A Lady of His Own

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her voice, so much lighter than theirs, rang like a bell. They all looked at her, but it was Charles’s gaze she met. She held it for a pregnant instant, then softly said, “Either with you, or independently—and, of course, I’ll be calling on Amberly.” She glanced at Nicholas. “Whatever else, he’ll have family beside him through this.”

  Nicholas blinked; his dilemma showed plainly in his face—he was too tired to hide it. Should he be grateful to Penny and support her, or side with Charles as instinct prompted and keep her safely at home?

  Gervase shifted; Jack frowned. Both were aware of the undercurrents; neither was in a position to say anything, a fact they were forced to accept. They had no authority here.

  When, unable to make up his mind, Nicholas said nothing, Penny looked back at Charles. And raised a brow. With him, or by herself…

  No real choice for him, either.

  His jaw set; the planes of his face hardened, but, stiffly, he inclined his head. “Very well.”

  He was too far away for her to read his eyes, but in this, she didn’t need to. She was perfectly aware of the various trains of thought—the swift and decisive plans—running through his head. Those she would deal with later; one step at a time.

  She rose, waving the others back as they started to their feet. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go and pack.” She glanced at Charles. “My carriage or yours?”

  He considered, then replied, “Yours will do.”

  She nodded and turned for the door. “I’ll give orders to have it prepared. Half an hour, shall we say?”

  Glancing back from the door, she saw his lips thin; he nodded curtly. Suppressing a grimly satisfied smile, she opened the door and went on her willful way.

  She next saw Charles when she decended the front steps, attired in a comfortable carriage dress and prepared for a long, uncomfortable drive. He was standing with the coachman and groom, confirming his orders. When her boots crunched on the gravel, he turned, flicked a comprehensive glance over her, noting the warm shawl draped over her shoulders, then looked back to the coachman and groom, and gave the word. They scurried to climb up to their perches as he joined her.

  He took the door the footman had opened, held it and held out his hand. She put her fingers in his, felt him grip. Hard.

  “I am not happy about this.” The words were a growl as he helped her up the carriage steps.

  She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know. But we can’t always have what we want.”

  Moving into the carriage, she sat. He looked up at the coachman, nodded, then leapt into the coach, slammed the door, and flung himself on the seat beside her.

  Head back against the squabs, he looked up at the coach’s ceiling. “As it happens, I usually do manage to get what I want from women. With you, however…”

  She took a moment to subdue her smile, then, lifting a hand, she gently patted one of his where it rested half-clenched on his thigh. “Never mind.”

  His response was a growl of elemental male frustration.

  But he opened his hand and closed it about hers.

  The drive was as grueling as she’d expected; the coachman had his orders—he drove like one possessed. The crest on the carriage door gave them a certain license. The carriage was relatively new and well sprung, and Charles and his commanding presence ensured that the teams they were provided with at every halt were the very best to be had.

  They made excellent time, racing on into the night. Other than easing the pace a fraction to allow for the fading light, the coachman made no other concession. As night closed in, they met fewer and fewer carriages; when full darkness fell, it seemed as if they were the only occupants of the road, streaking ever onward, the carriage lights faintly bobbing, throwing faint gleams that the darkness swallowed as they rocketed along.

  The regular thud of the horses’ heavy hooves, the repetitive rattle of the wheels became a soporific lullaby. Drawing her shawl about her, she leaned against Charles; he raised his arm and gathered her in. She smiled, turned to him, lifted her lips for a kiss…which was truncated by the next jolt.

  His arm tightened, holding her against him. She patted his chest, then settled her cheek on the warm, resilient muscle, and closed her eyes.

  She awoke at their next stop, when he left her to see to the horses. When he returned, and their rattling trip resumed, he drew her back to him and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  A fitful rest at best, yet despite the rigors, the journey was restful in other ways. They spoke little; there was no point in arguing yet.

  When dawn broke and Charles took a turn on the box, spelling the coachman who’d driven through the night, her gaze fixed unseeing on the landscape flashing past, Penny grasped the chance to consider the landscape forming between them.

  Within it, she felt comfortable; the farther they traveled together along their road, the more the position at his side felt right, increasingly hers. Increasingly meant to be hers. His confidence in that, that that’s what would be, remained unwavering, feeding her confidence that this time…

  Once they’d dealt with Fothergill, they would see.

  Charles rejoined her in the carriage at Hammersmith, leaving the coachman to tool the coach through the outskirts and into Mayfair. They came to a rocking halt before Lostwithiel House in Bedford Square.

  A mansion of gray stone, it was old enough to have developed its own charm. Penny had visited there frequently in years gone by; when Charles’s butler, Crewther, opened the door, she smiled and greeted him by name.

  Crewther’s face lit; he was about to bow, then his gaze went past her to Charles, giving her coachman directions to the mews. Crewther’s eyes widened. As Charles turned and strode up the steps, Crewther stepped back and bowed them in. “My lord, Lady Penelope. Welcome back.”

