Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  That marriage had never occurred.

  The coach moved lazily through building traffic, easily keeping a distance from the quarry.

  “I lost a man once in Kent,” he mused, watching the crowds on the street.

  “My lord?” the boy prompted.

  “Damnable thing. Damnable results. I lost him, and he circled around and killed two of my men.”

  One of his men and the man’s friend, who’d insisted on coming along. Lady Jane’s brother had died that day, along with Dempsey.

  Hackwell’s coach wound its way to the Burlington Arcade and discharged its passenger. She took no more than a few steps before Hackwell’s footman caught up with her.

  Jane turned on the man with more intensity than he’d ever seen her display.

  Ewan was already opening the door, but Shaldon stayed him.

  “I’ll go,” he told the boy.

  “But, my lord…”

  He climbed out of the coach. “You lost her once.”

  He hadn’t lost a mark since that disaster in Kent. He wouldn’t lose her today.

  As she left her footman and blended into the crowd, Shaldon pulled down the brim of his hat and followed.

  She wasn’t here to shop. She simply kept moving, brisk and sure, all the way through the arcade and onto the street beyond.

  * * *

  Jane slipped up the empty staircase quietly and knocked on a dark paneled door, waiting. Light filtered in through a skylight above, highlighting the fading paint, nicked moldings, and worn stair runners.

  The door opened and the starched servant who answered flashed her an astonished look.

  She handed him her card and put a hand on the door. “I’m here to see Mr. Penderbrook.”

  He cast a worried look over his shoulder.

  She slid one sturdy half-boot forward. “Is he presentable?”

  “He is…” He glanced at the card. “He is at breakfast, my, er, lady.”

  Pasting on a smile, she pushed the door open and brushed past him.

  Quentin Penderbrook was a young man of four-and-twenty, but the look on his face when he saw her was that of an astonished toddler. Wonder and shame warred in her, as it had each time she’d seen him.

  But she must proceed. She was tired of lies and secrets, and he, above all people, deserved the truth.

  If she could bring herself to it, he also deserved a good dressing-down.

  He shot to his feet and fumbled with the ties of his banyan. A bachelor, he’d just risen from his bed and strolled into the next room to dine, much as she’d done in the rooms she’d taken last year when she and Sirena arrived in London.

  “My lady.” The servant hovered nearby.

  She turned on him. “I must speak with Mr. Penderbrook in private.” She handed him a coin, and he looked at it, perplexed.

  Not very bright, this servant.

  “Run out to the corner and buy Mr. Penderbrook whichever newspaper he is missing.”

  When Penderbrook nodded, his man left.

  “My lady, I’ll just go and finish dressing.”

  His trousers peeked out below his dressing gown and above his house slippers.

  “No. Please be seated.”

  Fumbling again with his banyan, he looked around. “Will you join me? Have a, er, coffee?”

  She nodded and began to pace. He picked up the serving pot and put it down again. Only one cup and saucer graced the table.

  “I’m quite fine,” she said.

  He remained standing.

  He was a gentleman, with handsome looks, and handsome manners. He wouldn’t sit unless she did.

  She pulled over a chair and sat, and so did he, perching on the very edge of his seat.

  “Are you well, my lady?” he asked. “I’d heard a rumor you were…you had not returned from Yorkshire.”

  She shook her head. “I should, perhaps, have done this differently. But I am here, and I will speak.”

  His eyes went impossibly wider and he sat up straighter. “No, my lady, let me call you a hackney and escort you home. You are too far above me…I am a mere vicar’s ward.”

  Laughter bubbled in her along with tears. She swallowed both back and struggled to remain dignified, as if that were possible in this circumstance.

  “You misunderstand,” she said, “and I am so very s-sorry…” She cleared her throat. “I should have spoken to you earlier, after we met at Mr. Charles Everly’s wedding.” She had sat beside Penderbrook in the carriage that day, wanting ever so much to embrace him.

  She should have spoken to him earlier, or…not at all. She could still leave.

  No—it was too late. She couldn’t leave Quentin thinking she was a middle-aged lady looking at him with amorous intent. The very thought made her skin crawl.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Walker, the vicar who brought you up, were he and his wife good to you?”

  He blinked.

  “You called them uncle and aunt, did you not?”

  Now a sharp look crossed his face, but he quickly schooled it. “They were both very kind.”

  That relieved a burden on her heart. “They never remonstrated you about your…about your parentage?”

  He blinked. “What?” A red tint bloomed on his cheeks. “They were very kind.”

  “You’ve grown into a fine gentleman.”

  “Thanks to my uncle and aunt. They provided me everything.”

  She nodded. “Everything. Good.”

  “What is this about?”

  The reports to her through the years had been accurate. Quentin’s childhood had been a happy one. “They took excellent care of you. I’m so very glad.”

  “My lady…” His voice rising, he stood, and so did she. “My lady, let me escort you home. You are distressed, and—”

  “Penderbrook,” she said, “Quentin. I am…I am your mother.”

  She flinched. Her voice had risen also. There was no telling if these walls were thick, or if the other tenants might have heard. Color swept up his neck and his hands fisted.

