Penelope had ridden astride, secretly, with Tom on many occasions, so she had no trouble managing it. Her main concern was finding the best and fastest route. Tom knew his way to the Great North Road. From there, it was straight on to London.
Encouraging her father’s steed, Penelope and her friend made good time, stopping at midnight at The Green Man. She was sore from riding and hungry, but ignored both irritations, so consumed was she by the desire to get to her fiancé. She had read the letter from him that Arabella had sent on, and it had made her even more determined to get to Beau and somehow force him back to health. She had never been so driven by purpose in her life.
“Tom, you are a friend in a million,” she told him, before falling asleep in her narrow bed. She slept fully clothed, and dear Tom slept at her feet, making up his bed on the floor.
-P-
The second day, it rained, but the two riders pressed on. Penelope was grateful that her father had always insisted on prime horseflesh. Agamemnon was large and well-muscled with first-rate endurance. She felt Papa’s presence at her shoulder like an angel, protecting her and encouraging her. Unused to such exercise, she would have sagged in her seat were not she so moved by her sense of urgency.
They entered London late that night. Penelope was glad for the shield of darkness that protected her identity. Not remembering precisely where Wellingham House was, she and Tom trotted their mounts into the mews belonging to Blossom House.
With Tom dragging their saddlebags, they entered through the kitchen door. Pursley thought them burglars, coming upon them with a loaded pistol in his hands.
“Pursley, it is I, Miss Swinton! We have come to London on urgent business. I must have a bath. This is my friend Mr. Collingsworth, who has kindly escorted me all the way from Northamptonshire. My fiancé, Lord Wellingham, lies gravely ill. I have come to nurse him.”
“You rode dressed like that all the way from Northamptonshire, miss?”
“I did—with my aunt’s approval. I am certain she would like it if you held your tongue. Is Miss Sukey abed?”
“She is entertaining in the drawing room. Allow me to take you two up the service stairs.”
An hour later, Penelope was bathed and tucked into her bed by Watkins. “The lavender gentleman is wounded,” she told the maid. “Will you awaken me at seven o’clock so I may go to him? And please do me the favor of not gossiping.”
“Word is that the viscount is near death, miss,” the maid told her.
“I will not let that happen,” Penelope said and, refusing to entertain the thought, fell promptly asleep.
She awoke with the birds the next morning. Having slept so deeply, it took her a moment to determine where she was.
Her bedroom, Blossom House. Beau!
Getting up, she took her dress from the saddlebags. It smelled like horse! Why had she not aired it the night before?
Going to her dress cupboard, she discovered all the dresses she had left behind when she had hurriedly left London with Papa. She found a lavender muslin that would do for light mourning. She must simply go about where she would be seen by the fewest people possible.
Watkins arranged her hair. Penelope had a rushed breakfast and, leaving word for Tom, she and the maid were off for Wellingham House in the carriage. She breathed more freely when she was met by the butler, who informed her that her fiancé was still alive. Thank Providence for that!
Arabella came tripping down the stairs. “Miss Penelope! However did you arrive so quickly? My brother is in his library. We have not moved him. Sir Bertie is with him this morning!”
The girl’s face was wan with deep gray circles under her eyes. Her hair was fashioned in a plait woven around her head, and she wore a simple white muslin.
“My dear Arabella! You have been worrying yourself to a thread. You must not make yourself ill as well.”
“It will be so good to have you here. I was so sorry to hear about your papa. Are you really to marry Beau?”
If he recovers!
“Of course I am. Now show me to him. We must make certain that he comes to himself as soon as may be.”
Suddenly, she was swamped with anxiety at the idea of facing Beau’s infirmities. Determination had brought her this far. Now that she was here, what could she do but go forward?
Sir Bertie stood when she entered the library, which felt stuffy and close.
“Miss Swinton! We are so glad you have come! You will get this old fellow to come to his senses!”
Beau was tucked up on the sofa with a crocheted blanket. His face was flushed, his hair a golden riot of curls around his head. Kneeling by his side, she asked Sir Bertie to tell her about his friend’s injury.
“It is his arm. He took a couple dozen stitches. It was a while before the sawbones could get him stitched up, and he bled a bit. The worry now is that it is inflamed.”
“Oh.” She drew in her breath and let it out in a long sigh. Suddenly, every part of her body ached with the bruising riding she had done. She nearly sagged to the floor. Instead, she bit down hard on her lip. It had been too soon since her last sickbed vigil, but she was determined that this one would end differently. “First, we must open up the room. It is too warm in here. Let us open up all that we can.” She turned to Arabella. “Have you got some cologne? I know that is very good for cooling down fevers.”
“He will smell like a woman!” protested the baronet.
“We will alternate between the cologne and wet towels on his head.”
Arabella said, “Yes. I will get it. And the towels, too.”
Turning to the butler, Penelope said, “Will you see if the cook has some jellied broth? That would be the easiest thing to get down his throat. I believe we must restore his strength.”
