His Counterfeit Condesa (Historical Romance) by Joanna Fulford

engrossed in what his companion was saying. She noticed that herswere not the only eyes to turn his way. Several of the ladies present evidently found him attractive, too. He stepped easily into his part, she thought, adopting the aristocratic manners that came so naturally to him. No one would question his identity. With his dark good looks, arrogant bearing and impeccable Spanish he might indeed have been the hidalgo he presented.
    ‘Do you stay long in Aranjuez, Condesa?’
    Sabrina turned to her companion, an ageing and portly gentleman who had been introduced as Señor Jorge Gonzalez, who had some government role in the capital.
    ‘I regret not,’ she replied.
    ‘What a pity.’
    ‘My husband does not like to be long away from home.’
    ‘Well, in these times it is understandable. No doubt he prefers to live quietly and manage his estates.’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘And you, Condesa, do you not hanker after the bright lights of the city?’
    ‘The social whirl of Madrid holds few charms for me,
señor,’
she said. It was true as far as it went.
    He snorted. ‘It holds few charms for anyone since the usurper Joseph took the throne.’
    ‘Can he hold it, do you think?’
    ‘Not if the Spanish people have their way. He’ll be sent packing and the sooner the better.’
    Don Pedro glanced across the table. ‘Our alliance with the English will put paid to Bonaparte’s ambitions in our country.’
    ‘The way things are going, his upstart family will soon govern most of Europe,’ replied Gonzalez.
    Murmurs of agreement greeted this. Sabrina lookedacross at Falconbridge and met his eye again. His expression was enigmatic. He had not taken a leading role in the discussion that evening, seeming content to listen for the most part. Given his guise as Ordoñez, it was understandable. However, she knew he missed nothing.
    ‘The French will not long hold Spain,’ said Don Pedro. ‘Already the guerrilla tactics of the partisan forces are telling.’
    Gonzalez nodded. ‘Men like El Cuchillo, you mean.’
    ‘Exactly,’ his host replied. ‘Hit the French and then run. It’s an effective strategy. All the same, there will be more battles before the enemy is driven from our soil.’
    As she listened, Sabrina thought of the plans she and her companion had come to collect and hoped that they would provide the key to allied military success. So far as she knew no private conference had yet taken place between Falconbridge and their host, but it would soon enough. Once he had the plans their real task would begin. In the meantime, there was the ball. Part of her was looking forward to it; in her life such events were rare and thus the more valued, but it carried a strong element of risk. If anyone present actually knew the real Conde de Ordoñez. She shivered inwardly. The penalties for spying were severe. It was a chance one took. She had always known that.
    * * *
    Later, when the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, the conversation took a different direction and Sabrina was content to listen. Once someone asked about her putative son, Miguel, and she made what she hoped was a convincing reply. It occurred to her then for the first time that it might be pleasant to have children of herown one day. Nothing could have been further removed from the life she had been living hitherto, and yet the idea did not displease her. Of course, it would have to be with the right man. Falconbridge’s face imposed itself on her memory. In one of their earlier conversations he had told her he liked children. She thought he would make a good father. That was a foolish notion of course, given what she knew of his past. Besides, he had no interest in her beyond the completion of a duty. He had told her he was married to his career. Knowing that, she was unaccountably saddened.
    * * *
    The gathering broke up just after eleven. Everyone knew that the following night would be a late one, for the ball would go on into the early hours, and had