Falling for His Pretend Countess
Autore
Lauri Robinson
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Chapter One
Suzanne Bishop had always been told that she was tall for a woman. Well, not always, and not by anyone except Aunt Adelle, who in all fairness had been several inches below five feet her entire life. Therefore, to Aunt Adelle, God rest her soul, a woman who stood five foot four inches without stretching on to her toes was tall.
Truth be, until recently, Suzanne had never paid much attention to her height, or the height of anyone else. There had been no reason to. However, here in England, London to be precise, she noticed because the men were short. Leastwise those who appeared as if it was their mission to seek her out were short.
Men had never sought her out back home.
To be fair, she’d never encouraged them to seek her out.
She wasn’t encouraging that here, either, it just happened.
There were a few reasons for that. Clara, her dearest friend, had married Roger Hardgroves, the Marquess of Clairmount, and her other most dear friend, Annabelle, the reason she was in England and not six feet under the earth back in Virginia—thank the Almighty—had married Andrew Barkly, the Duke of Mansfield.
Another reason was that Elaine, Viscountess Voss, Lord Clairmount’s mother, had become Suzanne’s sponsor, which simply meant that Suzanne was accepted by the ton to attend balls and parties during the Season.
Accepted, perhaps, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable. The rules of society here were quite complex and that left her questioning if she should have stayed in London. Both Clara and Annabelle had asked her to live with them on their country estates, but she couldn’t depend upon others her entire life.
She’d been raised to be self-sufficient and had done so back home by becoming a teacher.
Therein lay the reason she was here, in London, attending events and functions. It was all quite an adventure and she loved adventures, however, she was also on a mission to become as self-sufficient here as back home.
That meant one thing.
She needed to be introduced to her neighbour, Henry Vogal, the Earl of Beaufort. All these names and titles seemed a bit pretentious in Suzanne’s mind, but that was coming from a twenty-two-year-old woman who had no idea what her true surname would have been if she’d been born legitimately.
When a person didn’t know who fathered them, there was no way for them to know what their name should have been. She’d been given Bishop as her last name when she arrived at Aunt Adelle’s house in Virginia well over a decade ago.
Truth was, Aunt Adelle wasn’t her aunt either. She was her great-aunt, or that was the story she’d been told. Adelle’s sister, Jane, had supposedly been Suzanne’s grandmother, on her mother’s side of course.
Her mother’s name had been Lilac and she’d worked in a house of ill repute in Missouri—The Flower Garden. That’s what the house had been called and Suzanne wasn’t overly sure if her mother’s real name had been Lilac, or if her mother had been given that name once she’d become a flower in the garden.
Either way, that’s where Suzanne had been born and where Lilac had died. In a house called The Flower Garden. Not knowing what to do with her, Rose, who ran the house, had asked the fine folks of Tinpan, yes, Tinpan, Missouri, to donate enough money to pay for a stagecoach, then train ride, to Virginia. To send Lilac’s poor lost daughter to her Aunt Adelle.
Again, that was the story she’d been told and therefore was the only information she had concerning her life. Leaving her to believe there weren’t any lords, or earls, or dukes in her family’s history.
Yet, here, in England, it appeared as if everyone could be traced back to nobility and titles. All in all, it left her feeling out of place, but that wasn’t going to stop her from moving forward with her plan.
To her relief, the music ended and Suzanne pasted a smile on her face for the man whose head she’d been gazing over the top of for the entire length of the overly long dance.
‘May I sign your card for a second dance?’ the short and portly man asked.
For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name. Mr Horseman, or Hammer, or something along those lines. ‘I do apologise, sir,’ she said, sounding as sweet as honey even to her own ears, ‘but my card is full.’ She’d heard of dance cards, had even attended a couple of dances back home where the host had provided them, but here, they were like the gospel. Luckily, at the first ball she and Clara had attended, Annabelle had told them that if they didn’t want to dance, to just scribble names on each line. Annabelle had said that’s what Drew, her husband, though he hadn’t been her husband at the time, had done for her.
Suzanne hadn’t done that at first. However, since that ball, she’d learned that scribbling in a few names here or there on her card made life easier. It gave her time to escape the onslaught of men seeking her attention. She’d had no need of that. Men were an interesting lot and she had never quite figured out the appeal some women seemed to have towards them.
Correct that, she hadn’t needed a man’s attention. Now she did. She needed to gain the attention of Lord Beaufort.
Her future depended on it.
‘Well, then, perhaps I could convince you to share a cup of punch?’ the man asked.
The hope in his dull-looking eyes—they were grey, practically colourless—was impossible not to notice, but living through the past five minutes of sidestepping to prevent bruised or broken toes was her limit. ‘I do apologise, but I’m not thirsty.’ She gave a slight curtsy. ‘Please excuse me.’
He said something, but she was already hightailing it towards the curtained door that led to the balcony. That’s where Lord Beaufort had disappeared a short time ago and he hadn’t yet reappeared.
