Free The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter

bent her curls to listen to the confidence offered. When she straightened again, she looked less distressed. “Madame says that she overheard them talking and knows where they went.”
    â€œThem?”
    â€œShe left with Dominique—Madame Bertrand. She is Marielle’s woman servant. It is normal for her to open the door, of course, not I.”
    â€œOf course. It was good of you to permit me entry at all.”
    â€œI only delayed while I overcame my surprise that you had unexpectedly honored us. I did not expect a man like yourself to call. Your card only confirmed the fact I had already guessed. I know a person’s high birth immediately, milord.”
    â€œAs do I, Madame LaTour.” He made a vague bow, as acknowledgment that he saw it now. “Since we have this in common, would you consider trusting me with what this other woman here overheard? Miss Lyon and I have some friends in common. Perhaps she went to visit them.”
    B righton could be delightful in the summer, when society enjoyed its sun and sparkling coast and when lovely breezes wafted into windows. Marielle always enjoyed her visits to the town in July and August.
    March showed her a very different environment. The wind off the water carried an icy bite. Gray clouds hung low. The sea appeared the color of steel. A fine rain fell.
    She walked down the lane flanked by houses, wishing she had brought a wool shawl and not the dark silk one that she now clutched to her body. She peered at buildings that appeared of recent construction. She consulted a list that she carried, noted the third address, and forged on. She spied the small To Let sign in a low window of a house two doors away from the next crossroad.
    She knocked. Mr. Tilbury, the estate agent, opened the door.
    He beamed a smile at her. His thick spectacles caused his eyes to appear like tiny black dots in his very pale face. His blond hair was so light as to be mistaken for aged white. “You are a little late, Miss Lyon.”
    â€œI had several other houses to see.”
    â€œAlas, you are alone again too. Your cousin did not make it down from town, I see.”
    The cousin he referred to had been a fiction created so that Mr. Tilbury would accommodate her. Estate agents did not take well to women on their own, least of all French ones of questionable fortune. “He must have been delayed. I would wait for him, but men do not know much about hiring a house anyway.”
    â€œHe will be here to sign the papers, I am sure.” His inflection made it a question.
    â€œOf course
.
” If a man had to sign the lease, she would provide a man to do so.
    Mr. Tilbury showed her into the dining room. While he extolled the moldings and prospects, she assessed how many tables it would hold for print work. She paced it off, taking a rough measurement. She checked the windows to be sure that trees would not dim the natural light too much in summer. She studied the garden outside to determine if the plantings would give her the necessary privacy, but not too easily hide an intruder.
    Mr. Tilbury grew restless after a quarter hour had passed. He pulled out his watch and made a face. “Miss Lyon, could we tour the rest of the house more quickly? I have another meeting several blocks away and should leave soon. The steward of a most illustrious man requires that I show him several suitable domiciles for his lord.”
    â€œMy cousin would have grown impatient by now too. It is just as well he was delayed. As for your meeting, go to it, m’sieur. Your efficiency indicates that you will be done with those other two houses before I am done with this one.”
    The two points of his eyes grew smaller yet while he frowned over that idea.
    â€œM’sieur, I am hardly going to steal something. The house is empty. There is not so much as a pillow to take.”
    â€œI was not thinking—that is, I am responsible for—” He flushed. “No doubt