by Linda Jones
Five more hands quickly joined Fletcher's. Max placed his hand atop them all. “For Jamie,” he whispered, and with as much reverence as the most heartfelt prayer the familiar vow was echoed in six separate voices.
"For Jamie."
"Have you heard the latest?"
Penelope wasn't surprised that her cousin hadn't bothered to knock before bursting into the bedchamber with her question. Mary was bright and bubbly and had much too much energy for her own good, and she rarely behaved in a mundane manner. Knocking on a door meant stopping and waiting for approval to enter, and that would have been quite an inconvenience.
"The latest about what?” Penelope, settled comfortably on the cherry window seat, lifted her head from the book she was reading. They'd been in the Charles Town house for three days, and already she missed the solitude and quiet of her uncle's rice plantation. She knew that Mary, on the other hand, loved Charles Town with her own special passion. The plantation had been much too tame for her liking.
"A mere two weeks ago, a number of dragoons were transporting a dangerous prisoner,” Mary said in a hushed voice as she sat on the side of the bed. Her green eyes were shining, her yellow gown was sunny, her bright red hair was slightly mussed, and Penelope thought, as she often did, that her cousin looked more like a child than a twenty-one-year-old woman. “The man was to be hanged right here in Charles Town, but en route he was liberated by a gang of ruffians."
"What was he to be hanged for?” Penelope laid her book aside to give her cousin the full attention that was always required.
"Sedition,” Mary whispered. “He's one of those revolutionaries who are so determined to stir up trouble. On three separate occasions he incited a crowd to a near riot with his ridiculous talk."
Penelope held back her opinion that a man shouldn't be executed for voicing his thoughts, because she knew it would be a useless exercise. Mary listened intently to every word her loyalist father uttered, and believed all he said without question. “I see."
"The captain of the dragoons said there were at least twenty men who ambushed them on the road and took the prisoner. The troopers put up a valiant fight, but the odds were insurmountable. Twenty against five,” she said with wonder in her eyes. “The leader of the brigands was an extremely large and strong one-armed man with fiery red eyes and silver hair."
"He should be easy to find, with that description.” Penelope couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face. Such drama! One arm, silver hair, and red eyes, indeed. By the time the tale reached Mary's ears, who knows how much of the telling was true?
"There was a woman involved,” Mary said dramatically. “A tall, extraordinary beautiful woman, they say. An amazon who fought like a warrior alongside the leader. I suspect,” she said in a lowered voice, “that they are lovers."
"Really,” Penelope said just as softly.
"The captain suspects that they might be in league with the natives,” Mary continued, “since they were able to move their forces through the forest without so much as rustling a leaf."
"Sounds most interesting."
Mary missed the trace of sarcasm in Penelope's voice and continued. “We should hear more about the Indigo Blade tomorrow night, at the Lowrys’ ball."
"The Indigo Blade?"
"That's what he calls himself,” Mary said breathlessly. “I can't believe Victor didn't mention it to you. The outlaw actually threatened Victor personally, giving a most frightening message to the brave captain as they fought."
The mention of Victor Chadwick wiped the smile from Penelope's face. “I haven't seen him since we arrived. I've had a bit of a headache, and really haven't felt up to receiving visitors.” A headache would give her a few days’ reprieve, but sooner or later she would have to face the persistent man who pursued her at every turn. Her uncle would never allow her to remain in this room, reading and drawing to pass the time, hiding from the unwanted attentions of a perfectly acceptable and marriageable candidate.
She couldn't avoid Victor much longer. Penelope knew she would not be able to excuse herself from the Lowrys’ much-anticipated ball, and her tenacious suitor was sure to be there. Already she dreaded the inevitable meeting.
"And even if I had,” she continued without showing her distress, “he knows I detest all talk of politics."
Mary leaned back on her hands. “I can't believe you haven't snatched that wonderful man up yet. You should be married and have two babies by now."
