Passion and Pretense

by Susan Gee Heino

  “There, there, little miss,” the gentleman said, crouching down beside her. “All will be well. I’m certain of it. Surely they would not have taken you if they did not know you had a well-to-do family who wanted you back. Think of it, your father will surely send the money right away and you will be home before noon.”

  “My father has been dead for years,” she announced.

  Her face was going puffy, she could just feel it. Botheration, indeed! She smelled of fish, her nose was runny, and her complexion was gone. What more could happen to ruin her day?

  “Then you must have a brother, or an uncle…” the man was saying, sounding very much like a patronizing old uncle himself.

  “My brother,” she replied, wiping her nose with the unpleasant fabric. “But he’ll probably argue for days before agreeing to pay two shillings for my return. That is…provided he will pay anything at all.”

  “Now now, this is not the time to be feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Was he serious? This was precisely the time to be feeling sorry for herself! She’d been kidnapped by thugs, abandoned by her brother, and cruelly betrayed by the heartless rogue she accidentally let herself fall in love with, for heaven’s sake. What other reasons could she possibly need to feel sorry for herself?

  “Put your mind onto more pleasant things,” the man pattered on. “I’ll bet a pretty girl like you has a handsome young suitor out there waiting for her, eh?”

  Her voice cracked when she replied. “He’s the one that likely formulated my abduction! I’d rather not think of him just now, if you don’t mind.”

  “What? But a moment ago you seemed as if you had no idea who—”

  “It has to be him. Who else could it be? There’s no one else so devious, so greedy, so callous…I should have known he’d never really help me get away from my brother.”

  “Away from your brother? I thought you just said it was one of your admirers who orchestrated this?”

  “Oh no, he’s not an admirer. We were simply engaged.”

  “Your fiancé is responsible for this?”

  “It would appear so. I would think you must know him, too, if he’s got you kidnapped, as well.”

  The man seemed confused by all this, which was odd given he had such an intelligent-looking face. His forehead wrinkled as he contemplated her words.

  “Your fiancé is Egyptian?”

  Well, clearly her estimation of the man’s face was way off.

  “No, he’s from England. What on earth is all this about Egypt? Everything seems to be about Egypt lately. You come from there, Lord Burlington has a whole collection of artifacts, I lost my precious sca—”

  “Lord Burlington? Surely he is not your fiancé!”

  “No, of course not!”

  She nearly gagged at the thought. As if she could have possibly done half the things she’d done with Lord Harry with some ogre like Lord Burlington! It was too horrible to imagine.

  “Lord Burlington already has a wife,” she replied, thankful she could do so. “I was simply referring to the mysterious collection of Egyptian artifacts that seemed to show up in his house one day.”

  “I didn’t know Burlington collected.”

  “I didn’t either. Still, there it was. Lovely items, too. I saw the most unique little alabaster cosmetics jar and…well, it seems I was not the only one fascinated by them. My stupid fiancé also had an eye for that collection. I thought he was simply trysting with a servant girl, but now I’m convinced he was breaking in to steal them.”

  “Steal the artifacts?”

  “Yes. I told you he is a horrible person. He stole my lovely scarab necklace; yes he did.”

  “You have a scarab necklace?”

  “Not anymore; he stole it from me! That’s why I’m certain he’s involved in this. How odd, though, that everything he steals seems to have some connection to Egypt. Except for me, of course, although Anthony did finally say he’d allow me to go there…”

  “Anthony is your fiancé?”

  “Anthony is my brother. But if he does pay that ransom and buy me back, I doubt he’ll ever let me out of his sight again! Oh, but this is just dreadful.”

  The poor man was still as confused as ever. He shook his graying head and seemed to think long and hard before coming up with another question for her.

  “So just who is your fiancé? If he has such an interest in Egyptian artifacts, it’s very possible that I might have met him at some point.”

  “Oh, you’d never be the sort to make friends with a despicable, thieving, deceitful person like him. I can tell you are nothing at all like him.”

  “I must say, miss, that you don’t seem to be someone like that, either, yet you are the one engaged to marry him. Who is this paragon of human depravity you intend to spend your life with?”

  “He’s terrible. You’d hate him,” she said.

  She would have very happily gone on to give him further detail of Lord Harry’s uselessness, along with the man’s full name and address, even, but sudden noises just outside the door to their little cell interrupted. She clutched the dreadful blanket closer and tried to scramble up to her feet. The older man bent to help her. He seemed to realize, too, that they’d been far better off alone than they were likely to be with the arrival of whoever this might turn out to be.

  Huddling next to her newest best friend, Penelope managed to get to her feet. The man put his arm around her and she gladly let him. Any illusion of safety and protection was most welcome just now.

  Something rattled at the door; a key in a lock. She could make out men’s voices, orders being barked back and forth, and clearly the men were not cheerful. She glanced up at her companion and he gave her shoulder a fatherly squeeze. It might have helped ease her nerves if she were simply concerned about singing at a house party or meeting the queen, but given the circumstances here, she still wanted to cry. Or to vomit. Neither would be at all helpful.

