Counting on a Countess Page 2

  The fear that made her palms sweat had little to do with physical peril. So many relied on her. She couldn’t fail them.

  Nessa’s nervous steps tapped behind her as she strode deeper into the alley, echoing her own rapid heartbeats. But Tamsyn vowed that she would brazen this out just as she’d done with everything else in her life.

  She passed a man sleeping on the ground. He opened one eye as she went by and gave a grunt of surprise. Women of quality didn’t haunt shabby London alleys. Not for the first time, Tamsyn wondered if she ought to have changed her clothes before leaving Lady Daleford’s this morning. Too late to do anything about it now. She had to move forward.

  Fuller’s shop front was little more than an awning-covered table strewn with hides in different stages of tanning. The reek of lime brought tears to Tamsyn’s eyes, and she heard Nessa gag quietly behind her. A jowly man in a heavy apron stood behind the table, warily watching Tamsyn’s approach.

  He said with barely concealed disdain, “Looking for fine leathers, miss?”

  Tamsyn fingered one hide, pretending to contemplate it. “Bill Conyer said you could help us.” In desperation, she’d gone to the docks to look for leads. Conyer, an out-of-work stevedore, had given her Fuller’s name and direction—though he’d had to be financially compensated for the information.

  Fuller scowled. “Conyer don’t send no one to me for leather. Only . . .” His eyes widened. “But you’re a lady. Ladies don’t—”

  “This one does,” Tamsyn interrupted. “Are you interested?”

  “How do I know you ain’t playing?” Fuller demanded. “No ladies in this business.”

  Tamsyn fingered the diaphanous fabric around her neck. “Chantilly lace. Fifty yards of it.” She calmly pulled a flask from her reticule and held it out. “This is a sample of my brandy. Five hundred gallons are sitting in Cornwall this very moment. I’m looking for the right buyer for both.”

  Fuller glared at the flask but didn’t take it.

  “Go on,” Tamsyn urged. She fought to keep her tone calm. It would scare Fuller off if she showed her desperation. “You’ll never taste anything finer.”

  He snatched the container from her hand and took a drink. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said with reluctant admiration, “That’s prime fuddle.”

  Her heart rose, all the while she kept her expression calm.

  “But I ain’t going to be your fence,” he added.

  An icicle pierced her chest. “Why not?”

  “On account of I don’t do dealings with gentry morts. Can’t trust ’em.”

  “I assure you, I am most trustworthy. I have been in this line of work for nearly a decade and—”

  “Then why don’t you got a fence?” Fuller demanded. “Why come crawling to me?”

  She opened her mouth, but no words came out. How could she possibly explain? The smuggling operation ran through the family’s ancestral home, Chei Owr. Caverns beneath the house led directly to a cove, which was the perfect location to receive smuggled goods from a ship at anchor. Those same caverns served as the holding place for the brandy and lace, and they sat there until they were purchased by their fence, Ames Edmonds, who distributed the goods both in Cornwall and all over England.

  It was a perfect system. Jory and his wife, Gwen, knew nothing about the smuggling operation, which was precisely how Tamsyn wanted it to stay.

  Everything would have proceeded apace—if Jory hadn’t announced a month ago that he intended to sell the crumbling, neglected Chei Owr. He had every right to: he was Lord Shawe, and the manor house wasn’t entailed. He already had letters to agents in London, though no buyer had yet stepped forward.

  Tamsyn’s horror at losing her home and last connection with her parents was doubled when she had received a hastily scrawled note from Ames stating that, with the possible sale of their base of operations, their partnership was over.

  The latest shipment of brandy and lace had nowhere to go—and the village was in dire need of cash. Tamsyn had hurriedly concocted a plan wherein she and Nessa, acting as her maid, would travel to London under the guise of her finally having a Season. Her parents’ old friend Lady Daleford had offered her a place to stay and entrée into the city’s most elite gatherings. All the while, Tamsyn would undergo a frantic search for a new fence. Balls and soirees in the evening, haunting London’s seediest corners during the day.

