The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter Page A

rude as to call on a lady as a stranger in hopes of the latter, but I am not.” It was an insult to suspect he would do that. Perhaps, however, there was a reason why it did not insult
her
.
    She gave him a good examination. “I expect you are not.”
    â€œWhat else does he say?” It did not appear to be a brief letter.
    â€œHe thanks me for writing to wish him well on his marriage, but very subtly and kindly discourages me from writing again in the future.” She made a sad little smile, then laughed. “Of course he must marry the daughter of one equal to himself. And English, of course. It is normal.”
    It was not his place to explain that there had been little normal about Ambury’s choice of wife, nor that if he had wanted to marry a Frenchwoman whom strange men called on for favors of a special kind, he was the sort to do so. “Very normal.”
    â€œAnd you, milord. Do you have such a normal marriage?”
    Madame Peltier had broached an intimate topic with alarming speed. He decided to discourage her from spinning any webs. “I intend to one day. Very soon.” He added the last part in response to a rapacious gleam that entered Madame Peltier’s far too interested dark eyes. It reminded him of the lights in the eyes of men who view a horse at Tattersalls that they would not mind owning.
    â€œBien.”
The word sighed out of her. It signaled resignation, from the tone and from the less flirtatious way she gazed at him. “Tell me what you want. I will try to help you and one day, perhaps you will help me.”
    He had not expected this to be without cost, but her bluntness surprised him. He noticed that she spoke very good English as she clearly articulated the bargain. Almost as good as Marielle. Unlike Marielle, however, she had lost little of her accent and it caused the sentences to inflect oddly, and to rise when native English might fall. She was one of those whom Marielle considered lazy for not listening and trying to imitate. Of course Madame Peltier had never been trained to listen and imitate. Either that or her accent lent her charm in London so she had little incentive to lose it.
    â€œI have come to ask you to tell me what you know about Marielle Lyon.”
    â€œAhh.” She looked toward the window, thinking. “Little Marielle.” She tsked her tongue lightly. She returned her attention to him. “I know her, of course. We all know each other.”
    â€œDo you believe her story?”
    â€œI have no reason not to. And yet . . . all is not right there, to me.”
    He hoped his silence would encourage her to continue. Eventually it did.
    â€œIt is too much,” she said. “The old dresses that make her appear both lovely and helpless. I picture her carefully tearing the lace just so, for effect. The long shawls—they become her too well. How convenient that she owned them and was able to bring them out with her. The way she dirties her hands with that odd studio. There are ways to make one’s way beyond starting a little factory, no?”
    â€œI expect so.”
    â€œI know the suspicions that she is a charlatan. I have been there when she is put to the test. She makes no mistakes.” She leaned toward him like a conspirator. “None at all. It is not normal. We all forget things from our youths. But poor Marielle, she remembers it all. The name of the comte’s horse. That he liked currants in his porridge. Little things that his own daughter might not remember, Marielle can recite like a lesson.”
    â€œI admire your perception.”
    â€œThen there is the way she speaks,” she added, ignoring his flattery.
    â€œHer English?”
    â€œHer French. Usually it is most correct. The language of Paris, as would be taught to her in a good home of a comte’s niece. One day, however, not long after she arrived, I was at the home of a family with three children when she