Inwardly, Penelope shuddered at the thought of marriage to Victor Chadwick. He was handsome, he was wealthy, and he held an important position in the government. But kind as he was, Penelope didn't return his ardor. She liked him as a dear family friend, but she didn't love him. The absence of love wasn't an argument she could use on Uncle William. He would simply counter that a woman in her position didn't choose a husband for love, but for money and power. Victor Chadwick had both.
Victor's last letter had hinted at another marriage proposal, and Penelope wasn't ready for the confrontation that was certain to come. Last year she'd refused him gently, but still he'd persisted, citing the fact that he was now past thirty and she was a marriageable twenty-three. Perhaps her refusal had been too gentle.
Her uncle thought a joining of his family with Chadwick a splendid idea, but would he go so far as to force her to marry Victor? She'd been in William Seton's care for ten years, since just after her thirteenth birthday, and she'd come to care for him almost as much as she had for her own father and mother. He had welcomed Penelope and her brother Tyler, who'd been five years old at the time, into his home, and from the first day he'd treated them as if they were his own. She respected her uncle, obeyed him, and cared for him deeply. But in this, she would defy him.
Defy him. She dreaded the thought. Since moving into her uncle's home, Penelope had done her best to be agreeable. More than that; she'd done her best to be well-behaved, helpful, and unobtrusive. Tyler was a trial, and even at the age of thirteen Penelope had been aware of the fact that Uncle William would be within his rights to be rid of his brother's children if they became too much of a burden. The more Tyler misbehaved, the harder Penelope tried to be the perfect niece.
Her uncle was pleased that she had a talent for painting, so she spent as much time as possible perfecting the small gift she'd been given. He didn't like to be disturbed in the evening, and to please him she took to retiring early so as not to disturb him in any way. She had been, since coming into his care, a perfectly agreeable niece. And now he wanted her to marry Victor Chadwick.
If only Mary were more Victor's type. Penelope had been aware for quite some time that her cousin adored the man and all he stood for, and would gratefully accept any attentions he sent her way. For a while Mary had flirted outrageously with him, bestowing upon him her brightest smiles and undivided attention, batting her lashes and looking at him in a way that would have had any other man groveling at her feet, but Victor could be blind when he chose.
Uncle William was not. On their last stay at the Charles Town house just a few months earlier, he'd berated Mary loudly for her inappropriate behavior, ending his tirade with the words Penelope dreaded hearing.
"Why can't you be more like your cousin Penelope?"
Surely Mary was as sick of the unfair comparison as Penelope was. Perhaps Mary wasn't genteel or serene or ladylike in the way her father wished, but she was bright and beautiful, like a butterfly who never stayed in one place too long, but flitted from one flower to another in endless and graceful motion. There were times Penelope wished she had some of her cousin's bravado, if nothing else.
"I can't wait for tomorrow night,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Our new gowns are fabulously beautiful, and it's been so long since we danced and laughed and gossiped in a crowd. I don't know that I'll remember what to do."
"I doubt that you've forgotten any of your social graces."
Mary's smile was wide and bright. “Maybe Victor will propose marriage."
"Bite your tongue!” Penelope snapped. Just hearing those words made her heart leap unpleasantly in her chest.
Some of the light went out of Mary's eyes, and her smile faded. “You shouldn't be ungrateful for his attentions."
"I'm not ungrateful.” A touch of guilt assaulted Penelope as she said the words. “It's just that I don't love Victor."
Penelope wondered if she really knew what love was, if she'd recognize it when—or if—it came to her.
"You're twenty-three years old,” Mary said sternly. “If you wait too much longer, you'll be an old maid and no one will want you, and then what will you do? Be mistress of my father's house for your remaining years? Be the dutiful daughter he always wanted me to be?"
Penelope waited for the flash of anger to pass. Mary had a tendency to anger quickly, but her bursts of temper never lasted long. She was just as quick to forgive and move forward, usually with a contrite smile.
"I want to get married, one day,” Penelope said softly as she watched the rage fade from Mary's eyes. “I want children, and my own home...” She wanted what her parents had found and treasured before an untimely death had claimed them. The fever that had struck her mother and father down hadn't spread to Penelope or her little brother, but it had changed their lives forever by robbing them of two loving parents. “But I expect to love the man I take as my husband."
