The Countess Confessions (22 page)

I
ris sat across from Winthrop at the tea table in their room. He brought a pot of chocolate and two mugs for them to share every night before they retired. Iris didn’t have the heart to tell him that chocolate before bed caused indigestion. Besides, they would be staying up into the wee hours for a reunion with the master and mistress. Iris was almost afraid to hear what trials Emily had undergone since marrying the earl.

Iris realized that her life would never again be the same as it had been in Hatherwood. She had been introduced to espionage, an activity that in Iris’s mind had seemed more adventurous than the reality of spying on houseguests at a party.

She hadn’t solved any mysteries or gathered any information that would assist the Crown. She
had
discovered that at least one of the guests, a married gentleman, intended to have a secret affair with his brother’s wife. If that was the type of sordid knowledge one gained while spying, Iris wanted nothing to do with it.

“Drink your chocolate, Iris,” Winthrop said sternly. “You missed supper again tonight. I don’t know how you exist on the little you eat.”

“I exist on nerves,” she said. “Perhaps you are comfortable living under the same roof as an assassin, but I am not.”

“You’ve been very brave from the start,” he said. “I don’t know many women who would keep their wits about them in this situation.”

She felt a flush of pleasure. “If you’d been maid to my mistress and survived her escapades, you would have learned to keep your wits about you, too.” She put her hand to her mouth, realizing this was the first she had ever spoken ill to him of Emily.

“I didn’t mean that as it sounded.”

He nodded in understanding. “The earl is not the easiest person to serve. He’s dragged me through the pits of hell in his travels. The places we have been. You would be shocked, Iris, straight down to your stockings, if you ever saw the deplorable prisons and hovels where his lordship and I stayed. I won’t tell you the details.”

“Please don’t.”

“Do you know what a scorpion is?”

She grimaced. “They’re awful things that don’t live in England.”

He nodded again. “They’re used for torture in some foreign prisons. Come on, have a mug of chocolate. You’ve gone pale on me.”

She sipped the chocolate he poured into her mug. Indigestion would keep her up all night. That and the image of scorpions he’d put in her head. She was looking forward to the hour when she would be reunited with her mistress. Perhaps Emily would surprise her and have scads of little stories to share about her first impressions of life as a countess. Nothing remotely exciting had happened to Iris. Except for Winthrop, and she couldn’t admit she thought him dashing.

“I’ll be glad when the conspirators are caught and we can resume our ordinary lives,” she said, while Winthrop drank his chocolate. “I wonder where his lordship will settle when this is over.”

“London, as far as I know.” He took off his spectacles and reached his arms over his head.

Iris stared at him. She didn’t know how well he could see without his glasses. She didn’t know whether being forced to live with him under false pretenses had warped her opinions. But tonight she finally admitted to herself that he was the most attractive man she had ever known. And it wasn’t only his boyish face or reedy form that made him appealing.

It was his imperturbable dignity that she had come to admire. He still ordered her about. His insistence on placing their shoes in a certain order by the door still annoyed her as her need to arrange bottles by their size did him.

But he had brought her chocolate to drink because he was concerned about her health. Iris could kiss him for that. In fact, Iris would kiss him right now if she could invent a plausible reason for doing so.

“What is it?” he asked, lowering his arms. “Do I have chocolate on my mouth? A tear in my shirt?”

Now,
she thought.

This is the time. Scoot the chair closer to wipe the nonexistent smudge from his lips, and let him take the initiative from there.

“Let me look,” she said, leaning forward.

He sat still, his eyes searching her face. “It would be wise of you not to come any closer, Iris. I should not tell you this, but I have been struggling against temptation since we argued with each other in Hatherwood.”

She felt a spark of hope. “And what have you been tempted to do?”

“All manner of wicked acts.”

“With— Me?”

“With you, inside you, behind you, all—all over you.”

“Sir.”

“Disgraceful, I know.”

“I never would have guessed,” she said, primly lowering her gaze in case her delight was obvious. “You have hidden your feelings well indeed.”

And with his next words, he extinguished her hope like a candle flame. “You can rest assured that I will continue to subdue my urges, Iris. The chances are that we will have to live in the same residence, serving the master and mistress. I would not disrespect you or our positions by behaving in anything but a straightforward manner.”

