Free The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter Page A

you are correct and I will return before you are done, at this pace. Are you sure that you will be comfortable alone here?”
    â€œI doubt that, since there is not even a stool on which to sit. I will be safe, however. All the thieves know by now that there is nothing to be had inside this house.”
    He lingered awhile anyway, fretting and glancing at his watch. Finally he could wait no longer. “I will return soon. If you finish and choose to leave, write to me and let me know what you have decided.”
    She saw him off with some relief. There was nothing worse than a man hovering, watch in hand, when she wanted to take her time and do something well and correctly. This house had possibilities, but she would not know if it would do unless she inspected it from attics to cellars. She needed to picture it in use by Dominique and herself and the women who would come here to earn a few shillings very discreetly, in order to keep body and soul together.
    The cellars proved to be shallow, perhaps due to the nearby sea. The kitchen was not below as a result, but in a small out-building snug alongside the garden entrance to the home. The inconvenience of that arrangement did not discourage her. She assumed it meant she could get the lease for less money, since members of good society would not want a kitchen right off the veranda where they might entertain guests.
    Her spirits rose on the thought. If she let a house here, she would still also be responsible for the one in London. If something went wrong and her trade did not expand to cover both, her savings would be depleted fast. She could ill afford that. She saved that money for a reason. She had for years and did not want her great goal set back now.
    She made her way up to the attic, and its chambers for storage and servants. It would be a long day before she had many of the latter again, but it was nice to know there would be room should that day ever come. Descending to the next level, she threw open doors to inspect the bedchambers.
    It was a good house, she decided, and much nicer than the one in London. She had taken that one before she had any income, and its neighborhood required vigilance. By the time she earned enough to consider leaving and finding a house more suitable to the niece of a comte, it had become home to her.
    Home. The emotions conjured up by that word, of respite and safety and comfort, had been ruined now. She hated how she felt vulnerable in her home now. She resented that the past might have found
her
after she had planned for years to have it go the other way.
    A chill shivered through her as she considered how that attack had changed her world. Her nape prickled much the way it had in the alley when she realized the men who waited were not Luc and Éduard. She knew in her soul that she no longer could count on having more time to make herself ready for her quest.
    How long before other men came looking for her? How long before they did not have to wait in an alley, but learned her name and could show up at her door? If they had the engravings, not long at all. Even if they ran off empty-handed, it might not take much thought to deduce her identity.
    Maybe it would not happen like that. Perhaps they would not come here, but lure her back to France. They had the best bait in the world, after all.
    She studied the bedchamber in which she stood with new eyes, those of a knight assessing fortifications. If she needed to take refuge in here, would the door latch and lock hold? If she had to—
    Another chill. The worst alarm filled her head. She did not move a hair while she listened.
    There had been footsteps below, she was certain. No, not certain, but—perhaps the fearful turn her thoughts had taken had her hearing that which was not there. Perhaps—
    Again. Clearer, this time. Had Mr. Tilbury returned so soon? It sounded like the man wore boots, and Mr. Tilbury had not been wearing boots. Nor did he walk with the sure, clear