by Cheryl Holt
"Are you all right?" she asked firmly.
His ears were ringing, his head ached, his ankle pounded, but he was too dazzled by her to do anything but nod. Using his elbow for support, he sat up just as she turned to face his pursuers.
"Three grown men," she scolded, "accosting a boy. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." Her eyes narrowed on the livery one of them wore. "Why . .. you're John Coachman! You work for my father! What do you think you're about, brawling with a child like this in the middle of the streets?"
The irate glare she was flashing had the men snapping to attention. Respectfully removing his hat, one of them said, "Beg pardon, Lady Penelope."
"The duke will hear about this, I can promise you!" she threatened, then she returned her attention to Paulie as the other woman bent over and helped him to his feet.
"Up you go," the princess said as the other, darker one, patted the dirt from his trousers while chattering something in French. Paulie had no idea what she was saying, but the sound of it soothed something down deep inside, at his very core, and he decided that he was in love with her too.
The princess slipped a coin into his hand as one of the men gulped, bowed, and said almost fearfully, "His Grace, the duke, wanted us to retrieve the boy, milady."
"Well, that's too bad, isn't it?" she said sweetly. "Because he's going on his way now." There was a hint of steel in her voice to which the other men responded instantly, and Paulie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he was about to escape,
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but just then the duke's coach-and-four rumbled around the corner and jingled to a stop.
With the kind of pomp that only a very wealthy man could call up, he descended, looking as regal and full of himself as the Prince Regent, had he decided to happen by for a chat. Bystanders paused for a glimpse, craning their necks and whispering as to his identity. It wasn't often that one was allowed to view such an exalted figure.
"I didn't do nothin'," Paulie whispered to Lady Penelope's back. "I swear it, miss."
"I know you didn't," she said quietly. "Don't be afraid. He's all bluster. I won't let him harm you."
"Caught him, Your Grace," one of the liverymen mumbled as the duke approached.
"Good work," the duke said, nodding, then he pulled up short when he recognized Penny standing between himself and the boy.
Harold saw red all over again. It was bad enough that he had to put up with the gall of that American. But having a street urchin approach him in front of his very own club! With Edward Simpson and a cadre of servants present as witnesses! Now this!
She looked murderous and determined, characteristics he'd never have attributed to her a week earlier. It was a fine day, he thought, when a man couldn't predict how his own daughter might act. "What are you doing in the middle of this?" he growled.
“I was just standing here,'' she said, “when your men started beating this boy while onlookers beheld their atrocious course of action. Really, Father, how could you let them?"
"Enough!" he barked, moving close, refusing to argue with her while everyone and his brother hung on their every word. What had come over her, drinking she could challenge him like this at every turn?
"They hit this boy! Look at his face!" she said, stepping
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aside so Harold had a better perspective of the swelling on Paulie's cheek. "They said they were only doing your bidding."
"Yes, well ..." he said, clearing his throat, deeming that the little bastard had gotten exactly what he deserved.' 'Perhaps they were a little rough," he allowed.
"What do you want with him anyway?" she demanded. "He's just a child. He could have done nothing to you."
People were gathering to watch, and Harold was certain that all of this would be the talk of London before the hour was over. Maliciously he eyed the boy, but the insolent child belligerently showed no fear, as though he'd seen so many horrid things in his young life that nothing frightened him anymore.
“I'm not interested in this boy," he said, suddenly pretending to be gracious. "I think there has been some mistake."
"There! See?" she said, announcing the happy resolution to the crowd. She hovered next to Paulie's ear and whispered, "What's your name?"
"Paulie, miss," he answered.
"You're free to go," she said, smiling the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen. With a knowing wink she added, "And if I were you, I shouldn't dally."
"No," he responded, "I don't believe I will."
She nudged him on his way, and he took a step from her, backing up so that he could keep an eye on all of them while he moved toward the alley. Just as he thought he was safely past the duke, the man seized him by the arm. He painfully crunched his fingers into Paulie's shoulder blade as he hissed, "You tell your Mr. Pendleton that I have a noose with his name on it. Before I'm through, he'll be swinging from the yardarm on one of those ships he loves so much."
"Well, you'll have to find him first, won't ya, guv'na?" Paulie asked. As though he'd become a phantom, he shook off the duke's hand and disappeared like a puff of smoke into the milling crowd.
Harold straightened, then stiffened on seeing the angry and penetrating looks of dismay and disgust he was receiving from
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those surrounding him. Only wanting the public spectacle to be over, he glared at Penny and ordered, ' 'Get in the carriage, and I'll see you home."
At that moment Edward took the opportunity to peek out the window. With all the excitement, Harold had forgotten about him.
"Harold, did you catch the little twerp?" he asked in that voice that had grown more irritating each time Harold had been forced to spend time in his company.
Penny circled toward the carriage, and the sight of Edward caused her to quiver with abhorrence. She then faced Harold squarely, as though daring him to explain.
