Captain Durant's Countess

chapter 4


Maris sat on the divan in the hotel room, giving thought to the night before. Captain Durant had come to Mivart’s in person to tell her he had changed his mind. Again. And she’d had an additional request. It had been a tricky thing getting him to cooperate, and a horribly awkward conversation, but she had been adamant, insisting he see Henry’s London physician before he left the city.

She could see that Durant had been torn between humiliation and apoplexy. The muscle in his scarred cheek had jumped a mile. To his credit, the man did not lose his temper, although his black brows struggled to remain level. They really were quite terrifying things, like glossy, overfed caterpillars.

She’d been impressed with the control he’d exhibited, but then, he’d been a soldier. Soldiers were supposed to be stoic at orders they doubted, were they not? He’d opened his mouth and quickly shut it, nodded and held his hand out for the address she’d written on a piece of hotel stationery.

To her relief, he had said nothing about her meeting Mr. Ramsey, either. Perhaps it had been a bit underhanded of her to have enlisted the newspaper editor’s help, but Henry had depended upon the man’s discretion. Maris had asked him to continue to look for a suitable candidate, just in case, God forbid, Captain Durant didn’t come up to scratch after Ramsey’s little threat. Perhaps another gentleman could be found to perform in his place.

But that had not been necessary. Reynold Durant would join them within a few days if he were not afflicted with some gentleman’s gruesome complaint. The captain had been punctiliously correct at their meeting in her hotel suite last night, with nary a sign that he wanted to steal kisses or pursue “friendship” with her. Maris took that as a good sign. What was between them was no more than a business transaction—unusual business, to be sure—but there was nothing of a personal nature between them, nor could there ever be.

Maris stood. With the prospect of an heir for Kelby Hall looking somewhat brighter, she had delayed her own departure for home. Henry thought she was in town to do some shopping, so shopping she would go. There was no time to stand about in one’s underthings to get pinned and poked, but if she could find some ready-made garments, why not? She had not ordered new dresses in years.

It had not mattered what she wore lately—she was bound to drop ink on her skirts or trail a sleeve through fixative. She’d become adept piecing fragments of linen and stone together, her hands steady. Maris was proud of her hands. They were strong and her one true beauty, with long, slender fingers and smooth white skin. She kept them covered with white cotton gloves when she worked with her artifacts, and kid and silk when she did not. Maris decided she’d buy new gloves to go with her new dresses, too.

She called to her maid Betsy and they set out for Madame Millet’s, only to find the shop taken over by a wine merchant. It truly has been a long time, Maris thought ruefully. She was about to give up and go back to the hotel when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned at the audacity, but her sharp retort died upon her lips.

“Good afternoon, Lady Kelby. It’s a lovely day for shopping, is it not?” Captain Durant held up several parcels tied with string. Maris could only hope one of them contained a suitable waistcoat.

She was not prepared to see him again quite so soon. He was bare-headed, his black hair gleaming like a crow’s wing in the bright December sunshine. Soberly dressed, apart from the lack of a hat, he looked reasonably respectable, nothing like the wicked crop-wielding man she had first seen the day before yesterday.

“I-I w-wouldn’t know.” Damn, the man always made her stutter. It was a good thing they would have to do very little talking to each other. If she could insist he keep his eyes closed when they fornicated, she would ask him to do the same with his mouth. She didn’t need to hear flattering falsehoods from him.

Or be kissed. Really, there was no need for kissing at all.

“The d-dress shop I hoped to patronize seems to have d-disappeared,” she continued, feeling flustered. “And g-good afternoon, sir.” She sounded like her poor stepdaughter Jane, who had been unable to string a sentence together without tripping over her tongue. A vow of silence in Captain Durant’s presence was definitely in order.

“Madame Millet’s? She moved to a larger establishment about six months ago. But you don’t want to go there.”

“I don’t?”

“You don’t. She dresses nothing but dowds and is quite de trop amongst those in the know.”

“If she’s so awful, why did she have to expand the size of her shop?” Maris asked, swallowing the insult. Madame Millet had made the perfectly serviceable dress and matching spencer she was wearing. Six years ago, but still. The stitching had held fast and the trimmings looked fresh enough to her eyes.

