Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance

by Lilia Birney

  “Are you all right?” Jane tugged her to her feet.

  “Yes, of course.” Nothing mattered except getting Pierce safe. She didn’t give a fig for a few bruises.

  The coachman alit once more, and helped the two Runners lift Pierce and Twist into the carriage. Penelope and Jane covered them with rugs, and laid the still-warm bricks at their feet. Then Jannings and Burkett poked their heads through the carriage door.

  “Lady Annand, you may take Mr. Howe to your home, or to his flat—we release him to your care since you are his fiancée.” Jannings then turned to Jane. “Would you be so kind as to bring Mr. Twist down to our offices? I have a feeling that Richard Ford will want to speak to him, and will see to his welfare.”

  Jane nodded. “Of course I will, Mr. Jannings.”

  Jannings shut the door, and the carriage rumbled off to Grosvenor Square. Penelope cradled Pierce in her arms, willing her strength into him. She would not break down or give into hysterics now. He was safe, and she would get him home and into bed with a roaring fire in the grate. And she would call Doctor Brown to come and see to him. And everything would be fine. It had to be. They had come too far. She could not lose him now. Why, she refused to lose him now.

  The following hours were a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of activity. Pierce was bundled upstairs and into Penelope’s bedroom by Simmons and Jane’s coachman, while the servants scuttled about, brewing tea and toddies, stirring up fires, piling blankets onto the bed. Dr. Brown arrived and looked over Pierce with a grave eye, shaking his graying head with a rueful air.

  “He lost a lot of blood, and that is a nasty cut. But we’ll give it some time. Time usually heals all things.” He prescribed a diet of milk and honey and left a bottle of laudanum to help Pierce handle the pain.

  After the doctor left, Penelope turned to Simmons. “Bring in one of the cots from the servants’ quarters, and set it up here, beside the bed.” She was not leaving him, not ever again.

  Simmons, who had always been a butler of exceptional tact and courtesy, didn’t blink an eye at his mistress’ request. If he thought it odd or downright scandalous for her to sleep next to Pierce Howe, he had the good taste to mask it. “Of course, your ladyship.”

  Pierce had succumbed to sleep—at least, his eyes were closed, and his breathing regular. He didn’t flinch as the servants set up Penelope’s cot, lining it with fur blankets so that she would stay warm and comfortable as she kept watch over her beloved.

  As the servants retreated, Penelope blew out the candles, leaving only the fire burning brightly in the grate. She tiptoed over to Pierce and laid a gentle hand on his forehead. At her touch, his eyes popped open.

  “Penelope.”

  “I’m here, Pierce. I won’t leave you.” She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed as tightly as she could.

  “My betrothed.” It was a statement, not a question. His eyes drifted shut once more.

  “Yes.” He probably would never remember this moment, so what was the harm? He must’ve overheard her speaking to the Runners. She had used the term to save time and embarrassment—for explaining their relationship to others was a dicey proposition at best. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed his hand on his abdomen. Then she climbed onto her cot, covering herself with the fur blankets.

  She said a silent prayer as she watched his immobile form on the bed. Never had she seen him so still, so quiet. She wanted Pierce back—robust, lusty, full of life.

  Sleep would not come. But, alone with Pierce at last, she could give vent to her fears and frustrations without anyone ever knowing she broke down. There was no point in holding back now. So the tears flowed rapidly, scorching rivers down her cheeks. He would get better. He simply had to. She had so much to tell him, so many things she needed to set right between them.

  ***

  Pierce dreamed so many things. The dreams simply would not leave his mind. His mother, with her dark hair and tawny eyes, spoke with him at length. Which was quite strange, for she had been dead for many years. But it was nice to see her again. He had almost forgotten what she looked like, and how she sounded. Father was there too, but never spoke. He just watched Pierce with that same hooded, inscrutable expression he had always worn. Funny, Father wore a noose around his neck, just like a man would wear a cravat. Pierce told him to remove it, but Father simply shook his head.