Mary sighed in obvious despair. “You can love anyone appropriate if you set your mind to it."
Penelope didn't think that was true, but it wasn't wise to disagree with Mary on the subject of love. Actually, it wasn't wise to disagree with Mary about anything at all.
Mary rose from the side of the bed and circled around it with a gentle, graceful movement, her pale hands gripping at the cherry bedpost as she swayed away from Penelope so that her yellow skirt swirled softly around her legs. “You're being so difficult that perhaps I shan't tell you about the newest and most eligible man in Charles Town."
Penelope knew that if Mary had something to say, nothing would stop her. Not even a small, imagined taste of revenge. “Oh, do tell,” she pleaded with a wide smile. “I shouldn't arrive at the Lowrys’ ball unprepared now, should I?"
"With my luck, he'll take one look at you and fall madly in love and I'll never have a chance to sweep him off his feet.” Mary's words were only half-joking. While there were many men in pursuit of William Seton's only daughter, men who openly adored her and came calling at the plantation and here in town, it seemed Mary was only interested in the men who pursued the more sedate, more mature Penelope. It was a perverse trait Penelope did not understand.
"With you wearing that new green gown, I'm sure this eligible man won't have so much as a glance for me.” Her voice was lighthearted, but Penelope believed her statement to be true. Mary was one of the most beautiful women in all of South Carolina, surely. She had been blessed with brilliant red hair, bright green eyes, and an expressive face. Penelope, with her brown hair and brown eyes, had often felt downright dowdy next to her cousin, and it amazed her that on occasion men were frightened away by Mary's beauty and high spirits.
"He built a magnificent house and moved in just a few weeks ago.” Mary entertained herself by walking past Penelope's dresser and lifting each and every object there to study it briefly before setting it back down. A pair of earrings, a comb, a velvet ribbon, and a silver-backed hand mirror. “He's most handsome, I've heard, in an elegant and aristocratic sort of way. Fabulously rich.” This statement brought an even wider smile to Mary's face. “He has a houseful of servants, and never misses a social event."
"He sounds perfect for you."
"He does, doesn't he?” Mary's often devious mind was obviously in motion. Penelope could actually see the cunning gleam in those green eyes.
"Does this perfect man have a name?” Penelope reached for her book. Mary's visits were tumultuous, could either be fun or disheartening, but were almost always brief. Already Mary was moving to ward the door.
"Maximillian Broderick,” Mary said as she opened the door to take her leave. She evidently liked the way the name rolled off her tongue, because she said it again, more slowly this time.
"Maximillian Broderick."
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Chapter Two
Mary loved a party like this one more than anything in the world. The gathering together of the finest citizens of Charles Town in their most extravagant costumes, the brightly burning lamps and candelabras glowing with the flames of enough candles to light William Seton's home for a full year, the music that filled the room, and most of all the adoration that was inevitably heaped upon William Seton's only daughter. Every now and then, Penelope could hear her cousin's cheerful laughter above the din.
Penelope was not antisocial—not in the least—but tonight the talk seemed to be primarily of politics and the inevitability of war. It was a subject that divided her mind and her heart, but of course she could share her uncertainties with no one. The slightest hint of sympathy toward the rebels would be seen as defiance of her uncle, and she wouldn't embarrass him in that way. So, she was unusually reserved, and the minutes passed with unbearable slowness.
Oh, she'd spoken with several ladies who'd welcomed her and admired her gown, and she'd shared a number of dances with attentive young men who—for a few moments—left the subject of rebellion and the likelihood of war behind, but the reality hung over the room like a tangible and very disagreeable cloud. Others apparently ignored the unpleasant realities, but Penelope felt the pain of those possibilities too deeply to dismiss them entirely.
Two of her dances had been with Victor, who found himself divided this evening. He couldn't very well give Penelope his full attention when he was the darling of the moment in this loyalist crowd. It was rather a relief to find that he was preoccupied and somewhat out of sorts.
