Miranda Phipps

 Chapter One: In Which One Fraud Makes the Acquaintance of Another
And, after all, what is a lie?/ ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade. –George Gordon, Lord Byron

What happens when Damien Cross-the ton’s most opinionated rake-passes judgment on the mysterious Lady Louisa, his best friend’s prospective fiancé? The Earl discovers that unveiling this lady’s deception risks exposure of his own charade.

As in all such cases where Damien Cross was called upon to exercise his notoriously infallible judgment, he held his newly-formed opinion of Louisa Edgeworth-the purported daughter of the long-dead Earl of Fraser-with total certitude: The woman was a liar.
The society paper accounts of Lady L.’s mysterious appearance at the beginning of the social season foreshadowed as much. No one recalled having met the beauty before, and she declined all overtures to explain herself. None of it really mattered though, for the Dowager Duchess of Beaumont was this lady’s sponsor. Damien had to admire her genius in selecting the Duchess as the unsuspecting pigeon in the scheme. Lady Beaumont was little known in society, having spent much of the past three decades mourning the remarkable loss of every single one of her relations-near and extended. Through her misfortune, the Duchess had amassed not only an extensive wardrobe of widow’s weeds but an estate of staggering proportions. Louisa Edgeworth, daughter of Lady Beaumont’s only brother, had graciously saved her aunt the headache of choosing an heir.
But Damien couldn’t judge Lady Louisa based on the observations of commercial hacks. After all, he had his reputation to maintain. Not as the Earl of Coulter, of course, but as the Final Arbiter: the common title he’d acquired in reference to his unique ability to assess every situation with uncanny accuracy. Almost every situation, Damien corrected, thinking back to that night almost ten years ago when he inherited the Earldom from his elder brother, James. Damien twisted his brother’s carved signet ring around his finger as he remembered. Since that time, the Final Arbiter had treated the power latent in his abilities with much greater circumspection.
So, on the night of the Duchess of Alderman’s annual ball, Damien overcame his aversions to weak lemonade, overheated rooms and polite society, to assess the lady in person. He had the information he needed within moments of her arrival, for the woman’s ultimate tell-and all liars have one-was her utter lack of pretension as she greeted Lady Alderman. The true daughter of an earl would wear her station like an ermine mantle. This lady might as well have been wearing homespun for all she cared about status.

Not that it mattered what she wore, Damien thought as he assessed her thick auburn hair, delicate features and well-formed figure, accentuated to perfection by a gown of whisper-thin silk. She was, in short-

“Incomparable. Eh, Coulter?” finished Robert Fitzroy, Baron Grafton, as he slapped Damien on the back. “What are you doing here, with every mama out to clap us bachelors in legshackles?”

“Surprised to see you here as well, Grafton. Feeling better? I missed our regular bout at Gentleman Jackson’s earlier today,” Damien said, intentionally giving his best friend a hard time. He had stopped by Grafton’s townhouse earlier in the day to check on his ill friend, only to learn from the indiscreet butler that his master was out calling on Lady Louisa.

“Ah, you know. I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you, Coulter. We’ve had a good time-a very good time-over the years but I’m ready to settle down.” Grafton glanced back at Lady Louisa, wordlessly confirming Damien’s suspicions.

“Grafton, about that woman, I’m not sure how best to tell you-” Damien began.

Grafton’s eyes narrowed. “What of her. You’re not after her, are you?”

“No, certainly not. Nothing like that.” Damien resolved to adjourn the conversation to the nearest taproom. “You said it best, she is incomparable.”

Relief flooded his friend’s face. “Glad to have the Final Arbiter’s approval in this matter. I’d best be off. I’ve a private conversation to arrange.”

Grafton began to plow through the crowd, but the familiar slap of a fan on his shoulder halted his own progress.

“Damien Ethan Barnstable Cross, I am very vexed.”

“Ah. Mother,” he said, turning around. He bussed her proffered cheek.

