Her cousin took her hands. “Penelope, dearest, how good it is to see you! It has been years. How you do favor your mother with your fair hair and violet eyes. Aunt Clarice tells me she was an Incomparable.”
“Nevertheless, she always thought that character was more important than beauty,” said Penelope’s aunt. “This niece of mine has plenty of character, just like you, my dear.”
The duchess squeezed Penelope’s hands. “I expect you will take London by storm. But I was so very saddened by Aunt Margaret’s passing. How you must miss her.”
Penelope found herself tearing up as Elise kissed her cheek. “Thank you. She was the best of mothers. I do miss her so.”
“I only wish I had known her better.” Elise turned to her husband. “Penelope is the very picture of Aunt Margaret. She married Sir Gerald for love, you know.”
The duke spoke, “Yes. You and Elise share a grandfather, is that not right? Lady Clarice’s brother, the Marquess of Kingsborough?”
“Yes. That is correct.” Penelope curtsied again. “It is lovely to meet you.”
The man had a devastating smile. “I am always happy to meet members of Elise’s family. She tells me you sketch?”
“A bit.” Penelope smiled ruefully, reflecting upon her morning’s misadventures. “Aunt tells me you had a little marquess born to you several months ago.”
“Yes,” said Elise, laughing. “He is the dearest thing. Blond ringlets, if you can believe it! And the duke and I so dark.”
It was not until they went into luncheon that Aunt Clarice brought up the subject of Penelope’s difficulties.
“We require your advice, Your Grace,” she told the duke. “Tell them your story, Penelope darling.”
“I had an unfortunate encounter this morning.” She related the tale of the angry spy, the torn sketchbook, and Viscount Wellingham’s fears for her safety. “He feels he must offer his services as a bodyguard,” she concluded.
The duke’s brow furrowed with concern. “That sounds a wise precaution. Beau is a solid fellow. If he says you are in danger, I would take him at his word. But I am very sorry that this has happened to you. I do not suppose you would consider returning to Northamptonshire until the danger has passed?”
“Aunt feels I will be safe if I stay in company. And to tell you the truth, I have a hard time believing all this is real. Coming from the country, where nothing out of the way ever happens, I feel like I have been fetched up in the middle of a melodrama.”
“And there is something else,” Elise said. “If Beau is to be your bodyguard, I feel I must warn you to watch your heart, as well. He is exceedingly good-looking but has something of a reputation as a rake. I doubt you have met anyone like him before.”
“You need not worry about my heart. To tell you the truth, I did not care for him at all. He was very rude,” said Penelope.
“He is sound, despite his deplorable taste in dress,” said the duke. “Impeccable lineage. I will have a little talk with him to guarantee that he will answer to me if your reputation is stained in any particular.”
“Then I will rely on your assurance, Your Grace.”
“In the meantime, I believe we shall send you some burly footmen to make Blossom House a bit more secure. One each for the front and back doors, and another for the French doors in the library.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Penelope said. “That will help me to sleep more easily, I am certain. I also have Wordsworth, my corgi, who sleeps at the foot of my bed. He is very protective.”
“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” said Aunt Clarice. “I only hope the devil will be on the next boat to France rather than hanging about here trying to do Penelope harm.”
“Cheer up, Clarice,” said Miss Sukey, looking up from the guinea fowl she was slicing. “We shall not let this foreigner, this French foreigner, get the best of us.” Turning to Elise, she asked, “What delightful thing are you writing now, my dear?”
“The usual village satire. However, I am afraid the author of Pride and Prejudice does a far better job of it than I do.”
“Nonsense!” Miss Sukey said with a shake of her ringlets. “Your satire fairly pierces one. I imagine it is because you are a student of Molière. Your writing has a French flavor.”
“We are done talking of the French, Sukey,” Aunt Clarice said sharply.
“How is Henry Five getting along?” Elise asked after Miss Sukey’s pet tortoise.
“Slowly, as usual.” Miss Sukey turned to Aunt Clarice. “There is no need to be snippy with me, Clarice.”
