The Countess Read Free Page A

collar.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” I said. “But I don’t remember doing that. Lord Anston was a lifelong friend of my grandfather’s. I play the pianoforte much better than I sing. My fingers are melodious, not my throat.”
    â€œHe told me who you were. I must admit that it surprised me. How small the world shows itself sometimes. You’re Peter Wilton’s cousin. I’ve known Peter since we were boys at Eton. You’re Andrea. Peter has spoken of you countless times.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I’m not Andrea. You’ve made a dreadful, yet perfectly understandable, mistake. Mistakes happen. You will not dwell upon it. You will forget it by tomorrow. Good-bye. I wish you a good day.”
    I looked back when I reached the corner. He was standing there, just looking after me, his head still cocked in question. He raised his hand to me, then slowly lowered his arm and turned away.
    It was the third time I’d seen him, and I still didn’t know who he was. Just his first name: John . A common, ordinary name, but I knew he wasn’t either of those things.
    Knowing his first name was fine. I wouldn’t ever know anything more about him. I knew to the soles of my slippers that he was dangerous.
    Any man who wore laughter like a well-loved shirt was dangerous.

C hapter Two

    I was lying on one of Grandfather’s beautiful Axminster carpets, my feet propped up on his big leather chair, reading about my hero, Lord Nelson. If only I had been aboard the Victory with him, to guard his back, I know that he would still be alive today. At least he had known he’d won the battle before he died. Now he was only a beloved memory, a part of history, a hero for the ages and the pages of books. But I’d wager anytime that he’d rather be here, with me, telling me his adventures, particularly the amorous ones involving Mrs. Hamilton. Ah, what wickedness, Grandfather would say. Not that I approved, but that was the way things were. I’d learned that at a very young age. It was infuriating, and it was despicable, but it was the way things were.
    â€œA man’s man he was,” Grandfather had told me more times than I could remember. “He didn’t cater to incompetence, deplored the madness of the king, fought the ministry to get enough money, ships, and men to fight those damnable French, and he remained true to his country. I knew him well. I willnever know another man with more guts and courage.”
    And, sometimes, when Grandfather was feeling a bit of the devil’s encouragement, he would tell me how Lady Hamilton had wanted him, not Lord Nelson, but Grandfather had been married, more’s the pity, and so she’d had to accept Lord Nelson. “He was short, you know, Andy. Dreadfully short, but he made up for it with brains. Sometimes his brains didn’t help him, though. He couldn’t seem to figure out how to keep the ladies happy, despite all those brains he had. Not to say that ladies are stupid—they’re not. Just look at your grandmother; now, there was a lady who kept me at half-mast, her tongue and her brain worked so well together. Well-oiled, both tongue and brain.
    â€œNo, what I mean is that Lord Nelson was always coming up with excellent new strategies, and never one of them involved how to make a lady happy.”
    I wanted to ask him where he got that precious theory. I wanted to tell him that men only wanted to make themselves happy. Once they had a woman in their power, why would they care?
    â€œAndy, where the devil are you?”
    I looked up at my cousin, Peter.
    â€œPeter.” I had to look a long way up to get to his face. “Goodness, you’re in Paris. But now you’re not. You’re here.”
    â€œAnd you’re lying there on the floor with your feet up and a book pressed to your nose. I’ve pictured you in my mind that way more times than you can