Passion and Pretense

by Susan Gee Heino

  It seemed the parts of her that professed to have good sense were quite miffed at the other parts of her. Those other parts, unfortunately, were quite determined to continue in their foolishness, and after an hour of such introspection, she found herself very much agitated by the war that raged between her sensible parts and, er, those other parts. Fortunately there was little chance she’d ever be in company with Lord Harry again, because it was clear which parts would win the day if she ever was.

  Clearly she needed to find something to keep her various parts occupied. Prudently, she began hunting for something to do. Needlework? Reading? Counting dust motes as they drifted through the air? None of that seemed the least bit distracting to any of her parts.

  It was a pity her letter to Professor Oldham had only been posted yesterday. She could use a word from him just now. How very curious she was to see what he might say about those antiquities she’d described for him. Sadly, though, Egypt was far away and it would likely be months before she could reasonably expect a response. It seemed that was the only subject she might care about enough to get caught up in and forget about Lord Harry.

  Thinking of him just now, though, triggered a new wave of blushing and remembering. Drat, but perhaps not even a letter from Professor Oldham would be enough to rescue her from her memories. Lord Harry had definitely left his mark on her. All of her.

  Well, then, what she needed was fresh, distracting conversation. She needed her best friend. Indeed, Maria would know how to turn her mind to other avenues of thought.

  She sat at her desk and dashed off a note inviting Maria to visit, then hurried downstairs to have a servant carry it to Maria’s house. She was surprised to discover they already had a visitor. He must have been here for some time already, because she found Anthony at the front door, bidding good-bye to Mr. Ferrel Chesterton.

  “Good day, Miss Rastmoor,” he said upon seeing her.

  “Mr. Chesterton,” she replied.

  She really could not fathom what business her brother had with the man, but decided it really didn’t matter. His presence, however, was just one more reminder of his handsome cousin, which did make her wish she hadn’t seen him.

  “Do you need something, Penelope?” Anthony asked.

  “I was coming to find someone to carry a note for me,” she replied. “I wanted to send an invitation to Miss Bradley.”

  “Miss Bradley?” Mr. Chesterton said. “I happen to be going by that way. Would you like me to carry that for you?”

  “I’m sure there’s no need to trouble you, sir,” she replied, feeling just a bit awkward that the man would involve himself in her personal affairs. “I’ll have one of the footmen take it.”

  But he assured her. “It would be no trouble at all. I’d be happy to make your delivery.”

  Oh bother. Why was the man so eager to be of service to her? Hadn’t Anthony mentioned to him that she and Lord Harry were no longer engaged? Was this fellow somehow trying to make peace between their two families, or something? Oh well. Perhaps she should not condemn the man for simply being helpful.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chesterton. That would be fine, if you are certain it is not putting you out.”

  “No, indeed not.”

  Not wanting to be rude, or give Anthony any reason to wonder at her hesitation to allow him, she smiled and handed over the note. She’d not expected anyone other than a servant to see it, so she’d covered the note on the outside with a cleverly exaggerated plea for Maria to make haste to visit, as if there were some great emergency. She did not indicate anything of her current dilemma, but surely it would be enough to make Mr. Chesterton wonder at her desperation. Hopefully, though, he might not mention to his cousin just how distraught all these recent events had made her.

  “It is a pleasure to be of use to you, Miss Rastmoor,” he said, clutching the note to him as if it were a royal summons.

  She smiled and nodded, but was careful not to be too gracious.

  Anthony, however, was practically gushing over the man.

  “That’s very generous of you, Ferrel,” he said. “And thank you for coming over on such short notice.”

  “Anything for friends,” the gentleman said with an overstated bow.

  Anthony slapped him on the shoulder, thanked him again, then sent him on his way. Mr. Chesterton seemed quite in a good mood as he trotted down the steps to the sidewalk out front. Penelope offered him one gratuitous wave, then was happy to let Anthony shut the door.

