The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  Most of her things were already neatly arranged in the dresser and the tall wardrobe, and Penelope chose a simple outfit for her first day in her new home: a plain chemise and petticoat, a linen gown in a becoming shade of blue, plain white hose and soft leather shoes. As she dressed, she couldn't help but wonder if she already carried Maximillian's child. It was certainly possible, after the night that had passed. Three times he'd made love to her, each time more gently than the last, each time more wonderfully.

  When she was fully dressed and had styled her hair in a simple bun, she drew back the golden drapes to discover a small terrace overlooking the gardens. She opened the glass-paneled doors and stepped into a morning that was bright and fresh and cool. Beyond her stretched a wonderful garden, a collection of native flowers and palms that was somewhat wild—but was contained and arranged beautifully. Meandering trails were cut through the garden, S-shaped paths she looked forward to exploring as she looked forward to exploring the entire house.

  It was the growling of her stomach that gave Penelope the courage to leave the elegant bedchamber on her own, to search out Maximillian and then the kitchen. There were a number of closed doors on the second floor, and a stairway to the third. She took the spiral staircase to the ground floor in search of her husband.

  She remembered little of this Georgian mansion from the night before. Maximillian had carried her through quickly, and her mind had been ... well, she'd been distracted. She saw now that the entire house was as lavishly furnished as the bedchamber. Persian and Baku rugs, fine porcelain vases and figurines, tasteful and expensive furniture. There was a grand and glorious vastness about the rooms she explored. She stepped quietly through the foyer and the magnificent grand hall at the front of the house. She quietly explored the library, a quaint parlor, and finally a dining room that would easily seat thirty.

  A young gentleman with reddish-brown hair found her there, stepping into the room with an air of authority and apparently not at all surprised to find her investigating. “Is Madam ready for breakfast?” His words were clipped and so cold that Penelope felt an unexpected chill.

  "Yes.” She stepped forward with a small smile. Perhaps he wasn't thrilled about a new mistress appearing so suddenly. Perhaps he expected she would be a difficult task master. She'd do her best to put him at ease. “I'm Mrs. Broderick."

  "I know who you are, madam."

  "And you are..."

  "Beck,” he said, with no evidence of a softening disposition. “Beck Andrews. I'll be back shortly with your breakfast."

  "I'd like to locate my husband first,” Penelope said before he could whisk himself from the room. “Do you know where he is?"

  The chilling Beck smiled at last—if you could call the tightening of his lips a smile. “Mr. Broderick never rises before noon."

  "You're mistaken. He was already gone when I awoke."

  Beck's eyes were cold and lifeless, but she was certain she saw a flicker of something as he answered. “I imagine he's in his chamber, madam.” She recognized that glint now as amusement. At her expense.

  "I see,” she said calmly. “And which room would that be?"

  "Second floor, first door to your right."

  This time he left so quickly there was no chance for Penelope to interfere. Not that she wanted to, she assured herself as she left the dining room and headed for the gently curving stairway.

  Penelope had assumed she and Maximillian would share a bedchamber, and she was hoping, as she grasped the smooth handrail and climbed to the second floor, that the hostile Beck was wrong. She prayed that the first door on the right would open to a room that was empty, that she would find the bed untouched and Maximillian would come around the next corner with a smile on his face.

  She laid her fingers on the handle and pushed softly, making no sound, shifting her weight to open the door a crack.

  She recognized Maximillian's golden head resting upon a fat pillow. His body was hidden under a thick green coverlet, and matching drapes were closed tight against the morning sun. The clothes he'd quickly removed last night were now folded neatly on a chair near the bed, and his shoes were side by side on the floor.

  Penelope made not a sound, but Maximillian stirred and rolled slowly toward her. “What is it?” he asked testily. “It had better be something damned important for you to wake me at this ungodly hour."

  Penelope stepped quietly into the room. He was barely awake, and probably didn't even realize who it was at his door. “Good morning,” she whispered as she walked to the bed. There, she sat on the mattress beside her husband. “I thought we might have breakfast together."