Penelope did not like to see her hostesses at odds. Intervening, she asked Elise to tell her more about the baby, and the moment was smoothed over.
“Tonight, Penelope makes her debut in society,” Aunt Clarice said. “We go to the Randolphs’ ball. Will you be in attendance, Elise?”
“Yes, I shall be; however, the Duke has business in the House tonight.”
“Such a bother that the House sits during the Season,” said Aunt Clarice.
The duke laughed. “The House being in session is the reason behind the Season, dear Aunt.”
“Well, I know that, but it seems to me that they never get anything accomplished. How long have we been fighting these despicable wars?”
“The House of Lords has no control over Napoleon’s insatiable greed and self-consequence—more’s the pity. And the Tories are of the opinion that the Americans must be put in their place.” He sipped his wine. “Perhaps, with Penelope in danger, I will give the House a miss tonight.”
-P-
The events of that morning notwithstanding, Penelope was determined to enjoy her first London ball. She and her best friend, Mary, had daydreamed about their debuts since they were little girls. Guided by her artistic eye, Penelope had given much thought to her gown. Though white was customary for a girl in her first season, she was all of twenty and did not feel herself in the first blush of youth. In addition, white washed out her fair looks. Instead, she wore a classic creation of pale violet silk that brought out the precise color of her eyes. It had but a single flounce, small puffed sleeves, and a proper square neckline. Tiny pink and white ribbon rosebuds tacked up the flounce, showing off the pleated underskirt. The concoction set her off as a “perfect vision,” to quote her aunt.
Penelope’s blonde hair was fashioned by Watkins in a double chignon high on her head and decorated with fresh pink rosebuds. The maid curled small wisps about her face, emphasizing her high cheekbones.
“You look a fair treat, miss,” Watkins said.
“You have done a remarkable job with my poor straight hair,” Penelope told her. “I know you must be worn to a thread getting all of my gowns pressed after my journey. You need not wait up for me tonight. My aunt’s maid can help me with my stays.”
“But I am that anxious to hear if you encounter the lavender gentleman again!” Watkins said.
“He is to escort us tonight. I will tell you all about it in the morning, I promise.”
Even if she was the smallest bit excited about appearing on the arm of the arrogant gentleman, Penelope did not intend to own it to anyone.
-P-
Viscount Wellingham arrived at precisely nine o’clock to accompany Penelope and her aunt to the ball. Tonight, he was arrayed in lemon, which made Penelope blink.
Perhaps it was the occasion, or maybe the danger she was in, but all her perceptions felt exaggerated. As he took her extended hand and bowed over it, she felt his warm touch linger through her gloves.
“You look lovely tonight, ladies. I shall create quite a sensation arriving with the two of you,” he told them.
This manifestation of charm was unexpected. For the first time while in the viscount’s company, she thought he might think of her as more than an errant schoolroom miss.
“Thank you, Beau dear,” said her aunt, dressed in her favorite purple taffeta with matching turban. “Remember that you are not to intimidate Penelope’s suitors.”
The
Randolphs’ ball exceeded anything Penelope could have imagined. She had never been in an assembly even a quarter as large as this. Lady Randolph was imposing with her red-orange turban and its feathers that curled about to meet her right ear. Her husband was a bear of a man—perfectly civil, but a bit high in the instep to give consequence to a country girl.
Beau was quick to correct their perceptions of her. “Miss Swinton is the granddaughter of Lady Clarice’s brother, the Marquess of Kingsborough. She is also cousin to the Duchess of Ruisdell. I am honored to accompany her to her first ball.”
Their hauteur melted a few degrees before they greeted “dear Beau” heartily. His position as their escort was clearly noted with interest. Penelope realized her bodyguard must be someone of consequence in society.
Moving down into the ballroom, she caught her breath. There were at least a dozen chandeliers alight, reflecting on silks and satins of every hue. Men in evening dress were handsome accents in a crowd of lovely women, who at this moment danced the waltz. Having only attended village assemblies or small private balls at her neighbors’ homes around the county, Penelope was transfixed.