  Charles nodded. “Thank you, Crewther. Lady Penelope and I will most likely be here for a few days.” He fixed Crewther with a direct look. “Are my mother and sisters in?”

  “I believe the countess, your sisters, Mrs. Frederick and Mrs. James, are attending a luncheon at Osterley Park, my lord.”

  Charles’s relief showed. “In that case…” He looked at Penny. “Lady Penelope and I have business to attend to—our movements are uncertain.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Knowing Charles would leave it at that, she turned to Crewther. “Please inform the countess that she shouldn’t delay dinner or her evening’s entertainment on our account—we’ll speak with her when we return.”

  Lips thinning, Charles nodded. “We should call on Amberly without delay.”

  She glanced down at her crushed gown. “Just give me time to wash and change into something more appropriate.”

  Crewther stepped in, sending a footman for the housekeeper, directing the two who’d fetched their bags to take them upstairs.

  Charles gave orders for his town carriage to be brought around, then took her arm; they started up the main stairs in the footmen’s wake. The housekeeper, Mrs. Millikens, came bustling up to meet them at the stair head. She greeted Charles, then bore Penny off to a bedchamber.

  “Twenty minutes in the front hall,” Charles called after her.

  Mrs. Millikens looked scandalized. “Twenty minutes?” She huffed. “He’s not in the army now—what is he thinking? Twenty minutes? I’ve sent Flora to unpack your things—” Millikens paused and opened a door. “Ah, yes, here she is.” She ushered Penny in. “Now, let’s see…”

  With Millikens, who’d known her from childhood, and Flora assisting, Penny was ready, gowned in a walking dress of blue silk twill, in just over twenty minutes. Descending the stairs, she saw Charles pacing in the front hall below. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up; the set of his features, the frown that lurked, told her he’d been debating ways and means of detaching her from their pursuit of Fothergill—and he didn’t care that she knew.

  He walked to meet her, taking her hand, tucking it in his arm as they turned to t
he front door. “I sent a message to Elaine that you were here—it wouldn’t do for someone to see you about town and mention it. She’s staying with Constance, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Penny shot him a glance as they went down the steps. “What did you tell her?”

  He met her eyes briefly, then handed her into the carriage. “That you and I both had business to deal with, so I’d brought you up to town, that you’d be staying here, that our movements were uncertain, but that you’d explain when next you saw her.”

  He followed her in and shut the door, then sat beside her. She studied his face. “Nothing else?”

  Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Having you involved in this is bad enough—I’m hardly likely to say anything to bring both our chattering families down on my head…” He looked forward. “No matter the aggravation you cause me.”

  She smiled and looked ahead. “Better the devil you know…?”

  After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I’m not that well acquainted with this particular devil.”

  She pondered that comment as the carriage traversed the few streets to Amberly House. To their relief, the marquess was at home, but he wasn’t alone.

  Charles had sent a rider ahead of them with a message for Dalziel; as they were shown into the library, Penny glanced briefly at her relative as he struggled up from the chaise, then transferred her attention to the gentleman who rose from the armchair opposite.

  He was tall, well built; although neither as tall nor as heavy as Charles, he was every bit as physically impressive. His hair was dark brown, almost black, his face pale with the austere planes and strong features that marked him as an aristocrat. Deep brown eyes of that shade most often referred to as soulful took her in; as his gaze, outwardly lazy yet intelligent and acute, met hers, she had little doubt of the caliber of mind behind those bedroom eyes.

  If anything, she would have labeled him even more dangerous than Charles. No matter that his manners were polished and urbane, the unmistakable aura of a predator hung about him.

  She curtsied to Amberly, then less deeply as she offered her hand to—

  “Dalziel.” He bowed over her hand with the same effortless grace Charles possessed. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume.”

  His gaze flicked to Charles. There was the faintest trace of a question in his eyes.

  When Charles didn’t respond, Dalziel looked at her, his lips lightly lifting as he released her.

  She moved on to join Amberly. Behind her, Dalziel turned to Charles. “After receiving your missive this morning, I decided my presence here might be wise.”

  Charles nodded and stepped forward to greet Amberly and shake his hand. “Nicholas is well—he sends his regards.”

  Amberly was over eighty years old, white-haired, his blue gaze faded. He blinked, frowned. “He’s not here?”

  Charles exchanged a glance with Penny. Gently, she eased Amberly back to the chaise, then sat beside him. “Nicholas would have come with us, but he’s a trifle under the weather at the moment.”

  “Perhaps,” Dalziel said, glancing at Charles as he resumed his seat, “you could bring us up to date with recent events?”

  Charles drew up another chair, using the moment to marshal his thoughts. Amberly was attentive, watching and waiting, yet while his mind might still be acute, he didn’t look strong; there was no need to shock him unnecessarily. However glibly he couched his report, Dalziel would read between the lines.

  Dalziel mumured, “I’ve already explained to the marquess all that happened up to the point of Arbry’s grappling with the intruder one night, the intruder’s subsequent escape and Arbry’s recovery from his injuries. Perhaps if you recount all that’s happened since.”