“Oh,” was all she managed to say.

“We have fifteen minutes left until our interview with the master and mistress. I promised Hamm that I would stand the morning watch over the viscount so that he could take a meal in the kitchen. He will be close enough to you in case of trouble.”

“That is thoughtful of you, sir.”

He reached for his spectacles and stood. “Try not to engage his interest while I am gone.”

“Engage Hamm’s— What do you think I am?” she asked indignantly.

“A temptress in a maid’s clothing. It takes a disciplined man to resist a woman with your qualities.”

Then he was gone to fetch a bottle for the earl, leaving Iris to wonder what qualities in her character had provoked his welcome confession.

•   •   •

They washed and dressed each other between kisses and bouts of laughter. Damien opened the armoire in his dressing closet to discover that instead of his tailored attire hung a wardrobe of dresses that could belong only to a dowager.

“Damn me,” he called in the direction of Emily’s dressing room. “The footmen must have mixed up my missing trunk with some beldame’s at the party. I don’t think any of these will suit me, do you?”

Emily appeared at the door of her dressing closet. “Your trunk is in here, sitting right next to mine. It doesn’t look as if it has been opened.”

“I hope not. Winthrop was supposed to be on the lookout for our luggage.”

“Is there anything inside it that you do not want others to see?”

He proceeded to the closet, holding the ruffled ball gown he had removed from his armoire. “Is the lock still intact?”

Emily stepped aside to allow him into the closet. “It looks to be. I hope you aren’t considering another disguise, Damien. That bodice will never fit around your chest. You could never pass as a woman. Your shoulders would be a giveaway.”

He glanced up wryly. “I hesitate to admit this, Emily, but I have passed as one before. I do not, however, have any intention of doing so again. It was a frightening experience. My legs do not look well in stockings. Gowns just aren’t made for my proportions.”

“I can imagine.”

“It is true, though, that a shawl can conceal any number of physical flaws, my shoulders being one of them.”

“I do not consider your shoulders to be flawed,” Emily said. “Merely broad. The rest of you is undeniably masculine, too. I would not believe you were a woman for an instant.”

His stare pierced her composure. Had she just confessed that she had found his body to be the epitome of male beauty? “You would be surprised to see what changes Winthrop can affect with a bag of hairpieces and cheek plumpers.”

He knelt then to examine the padlocked trunk and extracted the key from his pocket. Swiftly his hands delved through the first layer of clothing to the leather bottom.

Emily was curious now to see what he had brought to the party. Clothes or weapons? A love letter or two from the last woman in his past? Or were there private documents that would implicate him as an agent?

He closed the lid and stood, looking into her eyes. “Nothing appears to be missing.”

“None of your papers?”

“I keep those with me at all times.” His gaze caught hers, as if suddenly she were the only thing that mattered.

Emily stared down at him in pensive silence until a discreet knock sounded at the outer door. She turned reflexively, noting from the corner of her eye that he had slipped his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat. Clearly he’d found whatever he feared had been stolen. And it was not anything he wished to share with his wife.

“That has to be Winthrop and Iris. Shall I answer?”

He closed the lid of the trunk and stood, his gaze skirting hers. “I’ll let them in.” He pulled from his shoulder the pink dress that he’d apparently forgotten in his haste to learn whether any of his belongings had been searched. “There is probably a lady in this castle right now accusing a servant of stealing her clothes.”

E
mily could not contain her joy at being reunited with her maid. “Oh, Iris, I have missed you more than you can ever know.”

Iris’s eyes misted up as Emily drew her into the spacious dressing closet. They sat down at the same moment on the chaise lounge. “I have so much to tell you, except that certain details have to be omitted because they are too private. All I can admit is that I never want to be without you again.”

“Well, I have plenty to tell you, too, miss—I mean, my lady.” Iris swiped her knuckles under her eye to catch a tear. “The things that Winthrop has said to me—”

Emily felt her blood chill. “Has he insulted you in any manner? Tell me, and I will insist that my husband punish the varlet.”

“Valet,” Iris said absently.

“Varlet. Valet. If he has dishonored you, there is no point in making a distinction.”

