“You are right,” said Fanny Edwards. “She knows how to stand up for herself, but she is quite sweet. Her mother was a noted Incomparable, you know. She could have married anyone, I understand, but she chose Sir Gerald, a baronet. It was a love match. I am so sorry that she has passed. Tragic accident.”
Penelope, in fact, shone. Dressed in pale gold, her hair half up and half down, his fiancée looked every inch the society beauty this evening.
“It is past time that I greeted her. Lovely to see you, Miss Edwards.” Bowing, Beau made his way across the room to his intended.
“Pen, you are stunning.”
She smiled broadly and extended her hand. Kissing it, he felt her slight tremble, and a wave of protectiveness overcame him. He stood holding her hand while they gazed into one another’s eyes. A current stirred between them, threatening to undo his self-control. Beau found that he badly wanted to kiss her.
“I think I may break with personal precedent and dignify our wedding with a proper suit of black clothes,” he said in a low voice, as though he were confessing his love.
Bertie approached them. “Diamond of the First Water,” he said. “Beau, you have captured the Season’s beauty.”
Beau put a hand on the back of his affianced bride’s waist. “She has consented to take me in hand. Pen, this is one of the few misguided souls who calls me his friend. You have already met Sir Bertram? We go back to Eton days.”
“I see that by snatching you up so quickly, Beau has robbed us all,” said Bertie.
As Penelope put her hand on her fiancé’s sleeve, he covered it with his own, stilling its tremble with a squeeze.
“He was very brave,” she said, looking up at him. He stifled a wince. Did she not know the less said about the Devereaux incident, the better?
“Oh? And what did that cursed blighter do? I never knew.”
Flashing a look at Beau, she bit her lower lip. She realized she had slipped. Stiffening, she said, “He tore up my sketchbook.”
Bertie looked at her with new interest. “You carried your sketchbook to a ball? And it was so important to you that Beau killed the poor man?”
Annoyed at Pen’s slip, Beau saw nothing to do but come to the rescue. “They had met before. The man was dicked in the nob—a complete bufflehead. He chose to follow her about. Unfortunately, he objected to my company and pulled his knife.”
His friend looked at him sharply. Clearly, he knew he was being told a Banbury tale, but loyalty to Beau prevented him from questioning it. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Sounds a dangerous fellow.”
“Yes,” Penelope said. “Who knows but he might have carried me off, were it not for Lord Wellingham.”
Beau cringed again.
“Sounds like something was seriously amiss in his brain box,” said Bertie. “Like you, I am glad Beau was there.”
“Her beauty clearly drove him round the bend,” added Beau with a touch of lightness. Patting the hand that was on his arm with what he hoped looked like affection, he said, “You will be at the wedding, I hope?”
“I would not miss such a seminal occasion!”
The gong sounded, calling them to the dining room. Beau drew a discreet breath of relief. When Bertie moved away to claim Miss Sukey as his dinner partner, Beau used the opportunity to bend to his fiancée’s ear. “A little more discretion, if you please.”
Alarm flashed in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I only told the truth.”
“The truth is not what is wanted in this circumstance.”
His annoyance continued throughout the dinner party and the piano recital given by the duchess afterwards. How much damage had Penelope done? Would another story appear in the Post? He must get Bertie alone and try to prevail upon his loyalty as a friend.
-P-
The Ruisdell residence was close enough to his own town house that Beau had
dispensed with his carriage for the evening and returned home through the dark streets on foot.
Brooding over the incident with Bertie and Penelope, he wondered if he was doomed to have an indiscreet wife. He could not afford such a burden with his job in the Foreign Office. It would be necessary to keep her in complete ignorance of his activities.
He had managed a word with his friend and was fairly certain the man would keep the matter under his hat. Now if it had been Strangeways—well, that would have been another matter. It had been a close thing. It could have been all over London in the morning that Beau had slain a lunatic who was stalking his fiancée. They could not afford that type of publicity.
The account that he was involved in a love triangle turned murderous or that he had slain a thieving bit of riffraff might have seemed just society gossip to the spy St. Croix. But if it received new life, any ongoing story might eventually catch his attention. There was always the danger that the dead man’s name would surface.
As an agent, St. Croix knew Beau and his colleagues at the Foreign Office by reputation. If he put the two pieces of knowledge together, then Beau’s life might as well be forfeit. St. Croix was a French patriot, and as far as he knew, Devereaux was, as well. A hotheaded man—which accounted for Devereaux’s fear of him—St. Croix would not let the supposed murder go unavenged.
The government had been lucky to keep the victim’s identity out of the newspapers thus far. It was of great importance that the story that Devereaux was naught but a thief be allowed to stand, but what if some enterprising member of the press caught whiff of the real story?
Chapter Eleven
Penelope’s heart was in her shoes during dinner and afterwards as she lay tucked up in bed. She knew she had made a serious faux pas, though she did not exactly know what it was. Apparently, in London, one did not even tell one’s closest friends the truth when they asked.
Under such conditions, how could she possibly make a success as a London hostess and wife of an important peer? It would be like walking through a bog of quicksand!