  "Gad, m'dear,” he said primly. “I don't eat breakfast. Nasty habit, rising at the crack of dawn to ingest untoward amounts of victuals.” His eyes were narrowed as he looked up at her. “'Tis a meal you will have to accustom yourself to taking alone."

  Penelope reached down to brush away a strand of golden hair that clung to Maximillian's cheek. He stiffened slightly at her touch. “I was surprised to find you gone from the bed this morning, and even more surprised to find you here,” she admitted.

  "Surely you don't expect that we will sleep in the same bed. Faith, m'dear,” he said tiredly. “I couldn't possibly get a moment's rest with another body tossing and turning as you do."

  "Do I?” she asked softly, more than a little disappointed.

  "I'm afraid so, and I do need my rest, so if you'll hurry along...” He waved her off with an indolent gesture and then turned his back on her. A moment later she heard a soft, muffled snore.

  Max raised up on his elbows as the door finally closed. Damnation, how could Penelope look so innocent and be so treacherous? How could she touch him and speak to him with such softness, after what she'd done? He knew the answer. The woman had no heart.

  He needed to rest, but didn't really expect sleep to come. Even though it had been near dawn when he'd finally collected the remainder of his clothes from Penelope's room and come to this bed, he knew true, restful slumber was a luxury he would not enjoy for some time to come.

  Unable to believe what his own men told him, he'd searched out the colonials who'd heard Heath Lowry's accusation for themselves. He'd gone in disguise, in gray wig and tattered clothing, to question the rebels on behalf, he told them, of the Indigo Blade. They all told the same story, and they'd all heard the tale from Lowry's mouth. One had even heard Chadwick confirm it.

  So there was no doubt.

  He'd been unable to snatch Lowry's body from the British soldiers, but in the night—after protests from the citizens of Charles Town—the soldiers had cut the body down. But not before Max had gotten a good look at what his wife's treachery had spawned.

  Max tried to sleep, but rest wouldn't come. He wondered, as he lay there, if he'd ever sleep again with Penelope living under his roof.

  It had taken all his strength not to reach up and place his hands around her neck as she'd sat on the side of his bed. It had taken every ounce of his resolve not to take her by the throat and ask her if she realized what she'd done, if she cared.

  She had to believe that he was the man he pretended to be. Shallow, vain, self-centered. It would likely be the most difficult role he'd ever played, but he had no choice. He couldn't allow Penelope to see who he was. Couldn't afford the luxury of confronting her with even a portion of the truth. His horror, his disappointment. Allowing Penelope to see who and what he had become in the name of liberty would endanger not only his life, but the lives of men who trusted him. If she would blithely turn a family friend over to Chadwick, she was capable of any treachery.

  He would use Penelope to get close to Chadwick and the other loyalists in Charles Town. He would play the foppish devoted husband in public and the disinterested fool in private, and no one would ever question that there was anything more to Maximillian Broderick.

  No one.

  "I'm a genius,” Victor whispered in Mary's ear as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  H
er laughter was soft, but true and deep. “I never doubted it."

  Even though they were in her father's study, and they both knew William Seton might appear at any moment, he planted a kiss behind her ear.

  This was her time, the time of her life when everything was going her way. Victor was falling in love with her, of that she was certain. Her body held an irrefutable power over him, a stronger control than she'd imagined possible. He needed her now. Soon, he wouldn't be able to live without her.

  And Penelope, who was likely ignorantly happy at the moment, was about to embark upon the most trying time of her life.

  If Penelope and Heath had entered the carriage house ten minutes earlier, they would have caught Mary Seton and Victor Chadwick in the midst of a most inappropriate act. Instead, they'd arrived as the lovers were dressing. Together, half-clothed and huddled together in the dark, Mary and Victor had heard almost every word of the conversation. Enough to convince Heath, when Victor confronted him a short time later, that Penelope had been the one to betray him.

  Mary hadn't understood Victor's plan, not at first. This supposed disloyalty would make Penelope a heroine to William Seton and his loyalist friends, and Mary couldn't comprehend why Victor was anxious to lay the credit on her cousin.