Aunt Clarice’s imposing bosom led the way through the crowd. They met so many people, Penelope knew she would never remember their names.
The viscount kept his distance, but she felt his eyes on her wherever she went and with whomever she spoke. At first it was disconcerting, but soon she was able to shake off his presence as potential partners lined up to dance with her. She forgot to be self-conscious and gave herself over wholeheartedly to the pleasure of the occasion.
Chapter Two
Beau watched Miss Swinton’s slight, graceful figure, frowning. Her innocent enjoyment filled him with misgivings. She and her aunt failed to comprehend the great degree of danger she was in. How was he going to keep her safe?
Devereaux had visited his rooms this morning with the intent of locating “the artist” who had seen him so clearly that morning. His haggard face and shaking hands demonstrated the depth of his unease.
They sat in Beau’s library among his large collection of reading material. He did not offer the man a drink. His visitor spoke in rapid French.
“St. Croix is here in the country at the moment. If news of my meeting with you and General Sharpe were to come to his attention, he would hunt me down here or in France and make certain that I die on the guillotine. He knows the situation in England well enough to know you and the general would never reveal true military secrets to me. He will suspect immediately that you have turned me.”
“The lady will not be a problem. She is unaware of your true purpose in coming to England. She believes you to be an émigré who has many enemies,” Beau lied smoothly.
“She must be very stupid, then. I say the woman must be removed. An accident must be arranged. It is only a matter of time before she, or someone to whom she tells her story, arrives at the truth.”
“You surely made certain that you were memorable,” said Beau. “But she is an innocent. I have spoken with her at length and truly believe her only interest in the business is the loss of her artwork. For that, she cannot forgive you.”
The little man sprang up. “I will not be toyed with! The woman must be dealt with before I leave for France.”
Beau fixed the man with his most intimidating glare. The idea of Miss Swinton being at the spy’s mercy chilled him. “Shall I arrest you for threatening the granddaughter of a marquess?”
“Ha! You know her identity. Tell me who she is, and I will take care of it myself.”
“Go back to France, I am warning you. Come to your senses, man. The guillotine is merciful compared to the hangman’s rope.”
Devereaux grimaced. Pulling himself together, he gripped his lapels and stood straight. “Very well. I will leave you now. It is to your benefit to make certain the girl does not give me away.”
Beau was sorely tempted to take the man into custody. “She will not. I promise you that.”
Devereaux stopped his pacing and fixed him with a glare in which Beau read madness. It was clear the man was beyond reason. Moving quickly, Beau attempted to grab the fellow, but the spy eluded him. Beau gave chase, but Devereaux was faster and ran from the house and down the street.
After his fruitless chase, Beau returned to his library and began to pace. The Frenchman was deadly in earnest. Why had he not dragged him by the ear to the nearest constable?
He continued to wear out the carpet, seeing in his head the image of the innocent, spunky Miss Swinton. By Jove, the woman would not suffer at the hands of that rogue!
He did small justice to an excellent luncheon, finally managing to divert himself for a few moments with the examination of his roses, doing battle with aphids. The very next time he saw Devereaux, he would take him into custody. The man was insane, and he blamed himself for not realizing it earlier.
His next visitor was Ruisdell.
“If anything happens to Elise’s cousin, I will hold you responsible,” the duke said. “Not only must she remain safe from physical harm, but she has a spotless reputation, and I mean to see that it remains so.”
He had no doubt that the man meant exactly what he said. Not only was he a duke, but before unexpectedly inheriting the dukedom, Ruisdell had served as a general. He did not make idle threats. The man was known to be excellent with the sword and the pistol.
-P-
As Beau stood guard over Miss Swinton at the ball, he smiled grimly. This was a devilish situation. She was certainly a success, with more partners than she knew what to do with. When he had called for her and her aunt, he had been taken with her beauty immediately. Why had he not noticed it that morning? Men about him were referring to her as a Diamond of the First Water.
