The Decadent Countess Read online

  He groaned aloud at his own stupidity, causing a gentleman in a yellow waistcoat to turn and stare. Leo exited the gates of the Park and set his horse in the direction of Berkeley Square. There were matters awaiting his attention, and he would need to send a note to his aunt informing her of his latest encounter with her daughter-in-law.

  Leo had an uneasy feeling the old Mrs Fitzgibbon would be even more ungrateful than she had been yesterday.

  The bank had been most accommodating. Miranda had learned Julian had left her a modest inheritance, enough to allow her to live frugally. Mr Ealing had been keen for her to sell The Grange and buy a somewhat smaller dwelling. A cottage in St Mary Mere village, perhaps? Miranda had listened politely, but refused to make any decision until she had seen the house for herself.

  Julian had loved The Grange, and therefore she felt it an obligation that she visit the house first, before Mr Ealing and fate had a chance to remove it from her grasp.

  A brief shower had swept the streets clean while she was inside the bank, and now the air was fresh and clean. Miranda crossed the road, carefully avoiding a phaeton pulled by gleaming black horses and driven by a gentleman with a neckcloth so high he could barely turn his head and a coat so tight he could barely move his arms.

  If the Duke of Belford looked like that, she decided, it would be an easy matter to despise him. Instead his sober but well-cut clothing proclaimed him a man of sense. In other circumstances she might have thought him a very elegant gentleman indeed, but no one, having been kissed by him so thoroughly in the parlour of Armstrong’s Hotel, could believe him any sort of gentleman at all!

  Miranda felt her face growing hot. A tingle of excitement stirred in her blood, making her wonder if she was coming down with an illness. She could not remember ever before behaving in such an ill-considered and nonsensical manner. In Italy, her stepmama looked to her for plain, practical and level-headed advice, and described her as ‘composed’. No, this was all his fault. He was turning her into a Bedlamite, and the sooner she escaped to the quiet of the country, and The Grange, the better.

  Surely, he would not follow her there?

  Or would he?

  Miranda had the sinking feeling that Leo Fitzgibbon was capable of anything when it came to getting what he wanted. What was it Julian had been fond of saying to her? Down the centuries every one of the Fitzgibbons has been determined to have his way, and usually did!

  She reached Armstrong’s just as more rain drops began to fall. Inside, branches of candles had been lit to combat the dull day and fires burned merrily in the many fireplaces. Miranda thought it all looked very nice indeed, but the knowledge gave her no joy. The bill loomed large over her. She would have enough money to pay it, but it would leave her uncomfortably short until the bank was able to send on some of Julian’s legacy.

  She should never have allowed herself to be goaded into putting up here. It was convenient to blame Leo Fitzgibbon, but Miranda was honest enough to apportion herself part of that blame.

  Miranda had begun to climb the stairs to her bedchamber when one of the maids called out to her, begging her pardon, and handed her a letter. Puzzled, Miranda continued on to her room, where she tore open the unfamiliar seal.

  A quick scan of the single sheet of paper disclosed that the letter was signed by a Mr Frederick Harmon. Miranda had never heard the name before, and sat down to read.

  Mr Frederick Harmon stated that he was a distant cousin of the Countess Ridgeway, and had been asked by that lady to make himself known to Miranda as soon as she arrived in London. He wondered if Miranda would allow him the pleasure of dining with her this evening at Armstrong’s? A note to his rooms would confirm or deny him this treat.

  Miranda put a hand to her brow, where a faint, niggling pain warned of the beginnings of the headache. It had been kind of Adela to write ahead of her arrival, and ask Mr Harmon to visit her—a typical Adela gesture—but her stepmama’s friends were unfortunately not always the most respectable of people. Miranda hesitated, wondering whether she should accept his invitation, or refuse and take her meal in her room.

  The latter sounded so comfortable that she was on the verge of refusing, when a thought popped into her head. Leo Fitzgibbon would hate to think of her dining alone with a strange gentleman. It would confirm all of his worst doubts about her.

  That settled the matter. Miranda crossed briskly to the desk by the window and, her headache forgotten, wrote a brief note of acceptance.