  It didn't take Mary long to understand Victor's motivations. Penelope's beloved Tyler was an unforgiving revolutionary at heart. She'd heard countless arguments between her father and her little cousin, loud and passionate arguments about that very subject.

  And, too, the mood of the colonies was changing. The common people were uniting in their dreams of freedom and rebellion, and soon Penelope Broderick wouldn't be able to walk the streets of Charles Town without an armed guard for protection. Overnight she'd be transformed from Penelope Seton, beloved by everyone, to Penelope Broderick, hated traitor.

  It was unfortunate that Heath had not survived his lashing. Victor had assured her that he'd never meant to kill the young man. Punishment for such behavior was necessary, he explained, to keep the rebels at bay. It was Heath's own fault that he was dead. She could almost make herself believe that was true. Perhaps soon she would.

  "I wonder what Broderick will think of the news that his wife turned poor Lowry in?” Victor asked bitterly.

  He was still perturbed about losing Penelope, and that knowledge angered Mary more than she dared to reveal. Why did he continue to care? There was nothing Penelope could give him that she could not. “That popinjay,” she said calmly, not allowing her displeasure to show. “I doubt he cares one way or another."

  "What does she see in him?” Victor snapped. “I will never understand it."

  Mary stepped out of his grasp and walked to the window. This would be a long and memorable day for her cousin, the beautiful and virtuous Penelope. “He's a fool, and he's going to make her miserable."

  "I hope so,” Victor said harshly.

  Mary's response was a whisper. “So do I."

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  Chapter Nine

  It had been a dreadfully long day. After leaving Maximillian to his sleep, Penelope ate alone in the large dining room and then took a walk in the garden. She explored the grounds, puzzled by Maximillian's behavior but not particularly worried. In the afternoon, she'd unpacked the rest of her things, and then taken a long nap. She hadn't seen her husband all day.

  Until now. They stood in the formal dining room, she in the imported yellow silk gown she'd changed into for supper, Maximillian in a perfectly cut suit of pale blue velvet. Impossibly, he was embellished with more lace than he'd worn for the wedding.

  The servants were lined up for her introduction, six men and one woman. There wasn't a smile to be seen.

  "Come along, m'dear,” Maximillian said tiredly. “The lads are waiting to meet you."

  Nervously, she stepped forward.

  "Dalton Archer.” Maximillian indicated the first man in the queue with a wave of his hand. “Our butler, and an indispensable member of the household."

  Penelope smiled at the man, who had dark blond hair and narrowed blue eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. Of medium height and wide build, and dressed in a simple black suit, Dalton Archer looked like no butler she'd ever seen. He looked, in fact, more like a ruffian trying to pass himself off as a gentleman. He did not return her smile.

  "Lewis Turner,” Maximillian said, moving on down the line. “You've met Lewis, m'dear. Our extraordinarily reliable driver.” Lewis Turner, the man she remembered from her jaunts with Maximillian, returned her smile. It was wide, cold, and totally ungenuine. His pale wavy hair was pulled back into a thick braid, and his suit was as simple as the butler's. There surely wasn't a subservient bone in his tall, lean body.

  "Beck Andrews,” Maximillian continued, turning to the youngest man of the assemblage, the chestnut-haired servant she'd encountered this morning. He looked no friendlier now than he had then.

  "Mr. Andrews and I have met,” she said softly, trying the smile once again without effect.

  "Splendid,” Maximillian said with a yawn. “John Rayburn,” he continued without preamble. “My valet. Without John, I wouldn't be able to dress myself in the morning, I swear it. The man is a genius with a cravat."

  John Rayburn had long and thick dark brown hair, dangerous steel-gray eyes, and a wide, full mouth. A valet? At the present time, Rayburn's own shirt was slightly askew, and his hair was in mild disarray. If Dalton looked like a ruffian, John looked like his partner in crime.

  "Madam,” he mumbled lowly as he bowed slightly.