Iris sniffed. “But he hasn’t dishonored me. He ignored me during the journey here until I convinced myself I was unworthy of even a kiss. I have never felt so lacking in my life. And then to have the nerve to call me a—a—”

“The prissy upstart,” Emily said feelingly. “How dare he offend you by—by doing exactly what, Iris? I’m not certain I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“He called me a temptress,” Iris blurted out. “A
temptress
.”

Emily blinked, too stunned to respond.

Iris nodded vigorously. “Yes. You heard me. I did not misspeak. He accused me of leading him into temptation. He said that I made him forget why he had come to the castle in the first place. He accused me of muddling his brains.”

Emily hesitated. “Did you?”

“Only in my thoughts. But that doesn’t count, does it?”

“It might if he could read minds.”

“I must say that you aren’t being helpful at all. Oh, I should have kept this to myself.”

Emily took Iris’s hand. “You were right to tell me. I’ll take the matter to my husband and insist he put Winthrop in his place.”

Iris looked horrified. “You can’t do that.”

“Well, why not?”

“It might jeopardize our investigation. It would be disloyal of me as a citizen to allow my feelings to interfere with justice.”

“Perhaps you could work with Hamm instead.”

“You mean the bean-stalk giant?”

“He’s intimidating at first impression, but it’s rather reassuring to know he’s on our side.”

“You’ve forgotten one thing, my lady. Winthrop and I are supposed to be man and wife for the duration of the assignment. If I left him for another footman, the guests might not notice, but the domestic staff would. I’d lose their respect, if not my position. And where would I stay until the earl is ready to leave the castle? I have to abide by the rules if I don’t want to cause a stir.”

“I see your point, Iris.” In fact, Emily saw more than her maid had intended to reveal. Iris had fallen for the earl’s valet, and Winthrop, from the sound of it, had been fighting against the same affliction. It was a blessing in disguise, really. She had finally moved past her feelings toward Michael. Emily’s brother would never have married Iris, if he married anyone at all.

“And what should I do about it?” Iris asked.

Emily frowned as though giving the matter grave thought. “I suspect that my husband would urge you to carry on as usual until after his assignment is over.”

“So you are advising me to continue living with Winthrop as his wife?”

“I’m afraid that all of us have been forced to make sacrifices,” Emily said, although so far the rewards of marriage had surpassed whatever she had sacrificed.

“But what am I to do if Winthrop accuses me of being a temptress again?”

“The way I see it, Iris, is that you can insist you have no feelings for him and that he must put you out of his mind, or—” She paused to reconsider her advice.

“Or what?”

“Or you could turn into a temptress and call his bluff.”

Iris’s cheeks turned pink. “Never did I expect to hear that sort of advice from you. I couldn’t be a temptress if I tried. Could you?”

“Neither of us ever thought I would marry,” Emily said carefully. “Now I have a little more experience to offer than when we lived in Hatherwood.”

“It hasn’t even been a month,” Iris retorted. “I don’t see how you could have gained enough experience to consider yourself the Encyclopedia of Love and Marriage.”

“Let us just say that my husband is an intense tutor and I have been a rapt student.”

“But you are married. I am not.”

“And we both know
why
he married me. Only time will tell how strong our union will become. If it lasts at all.”

“Do you want it to last?” Iris inquired after a pause.

“Oh, yes. Very much so.”

Iris gave a nod of approval. “To be honest, I never cared much for Mr. Jackson. He was a fine cricketer, but he always seemed to be—I don’t know—more a boy than a man.”

“I assure you, my husband is mature in all the ways that matter.”

“So is Winthrop,” Iris said. “You’d never know it to look at him.”

“I take it that you look at him often.”

“Perhaps.”

They lapsed into silence. Emily detected the murmur of male voices coming from Damien’s dressing room. She decided it would be wiser to steer her conversation with Iris toward more neutral ground. “I heard that there has already been one attempt on the viscount’s life.”

The ploy worked. Iris gave one final sniff and lifted her head, returning to her standard form. “He was shot at twice as he was going off to hunt. The castle steward ordered a search of the castle and grounds for evidence, but neither the culprit nor the weapon used was found. I’ve got an idea who the suspect is, though.”