  “Interesting young man,” he said. “I like him. Odd considering his father is a bore and his cousin is…Well, it’s surprising at any rate.”

  “You like him? I was unaware you even knew him.”

  “Only casually. But I’m looking forward to knowing him better.”

  Knowing him better? Whatever could Anthony mean by that? Good heavens, but she certainly hoped she might not interpret that as anything other than idle conversation. It would be unendurable if her brother should view this Chesterton as someone who might consider taking Lord Harry’s place!

  It hardly took introspection to realize that all of her parts were in full unison on one thing: there would never be anyone to take Lord Harry’s place.

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE NOON AS HARRIS STROLLED ALONG Oxford Street on his way to the British Museum. He should have kept the phaeton for a day or two, at least. Why he felt the need for a clear conscience on that matter when it was so littered with guilt on so many others he couldn’t quite say. He decided not to ponder the question.

  Right now, he needed to keep his focus on his search for the elusive P. Anthonys. It seemed unlikely he’d find any sort of connection to Oldham or the stolen artifacts simply by taking a walk to the museum, but as he had nothing else to do, he might as well know for certain. For all the good it would do.

  “Chesterton!”

  He turned as his name was called. It was, of all people, Ferrel, hailing him from just around the corner. Harris tried to appear pleased to run across his younger cousin.

  “How nice to run into you, Ferrel.”

  “I’m glad to see you walking about,” Ferrel said. “Word is Lord Burlington called you out. Surely you didn’t do away with the fellow already!”

  “No, sorry to say, I’ve not committed murder yet today. That’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s happy news indeed,” Ferrel said. “Tell me, whatever did you do to the man?”

  “It’s not what I did to him, but supposedly what I did to his wife.”

  “You, too?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sure you heard the rumors regarding me and that certain lady in question. But I swear, cousin, I never did. It was a dreadful misunderstanding!”

  Good Lord. So Ferrel had had a run-in with the Burlingtons, too? Had that woman chased after every man in London?

  “I’m afraid I’d not heard those rumors. When on earth did that all happen?”

  “Oh, some weeks ago, I suppose.”

  Ah, no wonder he’d heard nothing of it. Likely he was traveling from Egypt at that time. He’d have to ask around, gather the particulars. That would surely prove amusing.

  “And did Burlington call you out, as well?”

  “No,” Ferrel replied. “I rather thought he might, though, the way the man went on. He walked in on us discussing a simple business matter and gravely misunderstood.”

  “How unpleasant for you.”

  “Very! As if I would ever…er, I mean, I suppose some might find her dashed attractive…”

  “I don’t.”

  “Nor I. Some do, apparently. Her husband seemed convinced she’d been playing him false and assumed it was with me. But father was there and helped explain the situation.”

  “Your father was there?”

  “Yes, he’d arrived with Burlington just as I was conducting my business with the lady. Pity you didn’t have him there when you were in the hot water, eh?”

  “Indeed. Such a pity.”
r />   Damn Uncle Nedley. He’d help his own son, but crucify his nephew.

  “Well, no doubt you are a far better shot than that doddering old fool,” Ferrel said, clearly not about to let Harris’s impending doom ruin his day. “You’ll make quick work of it, I don’t doubt.”

  “It might be difficult for you to imagine, Ferrel, but I have no wish to meet him or anyone else on a field of honor. Even if we were both to devolve, I still find no amusement in the thought of grown men playing at murder.”

  “My, how very modern of you, cousin.”

  Clearly this was an excellent joke to the man. He laughed quite freely. Harris chose to let the subject drop.

  “Tell me, though. What brings you to this part of town?”

  At this question he detected a sudden nervousness in the man. Well, how very odd. What could possibly make the young man so uneasy? So uneasy, in fact, that his hands fumbled and he dropped the paper he’d been holding. A letter, it appeared. Harris stooped to pick it up for him.