  If she’d wished for a happy ending, this wouldn’t be it.

  There was relief in the telling, yet life seemed to bleed from her, and she moved sluggishly nearer the door.

  Still, she must finish what she came here to do. Reluctantly, she turned back to him. “I am aware of your gambling debt.”

  That knowledge caused his high color to drain. His lips went to purple, genuinely worrying her.

  “Perhaps you should sit, dear boy.”

  “My lady, you should leave now,” he said, voice quaking.

  “I want you to know, I mean to continue to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  She winced at the shouted words. “I’m sorry. I’ve bungled this. If you ever wish to know about your f-family, you have only to contact me. Otherwise, my solicitor will be in touch when I’ve secured the funds you need.”

  “I know my family, my lady. And I don’t need your help. I have prospects and my income from…” He paused and his mouth dropped open.

  From me.

  “My dear boy.” She turned away before he could see the tears threatening. “Farewell.”

  She pulled open the door and came face to face with Shaldon.

  Chapter 9

  Panic tore through her. Dear God, how much had he heard of what she realized now was a very loud conversation?

  She caught her breath. “My lord.”

  “Lady Jane,” he said, all affability. His face was…softer, kinder.

  He’d heard.

  Her face heated. Her fingers curled into fists.

  She’d kept her secret for over two decades, and now the nosiest, most irritating, most interfering man in all of England, a man who’d almost seduced her, knew the truth. Oh, he wouldn’t share it, that she knew, but he’d find a way to use it against her all the same.

  Damn and blast it all. She’d sell his damned painting and not think twice about it.

 
; She slid past him. A hand wrapped her arm, the touch firm.

  “You are most welcome back at Shaldon House.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Thank you, Shaldon.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With friends.”

  “I fear your failure to return to us was due to my conduct.”

  Heat pounded through her again. “I always hasten to remember what they say about visitors and fish kept for too long.” She shook her arm free and escaped down the stairs.

  A tall red-haired boy lingered outside near the street. Could her afternoon get any worse?

  When he fell in behind her, she rounded on him.

  “Go away, Ewan,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, I can’t.”

  She stepped out into the street and he pulled her back, in time to save her from a speeding phaeton.

  Pulse pounding, she drew in a breath. She didn’t want to die this day, not really.

  “Thank you, Ewan. You may escort me as far as Burlington Arcade. My carriage is waiting there.”

  He offered his arm, and still quaking inside, she took it. It was a solid arm for one so young, and she wondered if Ewan treated his own mother this kindly. She suspected he did. He was likely respectful, and considerate and kind, and very likely he loved his mother.

  Quentin Penderbrook despised his, and what could she expect?

  Perhaps she should have stayed in Ireland and let him dig his way out of his own gambling debts. He was a grown man and didn’t need a phantom mother coddling him.

  But, oh, the hurt she’d seen on his face—she’d caused that.

  Tears welled and tipped over her lashes and she battled them back.

  They found the Hackwell carriage and Ewan helped her in.

  “Don’t follow me,” she said.

  The boy gave her a direct look, his hazel eyes clear above all his freckles. “My lady, I lost you once. If I lose you again, Lord Shaldon will sack me.”

  “And if he does, you can go back to the Gibsons.”

  “And then Mr. Gibson will sack me. The truth is, we all worried something terrible had happened to you somewhere on that road, you and the maid. Until I saw your shawl and knew you were on your way to London.”

  The shawl. Jenny had been so right. Thank God the girl had been bold enough to speak up.

  “Is the maid—”

  “With me? Yes. I’m sorry to have caused you worry.” She signaled the coachman and they pulled away. With the state of the traffic, Ewan would have no trouble following her. She must send a warning to Jenny, Mr. Lewis, and his wife to not answer the door.

  * * *

  A few minutes earlier…

  * * *

  Shaldon lingered a moment on the sidewalk getting his bearings. He knew the residence Lady Jane had slipped into. It was, in fact, his afternoon destination. And what the devil was she doing visiting a single young man here?

  Jealousy pricked at him, but he shook it off. He knew of women Jane’s age and older who took a favorite footman or other young buck to bed. Jane wouldn’t.

  Would she? There was passion in the lady, bottled up for years. Would she go after Penderbrook?

  The boy passed himself off as an orphan, raised in the care of a country vicar he called uncle. He might well be a wealthy man’s by-blow well-concealed, but he doubted his son Charles would have stayed friends with the boy if he was hiring himself out to older ladies as some sort of cicisbeo.

  And if not that, what would he have to do with Lady Jane?

  A servant rushed out of the door and down the street, just as Ewan appeared.

  “I stayed back, my lord,” Ewan said. “She didn’t see me. And you might need me.”

  He sighed. “Disobedient, but in this case your instincts might be correct. Wait here. If she appears without me, follow her.”

  He crept up the staircase. Most of the rooms were quiet, but muffled voices from an upper story were a beacon. The walls and doors of this narrow home were thin.

  When he reached Penderbrook’s door he paused and pressed an ear to the panel.

  “My lady, let me escort you home. You are distressed, and—”

  “Penderbrook. Quentin. I am your mother.”