In the past he'd never concerned himself with what feelings she might or might not have for him as her father; he'd always accepted that he was held in the highest esteem simply because of who he was. But for the first time in his life, he was able to recognize her true opinion. She loathed him! Her own father! The realization was as shocking as it was disturbing. When had this happened?
"I have my own carriage," she said, "and even if I didn't, I'd walk home—all the way—before I'd join you." Without so much as a good day she departed, abandoning him and leaving him alone with her dreadful fiancé.
Refusing to make more of a scene in front of so many, he walked to the carriage and wearily climbed in.
"I say," Edward asked, straining to see through the crowd, "wasn't that Penelope?"
Harold gaped at the other man for a long moment, then sighed. "No, it wasn't," he lied. He tapped on the roof and they were off.
******************
Lucas stared out the window into the yard behind the house Matthew had rented as the secret hideaway that would enable them to carry out their plan. Harry had climbed up into one of the apple trees, and Lucas enjoyed watching him at play. The
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boy was delighted to finally be off the ship, so he was acting wild and burning up all the excess energy that had built up during their months at sea and the long wait at the docks once they'd arrived in England.
After much deliberation they'd decided to bring Harry to the country. With Harold Westmoreland's men hot on their trail, they weren't about to leave him in the city with any of the crew members. Although Lucas trusted his men, he knew he'd be distracted if Harry wasn't nearby, that he'd constantly be wondering if the child was all right, if he was well cared for, and once the conspiracy was set in motion, he couldn't have distractions occupying his mind. Hence, with few choices available as to what to do with him, they'd finally brought him to the country house. It meant that he would meet Penny, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
If Penny was surprised to find a boy living with them, it wasn't as though they'd had much time to discus
s their personal lives. As to the lad's connection to all of them, Lucas intended to tell her part of the truth—that Harry was his nephew, the son of his deceased sister and Lucas's son in every way that mattered. No mention would be made of Harry's relationship to Penny or Harold, but Lucas viewed the boy as a sort of insurance policy against the amount of disdain Penny would harbor once the event was ended.
Penny wouldn't be able to resist growing attached to Harry, and Lucas believed that her fondness would help her to eventually come to terms with why Lucas had committed so many horrible acts. Perhaps someday, though she'd never be able to forgive him, she might at least be able to understand. That was something worth hoping for.
The kitchen door opened, and Matthew came in from the backyard. "He's getting on well," he said, referring to Harry.
"He's a good boy," Lucas said, looking at his brother over his shoulder. He turned back to the window, taking in the isolated grounds. "This place was an excellent choice."
"I thought so the moment I saw it," Matthew agreed.
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Simple. Clean. Close to London. Secluded. Perfect in all ways.
"Are you sure you'll be able to keep her here? And keep her happy for as long as it takes us?" Matthew asserted, "It's quite a step down from what she's used to."
They were both worried about Penny, about how she'd cope with the drastic change in her circumstance, because they couldn't afford to have her dashing home in a fit of pique. If they'd been in Virginia at their riverside house with its gentrified social life, large staff of servants, tobacco fields, and stables, they wouldn't have fretted so much about her transition, but this small, quaint cottage was another matter. They'd have a part-time cook and a maid who would come in from the village for a few hours each day, but that was it, and they didn't know how Penelope would adapt.
They couldn't have her grumbling over the lack of servants, then rushing off in a huff before they'd brought Harold to heel, but for some reason Lucas wasn't worried about her ability to persevere. He had only to recall the way she'd gazed up at him in the garden the previous night. She was made of sterner stuff than either of them had suspected. She'd given her word, and Lucas knew she'd never go back on it.
"She'll do fine, Matt" was all he said.
Matthew nodded. "No going back now," he mused pensively, as if taking one last moment to wonder if they should change their minds and walk away.
"No. No going back," Lucas said, sealing their decision and their fate. “Not after what Westmoreland allowed his men to do to Paulie." His temper flared at contemplating what might have happened, what kind of heinous deed the duke could have executed against the boy's person, and it would have been Lucas's fault.
When Paulie had returned to their rendezvous location with a black eye, torn clothing, bumps and bruises and cuts, Lucas had given him a few good shakes for being so reckless. He'd been told to simply deliver the message to a coachman and go;
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they'd never suspected he'd do anything so rash as to actually have an encounter with the duke. The boy was lucky to still be alive.
"It's just another crime to add to the ones Westmoreland has already perpetrated," Lucas said, and Matthew dipped his head in agreement. "More reasons he needs to pay."
Matthew walked to the sideboard, poured them both a brandy, and he handed a glass to his brother. "To Caroline," he said, tipping his in Lucas's direction.
"To Caroline," Lucas echoed.
"And to Lady Penelope," Matthew continued, "who will help us to make sure we all get our due."