  There was one other component to her reason for being in London. But she hadn’t been pursuing it with the same dedication as the hunt for a buyer.

  None of this could be relayed to Fuller, of course. The less he knew about her personally, the safer both of them would be. Hanging was always an option for smugglers. Or, given that she was of gentle birth, she’d likely be transported. Neither option was appealing.

  “I fail to see what difference my motivations make,” Tamsyn answered coolly. “I have top-tier merchandise to move, and I’m giving you the option to buy it. We’ll both make out nicely.”

  Fuller squinted at her as if she were tiny, illegible writing. He spat upon the ground. “If you was a bloke, I’d be singing a different tune. But you’re a mort.”

  “I oversee an operation that successfully collects thousands of pounds’ worth of merchandise, from making connections with the ship’s captain to unloading the goods to its storage and sale,” Tamsyn noted, her words dry. “But I am not in control of my sex.”

  “Ain’t my problem, Miss Lacy Drawers. Unless you want to show me what you got under them skirts.”

  “Don’t you talk to her that way!” Nessa interjected hotly.

  Tamsyn held up a placating hand. Fishermen and sailors had notoriously foul language, so she was well acquainted with salty words aimed at her person.

  “If I did,” she said calmly, “would you buy my lace and brandy?”

  Fuller grinned. “Naw. I just wanted to see how low a gentry mort would go.”

  “Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Tamsyn turned away, feeling heaviness weighting down her limbs. With Nessa following, she moved toward the entrance to the alley, though she walked with deliberate slowness in case Fuller was merely trying to drive a hard bargain. She waited for him to call her back. He didn’t.

  When she and Nessa emerged back onto the street, Tamsyn finally exhaled. She leaned against a brick wall and stared up at the greasy, gray London sky—so different from the bright blue that stretched over Cornwall.

  “What do we do now?” Nessa practically wailed.

  Tamsyn uncapped her flask and, after using her fichu to wipe off its mouth, swallowed a healthy mouthful of brandy. It burned a path through her body, strengthening her resolve.

  “I have to find myself a husband,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  “How is it,” Kit said, “that I can happily find an eager lover with ease, yet the moment my thoughts turn to matrimony, none of the women I encounter are at all suitable as a bride?”

  Kit surveyed the Eblewhites’ ballroom with a disheartened gaze. To be sure, the mansion in the heart of Mayfair boasted one of the most beautiful ballrooms in the whole of the city, and it was currently filled with pretty, marriageable women looking for a husband. They wore gowns in a kaleidoscope of colors, adorned with ribbons and flowers and expensive jewels, and to a one, they were lovely, with bright eyes, easy smiles, and soft skin.

  Despite the elegance and gaiety around him, his gaze alighted on the corners of the room, searching out areas where an enemy could hide, and locating the best routes for an escape. The war had been over for two years, yet he couldn’t shake the skills that had kept him alive.

  Someday, perhaps, that ever-alert part of him would realize that the threats had passed. For now, he endured his wariness and caution, and reminded himself to unclench his fists and loosen his jaw.

  “It’s a deuced mystery.” Thomas Powell, the Earl of Langdon and heir to the Duke of Northfield, shook his head with wry dismay. He spoke with a faint Irish accen
t, evidence of his early years having been spent in County Kerry. “I’ve told you again and again that you ought to just pick one, marry and bed her, and then acquire a mistress. It’s what I would do in a similar situation.”

  “You’re a duke’s sodding eldest son,” Kit noted tartly. He and Langdon stood near the punch bowl in a desperate bid to locate one young lady who would make a fine countess. “You’ll never find yourself in a similar situation.”

  “I suppose someday I’ll have to find myself a wife,” Langdon mused, “but that day is thankfully a good distance away.” He and Kit bowed as a handsome, statuesque woman walked by with her debutante daughter in tow. The mother nudged her daughter and both sent enormous smiles in Kit’s direction. “Lady Briscoe is eager to offer up her daughter for your consideration.”

  Kit nodded politely in the women’s direction, but he only gave the debutante a cursory look before his gaze moved on.

  “What was wrong with that one?” Langdon demanded impatiently.