  Then Penelope would come. Her hair streamed down like rays of sunshine. He lifted his hand to grasp a ray in his hand, but it was always out of reach. Her emerald eyes were reddened and the expression on her face so sad. Penelope should never be sad. She was meant for joy and for love. He told her so, but her eyebrows drew together and she bent down closer. “Say it again, Pierce,” she would urge, but he had to give up. He was tired. Too damn tired.

  She drifted away and he put up his hand to stop her, but he had more visitors. Charlotte, his paramour from so long ago came to see him, her rosy cheeks drained of all color. “Let me go,” she stated simply. “You don’t need me any longer.” He nodded his head. They didn’t need each other anymore. “Goodbye,” he murmured. And she flitted off. Everyone drifted in and out of his field of vision. It was exhausting trying to keep up with their comings and goings.

  One man came more often than the rest. He poked and prodded at Pierce, issuing orders in a commanding tone of voice. Pierce had grown weary of this visitor. If only he would go away and leave him in peace. After that man left, Penelope would appear, her forehead puckered with worry, and she would stroke his forehead with a damp cloth until he fell asleep. He liked that part. He hated how that bastard caused his Penelope so much worry.

  The man appeared again and mumbled something about a turn. Penelope answered, her voice quivering, but he couldn’t make out her response. After the man left, Penelope did not rub his forehead as she usually did. Instead, she pulled back the blankets and lay beside him, wrapping her arms around him.

  Ah, that was blissful. He closed his eyes. Even over the stench of fever, he could smell her special scent of gardenias and peaches. He inched closer to her warmth. Penelope. How he had missed his Penelope.

  ***

  Well, that was odd. Pierce opened his eyes, trying to focus on any point of reference, but nothing looked familiar. Whatever room he was in was not his own. It was a decidedly feminine room, painted the sky blue of a robin’s egg. And the bed was comfortable, softer than his, for certain. A fire burned low in the grate, and the windows allowed sunshine to stream in, softened by lace curtains.

  He cleared his throat, but could hardly swallow. He’d give anything for a cup of tea, broth, anything just now. His mouth tasted sticky-sweet, like honey. It was a taste he despised.

  Something pressed against him, warm and heavy. He inched his head over to get a better look.

  Red-gold curls. That’s all he could see. He inhaled slowly. Gardenias, peaches, warmth. Penelope.

  “Penny?” he croaked. Gad, but his voice sounded bizarre. Like rusted nails against a bit of tin.

  The curls stirred. “Hmm?”

  “Penny.” It was easier to say the second time.

  The bed shifted, and the curls tumbled back, revealing Penelope as she sat up, her emerald eyes wide. “Pierce?”

  He couldn’t speak again, not until he’d had something to drink. And he couldn’t move his head, the fatigue grasped him so strongly. But he blinked, and Penelope cried out in delight.

  “Oh Pierce, my darling.” She threw her arms around his neck, covering his cheek, his eyes, his forehead with kisses. “Oh, I thought I’d lost you.”

  “No.” It was all he could manage.

  “Pierce, darling, let me get you some tea. You must be so thirsty.” She leapt from the bed and pulled on the bell-pull with all her might. Lord, he had forgotten what an astonishing figure Penelope possessed, but the sight of her in her flannel nightgown brought it all back to him with searing clarity. As soon as he got his strength back, he would prove to her how badly he’d missed her.

>   The housekeeper brewed a stout pot of tea, which he drank straight, no milk and no sugar. He wasn’t sure exactly why the thought of milk and honey turned his stomach, but he would be perfectly happy never to taste either again. Penelope propped him against some large feather pillows and spooned the tea into his mouth. It took the entire pot before he regained the use of his voice.

  He couldn’t talk as long as he wished to, for fatigue still held him tight in its grip. But he could manage a few words here and there, and he could ravish Penelope with his eyes. He never wanted her to leave his side. Ever again.

  “Pierce, you cut yourself badly trying to escape and a kind of blood poisoning set in,” she explained, holding the spoon up so he could sip more tea. “But Jane and I found you and Twist, and we were able to get you out of there and back home with the help of two patrollers from Bow Street.”