“There are ever so many more dowds in England than there should be, I suppose. But you don’t have to be one of them, Lady Kelby. Allow me to escort you to a much better dressmaker. It’s not far.”

How on earth would he know? Patsy and the other women he’d dealt with at the Reining Monarch Society were not wearing any clothes at all as far as Maris could see.

“Do you consider yourself an expert on ladies’ attire as well as antiquities, Captain Durant?” It was best to convince Betsy that Durant was who they would say he was.

“Not especially. You know my first love is all that old historical rubbish, as some might say,” the captain replied, taking the hint. “But I had a few things made up for my sister from Madame Bernard. She was very sympathetic and not too expensive. Although I don’t suppose cost matters much to the Countess of Kelby. You seem willing to pay top dollar for what you want.”

“Not in front of my maid,” Maris murmured, taking the captain’s proffered arm and putting some distance between them and Betsy. “You cannot say such vulgar things when you come to Kelby Hall. You’ll arouse suspicion.”

“Well, I presume you’ll tell people you hired me to muck out your attics. No man works for free.”

“You know nothing of those who are obsessed with history. Some would pay us to get a chance to go through the Kelby Collection.” Henry had been turning away supplicants for years.

“You’re right. I know nothing. That might be a bit of a drawback.”

“I can give you some books. You can read up a little, drop a phrase or two, and the staff should be satisfied.” Maris was quite pleased that she had managed the conversation without stumbling over her words. She was always safe talking about the Kelby Collection.

Captain Durant said nothing for over half a block, but then rounded the corner and paused at a shop window. A collection of small silver objects glittered in an amazing display of craftsmanship. Even Maris, who, unlike generations of true-blood Kelbys, had no appreciable trace of magpie within her, was impressed. He pointed to a velvet-lined tray. “You should buy some hatpins here. I hear they come in handy to repel unwelcome advances from bad men. Speaking of which, what about the villain David? How am I to convince him of my scholarship?”

Maris wished she’d had a dozen hatpins to repel David Kelby five years ago. But they wouldn’t have been enough. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to repel him, idiot that she was. “He does not live at Kelby Hall. But he does visit when he wants something, which is much too often. You’ll have to be on guard against him.” She turned away from a lacework butterfly with reluctance.

“Did he serve?”

“What? Oh, you mean in the army? Oh, heavens no. He’s much too in love with himself to get in harm’s way.” Maris tried to imagine David killing anyone with a weapon other than his vicious tongue and came up short. Henry believed his nephew was the cause of Jane’s death, but David would never bestir himself to actually put his hands around someone’s throat. He would somehow convince his enemies to strangle themselves.

Well, that wouldn’t work, would it? Once one was deprived of oxygen to the brain, one’s hands would drop and—

Oh, good grief. Where was her mind taking her? Captain Reynold Durant unsettled her even as he continued to steer her down the fashionable side street.

“Here we are. I told you it wasn’t far.” He opened the door, and a delicate bell above tinkled. The shop was empty, thank goodness, because the vexing man was still at her side. No gentleman accompanied a lady to a dress shop unless he was her protector or her husband. Surely he was aware of that.

“Thank you, Captain. You may leave us now.” Maris hoped the chill in her voice was clear enough.

“What, and deprive myself of all the fun? Come in, come in—what is your maid’s name, Lady Kelby?”

Maris was too shocked to speak.

“Betsy, sir,” her maid supplied unhelpfully. If she was worth a fraction of what Henry paid her, she’d push Captain Durant out the door to protect her mistress. But alas, Betsy had a moonstruck expression on her face as she took in the blackguard’s impressive physique and dashing smile.

“Don’t worry about indiscretion, ladies. Madame Bernard has a back room for her best patrons, which you are about to be. I’ll just tuck myself in a corner and offer some advice. Ah, Fleur, ma cher! Here you are. See whom I’ve brought. The Countess of Kelby who is in desperate—one might even say dire—need of you.”

The bell had summoned a large, forbidding Frenchwoman who looked like no one’s “cher,” or much of a flower, for that matter. Her hair and eyes were iron-gray and the rest of her resembled a battleship ready to launch a hundred deadly cannon balls. She glanced at Maris with disapproval.