  Shaldon’s breath caught as it almost never did, his mind careening in dizzying calculations. Was it possible? Penderbrook was…younger than Charles, yes, but Lady Jane was still not yet forty.

  But she’d gone off to Ireland after her cousin inherited, and her grief might not have been the only reason for the journey.

  He’d been too busy to pay attention.

  Blast it all to hell, he hadn’t wanted to think about Jane then. Thoughts of her and her brother always came with a hefty dose of guilt, a useless emotion, one he didn’t indulge in if he could help it.

  And guilty he was, and how she must hate him.

  “I am aware of your gambling debt.”

  A worrisome pause ensued. Might she need his assistance? Penderbrook was a gentleman, but young men did not like to have their faults scrutinized, especially by women.

  “Perhaps you should sit, dear boy,” she said.

  “My lady, you should leave now.”

  Shaldon put his hand on the latch.

  “I want you to know, I mean to continue to help you.”

  The voices grew louder. He stepped back from the door.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve bungled this. If you ever wish to know about your f-family, you have only to contact me. Otherwise, my solicitor will be in touch when I’ve secured the funds you need.”

  And how was she to do that?

  “I know my family, my lady. And I don’t need your help. I have prospects and my income from…”

  Penderbrook’s income had been from Jane.

  That truth was a sharp blade to him. Penderbrook must be reeling.

  He’d missed it—he who prided himself on seeing the secret failings and hidden desires of everyone around him. Jane had borne a child. She’d used her inheritance to support an illegitimate son, all the while living like a poor relation.

  Because her brother had died.

  “My dear boy. Farewell.”

  He’d barely registered the sadness in her voice when the door opened.

  Astonishment lit her face. All the color drained and then surged back up her neck and into her cheeks.

  And he knew. He knew how she meant to secure the funds.

  She slid past him.

  “Jane.” He touched her arm, so fragile and yet so strong. “You are most welcome back at Shaldon House.”

  “Thank you, Shaldon.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With friends.”

  Guilt rose and clogged his breathing. Botched missions that ruined the lives of innocents were all too often a part of this business. That particular botched mission had been his failure, and this woman had suffered for it.

  He cleared his throat. “I fear your failure to return to us was due to my conduct.”

  Color flooded her again, turning her cheeks a brighter shade of red. “I always hasten to remember what they say about visitors and fish kept for too long.”

  It was a lie, and they needed to be done with lies, he and Jane.

  He watched her hasten down the stairs. Ewan would be there to watch over her, and this time the boy would not lose her.

  He stepped into the rooms and closed the door.

  “M-my lord.” The young man in front of him gave a ludicrous bow, given the state of his undress, and then swiped a hand through his hair.

  “Quite a morning for you, isn’t it?” Shaldon placed his hat on a stack of papers. “You’ve made a hash of that last call. Let’s see if you can do better with this one. Fetch another cup and—no, on second thought, I think something stronger is in order.”

  “Brandy?”

  He nodded, and the boy went for the bottle and glasses.

  He hated the stuff, but they bot
h needed something to stiffen their pride, both of theirs just crushed by a woman.

  Penderbrook poured and they clinked glasses and drank.

  “Did you…hear, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t…I never suspected. How old…how can it be possible? I’m sorry.”

  A memory came to him—the Cheswick parlor, Lady Jane looking up adoringly into Reginald Dempsey’s face, and Dempsey returning a grin that was…playful, he’d thought then.

  Now he knew. That had been lust, satisfied, and damn it all, he hadn’t suspected then.

  “You will have to ask her those details, and you may do so…tomorrow night. There must be some ball, or rout, or some such.”

  “The Kennerly musicale.”

  “Good. Were you invited?”

  Penderbrook nodded.

  “I’ll make sure Lady Jane attends.”

  “How?”

  He fixed the young man with a stern gaze. The boy needed hardening. He’d been coddled and pampered by the bookish vicar who’d raised him. He’d been seeking a position in the Foreign Office, but he’d never make a spy or a diplomat. First, he needed to step up and be a man.

  For Jane’s sake, he would settle the boy’s debts, and then he would find Penderbrook another type of post. After the boy made amends with his mother.

  “You’ll send her a note, asking to speak to her there. Lady Bakeley will ensure she attends.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Penderbrook went to a sideboard and retrieved a sheet of parchment. “Where is she staying?”

  “You may send it in my care.”

  Penderbrook lifted his quill, but Shaldon stayed his hand. “You will write the note before we leave, but first we will talk about your debts to Major Payne-Elsdon. Has the man called you out on them?”

  The boy’s Adam’s apple rippled and a mulish look came over him. “Not yet, my lord. I’ve…I’ve been expecting his challenge every day.”

  “And how did you come to gamble so much with him?”

  “I’ve only wagered with him a couple of times when I…when I was much in my cups. And I’d paid those wagers with the help of my…”

  Penderbrook’s jaw dropped.

  “Your mother.”

  The boy swiped a hand through his hair, perspiration rising on his brow. “I thought the funds came from my guardian.” He colored deeply. “I had no idea.”