  “Twist…all right?” The old blighter had likely fared even worse than he.

  “Yes, he is recovering too.” Penelope switched from tea to beef broth, which was the most incredible, mouth-watering thing he had ever tasted. “He caught a bad cold from being in that shed, but his wife nursed him back to health. He was offered a position at Bow Street but from what I’ve heard, turned it down. He’s retired now.”

  Pierce possessed the strength to roll his eyes. Not bloody likely. The old buggar would be at it again, as soon as Ruth’s back was turned. And what of Cavendish? He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question. He wanted to live in this moment, watching Penelope’s every movement, drinking in the delicious broth as his power slowly returned.

  Once he drank the tea and the broth, Penelope smiled at him. “You need a good shave. You’re beginning to look like Rip Van Winkle, or Henry the Eighth.”

  He rubbed his hand over his chin. Good Lord, she was right. He hadn’t ever sported a beard this long. “Help me?”

  “Of course.” She was off again, in a flurry of bell-pulls and servants. When she returned, she was dressed in a gown the color of marigolds, her hair tucked up neatly in a coil atop her head. Simmons trailed in after her, a basin of steaming hot water, a badger hair brush, and a razor on a wheeled tray.

  “I’ll handle this, Simmons.” She shooed him away with a wave of her hand. “I used to help Peter shave when he was ill, before he died,” she explained. “These are his shaving implements. Good thing I kept them, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. He wished she would let Peter go for good, but yes, having his shaving kit around was a rather lucky thing.

  She lathered the soap and applied it with the badger hair brush with all the flair of an expert valet. Then, with long, even strokes, she shaved off his beard. “Hold still,” she commanded, as he moved his head around to watch her more closely. “We’ve had enough injuries to last us a lifetime.”

  She puckered her lips, pulling them down. “Like this,” she commanded. “I need to get the bit under your nose.”

  He did as she bade him.

  She applied a hot towel to his face and wiped the last traces of soap away. “There you go,” she said with a chuckle. He hadn’t heard her laugh in so long. The sound enchanted him. “Your face is a great deal more angular than before, Pierce. Rather difficult to shave, but then, you’ll round out a bit once you start eating again.”

  She put away the razor and the towel, busying herself with the tray. Was she afraid to settle down, to stop busying herself with little tasks? They needed to be still, to talk with one another.

  He reached out and grasped her arm. “Penelope, please.”

  She jumped as though his touch burned her. “Yes?”

  “You called me your betrothed. I remember that.” It was the last real thing he could recall before lapsing into the fever. The sound of the words had sustained him through the worst of the fever. He knew that now.

  “Yes, well, I needed a quick explanation, Pierce. The Runners were there, helping us, and I couldn’t very well call you my lover, or my paramour, or my partner, or anything like that…” She trailed off, her cheeks a lovely shade of rose.

  This had gone far enough. He refused to dance around the matter any longer. They had almost lost each other, and he wasn’t going to lose her again. “Marry me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Penelope gasped. Had she heard aright? Was Pierce actually proposing marriage? She leaned closer, to better gauge his state of mind. His dark eyes were clear and lost that feverish glint they held for so long, but even so, could she trust his judgment so soon after his illness?

  Before she could press him further, a knock sounded on the door. “Enter.”

  Simmons entered, followed by Jannings and Burkett, the patrollers from that horrible night at the Lily. “Gentlemen, come in. Mr. Howe is feeling much better today, as you can see.”

  “Yes.” Jannings strolled into her bedroom, eyeing Pierce with a calm expression. “Your butler was telling us that he got the turn last night. I beg your pardon for disturbing you both on Christmas morning, but I do wish to speak to Mr. Howe without delay.”

  “Of course, Mr. Jannings.” With a wave, she dismissed Simmons. Then she pulled her vanity bench and a side chair over to the bed. “Please come in, and sit.” Heavens, she must look a sight. Even though she tidied up a bit before giving Pierce his shave, she still bore the marks of too many sleepless nights. And of course, her cot sat there in plain view. Obviously these men, accustomed as they were to gathering clues, had no doubts about the state of their relationship now.