  “Too pretty. I’d exhaust myself fighting duels.” It didn’t really matter to him, though. Remaining faithful to his future wife wasn’t in his plans, and so long as she kept her fidelity until she birthed an heir, he didn’t much care what his spouse did—or whom she took as a lover.

  Yet impatience gnawed on Kit. His body was primed and tense, the way it was in the moments before battle. He felt the clock ticking, more precious minutes and hours lost in his desperate search.

  His friend sighed heavily. “You’re a bloody piece of work.” Langdon sipped at his punch and made a face. “Is there any decent wine in this place?”

  “None that I’ve seen.” Kit wouldn’t have imbibed anyway, much as he wanted to. He had to present an appearance of faultless respectability in order to attract a prospective bride.

  “We’re clearly not going to find anything worthwhile to drink here.” Langdon set his punch glass on a passing servant’s tray. His expression brightened. “There’s new dancers at the opera tonight. It’s early enough for us to catch a performance. And meet the ladies afterward.” He raised a dark brow with an appreciative leer.

  Much as he wanted to go . . . “I can’t leave.” Kit fought to avoid exhaling in frustration. “Time’s running out. I have only a week to find myself a bride.”

  The punch bowl gambit was a loss. Anyway, he was too restless to stand idle, so he began to walk the perimeter of the ballroom. Langdon kept pace with him, and together they skirted the edge of the guests making their way through the complex patterns of a country dance.

  The women dancing all looked at him as he walked, but the moment he caught their gazes, he found something else to attract his interest—the twinkling chandeliers or the vases of hothouse roses positioned at the perimeter of the chamber.

  “You’re doing it again,” Langdon observed. “Dismissing girls left and right as though you’re deciding what waistcoat to wear.” He grinned at a willowy blonde widow, who sent him an inviting smile. Yet he continued to walk beside Kit as they made a circuit around the ballroom.

  “It cannot be helped,” Kit answered. He nodded his head toward different young ladies in the chamber. “Her laugh is too abrasive. That one’s as shy as a fawn. She’ll spend all my blunt and leave me foundering in even greater debt.”

  That last shortcoming was one he couldn’t permit. He needed Lord Somerby’s money to make his plans for the future come to fruition.

  After learning about the matrimonial condition of Somerby’s will, Kit had immediately gone to Lady Walford, the ton’s most accomplished gossip. He’d informed her—in strictest confidence—of his intention to marry within a month. She had agreed to hold his confidence, and by the following morning, everyone in Society knew that Lord Blakemere had given up his dissolute ways in order to secure himself a wife and fortune.

  “Here I am,” he grumbled lowly. “A titled man about to possess a considerable fortune, healthy, young, reasonably attractive—”

  “Reasonably,” Langdon noted drily.

  Kit shot him a quelling look. There had been a time not so long ago when he’d been full of good humor and jests, never wasting an opportunity for droll banter. But his sense of humor had disappeared the longer he was in the marriage market.

  “And I cannot locate one woman who’d make for a suitable wife,” he continued. He didn’t understand himself or his mystifying impulse to find fault with each female to cross his path. None of them seemed quite right.

  “I blame Somerby,” Langdon said. “God rest his soul. If he hadn’t gone on about what a sterling marriage he’d had and how he was utterly devoted to his late wife, you wouldn’t have such lofty ideals about what constitutes matrimony.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Kit answered at once. “I know what marriage is supposed to be.” His own parents esteemed each other, just as any aristocratic couple should, and behaved accordingly in public and in private. The love Lord Somerby had felt for his dear Elizabeth was highly unusual, almost gauche in its effusiveness. Love was not part of genteel alliances.

  Neither was fidelity. Kit knew the concept existed in theory, but he’d never practiced it—nor did he want to. Sharing a bed with just a single person for the duration of one’s life seemed both impossible and terrifically dull.

  And searching for someone he could love . . . That was nigh impossible. For a number of reasons. You didn’t just bump into a young woman at a ball and realize that she was your soul mate. It was ridiculous to think that he might entertain such a thought.