  Leo looked across the colourful sea of guests, noting those he might seek out and those he might avoid. He had already accepted this invitation to the Ingham ball, or else he might have cried off. He had planned to begin his courtship of the Honourable Julia Yarwood tonight, but that seemed eons ago—yesterday, before he met her.

  Now Leo knew he would neither court nor wed Miss Yarwood. He would probably die a sour old man, the last of his line.

  That was her fault.

  His aunt’s reply to his note, and her blunt criticisms, hadn’t lessened his unfamiliar feeling of depression. His eye caught that of an acquaintance. Leo fixed a smile to his mouth and bowed. In his black evening wear, he made a handsome picture. Not a vain man, he was nevertheless well aware of the number of ladies watching him from behind fluttering fans.

  If they but knew the state of his mind, he thought grimly, they would run from him in terror.

  For half an hour he strolled through the rooms, doing his duty as the Duke of Belford. He danced once with the Honourable Julia, and wondered what on earth he ever found in her dull, monotonous voice and lifeless smile to attract him. He knew now that, married to her, he would die of boredom within a year. At least he could comfort himself with the thought that he had never once given her to hope theirs was more than a polite friendship.

  As soon as possible, Leo escaped to the card room, where he found Lethbridge. Losing. Jack grinned at him, and made his excuses to his opponents.

  ‘You’ve sent her packing, Belford?’ he demanded, pouring them both a glass of claret.

  ‘I will, Jack. Soon.’

  Jack frowned, then shook his head. ‘It’s as I said, old chap. She’s got her hooks into you. You’ll never be free of her now.’

  Leo laughed lightly. ‘Not at all. She’s running scared.’

  ‘Is she?’ Jack was thoughtful. ‘Didn’t look scared when I saw her an hour ago. Harmon didn’t look scared, neither. Looked to be enjoying themselves too much to be scared.’

  Leo narrowed his remarkable eyes, fixing his friend with a stare that made Jack feel, he later admitted, rather queasy.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Jack edged back. ‘Steady on, Leo! I just said—’

  ‘I know what you said,’ Leo retorted, teeth clenched. ‘Harmon? You don’t mean the blackguard Harmon?’

  ‘Well, yes. Went to school with him, you know.’ Jack gave his friend a startled glance. ‘Well, so did you!’

  Leo gritted his teeth. ‘For God’s sake, Jack, concentrate. Where did you see them?’

  ‘Armstrong’s,’ Jack replied mildly.

  ‘What were you doing at Armstrong’s?’ Leo demanded, the edge of impatience in his voice giving way to astonishment.

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘I…eh…I thought I’d take a look at Armstrong’s. You know, sometimes one has friends visiting from the country. Want to put up somewhere. Thought I’d take a look just in case.’

  Leo stared at him in disbelief. ‘You mean you went to Armstrong’s Hotel to spy on the Countess?’

  Jack widened his eyes, but his flushed face gave him away. ‘Not exactly spy. Just a bit of a peek. I asked one of the maids to point her out. Wanted to see what she was like.’

  ‘And did you?’ Leo mocked.

  ‘Yes.’ Jack looked suddenly grave. ‘I can see why you’re not yourself, Belford. Like I said, it’s the Fitzgibbon curse.’

  Leo smoothed his cuff. ‘I am very much myself, thank you, and I don’t believe in curses. Tel
l me the rest.’

  Jack obliged. ‘She was dining with a gentleman in the dining room. Not a private room, mind. Just the two of them at one of the tables. Perfectly respectable. Laughing and talking, like old friends. It was Harmon, Belford, I couldn’t mistake him after what he did to Sophie last season… You know. I would have called him out then, but Sophie begged me not to. Said it’d make it all worse for her.’

  ‘And so it would have,’ Leo replied.

  ‘Well, I can tell you, Belford, when I saw him tonight it made me come over a bit strange. Sitting there with your Countess, bold as brass. You know I’m a mild sort of chap, but I wanted to walk in there and plant him a facer.’

  ‘She’s not my Countess,’ was all Leo said to this admission. But there was something strange happening in the region of his midriff, a sort of churning, lurching feeling, like a rowing boat pitching on a rough sea. The thought of the Countess and Harmon together, dining, laughing, was building like a dark and turbulent storm inside him. He found that his hands had clenched into fists, and quickly slipped them into his pockets and out of sight.

