Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

She was happy. Her ball, thanks in great part to the dowager and John was a great success. She had found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and she finally had a purpose.

What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, Roker and David Carlisle had decided to attend this evening. Faith had hoped they would not but had sent the invitations as a matter of courtesy when the idea for the ball was first mooted. As Wellington guided her through the steps and then they separated to perform the parts of the dance that would bring them back together at the end she took the opportunity to observe the two men who for their disparate reasons wanted to see her husband humiliated, or at the least brought under their thumbs.

Carlisle would prefer to continue running the estate his way and maybe he was also in cahoots with Roker, who had been robbing the estate blind for years. John had told her everything, shared all his information with her. There was no longer any doubt.

Faith had no doubt John would be dismissing the two man, perhaps prosecuting them in the courts after the ball. Just as she knew Roker must be aware of his intention, because John had commandeered his files and had not returned them. The bookroom was piled high with dusty old ledgers, and the door fitted with a new lock. He and his associates had drawn up a final report, had it copied and distributed around various offices, so destroying the evidence wasn’t possible.

At least they weren’t downstairs trying to break in to the study.

John had stationed a footman inside the room in case anyone tried any such ploy.

The duke executed a tricky turn, bringing them back together and as she spun under his arm, she caught sight of her husband, stern-faced, confronting Roker and Carlisle. Something untoward was happening. Edward Smith was approaching the group at a fair clip. Faith didn’t have to see her to know the dowager was keeping a weather eye on what was fast becoming a confrontation.

Although she badly wanted to cross the room and give him her support, she dared not because she was partnering the guest of honour. She didn’t want to let him anywhere near the people standing to one side of the bathroom. Even though they were speaking softly, that would not last long, if the expression on John’s face was any indication of the progression of affairs.

Before she could prevent him, the Duke of Wellington escorted her off the dance floor, heedless of the pattern in the dance. He headed for the little group with determination, herding Faith, his hand grazing the small of her back.

“There appears to be no evidence of the marriage,” Roker said, his voice ringing clearly so as many people as possible could hear.

He flourished his paper. “This says that your wife’s first husband was killed at Waterloo, not just before it. That would not give you the opportunity to marry her before the battle. Moreover, there is no record of your marriage, my lord. I have searched for it, since you did not see proper to furnish me with the papers I asked of you.”

A chill spread rapidly through Faith’s body, invading every part of her, until the blood in her veins threatened to freeze. She couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, words whirling through her head, none of them making any sense.

Control, Faith.

Dignity was all that remained to her. Her thoughts coalesced, settled, and all the while Roker was destroying her life, word by word. She’d only just begun to believe in what she’d gained, but now with her world crashing around her, she recalled what had got her here. A lie. She’d adopted a life not her own, used assets that didn’t belong to her. Nemesis had come to collect the debt.

Roker waved his damned piece of paper under John’s nose.

“This says there was not enough time between Smith’s death and the battle for you to have married his widow.”

John raised a brow, never so haughty as in this moment. “Your assiduity does you proud. A shame I cannot say the same of your legitimate work.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Indeed you have, sir.” John glanced around, caught her eye and Faith knew what he meant to do.

John was about to reveal the secret he had worked so hard to conceal—that the Graywood estate was all but bankrupt. The information would plunge the estates into the doldrums, tell every powerful man and woman in London that the holdings were vulnerable, ripe for exploitation.

He would do this to protect her from the danger of revealing her as a deceitful whore, a woman living in sin, deceiving society and then the man she married. Rather than that, she’d confess. Her fault, all of it. He could not do this for her sake.

She took a breath and opened her mouth. “I—“

The Duke of Wellington, up until that moment a silent bystander, took a part, cutting incisively into her speech and addressing Roker. “You have incorrect information, sir. Indeed, I myself was present at the wedding.”

Faith blinked up at him. Why would he lie?

Rattled but game, Roker came back at him. “There are no records of any wedding, and if one took place then it was bigamous.

Which, as I’m sure your grace is aware, is a crime.”

The duke gave a tight smile, drawing himself to his full, considerable height. “In wartime, records may be sketchy or inaccurate. Not having faced combat, I’m sure you believe everything is carefully arranged.” In the duke’s case, it usually was.

He was always meticulous in his planning, careful to retain records, maps, and all the paperwork. For this, he was prepared to traduce his reputation? “Timing is approximate. It is true little time passed between the death of Lady Graywood’s first husband, and her marriage to her second. As far as she knew, she was widowed twice in the space of a week. I am surprised she survived, much less thrived. She is a courageous woman, followed the troops throughout much of the war, from Spain to Belgium, to bring her husband comfort and companionship. Sir, she married and she is married still.” He turned to John, effectively showing Roker and the silent, but wide-eyed David Carlisle his back. “I would appreciate it if you removed these people from my presence. I would appreciate the waltz your charming wife granted me ten minutes ago.”

The dowager, standing within earshot, gave the quartet a signal and they struck up an appropriate tune. Without waiting for her permission, the duke swept her into his arms and on to the floor, straight into a waltz.