She had started to feel a genuine attraction towards her fiancé and thought perhaps he had returned it. But now anticipation about her approaching wedding fled. Instead, she saw a life ahead where she would be tied to a man who thought her an indiscreet child and disapproved of her heartily. Anger stirred beneath her chagrin.
When the men had entered the drawing room after taking port together, Beau did not seek a seat next to her. Instead, he sat next to her Aunt Clarice and spoke to her in low tones during the piano recital. No doubt he had been making his displeasure known.
-P-
Penelope was not surprised when her aunt spoke to her after Sukey left the breakfast room the following morning. Her father was still abed.
“Dearest, Beau told me of your conversation with Sir Bertram last night. I feel we must have failed to impress upon you the importance of keeping the real events surrounding this marriage dark.”
Her indignation stirred again. “I am unused to London ways, Aunt. I thought Sir Bertram a close enough friend to Lord Wellingham that he would want me to be truthful. I did not even speak of it being an espionage matter. I am not used to shading the truth.”
“Do not be upset, Penelope. I am certain no serious harm was done. Sir Bertram is a close friend. Beau only wanted me to warn you. What you need to understand is that gossip is the currency of exchange in London. Knowing an on-dit that no one else knows gives one stature. Reputations are never so interesting as when they are besmirched. In this case, it is doubly important because of the office that Beau holds. We are, you see, dearest, concerned with matters of State. I do not suppose he would care what was said about him otherwise.”
Eyes downcast, Penelope said, “I am going to fail at this whole business, Aunt. Deception does not come easily to me. Are you trying to tell me that such a simple mistake could have put Beau’s life in danger?”
“I’m afraid so, my dear. Had you spoken to anyone less loyal than Sir Bertram . . .” She scooped up Queen Elizabeth and rose. “But you are a smart girl, Penelope d
arling. You will learn. Now, we are to visit the church this morning. It is a pity the wedding cannot be St. George’s, but of course that is booked full in advance during the Season. I think you will like our parish church. It has some very nice windows.”
Before going to the church, Penelope decided that she must write a note to her fiancé. She burned to express herself to him before it was too late to retreat from their decision.
In the sitting room off her bedroom, she found a quill and notepaper.
Blossom House
London
17 April 1813
My lord,
It has been brought forcefully to my attention by both you and my aunt that I behaved unwisely last night. I hope you realize that the reason was my naïveté, and not any intent to injure you or your reputation.
I am afraid I am very ignorant of what qualifies as a breach of discretion. I have never been in this situation before. I cannot say that I will be a fast learner and that such a circumstance might not repeat itself in the future.
Life ahead stretched before her as an uncomfortable view of one faux pas after another. Her fiancé had an important work to do, but she now saw that she would never be told enough about it to know what she should say and what she should not. At any moment she might betray him.
She was swamped with misgivings. Her mother had died because her horse had stepped in a rabbit hole while galloping at a great speed. Would Penelope ever be able to detect the rabbit holes, the traps of the ton? She foresaw a spectacular downfall for herself. And she would not only take herself down, but her husband with her.
Her heart began to pound with that sickening realization. She was outspoken. What if her childish candor put Beau in danger?
Tears pricked her eyes. She knew what she must do. It was the only possible thing if she was to keep Beau safe from her lack of understanding and her unruly tongue. He would thank her. She resumed her letter.
For this reason, I feel it wise to cry off the engagement. I thank you for being willing to do your duty as a gentleman, but I would rather my reputation suffer than yours. You have an important office to uphold, and my faux pas could result in serious, though unintentional, harm to the government, the country, and you.
With much gratitude for your intended gesture,
Miss Penelope Swinton
She was not the wife for Beau Wellingham. But her heart was heavy as she intentionally dashed the treacherous hope that he was becoming fond of her.
Chin up, my girl. Your life is not a fairy story! This is best for all concerned.
She straightened her spine and blinked back tears as she thought of the bleak time ahead. The ton would consider her a jilt. Worse, the scandal of the supposed love triangle would not now be ameliorated. She would be thought a female of the lowest order. But she had no doubt that she was doing the right thing as far as Beau was concerned.
Worse was the unexpected lance of heartache. Without realizing it, she had begun to care for the viscount, had begun to look forward to marrying him and building a life together, painting the future in rosy hues. She told herself that it was just as well this contretemps had occurred now before they had made their vows, but that did not vanquish her sorrow.
She sat staring into space, trying to talk herself out of her misery. Sensing her distress, Wordsworth wandered over and put his head in her lap. She caressed him, drawing much-needed warmth from his affection. She did not know how one could get along without the unconditional love of a dog.
Eventually, she took the note down to Pursley, asking him to see that it was delivered to the viscount. Now she would never know what might have been, for good or ill.
She sought her father, but found he was not only still abed, but asleep. This was something to be truly worried about. His journey must have taxed him more than anyone had realized. Her own affairs took second place to her father’s health. What if he were to die? She could not imagine life with him gone, as well as Mama. Fear grasped her, and she castigated herself.