Thus began Penelope’s bedside vigil. Arabella stayed by her side during the daytime, keeping up a nervous patter of questions, one on top of the other.
“Do you have a brother?
“How shall I get on if he does not recover?
“Do you know Viscount Strangeways?
“How long did it take you to ride from Northamptonshire?
“How soon do you plan to marry my brother if he recovers?
“What about your mourning?”
It was difficult. Penelope wanted quiet. She wanted a chance to think, but she knew her presence was likely all that was keeping Beau’s sister from strong hysterics.
At the end of the first day, she changed the bandage and glimpsed the row of stitches for the first time. The wound was red and swollen with inflammation.
What a blow St. Croix had struck! She wondered how her fiancé had brought him down afterwards. If he had been allowed another chance, there was no doubt in Penelope’s mind that the spy would have killed Beau.
The butler brought in calves’ foot jelly and jellied consommé during the daylight hours. She spooned it carefully into the back of the viscount’s mouth. Penelope was not quite certain where she had come up with the idea of nourishing the man this way, but it just seemed the right thing to do. She would not even consider losing Beau as she had just lost her father. It would not happen!
Viscount Strangeways came that evening to sit up with the patient through the night, but Penelope would not leave his side. As the clock above the mantle struck midnight, she began to nod off, however.
Beau’s friend said gently, “It will not do for you to become ill. Rest awhile on the opposite sofa.”
Her nervous energy deserted her, and she fell deeply asleep, not even dreaming. Penelope woke to a sunny day with the windows open to a slight breeze and even a bit of birdsong, though it was London.
Arabella brought her porridge and toast. After eating, Penelope left his sister with Beau and disappeared upstairs for half an hour to change her gown into her single mourning dress, which had now aired sufficiently. Watkins brushed her hair and rearranged it in a passable chignon. After she washed her face and applied cologne, Penelope went downstairs, feeling more awake.
<
br /> At midmorning, Beau’s fever broke, and she began to feel more optimistic. She allowed Jackson to change her fiancé’s linen and shave him while she went to the kitchen to arrange to have chickens boiled and some fresh lemonade squeezed. It never even entered her mind that one day she would be mistress of this home, but she knew she could count on the servants’ help to mend their master. After all, they wanted to keep their positions, surely?
When she returned to the library, Beau was awake. Her heart bounded with joy, and relief caused her to sway.
“What the devil happened?” he demanded. “What am I . . .” He tried to move his arm. “Confound it!”
“Watch your language, Beau Saunders,” Penelope said, joining him with a smile.
“Pen? What are you doing here? What has happened?”
“I am told that you met up with another spy. You lost a good bit of blood when he sliced your arm, and then it became inflamed. Arabella was very frightened, so she wrote to me and I came.”
“I must have been out for a devil of a long time.”
“You must promise not to give me away, but I came on Papa’s stallion. It took me but two days.”
He smiled. “Of course you did.”
“The only people who know are my aunt, her servants, and Tom. I dressed as a boy, and he accompanied me.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I have completely forgotten Tom. And he was so good to have ridden the whole way with me.”
She caressed Beau’s cheek, almost unable to believe he had really made it through the crisis.
“To blazes with Tom. How long have you been here?”
“I arrived yesterday morning.” She pulled the bell rope, her spirits surging in delayed relief. “Oh, Beau! I am so very glad you did not die!” She kissed him fervently on his forehead and took his hand in hers.
“I am very glad myself.”
When the butler answered her summons, she bade him to send a maid for Arabella with the news that her brother was awake. Then she took Beau’s hand and held it to her cheek, kissing his fingers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Beau felt weak but had an odd lightness of being that he could only attribute to the presence of his dear Pen. He looked at her beloved face, now pale with fatigue and the efforts of nursing him.
“I love you, Pen,” he said.
“And I you, dearest Beau.”
His sister flew into the room, a small cyclone of joy. She covered his face with kisses.
“She saved you! I sent for her. It was the right thing to do. She brought down your fever. Your wound was dreadfully inflamed. She had us feeding you jellied broth. And within a day and a half, you are put to rights. Miss Penelope is a marvel. You must marry her straightaway!”
“That is my intention. However, I will not marry her in that hideous gown. She must get something proper to wear.”
Pen began to laugh and Arabella joined her.
“Since it is to be a very small wedding, perhaps I can wear my wedding gown,” his fiancée said. “It will but add to my poor reputation if the word gets out.”
“I imagine the servants at Blossom House have spread the word about your arrival on your father’s horse, and my servants have undoubtedly added to the gossip with word of your nursing me day and night. I think we had better get married at the earliest possible moment.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Arabella. “I nearly forgot! You must inform Lord Castlereagh of your recovery. He called here and was most distressed.”
“Before seeing my superior, I must bathe.”
“My love,” Penelope said with a grin. “Need I remind you, you can scarcely lift your head?”
“Jackson is strong. He will manage to get me into the bath. Send him to me, if you please.” He rubbed his cheek. “At least the man has managed to keep me shaved.”
