Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

She wanted to take off this stylish but too-new gown, put on her old robe and sit with her feet up for an hour before she had to dress for dinner. Recalling what John had considered ‘a rest’ the previous day she smiled, and led the way down the stairs towards the main central area and the exit.

At the bottom of the stairs lay a relatively sheltered space, with no shops or other establishments leading off it. It tempted her to linger, where nobody was watching her, but she’d ordered the carriage brought around and the lure of tea drew her.

“Mrs. Dalkington-Smythe.”

A voice she knew, a voice she thought she’d left behind cut into her musings. Spinning around, she saw Robinson gripped none too gently in the arms of a big bully, his hand clamped over her mouth.

Her eyes bulged wide with panic over the beefy fingers clasped across her mouth and nose.

She stared into the face of her worst nightmare.

Faith had seen worse looking ruffians in her life, but not many. The men who stood, or rather, swaggered, before her, all had a degree of evil attraction, although they’d never attracted her. The last time she’d seen them was just under two years ago, because she’d hidden and made sure she stayed hidden. “Clever girl, to grab an earl,” the main one said. He stood in front of this colleagues grinning, the two front teeth he had left gleaming white, the gold one at the side still glinting when he spoke. Just as she remembered it, saw it in her nightmares.

“Do you know how much interest accumulates in two years?”

said the man she knew as Cockfosters. Of course, that could not be his name, but some babies didn’t have the fortune to be baptised.

He could call himself what he liked, he’d always be an evil bastard.

Robinson struggled in the restraining hold of another ruffian, his hand clamped over her mouth, his other around her waist, clamping to him with insulting ease. Fury and terror coursed through her, driving her to move, to run, but she couldn’t leave her maid behind. Besides, someone else stood in front of the small enclosed space, picking his teeth with a knife, effectively deterring curious visitors.

“You can’t dun me for the debts of a dead man,” she said.

“Yes we can,” he said gently. “You’re a countess now. We ‘eard about that.” She remembered the occasional dropped ‘h’ and the flat, London accent too, although the last time they’d met was in Belgium. They’d been scum then and they were scum now.

“Try it.”

“Let ‘em know what you did, what your ‘usband did? By the way, when did you marry this one?” He moved closer, the single step a menace she worked hard not to retreat from. If she did, she’d back herself against a wall, and never have a chance to run. “Because we saw your husband alive and well the night before Waterloo. Did you marry this one after? Because look at this.” He dug a hand in the capacious pocket of his greatcoat and dragged out a single sheet of paper. “They’re talking about you already. Look ‘ere.” He could read, and he did so now, quoting from the paper. “The sad deaths of the fifth Earl of Graywood and his brother at sea have left us with a new earl, and countess. His lordship has taken up residence in the London house in Grosvenor Square. He recently returned from abroad. Word says he had no previous memory of a wife, but he surely remembers her now. ” He put on a false upper-tier accent, sneering the words nasally. “Her la’ship has lived in London since the victory at Waterloo, believing herself a widow. She received a severe shock on her husband’s return from abroad, but maybe it was a welcome one. It is said that the current earl was on board ship with his cousins when the tragedy occurred. We wonder why the earl and his two heirs would choose to travel on the same vessel. But perhaps that can be explained in ways less suspicious than the ones currently circulating around the city. ”

“That’s libel!” she gasped but pamphlets and news-sheets appeared every day, untraceable, so the lies they perpetrated could not be denied or their creators punished.

“It’s not libel if it’s not a lie.”

“He never wanted to become an earl!” She closed her mouth with a snap, appalled she’d let that much out.

Cockfosters sneered, his full mouth curling in a way that someone else might find sensual. She found it deeply sinister. She put up her chin, her invariable habit when scared out of her mind.

What could she do now? She’d prayed they’d given up the hunt.

That was why she’d run so hard and so fast when her husband had died. Because they’d come back.

“You owe me, missy, and now you can pay. And pay and pay.”

He thrust the paper in her face. It smelled of him. He stank worse, but she stood her ground, ready to fight.

She put up her chin. “Or what?”

