her hand. “Come with me.”

He led her behind an outcropping of rock, so they would have some privacy. She sank to the ground and sat with her back against the hard, chilled wall. With her legs stretched out and her body slumped, she reminded him of that day in the alley, when he wondered if she even lived.

He sat down beside her.

“I did not know you had a yacht,” she said in a dull voice.

“It is a recent acquisition.”

“So you are going over in style then, and by sea all the way to your destination. Do you not worry that you will be too visible? Smugglers' galleys are not ideal for longer voyages, but they do not herald themselves with sails either, or depend upon the winds.”

“You sound as if you have weighed the alternatives carefully.”

She laughed to herself, sadly. “I have had six years to do so.”

“As it happens, I will not be taking the journey I had planned, Marielle. Those naval frigates are there to stop me. The soldiers in Dover and along the coast will detain me on sight. The government suspects my plans and has decided I am too dangerous to their own.”

“They did not learn of it from me,” she said. “Penthurst asked, but I did not tell him even though I had guessed. I said you intended to visit your properties, which you had neglected too long.”

“I know you did not tell him.”

“You cannot be sure. Just as you know I am not a spy, but you cannot be sure.”

Except he did know for sure. Not only because the evidence said so. Penthurst, in his own way, had been trying to act as a friend through all of this. If he had learned anything from Marielle, if she had been disloyal, he would have let it be known, again in his own way.

“I am sure, of both things. My head says it is so. More important, my heart does.”

She looked straight ahead, not reacting. Then she wiped her eyes with her hand. “You can still do it. You can go over on your own, one man, maybe two, at night. If you stay off the roads and avoid the towns, you can make your way overland, much as you made your way back that time.”

“I considered it.” For a few minutes, after Penthurst had left that cave, the plans had taken form. “I have chosen to put it off for now. Perhaps forever.”

She struggled valiantly against the tears that tried to conquer her composure. “I cannot do that. Put it off forever. I ask that you not force me to.”

He gathered her into his arms. Within the billows of her skirt he felt the hard lump of a purse filled with coin, then the long shape of what might be a dagger in its sheath.

“What is the treasure that you need to bring back? Garrett said that you wrote of something of value.”

“Mr. Garrett is a poor excuse for a man if he revealed what I wrote in a private letter.”

“He is a smuggler. He cannot be expected to follow the social niceties on such questions.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening from unshed tears. “Did you threaten him? That was wrong of you, especially since it was only to pry and satisfy your own curiosity about something not your concern.”

“Listen to me carefully, woman. Your safety
is
my concern. I have told you so before. You do not have a say in that, Marielle. I did not threaten Garrett, but if learning the truth required it, I would have held a pistol to his temple. Now, why are you so determined to risk everything to go back? Tell me.”

She sank against his chest. The rebellion seeped out of her and she stayed there, limp and unhappy. “I may as well. I never did before because you would stop me. Since you have stopped me anyway— It is not a treasure, the way men like Garrett mean. I am going back to get my father. He stayed behind so I could get away.”

“Where is he?”

“Near the town of Savenay.”

This did not sound very difficult.

“He is in a château there,” she continued. “In its donjon, I would guess.”

“He is a prisoner?”

She nodded. “Not an official one. There was no trial. Lamberte captured him, and that château where Lamberte lives has a donjon, so he was put there. If he is alive, that is.”

Her goal had changed from not very difficult to almost impossible with a few short sentences.

He thought of that dagger in her long pocket. “Was it your intention to kill this Lamberte?”

She took some time to respond, which perhaps was an answer in itself. “That château belonged to his half brother who was a baron. Lamberte is a bastard of their father. When I was very young, my mother became the lover of the baron, and went to live there. I would visit her, and came to know the château and its people well.”

“Was her lover killed during the revolution?”

She shook her head. “He survived. The Vendée was not very enamored of the revolution, however. Even so, the baron did not join the uprising against the new government when it came six years ago. He remained out of it, isolated in his château. While the army was crushing the rebellion and killing so many, my father and I took refuge there. We were there the day that Lamberte marched in with twenty-five men. His brother went to greet him and Lamberte shot him dead. Just like that. No accusations. No trial. No guilt. It was brother murdering brother, for reasons that were not political, I have realized. In the hell that existed then in that region, however, it was only one more death among many.” She took a deep breath. “And then he killed my mother too. And their closest servants.”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

It pained him that she had witnessed such carnage. As much as he had, maybe more. Only he had been a man and a soldier, and she had been a girl of perhaps fifteen years. Had her youth made it harder to overcome the memories, or easier?