  Finally the door swung open. Light from a lantern spilled in, showing even more filth surrounding them but completely obscuring the identity of the new arrivals. She held up one hand to block out the glaring light, but all she could make out behind it were three shadows. Three unnervingly large shadows.

  Unexpectedly, one of the shadows came charging toward her.

  “Penelope! Thank God.”

  Lord Harry! Of course she knew his voice. Now that he was nearer she recognized his shadow, too—solid, broad, perfectly proportioned, and strong. She didn’t even recall she hated him until it was too late.

  He grabbed her elbow and pulled her away from the older man, encircling her with his arms and holding her tightly to his chest. Oh, but he was so warm and smelled so much better than the vile blanket she’d been using! She wanted nothing more than to wrap herself into Lord Harry’s warmth and let him carry her someplace safe.

  He wouldn’t, of course. She came to her senses and remembered that as soon as he spoke again, his voice harsh and angry.

  “What the hell are you doing to her! Keep your bloody hands off…”

  She realized his anger had not been directed at her. No, indeed, he was glaring at the older man. Now, however, his words had ceased and he seemed to be frozen in place.

  “You’re safe!” he said with a completely different tone of voice.

  Again, his words were not for her. He didn’t exactly shove her out of the way, but he did rather shift her over to one side as he stepped forward and threw an arm around the other man’s neck. How odd! Somehow she’d been very nearly dragged into a rather heated embrace between the two men. She wasn’t altogether comfortable with that.

  Fortunately, it did not last long. The men stepped apart again to observe one another.

  “I’d heard you’d been brought to London,” Lord Harry said.

  “Here I am,” the other man replied.

  “And you are well?”

  “I was a bit more well before you ripped that attractive young lady away from me. I take it you
know each other?”

  Good heavens, so her cell mate truly was acquainted with Lord Harry! Clearly he’d not paid much attention to what she’d said about him, either. He was smiling and chatting as if Lord Harry’s presence was the most wonderful thing imaginable. Surely he must have realized by now this was the very man she’d been warning him about!

  Then again, it would appear her own body was not heeding that warning, either. It seemed quite content to lean against him and draw from his warmth and his self-assurance. He clearly was not afraid, not the least bit concerned about being here in this foul little room with no window. He showed no fear of the two hulking shadows that still lurked in the doorway. Oh, she wished she could feel more like him.

  Then again, why should he be concerned? He was the one who brokered all this, after all! Wasn’t he? Perhaps not.

  “How sweet,” one of the hulks scoffed loudly. “Looky at the little reunion.”

  “Ain’t that making me all teary-eyed,” the other responded with buffoonish laughter.

  “You’ll be teary-eyed when this is all over,” Lord Harry said, turning sharply and taking a step toward the doorway.

  The dark hint of a pistol aimed in their direction was unmistakable. Penelope gulped back an anxious cry. Those horrible men had weapons! And just now they were pointing them at Lord Harry!

  Thank heavens he had the good sense to stop moving toward them.

  “You just mind yourself there, lordship,” the pistol man snarled. “If ye keep quiet and don’t give us no trouble, we won’t need to shoot none of ye. Start acting up, though, and we might get a little upset. You might not like what we do to yer little lady there.”

  “Touch her and it will be the very last thing you do on this earth,” Lord Harry snarled right back.

  A fiery hot chill raced up Penelope’s back. It was not from the dampness of the night air, nor was it a chill of terror, either. Quite shockingly the opposite, actually. Heavens, but she was glad Lord Harry did not use that tone of voice around her very often. The things it did to her!

  The thugs merely laughed at Lord Harry’s inspiring show of defiance. They shut the door loudly, taking their lantern and its light with them. The sounds of the lock rattled at the door again, and Penelope remembered to hug her blanket once more.

  Now she was alone in the semidark with two men, one whom she knew and one whom she didn’t and neither of whom she had any reason whatsoever to trust. For Lord Harry’s part, in fact, she had every reason not to trust him. Mostly, though, it seemed it would be her own dratted emotions where he was concerned that she ought to worry about. Heaven help her, but she loved him whether she could trust him or not.

  DAMN IT, BUT THIS WAS UNCOMFORTABLE. HE WANTED to hold Penelope so badly that every nerve in his body threatened mutiny. He half feared at any moment his reasonable self would be put on notice and the body would simply stalk over to her and do as it pleased. And it would be pleased, he had no doubt of that.

  But of course he couldn’t let that happen. This was hardly the time or place for such things. She would never let him, not considering how they had parted company last. And besides, they were not alone.

  “What the devil have they got you here for?” Oldham asked.

  “I expect we’ll soon find out. Those two gits that dragged me here said they expect whomever they are working for to show up here anytime now and give further instructions.”

  “Who do you suppose it is?” Oldham asked.

  Lord, but it was good to see him again. For over a month now he’d fretted over the man, worried that his captors had got tired of waiting and had simply rid themselves of their prisoner. It was horribly unfair how Nedley had worked things all out, but by God he was glad to have the man back on friendly soil.

  At least, it would be friendly once they found their way out of this mess.

  “No idea,” Harris replied.