  Jack was eyeing him nervously. ‘You’re not going to make a cake of yourself, are you, old chap?’

  Leo laughed, and it didn’t sound like his laugh at all.

  ‘Wish I hadn’t told you now,’ Jack muttered. ‘I won’t let you go alone, though. I’ll come with you, to lend support.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to come. I merely want to see this pretty portrait you’ve painted me in the flesh. Simply to confirm it. I have no intention of coming to blows with a creature like Harmon.’

  Jack still looked dubious, but Leo said a brief goodbye and went to take his leave of his hosts. Jack poured himself another glass of claret and shook his head.

  ‘Worst case I ever saw.’

  Mr Frederick Harmon had arrived promptly at Armstrong’s.

  A man of Belford’s age, he was smaller and less good-looking than the Duke, with a long narrow face and carefully arranged brown hair beginning to thin on top. There was, however, a casual air about him, a lack of stiffness, which Belford did not possess and which was rather attractive.

  In other circumstances, Miranda might have been drawn to his smile and the friendly gleam in his eyes. But she had met the Duke of Belford, and, although she did not yet know it, he had spoiled her for all other men.

  Mr Harmon’s greeting was warm, but reserved enough not to cause Miranda alarm. He was, he confirmed, a cousin of Adela’s.

  With a hint of self-depreciation, he explained to Miranda how he had invested his small inheritance unwisely and fallen upon hard times. Adela had generously helped him out, allowing him to regain his feet. He was now, he jokingly assured her, well and truly ‘back in the black’.

  ‘I am always most eager to do anything I can to repay Adela’s kindness and when she wrote of her concern for you, well…’ He smiled. ‘You will understand how readily I agreed to her request to seek you out.’

  Miranda smiled back, and sipped chicken soup from her spoon. The dining room was quite full, but here in the alcove by the window, she and her companion were surprisingly private. Miranda imagined this to be mere chance, and could not know that Mr Harmon had made certain of that ‘chance’ by greasing the palm of one of the hotel’s less scrupulous employees.

  Freddie Harmon was a man who rarely left anything to chance.

  ‘You were very prompt in seeking me out, sir,’ she ventured.

  Her companion twinkled at her guiltily. ‘I must confess to you, I have a contact in the shipping office. He sent word you had arrived and I made haste to present you with my note. I hope you don’t find me too presumptuous, Mrs Fitzgibbon, but I wanted to offer you the benefit of my experience as soon as possible. Adela seemed to think you might need advice from someone who has lived in the metropolis for most of his life.’

  His air of earnestness, kindness and honesty made Miranda more than willing to forgive him, if forgiveness was needed. ‘Of course, Mr Harmon. I meant no criticism, believe me. I can truly say that never have I been more in need of a friend!’

  He hesitated, as if he might ask more, and then let the comment pass. Time enough later to storm her barricade, he thought, but for now he would tread lightly. He leaned forward solicitously, and refilled Miranda’s wine glass. ‘I was sorry to hear of your loss,’ he said. ‘If I may say so, you are very young to be a widow.’

  Miranda accepted his sympathy with a sober nod of her head. ‘Are you married, Mr Harmon?’ she asked him with more politeness than curiosity.

  ‘I was.’ He allowed his voice to drop. ‘Alas, I am also now alone.’

  His demeanour, while perfectly proper for a bereaved husband, suddenly struck Miranda as false. And yet there was no reason why it should. Puzzled by her own reaction, Miranda smiled gently but firmly. ‘Tonight, sir, we must put aside our grief.’

  Mr Harmon agreed to this readily enough, and soon afterwards Miranda decided she must have been mistaken. He was a lively companion, and he would have been a charming one, too, if Miranda’s thoughts had not been centred elsewhere. But whenever she looked into Frederick Harmon’s earnest brown eyes she saw instead a pair of cool blue ones.

  Perhaps it was guilt at her own lack of attention which caused Miranda to be far more friendly, and far less cautious, than she might otherwise have been, for when the meal was finished, she allowed Mr Harmon to order coffee in a private parlour.

