Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Louise Allen
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“Avoid them no longer, Miss Foster. Has the countess taken a lover she now wishes would disappear, preferably without a trace?”
Dany shook her head. “Nearly as bad, but not so dire as to contemplate a permanent solution meted out on the man. She began a correspondence with—and I say this with as much disgust as the words engender—a secret admirer.”
Now it seemed to be the baron’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “Is that all? I agree with you. If we were to line up the married ladies of the ton who have exchanged silly correspondence with supposed secret admirers, they’d probably stretch from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Twice. Simply tell the countess to stop fretting. I’m certain Oliver will understand, although why she’d tell him I have no idea.”
“If only it were that easy, my lord, we would not be having this conversation. My sister penned her innermost thoughts to the man, her complaints and misgivings about the beastly, horridly unromantic, probably philandering Oliver, who of course broke her heart into tiny pieces before going off with his male friends to do Lord only knows what. She bared her heart, my lord, her overwrought, melodramatic soul. And everything you can think of she should never have written.”
The baron slightly adjusted his posture. His lean cheeks colored slightly, which was so adorable, especially in a hero. “Hmm. Would this confession expand to include, um, matters of...of marital intimacy? Please say no,” he added quickly.
Even Dany knew she also should be blushing at this point. But perhaps because this all was rather old news to her, or in the light of her never experiencing “marital intimacy” and therefore not approaching the subject with the amount of gravitas she otherwise might, she answered in her usual amused way. “Or the sad lack thereof, my lord?”
“Not good, not good,” he said nearly under his breath.
“Why?”
“Why?” He looked at her directly now. “Because no man would ever wish his manhood questioned, that’s why. Who’s this secret admirer?”
Dany busied herself with a lemon square, shoving a bite in her mouth and mumbling around it, hoping not to be heard, but knowing she had to tell him the truth. “And therein, my lord, lies the rub. She’s never so much as met the man, or if she did, she didn’t know he and her admirer are one and the same. It’s beyond silly, actually, although she’s convinced Oliver won’t see the humor I see in the thing. To put it briefly, my lord—we don’t know.”
“She—she doesn’t know? For the love of heaven, Miss Foster, how could she not know the name of her secret admir— No, don’t answer that. Because then he wouldn’t be secret, would he? Women, you’re all to let in the attic, aren’t you?”
Dany felt it necessary to defend her gender, and perhaps even her sister in particular. “Now I may call you out. Women, by and large, are ten times more sensible than men. We wouldn’t have stupid wars, for one thing. Even my sister isn’t usually so empty-headed, if that’s what ‘to let in the attic’ means. She’s simply emotional at the moment. My God! I wonder if Mrs. Yothers was right, and she is— No, she’d know that, wouldn’t she? She’d have to know that, for pity’s sake.”
The baron got to his feet, beginning to pace. “When you’re done debating yourself, Miss Foster, perhaps we can return to this matter of the unknown secret admirer?”
Dany put down the remainder of the lemon square, her very favorite, her appetite having disappeared, perhaps forever. “The dress shop owner believes the countess is...is increasing.” She looked up at Cooper, who was now standing stock-still. “A seamstress can’t know more than the person in question, could she?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No, probably not. You’re not as calm and collected as I would have imagined a hero would be, you know.”
“I’m not a hero, damn it!” He held up his hands. “I beg your pardon, Miss Foster. But I’m not a hero. Anything you read in that god-awful chapbook was made up out of whole cloth.”
Well, wasn’t that disappointing. “None of it? You didn’t rescue any children?”
He tipped his head to one side for a moment. “Well, that’s true. But I didn’t plan it. It...it just happened. One minute I was standing there with everyone else, and the next I was tossing down my rifle and running. It seemed like the thing to do. And what does any of that matter?”
“I imagine it matters to the children you saved from being trampled or shot, the Englishmen who were then free to defend themselves from a French slaughter. Oh, and to the veiled lady. Was there a veiled lady?”
“A holy nun. A veiled nun, yes.”
“Now you’re lying,” she said, not knowing why she felt so certain, but certain nonetheless. “You’re protecting her, whoever she is. That’s why she disappeared. You took her somewhere safe, and only then returned to the camp, hours after the battle. Even now, you protect her. She must be very important to someone.”
His green eyes flashed, his eyelids narrowed—just the way his unknown biographer had written. “I don’t like you, Miss Foster.”
“That’s understandable. I’ve rather bullied my way into your life, haven’t I? I have no shame in that, however, as my sister desperately needs a hero, unwilling hero or not,” she told him brightly. “Inconveniently for you, you’re a man of your word, because you’re still here, when a lesser man would have broken down the earl’s front door in his haste to be gone. He knows who she is, naturally.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. We’re back to my sister and her secret admirer. He knows her because the notes he wrote were delivered here. That’s only sensible. But he also knows her because she foolishly signed her name to her notes. Probably with a flourish, and including her title. Mari can be a bit of a twit.”
“All right, I think I finally understand. Your sister wants me to discover the identity of her anonymous admirer in order to have her notes returned to her. And how am I supposed to go about that, Miss Foster? Does your sister by chance keep a list of her admirers, as a sort of starting point for me, you understand?”
“No, and it’s not that simple. I can show you the letters he wrote to her, I suppose. There may be a hint or two there I’ve overlooked. But it’s his final missive—or should I say almost final missive—that is causing all of this trouble.”
So saying, she reached into her pocket and drew out a folded note, handing it over to him.
He looked at it, almost as if he didn’t want to touch it, and then suddenly all but grabbed it from her. Opening it, he read aloud.
“Five hundred pounds or the next person to read your love notes will be your husband, just before the collection is published in a pamphlet entitled Confessions of a Society Matron Forced to Seek Solace in the Arms of Another, Rejected by Her Husband, Who Apparently Is Immune to Feminine Charms, Preferring the Company of Others of His Own Persuasion.
“Yes, this is blackmail, and I’m quite good at it. Your husband returns soon, my lady, and you have no time to dawdle. I will be in touch.”
“You can see he is fairly specific while remaining disturbingly vague. Mari has no idea how to produce five pounds without applying to her husband, let alone five hundred, but she’s fairly certain whatever this man is threatening will greatly upset Oliver.”
“Upset him? Miss Foster, you have no idea, thankfully. Son of a— When did this arrive?”
“A few days ago. Why? Oh, no, he has not contacted my sister again. Should we be looking for a discreet jeweler to buy some of Mari’s necklaces, or are you thinking this is an empty threat?”
“I don’t think the countess can assume it’s an empty threat, no. May I keep this? And do you have his other notes?”
Did he seem more interested