“Pah. I do not believe this drab could be the Countess of Kelby. I do not dress your loose women on credit, Reyn, so turn about and try to charm another hapless modiste.”

“On my honor, Fleur. You must apologize at once.”

Maris started at Captain Durant’s blistering tone. He had been the epitome of lazy, careless charm since she bumped into him on the street, but he was suddenly rather frightening. Those black eyebrows!

Oh, what if her baby inherited those eyebrows? She’d have to get a special brush.

Fleur Bernard dropped to so deep a curtsey Maris worried if the older woman could rise up again. “Pardon, your ladyship. This coxcomb is ever one for playing tricks upon me. He and his army friends—well, I shall spare you the tales. You are a most respectable woman, yes? I am covered in shame. Please forgive me.”

Not having been born to the peerage, Maris had always felt uncomfortable when a fuss was made over her rank. She thought of herself as her husband’s secretary first and his countess much further down the list. “It’s . . . it’s all right. Please do get up.”

Reyn extended a hand and helped return Madame Bernard to her not inconsiderable height. She was exquisitely dressed. Her dress was black, but there was nothing funereal about it, trimmed as it was with thick lapis and silver braiding which shimmered in the shop lights. If Madame’s own clothes reflected what she could do for her customers, Maris was ready to forget her earlier rudeness and submit to her intense gray stare.

“Come into my private parlor, my lady. Yvonne! Some tea and biscuits for our special customers,” she called to her assistant.

Damn. That was another witness to her folly. But soon people at Kelby Hall would see her with Captain Durant. Maris would pray that if he was successful, her servants, and more important, David, couldn’t count.

“That’s not necessary, Madame Bernard. I’m not at all hungry.”

“C’est rien. Choosing clothes is hard work, Lady Kelby. One must be fortified. Captain Durant, will tea be sufficient, or shall I have Yvonne fetch some brandy?” The dressmaker pronounced his name in the French manner. Maris imagined from his dark coloring he had Norman or Celtic blood. Henry had both. Was that why Durant had been chosen? Or had none of the men Henry interviewed been desperate enough to undertake this particular mission?

No, that wasn’t right. Henry had not explained the nature of his need to the other two. He told her he’d been taken with Captain Reynold Durant from the instant he spied him riding up the drive.

“You do think ill of me to offer me brandy at this hour, Madame. It’s not yet dusk. In fact the sun is shining.”

“It is dusk somewhere, Captain, and you are not known to follow the conventions.”

Captain Durant gave a husky laugh, which to Maris’s ears seemed quite wicked. “No, I am not. But I’m giving up my ramshackle ways. The countess’s husband has consented to employ me for a few months, and I’m on my best behavior.”

“If that is the case,” Madame Bernard said archly, “then I invite you to leave my shop at once. Thank you for bringing her to me, but you will not wish to compromise the lady’s reputation and anger her husband. You might lose this desirable position.”

Maris suppressed her grin at Captain Durant’s obvious dismay. He had been most effectively routed. He was not her lover—yet—and had no right to sit and watch her shimmy into dresses.

“But of course. What was I thinking? Ah! I never think things through, Madame. Lady Kelby, forgive me for being so presumptuous. Betsy, I commend the countess’s care into your capable hands. Oh! And just one more thing. You will be pleased to know, Lady Kelby, that the appointment you arranged for me was a smashing success. I visited with the gentleman just this morning. There will be no impediments whatsoever to my performing successfully in my new occupation. I am clean as a whistle. What can that mean, anyway? One would think whistles would be most unhygienic. All that spittle. A bientot.” He tipped an imaginary hat and left.

Some of the air in the room went with him. Maris put a gloved hand on a display case to steady herself. The captain’s casual confession that he was not syphilitic was welcome, of course, but to announce it in such a way was preposterous.

He was so very improper. Impulsive. Indiscreet. Maris had never met anyone like him.

“Good riddance, oui? Right this way, my lady. The captain, he is full of so boyish charm. Très charmant. One could forgive a woman for losing her virtue to him. You must forgive me for coming to an entirely incorrect conclusion earlier. I should have recognized at once that you are not his type at all.”