  Duty was for wives. Passion for mistresses. And love . . . Love was a dream as elusive as peace.

  As he said this, a comely blonde nearby smiled at him. He felt a rise of hope as he returned the smile. But then he observed the whitening of her knuckles as she clutched her fan.

  Too desperate.

  Kit bit back a growl of frustration as he glanced away. At this rate, he’d be lucky to marry a drunk donkey.

  “You’re not precisely the ideal potential husband.” Langdon smirked.

  “I’ll have money, won’t I?” Kit demanded hotly. “They gave me an earldom. What more could a girl ask for?” His could feel his pleasure garden slipping from his grasp, and the obstacle in his path was himself.

  Langdon sent him a wry glance. “Oh, not much. Only temperance, fidelity, and fiscal responsibility.”

  “Bah,” Kit scoffed. “Who needs such a dullard?”

  “Most women of marriageable age,” Langdon replied.

  It would have been better if Kit had never been given the opportunity to inherit any amount of money. He could exist in the same pleasure-filled haze he always did, dreaming his dreams but without the expectation of fulfilling them.

  “I’ve been haunting every ball, tea, and soiree,” Kit muttered, fighting frustration and despair. “To no avail.”

  “A sticky conundrum,” Langdon agreed. He yawned into his hand. “There’s a reason why I avoid these dull assemblies. A decided lack of nudity.” He glanced around the ballroom and made a scoffing sound. “I’m off to the theater. Come with me?”

  Kit longed to leave, finding society balls as interesting as a sermon about dirt. But . . . “Got to stay here. No future brides wait for me in the demimondaines’ theater boxes.”

  His friend nodded in acknowledgment. “When you tire of your hunt, you know where to find me.”

  Kit gave him a distracted wave as he strode away, too busy brooding over his predicament to pay much attention to Langdon’s departure. They’d see each other on the morrow, anyway, at White’s. Ever since Kit returned from the War, he and Langdon had met at the club and then gone out every night—with a few exceptions—wringing excitement and diversion from London’s most disreputable attractions.

  He’d done his best to avoid those attractions these past three weeks. He’d been so respectable, it fair turned his stomach. But his sacrifice was in vain. He was as brideless as he’d been at the beginning of those three weeks.

  Frustrated, impatient,
Kit muttered a curse and started for the card room at the other end of the chamber. He wouldn’t find a wife there, amidst the games of vingt-et-un and loo, since the amusements were set up primarily for men and married women. But at least it would help relieve a fraction of the tension that knotted his muscles and made him grit his teeth.

  Distracted as he was, his head tucked low, his gaze fixed on the parquet floor, he didn’t see the young woman in his path until it was almost too late. They nearly collided, but he pulled himself up just before smacking into her.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he exclaimed.

  The girl spoke with a distinct Cornish accent. “No harm done, sir.” She smiled at him.

  Her smile set off fires throughout his body. She fairly glowed with vibrancy.

  Kit didn’t recognize her, and he wouldn’t have forgotten meeting a girl with such vividly red hair—coppery and bright beneath the light of the chandelier—and he had a fierce need to see it loose about her shoulders. He was drawn in by her wide-set, light brown eyes, slightly tilted at the corners. Her full, rose-hued lips stirred a need in him, baffling in its swiftness.

  She had an elfin look, with a long, sleek form. The neckline of her pale green gown highlighted her modest but well-formed bosom, and his hands twitched with the desire to know the feel of her. Though the pink in her cheeks alluded to a life spent frequently out of doors, he easily imagined the same flush in her skin when roused to passion.

  The hell? Kit wondered dazedly. He’d seen women and desired them within minutes of meeting, but never had he looked upon a woman and been suddenly dragged under the tide of sensual need.

  It had to be because he’d been celibate these last three weeks, a drastic measure undertaken because he’d had to be on his best behavior whilst searching for a bride.

  He waited for his reflexive dismissal of her. Yet it never came.

  Her eyes were bright with intelligence as she looked at him, and her smile lingered, as though she liked what she saw. That baser part of himself puffed up and preened.