Has this useless journey seriously damaged his chest? If so, I can never forgive myself. Now that my engagement is broken, surely the best course of action is to return Papa and me to the fresh air of Northamptonshire.
Her aunt sat in the music room working on the opera she was writing. Since it was in Italian, the only thing Penelope knew was that it was about cats. Henry Five, ever the music lover, had taken a position near her feet under the pianoforte.
After a short while, Aunt Clarice stopped to make a note on the manuscript. She looked up. “Yes, dear? Are you ready to see the church?”
“A church will not be necessary, Aunt. I have written Lord Wellingham to cry off,” Penelope said, raising her chin. “I am afraid I was very indiscreet last night concerning that dreadful man he killed.” Pausing, she bit her lip. “If we were married, it would be only the first of many unwise moves on my part. I would be in the position of doing serious damage to his lordship’s career, maybe even endangering his life, if I have not already done so.” She pleated the blue muslin of her gown between her fingers. “I do not blame him for being annoyed with me, but I cannot live in a marriage where I do not understand the rules. I am unfamiliar with the ways of the ton and I fear they will always go against my inclinations.”
“But to cry off, Penelope!” her aunt said, taking one of her hands and squeezing it between her own. “I do not think you realize what a serious step that is. It will cause scandal on top of scandal. You do not wish to live out the rest of your life known as a jilt! Think of your position, dearest. You must marry someone. When your poor father dies, you will not have a home!”
Penelope took her hand back and went to the window, her heart pounding. Why was it so difficult to do the right thing?
“I am afraid I am very impulsive. I would never make a good wife for Lord Wellingham,” she said, looking through the glass at her aunt’s wild English garden. “I feel so trapped by my inadequacies. I do not wish any harm to come to Lord Wellingham through a mistake I might make.”
Her aunt rose and said, “Come here, darling.” She held out her arms. When Penelope walked into them, she embraced her. “You will always have a home here, if need be. I do not wish you to worry about that.”
“At this moment, my greatest worry is actually Papa, Aunt. He is still asleep, and his breathing does not sound normal. I fear he needs to go back to Northamptonshire. The coal smoke inflames his lungs.”
Her aunt’s eyes grew large with alarm. “Oh, my dear! Poor Sir Gerald! You have every reason to be concerned. I shall call the physician. Perhaps he can mix up a draft to help his breathing.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Penelope lifted her chin once more. “There will be no wedding now. I am free to take him back home.”
“I still cannot approve of the step you have taken, Penelope,” her aunt said. “You are making entirely too much of the incident last night. Beau only intended that I give you a gentle reminder.” She gave her niece a shrewd look. “Tell me, do you care for Beau at all?”
“More than I should,” she said. “But I know he sees me as an impetuous child.” Except for those few moments during the waltz, she thought. They were enough to tell her that they were not entirely incompatible.
Aunt Clarice patted her cheek. “I do not think we have heard the last of him. Now, my dear, let us go see to your papa.”
They found her father awake and taking tea in his dressing room. Upon seeing them, he was immediately seized by a fit of coughing.
“Papa, there will be no wedding. We must get you home,” Penelope said.
“No wedding?”
“I have cried off.”
“She has done a very silly thing,” said Aunt Clarice. “No doubt we will be hearing from Beau before the day is out.”
“Penny, you must marry the man,” her father said. “I am not well, and you have no fortune.”
“That ship has sailed, Papa. Now, we must get you packed. I shall ring for your valet.”
“I shall call him,” said Aunt Clarice. She pulled the bell rope, saying, “I am not ready to sound the death knell on this marriage, but I think you must get out of London, Sir Gerald. Would you like me to call my physician or perhaps the apothecary?”
“I know my limits. I shall be all right for a day or two. I need to get Penny’s business settled.”
“Oh, Papa! Lord Wellingham will be happy to be quit of me, you will see. We are leaving this afternoon, no matter what you have to say about it.”
“But your future, Penny! Lord Wellingham says that you are ruined. You will not be able to marry respectably. I worry greatly what will become of you when I am gone.”
“Aunt Clarice has said I may make my home with her. Do not fuss, Papa. All will be well. I am greatly relieved not to be getting married on Saturday.”
“You do not like Lord Wellingham?” She felt her father searching her face.
“I would not make him a proper wife. I am too young and inexperienced to be the wife of a member of the Foreign Office. I lack discretion. You know that very well. I should not like to be forever wondering if I am saying the wrong thing.”
“Have you had words with him?”
“I have. It was very uncomfortable. He was very perturbed with me. That is no way to begin a marriage.”
Her father was quiet for a moment. “I would not have you marry someone you dislike, but there is still the matter of your reputation.”
“I am not going to be joined for life to a man to whom my lack of discretion might do irreparable harm. I would rather not marry at all.” Penelope tried to sound firm, but her voice quivered, and she blinked back the sudden tears. How could she have known that going into the park that morning would lead to events that would doom her from ever enjoying a happy life?
Patting her father on the hand, she hastily left his room. As she helped the maid to pack her trunks, she thought of the wedding gown she had commissioned with such hope. Tears formed and fell unstopped. Was it possible to feel more miserable?
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 8