  He did have an idea, but the last thing Oldham needed right now was to discover his own favored son was the prime suspect. Markland’s discussion with Ferrel regarding meeting a man at a ship tonight seemed to confirm his involvement in this. Damn, but it would be a shock to poor Oldham.

  And what did Markland have in store for Penelope? Harris gave another long glance her way. She stood apart from them now, watching back and forth as if she were trying to make her mind up over whether to stay here with them or go pound on the door and beg for release. Indeed, he could hardly blame her for mistrusting him.

  “Patience, my dear,” he said to her. “You are far safer here on this side of that door than you would be on the other.”

  “I’m not so certain,” she said.

  “She fears her fiancé is the one who has conspired against us,” Oldham explained in complete seriousness.

  Harris couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, does she?”

  “She says he’s a horrible person and capable of much criminal activity.”

  He couldn’t tell for sure, but in the dim light he thought he detected the faintest hint of blush creep over Penelope’s pale cheeks. Good. She needed some color after a night like this.

  “I don’t doubt that he is,” he agreed. “From what I know of him, he’s the sort to do all manner of wicked, shocking things.”

  Ah, she blushed a little more deeply at that.

  “Doesn’t sound like a good match at all,” Oldham said with a perplexed frown Harris had come to know well. “Miss, surely you have recourse? I should think it ill-advised to continue an engagement with such a man as that.”

  “Now now, I must beg you not to go putting such notions into her head,” Harris said.

  He made his way to Penelope and slipped his arm around her. She pretended to ignore him, but at least she didn’t pull away or kick him in anyplace valuable. Poor thing, this whole situation must be most taxing for her. She looked so adorably forlorn.

  “Perhaps introductions are in order,” he said, taking a deep breath and diving in. “Miss Penelope Rastmoor, may I please present my father, Charles Harris Oldham? Father, Miss Rastmoor is my fiancée.”

  He wasn’t sure whose expression seemed more amazed. Certainly Oldham’s went from mildly to intensely perplexed, but Penelope was equally unable to hide her bewilderment. He would have loved to have drawn out the moment, toyed a bit with it to drain every bit of amusement that he could; however, as this was not a drawing room but a makeshift prison chamber, he decided he’d do well to just get on with things.

  “Although, as you might have surmised, as of late things have not been on the best of terms.”

  His father stared, incredulous, at Penelope. When he spoke, he directed his conversation to her.

  “My son is the terrible criminal you suggest has put this nightmare together?”

  She, however, directed her words to Harris. “Your father? He cannot be! Everyone knows your father is dead.”

  Ah, sensitive, sweet Penelope. He took a deep breath to prepare for the inevitable explanations. He wondered if her eyes could, in fact, go any rounder.

  “The previous Marquis of Hepton is dead, that is true, but he was not my actual father. My mother—rest her soul—confessed it on her deathbed in my fourteenth year. I, Miss Rastmoor, am in fact a bastard.”

  “But your father…the marquis, that is, he claimed you. How can you be a…what you say?”

  He loved the way she stammered and struggled to grasp the situation. Indeed, he supposed it must be awkward for her, realizing she’d been locked up here with the very bounder who’d left his by-blow to be raised by another man. For Harris, it was worse than awkward. It was the final mark against him in this foolish game of hearts he’d unwittingly allowed himself to play.

  Penelope took one step back from him as if he were a leper. It was small, but he knew what it meant. If she hadn’t already believed when she arrived here that he was a hopeless miscreant—and apparently, according to his father, she did—this last bit of information regarding his parentage would surely seal it for her. He was
a hopeless miscreant.

  He’d simply never regretted it until now.

  “As far as the law of the land is concerned, I am Lord Harris Chesterton,” he declared. “In reality, though, my name should have been nothing so grand. I should be Harry Oldham, after my true father.”

  Now she shifted her gaze back to Oldham. “And this is your father? A simple mister?”

  Fortunately, his father was not easily insulted. He merely smiled patronizingly.

  “I hope I’m not so very simple, and in fact it is professor.”

  “Professor?” Why yes, her eyes could go even rounder. “Professor Oldham?”

  “Yes…”

  “Oh, but I’ve followed your work!” she squealed, suddenly forgetting about Harris’s leprosy and stepping toward them. “I read every article you publish, and I keep your Guide to Digging along the Nile beside my bed always! I can’t believe it’s truly you!”

  “It is me,” Oldham said.

  The older man shuffled his feet. Clearly now he was the one feeling awkward. Harris, on the other hand, was the one feeling left out. Penelope gushed on and on about the many wonderful things she’d read about the famous Professor Oldham and his various adventures in faraway Egypt. Damn it, but did the girl have no idea at all that her own bloody fiancé had been along for most of those adventures? Hell, he’d been the one to write half those damn articles while his father was too busy trying to convince the locals that they weren’t digging up some ancient curse to bring famine or plagues down on them all.

  But what was a gently bred female like Penelope doing reading their articles? They were not published in Lady’s Monthly Museum or La Belle Assemblée, after all. Perhaps her brother had kept more scholarly journals lying about, but Harris hadn’t gotten the idea the man was particularly interested in such things. Could it honestly be that Penelope’s interest in Egyptian antiquities went somewhat beyond just the obvious gilt and glitter?