Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

He’d also sent a carriage to the abbey with orders to collect the ledgers and journals from the last ten years and bring them to town.

He’d designed the trip to cross paths with Carlisle on his way to London. They should arrive soon.

A shame he couldn’t unravel what the men had done by simply killing them, or dismissing them from his service, but he needed proof. Not for himself, but for the courts, if he decided to prosecute, and for his own peace of mind. Together, he and Thomas would discover not only what had gone missing from the estate accounts, but who was responsible for the losses. Despite his personal animosity towards Carlisle, he remained perfectly willing to give him the benefit of the doubt but after today, the odds against him had shortened. His eager acceptance of all Roker’s stories strongly indicated his active involvement.

John’s heart warmed at the thought of finally getting to the bottom of the concerns that had been niggling at his mind since he’d first looked at the estate accounts. Comparing them to his own success seemed churlish. But in a few cases he’d seen such spectacularly different results from similar investments that his mental antennae had bristled into life, waving wildly.

“Do you think we’ll have Roker and the steward around here tout-suite, claiming that you’ve stolen their books?” Thomas asked.

He lifted the book nearest to him and opened it.

John chuckled. “That would be interesting. I planned to keep the steward in London kicking his heels, but Roker will discover what I’ve done the minute he returns to his office. I imagine your man left Roker’s office in turmoil.”

Warmth spread through him at the thought of the work ahead.

At last he could do something instead of uselessly demanding figures and poring over a heavily doctored ledger that merely made him suspicious because he couldn’t uncover the truth there. In the next few days they’d know not only what, if anything, was going wrong with the estate, but who was responsible for it. And, by implication, who’d dared to lay hands on Faith. Because John was almost sure the two events were linked. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Not of that import, anyway.

“I am tempted to cancel the evening,” Lady Graywood said as she lifted the coffee pot and helped herself to a cup. When Amelia attempted to come to her aid, she batted her companion away impatiently. “Responses have proved disappointing.”

Faith knew, but she found it a relief to discuss the problem openly instead of furtive references to the lack of replies to the invitations that had gone out a full week earlier. She glanced at John who had laid his knife and fork down very carefully. “Does that mean they won’t come, or that they are reserving their options?”

“Probably the latter, but I cannot tell for sure.” The dowager picked up the cream jug, then replaced it in favour of the milk. “I imagine we will not be totally devoid of company. I can call on several more people to help fill the rooms, but I was expecting a far better response from the people who—matter.”

Faith understood what she meant. The ones who would bring the society leaders with them. The ones who would let them into the exclusive informal club that controlled the places John needed to reach in order to restore the family coffers. She didn’t remain unaware the estate could be doing better, but she also knew the recent decline in the economy meant more people were scrambling for fewer opportunities.

Not that anyone would know it from the elegant furnishings in even this room, a private family room where they took their breakfast. Though why anyone would want more than one dining room eluded her. She did like that the room caught the morning sun, though. The furnishings were lighter and more feminine than in the large, imposing, mahogany-dominated chamber upstairs.

In her heart of hearts, she accepted the inevitable, and although her appetite had disappeared at the dowager’s words, she forced herself to reach for the toast.

Out of the blue a wave of nausea hit her, swirling her stomach.

Forcing a smile to her face, she excused herself and headed upstairs to her powder closet.

She barely made it in time but as she crouched over the chamber pot, she heard someone come in behind her. She prayed it was Robinson, or Turvey. She could trust both of them not to fuss.

No such luck. When she leaned back on her heels and reached for a towel, instead she heard a masculine croon. He drew her back to rest her head against his chest while he wiped her mouth gently with a damp cloth, then handed her a glass of water to rinse with.

Faith closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Is this the first time?”

She shook her head, her cheek nuzzling the starched linen of his shirt. “Yesterday and the day before.”

“Last week?”

“Perhaps.” She recalled feeling queasy, but that didn’t mean a thing.