  He could not fail to notice that words had been jotted on the outside. It seemed whatever this letter was, the recipient was urgently requested to pay a call on the sender. That in itself was not overly interesting, except Harris noticed one important detail. He recognized the handwriting.

  P. Anthonys. Good God, but this letter was written by the very same hand that was attached to his sole suspect!

  “Thank you, sir,” Ferrel said, practically ripping the letter out of Harris’s hand.

  Harris decided to let it go. He would, however, do what he could to gather information. Ferrel was somehow involved with P. Anthonys? Astonishing, to say the least.

  “Well, cousin, don’t tell me this is a love letter,” he said, grinning innocently. “I’ve not heard you had set your sights that way.”

  “No, no it isn’t a love letter!” he denied fervently. “I’m merely delivering it for a friend.”

  “Ah, I see.” No, he really didn’t, but he was determined to find out more.

  “In fact, I must be going along now,” Ferrel said. “I’m expected somewhere.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to make you late.”

  “Thank you.”

  They exchanged hasty good-byes and Ferrel was off. Harris pretended to head in the other direction. However, as soon as he felt it was safe, he backtracked to follow the young man. By Jupiter, it seemed he would find this P. Anthonys, after all. Who would have ever suspected mild, unassuming Ferrel Chesterton?

  He trailed the man through a residential area. After some few minutes, Ferrel knocked at a door and was easily given entrance. Harris did not recognize the address, so he snagged a boy passing by and asked if the lad might know who lived there. For a mere tuppence he gained his answer.

  Miss Maria Bradley. Ferrel had taken that note directly over to Miss Bradley’s house. An interesting development, to be sure. How on earth was she involved? Could it be P. Anthonys was one of her admirers? And just how did Ferrel fit in? Harris would lurk about and watch.

  Eventually, he knew, it would all lead back to Penelope. But how?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Penelope began to doubt Mr. Ferrel’s ability to deliver a letter. Surely if Maria had gotten the missive she would not wait a whole hour before rushing to visit, would she? No, of course not. Mr. Ferrel must have shirked his duty. She’d have to send off another note. Very frustrating.

  Before she’d do that, though, she’d best take a minute or two to calm herself. It would do no good to write a note in her current irritable state. Better to take herself for a brisk walk first.

  She’d walk in the direction of Maria’s house. That way, if her friend was already on her way, she’d be unlikely to miss her. She did so long for Maria’s insight on things. Maria was an intelligent, sensible person. If Penelope had but listened to her in the first place, much of this could have been avoided.

  Still, she realized that no amount of misery now could make her truly regret introducing herself to Lord Harry at that ball those few days ago. She was glad she’d done it. How vibrant and alive that man made her feel! Then again, how very much the opposite she felt now, knowing she’d never see him again. Oh, but what a ninny she was! Surely Maria could talk sense into her.

  Or maybe not. As she drooped along the sidewalk, Penelope happened to notice her friend walking toward her. But Maria was not alone.

  Aside from her dutiful maid, walking three steps behind, Maria was accompanied by Lord Harry himself. What on earth could this be about? What was her best friend doing with her fiancé?

  Very well, it was her former pretend-fiancé, but still. There was the principle of the thing. Maria was out walking with him and Penelope was not.

  Maria’s eyes caught sight of her and went large.

  “How wonderful!” she exclaimed, but Penelope had to wonder if this was her friend’s true sentiment. “Why, I was just on my way to your house.”

  “Were you?” Penelope replied. “How thoughtful. And look, you’ve brought along a friend.”

  “I met him along the way and he rather invited himself, I’m afraid,” Maria said. “He assured me you wouldn’t mind, but I somewhat doubted that.”

  Penelope glared at Lord Harry. He simply shrugged at her.

  “Apparently Miss Bradley heard some ridiculous rumor that you and I have become enemies now, Miss Rastmoor,” he said, as if that were the farthest thing from the truth.

  “What a ridiculous rumor, indeed,” she said sweetly. “How could anyone think we might be enemies? After all, you merely ravished another woman, agreed to fight a duel, insulted me to my brother, and stole jewelry from me. Of course we are but the best of friends.”