“To Lady P,'' Lucas repeated, gesturing with his glass again, but he couldn't add anything to the toast, nor could he feel any joy in proposing it. Penny didn't have any idea of the sacrifice she was about to make, of the ways in which her life was about to be irrevocably altered, and if Lucas could have conceived of any other means of intimidating her father, he'd have used it.
All for Caroline, he told himself. All for her, and for Harry.
For a very long time, revenge and retribution had been all that counted, but now that he was about to obtain the recompense for which he'd waited, the thrill of receiving it was greatly faded. He thought of Penny, of the joyful smile she gave him in the evening shadows, how she had kissed him and held him and looked at him as though he were the finest man on earth, and he couldn't find any gladness for what he was about to do.
Taking a long swallow, he knocked back his drink, letting the burn sizzle all the way down, then he stood.
"I'm ready," he said. "Let's finish it."
******************
Penny walked slowly down the magnificent hall, taking it all in as she passed by for the very last time. It was late, her father and brother gone off to a night of parties, and her mother remained cloistered in her room, as she so often was these
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days. With the exception of the handful of servants awaiting Harold's and Willie's return, everyone else was abed, so she had the monstrous place to herself, which was just as she'd wanted it.
Strolling quietly, she let the flicker of light from her lamp cast shadows and illuminate memories, and she was sad to realize that there were so few happy ones. She and Willie had been raised as though they were a prince and princess, never as children who simply wanted to laugh and play. In fact, she couldn't remember a single occasion she'd rolled in the grass, or soiled her hands and skirts while doing something as pleasant as digging in the yard.
Her eyes scanned the rooms she'd be leaving behind, and it was depressing to think of how much she'd been given, of how much she'd had, how every whim, every wish—no matter how extravagant—had been indulged, but how all of it had brought so little satisfaction.
There was the rug over which she'd once tripped as a girl, resulting in a chipped tooth and a flurry of unusual preoccupation from her parents due only to their anxiety over how the injury might affect her future appearance.
A line of ferns in the solarium brought back the incident when she'd hidden behind them, hoping to surprise her absentee mother, only to find herself the unwitting listener to one of her parents' private arguments about her father's latest in a long line of mistresses, an unmentioned but disturbing cause of constant household tension.
In the kitchen she ran a loving hand over the edge of the table in the corner, where, as a lonely, solitary girl, an elderly cook had slipped her biscuits and told her stories, until the afternoon her mother discovered she'd been tarrying with the servants and had banned her from the room. Penny had never seen the kindly old woman again, had never had the nerve to ask what had happened to her, but she suspected the cook had been let go for being too familiar with the Westmoreland's little darling.
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Her meandering took her through the portrait gallery, and she didn't pause until the last painting, which was of her mother and father. It was commissioned when they were newlyweds, and, though they'd aged, they still appeared much as they had in the early years of their marriage. Stern, unsmiling, wealthy, and self-assured, there wasn't a sign of warmth between them, and Penny couldn't remember ever seeing one.
Had they ever been in love? Had they ever been happy?
She didn't think so. Theirs had been a typical arranged union, where the two parties had realized early on that they had little in common, so they had set about building separate lives. Now the situation had deteriorated to the point where they never spoke privately anymore, refusing to pass time in each other's company, coming together only for an occasional social engagement or supper party where their hostesses had the good sense to seat them at opposite ends of the table.
Her father's life was busy; he saw to his vast estates, his clubs, his duties in Parliament, and his women. Always his women. But what about her mother? Efficient servants ran the big house, so there was little to supervise. She had her friends and her correspondence, her regular array of events, which she attended alone for the most part, since
Penny rarely went out.
Was she lonely? Did she miss Harold's company? Did she ever crave, as Penny so often did lately, another sort of life, one filled with merriment and friendship? Perhaps the kind of life Penny was hoping to encounter with Lucas Pendleton? Did her mother ever look to the past and wish it had been different?
Penny didn't know and wouldn't ask. She could hardly raise the subject of Harold's indifference or his affairs, of his bastard children or upsetting peccadilloes. Nor would she dare to examine the issue of her and Willie's childhood. What purpose would such a discussion serve?
Their youthful years had passed exactly as those of their peers, with governesses and tutors, the time sprinkled infrequently by a longed-for audience with Mother or Father. Through it all there had been a lack of concern or interaction
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on the part of their parents. While growing up, it had never occurred to her that this method of child rearing had been quite terrible, but over the last few years, as her personal life had gone from bad to worse, she'd had lengthy moments to ponder her upbringing.
She would have loved the opportunity for a heartfelt discussion with her mother, but talking wasn't something the Westmorelands did. Instead, they lumped along as though no problems existed, as though nothing had changed, when in fact everything had.
Penny didn't want to leave her father's house only to repeat the life she'd passed there. The feel of it, of each day blending into another until they were all a hazy gray, had become so stifling, she could barely breathe, and she wanted to escape, to run for something new and better.
To find joy! That's what she wanted. To find some joy in her life, put there by someone who cared about her.