The saucy Miss Swinton was well on her way to becoming an Incomparable with her patrician features, elegant style, and perfect coloring. Her social position was only strengthened by her relationship to the Duke and Duchess of Ruisdell.
And Beau found that this evening he was not entirely indifferent to her. Tonight, she was leagues from the impertinent miss in the bonnet two years out of fashion that he had met that morning. Not only was he awakened to her beauty, but her effervescence as well. Most women of the ton seemed to suffer from ennui. Miss Swinton, on the other hand, was enjoying every moment. It was, in fact, refreshing.
Lady Clarice had said he must not chase away Miss Swinton’s suitors, but now he saw that such a thing was not possible. His presence at her side would not dissuade anyone.
Worming his way through the crowd that surrounded his charge, he finally came face-to-face with her. She was attractively flushed. “I do not suppose you have a dance left for me, have you?” he asked.
“I am afraid not, your lordship,” she said with a smile, showing him her dance card. “Only the waltzes are not taken. I have not received permission to waltz yet.”
“That I can arrange, if you will but save me one.”
“I would be inclined to forgive much of your behavior if you could secure permission for me from one of the patronesses.”
“The first waltz, then.”
“Agreed.”
Just then, young Cumberland came to her side to claim her for a reel. Beau bowed to her and went off to find Lady Sally Jersey, the most voluble of the patronesses of Almack’s, who had in her gift the coveted permission for young ladies to dance the waltz. He spotted her wearing a white feathered turban, sitting among the chaperones away from the orchestra.
“Lady Jersey!” He bowed before her. “I come to beg a favor.”
“Why, Beau dear. I think you have outdone yourself with that outrageous suit of clothing. Lemon! Whatever was your tailor thinking?”
“I pay him not to think,” Beau said with a chuckle. “There is a newly arrived young lady here tonight, Miss Penelope Swinton. You can see her dancing there with Cumberland.”
“Oh, yes. I had marked her appearance. Such a very pretty gel. And graceful, too. What are her con
nections?”
“She is Lady Clarice Manton’s niece from Northamptonshire. Granddaughter of her brother. You remember the Marquess of Kingsborough? That, of course, makes her cousin to the Duchess of Ruisdell.”
“Impeccable. I see.” The patroness fanned herself and looked up at Beau coquettishly. “I suppose she wants to waltz.”
“She does.”
“Bring her to me for an introduction, then.”
“Thank you, my lady. I shall.”
He made her an exaggerated leg, which always delighted her, and left to find Lady Clarice, keeping a sharp eye out for Devereaux. The man was a devil with a knife—a fact that worried Beau exceedingly. While he did not normally carry a knife himself, tonight he harbored one, sheathed, in the inside pocket of his jacket.
When he encountered Lady Clarice, he said, “We are keeping our eye out for a small man. He has not the wardrobe nor the invitation to pass himself off as a guest. I am thinking he may be trying to impersonate a waiter.”
“Does he know she will be here at the Randolphs’ ball?” inquired Lady Clarice, fanning herself industriously. The room was very warm.
“No. There are several balls this evening. He may be smuggling himself into all of them. Remember, he is a spy—trained to be surreptitious.”
At that moment, Cumberland brought Miss Swinton back to her aunt. The young lady was flushed and happy, looking up at Cumberland as though the sun rose in his eyes. Handsome devil, Cumberland, with his black hair and dimpled chin. Bit of a loose screw, however.
“Miss Swinton,” Beau said. “Lady Jersey would like to make your acquaintance. She may give you the permission you seek.”
“You are speaking of the waltz, Beau? Jolly good!” Cumberland said. Looking down at Miss Swinton’s upturned face, he asked, “You will save me one?”
“I shall,” she answered. “The first belongs to Lord Wellingham. Perhaps the second?”
“I shall look forward to it.” Taking her hand, he bowed over it and kissed her gloved knuckles.
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 2