  The patrollers sat, and once again Jannings spoke. He was the leader of the pair, always taking charge. “Mr. Howe, we came to discuss a few things with you, as we heard you were doing better.”

  Pierce nodded his head as though it pained him to do so. “Of course.”

  “You should know that we’ve shut down the Lily and the Barclay Agency, but to avoid any scandal or connection with his name, Cavendish has offered a sizeable sum of money to the victims of his actions.” Jannings cleared his throat. “You, uh, have been offered enough that you can retire if you care to.”

  “I don’t care to retire, nor do I want his money.”

  Pierce voice brought tears to her eyes. He still sounded so ill—so unlike his usual self.

  Jannings nodded. “I was certain you would think so, Mr. Howe. Mr. Twist took the money as he indicated he was ready to retire, but we shall keep yours to do with it as you see fit.”

  Pierce managed to hitch one shoulder up. “I don’t care.”

  Penelope intervened. This conversation was taxing him already. “Perhaps, gentlemen, the money could be put into a charitable trust, to help other victims of Cavendish’s actions. Such as, oh, a home for prostitutes who find themselves pregnant? I am sure that there are many such women who have worked for Cavendish over the years, and who received little but the back of his hand once they found themselves in the family way.”

  The patrollers turned a bright shade of red. Were such rough and tumble gentlemen really that discomfited by discussing pregnancy? She stifled a laugh, and turned to Pierce. “What do you think, darling?”

  He nodded. “Good idea.”

  The patrollers looked at each other and then at Penelope. “We could turn the money over to Mr. Howe for such an endeavor. But it’s rather out of our range of expertise.”

  “We will handle all the details,” Penelope responded with a smile. “Just hand the money over to Mr. Howe, and we will take it from there.”

  “There is one more thing,” Burkett piped up. “Mr. Ford would like for you to join our force, Mr. Howe. Though you’ve turned down our offers before, perhaps this latest incident has made you decide to seek a safer method of employment. Since you don’t care to retire, that is.”

  Pierce rolled his head around on his pillow so that he could look Penelope squarely in the face. “Yes. I do want a safer position. I accept your offer.”

  “Jolly good.” Burkett slapped his gloves against his thigh. “When you are entirely well, Howe, come round to 4 Bow
Street. We will be waiting for you. I am sure Mr. Ford already has an assignment in mind.”

  Pierce nodded, closing his eyes. “Excellent.”

  Poor darling, he really was quite worn out already. Penelope rose, indicating the end of the interview. “Gentlemen, it was so good of you to stop by, but as you can see, Mr. Howe is still recovering. I must ask you to leave now, as he needs a rest.”

  Both patrollers rose with her, nodding their agreement. “Of course.” They made their way to the door, and Jannings turned back to smile at them both. “You needn’t come to see us until after your honeymoon, naturally.” Then he tugged on his hat and both he and Burkett departed.

  Heat rose in Penelope’s cheeks. Well, what did she expect? She had told them, after all, that she and Pierce were engaged. She hid her flaming cheeks by bustling around the room, putting the chairs away and fluffing Pierce’s pillows.

  “Penelope.”

  She turned to look at him. His eyes were open once more, and a slow smile spread across his thin cheeks. Her heart lurched. Oh, she loved him. She would never stop loving him.

  “Is it really Christmas day? Have I been sick that long?” He rubbed a much-thinner hand over his visage.

  “Yes, it is. And what better way to celebrate Christmas day than by sitting up in your sickbed, sipping broth?” She cast a bright smile his way as she tidied up the table beside the bed.

  “I can only offer you one Christmas gift, weary as I am. Come and sit down, sweetheart.” He patted the space beside him on the bed.

  She drew close, sinking down onto the mattress. He grasped her hand. She averted her eyes from the raw scar that trailed his wrist. Seeing it always brought tears to her eyes, and she couldn’t bear to start crying again. Not now. And his lovely talk of Christmas gifts? She must delay him until she could pull herself together.

  “So Cavendish paid everyone off,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, Pierce.”