  Charles did, relating only the bare facts in the most unemotional language. Dalziel picked up his omissions, but said nothing, just met his gaze and nodded for him to continue.

  Despite his efforts, the tale left Amberly distressed. Fretfully plucking at his coat buttons, he looked at Charles, then Dalziel; finally, he turned to Penny. “It was never meant to be like this. No one was supposed to die.”

  Penny patted his arm, murmuring that they understood; he didn’t seem to hear. He looked at Charles. “I thought it was all over—finished. All’s fair in war, and it was war, but the war’s ended.” Tears in his old eyes, he waved weakly. “If they want the boxes—the snuffboxes and pillboxes—they can have them. They’re not worth anyone’s life.”

  Gaze distant, Amberly drew a short breath. “That poor boy Gimby, and a little maid, and now a fisherboy…” After a moment, he refocused; he looked at Charles and Dalziel. Confusion clouded his eyes. “Why? They weren’t part of the game.”

  “No, they weren’t.” Dalziel sat forward, capturing Amberly’s gaze, steadying him by the contact. “This assassin’s not playing by the recognized rules, which is why, with your help, my lord, we need to bring his assignment to a swift end.”

  Amberly looked into Dalziel’s eyes, then spread his hands. “Whatever I can do, my boy—whatever I can do.”

  They spent the next hour discussing the possibilities. Charles was relieved to have his reading of Amberly’s abilities confirmed; although physically doddery, and sometimes vague when he became distracted, there was nothing wrong with his grasp on reality, his memory, or his courage.

  Dalziel’s reading of the events to date, his prediction of what Fothergill was most likely to do next, tallied with Charles’s. The plan they agreed on was simple; give Fothergill what he wanted—the marquess at Amberly Grange.

  “There’s no value in pretending you haven’t been warned,” Dalziel told Amberly. “A man of your age and standing, when threatened, would most likely retreat to his own estate, to be kept safe by his loyal staff. Given the snuffboxes are there, too, and he’ll imagine you’re obsessed with them and will know he means to take them, such a move makes even more sense.”

  Dalziel’s gaze shifted to Penny, then he looked at Charles. “He won’t be surprised to see you there, acting as protector.”

  Charles noted Dalziel didn’t clarify whom he would be protecting, Amberly alone, or Penny, too. That, he understood, was left to him to define.

  “What Fothergill won’t know is that I’ll be there as well.” Dalziel met Amberly’s eyes. “I’ll remain with you for the rest of today, just in case—no sense taking any unnecessary risks. We’ll leave tomorrow morning—I’ll travel down in your carriage. Easy enough to slip into the house after we arrive.”

  Dalziel’s gaze grew harder, colder. “Fothergill knows Charles—he’ll be expecting to have a guard he needs to distract to get to you, and Charles will obviously be that person. Once Charles is decoyed away, Fothergill will come in—from all we’ve seen of him to date, he’ll be overconfident. The last thing he’ll expect is to walk into me.”

  Dalziel’s lips lifted in a faint, cold smile. Penny quelled a shiver.

  “That,” Dalziel said, glancing at them all, “is how we’ll catch him.”

  “And stop him,” Charles said.

  There’d been a degree of finality in Charles’s tone, echoed in Dalziel’s murmured affirmation, that seemed to set the seal on Fothergill’s fate.

  Once again in Charles’s town carriage rocking steadily back to Bedford Square, Penny thought of Gimby, Mary Maggs, and Sid Garnut—remembered Fothergill’s expression when he’d been about to slit Nicholas’s throat—and couldn’t find any sorrow for Fothergill in her.

  One point puzzled her. She stirred and glanced at Charles. “Dalziel—I’m surprised someone in his position would…how do you phrase it? Go into the field?”

  Charles glanced at her. After a moment, he said, “I would have been more surprised if he’d left it in my hands alone.” He considered, then went on, “We’ve always spoken of Dalziel as if he simply sits behind his desk in Whitehall and directs people hither and yon. Recently, we’ve known that isn’t the case—in fact, it’s probably never been the case. Our view of him reflected what
we knew, and that wasn’t the whole picture. Still isn’t the whole picture. We’ve always recognized him as one of us—he couldn’t be that without similar background, similar training, similar experience. In this instance…”

  Charles paused, then glanced at her. “I told you whoever corners Fothergill has to be one of us.”

  Penny nodded. “You or someone equally well trained.” She slipped her hand into his. “Like Dalziel.”

  “Indeed.” Grasping her hand, Charles leaned his head back against the squabs. Of all those he knew who were “like him,” prepared to kill when their country demanded it, there was none other more “like him” than Dalziel.

  They reached Lostwithiel House to discover Charles’s mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law all waiting to pounce. Not that his mother pounced; directed by Crewther to the drawing room, Charles ushered Penny in—his mother immediately saw them and held out her hand, compelling him to cross the room to her side. Clasping her hand, he bent and kissed her cheek.