Besides being an earl, Lord Beaufort owned the publishing house that Suzanne had attempted to sell her story to. Shortly after the Civil War had broken out in America, her hometown of Hampton had been burned to the ground and she’d ended up living with Clara and Clara’s daughter Abigail, on Clara’s farm outside town. They’d experienced some harrowing times and Suzanne had chronicled every event, every day of their lives up to and including their arrival in England. After rewriting every line, paragraph and page, several times, she’d taken it to Lord Beaufort’s publishing house.
That story was her future. Her way of making it alone in the world.
However, that couldn’t start until her story was published and Mr Marion Winterbourne, the manager of the publishing house, refused to even read her carefully penned pages. No reason or excuse, just said no, thank you and showed her to the door.
There were other publishing houses that she could try, but his was the most reputable, per Lady Voss. Therefore, Suzanne was determined to meet Lord Beaufort and convince him to have Mr Winterbourne at least read her manuscript.
That was another rule of society that was frustrating. Back home, she would have simply knocked on his door and introduced herself to Lord Beaufort, because he lived next door to the Duke of Mansfield’s town house where she was staying, but here, it was a rule that she needed to be formally introduced to a man before she could talk to him.
That seemed quite ridiculous to her, but poor Elyse McCaffrey, Drew’s housekeeper, had nearly had a heart attack when Suzanne had said she was walking next door to meet the neighbour. The housekeeper had been beside herself while explaining how that wouldn’t be proper.
In the end, Suzanne hadn’t gone next door, but had asked Lady Voss to introduce the two of them this evening—however, so far, he’d been elusive. In fact, she had the distinct feeling that Lord Beaufort was avoiding being introduced to her.
Therefore, she had an alternate plan.
Heavy gold curtains framed the doorway that led to the balcony and the matching valance looping over the doorway had three-inch-long braided fringes. The opulence of the houses she’d been inside since coming to London was like nothing she’d ever have imagined. The house she’d lived in with Aunt Adelle could fit into a single room in many of the houses where she’d attended balls.
Suzanne stepped out on to the balcony and, ignoring the others who had stepped outside for a breath of cool air—because none of them were Lord Beaufort—she walked to the edge, leaned on the banister and scanned the grounds for any movement.
Several of the other rooms on this side of the house had terraces with staircases that led to the garden, but the ballroom had a balcony, with no stairs. It wasn’t far to the ground, yet she questioned why Henry would have leaped down. It was the only way off and Henry had not re-entered the ballroom. She would swear to that.
He wasn’t like many of the other men. He was tall. Taller than her by several inches, so a leap to the ground wasn’t out of the question. He was also handsome. So handsome, that whenever she caught a glimpse of him, her insides tickled.
His thick, dark hair, which was slightly wavy, was rarely covered with a tall hat like many others wore. She’d surmised others wore those hats to make them look taller. She’d also surmised that she didn’t like dancing with men who wore those hats. The wide brims hid the direction of their eyes, but she knew exactly where their gazes went. To her breasts and she now refused to allow a man wearing one to sign her dance card.
Henry was unlike other men in that, too. He didn’t sign dance cards.
He hadn’t danced with anyone tonight. He had only been at the ball for a little over an hour before he’d sneaked out the balcony door, which meant, if tonight was like the last two balls, it would be hours before he returned.
Music began to play again and the other occupants of the balcony slowly returned to the ballroom. Suzanne watched them out of the corner of her eye, before scanning the garden below again. Near a gazebo, there was a man and woman, who clearly had gone outside for one reason and weren’t paying any attention to anyone but each other. There was one other occupant in the garden. A tall man, well hidden in the shadows of a tall hedge near a stone bench.
It was Henry. She was sure of that. Her hesitation lay on the fact that she’d never jumped off a balcony before, but if she was going to do it, she’d better do it quickly, before she changed her mind. Or before someone walked out on to the balcony again. Or before Henry disappeared completely.
Cloud cover hid the moon and a thin curtain of fog was rising up from the ground, but neither impeded Henry Vogal, Earl of Beaufort, from being momentarily stunned by the sight of a woman gathering up her skirt, scaling over the top of the balcony and dropping to the ground as skilfully as any athlete he’d ever met.
Henry eased himself deeper into the shadows of the hedge, flattened his back against the leaves and waited, watching for what she would do next. There was one more thing the darkness didn’t impede. His knowledge of the woman’s identity. Miss Suzanne Bishop. Her name was being whispered in nearly every corner. Unlike nearly every other man, he had no desire to meet her and had managed to avoid that event.
He had enough woman troubles to last a lifetime.
Miss Bishop glanced left and right, then stayed close to the wall of the house, easing her way towards the hedge.