“Hmm. When did you have your last courses?”

Exasperation filled her. This careful tenderness made her nervous. “I knew you’d jump to conclusions. It can’t be that. I’ve eaten something that disagrees with me, that’s all.” Of course she knew the possibility. In the past when the possibility arose, however inconvenient, she had quickened with excitement. She refused to let that happen again.

He said nothing, but watched her, waited, until, to break the tension filling the air, she said, “If you must know, about six weeks ago, but it’s hardly surprising. I’ve had a lot of—changes in my life recently.” And she often had her courses late or she skipped a month.

The way he stroked her back soothed her, helped to settle her grumbling stomach. After a few minutes, when it because clear she had finished being sick, he gave her fresh water to sip. When she felt ready to move, tucked one arm under her knees. He lifted her, rising to his feet seemingly without effort, before taking her into the bedroom.

He laid her on the bed as gently as if settling a feather, which was far from the case. Then he sat next to her and practically, without fuss, helped her to take off her outer garments and stays, leaving her in her shift. Glancing around, he found her robe. She shrugged into it. All in silence.

He left the room. She thought he’d gone away, and closed her eyes, glad of the soft sheets and the relative quiet. But he returned and put something down on the table. “Wine and water,” he said.

He helped her to sit, banked pillows behind her and held the glass for her.

She leaned against the soft support, sipped the mixture slowly, the dry wine a tart flavour that banished the other. “Thank you.”

When she handed him the glass, he put it on the nightstand, returning to sit on the bed next to her. “Now we may talk,” he said, his voice steady, kindly but not overburdened with emotion.

“You’re a sensible woman. You know pregnancy is a possibility.”

“An unlikely one.”

He brushed aside her protests by touching a finger to her lips. “If you are, we marry immediately.”

She nodded. She couldn’t argue with that, refuse to allow her child its birthright. “It would be a miracle.”

“Miracles happen every day.”

His enthusiasm, although he’d carefully banked it, was evident to Faith. It worried her that he jumped to conclusions, exactly the reason she’d refrained from telling him. “Please, John. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let yourself think it.” She swallowed and glanced away, finding a loose thread on the quilt lying over her. She made the pull worse by picking at it. Anything rather than meet his eyes.

The green thread pulled up a series of small gathers behind it. “I’ve been through this before. Waited, and thought. I used to pray for it, even on the hardest of marches, in camps, and I’d tell myself the rigours of army life meant I hadn’t conceived.” She frowned, plucking the thread right out. It left a run in the silk. She searched for another. “Possibly, but I can’t be sure. Nothing happened, John.

Ever. To my knowledge I never conceived.” She dared a glimpse at his face.

He put his hand over hers, and she met his gaze once more. His tender smile warmed her and despite her determination to keep his feet on the ground the concept crept into her mind. To hold his child, to care for him or her. If she allowed herself to wish for it, she’d be lost, for she’d never wanted it as much before.

He squeezed her hand. “Even if we were more certain I’d want to keep the secret, because I know you’re uncertain and doubtful.”

He paused. “Have you thought that your maid has also marked the lack of your courses? That she might spread the news?”

“Turvey?”

He shook his head. “Robinson. A pleasant girl, but a gossip.

How could she hold such a nugget to herself?”

She sat up, alarmed, only to find herself gently pressed back against the soft pillows. “We can’t stop her, sweetheart.”

The endearment had its usual effect, weakening her resolve.

While she was fighting her tenderer emotions, her agitation subsided. He didn’t mean it. She had to remember that, but every time she found it harder to recall the simple fact. “If I’m not—“

“Don’t worry. Gossip circulates, then when it comes to nothing, it’s forgotten in favour of the next on-dit.” He urged her into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder with a thankful sigh.

Casting up her accounts had given her a headache. The telltale pressure in her temples had already begun. “If you’re not, then you’re not, but I want you to behave as if you are. Take care of yourself, eat well and rest every afternoon.”