The pendulum had swung in an equally insulting direction. First, Madame Bernard had thought her a lightskirt; now she was too unattractive to capture the captain’s attention as his lover.

Maris regretted she had ever sought to improve her wardrobe. She was tempted to leave in a justifiable huff, but somehow was swept into the private room and seated in a plush velvet chair.

“Now tell me what you have in mind, my lady.”

“I don’t really have time for all this,” Maris said, waving her arm at the squares of fabric and pattern books that were artfully stacked on a large drum table. “I was hoping to find something ready-made. My husband is expecting me home tomorrow. And I don’t like to . . . to fuss over my clothing. I like simple things.”

“Ah. I see you are a practical woman, but you do have a lovely figure.” Madame Bernard stepped back in contemplation, a finger on her chin. “I may have one or two dresses in the back that might suit you. But you would be much happier—and more à la mode—if I took some measurements and made a new wardrobe just for you.”

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Maris didn’t need an entire new wardrobe, just a few things so she wouldn’t be such a dowd. Not that she cared one jot what Captain Durant thought of her. He would soon be taking those dresses off her, anyhow.

There was a knock on the door, and Yvonne entered with refreshments.

“Very well. But humor me, my lady. Allow me to send you one special dress. You will trust me to select the fabric and the color, yes? Think of it as a sample of what I can do to show you to advantage. When you come back to London and have the time, we can sit down with fashion plates. It will take Yvonne no time at all to get her tape. She is very efficient. Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return with the dresses I have on hand, and Yvonne can measure you after you try them on.”

“I . . . all right.” Maris felt beautifully bullied into agreement. Madame Bernard was skilled beyond her artistry with silk and scissors. “I shall pay you for the sample dress, of course.”

Madame Bernard smiled. “Naturellement.” She followed Yvonne out of the room, chattering in rapid French which exceeded Maris’s schoolgirl understanding.

Maris poured the fragrant tea into two cups and passed one to Betsy. The young maid helped herself to an iced cake, but Maris was much too nervous to eat. She always felt awkward at the dressmaker’s. If she had any skill with a needle and thread she would have preferred to sew her own clothes, but she was hopeless.

“This is a fancy place,” Betsy whispered. “Imagine that captain knowing about it.”

“Captain Durant is a most unusual gentleman. Lord Kelby is anxious that he get started on the inventory as soon as possible. He might be staying with us for a month or so.”

“Ooh. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Maris shrugged. “I suppose. But he’s being hired for his historical expertise, not his pretty face.”

“And it is pretty. He’s ever so much nicer than my John.” Betsy bit into her cake, cheerfully deriding the footman she was carrying on with. Maris should have no knowledge of Betsy’s love life, but her maid couldn’t seem to keep her indiscretions to herself. Sometimes Maris felt like the girl’s mother. She was old enough.

Drat. The female servants would probably be swooning every time Captain Durant strutted through the hallways. But by and large, they were grateful to be working in an earl’s household, knew their place, and would keep to it. Henry was a generous employer, as long as someone didn’t meddle with his library.

The household ran like clockwork under the supervision of Amesbury, the butler, and Mrs. O’Neill, the housekeeper. Maris barely had to lift a finger, which was a good thing. Although she’d been raised at Kelby Hall, the intricacies of being a proper countess sometimes eluded her. She was certain a proper countess would not don breeches and dig through hillsides, sweating under the hot Tuscan sun .

Or solicit sexual favors from a complete stranger to perpetrate a fraud.

No, he wasn’t a complete stranger. She was beginning to know the captain a little, even if he flummoxed her.

Maris drank her tea and did not have too long to wait before the women returned, each carrying three gowns.

Maris objected immediately to the rainbow of colors. “I usually wear gray or brown, Madame Bernard.”

“As if I could keep my clientele with such dismal stuff,” the dressmaker said dismissively. “You are still young, if not in the first blush of youth. Thank heavens, for white would wash you out.”

Maris agreed. Her come-out dresses had made her look like a sickly ghost. The earl had financed her debut, cajoling his now-deceased maiden sister to sponsor her and Jane. At twenty, Maris had already been on the shelf and mortally shy in society. Seventeen-year-old Jane had not taken either. Despite being the daughter of a wealthy earl, she was even more reticent than Maris, crippled with a stutter that made the simplest conversation impossible.