  It could not hurt, she told herself. She was a widow, with no need of a chaperon, and this was a very respectable hotel. Besides, Mr Harmon was Adela’s cousin, and, despite Adela’s reputation, Miranda knew she would not purposely harm Miranda’s by throwing her into the company of a bad man.

  Soon, Miranda found herself telling Mr Harmon about The Grange, and her plans to remove there as soon as possible.

  ‘It has been in the Fitzgibbon family for centuries,’ Miranda announced, her voice so loud and strangely boastful, she bit her lip in consternation. Mr Harmon had pressed a number of glasses of wine upon her, and it was only now she wondered if she might, in her efforts to please him, have imbibed too much.

  Mr Harmon was nodding sagely. ‘I imagine the family will be glad their manor house is safe in your hands.’

  Miranda laughed, her apprehension forgotten. ‘Glad! They’d do anything to get it back.’

  Harmon stared back at her aghast, whilst secretly delighted. He had been almost certain that that was the case, and now she had confirmed it. He recalled the exact words of Adela’s letter to him.

  My dear stepdaughter will be an innocent among those Fitzgibbon wolves. I know she thinks they will welcome her, but I believe differently. Belford in particular has the reputation of a hard, callous man. I’m afraid they will soon strip her of the little Julian left her. The Grange is like a good luck charm to them and they will try anything to get it back. Please, Freddie, in remembrance of what I have done for you in the past, look after her!

  Freddie Harmon blessed the day that letter came into his hands, and had been watching for Miranda’s arrival ever since. How could silly, soft-hearted Adela know that, if it were not for Belford and his idiot friend Jack Lethbridge, her cousin would at this moment be comfortably leg-shackled to the rich and gullible Sophie Lethbridge?

  He had been within a beat of closing his fist on her, when Belford struck. Frederick Harmon didn’t just dislike Belford, he hated him, and he would do anything to pay him back.

  ‘Perhaps you would allow me to speak to the Duke of Belford in your stead?’ he asked now, his voice carefully diffident, his expression reflective. He leaned forward and took her hand, patting it like a kindly uncle.

  Miranda didn’t notice. She was thinking it would do Leo Fitzgibbon a great deal of good to have another man to bully rather than a defenceless female. But before she could tell him so, they were interrupted by the bully himself.

  His voice was soft and deep, and she found that already she knew it well.

  ‘Are yo
u trying to increase my offer, Countess?’

  Miranda looked up in astonishment to where Leo stood inside the parlour door. His eyes seemed fairly to blaze out at her from the shadows beyond the candles. He was very angry, and very, very jealous, but Miranda could not know that. Seeing his anger, she gasped and shrank back into her chair.

  In contrast, Mr Harmon rose smoothly to his feet, his smile a smug caricature of concern. ‘Belford,’ he said, and bowed so slightly it was a clear insult.

  Leo glanced at him dismissively. ‘If you planned to impress me with the company you keep, Countess, you should have chosen someone other than Harmon here. I bloodied his nose when we were boys and have no doubt I can, and will, do it again.’

  Harmon flushed angrily, but forced himself to remain steady. ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon has asked me to tell you she has no intention of giving up The Grange. She—’

  ‘The Countess can tell me her intentions herself,’ Leo sneered.

  Harmon frowned. ‘Why do you call her—?’

  Miranda sprang unsteadily to her feet. She felt suddenly breathless and rather dizzy. At the same time she was able to read perfectly well in Belford’s face what he thought of her. The contempt was in his eyes and the curl of his lips. She should have been pleased, but instead she wanted nothing more than to convince him that none of the insulting things he was imagining were true.

  It was of the utmost importance he understand.

  ‘Mr Harmon is a distant relative of my…of mine,’ she said firmly, forcing the tremble out of her voice. ‘He was kind enough to…that is, we dined together. In the public dining room. And then he suggested coffee and I… There is no reason for you…there is nothing—’

  ‘He was holding your hand.’ Belford cut through her garbled explanation, his voice like ice.

  Miranda blinked. ‘Was he?’ She looked at Harmon and frowned, then back to Leo. She sighed. ‘Oh dear, so he was. I suppose it was the wine. I drank several glasses. I seem to have lost my perspective.’ Defeated, she sank back into her chair.