“I’ll make you listen. I can make the world listen. You’re not the only nob I’ve got in my pocket, you know, and I worked something out about you. You ain’t married to that man, are you? Fuck knows why ‘e’d take you in. Maybe ‘e likes your company.” He winked, lascivious and hateful. “Maybe he knows and he’s using you before he throws you out, but ‘e wouldn’t want the world to find out, would he? Or maybe you’re taking him in. I reckon it’s the last one.

You’re no better than us. If you want to stay in ‘is lordship’s bed, you’ll share what you’re getting’ with your old friends.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, protesting desperately. “And I owe you nothing.”

The bully holding Robinson moved and although she couldn’t follow his movements, he had a knife in his hand. He touched it to the maid’s cheek and a bead of blood appeared. Robinson squeaked as she stifled her scream, and stared at the knife, her eyes. Bulging as she strained to keep them in focus.

“We ‘ave a special way of decorating our women when they don’t please us,” said Cockfosters, his tone low and menacing.

“Want to know what it is?” He didn’t take his gaze off her, stared at her as though he was Mesmer himself and she one of his hapless victims. “We stick it in the fleshy part of the cheek and just—scoop out the soft bit. Never looks nice. Leaves a nasty scar, like the face

‘as fallen in. Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

Terror had her in its grip, however she fought internally to break free. She couldn’t think straight, not beyond this hateful beast and what he meant to her. He’d menaced her husband, and he’d come back for her. He’d done that before, and once was enough to persuade her not to linger. She’d left some of her most precious possessions behind, including the twenty guineas she’d saved up for a rainy day.

“What do you want?”

“Money. At first. Nothing you can’t afford, now you’re a countess. Diddle that pretty husband of yours, milk a few more golden boys out of him.” He shifted on to his other foot, bringing him closer. “Oh yes, I know who he is, too. Remember ‘im. But couldn’t get a handle on him, not then. I can now.”

“I doubt that,” said a new voice, drenching the scene in the cold water of rationality and reason.

After one, solitary cry, she clapped her hand to her mouth and gulped for breath. Her heart drummed as if released from a thrall and trying to compensate for lost time. How could he put himself in danger this way, why hadn’t he called the authorities? They’d kill him, or threaten him too, and then he’d get drawn in and—

She forced herself to stop thinking, her mind a rat-trap of horrific scenarios. The only way she could call a halt to her rising panic was to shut it down.

John stood on the half-landing where the stairs led down to the small area. How he’d achieved that without making the boards creak she didn’t know. Nor did she care. That he’d done it was enough. He held a pistol in one hand, primed and ready, and he’d shoved another into his waistband. He held the pistol trained on Cockfosters with the steady hand and eye of the professional soldier. Nobody would have any doubt that he would fire if it became necessary. A man waited behind him, the shadows not concealing the distinctive livery of the Graywoods or the flintlock he held. “Let the maid go and leave.”

Cockfosters eyed them, then glanced at his compatriot, who still gripped Robinson tightly. “What’ll you do? Kill me?”

“Without a second thought. As you’ve already charmingly pointed out, I’m an earl now. Whose word do you think the authorities will take?”

Cockfosters swivelled to face John, thrusting out his chest defiantly. “Glad you’re ‘ere, saves me saying it twice. You pay or I talk. Clear?”

“Pay? Not a chance.”

“Doesn’t ‘ave to be money. We ‘ave a few interests in common, my lord. ” He said the words contemptuously, finishing with a noxious gob of spit, which landed on the stones at his feet.

“F’r’instance, some dockers down where you’ve been this morning

‘elp me sometimes. I could have little accidents happening. Falls from the riggin’, maybe, or some crushed ‘ands and legs.” His implication was obvious. “I can provide protection to stop that.”

He paused, and lowered his voice. “Sometimes people get lost overboard.”

Faith gasped. Could John have done it? The answer returned as fast. No. She refused to believe it.

John’s attention turned to her for a split second, and in that moment, several things happened. Someone shoved her forward, so she sprawled over the floor, then something soft and heavy slammed on top of her, robbing her of breath. A scurry of footsteps followed and a yell. “Help the lady!”

With difficulty, Faith rolled over, the inert body of her maid slumping to the floor beside her.