“I sent a note asking you to accompany me here this evening. You didn’t even reply, Damien. In what gaming hell did you wager and lose your good breeding, I wonder. I would like to redeem it.”

“Mother, you know I don’t attend balls.”

She elevated one eyebrow.

“Tonight is different.”

“Fine. But now that I have you, there is someone I want you to meet.”

Minutes later, Louisa Edgeworth and her chaperone made the chilly acquaintance of the Earl of Coulter.

“It’s lovely to see you in society again, Duchess,” his mother said in an apparent attempt to thaw out the icicles formed in the course of the introductions.

“Sponsoring my niece has given me a new sense of purpose,” said the Duchess as pleasure lit her eyes. “I just have to ensure Louisa’s not married off to some old codger who wants his wife to rusticate in the country along with his sheep. She’s had enough of that already.”

“The country isn’t all bad, Aunt,” replied Lady Louisa with a laugh, “although truth be told I’d prefer a younger husband.” She squeezed Lady Beaumont’s hand affectionately. “I have to be careful what I ask for, Countess. Knowing the generosity of Lady Beaumont, she’ll do her utmost to indulge my wishes.”

Disgust surged in Damien’s gut. The woman enjoyed exploiting the Duchess.

Damien spotted Grafton at the top of the balcony, surveying the crowd. He had to stop this harpy before should could claim her next victim. Damien manacled Lady Louisa’s slender wrist, hauling her toward the dance floor. Imprisoning her in his arms as they joined the waltz, Damien kept his eye on Grafton and tried to ignore his partner.

Lady Louisa didn’t cooperate in the endeavor. “Will the Final Arbiter be taking this opportunity to question me?” she asked.

He shook his in the negative, and a tendril of lilac scent unfurled provocatively beneath his nose. The traitorous appendage inhaled.

“Funny,” she remarked, almost to herself, “based on the moniker, I’d expected you to be more of a prig.”

His gaze snapped down to her face. Her eyes, the color of a summer sky, held no mockery.

“More of a prig?” he echoed, attempting to confirm that she had actually called the Earl of Coulter-rake of the first order-a prig.

“Well if the Final Arbiter isn’t going to quiz me about my past, then I’ll just have to ask after his. Truth told I am much intrigued by your powers of critical assessment and the reason you employ them so strenuously to protect your friends.”

Damien looked at her lips and considered the strenuous employment of an altogether different set of skills.

“Do you seek some kind of mythical status among them?” she persisted. “Paris was a mere mortal, but much revered by the gods for his good judgment, if you recall.”

“Until he abandoned all reason in abducting the fair Helen and incited the Trojan War. I don’t make poor judgments, my lady.” He spotted Grafton across the room and abruptly changed direction. His body savored the intimate tangle of her skirts between his legs as another organ threatened to turn traitor.

“Ah. So if not the attainment of rank, what is your object?” she mused aloud. “Guilt can be a strong motive. It often inspires my own actions.”

“Guilt drives your actions?” Damien pulled her full length against him. “How can you possibly suggest we share the same motive?” he seethed. He wasn’t sure what incensed him more: her self-serving lies or how close she came to seeing through him.

Lady Louisa didn’t flinch. “Well, one needs an awfully good reason to go about masquerading all the time, don’t you think? Of course, you pretend to know all the answers, Lord Coulter, and I pretend to-”

Damien had heard enough. He thrust her away, realizing too late that his ring had snagged the on the delicate fabric of her gown. He watched helplessly as her bodice tore open. Lady Louisa clapped her arms across her chest.

“Coulter,” Grafton growled next to him. The man did not appear to enjoy having his future intended stripped half-naked in a ballroom by his best friend.

Damien attempted to explain. “I didn’t want to tell you here, Grafton, but you can’t ask for this woman.”

Grafton began to remove his evening jacket.

Damien started talking without fully considering the consequences of his words. Just like he did the night James died. “She’s a fraud, Grafton. For God’s sake, don’t you see it?”

By way of reply, Grafton slammed his fist into Damien’s nose.