  "Garrick Vinson,” Maximillian said with a flourish, patting the next man on the arm. “You've met Garrick, do you remember, m'dear? He's the footman, though he often does odd jobs around the place. Why, you're likely to run into Garrick anywhere in the house, at anytime."

  The thought did not comfort her. With black hair pulled severely back, a small mustache and beard, and dressed in yet another black suit of clothes, he looked nearly as much the English lord as his master. But his eyes were uncivilized, black and wide beneath winged eyebrows. The devil, Penelope decided, forgoing the attempted smile that had done her no good to this point. This was surely what the devil looked like.

  "Fletcher Huxley,” Maximillian continued, moving to the last man in line. “My stableman. Ah, I do so love my horses. I race on occasion, you know."

  "No, I didn't know,” Penelope said, turning away from the disinterested gaze of the stableman, the only one of the lot who appeared to be over the age of thirty, and the only one who had not bothered to dress in the requisite black livery for the occasion. He looked as if he'd come straight from the stables, with his tattered work clothes and mussed dark hair. He looked as if he'd as soon be spending this time with the horses.

  "And Helen, the newest addition to the household,” Maximillian said with flourish. “She is to be your ladies’ maid, your constant companion, your friend and servant."

  Helen, a mature woman with wide hips, pale hair, and a pleasant face, curtseyed and uttered a quiet greeting, but she was as surly as the rest of the lot.

  "Your uncle offered us a wedding gift of three slaves,” Maximillian said distantly, and with a slight wrinkling of his nose. “Most inappropriate offer, I thought. My first impulse was to refuse his gift."

  "I'm sure Uncle William meant well.” She defended her uncle gently. The servants had not moved, and they listened intently.

  Maximillian gave her a lazy smile. “Yes, I'm sure he had good intentions. However, my time abroad has given me an extreme distaste for the practice, hence my first instinct to refuse. I realized, on reflection, that refusing would simply mean a return to the plantation for the poor wretches, so I accepted."

  "If it disturbs you..."

  He ignored her. “And I promptly sent them on their way. One man has quite a knack for barrel making, and I've set him up in business right here in Charles Town. The other two expressed an interest in leaving the colonies, and they are both on board an east
ern-bound ship as we speak."

  "You did all this today?"

  His eyes bored through her. “Object all you wish, my dear. You own nothing now, nothing and no one. All you have is mine."

  It had not been her intent to complain, not at all. She admired Maximillian's beliefs, his convictions. It was a good and noble thing he'd done. “I have no objections,” she said softly.

  Penelope wanted more than anything to get her husband alone for a few moments. She wanted to ask him why he was behaving so strangely, and why he felt compelled to remind her that by marriage she had put herself completely in his hands. Even more than that, she wanted to ask him where on earth he had obtained his household staff.

  "Off with you all,” Maximillian said, dismissing the staff with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “I'm famished."

  The group broke up and scattered, all but Beck, who saw to the setting of the table, and Dalton, who came forward with a sheet of paper in his hand.

  "Madam, this was left for you this afternoon."

  She took and unfolded the single sheet of paper, recognizing Tyler's neat handwriting before she read a single word. “My brother was here? Why didn't he stay and visit?"

  "You were resting, madam,” Dalton said sourly. “I told him you could not be disturbed."

  "For my brother,” she said, forcing cordiality, “I can be disturbed anytime, anywhere."

  "I'll remember that, madam,” Dalton said curtly, and then he spun around to stride impatiently from the room.

  Penelope's good mood faded as she read the letter, a curt and biting missive that ended with an alarming declaration.

  "I don't understand,” she said, turning to Maximillian. Her husband seemed to find something fascinating in the cut of his sleeve, as he studied the blue velvet that was pale as a robin's egg. “Read this, please, and tell me what it means."

  Maximillian took the letter from her, an annoyed expression on his aristocratic face. “'Penelope,'” he read lazily, and then he turned heavy-lidded eyes her way. “Rather abrupt, wouldn't you say? No ‘dear sister’ or ‘Beloved Penelope?’”