Emily leaned in closer. “Who?”

“It might sound far-fetched, but I have an uncanny feeling it’s one of the housemaids hired for the party. I’ve caught her at least twice under questionable circumstances.”

Emily mulled over this information. With Iris so upset, now wasn’t the time to remind her that she’d also had an “uncanny feeling” that Camden would propose to Emily on the night of Lord Fletcher’s party. “What precisely did you catch her doing?” she asked.

“She was giving Winthrop the eye.”

“As in handing him the spectacles he misplaced?”

Iris scowled. “The eye, Emily. The
eye
. The look that a female gives a man to indicate she is open to flirtation.”

“And on this basis you are convinced that she is a paid assassin?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s harder to understand,” Emily said bluntly. “What does Winthrop think of your theory?”

“He disagrees with it, naturally. For all I know, he’s flattered by her attention. The other odd thing is that I’ve seen her sneaking up to the guest rooms late at night. Sometimes she is carrying a tray or a crystal decanter.”

“Have you reported her to the housekeeper?”

Iris shook her head. “Winthrop is adamant that we not bring undue attention to ourselves. He has another suspect in mind.”

“Do you know who it is?”

Iris made a face. “Yes. It’s an architect named Sir Norman Finch, and he’s probably the most pleasant guest at the party. If you and I had not been buried all our lives in Hatherwood, we might have heard of him. He’s designed cathedrals and town houses in London and Brighton. He tips well, too.”

“I met him at supper tonight,” Emily said, reviewing the conversation in her mind. “I thought he was perfectly charming, but he did go on about flying buttresses and— I
do
remember hearing Lord Fletcher mentioning his name before. He is respected in his field.”

Iris turned unexpectedly to examine Emily’s hair and wrinkled evening gown. “I can see that you have suffered without my assistance. Why are you wearing your hair in that unflattering knot?”

Emily tried to think of an excuse for her unkempt appearance. Lady’s maid or not, Iris did not need to know that Emily had been cavorting on the sofa with Damien a short while ago, or that she was fortunate she’d managed to put on her clothes at all, let alone worry about her coiffure before Iris arrived.

•   •   •

Damien felt on edge whenever Emily was not in his sight. Obviously he could not sit at her side while she and the other ladies at the party took afternoon tea and discussed the latest French fashions. Nor could she join him and the other male guests in an after-dinner smoke and game of billiards. Yet his instincts said that the viscount would be at his most vulnerable to attack during those times that the guests were engrossed in an amusement.

How, when,
would
the assailant strike again? He pondered these questions late into the night, only to hear Emily sigh in her sleep or to feel her roll against him, seeking his comfort. He’d put his arm around her and his thoughts would scatter. Time and time again he forced himself to review the guests he had met, their mannerisms and possible motives for murdering an eccentric old man.

Could the motive be money? Loyalty or the absence of it could be bought. Lord Ardbury had the riches to purchase an assassin. Could the Crown buy information from one of the rebels? Was one of the guests a gambler mired in debt?

The first person who came to mind was the young wastrel lord who had been seated across from Damien at the table. He might be desperate for cash. Then there was that architect who had with his eyes devoured Emily as if she were the dessert course.

The suspect did not have to be a man. A married woman named Mrs. Batleigh had smiled at him invitingly more than one since his arrival. Her husband had appeared to be more interested in one of the other ladies present than in his wife’s potential infidelity. For all Damien knew, the couple swapped bed partners at every affair they attended.

And the domestic staff, especially the temporary servants, should not be excused from suspicion simply because they carried letters of reference. Signatures could be forged.

He would have to wait again to ask Winthrop and then Hamm their opinions on the matter. Winthrop had a talent for detail. Hamm had the experience of working for Damien’s cousin in London, Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle. As a footman to a high-ranking agent, Hamm would undoubtedly have noticed anything that merited investigation. The men would put their heads together. Perhaps the castle steward had a few suggestions to share.

At any rate the assailant would presumably have to make a move in the next three days, when riots had been planned to break out across England. Would he choose poison, another shooting, a shove down the stairs to take the viscount’s life? That was unlikely to occur when the viscount had a bodyguard with him at all times.

But as Damien had learned, even a guard could be distracted from duty.