-P-
Lord Castlereagh arrived that evening bearing the odd gift of Egyptian dates.
“Well, I am glad to see that you have rejoined us, Wellingham.”
“Did you manage to get the body removed before my sister saw him?” Beau asked.
“Yes. He was a nasty fellow, but we had him properly buried in a pauper’s grave. Thanks for putting him out of the way. Sorry about the spot of bother you have had.”
Castlereagh was always awkward in the act of dispensing gratitude. Though uncommonly exhausted, Beau took pity on him, and changed the subject.
“I will be getting married as soon as I am up and about. I plan to take my bride down to Somerset for a few weeks. I hope that is acceptable.”
“I think I can spare you for that long, things being fairly quiet on the Peninsula.” He cleared his throat. “I understand the gel to be from Northamptonshire, granddaughter of the Marquess of Kingsborough?”
“And a person in her own right. I am persuaded I owe her my recovery.”
“I understand she rode down here on her father’s stallion to come to your rescue, dressed as a boy. It seems she is by way of being an Original.”
He chuckled. “I told her it would get about. She will be dismayed, no doubt.”
“Society forgives much of a beautiful woman with that kind of courage.”
-P-
When Beau informed Pen of his conversation with Lord Castlereagh, she was relieved. “Aunt Clarice told me I had the makings of an Original. Perhaps this adapting to Society will not be so difficult if I can do it on my own terms.”
“I never doubted it,” he said. “Now that I am cleaned up, will you let me kiss you?”
“Do you think you are strong enough for that?” she inquired with an impish grin.
“Always,” he said. “I shall love you forever and ever. I cannot wait to call you my very own.”
After a rousing kiss, which demonstrated that Pen was exceedingly thankful he was alive, he said, “You must feed me up on that nasty calves’ foot jelly so we can go see the lions at the Royal Menagerie and then be married as soon as may be.”
“Lions?” she echoed in a tone of wonder.
“Yes, love. There is a lot more to London than gossiping tongues, spies in Green Park, and nasty-tempered dandies.”
“I am excessively fond of lions. And nasty-tempered dandies.”
Epilogue
Society found much to gossip about following the small wedding of Miss Penelope Swinton and its beloved viscount, Beau Saunders.
“My dear, did you hear? Beau was dressed in black! He never wears black.”
“Hmph. And she, with her father only dead a month, was dressed in pink!”
“I heard Beau insisted on it. He said he would not have her dressed in mourning at her wedding.”
“Did you hear the story of her riding to town through the night from Northamptonshire dressed in boy’s clothes, astride her father’s stallion?”
“Sir Bertie says she saved Beau’s life, so it is a good thing she did.”
“And he kissed her for all the world to see after they were pronounced man and wife!”
“Hmm. I heard it was a lovely kiss. No matter what anyone else tells you, I say this was no marriage of convenience. There is no question they are a good deal more than merely fond of one another.”
“Beau had to marry an Original, you know. It was always on the cards.”
-P-
The Morning Post carried the following notice the day after the wedding:
Viscount Wellingham, recently awarded the Order of the British Empire for service to the crown, was wedded in a private ceremony to Miss Penelope Swinton, granddaughter of the late Marquess of Kingsborough. The marriage was performed by Mr. Thomas Chillingsworth, Curate of Downing, and took place in the drawing room of Ruisdell House, the town residence of his grace, the Duke of Ruisdell, whose wife, the duchess, is a cousin to the bride.
The pair will honeymoon at Somerset Vale, the groom’s country estate. They will receive no visitors.
Would you like to receive a free copy of the sequel to this book, His Mysterious Lady?
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Here is a short summary:
England is at war with America, and Viscount Anthony Strangeways has fallen hard for an American lady, Virginia Livingstone. But his friend who works in the Foreign Office is convinced the lady is a spy! He asks Anthony to investigate her, but how can he be objective about a lady he is falling in love with? Virginia suffers a ballooning accident, leaving her with memory loss. A countryman visits her to remind her not to forget her duty as an American spy. She is astounded! Has she betrayed the man she loves?
Here’s an excerpt of His Mysterious Lady:
Chapter One
London 1813
Lord Anthony Gibson, Viscount Strangeways, exited the card room and surveyed the Countess of Fotheringill’s ballroom. It was alive with the usual elements: a string ensemble, people dressed in a rainbow of fabrics, and the unpleasant combination of too many perfumes. Chatter and laughter abounded. Everyone worked to give the appearance that they were having the very best of evenings.
Anyone looking at Tony would have seen a tall, well-muscled man with stylish brown hair and a crooked smile. His evening clothes were beyond reproach—a dark blue jacket over a silver striped waistcoat with dark blue pantaloons. In fact, he belonged to the Corinthian set—inclined to sport and immaculate in matters of dress. Many a maiden’s heart had been lost through futile hopes that he might return her regard, but Tony was oblivious to most women. He did not know precisely what he was looking for in the fairer sex, but he knew without a doubt he would recognize it when he saw it.
At least, he thought he would.
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 16