What was she doing? Other than thwarting his plans. He already had that. He would already be halfway to Whitechapel if not for the couple who had scurried off the library terrace to embark upon some privacy in the shadows of the garden gazebo moments after he’d exited over the balcony—much the same way as Miss Bishop. The couple were still there and the reason he was still hidden in the hedge instead of making his way to Whitechapel, to watch the streets where hansom cabs hid those who didn’t want to be seen in the slums, having just left their secret companion’s bed, or those on their way to those beds.
He knew the sights of Whitechapel well. Besides the cabs on the streets, drunkards stumbled along the wooden walkways, looking for more ale or a place to sleep off what they’d already consumed, and there were women standing in dimly lit doorways, some wearing nothing more than their underclothes, because getting dressed between companions took too much time.
It was one of the most unsafe regions in the city, yet, that was where he needed to be. He needed information, hints and clues to point him in the direction of the killer. A killer who needed to be stopped.
It sickened Henry to know that because of him, three women had lost their lives and that someone was attempting to pin their murders on him. He was chiefly on his own in discovering the identity of the murderer. There were no peelers or bobbies in Whitechapel. Armed with nothing but truncheons, a constable with a club wouldn’t stand much of a chance against the thugs who ruled the streets there. Scotland Yard knew that and constables only appeared when called to action—even then, they didn’t offer much hope or help.
Between the enamoured couple and the American woman still easing her way along the wall, Henry was clenching his teeth at the frustration filling him. Was no one remaining inside at the ball tonight? All he needed was a minute to make his way across the garden and slip out through the back gate!
That wasn’t going to happen. The couple were too busy to notice him, but Suzanne Bishop, who was still hidden in the shadows, was making her way directly towards him.
Damn it, she was going to cause trouble, that was for sure. She was nosy. He’d seen her peering out the upstairs window towards his house more often than he’d like. He’d also seen her at several balls recently. Between her beauty and her accent, men stood in line to sign her dance card. That had been happening again tonight and she should be inside, blushing under all that attention.
Taller than other women, the way she carried herself was statuesque—add in a pair of sky-blue eyes and honey gold hair, and Henry could understand why the men were drawn to her. Her beauty was unmatchable.
She was only a few feet away and, before he could come up with a plan, a sound came from one of the terraces—a hissed name of sorts. It was clearly for the couple near the gazebo, but Henry leaped forward and planted a hand over Miss Bishop’s mouth.
Her gasp was smothered, yet it amazed him that even a gasp could have an accent.
Other than her appearance, and the accent he’d heard from afar, he knew very little about this woman and had no idea what her purpose was for being out here, but he didn’t need more gossip about him floating around.
‘Shh,’ he said near her ear.
A woman, with skirts swishing, rushed off the terrace and hurried towards the couple. ‘If your father learns of this, he’ll be furious,’ the woman said.
‘Mother, we were just—’ came a reply.
‘Don’t attempt to lie to me,’ the woman interrupted angrily. ‘I saw what you were doing! Get inside, and you, sir, take your leave. Now! Through the back gate. I fear for your safety if the Duke learns of this!’
Every nerve in Henry’s body was stinging. The Duke of Hollingford was the host of the party and known for his protectiveness of all six of his daughters. Obviously, one young suitor hadn’t heeded those reports.
Henry met Miss Bishop’s gaze and shook his head, warning her not to make a sound. She nodded and, though he hoped it wasn’t a mistake, he lowered his hand from her mouth.
Twisting, she glanced beyond the hedge, to where the young woman was racing for the terrace, and then in the other direction, where the young man was running for the back gate. The very gate he’d planned on using.
The Duchess of Hollingford was standing still, watching the young man, and Henry was at a loss as to what to do. Seconds seemed like hours. The young man was gone, yet the Duchess hadn’t moved.
While her husband was known for his protectiveness, the Duchess was known for her ability to gossip. Finding him out here, she could press the chatter already happening about him to the next level. Not to mention what would happen to Miss Bishop’s reputation at being caught with him outside alone.
His breath didn’t leave his lungs until the Duchess turned and made her way back into the house.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked Miss Bishop.
She let out a long breath as well and then shrugged. ‘Following you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you seemed quite adamant about not being introduced to me.’ She took a slight step backwards and dipped into a graceful curtsy. ‘I’m Suzanne Bishop from—’
‘America,’ he interrupted, still flustered. ‘A friend of Drew’s wife, Annabelle, which is why you are staying at their town house.’
She nodded as if not surprised he knew all that. ‘And you are Henry Vogal, the Earl of Beaufort.’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He glanced towards the back gate, which was out of the question now, and then towards the house. ‘You could have broken your neck climbing over that balcony.’
‘Not hardly. It wasn’t that high.’ She glanced down and smoothed the blue material of her skirt with both hands, as if it was the first time that she’d thought about it since scaling the balcony. ‘It appeared to be the only way to make your acquaintance.’
‘And what was so important about that?’ he asked. ‘Curious if you are living next door to a murderer?’