  “Exactly,” he said, then turned his most enchanting smile on Maria. “You see, Miss Bradley? There is no bad air between us.”

  “Oh yes, I can see that perfectly,” Maria said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to walk the rest of the way with Miss Rastmoor.”

  Penelope stepped past Lord Harry to loop her arm with Maria’s. “Indeed. Neither of us have any further need of you, sir.”

  She pretended to miss the knowing little smirk he gave her.

  “Thank you for accompanying me,” Maria said, but she had the good sense to sound suitably insincere.

  “Yes, good-bye, Lord Harry,” Penelope agreed. “You are quite free to go about your business. You know, seducing someone’s wife, polishing your dueling pistols, breaking in through windows…”

  “Thank you, Miss Rastmoor,” he said with an overdone flourish. “I strive to live up to expectations.”

  Ooo, but the scoundrel had the nerve to grin.

  “Come along, Miss Bradley,” she said, turning her back on him and leading Maria back down Oxford Street. Maria mumbled an obligatory good-bye, which Lord Harry returned with a most courtly bow. The dratted man appeared much amused by all of this.

  “Insufferable man.”

  If only she did not suffer whatever it was her heart was doing with every step she took in a direction away from him.

  HARRIS LEFT PENELOPE TO GO ON HER TITTERING WAY with Miss Bradley. Damn them both. Penelope had no right whatsoever to be so blatantly rude to him, especially after he’d made such a painful sacrifice in returning her—mostly unmolested—to Rastmoor. And Miss Bradley had been no help whatsoever. She’d received that letter from Ferrel, then proceeded to receive Ferrel for practically a full hour! What on earth could the man have been doing in the girl’s sitting room so long while Harris was left cooling his heels on the street, hoping no one realized he was watching the house?

  When at last Ferrel left, Harris had decided not to follow him but to see what the Bradley chit would do next. He’d thought perhaps he’d chosen wisely when she appeared, bonneted and wrapped for walking. He trailed her for a while, then when she happened to catch sight of him was forced to make it appear pure happenstance he was nearby.

  Hell, he’d learned nothing at all about the g
irl’s intended destination. Had she been rushing off to meet this P. Anthonys? He assumed so, but the girl claimed she was off to visit Penelope. She claimed she was in a hurry, too. Harris could not sway her from her story, although he tried all manner of subtle conversation. In the end, all he’d learned from his little walk with Maria Bradley was that she disliked him and was fiercely loyal to Penelope. Oddly enough, he had to mark those things in her favor.

  It did nothing, however, to further his cause. He needed to find P. Anthonys and he needed to find him now. There was no telling where Oldham was, or what condition his captors had left him in. Even after all this time and effort, Harris was still floundering with very little information.

  Perhaps he’d have been further ahead to have followed Ferrel. He could still hardly believe it, but his mild-mannered cousin was somehow involved in this. At least this gave Harris one slight advantage. Ferrel was forever incapable of keeping secrets. Harris had failed at getting them out of Miss Rastmoor or her duplicitous friend, but he could hope for better luck with Ferrel.

  All he had to do was find the young idiot.

  That, actually, turned out to be easier than expected. He’d only needed to wander the way of Markland’s lodgings and there they were, both young men casually meeting up on the street. They seemed to pass some quiet information between themselves, and at one point it appeared as if Markland might wish to argue with something Ferrel said to him.

  Damn, but Harris wished he dared move closer to them, yet surely if they noticed him loitering about here they’d never continue their private conversation. There was nothing he could do but follow at a safe distance as the two disputing gentleman made their way into the park. They found an out-of-the-way place and, fortunately, continued discussing.

  Harris was practically overjoyed. The men seemed to think continuing their discourse beside a low brick wall offered them privacy. Instead, it offered Harris a place to eavesdrop. Perhaps the heavens were showing some mercy on him today, after all.