Penelope watched him from her position in the corner of the room. As he discussed politics with a number of planters and merchants, he truly came alive. His hands were used to punctuate his most important points forcefully, and his face was animated as she'd never seen before.
She brushed her fingers almost nervously over her skirt of rose-colored silk and tapped her closed lace fan in a soft rhythm that spoke of an unaccustomed nervousness. Uncle William was one of the throng who listened intently to every word Victor Chadwick had to say.
From a distance, Penelope heard Mary's laughter once again, and she turned her gaze to the crowd. Dressed in imported silks of every color, the Lowrys’ guests were the elite of the colonial city of Charles Town, the well-to-do, the self-appointed aristocracy of a colony in distress. Penelope had always preferred the quieter setting of her uncle's plantation, but she couldn't deny that there was a splendid charm in the city and its people.
Mary belonged here, in this magnificent hall with these aristocratic people. Penelope knew, had always known, that she did not.
At once, several heads turned toward the entrance, and Penelope couldn't help but turn her head as well.
The man who filled the doorway with his presence surveyed the room as if he were a pampered prince lazily inspecting his adoring subjects. His back was straight as a board, but still his posture spoke of indolence and boredom. Perhaps it was the position of an elegant hand that was half-covered with the ecru lace that fell from beneath a lavender silk sleeve. Perhaps it was the long-fingered hands themselves, or the placement of those long legs that were encased tightly in matching lavender silk breeches and white silk hose ... but Penelope suspected it was the eyes. Even from her post in the corner, she could see that they were half-closed and dulled with apathy.
Golden blond hair, unpowdered as was the custom among the younger men, was gathered into a queue with a black ribbon, and but for the lazy eyes and a patrician nose that bordered on being too long, he was an attractive man.
Mrs. Lowry rushed to greet this late-arriving guest with a girlish enthusiasm Penelope found distasteful and a touch disturbing. Harriet Lowry had
always been the very model of propriety and good taste, and this handsome man had her positively simpering. He smiled with little effort and took Mrs. Lowry's offered hand, bestowing upon the matron's knuckles a brief kiss.
This was, surely, Mary's much-talked-about Maximillian Broderick. In all her ramblings, Mary hadn't bothered to mention that the man was a popinjay, a fop who dressed in lavender silk and adorned himself with more lace than any one woman in the crowded room.
Before Penelope could return her attention to her uncle and Victor and the disturbing notion that they were somehow plotting her marriage, the youngest Lowry son, Heath, claimed her for a dance.
This was more abominable than any mission in India, more detestable than the longest siege or the stormiest night at sea, and surely more crushing than the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta.
Max smiled down at the woman who had all but accosted him, a petite redhead who hadn't taken a breath since she'd begun speaking. She was one of those contemptible females who twittered on and on without heed to the words that fell from their lovely mouths. Likely there was not a thought in her head beyond the silk dress on her back and the music in her ears and the curl of her hair. Her world did not, at this moment, extend beyond this room.
Mary Seton would be a fitting match for the man he pretended to be.
He hadn't had the opportunity to seek out Victor Chadwick as of yet. The man had been deep in conversation when Max had arrived, the focal point of a gaggle of loyalists. At one point while Max flirted and danced, the crowd Chadwick spoke to disbanded. He hadn't spotted the councilman since.
So far he had gleaned not a single piece of usable information. Overheard conversations were trivial and boring, nothing more than heated opinion or everyday gossip—nothing that would be of use to the Indigo Blade. He hid his disappointment well, but it wasn't easy. Surely this horrendous evening was not to be totally wasted.
Mary Seton continued to talk, and Max continued to smile while he tuned her out and listened to the conversations going on around them. He heard harmless chitchat for the most part, gossip and trivialities. Still, the murmur of politics filled the room, words filled with passion and half-hearted grumbling. Grumbling aside, this was a loyalist crowd, and no one was going to offer any real argument this evening.