Tails tucked between their legs, the girls had returned to Kelby Hall, swearing never to leave its confines again. Within four years, Maris was unexpectedly its chatelaine. Her friend Jane remained a confirmed spinster until David Kelby seduced and abandoned her.

“We shall try the wine silk first, I think,” Madame Bernard said, scattering Maris’s unhappy memories. “Your skin is fashionably pale, so you need no powder. But some rouge and lip salve would not go amiss. Yvonne, show Lady Kelby’s maid our pots and brushes. Between the two of you, you should find the perfect colors.”

Betsy rose, brushing cake crumbs from her black skirts. She wouldn’t know one pot of paint from the other. Maris didn’t require much from her but to do up her hard-to-reach buttons and brush her mud-brown hair free of tangles. Not a proper countess, she did not have a proper lady’s maid. Betsy had helped Monsieur Richard in the kitchen until she’d dropped one too many platters, and Maris had taken pity on the girl, spiriting her upstairs.

“I’ve told you I like simple things,” Maris said.

“Simple is one thing—ugly is quite another. There is no reason for a lady with your standing in society to appear so plain. You are la comtesse. This dress? Bah! It is not fit even for your little mouse of a maid. Take off that dreadful hat.”

For an instant, Maris wished for Captain Durant’s presence. Surely he would not let Madame Bernard hector her so? But she had no champion, not even her “little mouse of a maid.” Maris pulled the pin from her hair and placed the hat on top of the tower on the drum table.

“Ah. Just as I thought. You are a brunette, Lady Kelby, and fortunate that you can wear bold colors without them overpowering you. The woman should wear the clothes, not the other way around. Garnet, emerald, bronze—these will suit you. No pastels. No blue, although perhaps a deep navy.” Madame Bernard made quick work of Maris’s buttons and Maris found herself in her plain linen underthings, earning a disapproving cluck from the dressmaker.

“Even if no one sees what is underneath, it improves a woman’s confidence to know good quality is next to her skin. I shall get Yvonne to pack up some pretty chemises for you. And a proper corset. This one will not do.”

Any response Maris could have made was blocked by a wash of dark ruby silk over her head. When her face emerged, her arms were being thrust into long tight sleeves. When she was hooked into the dress, most of her bosom was exposed by the low square neckline. The design was simplicity itself—as she had requested—but surely she would not be expected to show so much flesh?

“I see from your expression you are not happy. But does your husband not wish to admire his wife?” asked Madame Bernard.

“He . . . I . . . we lead a very quiet life. He is a scholar, madam, and we do very little socializing. He has not been well.” Henry would not be smitten with this gown or any other.

“Poor soul. All the more reason to cheer him up, n’est pas? Your breasts, they are formidable, even in this sad corset. But if you wish, we might add a little ruffle on the bodice. I have some scraps of the fabric still and it would be a matter of minutes to have Yvonne run something up for your modesty. You will remain in town until tomorrow?”

“I plan to leave early in the morning.”

“Bien. We shall manage. Now the green next, I think.”

Maris endured Madame fitting her into three more dresses. She had to admit she looked uncommonly well in all of them, or would when minor adjustments were made. Betsy returned with Yvonne and watched with concentration while the junior dressmaker applied a subtle hint of color to Maris’s lips and cheeks. Something was done to her hair as well, which made Maris almost reluctant to put her hat back on.

As it happened, she was not given that choice. Once she was measured, Madame decided the violet walking dress and matching coat needed no alteration and Maris would be wearing them out of the shop. A tiny pouf of matching velvet and feathers was found in the back room and affixed to her head. Maris could only blink at her reflection. She had never been so stylish.

Or so very purple.

“Et voila! Now you are fit to take the town by storm. I shall send everything round this evening to your hotel. Your own things as well, although I do hope you will not ever wear them again.”

Somehow Maris agreed to gloves and stockings and a host of other fripperies in addition to the four new dresses. The afternoon would prove costly, and it was utter nonsense to try to make lamb out of mutton. She was four-and-thirty, well past her prime, and no one cared how she dressed.