“I learned this with John,” she said remembering the night. It helped to go back, to do justice to a man who, while not perfect, had a wonderful sense of adventure that had persuaded her to leave the dour vicarage and venture on the journey that had led to Waterloo.

“John Smith?” he murmured.

“He loved dancing, and he taught me how to laugh.” Her gaze flicked up to her partner, startled at making such a revelation at such a time.

“He was a competent soldier,” the duke replied. “If he were not, I’d have heard of it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Wellington was known as meticulous, despite his statements of a moment ago. “Did you suspect anything before you arrived tonight, sir?”

He didn’t prevaricate. It wasn’t his way. “Yes, I did. I remembered the commendations after the battle. Your husband was among them. Whatever drew Graywood to admit to the marriage, I believe it was with the best of intentions. I owe him. He was injured in the service of his country, under my command and I did not do enough afterwards to ensure the veracity of the hurried account from the surgeons. As it was, John Smith was buried as Graywood. That will be rectified.”

They executed a turn, and every eye was on them. She forced a smile. “Thank you. But I forced Graywood into the deception. He returned to England and discovered he was married. I did wrong, sir.”

“Then you must endeavour to make it right. He is devoted to you. I understood that as soon as he began to talk about you when he visited me. Do nothing to damage that or I will personally see to it you are punished.”

She didn’t doubt it. He spoke too firmly for her to think of any other course of action. If John wanted her gone, she’d go. She didn’t consider anything else.

The dance finished. After ensuring she had a cold glass of wine to refresh and fortify her, Wellington took her back to where John stood on the edge of the dance floor. Of Roker and Carlisle there was no sign. When she glanced around, John took her hand. “You will never see them again. I promise you that.”

She nodded. John smiled at her. “If they are capable of committing such a deception they do not deserve to remain in my service. I have dismissed them both.”

“Good thing too,” Wellington put in.

Without his word, this evening could have turned out very differently. As it was, Roker and Carlisle had planted the seeds of their own destruction. After such a damning statement, nobody would expect John to continue to employ them.

Suddenly, to her utter shock, he went down on one knee before her. “Since it appears that the records of our marriage have disappeared, I have the great fortune to do this again. Faith Smith, will you do me the honour of becoming my bride? Of allowing me to cherish and care for you all the days of my life?”

She didn’t realise she was crying until a tear touched the corner of her mouth, the wet drop startling her into a response. “John, are you sure?” She meant she’d leave if he wanted, but already she knew her doubts did neither of them justice. The wine in her free hand trembled, but she held the glass tightly, the chill seeping through her heated hand.

He ignored everyone, the cream of military circles, some of the most important people in the land standing silently, waiting for her answer. “Never more certain.”

“Yes, John, I’d like that very much.” She gave a shaky smile.

“Thank you.”

Of course the ball was a huge success. Everyone agreed nothing would cap it and it was labelled the event of the season before the season had properly started. Not even a sad squeeze could overtop it. The news circulated as fast as than a man could leave one gathering and speed to the next. More people arrived, ready to witness the sight of John, Lord Graywood, dancing with his wife all evening. Or the woman soon to become his wife, whichever account one preferred.

Faith needed his support, as the revelations of the evening had overcome her. Not since, as Wellington had put it, she’d been widowed twice in a week had she felt her life spin so much out of control. The dowager, triumphant, pushed her daughters into the arms of the eligible young men crowding in from the clubs.

Dowagers were tutting over in the corners of the room, delightedly whispering behind their fans.

John had eyes only for her. They left before the ball came to a close, John claiming the woman he still insisted on calling his wife was exhausted by the events of the evening.

At the door to her room, he drew her close for a sweet, tender kiss. She leaned her head on his shoulder, let him support her while he took his time licking into her mouth, his hand cupping her cheek, his arm holding her snugly. When she gave a small moan into his mouth, he drew away, gently parting their lips and lifting his head. “Sleep well, my love.”

“You aren’t—you don’t want to...?”

“More than anything else I can think of, but I don’t wish any opprobrium to come your way. We’re not out of the woods yet, sweetheart. From the moment I officially realised our marriage might be irregular to the time I meet you at the altar, I will not compromise you. I’ll sleep at my club, so we won’t even share the same roof until then.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight. “I want you. Don’t make me sleep alone.”

“You won’t. Turvey is spending the next two nights with you.

After that, you will spend all your nights with me. All of them.” He growled low in his throat and bent to kiss her again. This time he ravaged her mouth with an intensity that left her in no doubt that he wanted her as much as she did him.

He would not relent, instead opening her bedroom door and gently urging her inside. She allowed her maid to undress and wash her, too tired to do anything for herself. Left to her own devices she’d probably have slumped on the bed fully dressed, fine gown and everything.

As it was, John was true to his word, and Turvey spent the following two nights in a truckle bed in Faith’s bedroom while he very publicly entered his club and slept in one of the bedrooms there, returning for breakfast the next day.