“Oh, Lady Kelby,” Betsy gushed. “You do look a treat!”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Maris grumbled. Feeling ridiculous, she swept out of the shop with Betsy at her heels. At least her half boots were still her own and comfortable. She hadn’t gone but half a block when she heard a shrill whistle behind her.

“It’s that captain, my lady!”

Whistling at me on the street? “Keep walking, Betsy, and don’t look back.”

“But he’s running down the street after us!”

Damn. Even worse. Whistling and running. What was the matter with the man? They would attract attention. No one knew her in London, and that was the way she wished to keep it.

Captain Durant was at her elbow in seconds. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Lady Kelby,” he said, smoothly taking her arm and matching her stride. “If it wasn’t for little Betsy here, you might have escaped my notice altogether.”

“Why are you still here?” Maris hissed.

“It takes more than one fussy Frenchwoman to get rid of me. I say, Madame Bernard has outdone herself. You look absolutely magnifique.”

“Oh, do shut up.” Maris could feel a natural blush augmenting the rouge.

“It’s only right that I escort you back to Mivart’s now that I took you out of your way.”

“I can find my own way back, I do assure you.” She found it impossible to disentangle her arm from his.

“I also wanted the opportunity to give you this.” He thrust a small box into her hand.

“What is it? You should not be giving me gifts, you know. It isn’t right.”

“Be forewarned. Anyone can tell you I never do the right thing.”

That was certainly true so far. The captain stopped walking, and Maris stumbled.

Betsy barely avoided careening into them, looking far too interested in the box once she righted herself.

“Betsy, I believe I left my handkerchief in Mrs. Bernard’s shop. Could you fetch it for me, please?”

The maid’s disappointment was obvious, but she left them alone.

“Open it.”

“On the street? You’re mad.”

“Indubitably. I’m here with you, am I not? Here, I’ll do it if you won’t.” He quickly opened the box. The butterfly hatpin twinkled on a bed of midnight blue velvet.

“How did you . . .”

He couldn’t have known it had caught her eye unless he was a mind reader. And if he was a mind reader, she devoutly hoped he couldn’t untangle her jumbled thoughts.

She was unused to getting gifts of any kind. Henry gave her unlimited pin money, but had never had a sentimental inclination in his life. Birthdays and Christmases had passed unacknowledged.

Maris closed the box. “You shouldn’t have. I cannot accept this.”

He smiled at her, unperturbed. “Yes, you can. Consider it an apology. We met under rather indelicate circumstances. I was, to put it bluntly, a cad. One small gift cannot even begin to express my shame.”

Maris stared at him. Hard. There was a definite spark of mischief in his eyes. “You are no more ashamed than I am Queen Elizabeth.”

Reynold Durant’s smile broadened. “I see I cannot put anything over on you, Lady Kelby. But it’s a pretty little thing, and it suits you. Here, let me.” He took the package from her hand and pulled the pin from its velvet. Before she knew it, he was sliding the butterfly into the purple cap on her head.

Right on the street. Where anyone might see them. The act was so intimate, Maris lost her power of speech, which seemed to be a recurring condition in the captain’s presence. Betsy had been goggling at them, but her eyes would be rolling straight out of her head to the pavement below if she was there.

Durant stepped back. “There. Now you are truly à la mode.” He tucked the box into a pocket and placed her leaden arm into the crook of his elbow. “I shall make arrangements to join you at Kelby Hall by the beginning of next week.”

It was Thursday. Maris would spend all the next day traveling. Thank heavens the captain would not be shut up in the Kelby coach with her. She would need a day or two simply to recover from the day’s attentions.

How on earth would this all work? She needed to talk to Henry. But what could she say that wouldn’t worry him? He was so desperate to deny David his birthright. Damn primogeniture and entail. It was not as if men were any wiser than women in estate management. Maris left the running of the house itself to her capable staff, but had long helped Henry and Mr. Woodley with estate matters. Henry was a generous landlord and employer, but more out of indifference than anything else. He assumed money would smooth the way so he wouldn’t have to be bothered with petty domestic details.

Well, this one domestic detail he’d have to discuss. Captain Reynold Durant’s improper deportment was a complication they couldn’t afford to ignore.